skzenhalove

heeseung reads it aloud, voice low and amused, his fingers pausing on your thigh. “what do you think, baby?”

you bite your lip, heat already pooling low in your stomach. you’ve squirted for him before in private — messy, overwhelming, embarrassing in the best way — but never on camera. the idea of him pushing you that far while thousands of people watch later… it makes your thighs press together.

“we could,” you whisper, voice already breathy. “if you want to.”

his smirk is immediate, dark and hungry. he tips your chin up, kissing you slow and deep. “i want to. been thinking about filming you falling apart like that for a while.”

the decision is made quickly. you set up the camera on the tripod at the foot of the bed, soft ring lights on low, sheets already stripped down to just the mattress protector. heeseung chooses a simple black mask that covers the upper half of his face, and you wear the lace one that hides everything but your mouth and eyes. the caption is typed and ready to post later: “when a follower request hits different 🖤 choking, overstimulation, squirt edition”

heeseung starts recording with a single tap.

he pulls you onto the bed immediately, hands rough but controlled as he strips you bare. your tank top and panties disappear in seconds. he stays mostly dressed at first — black shirt and sweats — because he knows his followers love the contrast of you naked and desperate while he’s still composed.

“look at the camera, baby,” he murmurs, voice already deeper. he spreads your legs wide, hooking them over his thighs as he kneels between them. two fingers slide through your folds, finding you already soaked. “already this wet? just from the idea of me ruining you on camera?”

you nod, breath catching as he pushes both fingers inside without warning, curling them instantly against that spot. the wet sounds are loud in the quiet room. heeseung works you open fast, adding a third finger quickly, scissoring and thrusting while his thumb grinds circles on your clit.

your first orgasm hits embarrassingly fast. you gasp, back arching, but he doesn’t slow down. he keeps pumping through it, fingers relentless.

“one,” he counts calmly. “we’re not stopping until you give me everything.”

by the time the second orgasm crashes over you, you’re already shaking. heeseung leans down, wrapping his long fingers around your throat — not cutting off air completely, but pressing just enough on the sides to make your head feel fuzzy and light. your eyes flutter, a soft whimper escaping as the pressure combines with his fingers driving into you.

“good girl,” he praises, voice low right next to your ear. “look how pretty you get when you’re choking on my hand.”

your hips jerk, trying to ride his fingers, but he holds you down with his body weight. the mask hides most of his expression, but you can see the dark glint in his eyes. he tightens his grip on your throat just a fraction more as he speeds up, palm slapping wetly against your pussy with every thrust.

the third orgasm rips through you harder. your thighs tremble violently, and you feel that deep, building pressure — the one that always makes you shy.

“heeseung—” you whine, voice hoarse from his hand on your throat. “i— i think i’m gonna—”

“let go,” he commands, choking you through it. “squirt for me. for the camera. make a mess like a good little slut.”

his fingers curl harder, faster, thumb pressing firm on your swollen clit. the combination of his hand around your throat, the relentless overstimulation, and his filthy words sends you spiraling. your vision whites out. subspace hits you like a warm, heavy wave — everything narrows down to his voice, his hands, the feeling of being completely owned.

you come with a broken cry, body seizing. this time it’s different. liquid gushes out around his fingers, soaking his hand, your thighs, and the sheets beneath you in a hot, messy rush. you keep squirting, smaller pulses following the first big one as heeseung keeps fucking you through it with his fingers, never once easing up.

“fuck, that’s it,” he groans, voice strained. he releases your throat only to lean down and bite at your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks. “look at the mess you made. so fucking pretty when you squirt for me.”

you’re floating now, deep in subspace, body limp and trembling as aftershocks roll through you. tears slip from the corners of your eyes, soft whimpers and moans falling from your lips without filter. heeseung finally pulls his fingers out, spreading your soaked folds for the camera so everyone can see how ruined you are — puffy, glistening, still twitching.

but he’s not done.

he strips his shirt off, revealing toned shoulders and chest, then pushes his sweats down just enough to free his cock. he’s painfully hard, tip leaking as he strokes himself once.

“think you can take one more?” he asks, but he’s already lining up, rubbing the head through your slick folds. you nod weakly, hands reaching for him.

he slides in deep in one smooth thrust, groaning at how wet and hot you feel after all the overstimulation. your walls flutter around him, overly sensitive, and the feeling is almost too much. he sets a brutal pace immediately, hips snapping hard, one hand returning to your throat while the other pins your hip down.

“too much— heeseung—” you sob, but your legs wrap around him anyway, pulling him deeper. subspace has you pliant and needy, every thrust sending sparks through your overstimulated body.

“you can take it,” he growls, fingers flexing around your neck. “gonna make you squirt around my cock this time.”

he angles his hips perfectly, hitting that spot with every thrust while his pelvis grinds against your clit. the wet, obscene sounds of your pussy taking him are louder than ever because of how soaked you are. you’re crying openly now, tears streaming, mouth open in constant moans as another orgasm builds dangerously fast.

heeseung leans closer, mask brushing your cheek. “come on, baby. give it to me again. soak my cock while i choke you.”

the fourth orgasm explodes through you without warning. you squirt hard around him, liquid spraying out with every thrust as he keeps pounding into you. your vision blacks out for a second, pure white pleasure and subspace drowning everything else. heeseung moans loudly, the sound raw and broken as your walls milk him.

“fuck— good girl, such a good fucking girl,” he praises through gritted teeth. he fucks you through the whole thing, chasing his own release. a few more brutal thrusts and he buries himself deep, coming hard inside you with a low groan, hips stuttering as he fills you up.

he stays buried inside for a long moment, both of you panting. slowly he releases your throat, gentle fingers stroking the marks he left. he pulls out carefully, more of your mixed release dripping out, and makes sure the camera catches the final messy view before stopping the recording.

heeseung removes both masks quickly and pulls you into his arms, switching to soft mode instantly. his voice is gentle now, full of love and pride as he kisses your tear-streaked face, brushing damp strands of hair from your forehead.

“you okay, baby? you did so well for me. so fucking perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other strokes slow, soothing circles down your spine. his touch is feather-light now, completely different from the choking grip and relentless pace from minutes ago.

you nod weakly, still floating deep in subspace, body boneless and trembling with aftershocks. everything feels warm and hazy, like you’re wrapped in cotton. you nuzzle into his neck, breathing in his familiar scent mixed with sweat, lips brushing his collarbone. “felt so good… want to watch it later.”

heeseung chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest as he tightens his hold around you. “yeah? my greedy girl already wants to see how pretty she looked falling apart.” he presses a long kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “we’ll edit it together, okay? i’ll take care of everything. you just rest.”

he stays like that for a long while — holding you close, whispering sweet praises while his fingers gently trace the faint marks on your throat. he massages your thighs and hips where they ache from being spread so wide, careful not to press too hard. when your breathing finally evens out and the subspace fog starts to lift, he carries you to the bathroom for a long, warm bath.

heeseung lowers you into the tub first, then slides in behind you, pulling your back against his chest. the water soothes your oversensitive skin. he washes you tenderly with your favorite body wash, hands gliding over every inch without any sexual intent now — just care. he kisses the top of your head every few minutes, murmuring how proud he is, how much he loves doing this with you.

after the bath, he wraps you in his oversized hoodie and carries you back to bed. snacks appear like magic — strawberries, chocolate, cold water with electrolytes, and your favorite chips. he feeds you small bites while you cuddle against him, legs tangled together under the fresh sheets he quickly changed.

once you’re more grounded, the two of you open the laptop and start editing. heeseung is patient, letting you pick your favorite angles and moments. you both laugh at how wrecked you sound in the video, blush at the sheer volume of squirt that soaked everything, and rewatched the choking parts a few times because the visual makes heat stir in your belly again. he adds subtle transitions, makes sure your faces stay hidden, and boosts the audio just enough on your moans and his filthy praises.

“this is going to break the timeline,” he says with a proud smirk, saving the final file.

later that night, when you’re both cozy under the blankets, you post it, changing the caption.

caption: follower request fulfilled 🖤 choking, overstimulation & lots of squirt. thanks for the idea~ be nice when you watch hehe

the likes and comments explode within minutes. the video skyrockets in views. notifications flood in nonstop:

ikeupikeu: the way she squirted around his cock??? instant follow nidashki: heeseung’s hand around her throat while she’s crying… i’m deceased fuuuuck need more prettyboynoo: subspace eyes + choking combo is lethal. more of this pls sunghung: the overstimulation was insane she was floating so hard wonniewon: thank you for ruining me for other content

some comments are filthier, already brainstorming the next video. you scroll through them together, giggling and blushing as new ideas pour in.

heeseung kisses your shoulder, pulling you closer. “told you they’d lose their minds. what do you want to film next, baby?”

you already know the next reply thread is going to give you even filthier ideas for the following week.

© jongst4r, 2026

The party is Mina’s idea. It always is. You’ve stopped pretending otherwise — stopped doing the thing where you spend twenty minutes debating whether you’re really feeling it before Mina gives you the look and you both know you’re going regardless.

It’s a Friday in late September, the air outside finally tipping from warm to something with a bite in it, and you’ve been in your dorm room since two in the afternoon staring at the same paragraph of Middlemarch without absorbing a single word.

“You need to get out of this room,” Mina says from your bed, where she’s been watching you not read for the past hour. She’s already dressed — black top, dark jeans, the gold hoops she only wears when she’s decided the night is going to be worth the effort. She decided before she came over. The last hour has been a courtesy. “You’ve been staring at that book like it cheated on you.”

The word lands between you, briefly. Mina’s face doesn’t change “George Eliot is a menace,” you say.

“You love George Eliot.”

“I love George Eliot when I’m not trying to produce fifteen hundred words on her narrative voice by Monday morning.” You close the book. It’s not like you’re reading it anyway.

The thing about Delta Kappa parties is that they are, by any objective measure, too much. Too loud, too hot, the bass sitting somewhere in your sternum, red cups and bodies everywhere you look. Mina thrives. You tolerate it with the specific resignation of someone who knows they’re going to have a good time despite themselves and finds this faintly irritating.

You’re on your second drink when you see Sunghoon. He’s across the room near the kitchen doorway, mid-conversation with someone you don’t recognise, laughing at something. Head tipped back the way he always did — that particular way, unhurried and a little private, like whatever amused him was his alone. You used to love that about him. You watch it for maybe three seconds before you look away, which feels like a victory of some kind.

Four months. Four months since you’d found out, since you’d sat on your dorm room floor and read a conversation thread you were never supposed to see, since everything you thought you’d built with him had turned out to be built on something rotten underneath.

Two years of your life. Your first real relationship. You’d thought it would last.

You look away. You drain the rest of your cup.

“He’s here,” Mina says, appearing at your elbow with the precision of someone who has been watching.

“I know.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“No.” You mean it. “I’m not leaving a party because of Sunghoon Park.”

She studies you for a moment with that particular look — the one that measures the difference between actually fine and performing fine with uncomfortable accuracy. Whatever she finds seems to satisfy her, because she clinks her cup against yours and says, “Then let’s get another drink.”

You’re at the makeshift bar — someone’s kitchen counter pressed into service — when you become aware of someone standing beside you. Not waiting for the bottle. Something else. A specific quality of attention that you register before you’ve consciously clocked it. You look up. Jake Sim looks back.

You know who he is the way you know most things about the people who exist in Caldwell’s uppermost stratum — passively, through cultural osmosis, without ever having chosen to learn. Captain of the Wolves. Dean’s son. The name that comes up in a specific tone of voice, like a warning dressed as gossip.

Up close he is, unfortunately, exactly as good-looking as that reputation implies. Tall, built through the shoulders and chest in the way that years of hockey builds — not showy, just solid, like his body was designed to take up space and does so without apology. Dark eyes. A jaw that should probably be illegal. A mouth curved at the corner like he’s already three steps ahead of the conversation and finds this mildly entertaining.

“You’re doing maths,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Your face.” He nods at you, vaguely. “Very intense for someone just standing at a bar.”

“I’m making a drink.”

“You’ve been staring at that vodka for forty-five seconds.”

“I didn’t realise I was being timed.”

“You weren’t.” He reaches past you for the bottle — close enough that you catch something clean and faintly expensive — pours his own cup, sets it back.

“I’m Jake.”

“I know who you are.” Something moves through his expression. Amusement, maybe, or the specific satisfaction of a fact confirmed.

“Most people do,” he says, and there’s no arrogance in it, just a statement of observable reality, which is somehow worse. “And you’re—”

“Also a person,” you say.

That gets a real smile. Brief, but actual. “Fair enough.”

You should find Mina. You’re aware of this the way you’re aware of the coursework due Monday and the fact that it’s past midnight — true, noted, irrelevant. Instead you stay where you are and let the conversation go where it goes, and it goes somewhere you didn’t expect.

He’s good at this. That’s the thing you clock first and keep clocking — the way he makes conversation feel like it has momentum, like you’re building toward something together, the timing of his humour landing slightly off-beat in a way that catches you. He asks questions and actually listens to the answers. You know it’s a formula. You know it has worked on an uncountable number of girls at an uncountable number of parties exactly like this one, and knowing that should make you immune to it, and it doesn’t.

Mina finds you at some point, clocks the situation in under a second, raises her eyebrows precisely two millimetres — a full paragraph in two millimetres — and disappears back into the crowd.

At some point his hand finds the small of your back. Light. Questioning. You don’t move away from it. At some point, close enough that you feel the words more than hear them, he says: “We could get out of here.”

You think about Middlemarch, which you’re not going to read tonight regardless. You think about the two years you spent being someone’s person and the four months since that have felt like learning to walk in a body that’s been subtly rearranged. You think about Sunghoon somewhere in this house with his head tipped back, laughing.

“Okay,” you say.

His room is in the east block upperclassmen housing — a single, because of course, because Jake Sim has probably never had to negotiate space with anyone in his life. It’s tidier than you’d have guessed. You file this away without meaning to, the way you’re still filing things even now, even when you’ve told yourself you’re not doing that anymore.

He closes the door and you’re already turning toward him and then his mouth is on yours and it’s nothing like how he acted downstairs — no charm, no ease, just heat and intent, his hands gripping your face and kissing you like he’s already decided exactly how this goes.

You grab his shirt and walk him backwards and he turns you instead, smooth and immediate, your back hitting the wall beside the door hard enough to knock the breath out of you and you don’t care, you’re already pulling at his shirt and he’s already got your top halfway up your body.

He strips it off you and his mouth drops straight to your throat, open and hot, and then your bra is unclasped and gone before you’ve fully registered his hands at the back of it.

Then his mouth is on your tits and he makes a sound low in his chest like the sight of them was specifically designed to ruin him. His hands cup them, squeezing, thumbs dragging slow over your nipples and watching your face while he does it. You feel your cheeks go hot because his expression is entirely too focused, too attentive, like he’s cataloguing your reactions and filing it away for later use.

He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, tongue working in slow wet circles. Your head drops back against the wall on a moan you didn’t mean to let out that loud.

“Yeah,” he says against your skin, rough and pleased, “get loud,” and bites down lightly you gasp and your nails find his shoulders through his shirt.

He marks you up like he has all the time in the world — mouth dragging from your tits to your throat to your collarbone and back again, teeth and tongue, leaving his work on your skin with a thoroughness that should feel like too much and instead just makes you want more.

His hips grind into yours against the wall, the hard line of his cock pressed against your core through clothing, slow and deliberate, the friction makes you roll up into it and he does it again to which you make a sound that’s honestly embarrassing.

“Bed,” you manage, and he pulls back just enough to look at you — mouth-bitten, dark-eyed, satisfied with himself in a way you don’t have the capacity to be annoyed about right now — and walks you to it.

You land on the mattress and he’s over you immediately, his mouth back on your tits before you’ve stopped bouncing on the mattress, you’re pulling at his shirt until he lets you get it off him and then his jeans are gone and yours are gone and he’s settled between your thighs in just his boxers and the weight of him is — a lot, in the best way, solid and warm and pressing you into the mattress, his hips grind down slow as his cock drags against your pussy through the thin fabric of your panties, you grab his shoulders to hold onto something.

He does it again. Slower.

His mouth is still at your nipple, tongue working it stiff while his hips keep that maddening rhythm, grinding into you with enough friction to make your thighs clench around him but not enough to give you anything real, you can hear how wet you are, can feel it and judging by the way his jaw tightens he can too.

“Jake,” you say, and it comes out more desperate than you intend.

“I know,” he says, like that’s an answer, and then he’s moving down your body.

He hooks your underwear off, throws it somewhere and finally puts his mouth on your pussy. Your back comes off the mattress.

He licks into your folds slowly, taking his time, his tongue dragging from your entrance up to your clit in one long stroke and then doing it again, his hands are spread flat on your inner thighs holding you open and still and there is nothing to do but take it.

He’s good — infuriatingly good — like he’s genuinely interested in making you cum, like this is something he wants to do rather than something he’s doing to get to the next thing. You’ve got one fist in the sheets and one pressed to your own mouth to which he pulls your hand away from your face without looking up. “Don’t,” he says against your cunt, and goes back to work.

His tongue finds your clit and stays there, tight focused circles, two fingers then press at your entrance and push in slow, curling immediately, finding the spot that makes your hips jolt and working it with patience that feels almost cruel.

The sounds coming out of you are loud and continuous and undignified and he hums against you like he approves, the vibration travelling straight up your spine, and you can feel yourself getting close embarrassingly fast, your walls clenching tight around his fingers, your whole body chasing it.

“Don’t stop,” you manage, “don’t — please —“ and he doesn’t, his tongue relentless on your clit and his fingers curling deep, and you cum on his mouth with your thighs shaking, his name coming out broken and too loud for the room.

He works you through every second of it, tongue gentling, fingers slowing until you’re twitching and oversensitive and pulling at his hair to get him off you, he comes back up your body looking composed in a way that feels like a personal attack. There’s something dark and satisfied in his expression as he looks down at you and kisses you before you can say anything, slow, and you taste yourself on his tongue.

His cock is hard against your hip, straining against his boxers, you reach between you and wrap your hand around him and feel him shudder. He’s thick and heavy in your palm, already slick at the tip and when you stroke him his composure cracks — hips pushing into your grip, jaw tightening and a low rough sound forming against your mouth.

You work him slow and watch his face and feel something warm and powerful settle in your chest. “Condom,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says and reaches for the nightstand.

He pushes in slow and you feel every single inch. The stretch of him opening you up, thick and relentless, your walls giving way around his cock, you dig your nails into his back and breathe through it until he’s fully seated. You’re so full it sits somewhere between pleasure and pain and then he rolls his hips and it tips firmly into the first one.

He starts slow — deep, grinding strokes, his cock dragging against every nerve of you, the weight of his hips pinning yours into the mattress and his mouth finds your tits again immediately, like he can’t help it, tongue working your nipple while his hips keep their deep rhythm and you stop being capable of thoughts that go anywhere.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he says against your breast, low and rough, and bites down on the swell of it and soothes it with his tongue and does it again somewhere else.

“Jake—”

“I know,” he says, his thumb finds your clit. The added pressure makes you gasp and your hips jolt up to meet his and he makes a sound that isn’t quite a groan and picks up the pace.

The slow grind gives way to something sharper. His hips snap against yours and the headboard knocks the wall and the wet sounds of it fill the room. You have completely stopped caring about anything except the way his cock fills you on every stroke, deep and thick, the drag of him pulling back and driving in again setting off a chain reaction of sensation that climbs fast.

He shifts your leg up higher over his hip and the angle changes, deeper, and the sound you make at that is genuinely obscene. “Yeah?” he says, doing it again, deliberate. “There?”

“Yes,” you manage, “there, don’t stop, please—”

“Dirty when you want something,” he says, low and pleased, and fucks you harder.

His thumb circles your clit without stopping, his cock drives into your cunt again and again and his mouth marks your throat. The build crests too fast to catch — you cum for the second time harder, walls clenching rhythmically around him, his name coming out wrecked and he follows you over with his hips buried deep and his face pressed to your throat, low broken sounds against your skin as he cums.

The room goes quiet. You stare at the ceiling. Your body has been taken apart and put back together slightly differently and everything feels warm and loose and heavy.

That, you think distantly, was either the best or worst decision you’ve made in months.

Possibly both.

Jake disposes of the condom, comes back, drops onto the bed beside you. The quiet settles. It’s almost comfortable — the dark, the warmth, both of you just breathing. And then…

“You can go whenever,” he says. Flat. Casual. Already looking at the ceiling like you’re no longer the most interesting thing in the room. Like you’ve been downgraded, in the last thirty seconds, from a person to an inconvenience that’s resolved itself.

You blink. You can go whenever. Not you don’t have to rush, not do you want some water, not even basic human decency. Just — you can go. Door’s there. Thanks for coming.

Something cold moves cleanly through the warmth in your chest and extinguishes it. You sit up. “Right,” you say. Your voice comes out level. You’re proud of that.

He says nothing. He is staring at the ceiling with his arms folded behind his head like a man with absolutely no awareness that he’s just been profoundly rude, or perhaps perfect awareness and total indifference, which is worse.

You find your clothes in the dark with quiet methodical efficiency — jeans, top, shoes, bra shoved into your bag because life is short. You do not look at him while you dress and he does not look at you. At the door you pause, and you genuinely don’t know why, some reflex kicking in from a life spent being polite to people who haven’t earned it.

“Bye, then,” you say.

“Mm,” says Jake Sim, at the ceiling not even at you. You want to scoff in his stupidly hot face.

You close the door behind you.

The walk back across campus takes twelve minutes and you spend all twelve of them with the cold night air doing its best against the heat in your face. Not embarrassment — or not only that. Something sharper. The specific anger of someone who knew exactly what they were walking into and walked into it anyway and is now annoyed at themselves for being annoyed.

I knew, you think, with each step. I knew what he was. Everyone knows what he is. I just—

You’d let the hour at the bar do its work. You’d let the conversation and the hand at the small of your back and the dark eyes and the unfair jaw do their work, and you’d told yourself it was fine because you were going in clear-eyed, and the sex had been — god, the sex had been amazing — but then he’d opened his mouth and reminded you exactly who he was and now here you are, at one forty in the morning, crossing the quad with your bra in your bag.

You text Mina. still up?

The reply is immediate. obviously. how was it?

You stare at your phone for a moment. come to mine, you type back.

Mina is sitting up in your bed when you get back, laptop open, a bowl of cereal balanced on her knee that she definitely made while waiting. She takes one look at your face as you come through the door and sets it on the nightstand. “Tell me.”

You drop your bag, toe off your shoes, and sit on the end of the bed. You press your fingers to your eyes for a moment. “The sex,” you say carefully, “was genuinely incredible. Like — top three of my life, Mina. Easily. Potentially top two.”

“Okay—”

“And then, the moment it was over, he looked at the ceiling and told me I could go whenever.” You drop your hands. “In the tone of someone dismissing a tradesman. Like I’d come to fix his boiler.”

Mina’s expression moves through several stages. “He did not.”

“He absolutely did.”

“What did you say?”

“I said bye then and closed the door.”

“Bye then?”

“I panicked and defaulted to manners.” You flop backwards onto the duvet. “I knew. That’s the thing. I knew exactly what he was before I ever spoke to him and I did it anyway because—” You gesture at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Because I’m tired of being careful. Because Sunghoon was across the room being beautiful and I wanted to feel something that wasn’t about him.”

Mina is quiet for a moment. Then: “Was it, at least something that wasn’t about Sunghoon.”

You consider this with the ceiling. “Yes,” you admit. “Annoyingly, yes. Right up until he opened his mouth.”

“He really is the worst,” Mina says, with the conviction of someone delivering a verdict.

“He really, genuinely is.” You stare upward. “He’s got such a good cock though, Mina. Like. I’m annoyed about it. I’m actively annoyed.”

Mina puts her face in her hands. You watch her shoulders shake. “It’s not funny,” you tell her, and then you’re laughing too, and the tight mean thing in your chest loosens by a fraction, and outside the window Caldwell goes on being loud and indifferent and fully lit up, and you are fine.

You’re fine. You’re completely fine.

The week after the party you are, by any reasonable measure, completely fine.

You turn in the Middlemarch essay on Monday morning — fifteen hundred words on narrative voice, mostly written Sunday afternoon in a single focused stretch that you attribute to having gotten something out of your system.

You go to your Tuesday seminar and your Wednesday lecture and you have coffee with Mina on Thursday at the place near the English building where they do the good almond croissants, and you do not think about Jake Sim.

Or you think about him the normal amount. The amount that is appropriate for a person you slept with once at a party and will probably never speak to again, which is to say occasionally and without weight, the way you might think about a film you watched on a plane — enjoyable in the moment, not something you’d seek out again, largely irrelevant to your actual life.

This is what you tell yourself. Mina does not challenge it, which means she’s either convinced or she’s decided to let you have it, and knowing Mina it’s the second one.

Sunghoon texts you on Wednesday. Just — hey, saw you at Delta Kappa Friday. you looked good. You stare at it for a long time. You don’t reply.

You see Jake on Monday. You’re crossing the main quad, coffee in hand, bag over one shoulder, running approximately four minutes late for your seminar, and he’s coming the other direction with Jay Park and someone you don’t recognise, all three of them in Wolves gear, clearly post-practice.

He’s laughing at something Jay said, head tilted back, and he looks — easy, and loose, and completely unbothered by anything in the known universe, which you knew, which is exactly what you expected, and yet something about seeing it in person at ten forty-three on a Monday morning makes your jaw tighten anyway.

He doesn’t see you. Or he does and gives no indication of it, which amounts to the same thing. You look straight ahead and keep walking and do not think about it for the rest of the morning.

You think about it a little bit in the afternoon. By evening you’ve filed it away under irrelevant and moved on, which is the correct and mature response and you’re proud of yourself.

The sickness starts on Wednesday morning. You wake up with your stomach doing something wrong — not dramatic, not the sharp unmistakable rebellion of food poisoning, just a low persistent nausea that sits behind your sternum like it’s made itself at home. You lie still for a moment, waiting for it to pass.

It doesn’t.

You get up, make it to the bathroom, sit on the edge of the tub for ten minutes breathing carefully, and then it eases enough that you can brush your teeth and get dressed and tell yourself you’re fine.

You’re not fine by Thursday morning.

The nausea is worse — still not acute, still this low insidious wrongness, but it’s there when you wake up and it doesn’t fully lift, and your coffee tastes like something burnt and metallic and you push it away after two sips which Mina clocks immediately from across the table at the place near the English building.

“You’re not drinking your coffee.”

“I’m not feeling it today.”

Mina looks at the cup. Looks at you. “You have never in three years of knowing you not felt like coffee.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” She watches you for a moment with that look. You look back at your laptop and don’t say anything else.

By Saturday you feel actively, genuinely terrible.

Not sick-sick — no fever, no aches, nothing you can point to as a specific illness — just this relentless creeping nausea that is worst in the morning and fades by afternoon and makes the idea of eating before eleven o’clock an abstract and unpleasant concept.

You cancel your Saturday morning coffee with Mina, which you have never done, and she’s at your door by noon with a container of crackers and a forensic expression. “Talk,” she says.

“I think I’m coming down with something.”

“What kind of something.”

“I don’t know, Mina, a virus. A bug. Something that’s going around.”

She sits down on your bed and opens the crackers and holds them out to you and you take one because the sight of them is, somehow, the most appealing thing you’ve encountered all week. You eat it slowly. Your stomach does not immediately rebel. You take another one. “How long?” Mina asks.

“Since Wednesday morning.”

“And it’s worst in the morning.”

“Yes.”

“And you can’t drink coffee.”

“It tastes wrong.” Mina is quiet for a moment. You eat another cracker and look at the wall. “I’m sure it’s just a bug,” you say.

“Yeah,” Mina says, in a tone that means something else entirely. “Probably.”

The conspiracy theories start that evening, though. It’s the two of you on your bed with Mina’s laptop open and a bag of pretzels between you, and it begins reasonably enough — you googling nausea worse in morning possible causes and working through the list with the detached efficiency of someone who is definitely not spiralling. Stress. Acid reflux. Inner ear issues. Viral gastroenteritis. Dietary changes.

“Have you eaten anything different lately?” Mina asks.

“No.”

“Stressed about something?”

“When am I not stressed about something.”

“Fair.” She scrolls. “It says here inner ear problems can cause—”

“I don’t have inner ear problems, Mina.”

Mina scrolls further. You eat a pretzel and watch her face and wait for it. You know it’s coming. You’ve known since Saturday morning, if you’re being honest, since she’d sat on your bed with that specific expression and said probably in that specific tone, and you’ve been not-thinking about it with considerable effort for the past several hours.

“Okay,” Mina says, carefully, still looking at the screen. “What if.”

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“You don’t have to.” You pull the laptop toward you and close the tab. “It’s been less than two weeks. It’s too early for that. It’s a bug.”

“You used a condom?”

“Obviously.”

“They’re not a hundred percent.”

“It’s a bug,” you say. “It’s a completely normal bug that normal people get and it has nothing to do with — it’s a bug.”

Mina looks at you with the expression of someone who has several more things to say and has made a strategic decision to not say them yet. “Okay,” she says. “Bug.”

By Sunday you can’t keep breakfast down. You sit on your bathroom floor at eight in the morning with your back against the tub and your forehead against your knees and you think about the party, and Jake’s room, and the nightstand, and the condom, and you think no very firmly and repeatedly and it doesn’t help at all.

You text Mina. can you come over

She’s there in seven minutes. She doesn’t say anything when you open the door, just looks at your face, and you nod back at her.

The Caldwell campus drugstore is a five minute walk from your building and has, blessedly, a single-occupancy bathroom at the back that Mina sweet-talks the Saturday cashier into letting you use on the grounds that you’re not feeling well, which is at least entirely true. It’s a very small bathroom.

The two of you fill it completely — you on the closed toilet lid, Mina with her back against the sink, the test sitting on the edge of it between you with three minutes on Mina’s phone timer counting down. Nobody says anything.

The tile is white. There’s a motivational poster on the back of the door — you’ve got this! in yellow letters — that you stare at with a feeling you can’t fully name.

Two minutes.

“It’s probably negative,” you say.

“Probably,” Mina says.

“The condom—”

“Yeah.” “And it’s been less than two weeks. Like. The timing—”

“The timing is actually about right,” Mina says, gently, “for symptoms to—”

“Stop,” you say.

One minute.

You watch the timer. The timer watches back. Your hands are completely still in your lap which surprises you — you’d have expected them to shake, but instead you feel very calm in the specific way that you get sometimes when something is about to happen and your body has decided that panic is a resource to be conserved.

The timer goes off.

Neither of you moves for a second. Then Mina picks up the test and looks at it. Her face does something — a flicker, fast and controlled, there and gone — and she hands it to you without speaking.

Two lines.

You look at it for a long time.

“Okay,” you say, finally.

“Yeah,” Mina says.

The motivational poster on the wall says you’ve got this! in yellow letters and you stare at it and think about Jake Sim telling the ceiling you can go whenever and feel something move through you that is too big and too complicated to have a name yet.

“Okay,” you say again. Like if you keep saying it, it’ll start meaning something useful.

—

You don’t go to him straight away. That feels important somehow — that you don’t just spiral out of that drugstore bathroom and make a beeline for the Hargrove Center in a panic, that you go back to your dorm first and sit with it for a while like a person with some degree of self-possession.

You and Mina order food you mostly don’t eat and sit on your bed with the test face-down on the nightstand like if you can’t see it it’s less real, and you talk around it for a while before you talk about it directly, which is its own kind of processing.

“You don’t have to decide anything today,” Mina says.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to tell him today either.”

“I know.” You pull your sleeves over your hands. “But I feel like — I don’t know. He should know. Like in or not he’s — it’s his. He should know.”

Mina is quiet for a moment. “Okay,” she says. “But eat something first.”

You eat half a portion of noodles. It’s the most you’ve managed in days and your stomach accepts it cautiously, like it’s making no promises. Then you change your top, put your shoes on, and look at Mina.

“Don’t come with me,” you say.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were absolutely going to.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. “Text me the second you’re out.”

The Hargrove Center is a twenty minute walk across campus and you use all twenty minutes to rehearse what you’re going to say, which turns out to be a complete waste of time because the moment you push through the side door and the cold air of the rink hits you — that particular sharp smell of ice and equipment — your prepared sentences evaporate entirely.

Practice is just wrapping up. You can see them from the entrance, the Wolves coming off the ice in clusters, helmets off, sticks in hand. Jay Park says something that makes Riki Nishimura laugh. Jungwon Yang is already halfway to the boards.

And Jake is — there, centre ice, still, talking to one of the assistant coaches with his helmet under his arm and his hair pushed back from his face, and even from here he looks like someone who has never had an uncontrollable variable in his life.

You wait.

You’re good at waiting. You’ve spent the last two weeks being good at things you didn’t choose to be good at.

He sees you when he comes off the ice — clocks you in the way that people clock something unexpected in a familiar space, a brief recalibration. Something moves across his face, too fast to read. Then it’s gone and he’s walking toward you with the easy unhurried stride of someone who has decided to be unbothered and you stand your ground and wait for him to reach you.

“Hey,” he says. Like you’re an acquaintance. Like he’s mildly surprised to see you and finds it mildly unremarkable.

“I need to talk to you,” you say. Something shifts.

The easy expression doesn’t disappear exactly but it adjusts, becomes more guarded. He glances around — Jay is watching from the boards with open curiosity, Riki less subtly — and then jerks his head toward the corridor off the main rink.

You follow him into it. It’s quieter here, the noise of the rink muffled, the overhead lights slightly too bright. He turns and faces you with his arms crossed and his weight back, and waits. You had sentences. You had very good sentences, all the way across campus.

“I’m pregnant,” you say.

The corridor goes very quiet. Jake looks at you. His expression does several things in quick succession that he doesn’t quite manage to keep off his face — shock, and something that might be fear, and then a shuttering, a closing, something careful dropping down over all of it.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” you repeat.

“That’s — okay. How far—”

“I just found out today. So.” You fold your arms across your chest. “Not far.”

He nods slowly. His jaw is working. He looks at the floor for a moment and then back at you and the careful expression is fully in place now, composed and unreadable, and you don’t know whether to be relieved or furious about it.

“Are you sure it’s mine,” he says.

The corridor goes even quieter somehow.

You look at him. “What did you just say.”

“I’m just—” He shifts his weight. “We don’t know each other. I don’t know who else you’ve been—”

“Are you calling me a slut.” It comes out flat. Not a question.

“I’m not calling you anything, I’m just saying I don’t know—”

“You’re the only person I’ve slept with in four months.” Your voice is very level. “I was in a relationship. It ended. I haven’t — there’s been no one else. There’s only been you.” You look at him. “And I can’t believe I’m standing here explaining that to you.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“You literally just implied I could have slept with someone else.” The level voice is beginning to fray at the edges. “You literally said that. To my face.”

“Look, I just—”

You slap him.

You don’t plan it. Your hand moves before the decision has fully formed, the sharp crack of it landing across his cheek, and then there’s a ringing silence and your palm is stinging and Jake’s head has turned with the force of it and he’s looking at you now with an expression you haven’t seen on him before. Not angry. Something more complicated than angry.

“Don’t ever,” you say, quietly, “imply something like that to me again.”

He says nothing. His hand has come up to his cheek, not pressing, just — there. His jaw is tight.

“I thought you should know,” you say. “That’s all. I thought you deserved to know because it’s yours and you deserved to know. I haven’t decided anything yet and I’m not asking you for anything.” You pull your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he says. Low. You walk back out into the cold. You text Mina out and she sends back seventeen question marks which is fair.

You tell her you’ll explain when you get back and spend the walk home feeling the particular hollow exhaustion of someone who has done the thing they needed to do and now has no idea what comes next.

You’re back in your building, one flight up, when you hear him behind you. “Hey—”

You turn. Jake is in the stairwell, still in his practice gear, slightly out of breath like he walked fast to get here, and you have absolutely no idea how he found out which dorm you’re in and you’re going to have questions about that later.

“How did you—“

“Jay knew,” he says, which explains nothing and everything.

He comes up the last few steps and stops on your landing and runs a hand through his hair and looks like someone who has been having a very difficult internal conversation at speed. “Can I—”

“No,” you say.

“Two minutes.” You look at him. He looks back. The mark from your hand has faded from his cheek but his expression is still doing that thing — complicated, unreadable, something working behind it.

“Two minutes,” you say, and unlock your door. Your room is small and suddenly smaller with him in it. He stands just inside the door like he’s not sure he’s allowed further in, which is the most uncertain you’ve seen him, and you sit on the end of your bed and look at him and wait.

He reaches into his jacket. He puts a stack of bills on your desk. You look at the money. You look at him. “Jake.”

“It’s enough to cover — whatever you decide.” He’s not quite meeting your eyes. “I’m not — look. I don’t want a kid. I’m not in a place for that. We don’t know each other. But I’m not going to just—” He stops. Starts again. “Take it. Whatever you need it for.”

You stare at the money for a long moment. “Are you going to want to be involved,” you ask. “If I decide to keep it.”

Something crosses his face. “I don’t — I haven’t—” He exhales. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” you say. “That’s honest at least.”

“Are you going to keep it,” he asks. Quietly. Like he’s not sure he has the right to ask.

You look at the money on your desk. You look at him — standing in your doorway in his practice gear, jaw tight, trying very hard to look like someone who has this handled and not quite managing it — and you think that this is the first time he’s looked like a person to you. Not the reputation, not the corridor composure, not the ceiling of his bedroom. Just a person who is as blindsided as you are and coping with it badly.

“I don’t know yet,” you say. “I’ll let you know when I do.”

He nods. He looks at you for a moment longer than necessary. Then he picks up the money from your desk and puts it on your nightstand instead, like the desk was somehow wrong, like the four feet of distance makes a difference, and you don’t say anything about it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, at the door. “For what I said. At the rink.”

You look at him. “Which part.”

“All of it.”

He closes the door behind him and you sit on your bed in the quiet of your room for a long time, the money on your nightstand and the weight of everything pressing down, and then you pick up your phone and call your sister.

She picks up on the third ring. “Hey, you.” Hannah’s voice is warm and slightly distracted in the way it always is — you can hear one of the kids in the background, the particular high-pitched negotiation of a five year old who wants something and has decided now is the time. “Give me two seconds.”

Then, away from the phone: “Lily, baby, I said after dinner. After. Yes. Because I said so, that’s why.” A door closing.

Then: “Okay. Hi. Sorry. What’s up?”

You open your mouth. You’ve been sitting on your bed for forty minutes since Jake left, the money on your nightstand and your phone in your hand, and you’ve composed this conversation approximately thirty times in your head and all thirty versions started more coherently than what actually comes out, which is: “I did something kind of stupid.”

“How stupid.”

“Significantly.”

A beat. Hannah has always been good at letting silence do its work, at not rushing in to fill it with the wrong thing. It’s one of the things you’ve always loved about her. “Okay,” she says. “Tell me.”

So you tell her. All of it — the party and Jake and the test and the corridor and the slap and him in your room with the money — and Hannah listens through all of it without interrupting, which is its own kind of gift, and when you’re done there’s a moment of quiet that feels like her sorting through it.

“Okay,” she says again. “First question. Are you physically okay?”

“Yes.”

“Second question. Do you have someone with you?”

“Mina’s coming over in an hour.”

“Good.” You can hear her moving around, the soft sounds of her kitchen. “Third question, and I want you to actually think about it before you answer — not what you think you should say, not what’s practical, not what he wants or what anyone else wants. Just you.”

She pauses. “Do you want to keep it?”

You look at the money on your nightstand.

You think about the question the way she asked it — stripped of everything else, just you, just the truth of it underneath all the noise.

The thing is, you already know. You’ve known since the bathroom floor this morning, since you sat with your back against the tub and your forehead on your knees. It’s why the knowing has been so terrifying — not because you’re uncertain but because you’re not, and being not uncertain makes it real in a way that uncertainty would have postponed.

“Yeah,” you say. Quietly. “I do. I just — I don’t want it to be his. I don’t want to be tied to someone who—” You stop. “I don’t want the situation. I just want—”

“The baby,” Hannah says. “Yeah.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Those are two separate things,” she says. “The situation and the baby. They feel like the same thing right now but they’re not.”

You hear her sit down somewhere. “Marcus and I — when I had Lily, things with us were not good. You remember. We were not in a good place. And I thought about it the same way — I want her, I just don’t want this. And it was hard. It was genuinely really hard. But she’s five now and she’s the most annoying, amazing person I’ve ever met and I can’t — I can’t imagine.”

You press the back of your hand to your mouth.

“I’m not telling you what to do,” Hannah says quickly. “I promise I’m not. Whatever you decide I’m with you. I just — you asked.”

“I know,” you manage. “I know you’re not.”

“Is he terrible?” she asks. “This Jake person.”

You think about the corridor. The money. I’m sorry. For what I said. All of it. “I don’t know yet,” you say. “He’s — I don’t know what he is.”

“Okay.” Hannah’s voice is careful and warm. “You don’t have to know yet. You don’t have to know anything yet except what you want. Everything else gets figured out.”

You sit with that for a moment. “I’m keeping it,” you say. Out loud, to another person, for the first time. It lands differently than it did in your head — more solid, more real, like something that has been decided rather than something being considered.

“Okay,” Hannah says, and she says it the way Mina says it — not okay as in fine but okay as in I’ve got you. “Then we figure out the rest.”

You tell Mina when she comes over and she holds your hand and doesn’t say anything for a long moment and then says “okay, what do we need to do” in the tone of someone rolling up their sleeves, which is exactly right, which is why she’s your person.

You tell Jake two days later.

You find him after morning practice on a Wednesday, same side entrance to the Hargrove Center, and this time he sees you coming and something in his posture adjusts — not quite bracing, just becoming more careful, more deliberate, the way he gets when he’s paying attention. “Hey,” he says.

“I’m keeping it,” you say.

He goes very still. You watch him process it — the stillness and then the almost imperceptible movement of his jaw, the way his eyes go somewhere internal for a second before coming back to you. He looks like someone doing rapid and complicated mathematics. “Okay,” he says finally.

“You don’t have to be involved. I meant that when I said it. I’m not — I’m not asking you for anything except to know. You deserved to know and now you know and whatever you decide to do with that is up to you.”

“I said I’d provide,” he says. “I meant that.”

“Money isn’t the same as involved.”

“I know.” He shifts his weight. His hands are in his pockets and he’s looking at you with that careful expression, the one you can’t fully read. “I don’t — I’m not going to be the guy who just throws money at it and disappears. That’s not—” He stops. “I don’t know what I am yet. But I’m not that.”

You look at him for a long moment. There is, underneath the practice gear and the careful composure and the history of the last two weeks, something that might be decency in there. It’s buried. It’s inconsistent. You’ve seen it appear and disappear enough times already to know better than to trust it yet. But it’s there. “Okay,” you say. “Then figure out what you are and let me know.”

You turn to go. “Can I—” He stops. You look back. “Can I have your number,” he says. “Properly. So we can — so it’s easier to—”

“To what.”

He looks, briefly, like someone who hasn’t thought this far ahead. “Talk,” he says. “If we need to.”

You look at him for a moment. Then you take out your phone and hold it out. He puts his number in and hands it back and you save it under Jake Sim (do not text unless necessary) which you do not show him. “I’ll be in touch,” you say.

Jake doesn’t mean to tell his friend— or he does, but not like this, not in the locker room with his gear half off and Riki eating a protein bar on the bench across from him and Jay taping his wrist in the corner and Jungwon doing something on his phone. It comes out the way things come out when you’ve been holding them too long and the effort of holding them finally exceeds the effort of saying them.

“I got someone pregnant,” he says.

The locker room goes quiet. Riki stops chewing. Jay puts down the tape. Jungwon looks up from his phone. “I’m sorry,” Jay says, with the careful enunciation of someone who wants to make sure they’ve heard correctly. “You what?”

“You heard me.”

“I heard you, I just want to make sure I—” Jay sets down the tape fully and turns to face him. “Who.”

“Girl from Delta Kappa. Three weeks ago.” Another silence. Jay is looking at him with an expression that Jake doesn’t particularly enjoy — something between concern and the specific look of someone doing the maths on how this could have happened and arriving at several uncomfortable conclusions about Jake’s general life choices.

“Are you—” Jungwon starts.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I was going to ask.”

“Then what.”

Jungwon looks at him steadily. “Is she okay.”

Jake opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks about you in the corridor at the rink and your voice going flat and your hand cracking across his face, and then you in your dorm room — calm and certain and telling him you weren’t asking him for anything, which was somehow the part that landed hardest. “I think so,” he says. “She’s — yeah.”

“Do you like her?” Riki asks, with the bluntness of someone who has not yet learned that some questions require more runway.

“I don’t know her,” Jake says.

“That’s not what I asked.” Jay shoots Riki a look. Riki shrugs and takes another bite of his protein bar.

“What are you going to do?” Jay asks, turning back to Jake.

Jake leans his elbows on his knees and looks at the floor. The locker room smells like it always does — ice and rubber and effort — and it’s familiar in a way that is almost destabilising right now, how normal everything around him is when nothing feels particularly normal. “I don’t know yet,” he says. “Be there, I think. As much as she’ll let me.”

“As much as she’ll let you,” Jay repeats. Something in his tone.

“She’s not — she’s not soft.” Jake looks up. “She’s not going to make it easy.”

“Should she?”

Jake looks at him. Jay looks back, steady and unhurried. “No,” Jake says, after a moment. “Probably not.”

Jay nods once. Picks the tape back up. “Then figure it out,” he says, like it’s simple, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and Jake sits with that in the familiar smell of the locker room and thinks that he probably needs to.

—

The truce, when it forms, is not announced. It happens gradually over the following week — a text from him checking if you need anything, which you respond to with I’m fine thanks and nothing else. A text from you three days later telling him your first appointment is booked for the following week, which he responds to with do you want me there and you respond with not yet and he responds with okay and that’s it, that’s the whole exchange, and somehow it’s the most civil conversation you’ve had.

He doesn’t push. You note this without letting it mean too much. You’re not friends. You’re not anything with a name. You’re two people who made a mistake that turned into something neither of you planned for, and you’re figuring out how to exist in the same orbit without either of you combusting, and most days it feels manageable and some days it feels impossible and on the days it feels impossible you call Hannah, who answers on the third ring and lets the silence do its work.

It’s something, you think. It’s not much but it’s something. For now, that has to be enough.

The thing about Caldwell though, is that it’s a big campus until it isn’t.

Thirty thousand students, four faculties, two libraries, a quad the size of a small park — and yet somehow the people you most want to avoid have an unerring instinct for occupying the same coffee shop, the same corridor, the same stretch of pavement at the same time.

You’ve been navigating this for four months with Sunghoon and you’ve gotten good at it. You know his schedule well enough to avoid it without meaning to, the way you learn the shape of someone after two years and can’t quite unlearn it.

Which is why it catches you off guard when he’s just — there. The library café, a Tuesday afternoon, three weeks after the test. You’re at a corner table with your laptop and a cup of tea you’ve been nursing for an hour because coffee is still wrong and probably will be for the foreseeable future, and you’re halfway through a close reading of Middlemarch chapter forty-two when someone pulls out the chair across from you and sits down and you look up and it’s Sunghoon.

He looks, as he always looks, like something assembled with unreasonable care. Dark hair, clean jawline, the particular quality of stillness he has that used to make you feel calm and now just makes you feel tired.

“Hey,” he says.

You look at him. Then at the chair he’s sitting in. Then back at him. “I didn’t say you could sit.”

“I know.” He doesn’t move. “I just wanted to talk.”

“Sunghoon.”

“Five minutes.”

You close your laptop. Not because you’re agreeing, but because whatever he’s about to say you want to be looking at him when he says it. “Five minutes,” you say. “And then you’re going to go away.”

Something moves through his expression — not quite hurt, but adjacent. He folds his hands on the table. He has nice hands. You spent two years noticing his hands. “I saw you at Delta Kappa,” he says.

“I know. You texted me.”

“You didn’t reply.” He looks at you steadily. “You were talking to Jake Sim.”

There it is.

You keep your face very neutral. “I was at a party. I talked to a lot of people.”

“Jake Sim isn’t a lot of people.” Something in his voice shifts — not quite possessive, not quite jealous, threading that needle with the precision of someone who knows he doesn’t have the right to either and is trying to disguise it as concern. “He’s not a good person to get involved with.”

“Thank you for that,” you say. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” You look at him. “Sunghoon. You don’t get to come sit at my table and tell me who I should and shouldn’t talk to. You gave that up.”

His jaw tightens. “I know I did.”

“Then why are you here?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Outside the café windows the quad is grey and overcast, students moving across it with their heads down against the wind, and Sunghoon is looking at you with an expression you know — you’ve catalogued it, the way you’ve catalogued everything about him, two years of accumulated knowledge you can’t seem to put down. It’s the expression he gets when he wants to say something and is choosing his words with care.

“I miss you,” he says.

You look at him for a long time. The honest answer is that you miss him too — or you miss the version of things you thought you had, which isn’t exactly the same as missing him but lives close enough to it that the distinction is hard to maintain on a grey Tuesday afternoon with him sitting across from you looking like that.

You miss having a person. You miss the shape of your life before it got complicated in every possible direction.

But you also know what he did.

You know it with the specific clarity of something you’ve gone over enough times that it’s stopped being sharp and started being just — true. A fact about him. A fact about what he chose. “I know,” you say. Carefully. “But that’s not my problem to fix.”

He nods. Slow. Like he expected it and it still costs him something. He stands up, pushes the chair back in, and then pauses with his hands on the back of it. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Actually? You look—” He stops.

“I look what.”

“Tired,” he says. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine,” you say.

He looks at you for a moment longer. Then he goes, and you open your laptop, and you stare at Middlemarch chapter forty-two for a while without reading any of it.

You don’t tell Jake about Sunghoon.

There’s no reason to.

You and Jake are not — whatever you are, it doesn’t include telling each other things. It includes occasional texts, one appointment you went to alone where a doctor confirmed what you already knew and gave you a due date that made it real in a new and specific way, and a strange careful politeness that exists between you like a temporary structure neither of you fully trusts.

He texts you on a Friday evening. how are you feeling

You look at it for a while. Fine. Less sick this week.

that’s good

A pause. Then: do you need anything?

You think about your sister’s voice. You don’t have to know anything yet except what you want. You think about Jake in your dorm room, the money on your nightstand, I’m not going to be the guy who just throws money at it. You think about how many times in the past three weeks he’s almost been decent and then done something to complicate it.

I’m okay, you send back. Thanks.

He sends a thumbs up and you put your phone face down and tell yourself this is fine, this arrangement is fine, and mostly you believe it.

You find out about the girl on a Saturday night.

You’re not looking for it — you’re not the kind of person who goes searching for things they don’t want to find, you learned that lesson with Sunghoon — but Caldwell is a big campus until it isn’t, and Mina’s friend group overlaps with the hockey crowd in the specific way that happens at schools where athletes are their own ecosystem but not a fully separate one.

It’s Mina who tells you, with the careful expression of someone who has been sitting on information and decided you’d rather hear it from her. “I heard Jake hooked up with someone last weekend,” she says. Not leading with it, not burying it either. Just: here is a thing that is true.

You look at your coffee. You’ve graduated back to coffee this week, weak and milky, which feels like a victory. “Okay,” you say.

“You’re allowed to have feelings about that.”

“We’re not together, Mina.”

“I know.”

“He can do whatever he wants. We’re not — there’s nothing between us. We’re just—” You move your hand in a vague gesture that encompasses the entire situation. “This.”

“I know,” Mina says again, in the tone that means she has more to say and is choosing not to. You continue to drink your coffee.

The thing is — and this is the part you don’t say out loud, the part you turn over privately in the quiet of your own head — the thing is that you know she’s right.

You are allowed to have feelings about it.

You do have feelings about it, somewhere underneath the very reasonable and correct observation that Jake Sim owes you nothing beyond basic decency and whatever co-parenting arrangement you eventually figure out.

You have feelings about it the way you have feelings about a lot of things lately — in the muffled, at-a-distance way, like they’re happening to someone slightly removed from you and you’re watching through glass.

You’re pregnant with his baby and he’s sleeping with someone else and you’re not together and you have no claim on him and all of that is true simultaneously and you’re not sure what to do with the fact that it still sits in your chest like something uncomfortable.

“I don’t care,” you tell Mina. She looks at you with the expression that means I know you and I know that’s not entirely true but I love you so I’ll let you have it.

“Okay,” she says.

—

Jake texts you on Sunday.

heard you’ve been doing better. that’s good

You stare at the message for a long time. Yeah, you type back. Thanks.

A pause. Then: can I take you to your next appointment?

You put the phone down. Pick it up. Put it down again.

The question sits there, simple and direct, and the thing about it is that it isn’t nothing. It’s not the gesture of someone who is just throwing money at a situation. It’s — something. Small and tentative and probably not enough and something nonetheless.

It’s in two weeks, you send back. I’ll let you know.

okay, he says. no pressure.

You put the phone down and look at the ceiling and think about a girl you don’t know and a Saturday night you weren’t part of and the specific stupidity of having feelings about either, and then you think about your next appointment and the due date the doctor gave you and the small impossible reality of all of it, and you decide that you are going to take a nap and deal with every single one of these things later.

Later, you think. All of it later.

He comes to the appointment, in the end you let him. You texted him the details the night before — time, building, room number — and he’s there when you arrive, standing outside the health centre with his hands in his jacket pockets and his breath fogging in the cold, and he looks up when he sees you coming and something in his expression does that thing, that complicated unreadable thing, and he falls into step beside you without saying anything.

Inside, in the waiting room, you sit next to each other in plastic chairs with a magazine between you that neither of you reads. A couple across the room are holding hands. You and Jake sit with six inches of space between you like a demilitarised zone.

“You okay?” he asks, quietly.

“Fine,” you say. “You?”

“Fine,” he says.

The nurse calls your name and you both stand up and Jake follows you in and stands slightly to the side while the doctor talks and asks questions and pulls up the scan on the screen, and you look at it — the small impossible blur of it, the heartbeat a flickering certainty on the monitor — and you feel the thing in your chest that you’ve been keeping at distance move closer without permission.

Beside you Jake goes very still.

You don’t look at him. You look at the screen.

“Everything looks perfect,” the doctor says.

You nod. You don’t trust your voice.

In the corridor after, walking back out into the cold, Jake is quiet for a long time. Longer than usual even for him.

You’re almost at the path that splits — his way, your way — when he says, without looking at you: “That was—”

“Yeah,” you say.

He nods. Puts his hands back in his pockets. “I’ll walk you back,” he says.

You think about the girl he slept with. You think about Sunghoon in the library café. You think about the scan on the monitor and the heartbeat that is real and certain and not theoretical anymore.

“Okay,” you say.

He walks you back. You don’t talk much. It’s not uncomfortable exactly — it’s something more complicated than that, something neither of you has a name for yet, and when you reach your building he stops at the bottom of the steps and looks at you and opens his mouth and then closes it again.

“What,” you say.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just — take care of yourself.” You look at him for a moment.

“You too,” you say, and go inside.

—

Sunghoon doesn’t give up. You’d half expected him to — one conversation in the library café, you’d said your piece, he’d said his, and you’d thought that would be the end of it. Sunghoon has always been precise about things, economical, not the type to repeat himself unnecessarily. You’d thought he’d take the answer and file it and move on.

Instead he texts you on a Wednesday. Just — how are you doing. No punctuation, which for Sunghoon is practically shouting.

You don’t reply.

He texts again on Friday. can we get coffee sometime? just to talk?

You stare at it for a long time.

You show it to Mina, who makes a face. “Don’t,” she says.

“I’m not going to,” you say.

He finds you on campus on Monday — the English building, your own territory, which feels deliberate. He’s waiting near the entrance when you come out of your seminar and you see him before he sees you and for one uncharitable second you think about turning around and going back inside.

You don’t. You keep walking. “Hey,” he says, falling into step beside you.

“Sunghoon.”

“I just want to walk with you.”

“I didn’t say you could.”

“I know.” He walks with you anyway, hands in his coat pockets, quiet for a moment in the way that used to feel comfortable and now just feels like pressure. “How are you feeling?”

You glance at him. “Fine.”

“You look better than last time I saw you. Less tired.”

“Thanks,” you say, flatly.

He’s quiet again. The path curves toward the quad and you keep walking and he keeps pace and you’re aware — acutely, uncomfortably aware — that you’re starting to show. Not dramatically, not in a way that’s obvious under your coat, but enough that you know. Enough that it’s a matter of time.

“I meant what I said,” Sunghoon says. “In the library.”

“I know you did.”

“I’m not trying to pressure you.”

“You’re walking next to me uninvited,” you say. “What would you call that?”

He stops. You stop too, half a beat later, and turn to look at him. He’s standing in the middle of the path with that precise, careful expression and something underneath it that isn’t quite what he’s performing, and you know him well enough to know the difference and wish you didn’t.

“I made a mistake,” he says. “I know I did. I know what I did and I know it was—” He stops. Starts again. “I just want a chance to—”

“Sunghoon.” You keep your voice even. “I can’t do this right now. I genuinely cannot — there is too much happening in my life right now for me to also be doing this. Okay? Please.”

He looks at you. Something in his expression shifts — a question forming, something he’s noticed that he can’t quite place. “What’s happening?” he asks. Carefully.

“Nothing that’s your business,” you say. “Please just — let me go.”

And he lets you go.

But the problem is that Caldwell is a big campus until it isn’t.

The problem is that two weeks later you’re at a party you didn’t particularly want to attend — a smaller thing, a friend of Mina’s, an apartment off campus — and both of them are there. Jake and Sunghoon.

You don’t notice Jake first. You notice Sunghoon, across the room with his circle, and you note it and move on, you’re good at that now. You get a drink — water, the specific reality of being the only sober person at a party hitting — and find Mina and settle into the corner and decide you’ll stay an hour and then leave.

You notice Jake about twenty minutes in.

He’s near the kitchen with Jay, and there’s a girl — tall, dark-haired, laughing at something he’s said with her hand on his arm and her body angled toward him in the specific way that means something. You see him lean in to say something close to her ear. You see her laugh again. You look away.

You look back to Mina, who is mid-conversation with someone and hasn’t clocked it, and you drink your water and you are fine, you are completely fine, this is exactly what you knew was happening and seeing it in person doesn’t change anything and you are fine.

You last another twenty minutes before you decide you’re going to get some air.

The problem is that getting air requires passing the kitchen. Jake sees you at the same moment you see him and something in his expression shifts — that recalibration, that adjustment — and the girl’s hand is still on his arm and you keep walking, eyes forward, almost past— “Hey.”

His voice.

You stop. You turn. He’s stepped slightly away from the girl, who is watching with a politely curious expression. “Hey,” you say.

“You’re here,” he says, which is not his most articulate moment.

“Briefly,” you say. “Don’t mind me.” Something moves across his face.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” You smile at him — pleasant, neutral, the smile of someone who is absolutely fine. “Enjoy your night.” You keep walking.

The air outside is cold and you stand on the small concrete step outside the apartment and breathe it and tell yourself the tightness in your chest is just the stuffiness of the party and not anything else.

You hear the door behind you. “Hey—”

You turn, expecting Jake, and it’s Sunghoon. Of course it’s Sunghoon.

He’s in his coat, hands in his pockets, and he looks at you with that careful expression and says “I saw you come out” like that explains what he’s doing here, which it does, which doesn’t make it better.

“I needed air,” you say.

“I know.” He comes to stand beside you. Close, but not touching. “You looked upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“You have a face,” he says, gently, and you hate that he’s right, hate that after four months and everything that happened he can still read you like that. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Is it Sim?” Something in his voice changes — not quite hard, not quite angry, threading the needle. “Are you involved with him?”

“That’s not your business.”

“I’m asking because I’m worried about you, not because—”

“Sunghoon.” You turn to face him. “Please stop. Please just—”

The door opens behind you. Jake comes out. He takes in the scene — you and Sunghoon, close, Sunghoon’s expression, yours — in about half a second and his jaw tightens in a way you’ve learned to read as something being suppressed.

“Everything okay?” he asks. Looking at you, not at Sunghoon.

“Fine,” you say, for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.

“She said she’s fine,” Sunghoon says. His voice is even. “So you can go back inside.” Jake looks at him. Something passes between them that has nothing to do with you — some older, unnamed thing.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Jake says.

“Then walk away.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Jake.” Your voice is sharper than you intend. “It’s fine. Go inside.”

He doesn’t go inside.

He stays where he is with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on Sunghoon, and Sunghoon stays where he is with that precise stillness, and the cold air between all three of you is doing a lot of work.

“You’re the one she’s been seeing,” Sunghoon says, to Jake. Not a question.

“That’s not your business,” Jake says.

“It is when you’re—” Sunghoon stops. Something has crossed his face — he’s looking at you, at your coat, and the realisation moves through his expression slowly and then all at once.

His eyes find yours. “Are you—”

“Don’t,” you say.

“Are you pregnant?”

The step goes very quiet.

Jake goes very still.

You look at Sunghoon and there is a specific kind of exhaustion that moves through you — the exhaustion of someone who has been managing too many things for too long and has just watched one of them slip out of their hands.

“That,” you say, carefully, “is none of your business.”

“It’s his, isn’t it.” Not looking at Jake. Looking at you. Something in his voice that you don’t have a name for — not anger, not hurt, something more complicated and less clean than either. “You hooked up with Jake Sim at a party and now you’re—”

“Sunghoon—”

“What were you thinking?” And there it is — the composure cracking, the precision slipping, something rawer underneath. “What were you actually — with him, of all people—”

“Hey.” Jake’s voice is hard. “Watch yourself.”

“You stay out of it—”

“She told you it’s none of your business—”

“I’m talking to her—”

“Then talk to her with some respect—”

“Oh that’s rich, coming from you.” Sunghoon turns to Jake fully now and the precise stillness has sharpened into something else. “Everyone knows what you are. Everyone knows how you treat—”

“And everyone knows what you did,” Jake says, low and flat. “So don’t stand here and act like you’ve got the moral—”

“Stop.” Your voice cuts through both of them. They both look at you. “Both of you. Stop.”

A beat. “I’m going home,” you say. “This is—” You gesture at the three of you, at the step, at all of it. “I’m not doing this.”

“I’ll walk you—” Both of them, simultaneously.

“Neither of you will walk me anywhere.” You pull your coat around you. “I want to go by myself and I want both of you to leave me alone tonight. Okay?”

Sunghoon opens his mouth.

And then — later, when you try to reconstruct the exact sequence, it’s hard to isolate the moment it tips — he reaches for your arm, a gesture, just trying to stop you leaving, and Jake moves at the same time, stepping forward, his hand coming out to push Sunghoon back, and Sunghoon turns, and the angles are all wrong, and Jake’s elbow catches you across the side of your face.

It’s not hard. It’s not a real blow — it’s the edge of the motion, glancing, the kind of thing that in any other circumstance would be an accidental knock in a crowded corridor that you’d shake off and keep walking.

But you make a sound and stumble back.

Jake turns and sees your face and goes completely white. “Fuck—” He reaches for you.

“Don’t touch me.”

Your hand comes up. Your voice has gone very quiet. The side of your face is throbbing, low and dull, and underneath it everything else — the tiredness, the party, Sunghoon’s face when he realised, the girl’s hand on Jake’s arm — all of it presses in at once and you are so, so tired.

“I didn’t — it was an accident, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know it was an accident,” you say. Still quiet. Still very controlled. “I know that.”

“Are you okay? The baby—”

“I’m fine. It was my face, not—” You stop. Press your fingers briefly to your temple. “I’m fine.”

Jake is looking at you with an expression you haven’t seen on him before — something undone about it, all the composure gone, something almost desperate. “Let me take you home—”

“No.”

You look at him. Then at Sunghoon, who has gone very still and very pale. “I’m going to get Mina. I’m going to go home. And I don’t want either of you to contact me tonight.”

You take out your phone. You text Mina. You wait on the step with your back to both of them until she comes out, takes one look at your face, takes your arm, and walks you away without saying a word.

Behind you, you don’t look back.

Jake texts at midnight. I’m so sorry. please tell me you’re okay

You look at it for a long time. I’m fine, you send back. Goodnight Jake.

He sends: I’m sorry again

Those two words, and you put your phone face down and stare at the ceiling of your dorm room and Mina is asleep in your desk chair with a blanket over her because she refused to go home and you love her for it, and the small dull ache in your temple has faded to almost nothing, and the baby is fine, you’re fine, everything is fine.

You don’t text him back.

He tries on Sunday.

A text at nine in the morning — can we talk please? — that you look at and put face down without replying.

Then at eleven: I know you’re angry. you have every right to be. I just want to talk.

Then at two in the afternoon, which shows either impressive persistence or a complete inability to read a room: I’m going to keep texting until you tell me to stop.

You text back: stop.

He texts back: okay. I’m sorry.

You put the phone in your drawer.

He doesn’t stop.

Well, he stops texting — he respects that, or he tries to, mostly — but he finds other ways. There’s a bag outside your dorm room door on Monday morning: crackers, the specific brand you’d been eating in the early weeks, ginger tea, a punnet of the green grapes that you’d mentioned once in passing to him that you’d been craving. No note. Just the bag.

You stand in your doorway looking at it for a long time.

You bring it inside. You eat the grapes. You do not text him to say thank you and you do not text him to say stop and the not-texting feels like its own kind of answer that you’re not ready to examine yet.

On Tuesday he’s outside your building.

Not lurking — he’s sitting on the low wall by the entrance with his hands between his knees and his jacket on against the cold, and he stands up when he sees you come out and he doesn’t move toward you, just — stands there, and waits, and lets you decide.

You stop on the steps. “Jake.”

“Five minutes,” he says. “I know I don’t deserve them. Five minutes and then I’ll go and I won’t — I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want.”

You look at him. He looks back. He has, you note, the specific appearance of someone who hasn’t been sleeping well — not dramatic, just a tightness around his eyes, a quality of having been somewhere difficult in his own head for the past two days.

Good, says a part of you.

The other part steps down off the steps and stands in front of him and crosses her arms and says: “Five minutes.”

He exhales. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For Friday night. For — all of it, the whole night, but specifically for—” He stops. His jaw works. “I should never have let it get to that point. I should have walked away from him the second it started and I didn’t and you got hurt and you’re — the baby could have—” He stops again. Something in his face that isn’t composure. “I will never forgive myself for that. I need you to know that. It keeps me up.”

You look at him. “It was an accident.”

“It was an accident that happened because I couldn’t keep my head.” His voice is flat with self-assessment. “Same difference.”

“It’s not the same difference.”

“It’s close enough.” He looks at you steadily. “I’m also sorry for the girl at the party. I know you saw. I know we’re not — I know you don’t have any claim on me and I don’t have any claim on you and technically I didn’t do anything wrong but I’m still sorry because I saw your face and I knew and I did it anyway and that’s—” He stops. “That’s not who I want to be. With this. With you.”

The wall by the entrance is cold and grey and a girl from your floor passes you both with her earphones in and doesn’t look up and the world keeps moving indifferently around this conversation.

“You hurt me,” you say. Not the elbow. The other thing. The girl at the party and the ceiling of his bedroom and the weeks of almost-decency that kept getting complicated. “Not — not physically. You just keep—” You stop. “Every time I think maybe you’re a person you do something that reminds me why I shouldn’t think that.”

He takes that. Doesn’t deflect, doesn’t explain, just takes it. “I know,” he says.

“I need you to be consistent,” you say. “I can’t — I’m going to have your baby, Jake. We’re going to be in each other’s lives for a very long time. I need you to be someone I can rely on or I need you to be completely absent because the in-between is—” Your voice doesn’t shake. You’re proud of that. “It’s too hard. I can’t do the in-between.”

He’s quiet for a moment. The wind moves across the quad and he looks at you with that expression — the undone one, the one without composure — and says: “I don’t want to be absent.”

“Then be consistent.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it? Okay?”

“What else do you want me to say?” He’s not defensive — it’s a real question, earnest in a way that sits oddly on him, like a piece of vocabulary he hasn’t used much. “Tell me what you need and I’ll do it. Specifically. I’m not good at—” He moves his hand. “Guessing. Feelings. Whatever this is. But if you tell me what it looks like I’ll do it.”

You look at him for a long moment.

“No more girls,” you say. “Not while we’re — not while this is what it is. I know I have no right to ask that but I’m asking.”

Something shifts in his expression. “Done,” he says. No hesitation.

“And show up. When you say you’re going to show up, show up.”

“Done.”

“And don’t fight people on my behalf. I can handle my own situations.”

His jaw tightens slightly. “That one’s harder.”

“Jake.”

“Done,” he says. “Okay. Done.”

You look at him. He looks back. The five minutes has long since passed and neither of you has moved and the cold is starting to get into your fingers.

“The grapes were good,” you say finally.

Something in his expression — brief, warm, gone almost immediately. “I’ll get more,” he says.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” He says it simply. No performance in it.

You nod. You pull your coat tighter. “I have a seminar,” you say.

“I know. Go.” He steps back, hands in his pockets. “Thank you. For the five minutes.”

You go.

He tells his father that evening.

He doesn’t plan to. He goes to his dad’s office on the east side of the admin building for what is ostensibly a standing weekly dinner that they do on Tuesday evenings — a thing they’ve done since Jake’s freshman year, his dad’s attempt at maintaining something normal in the specific abnormality of being the dean’s son at your own father’s university. They go to the Italian place two blocks off campus. They talk about the team, the season, coursework, the usual rotation.

Except tonight Jake sits down across from his father and picks up the menu and puts it down again and his dad looks at him over his own menu with the steady, unhurried attention that has always been the most disarming thing about him — the way he looks at you like he has all the time in the world and means it — and says:

“What’s going on.” Not a question. His dad has never really needed to make them questions.

Jake puts his menu down. He looks at the table. He thinks about you on the steps this morning saying every time I think maybe you’re a person and the specific accuracy of it, the way it had landed not like an attack but like a diagnosis.

“I got someone pregnant,” he says.

The restaurant is quiet around them — mid-evening, not full yet, the soft noise of other people’s conversations providing cover. His dad sets his menu down with the deliberate care of someone who is choosing his response carefully.

“How far along,” he says.

“About eight weeks.”

His dad nods slowly. He’s a big man — Jake has his build, the same broad shoulders, though his dad carries more grey now at his temples and something steadier in his face, something earned. He looks at Jake with the expression that Jake has never been able to fully decode — not anger, not disappointment exactly, something more complicated and more patient than either.

“Tell me about her,” he says.

Jake blinks. Of all the things he’d expected — “What?”

“The woman. Tell me about her.”

Jake opens his mouth. Closes it. He thinks about you — the flat voice in the corridor at the rink, your hand cracking across his face, I can’t do the in-between. The grapes. The way you’d said the grapes were good like it cost you something to admit it.

“She’s—” He stops. Tries again. “She’s a third year. English lit. She’s sharp. Like — she doesn’t let me get away with anything, she just looks at me and calls it and moves on. She’s not—” He shifts. “She didn’t want this to be mine. She told me that. She wants the baby, she just didn’t want it to be complicated, and I’ve made it complicated.”

“How.”

Jake looks at the table. Lists it. The slap he deserved, the money that was clumsy, the girl at the party, Friday night and the elbow and her face and the specific look she’d had, controlled and exhausted and done.

His dad listens to all of it without interrupting. When Jake finishes there’s a pause — his dad picks up his water glass, drinks, sets it back down.

“Do you like her?” he asks.

Jake looks up.

“It’s a simple question,” his dad says.

“We don’t — I don’t know her. Not really.”

“That’s not what I asked, son.”

Jake is quiet for a moment. He thinks about you outside your building this morning, arms crossed, giving him five minutes you didn’t have to give. The way you’d said I need you to be someone I can rely on like it was the most reasonable thing in the world, like you weren’t asking for anything extraordinary, just — consistency. Basic human consistency. The thing he has never had to be for anyone.

“Yeah,” he says. Quiet. “I think so.”

His dad nods. Like that’s the piece he needed. Like everything else was context and that was the information.

“Then be someone worth liking,” he says. Simply. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s the only thing that matters and everything else is just logistics.

Jake looks at him.

“You’ve never had to work for anything,” his dad says, and it’s not unkind — it’s just true, delivered with the directness of someone who has been watching this coming for a long time. “Not really. Not the things that count. You’re talented and you’re smart and things have always — moved for you. And that’s partly my fault.” He meets Jake’s eyes. “But she’s right. You can’t be the in-between. You’re going to be someone’s father. That’s not a thing you can be inconsistent about.”

Jake absorbs this.

“I know,” he says.

“Do you?”

“I’m trying to.”

His dad looks at him for a long moment. Then he picks his menu back up. “Good,” he says. “That’s the right answer.” He glances over the top of it. “Order something. You look like you haven’t eaten good in a while.”

Jake looks at the menu.

“Dad,” he says.

“Mm.”

“I really—” He stops. “I’ve really made a mess of this.”

His dad lowers the menu slightly. Looks at him with that steady, unhurried attention. “Yes,” he says. “But messes can be cleaned up.” He raises the menu again. “The carbonara is good tonight.”

Jake picks up his menu.

He end up ordering the carbonara.

—

The thing about consistency is that it’s quiet.

It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t arrive with a gesture or a speech or a moment you can point to and say — there, that’s when things changed. It just accumulates, slowly, in the background of your ordinary life, until one day you look up and realise the weight you’ve been carrying has shifted without you noticing.

Jake shows up.

That’s the only way to describe it. He shows up in the small ways, the unglamorous ways, the ways that don’t make for a good story but add up to something anyway. He texts when he says he will. He’s outside your building on Wednesday mornings because you have a seminar and the walk takes you past the science quad where the wind is brutal and he started walking with you three weeks ago without asking and has not stopped. He brings food — not always the crackers and ginger tea, sometimes just the grapes, sometimes something from the good Thai place near the rink that you’d mentioned once you were craving and didn’t expect him to remember.

He remembers things.

This is, you find, the most disarming thing about him. More than the jaw and the shoulders and the specific quality of his attention when he’s fully in a conversation.

He remembers that you take your tea with one sugar and that you’re writing your dissertation on George Eliot and that your sister’s youngest is called Lily and that you cannot watch medical dramas right now because they make you anxious in a way you can’t fully explain. He files things away and uses them with a quietness that suggests he’s not doing it to impress you — he’s just paying attention.

And god, it’s harder to be angry at someone who pays attention. You’re still trying.

Your bump begins appearing at eleven weeks.

Not dramatically — not one morning you wake up transformed, just a gradual undeniable softening of the line of your stomach that means your jeans sit differently and your favourite hoodie, the oversized one you’ve worn for three years, suddenly doesn’t hang quite right. You stand in front of your mirror on a Thursday morning and put your hand flat against it and stay there for a moment with the strange doubled feeling that has been following you for weeks now — the unreality of it and the complete reality of it, existing simultaneously, refusing to resolve.

Mina notices before you say anything. She’s been noticing for two weeks, you suspect, and has been waiting for you to bring it up, which is one of the reasons she’s your person.

“You’re showing,” she says, on Friday afternoon, without preamble.

“A little,” you say.

“How do you feel about that?”

You think about it genuinely. “Weird,” you say. “Good weird. Mostly good weird.”

Mina nods. “Have you told Jake?”

“He’ll notice,” you say. “We’re — we’ve been spending time together. He’ll see.”

Mina looks at you with the expression that means she has registered the significance of we’ve been spending time together and is choosing, for now, not to make anything of it. “Okay,” she says.

“Don’t,” you say.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I really wasn’t,” she says, in the tone that means she absolutely was.

He notices on Saturday.

You’re at this Thai place — his suggestion, your agreement, the two of you in a corner booth with menus neither of you needs because you’ve been here enough times now that you already know — and you’ve taken your coat off because the restaurant is warm and you’re wearing a fitted top and when you reach across the table for the soy sauce you catch him looking.

Not rudely. Not in a way that makes you want to cover yourself. Just — looking, with that attentive expression, taking in information.

“Don’t,” you say.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You have a face.”

“I have a face,” he says, which is almost a smile. “You’re showing.”

“I know.”

“You look—” He stops. Considers his word choice with unusual care. “Good,” he says finally. “You look good.”

You look at him across the table. “That was very diplomatic.”

“I meant it.”

“Jake.”

“I genuinely meant it.” He meets your eyes. “You look good. You’ve looked good for a while. I just—” He stops again. “Didn’t say it. You looks beautiful actually.”

The restaurant is warm and smells like lemongrass and the couple at the next table are arguing quietly about something and the ordinary world is going on all around you and Jake Sim is sitting across from you saying you look good with an expression that has nothing performative in it, no angle, no formula.

You pick up your menu that you don’t need and look at it. “Thank you,” you say, at the laminated page.

He goes back to his menu too. Neither of you says anything else about it. But the air between you has shifted by some small degree and you both know it and neither of you is ready to name it yet and that, you think, is okay.

For now that’s okay.

The not-naming becomes its own kind of language eventually.

He walks you to your seminar on Wednesday and waits fifteen minutes in the wrong direction from the rink to do it, which you know because you’ve looked at the campus map, which you will not be telling him. You bring him coffee one morning — just once, without explanation, the specific order you’ve heard him give three times now — and he takes it without making anything of it which is exactly right. You text him a photo of a onesie Mina finds online that says future hockey player as a joke and he sends back a voice note that is mostly him laughing, genuine and unguarded, and you listen to it twice.

You do not examine why you listen to it twice.

Sunghoon texts once more — I hope you’re okay. I mean that.

You look at it for a long time. You think about the library café and the step outside the party and the way his face had looked when he realised. You think about two years and what they were and what they turned out to be underneath.

I’m okay, you send back. Take care of yourself.

He sends a single: you too.

And that, you think, is the end of that chapter. It doesn’t feel like closure exactly — closure implies a clean line, and there is no clean line, just a gradual and mutual putting down of something that had gotten too heavy to carry. But it feels like something finished. Something that needed to be done.

You feel lighter, after.

Jake finds out about the dissertation.

Not in a dramatic way — you’re in the library one afternoon, the two of you at adjacent tables because you’d both ended up there independently and moving would have been more pointed than staying, and he leans over at some point and looks at your screen and reads two sentences and says: “You write like this normally?”

“Like what.”

“Like—” He gestures at the screen. “Like that. Like it means something.”

You look at him. “It’s an academic paper.”

“I know what it is.” He looks faintly annoyed, the way he gets when he’s trying to say something and the words aren’t cooperating. “I’m saying it’s good. It sounds like you.”

You turn back to your screen. You are not going to make anything of this. You are a reasonable and self-possessed adult and you are not going to sit in the library and catch feelings because Jake Sim said your writing sounds like you.

“Thanks,” you say, at your laptop.

“I’m serious. It’s—” He picks up his pen. “Good.”

“You said that.”

“Because I mean it.”

You look at him. He looks back, pen between his fingers, entirely unaware that he’s just done something dangerous, and you look back at your dissertation and breathe carefully and remind yourself of all the reasons this is complicated.

There are many reasons. They are good reasons. You know them all.

The night it almost becomes something, it’s late November and it’s cold enough that your breath fogs and Jake has walked you back from the library and you’re standing at the bottom of your building’s steps in the dark and neither of you is moving.

“I should go in,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says.

Neither of you moves.

You’ve been doing this — the standing, the not-moving, the conversations that go slightly longer than they need to — for three weeks now. It has a shape, this thing between you, even if it doesn’t have a name. It has weight. You’re both aware of it and both moving around it with the particular carefulness of people who have been burned recently and are not in a hurry to be burned again.

“Jake,” you say.

“I know,” he says. Like he already knows what you’re going to say. Like he’s been having the same conversation in his own head.

“I just need it to stay—” You gesture between you. “Like this. For now. Okay? I need it to stay manageable.”

He looks at you. “Is it not?”

You look back. “Less and less,” you admit.

Something moves through his expression. Warm and complicated and controlled. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll keep it manageable.”

“Okay.”

“I just need you to know—” He stops. Starts again. “I’m not going anywhere. Whatever this is, whatever speed it goes. I’m not going anywhere.”

The cold is sharp and the steps are lit by the yellow glow of the entrance light and you are eleven weeks pregnant and standing in the dark with the father of your baby who is looking at you like you’re something worth staying for, and you think about all the reasons this is complicated and you think about your sister’s voice — those are two separate things — and you think that maybe, maybe, the situation and the feeling don’t have to be the same thing.

“Goodnight, Jake,” you say.

“Goodnight,” he says. You go inside.

At the top of the first flight of stairs you take out your phone.

You open his name — Jake Sim (do not text unless necessary) — and you look at it for a long moment.

You change it to Jake.

Just Jake. Nothing else.

You put your phone in your pocket and go to bed.

—

He asks you out on a Tuesday.

Not dramatically — not with any of the ceremony you might have expected from someone who has spent the better part of four months being alternately infuriating and disarming. He just falls into step beside you on the Wednesday morning walk to your seminar and says, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes forward: “Let me take you to dinner. A real one. Not Thai because we’ve done that.”

You look at him. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that.”

“Did you want me to make it complicated?”

You look back at the path ahead. The quad is grey and cold and a girl on a bike nearly takes out a first year near the fountain and life goes on all around you, indifferent and ordinary. “No,” you say. “I didn’t want it complicated.”

“Friday,” he says. “Seven. I’ll pick you up.”

“I know where the restaurants are, Jake. I go here too.”

“I know you do.” He glances at you sideways. “Let me pick you up though.”

You look at him. That expression — patient, certain, not performing anything. Just asking.

“Friday,” you say. “Seven.”

He nods. Looks back at the path. The corner of his mouth does something that isn’t quite a smile and is better than one.

The restaurant he takes you to is small and Italian and not the kind of place you’d have expected from him, which you’re finding is a theme — Jake Sim consistently failing to be what you expect in the specific ways that make him hardest to keep at distance. It’s candlelit without being try-hard about it, the kind of place where the pasta is made that morning and the wine list is handwritten and the tables are close enough that you’re aware of his knee near yours under the table for the entirety of dinner.

You talk. That’s the thing — you just talk, the way you have been talking for weeks now on walks and in the library and over Thai food, except tonight there’s no pretence of it being anything other than what it is. He asks about your dissertation and actually listens to the answer. You ask about the season and he tells you about the conference standings with genuine animation, hands moving, and you watch him and think about the ceiling of his bedroom in September and the corridor at the rink and the bag outside your dorm door and all the distance between those things.

“What,” he says, catching you looking.

“Nothing,” you say. “You’re different.”

“From what?” He laughs.

“From who you were in September.”

He’s quiet for a moment. He turns his wine glass slowly on the table. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I am.”

“Is that — do you mind that? Being different?”

He looks at you. “No,” he says. Simply. “I don’t mind it at all.”

You look back at your pasta.

Under the table his knee settles against yours and stays there and you don’t move away from it and neither does he and you eat your dinner in the warm candlelit ordinary of it and let yourself be there, fully, without managing it from a distance.

Outside afterward the cold hits and you’re pulling your coat around you when his hand finds yours. Not reaching, not making a thing of it — just his hand finding yours in the dark like it already knows the way, fingers threading through, warm and certain.

You let him.

You walk back across campus like that, not talking much, and when you reach your building you stop at the bottom of the steps and he turns to face you and you look at him in the yellow entrance light and you think about goodnight, about all the goodnights, about the careful distance you’ve been keeping.

“Come up,” you say.

His expression does that thing — complicated and warm and something that isn’t quite controlled anymore. “You sure?”

“I just asked, didn’t I?”

He follows you up.

Your room is warm and small and familiar and he’s been in it before but not like this — not with the door closed and the lights low and both of you knowing exactly what this is. He stands just inside the door and looks at you and you cross the room and kiss him.

It’s different from September.

September was heat and momentum and two people who didn’t know each other doing something that felt like a decision.

This is — slower. His hands come up to your face the way they did at the party but gentler, more deliberate, like he’s paying attention to something he nearly missed before. He kisses you like he has something to say and this is the only language that fits, and you feel it move through you differently than anything has moved through you in a long time.

“Hey,” he says, against your mouth.

“Hi,” you say back.

He pulls back just enough to look at you — really look, the way he does now, the full attentive weight of it — and his thumb traces your cheekbone and he says, quietly: “You’re so beautiful. Do you know that?”

“Jake—”

“I mean it.” You can tell he means it. It’s in his face, unguarded and certain. “I’ve been — I should have said it a long time ago.”

You look at him for a moment. Then you pull him back down.

He undresses you slowly, which is new — September was efficient, purposeful, barely stopping. Now he takes his time like he’s making up for it, his mouth following the line of your throat, your collarbone, his hands sliding your top off with a care that makes your breath catch. When he gets to the soft curve of your stomach he stops.

He goes to his knees.

You look down at him, breath held, and he puts both hands flat and warm against your bump and just — holds them there. His forehead drops forward to rest against you. The room is quiet. You put your hand in his hair without thinking about it.

“Hey,” he says softly. Not to you.

Your throat tightens.

He turns his head and presses his lips to the curve of your stomach, gentle, then again, then moves his hands slowly like he’s learning the shape of it, and you feel something in your chest come undone quietly and without ceremony.

“Jake,” you say, and your voice is not entirely steady.

He looks up at you. His eyes are dark and very serious. “Okay?” he asks.

“More than okay,” you manage.

He stands back up and kisses you again and walks you back to the bed.

He lays you down and settles over you and his mouth goes back to your tits immediately — you’d forgotten, or you’d tried to forget, the specific focused obsession of it — his hands cupping them, heavier now, thumbs dragging slow over your nipples until you’re arching up into his mouth.

“Perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, “you’re so perfect,” and the praise lands warm and low in your stomach and you pull at his shirt until he lets you get it off.

He’s as good-looking as you remembered, which is annoying.

His mouth works down your body and his hands slide your underwear off and then he looks up at you from between your thighs with an expression that makes your brain go briefly offline. “Okay?” he says again.

“If you don’t—” you start.

He puts his mouth on your pussy and the rest of that sentence evaporates.

He goes slower than September. That’s the difference — the same precision, the same devastating accuracy with his tongue on your clit and his fingers curling deep into your walls, but slower, like he wants to take you apart carefully this time, like he’s paying attention to every sound you make and adjusting accordingly.

Your hands find his hair. Your hips roll up. He holds them down with one forearm across your hips and doesn’t stop, doesn’t change pace, just keeps that steady merciless rhythm until you’re shaking and pleading and your walls are clenching around his fingers and you cum on his tongue with his name coming out wrecked and too loud for the room.

He comes back up your body looking — different than September. Still composed, still that infuriating ease, but underneath it something open. Something that wasn’t there before.

He reaches for his jacket on the floor. Finds his wallet to grab a condom.

You start laughing.

He looks at you confused. “What.”

“Jake.” You press your lips together. “We don’t — I’m already pregnant.

He looks at the condom in his hand. Looks at you. Something crosses his face and then he laughs too — real and unguarded, the laugh from the voice note, the one you listened to twice — drops it back on the floor and comes back to you.

“Fair point,” he says, against your mouth.

“Incredible,” you tell him. “You’re incredible.”

“Shut up,” he says, warmly, and kisses you.

He flips you over.

Not roughly — carefully, one hand at your hip and one at your shoulder, mindful, and you end up straddling him and looking down at him and his hands settle on your hips and he looks up at you like you’re the best thing he’s seen.

“You good?” he asks.

“Very,” you say, and sink down onto him.

The sound he makes is low and immediate and deeply satisfying. You feel every inch of him filling you, your walls stretching around his cock, and you go slow — partly because of the bump, partly because you want to, partly because watching his face as you take him is something you want to draw out. His jaw is tight. His hands on your hips are firm but not directing, just — there, holding on.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—”

“I know,” you say, and roll your hips.

His head drops back.

You find your rhythm — slow, deep, the grind of your hips meeting his, and his hands tighten and his hips push up to meet you and his mouth falls open and he is, you think, the best-looking thing you’ve ever seen like this, undone and flushed and completely present, all the composure stripped away.

“Perfect,” he says, rough and low, watching you move. “You’re so perfect, look at you—”

The praise moves through you like heat and you move faster, his thumb finds your clit and you gasp and his other hand spreads warm and careful over your bump and the gesture — the gentleness of it, the instinct of it — tips something over in your chest that you’re not going to examine right now because you’re busy, but you feel it, you feel it clearly.

You cum the second time with his cock buried inside you and his thumb on your clit, his hand on your stomach and his eyes on your face. He follows you not long after with his hips driving up and your name in his mouth, said like it means something, said like he’s been saving it.

Afterward you lie tangled together in your narrow dorm bed, which is not really built for two people but is managing. His hand is resting on your stomach with a naturalness that would have been impossible three months ago and you’re staring at the ceiling and feeling the particular peace of someone who has been braced for a long time and has just, finally, put it down.

“Come to my game next week,” he says.

You turn your head to look at him. “What?”

“Home game. Friday.” He’s looking at the ceiling too. Casual. Except you know him well enough now to know when the casual is covering something. “Come watch.”

You look back at the ceiling. “Okay,” you say.

He turns his head. “Actually?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you say. “Yes. I’ll come to your game.”

The corner of his mouth. That almost-smile that’s better than a real one. “Okay,” he says, and looks back at the ceiling, and his hand stays where it is, warm and certain.

—

The following week is small moments.

Tuesday he brings you the grapes and stays to help you outline your next dissertation chapter, sitting on your floor with his back against your bed and your notes spread between you, and he asks better questions than you expect and you don’t tell him that.

Wednesday the walk to your seminar, his shoulder bumping yours, the coffee he brings without asking — your order, exact, without you saying anything.

Thursday a voice note at eleven at night: just wanted to check you were okay. don’t reply if you’re asleep.

You reply and end up talking for forty minutes.

Friday morning he’s at your door.

In one hand, coffee. In the other, folded fabric — dark blue, the Caldwell Wolves crest on the chest, white lettering across the back. SIM. 9.

He holds it out. “You don’t have to,” he says, before you can say anything. “It’s not — I’m not trying to make it a thing. I just thought—”

You take it from him.

You pull it over your head immediately. It’s enormous on you — falls to mid-thigh, swamps your shoulders, the fabric soft from washing. You look down at it and then up at him. His expression is something you don’t have a word for.

You reach up and pull him down by his jacket lapel and kiss him, there in your doorway, in the yellow morning light, slow and certain.

When you pull back he looks — stunned, almost. Like he didn’t expect it even after everything.

“What was that for,” he says with a big grin.

“The jersey,” you say. “Come on. We’ll be late.”

The Hargrove Center is loud in a way that is different when you’re in the stands rather than the corridor — a living, moving noise, four thousand people and the echo of the ice and the announcer’s voice bouncing off the rafters. Mina is beside you, which you’d insisted on, and she’s wearing a Wolves scarf she definitely did not own before today and is eating a pretzel with the focus of someone who has decided to enjoy this.

Someone sits down on your other side.

You look over. He’s older — Jake’s build, the same broad shoulders, grey at his temples, a Wolves cap and a measured, unhurried expression.

“You must be—” he starts while smiling at you with the same grin Jake gave you not long ago.

“Dean Sim,” you say. “Hi.”

He looks at you for a moment with that steady attention that is so recognisably Jake’s that it almost makes you laugh. He’s smileing — warm, real. “He talks about you,” he says. “Quite a lot.”

“Good things, I hope.”

“Mostly.” He settles back in his seat. “He told me about the grapes.”

You look at him. He looks back with an expression of someone who finds this mildly amusing and is being polite about it.

“He remembered I was craving them,” you say.

“I know,” Dean Sim says. “That’s why he told me.” He looks out at the ice where the Wolves are warming up, Jake moving with that particular ease that is the same on ice as off it, unhurried and certain.

“He’s better than he knows how to show yet,” his dad says, quietly. Not performing it. Just — true. “But he’s getting there.”

You watch Jake on the ice.

“Yeah,” you say. “I know.”

The Wolves win.

Not narrowly — convincingly, the way they do when Jake is in the kind of form he’s been in lately, sharp and present, the kind of player who makes everyone around him better just by being fully there. You find yourself on your feet twice without meaning to be and Mina is absolutely losing her mind beside you in a way that suggests she has been quietly wanting to attend a hockey game for some time and has simply been waiting for the invitation.

After the final buzzer the arena stays loud, the celebration on the ice spilling into the stands, and Dean Sim shakes your hand and says it was lovely to meet you with a warmth that is entirely genuine, and you watch him go and think that Jake got the best of him, underneath everything.

And then the jumbo screen above the ice lights up.

You see it before you process it — your name, in big white letters, and then: JAKE SIM WANTS TO KNOW — WILL YOU BE HIS GIRLFRIEND?

The arena does not go quiet because four thousand people do not go quiet, but there is a definite shift — a ripple, a collective awareness, people turning and pointing and the noise changing character. Mina grabs your arm. You stare at the screen.

“Oh my god,” Mina says.

“Oh my god,” you say.

“Are you — are you going to—”

And then he’s there.

Full hockey gear, skates and all, somehow having gotten from the ice to the stands in the time it took you to register what the screen said, and he’s standing at the end of your row with his helmet under his arm and his hair damp and his face doing that thing — the unguarded thing, the thing without composure — and four thousand people are watching and Mina has both hands over her mouth.

“Well?” he says. Over the noise. Just to you.

You look at him. You look at the screen. You look back at him.

“You’re insane,” you say.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Is that a yes?”

You laugh — real and helpless, the kind that comes from somewhere you haven’t accessed in a while — and you step over Mina’s knees and go to him and he meets you halfway and you kiss him in the Hargrove Center in front of four thousand people and full hockey gear and the crowd does what crowds do when they witness something and the noise is enormous but you don’t hear any of it.

When you pull back his forehead drops to yours.

“Yes,” you tell him. “Obviously yes.”

He exhales — slow, like something released. His hand comes up to your face. His thumb at your cheekbone, the way it always is. “Good,” he says.

“Good,” you say back.

Behind you Mina is making a noise that suggests she is going to be telling this story for the rest of her natural life.

—

Three weeks later you are officially four months pregnant and the bump is undeniable now, round and real, and you’re sitting on Jake’s bed in his room — tidier than September, same room, different everything — with your legs across his lap while he reads something for class and his hand rests on your stomach with the absent certainty of someone who has stopped thinking about it and started just doing it.

The Wolves won again last night. His jersey, what you wore last night and have been to every game, is on the back of his chair.

Outside the window Caldwell goes on being large and indifferent and fully lit up, and in here it is warm and quiet and ordinary in a way that is — everything, actually. The whole thing. The specific ordinary of someone else’s presence that you’ve been missing without knowing how to name it.

“Hey,” Jake says, without looking up from his page.

“Hey,” you say.

“You good?”

You look at him — at the line of his jaw and the hand on your stomach and the room that used to be just a room and is now something else, something yours — and you think about September, about the corridor and the money and the slap you don’t regret. You think about Mina in the drugstore bathroom and Hannah on the third ring and the heartbeat on the monitor that made everything real.

You think about how none of this was the plan and how a plan was never the point.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m good.”

He turns a page. His hand stays where it is. Outside, Caldwell. Inside, this.

Good, you think. I’m more than good.

˚ ༘ 🎞️ ｡𖦹 ° 🎥 ⁀જ⁀➴ film starting……..

The chaotic bursts of neon light from the monitors washes over the room, casting long, jagged shadows against the walls of Heeseung’s room.

The room smells of expensive cologne, ozone from the humming PC, carrying the faint and sterile scent of rosewater and gentle soap in the air. 

You are seated on Heeseung’s lap, straddling his hips, knees around them, on his chair, facing him in a position that the friction of your thighs against his jogger’s can’t be ignored.

Heeseung is fully concentrating on his game for now. 

His eyes are sharp, darting to every move in the game, playing it very carefully though you are quite a distraction to him. 

The headset he has on is filled with sounds of  explosions and gunshots, and he  pushes one piece of the headset aside so he can hear you.

You hold a small glass jar aloe vera gel, the product cool and smooth between your fingertips.

You’ve been massaging it on his face for the past ten minutes or maybe you just use it as an excuse to stay on his lap longer. 

But then still, you don’t care about the game he was playing, you just wanted to end the ‘washing face with whatever soap is there in the shower’ routine for him, so he can get good and fresh skin.

“Stop moving idiot” you murmur, voice soft but firm and commanding him a little because he keeps on moving.

You can feel the heat radiating from him as you blend the cream on his face in small upwards circles.

His jaw is clenched, trying his best not to feel you and your stupid tactics as a distraction, which you are sitting innocently on his lap like you don't understand what’s wrong in doing this.

“I’m in an important fight, Y/N” he grunts, though there’s no real anger behind his voice.

“If I lose this round, I’m gonna blame you and your so-called skincare routine” he adds, mocking lightly.

“Uhh, my skincare routine is obviously way better than whatever you do in the stupid shower,” you retort, sliding your fingers on his temple now.

“No soap is gonna clean your face like my skincare does, your skin feel shit, and it’s screaming for help, so think of this as an upgrade for your face”

He lets out a laugh, his eyes fixed towards the screen. “Sure,” he says as if it’s nothing, “My skin has a mouth and it’s screaming”. 

You roll your eyes at that, moving a little back so you can look at him even though he doesn’t.

“Just because it doesn’t have a loud, cocky mouth like you, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” you shoot back. 

“And for your kind information,” you continue, leaning closer to his face again, to spread the gel on his face, “You’re skin is so dehydrated, maybe it looks fine, but it really isn’t, so be grateful”

“I should be— What? grateful? Why? And what? I have a cocky mouth?” he splutters, turning towards you showing an exaggerated, horrified expression which was totally just acting.

"First place, I don’t even care about my skin, Second, you should be grateful that I’m letting you do this while I’m literally in the middle of a serious fight, Third—”

“Hey, dont move!,” you interrupt, pushing back his face towards the screen.

“I can’t do it properly, if you keep moving” you add and he becomes quiet and goes back to playing his game very seriously.

You slowly get even more closer to his face. 

For real, you’ve done this almost a hundred times before, sitting on his lap touching his face and all stuff, but today something in the air feels different.

For the first time the closeness doesn’t feel normal.

It feels dangerous, surreal and maybe something new.

Every time he breathes near you, every time his chest brushes against yours, you feel your pulse raise. 

You try to ignore it, focusing your attention back to what you are doing, but it only makes it worse, because now, you’re actually looking at him. 

The sharp line of his nose, the long lashes that fall against his skin, the bambi-like looking eyes, and then your gaze drops down— unintentionally. 

You blink, realizing you are staring at him, you shake your head slightly to clear it, pushing those sudden, distracting thoughts away as quickly as they come. 

You don't want to be caught by him, which will only make it more embarrassing.

You quickly turn back to your work— properly this time. 

So, you shift your weight, moving closer to him, trying to adjust the position so reaching the bridge of his nose would be easier.

As you move, your thighs slide against his joggers, hips very slightly against each other, the friction sending a sudden spark through your body, but you push it away. 

It was just a small moment for you, which you just want to ignore, but it sent a shudder through Heeseung’s body which you didn’t know.

“Fuck—” Heeseung groans, throwing his head back against the chair, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down, suddenly gripping your hip with one hand so tightly as you freeze at the pressure.

“Don’t—Don’t fucking do that, I’m trying my best to concentrate, baby” he forces out softly, the words tight as he grits his teeth.

You don’t understand what happened.

One second, you’re applying the gel on his face, moving closer to reach his nose—and the next, he throws his head against the chair and it’s pissing you since you already told him to not move.

“I said to not move, Heeseung!!  And seriously, it’s not my mistake that you can’t concentrate on your game” you say, a hint of irritation slipping through your voice.

You don’t understand what is wrong or what is his problem, even though it was quite obvious you couldn’t figure it out, so you just get back to working on his face. 

You shift your weight again, trying to adjust your position to get a better angle on his face, slightly moving left. 

This movement causes your leggings to unintentionally rub your thigh against his growing hardness.

“Baby, fuck—“ he rasps, as his other hand also leaves keyboard to grab the other side of your hip and holds you so tightly with both of the hands that you were sure it will leave few bruises by tomorrow. 

His head abruptly falls on your shoulder as the room fills with the loud harsh blares from the monitor which indicates he lost the game but you didn’t know it.

“Heeseung what the—” before you could even scold him, you gasp from him pulling you down, pressing you against him in a way that you can feel his big bulge on your core. 

“Heeseung….” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“Don’t—fucking don’t,” he starts, speaking as his head is still on your shoulder, you hear it in his voice, how he is trying his all best to control himself. 

“Don’t tell me stop when all I was doing was sitting here….trying my all best to control myself, while here you are sitting on my fucking lap, moving how ever you want……. God! Y/N you’ve been killing me here, I can’t stop anymore—”

He stops talking, lifting his head from your shoulder before capturing your lips in a searing, aching, desperate kiss, hands moving from your hips to your waist, gripping it so tightly it knocks the air out of your lungs.

He kisses you rough, like gentleness isn’t even an option right now, like he’s done holding back, done pretending this doesn’t mean anything as the gel smears on your face from his face.

All the years of your friendship, when he did his best to hold back, but now he’s done.

For a second you forget how to breathe, the intensity, the desperation and the desire from his mouth against yours, knocking the thoughts out of your brain.

You don’t even process the fact that HE, HE, your best friend is kissing you right now. Never in a million years did you think this out of all would happen—a lie you had a lot of sex dreams with him cuz he was too hot, and……..never mind.

You are still trying to process this when the grip on your waist tightens to pull you out of your thoughts.

The jar slips from your hand, shattering into pieces, and gel spreads everywhere on the floor, but you don’t even notice it. 

You melt against him, your hand slowly moving from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, fingers curling tightly in the hair as you pull him closer and kiss him back with the same desire, desperation and intensity.

He lets out a low deep growl, something filled with satisfaction like he knew you would kiss him without holding back.

It vibrates through your whole body, slowly heat starts coiling up in your lower belly more than what you felt a while ago.

You start feeling needy and want him more than you ever did.

But then he pulls back, forehead against yours, his breath hot, and his lips swollen from the hard rough kiss.

“Tell me to stop—” he whispers against your mouth in a low hoarse, octave voice which sends a shiver through your body.

You shake your head instantly before he can even finish.

“No,” you whisper, the word barely leaving your throat. “Don’t. Please don’t ” 

You roll your hips against his voluntarily. 

You need more.

You need the friction to not be a tease and start being the truth. The reality.

“Fuck—“ Heeseung hisses the moment he hears the deny and feels the roll of your hips directly against his bulge.

This time you’ve done it on purpose, you need more and you are clearly showing it.

He roughly grabs your jaw,tilting your head back, and crashing his lips on to yours again.

This time it’s all tongue and teeth, he doesn’t ask for permission, he claims it like it’s his.

You gasp into the kiss, this was more aggressive and desperate han before.

He takes his chance to enter his tongue into your mouth when you gasp.

His tongue plunges into your mouth, taking in your whispers and every inch of your mouth, he doesn’t waste a single single second.

His palm is hot.

He moves his hand from your waist to your hips as they slowly slip under your long hoodie or probably his which you wear all the time.

His hands move on your lower back, pulling you closer that there isn’t a millimetre also left between you both.

He breaks the kiss to move lower, his lips dragging along your jaw, sucking gently, before moving down to the column of your throat.

You tilt your head back without thinking, giving him more, your fingers going to his shoulders to hold tightly as his kisses grow firmer, more lingering.

“Hee….mm….Hee…” your breath stutters, his name coming from your mouth like a chant, unsteady whispers, which you can’t hold back anymore. 

His hand moves down to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze before delivering a spank.

His palm against your ass made you leave out a loud gasp, your back arching slightly.

He doesn’t pull away, he soothes it down slowly, in a way it makes your toe curl. 

The literal sensation sends sparks right over to your core, making you clench a round nothing.

He starts placing open mouthed kisses near your collarbone and neck, his breath hot and damp, leaving the warmth of his mouth behind.

He moves below your ear, instantly financing your sweet spot and nips your skin lightly.

You let out a sharp cry, breathing unsteadily.

The moment you let it out, he leans in again, nipping it harder than before, sucking a dark, purple mark, visibly claiming you.

He follows down to your collarbone, nipping wherever he finds your sweet spots to let out those sweet little sounds that feel like music to his ears.

You don’t stop, you keep whimpering his name, gasping when his tongue darts out to lick gently after nipping on your sweet spots.

You are drenched. 

Your panties are suffocatingly tight because of the silk clinging to your folds as you leak for him.

You need him.

You need to feel full.

You were sure it is making it hard to even take in air properly just because of his hot kisses on your body.

One of his hands tugs the hem of your hoodie, asking you permission if he was allowed to remove it while he was still busy marking you up.

“Yes! Please—remove it” you please, your voice cracking a little bit.

He doesn’t even take a second to tug it off, the moment you accept it, in one fluid motion he pulls it off you.

For a second he freezes.

You aren’t wearing a bra, the cool air hitting your bare skin, making your nipples harden and maybe you weren’t even sure if it was air or his gaze all over your body making you turn again and again and again…..

You aren’t wearing anything else except the black lace of your panties peeking out of your tiny shorts you wore.

“Fuck baby—” he growls, his eye’s darkening, pupils expanding until his hazel is almost entirely black.

He looks at you like you’re both sin and miracle given to him at once.

“This is what you have been gatekeeping from me, huh?” he asks, his hands moving to cup the underside of your breast, lifting them up slightly, as his thumb slightly grazes over the peck.

 You whimper, throwing your head back at that little touch surge of pleasure shoots to your core.

“This tiny waist,” his hands moving to the mid section, squeezing the softness there, devouring your body with his eyes.

“These wide, beautiful hips,” his finger moving on the waistband, pulling the elastic tight.

He bends a little, pressing a hot, lingering kiss right above the fabric of your panties, his lips grazing the skin of your hip.

The sensation sends a jolt through your body, sending shivers as your legs shake.

“Including the ass you’ve been teasing me with for years,” he said his voice filled with lust and love, and then he looks at you, how you look wrecked just for his touch.

He spanks you again, harder and more firm this time.

You cry out, a sound filled with shock, pleasure and pain, but please wins it all for now.

You thought he would probably soothe it again but no, it was paining harder but he made no movement to touch or soothe it, just casually leans back on to the chair.

He just lets it linger there, making it a reminder for you.

To remind you, who you actually belong to though he hasn’t fucked the shit out you yet.

Now his gaze isn’t on your face, it moves lower.

Your neck. No

Your collarbone. No

Your Shoulders. No

Just shamelessly, directly looking at your breasts with a hungry gaze, something you wanted to see all along.

“And finally……these beautiful, big boobs” he whispers.

He bends down, his lips hovering right over your breast, his hot breath teasing your nipples.

And then he pecks it…..to just tease you more.

The moment his hot breath was on your nipple.

Just his hot breath. 

Hot.

Breath.

You found yourself getting hungrier for him, you didn’t want him to tease you, you needed him, right then and there.

He knew it, he knew how you felt, how you are breathing, how you need him, but won’t give you what you want right now.

“Hee please—” you grind on him again but he holds back your hips making you stop, before you please again or tell him how badly you need him.

Then he starts sucking it, like he can’t hold back anymore, like this was the last thing left on the earth, maybe even like he was thirsty for them.

He wants to tease you, but couldn't hold himself back from you either, that grinding, those pleas from your mouth, made him rethink his decision from teasing you.

You could hear his sucking sounds, wet and vulgar, because of the wetness of his saliva spreading on to your nipples.

Your back arches, your hands instinctively find his hair, gripping it tightly.

He groans at the tight pull of his hair, making him harder underneath.

He sucks on your nipples, tongue circling around the peck, and tugging it slightly before sucking it again, doing the same thing over and over again, while his other hand finds your breast, squeezing, kneading it and rolling your nipple in between his fingers.

You moan, loud, honest, no stopping.

The pleasure was too good.

Your hips start bucking instantly against his bulge again, rolling your hips harder than before, grinding more.

He notices it as he pulls back from sucking with a wet plop.

“Eager now baby?” He teases, his voice dropping low.

You nod, hips moving harder, searching for friction.

For a second he thought to let you do something at least for yourself or not stopping you like he was before but no, straight away his hands move to your hips stopping you right when you thought it was getting better.

Then he bends down and moves to the other breast without a word to you, giving it the same attention as before, while his other hand was on the breast which was wet from his saliva, but still playing with it, satisfying you with his hand.

It was good, undeniably you like you, but the fact that your pussy was throbbing to be filled was not ignorable. 

You didn't want to wait. 

“Hee….please…please..I need you so bad—ahh” you let out a sharp cry as he bites down your nipples, his hands lowering, across your thighs and rids your shorts from your legs without asking you.

“Needy baby?” He asks as he pulls back, like knew nothing.

“Hee—ahhh” you moan when his fingers touch the wetness of your pussy just through the lace black panties.

“So wet for me baby” he coos as he feels the moisture soaking through the lace.

He finally strips them away also, leaving you bare on his lap, pressing against him.

The contact is sharp, as now you are directly pressing against the rough fabric over his bulge.

He finds his way to your clit, pressing on the swollen bud right away, rubbing it in circles with no patience, but with punishing pressure that makes your vision blur.

Your mouth opens, letting out sharp breaths, eyes shut, finally getting whatever you’ve been longing for, you instinctively bite down on your lips as choked sobs and moans come out of your throat.

“No baby, don’t bite your lip, don’t stop, moan for me, darling” he says softly, before pushing 2 fingers into your soaking warmth at once.

You scream from the sudden push, it wasn’t warned, it was too sudden.

He starts pushing deeper into your spongy walls, as your walls clench around his fingers, he groans in your neck, his fingers curling in spots making you moan and vision blur from the pleasure.

“Fuck baby, thats it, take my fingers like a good girl” he finally adds the third finger, stretching you apart as you wail, and then heeseung leans to kiss you again, tongue entering your mouth directly, taking in all your sounds while pumping his fingers in and out, while his thumb presses and circles on your bud.

He moves faster, pulling away from the kiss, gripping your hips tightly while pumping his fingers faster, your hands move to his shoulders tightening as you squeeze your eyes shut tightly, while whimpering and gasping, leaving out breathy huffs.

As you feel your orgasm building, tightening low in your belly, just the tension in your thighs becomes unbearable.

“Hee— I’m—” before could even finish your sentence, he pulled out his fingers, just only the pad of his thumb pressing over your swollen clit, trapping the pleasure before it could explode.

Your eyes open wide, blown in shock as a moan of frustration screeches from your throat at the literal loss of his fingers inside.

“Hee, why–” you gasp, hips bucking instinctively towards his hand wanting more.

“Mmm” he just hums, looking down at your pussy while circling your clit, rubbing it in small circles but never quite providing the friction you need to tip over the edge.

“Hee, please!” you whine, trying to grind his hand, but he holds your hip tight enough to not let you move, he is still looking at your pussy, but then finally looks up.

Eyes dark with lust, his smoldering gaze at you making you pause for a second before he says “please, what?” in a low octave, his voice sounding husky.

“I-I need to come,” you wail, grinding on his bulge over his rough fabric making you want more, in fact you’ve never felt this needy.

Him edging you just made it worse, you couldn't take the teasing now, you need him and you won't stop asking for it.

“please hee please I need you, I want you so badly. I can’t take it anymore!!” you beg. 

He chuckles, a dark, hungry sound.

He doesn't put his fingers back in you or do anything you asked for.

Instead, he starts to kiss you, deep, demanding kisses that taste of mint and desperation.

The intensity of the kiss swallows you while leaving you breathless and your hands move to his head, running your hands through his long, lustrous black hair.

His tongue slides against yours, sucking and swirling desperately while sliding down his joggers and boxer to pull his cock out.

He pulls away from the kiss, pulling your head back away from his.

You look down into his hands and the moment you saw it, you were starstuck.

He is big.

Not big like you think, very big in a way you weren't sure if you could even take him.

It was shocking.

You knew this was coming, when you guys crossed your lines today but god he is just so big.

His cock is big, fucking standing straight, curling a little but still so so straight in way you never stood in your whole life, wow, it is hot and swollen, throbbing as the tip is in a beautifully pink color, glistening with precum as he held the shaft in his hand.

You are staring at it shamelessly, because who wouldn't look at something so beautiful and gorgeous. 

“Like what you see baby?” he asks, when he caught you staring at his cock.

You snap out of your thoughts, raising your head up, eyes locking on to his eyes, as your cheeks burn from embarrassment.

“Want it inside you baby?” he questions as he feels your arousal just by looking at you face.

You nod slightly and that's what it takes before he jerks it on your pussy once, slapping his cock against it a few times, spreading his precum all over.

An unfiltered screech comes out of your throat, showing how needy you are when he slaps the tip on your pussy.

You move a little, rubbing it a little on his cock, whimpering a little.

“You want it so bad right? You’ll get it baby” he doesn't wait another second.

 He grips your waist and heaves you upward and then slams you down on to his cock.

Your hands find their way to his shoulders as you scream into the crook of his neck when he buries himself, all the way to the hilt inside you in one fluid, powerful motion.

The fullness is overwhelming, a blunt pressure that hits your cervix and sends ripples of pleasure radiating through your entire lower body. 

The sensation is overwhelming, the feeling of being completely filled, the stretch of your pussy, the sudden, intense heat of him deep within your pussy.

You feel your internal muscles spasm around him, clamping down tight, clenching it so tight which makes Heeseung leave a raw guttural growl out feeling you all around him.

His cock twitches inside you, showing how badly he needed this.

“Baby–fuck, so tight…you feel so good baby” he says, his hands sliding down to your ass gripping. 

You stay still for a moment, both of you catching your breath, the only sound the heavy thrum of the PC fans and your synchronized gasping.

The gaming chair creaks as you begin to move, tentatively at first, lifting your hips a few inches and then sliding back down.

You only lift an inch before slamming back down, the impact making the gaming chair rock precariously. 

The feeling of him filling inside you was so so good, that you didn't care about anyone hearing your moans, as your moans echo all through the room. 

Your grip on his shoulder tightens as the pleasure of him being inside you, stretching you apart with his cock was the best feeling you ever felt.

The squelching and wet sounds of your pussy moving on his cock, taking him all the way down to his shaft, then moving back halfway, and falling back down, with your moans and Heeseung’s groans fill you the room.

The sounds are lewd, obscene or even pornographic, it didn't feel real.

You riding your best friend's cock feels like a dreaming true. 

You slowly find your rhythm, more confident, more desperate.

Your mouth falls agape, moaning loudly every time you ride him, head falls back as the tip hits that spot that makes you see stars, your breasts bounce with every downward thrust, your hardened nipples scrape against his shirt every time.

“Yes, just like that baby” he groans as his head hits the chair, while he grips your ass and starts lifting you higher so he can move deeper. 

You are desperate now, the need for release overriding everything.

The friction against your clit is intense, a searing heat that builds with every slide.

You lean forward, your hair falling over your face, your mouth finding his again.

The kiss is sloppy, desperate, the sound of your tongues clashing mixing with the wet slaps of your bodies. 

Tentatively, Heeseung also starts moving his hips up, thrusting upward slowly, testing the waters to see how it would be.

And fuck it, it was so so so good.

“Ahh” you moan as the tip of his cock hits deeper in your pussy, as your walls clench around him in pleasure.

You scream into his mouth, it is so intense, your pussy takes him all the way on to his shaft.

You keep riding him until you feel that low tingling feeling in your lower stomach.

You are about to come, you needed it any minute now.

You are moving faster, breath uneven, shamelessly moaning so loudly, you are sure your neighbours could hear it but you couldn't care less.

“Ngh heee” you wail, you dont know if its pain or pleasure or all together but it was good and stretching you apart and finally you are about to come.

“Hee–hee i-m im coming!!” you choke out, the orgasm is about to come as he moves his hips faster, thrusting harder.

“Yes baby, yes, come for me, come on my cock baby” he says, holding your hips, gripping it so hard, it could leave red marks on it and speeding up the movements, slamming you down onto his cock, taking control.

“Ahh–mm yess, yess im coming!!” you throw your head back, a loud, uncontrolled cry escaping your lips as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you breathless and shaking.

Heeseung doesnt stop, he fucks you through it, chasing his orgasm. 

“Hee—” you scream so loudly, it was too much, you are overstimulating, you coat his cok, milking it all the way.

“I-i cant..too much–”

“Yess, you can, you can for me baby” his movements becoming faster, more erratic. He's grunting now, the sounds guttural and raw.

He lifts you slightly and then slams you down, the leather of the chair creaking loudly under the strain.

The sound of your pussy engulfing him is a wet, rhythmic squelch, the air being pushed out of your orifice in small, needy puffs. 

“Im-im coming baby” he moves faster again and again.

“Im gonna fill you up, you’re gonna take me like a good girl and fill you up right?” he says as he looks at you and captures your lips into kiss again.

You feel him tense, his entire body turning to stone beneath you.

With one final, deep thrust that feels like it reaches your very soul, he lets out a loud, guttural roar, his entire body tensing.

He gives one final, massive thrust, burying himself as deep as possible as you feel the hot, pulsing jets of his cum hitting your cervix, filling you up, the liquid warmth spreading through your internals.

“Fuck–take it baby” 

You moan as he fills you up, while he grunts and finally comes undone inside you which felt so so so good.

As the intensity fades, he doesn't move.

He keeps you pressed against him, his heart hammering against your ribs.

You can feel his cock slowly softening inside you, though he remains deep within. A small amount of semen and lubricant leaks from the junction of your bodies, dripping onto the black leather of the chair with a soft patter. 

“That was–soo good” you whisper to him.

He smiles, that goddamn smile that melts you right away, probably even your bones.

He pushes a wet hair stand behind your hair as he finally speaks.

“Very good. Are you happy?” he asks and that genuinely made you feel happy that he was asking your opinion. 

You nod, you look wrecked so did he, both of you breathing heavily, faces flushed.

“Are you ok?” he asks you sweetly after showing his dark side which you loved and so did you like that gentleness in his which made your heart filp and beat faster.

You blush as you nod and hide your face in the crook of his neck.

“Dont hide baby” he pulls you back cupping your face. 

“Mm” you whine sweetly.

He kisses your forehead gently.

"So," he says, a small, tired smile playing on his lips. "I think I lost that match."

You let out a soft laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder.

"Worth it?"

"The best loss of my life," he whispers, kissing your temple. 

Heeseug twitches inside you, making you whimper.

“You’re still inside me hee” you say to him as it hurts a little but don't bother but it's still sticky and messy altogether. 

But then he shrugs it off as if it's nothing, you frown and ask him “what?” and try to pull away.

He doesn't let you, he slams you back down as you scream and squeal from shock.

“Hee–” then while you are still inside him, he abruptly stands up, while still holding you tightly around your waist and still inside you.

“Ready for round 2 baby?” he asks as you widen your eyes in shock while his cock gets stiff all the way till his shaft again.

“Hee~” he crashes his lips on to yours slamming you onto the wall and starts moving inside you.

˚ ༘ 🎞️ ｡𖦹 ° 🎥 ⁀જ⁀➴ film ending.......

taglist- @prettygirlthings-world @strawberrywonnie @heeqluv @isagistar @hoonieslove

‎And immediately tossed your phone somewhere onto the blankets before burying your face into your pillow with a miserable noise.

‎The next morning, sunlight stabbed directly through your curtains and into your skull.

‎You woke up dehydrated, dizzy, and regretting every life choice you’d made in the last twelve hours.

‎Your phone buzzed beside your cheek.

‎Unknown Number.

‎Your stomach dropped before you even opened it.

‎Unknown:

‎“That’s a very bold way to say hello. Bold… honest… and extremely dangerous.”

‎Your entire body went cold.

‎No.

‎No no no.

‎You shot upright so fast the room spun.

‎Hands shaking, you opened the chat history.

‎And there it was.

‎Your voice note.

‎Sent to a number you didn’t recognize.

‎“Oh my fucking God,” you whispered aloud.

‎Your face burned so hot it physically hurt.

‎You typed so quickly you almost dropped your phone.

‎You:

‎Oh my god I’m SO sorry. That was meant for my friend. Please ignore it. I was drunk.

‎Three dots appeared instantly.

‎Unknown:

‎“Drunk words are sober thoughts, no?”

‎Your heart skipped.

‎Unknown:

‎“Don’t apologize. It was… interesting.”

‎You covered your face with your hands.

‎Mortification flooded every nerve in your body.

‎You should block him.

‎You absolutely should block him.

‎Instead, you typed:

‎You:

‎Please forget it ever happened.

‎A pause.

‎Then:

‎Unknown:

‎“Hard to forget a message like that.”

‎Another bubble appeared seconds later.

‎Unknown:

‎“But if it makes you feel better… my name is H.”

‎You stared at the message far longer than necessary.

‎Something about it unsettled you.

‎Not in a bad way.

‎There was no creepiness in his tone. No desperation. No weird insistence.

‎Just calm amusement.

‎Like he had all the time in the world.

‎You didn’t answer for nearly an hour.

‎But eventually, curiosity won.

‎You:

‎You’re surprisingly normal about this.

‎H:

‎“Should I be less normal?”

‎You laughed despite yourself.

‎And somehow, against all logic, the conversation continued.

‎—

‎At first, it was harmless.

‎Mostly.

‎You learned he liked old movies and black coffee. That he stayed awake too late because silence felt easier at night. That he worked long hours and hated crowded spaces.

‎He never gave too many details about himself.

‎But somehow, he always managed to get details out of you.

‎The conversations slipped naturally into your routine.

‎Good morning texts.

‎Late-night complaints.

‎The strange part wasn’t how quickly you became comfortable with him.

‎It was how easy it felt.

‎You found yourself checking your phone during meetings, waiting for his messages.

‎H:

‎“How bad was today?”

‎You:

‎Emotionally? Catastrophic.

‎H:

‎“Need me to threaten someone for you?”

‎You:

‎Would you?

‎H:

‎“Without hesitation.”

‎And the worst part?

‎You could practically hear the dry amusement in his voice every time he texted.

‎You started imagining him.

‎Not clearly.

‎Just fragments.

‎Tall.

‎Maybe broad shoulders.

‎Calm eyes.

‎A low voice.

‎Hands that looked dangerous.

‎It became embarrassingly easy to think about him at night.

‎Especially because he started calling.

‎The first time happened after one particularly awful day at work.

‎You had stayed late fixing a campaign proposal while your manager criticized everything you touched. By the time you got home, your chest felt tight with frustration.

‎Your phone rang at 11:43 PM.

‎H.

‎Your stomach flipped.

‎You answered carefully.

‎“Hello?”

‎For a second, there was only silence.

‎Then—

‎“Your voice sounds different when you’re tired.”

‎The sound of him hit you like a physical thing.

‎Low.

‎Unfairly calm.

‎You sat down slowly on the edge of your bed.

‎“You’ve never heard my voice sober,” you replied weakly.

‎A soft chuckle crackled through the speaker.

‎And God.

‎That laugh.

‎“You had a rough day.”

‎It wasn’t a question.

‎You closed your eyes.

‎“How can you tell?”

‎“You sound like you’re holding yourself together with tape.”

‎You laughed quietly.

‎“Well. Work sucked. I suck. Everything sucks.”

‎“You don’t suck.”

‎The certainty in his tone made your stomach twist.

‎You leaned back against your pillows, staring at the ceiling while his voice wrapped around you warm and slow.

‎And somehow, over the next hour, he talked you out of your spiral without even trying.

‎By the end of the call, you were smiling.

‎That should have scared you more than it did.

‎—

‎The flirting started gradually.

‎Softer voices after midnight.

‎The kind of tension that built slowly enough to feel inevitable.

‎One night, you were curled beneath your blankets while rain tapped softly against your windows.

‎H:

‎“What do you do when your thoughts get too loud?”

‎You stared at the message.

‎Then typed honestly:

‎You:

‎I overthink until I can’t breathe.

‎The typing bubble appeared immediately.

‎H:

‎“I think you spend too much time inside your own head.”

‎You:

‎Probably.

‎H:

‎“Tell me what you want right now.”

‎You hesitated with your thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

‎You swallowed hard.

‎Then typed the truth before you could stop yourself.

‎You:

‎I want someone else to take control for once.

‎I’m tired of thinking all the time.

‎The read receipt appeared instantly.

‎Then nothing.

‎One minute.

‎Two.

‎Three.

‎Finally—

‎H:

‎“If I were there…”

‎Your breath caught immediately.

‎Another message.

‎H:

‎“I’d pull you onto my lap first.”

‎Heat rushed up your throat.

‎H:

‎“You’d still be overthinking. I can tell.”

‎Your fingers tightened around the phone.

‎H:

‎“So I’d make you look at me while I touched you.”

‎Your breathing slowed unconsciously.

‎H:

‎“I’d push your hair behind your ear… kiss your neck until you stopped thinking about everything except my mouth on you.”

‎Your thighs pressed together instinctively.

‎Jesus Christ.

‎H:

‎“And then I’d ask you nicely to be a good girl and tell me exactly where you want my hands.”

‎You stared at the screen so long it dimmed.

‎Your phone buzzed again.

‎H:

‎“Too much?”

‎You inhaled shakily.

‎You:

‎No.

‎Three dots appeared.

‎Then disappeared.

‎Then appeared again.

‎H:

‎“Good.”

‎Then....

‎He called you.

‎The call had already lasted 15 minutes when Heeseung’s voice dropped into that dangerous, velvet tone you were starting to crave like oxygen.

‎“Tell me where your hand is right now,” he murmured, low and commanding.

‎You were lying on your bed in the dark, heart hammering against your ribs. “On my stomach…”

‎A soft, amused hum. “Move it lower, baby. Slowly. Push your panties aside and tell me how wet you are.”

‎Your breath hitched as you obeyed. The moment your fingers slipped beneath the fabric, you let out a shaky whimper.

‎“I’m… really wet,” you whispered, embarrassed by how slick you already were.

‎“Good girl. Circle your clit for me.”

‎You did as he said, fingers moving in lazy circles. A soft moan escaped your lips before you could stop it.

‎“Let me hear you. Imagine it’s my tongue instead. I’d lick you so slowly, baby… tasting every drop until you’re shaking and begging.”

‎Your hips jerked involuntarily. You pressed harder, breath coming faster.

‎“Add a finger,” he instructed calmly. “Push it inside that tight little pussy and tell me how it feels.”

‎You slid one finger in, then another, curling them the way you wished he would. “Feels… so good,” you gasped. “But not enough. I want you.”

‎Heeseung’s breathing grew heavier. You could hear the faint rustle of sheets on his end, like he was touching himself too.

‎“You want my cock instead of your fingers?” he asked, voice dark. “You want me to stretch you open and fuck you until the only thing you remember is my name?”

‎“Yes—” you moaned, pumping your fingers faster, the wet sounds embarrassingly loud in your quiet room. “Please,… I need it.”

‎“Greedy girl,” he chuckled lowly, but his voice cracked with arousal. “Keep fucking yourself with your fingers. Pretend it’s me. Deep and hard, just how you like it.”

‎You obeyed, adding a third finger, thighs trembling as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly. His voice guided you the entire time — telling you how he’d pin your wrists above your head, how he’d bury himself inside you in one thrust, how he’d fuck you until you were creaming around his cock.

‎“I’m close—” you whimpered, back arching off the bed.

‎“Cum for me, baby,” he growled, control finally slipping. “Let me hear how pretty you sound when you fall apart.”

‎The orgasm crashed into you hard.

‎"— fuck—” —

‎Heeseung groaned deeply on the other end, the sound raw and satisfied, like he was coming undone just from listening to you.

‎For a long moment, only heavy breathing filled the line.

‎Then Heeseung spoke again, voice soft and warm, almost tender.

‎“Good girl,” he murmured. “You did so well for me.”

‎You smiled tiredly, cheeks flushed, heart still racing.

‎“I wish you were here,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

‎Heeseung was quiet for a second.

‎“So do I,” he replied, voice barely above a whisper.

‎You buried your face into your pillow with a groan.

‎Because this was insane.

‎You didn’t know his real name.

‎Didn’t know his face.

‎And yet somehow he had crawled beneath your skin so thoroughly that hearing his voice at night had become the best part of your day.

‎—

‎In real life, Lee Heeseung barely existed to you.

‎Not because he was forgettable.

‎Actually, the opposite.

‎He was the kind of attractive that felt intimidating up close.

‎Tall. Quiet. Sharp-featured.

‎The kind of man who looked unfairly good even under fluorescent office lighting.

‎He worked two departments over as a graphic designer for your agency, usually tucked into the far corner with headphones around his neck and black hoodies pulled over broad shoulders.

‎Most people left him alone.

‎Not because he was rude.

‎Because he seemed… distant.

‎He spoke softly when necessary. Nodded politely in elevators. Occasionally offered dry comments during meetings that made people laugh harder than expected.

‎But he never lingered.

‎Never joined office gossip.

‎Never flirted.

‎You had spoken to him maybe four times total.

‎And every interaction lasted under thirty seconds.

‎“Morning.”

‎“Morning.”

‎That was usually it.

‎Sometimes you caught him looking at you during meetings.

‎But every time your eyes met, he looked away calmly enough that you assumed you imagined it.

‎The irony was almost painful.

‎Because every night, you lay in bed smiling at your phone while texting the same man.

‎You just didn’t know it yet.

‎—

‎It happened two weeks later.

‎Friday evening.

‎The office was nearly empty, rain hitting the windows in soft rhythmic taps while most employees rushed home before traffic worsened.

‎You were exhausted.

‎Again.

‎You sat alone in the break room stirring instant ramen absentmindedly while waiting for your laptop to finish updating.

‎Your phone buzzed against the counter.

‎H:

‎“Still working?”

‎You smiled automatically.

‎You:

‎Yep.

‎H:

‎“Long day?”

‎You:

‎I think I’ve lived seventeen years since this morning.

‎A quiet laugh sounded behind you.

‎Not from your phone.

‎Real.

‎You froze.

‎Slowly, you turned around.

‎Lee Heeseung stood near the coffee machine holding a paper cup.

‎Red hair.

‎Dark hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows.

‎And in his hand—

‎His phone.

‎Your stomach dropped violently.

‎His screen lit up.

‎Another message came through.

‎Your phone buzzed at the exact same moment.

‎H:

‎“Seventeen years is dramatic.”

‎The world stopped.

‎You stared at him.

‎He stared back.

‎Calm.

‎Completely calm.

‎Like he’d known this moment would happen eventually.

‎Your pulse roared in your ears.

‎“No way,” you whispered.

‎A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

‎It changed his entire face.

‎Softer. Warmer. Dangerous in a completely different way.

‎“Hi,” he said quietly.

‎Your brain short-circuited.

‎“You—”

‎He lifted his coffee calmly.

‎“Me.”

‎“You’re H?”

‎“I was wondering how long it would take you to figure it out.”

‎You looked horrified.

‎“You knew?!”

‎His mouth twitched.

‎“Not immediately.”

‎“Oh my God.”

‎“But I recognized your voice pretty fast.”

‎You covered your face instantly.

‎“I need to quit my job.”

‎His laugh was low and soft.

‎“You really don’t.”

‎Mortification consumed you whole.

‎“You heard that voice note.”

‎“I did.”

‎“I’m actually going to die.”

‎“No,” he replied calmly, stepping closer. “You’re not.”

‎Your heart started beating harder for an entirely different reason.

‎Because up close, he was worse.

‎Much worse.

‎Pretty in that dangerous, unfair way that made your brain stop functioning correctly.

‎Dark eyes.

‎Sharp jaw.

‎A faint scent of rain and coffee.

‎And that voice.

‎God.

‎That voice.

‎“You should’ve told me,” you accused weakly.

‎“I almost did.”

‎“Almost?”

‎His gaze held yours steadily.

‎“You seemed more honest when you didn’t know who I was.”

‎The air shifted.

‎Something electric slid beneath your skin.

‎Your throat suddenly felt dry.

‎Heeseung looked at you for a long second before speaking again.

‎“You smile at your phone when you text me.”

‎Your breath caught.

‎“I noticed during meetings.”

‎You blinked slowly.

‎“Oh my God.”

‎“And,” he added softly, “you bite your lip when you’re nervous.”

‎Your pulse stumbled.

‎“You’re doing it right now.”

‎You immediately stopped.

‎Which only made him smile wider.

‎The realization hit you all at once.

‎The late-night calls.

‎The calm voice..

‎It was him.

‎Lee Heeseung.

‎And suddenly every interaction at work felt different.

‎Your phone buzzed again between you.

‎You looked down automatically.

‎H:

‎“Still want someone to ruin you?”

‎Your face burned instantly.

‎You looked up in horror.

‎Heeseung tilted his head slightly, eyes unreadable.

‎Then, very softly—

‎“Because I can still hear that voice note in my head.”

‎You didn't say anything...

‎The elevator ride down to the lobby was pure torture.

‎Not because anything happened.

‎Because nothing did.

‎Lee Heeseung stood beside you in complete silence, one hand tucked into the pocket of his hoodie while the other loosely held his phone.

‎You could feel his presence without even looking at him.

‎Awful for your sanity.

‎The elevator hummed softly as numbers blinked downward one by one.

‎Your phone buzzed again.

‎You looked down instantly despite yourself.

‎H:

‎“You stopped replying.”

‎You turned slowly toward him.

‎“You are literally standing next to me."

‎His expression remained calm, but amusement flickered in his eyes.

‎“And yet you still checked.”

‎Your stomach flipped traitorously.

‎God.

‎Everything sounded different now that you knew it was him.

‎Every text suddenly had a face attached to it.

A voice.

Eyes.

‎Hands.

‎You immediately shoved that thought away.

‎“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you muttered.

‎“Maybe.”

‎The elevator doors opened.

‎Cold air rushed through the lobby as a few employees hurried outside beneath umbrellas. You started walking toward the exit quickly, mostly because standing too close to him felt dangerous now.

‎Unfortunately, he followed.

‎Your heels clicked against marble flooring while your heart tried to beat directly out of your chest.

‎“How long?” you asked suddenly.

‎Heeseung glanced at you.

‎“How long what?”

‎“How long have you known it was me?”

‎“A while.”

‎You stopped walking.

‎“A while?”

‎His mouth twitched slightly.

‎“The night you called me crying after your manager yelled at you.”

‎Horror washed over you instantly.

‎“Oh my God.”

‎“You said you wanted to quit and open a café somewhere quiet.”

‎You stared at him in disbelief.

‎“You remember that?”

‎“I remember everything you tell me.”

‎That should not have affected you as much as it did.

‎But something in his tone — soft and matter-of-fact — wrapped around your chest painfully tight.

‎Because people rarely listened to you that carefully.

‎“You should’ve said something,” you said quietly.

‎He leaned one shoulder lazily against the wall beside the entrance.

‎“Would you have kept talking to me if I had?”

‎You opened your mouth.

‎Closed it again.

‎Because honestly?

‎You didn’t know.

‎He watched your expression carefully before sighing softly.

‎“That’s what I thought.”

‎The teasing edge in his voice was gone now.

‎This version of him felt more dangerous somehow.

‎You crossed your arms defensively.

‎“This is insane.”

‎“A little.”

‎“You catfished me.”

‎His eyebrows lifted.

‎“I used my actual phone number.”

‎“That’s not the point.”

‎“You’re upset because I’m attractive.”

‎Your jaw dropped.

‎Heeseung finally laughed properly at that — low and warm and devastatingly pretty.

‎“You’re unbelievable.”

‎“You’ve been flirting with me for three weeks.”

‎“Because I didn’t know it was you!”

‎“And now you do.”

‎The air between you shifted again.

‎Your heartbeat stumbled awkwardly.

‎You knew the man who whispered soft things to you over midnight phone calls was the same man standing only inches away.

‎It should’ve made things easier.

‎Instead it made everything infinitely more intense.

‎“You’re blushing again.”

‎“I hate you.”

‎“No, you don’t.”

‎The certainty in his voice made your pulse jump.

‎Because unfortunately—

‎No.

‎You definitely didn’t.

‎—

‎After that night, things became unbearable.

‎Not in a bad way.

‎In a you-can’t-function-like-a-normal-person-anymore way.

‎Because now every interaction carried a second meaning beneath it.

‎Every glance felt loaded.

‎Every text made your stomach turn.

‎And Lee Heeseung was entirely too calm about all of it.

‎Monday morning, you walked into work sleep-deprived and emotionally unstable after staying awake until 3 AM talking to him on the phone.

‎You barely made it three steps into the office before hearing:

‎“Morning.”

‎Your entire nervous system short-circuited.

‎Heeseung sat at his desk across the room, headphones resting around his neck while he sipped coffee one-handed.

‎Completely casual.

‎Like he hadn’t spent two hours the night before murmuring things that kept replaying in your head against your will.

‎Several coworkers passed between you, oblivious.

‎“Morning.”

‎His eyes lingered on you for exactly one second too long.

‎Then he smiled slightly and looked back at his monitor.

‎You nearly walked directly into a wall.

‎Mina from marketing caught your arm immediately.

‎“Jesus. You okay?”

‎“No,” you whispered honestly.

‎She blinked.

‎“…Rough weekend?”

‎You had absolutely no idea how to explain that your quiet coworker had accidentally become the hottest problem in your life.

‎So instead you nodded weakly and escaped to your desk.

‎Your phone buzzed seconds later.

‎H:

‎“You almost walked into the wall.”

‎You glared across the office.

‎Heeseung didn’t even look up from his computer.

‎You:

‎This is psychological warfare.

‎H:

‎“You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

‎Your stomach betrayed you instantly.

‎—

‎By Wednesday, the tension had become genuinely ridiculous.

‎You avoided being alone with him.

‎Which only seemed to amuse him more.

‎Because every time you escaped, another text arrived minutes later.

‎H:

‎“Running away again?”

‎Or—

‎H:

‎“You get nervous very easily for someone who sent me that voice note.”

‎Like he enjoyed watching you unravel slowly.

‎Which, unfortunately, he absolutely did.

‎That realization hit you during a late-night phone call.

‎“You like this,” you accused suddenly.

‎A pause crackled through the speaker.

‎“Like what?”

‎“This.”

‎You rolled onto your back dramatically.

‎“Watching me suffer.”

‎His quiet laugh slid through you like warm honey.

‎“I wouldn’t call it suffering.”

‎Another laugh.

‎God.

‎You closed your eyes.

‎“I think you enjoy making me nervous.”

‎His voice lowered slightly.

‎“I think you like being nervous.”

‎Your breath caught.

‎Silence stretched carefully between you.

‎“You always get quieter,” he murmured, “when you’re affected by something.”

‎Your fingers tightened around your phone.

‎“How do you even notice that?”

‎“I pay attention to you.”

‎The simplicity of the answer ruined you a little.

‎You pressed your face into your pillow.

‎“This is unfair.”

‎“What is?”

‎“The fact that your voice sounds like that.”

‎He laughed softly.

‎“How does it sound?”

‎You immediately regretted bringing it up.

‎“…Low.”

‎“Just low?”

‎“No.”

‎“No?”

‎You hesitated.

‎Then whispered before your dignity could stop you:

‎“It sounds like you know exactly what you’re doing.”

‎The line went quiet.

‎When he finally spoke again, his voice had dropped lower.

‎“Maybe I do.”

‎Heat rushed through your entire body.

‎This man was going to kill you.

‎“You’re quiet again,” he murmured.

‎“Shut up.”

‎Another soft laugh.

‎Then—

‎“What are you wearing?”

‎Your heart nearly stopped.

‎“Heeseung.”

‎“Hm?”

‎“You can’t just ask that.”

‎“I just did.”

‎You buried your burning face into your pillow.

‎“This conversation is over.”

‎“You don’t mean that.”

‎Unfortunately—

‎Again—

‎You heard him shift slightly on the other end of the call before his voice softened.

‎“You know what I think?”

‎You swallowed hard.

‎“What?”

‎“I think you like pretending you’re overwhelmed.”

‎Your pulse jumped.

‎“Because every time I give you an out…” His voice dipped lower. “You stay anyway.”

‎Silence.

‎And then quietly—

‎“So tell me to stop.”

‎Because suddenly it wasn’t teasing anymore.

‎It wasn’t just flirting.

‎There was something real underneath it now.

‎He was giving you control.

‎Waiting.

‎You opened your mouth.

‎But no words came out.

‎And somehow, that answer said enough.

‎On the other end of the line, Heeseung exhaled softly.

‎Almost like he was smiling.

‎“Yeah,” he murmured gently. “That’s what I thought.”

‎‎‎By Thursday night, you were losing your mind.

‎The office was nearly empty again, most employees already gone while rain blurred against the city windows outside.

‎You were packing your bag when your phone buzzed.

‎H: “Come upstairs.”

‎You: Why?

‎Three dots appeared.

‎H: “Just come here.”

‎That was it.

‎No explanation.

‎You stared at the message for a full ten seconds before grabbing your bag and heading toward the stairs like your body had already decided for you.

‎The rooftop door creaked open against the wind.

‎Cold rain-scented air wrapped around you immediately.

‎And there he was.

‎Lee Heeseung stood near the edge of the rooftop beneath the weak glow of city lights.

‎He looked over the moment you stepped outside.

‎“You came,” he said quietly.

‎“You told me to.”

‎A faint smile touched his mouth.

‎There was something different about him tonight.

‎Less teasing.

‎Too calm.

‎Your stomach twisted nervously.

‎“You know what the worst part of this has been?”

‎“What?”

‎“The waiting.”

‎Your breath caught instantly.

‎He stepped closer slowly.

‎“You call me at two in the morning when your thoughts get too loud,” he said quietly. “You tell me things you don’t tell anyone else.”

‎Another step closer.

‎“You look for me in every room now.”

‎Your heart slammed violently against your ribs.

‎“And every time I hear your voice…” His eyes locked onto yours. “I have to pretend I don’t want to touch you.”

‎The air disappeared from your lungs.

‎“Heeseung…”

‎“You said something that night,” he murmured softly.

‎You swallowed hard.

‎“What?”

‎“That you wanted someone to ruin you.”

‎Heat rushed instantly through your body.

‎His gaze never left yours.

‎“And I think,” he said carefully, voice lower now, “the problem is that I don’t want to ruin you.”

‎Your breath caught.

‎“I think I want something worse.”

‎He stopped directly in front of you now.

‎Close enough to feel his warmth.

‎Close enough that your thoughts started slipping apart completely.

‎“And what’s worse?” you whispered.

‎His jaw tightened slightly before he answered.

‎“You.”

‎The single word shattered something in you.

‎His hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing lightly against your jaw.

‎His hand slid into your hair as he pulled you against him, kissing you deep enough to make your knees weaken immediately. Heeseung kissed exactly the way he talked to you at night —

‎You grabbed the front of his shirt to steady yourself while his other hand settled against your waist like he already knew it belonged there.

‎He exhaled softly against your mouth.

‎“Fuck,” he whispered, almost frustrated. “Do you know how hard it’s been not touching you?”

‎Your cheeks burned violently.

‎“You’re not exactly easy to ignore either.”

‎A quiet laugh escaped him before his forehead rested briefly against yours.

‎For a second, neither of you moved.

‎Just breathing.

‎“So,” he murmured, eyes warm, “still think this was a wrong number?”

‎

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 1 ✦

You are going to die.

This is not a dramatic statement. This is simply the truth, the same way the sky is blue or the rent is due or the loan sharks have been calling your phone every hour for the past three weeks. You are twenty-one years old, you are drowning in debt you will never repay, and you are sitting on the edge of your bathtub with a gun in your lap that cost you the last of your cash and most of your dignity.

The bathroom light flickers. It's been doing that for months. You never fixed it. Why would you? You weren't planning to be here long enough for it to matter.

Your phone buzzes on the sink. Another text from a number you've memorized but never saved.

"We know you're home. Pay what you owe or we take fingers this time."

You turn the phone facedown. Your fingers ache. Two of them healed crooked from the last warning.

You press the barrel to your temple. The metal is cold. You didn't expect it to be cold. You expected it to feel like nothing, the way everything else has felt like nothing for months now.

Your finger finds the trigger. You close your eyes.

You think: I'm sorry.

You think: I don't even know who I'm apologizing to.

You pull the trigger. And everything stops. Not in the way you expected. Not the white light or the rushing tunnel or the life flashing before your eyes. No. The world simply... pauses. The flickering bathroom light freezes mid-flicker, stuck between on and off, casting the room in a strange half-glow. The drip from the leaky faucet hangs suspended. And the gun doesn't fire.

You pull the trigger again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. You pull it three more times in rapid succession, your breath coming faster now, panic replacing resignation, because you can't even do this right, you can't even die properly-

"That's really not going to work."

The voice comes from somewhere to your left. Somewhere that should not contain a voice, because your bathroom is approximately the size of a broom closet and you are very definitely alone in it. Or you were. You should be.

You turn your head slowly, the gun still pressed to your temple, and find yourself staring at a tear in reality. That's the only way to describe it. The air beside your shower has split open, and through the gap spills light that is somehow both gold and pink at the same time, and standing in the middle of this impossibility is a young man who looks approximately your age and approximately like he's never had a bad day in his entire life.

He's wearing what appears to be some kind of uniform, dark fabric, sharp lines, an emblem you don't recognize embroidered on the collar, but he's wearing it wrong, top button undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows and tie hanging loose.

He smiles at you. It's the kind of smile that knows exactly how charming it is. "Hi," he says. "You're not hallucinating."

"I'm definitely hallucinating," you say. Your voice comes out hoarse. When was the last time you spoke to another person? Two days? Three? "This is a hallucination. I'm having a mental break. That's fine. That tracks."

The young man steps out of the tear in reality and into your bathroom. The portal doesn't close behind him. It just hovers there. "You're not hallucinating," he repeats. He reaches out and plucks the gun from your hands. "This is real. I'm real. The portal is real. And you're not dead, which I feel like we should focus on right now."

You stare at him. You stare at the portal. You stare at your empty hands, which are trembling. "I pulled the trigger," you say.

"You did."

"It didn't work."

"I stopped it."

"You stopped it."

"Time, mostly. Just this room. Just for a minute." He says this like it's a minor inconvenience, like he's explaining how he fixed a leaky faucet. "The bullet will resume its trajectory if I let go, so I'd appreciate it if you'd step away from the line of fire before I do."

You look down. There is a bullet hanging in the air six inches from your head. Frozen. Motionless You slide off the bathtub edge and press yourself against the opposite wall. Your legs don't feel like legs. The young man waves his hand. The bullet drops to the floor with a small tink. Time resumes. The light flickers properly. The faucet drips. The tear in reality stays exactly where it is.

"There," he says pleasantly. "Crisis averted. You're welcome, by the way."

"Who," you manage, "the hell are you?"

He places a hand over his heart, mock-offended. "I'm hurt. I go through all this effort to save your life and that's the tone you take?" Then he drops the act and grins. "My name is Sunoo. You're Y/N. Well, you're a Y/N. One of them. There are more than you'd think, actually. Infinite universes, infinite variations. Most of you are very boring, but you-" He points at you. "You're interesting."

You slide down the wall until you're sitting on the bathroom floor. "I don't understand anything you're saying," you tell him.

"That's fair." Sunoo crouches down to your level. He's still smiling, but something in his expression shifts. Softens. It's almost convincing. "Let me start over. You were about to do something permanent. I'm here to offer you an alternative."

"What kind of alternative?"

"The kind where you don't die and instead get a new life, a new identity, and a purpose." He tilts his head. "Also there's magic. And an academy. And you might have to kill someone. But we can get to that part later."

You stare at him. The gun is on the floor between you. Neither of you reaches for it. "Magic," you repeat.

"Magic."

"Academy."

"Academy."

"Killing someone."

"Allegedly. It's more of a long-term goal than an immediate requirement."

You press the heels of your palms against your eyes. When you open them, he's still there. The portal is still there. The bullet is still on the floor. You are still alive, which was not the plan five minutes ago. "Okay," you say, because what else do you say to the impossible when it shows up in your bathroom? "Explain."

Sunoo explains. He explains it slowly, patiently, like he's talking to a child or a particularly skittish animal. There is a world called Emperion. It runs on magic drawn from sin, anger, greed, pride, all the worst parts of human nature, harvested and weaponized. In this world, there was another version of you. A wealthy, powerful, deeply unpleasant version of you who attended an elite magical academy and made a lot of enemies and one very bad decision.

"She made a deal with something she shouldn't have," Sunoo says. "A deity outside the sanctioned seven. Tristitia. The Sorrow. It gave her power, and then it took her life. Or rather, a witch took her life. Working for Tristitia. The details are messy."

"Messy how?"

"Messy in the sense that I don't fully know them." He says this lightly, but his eyes flick away for just a moment. "I was there when she died. It happened fast. One moment she was casting, the next she was-" He makes a vague gesture. "Not casting. Very permanently not casting."

You're still on the floor. Your legs have gone numb. "And you want me to replace her."

"I want you to be her. There's a difference." He stands up and offers you his hand. "She's dead. No one knows except me. If you take her place, you get her life, her room, her status, her spot at the Academy. All you have to do is pretend to be her and help me find the witch who killed her."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you care who killed her?"

Something flickers across Sunoo's face. It might be grief. It might be guilt. It might be neither. With him, it's hard to tell.

"She was my best friend," he says. "Is that enough of a reason?"

You don't know if you believe him. But you also don't know if it matters. You're sitting on a bathroom floor with a bullet on the tiles and a portal to another universe hovering beside your shower. Your options are limited. They've been limited for a long time.

"What if I say no?"

Sunoo shrugs. "Then I leave. Time resumes its normal flow. The bullet stays on the floor. You're back exactly where you started, with exactly the same options you had before I arrived." He pauses. "I won't stop you a second time, if that's what you're asking. I'm offering you a choice, not a prison sentence."

You look at the gun. You look at the portal. You think about the loan sharks and the hospital bills and the two crooked fingers that ache every time you try to move them. You think about the silence that has followed you since you were fifteen years old, since your parents died and left you with nothing but a cramped apartment and a stack of unpaid bills and the slow realization that no one was coming to save you.

But someone did come, didn't they? Someone just walked through a hole in reality and offered you an escape. Not a savior. A deal. "Is it dangerous?" you ask.

"Extremely."

"Am I going to die?"

"Possibly. But not tonight. Tonight you'll be safe."

You take his hand. His palm is warm. You didn't expect that. "Okay," you say. "I'm in."

Sunoo's smile returns, brighter this time. "Wonderful. Now for the unpleasant part."

"The unpleasant part?"

"The switch."

He doesn't explain what "the switch" means. He just raises his hand and makes a gesture like he's turning a page in a book, and suddenly there's a body on your bathroom floor.

Not just any body. Your body.

It's you. The other you. The dead one. She's wearing the same uniform as Sunoo, dark fabric and sharp lines and an emblem on the collar. Her hair is the same as yours. Her face is the same as yours. But she's paler, and her lips are slightly blue, and she's very, very dead.

You stumble backward. Your hip bangs against the sink. "What the fuck."

"Language."

"What the actual…why is there a…where did you-"

"I retrieved her from where I've been keeping her preserved. Temporal stasis. Very useful." Sunoo says this like he's discussing meal prep. "She needs to be found here. In your world. If she just disappears from Emperion, people will ask questions. So we're leaving her body in your apartment, staged to look like she's you, and then you're coming with me."

"You want me to just-" You gesture wildly at the corpse. "Leave a dead body in my apartment?"

"It's not your apartment anymore. You're not coming back." Sunoo is already crouching beside the body, adjusting her position with unsettling gentleness. "She'll be found. She'll be identified as you. Your debts will die with her. Your loan sharks will move on. You, meanwhile, will be in another world entirely, attending a prestigious academy and sleeping in a much nicer bed."

You want to argue. You want to point out all the ways this is insane. But you find yourself watching his hands as he aRranges the other you's hair, and you can't stop thinking about how strange it is to see yourself from the outside. She looks peaceful. You've never looked peaceful. You've always looked tired.

"Did she suffer?" you ask quietly.

Sunoo's hands pause. "No," he says. "It was very fast."

You don't know if he's lying. You decide it doesn't matter. "Okay," you say. "Let's do this before I change my mind."

Sunoo stands and offers you his hand again. "Hold on tight. First-time travel can be disorienting."

You take his hand. His fingers close around yours. The portal pulses once, twice, and then the world dissolves.

Teleportation, as it turns out, feels like being turned inside out and then right-side in again, but very quickly, and with a lot more colors than you've ever seen before. Your stomach lurches. Your vision whites out. For a single, horrible moment, you feel like you're falling in every direction at once.

Then your feet hit solid ground, and you're somewhere else entirely.

You stumble, and Sunoo catches your elbow. "Easy. It passes."

You want to tell him you're fine, but you're too busy staring at everything. You're standing in what appears to be a dormitory hallway, but it's like no dormitory you've ever seen. And the window at the end of the hallway shows a sky that is definitely, absolutely, not the sky you grew up under. It's purple. Deep purple, scattered with more stars than you've ever seen. And the moon-

"There are two moons," you say. Your voice comes out faint.

"Yes," Sunoo says. "Selene and Noctis. The sisters. They've been chasing each other across the sky for ten thousand years."

"Chasing each other?"

"It's a myth. I'll tell you later." He's already steering you down the hallway. "Keep your voice down. Most students are asleep, but some of them have very good hearing."

"What species has very good hearing?"

"Werewolves, mostly. Vampires. Shapeshifters in bat form. The occasional paranoid elf." He counts them off on his fingers. "Oh, and the Hypogean, but they don't sleep, so they don't count."

You have no idea what a Hypogean is. You're not sure you want to know. You let him guide you down the hallway, past identical doors with nameplates you can't read. "Is the whole world like this?" you ask.

"Nocthaven is special. It's the only territory under perpetual night. The rest of Emperion has a normal day-night cycle." Sunoo pauses in front of a door. "This is mine."

The nameplate reads: Kim Sunoo - Goat Hall. The emblem beside it is a goat with curling horns.

"Goat Hall," you read aloud.

"It's the Lust dormitory."

You stare at him.

"I'm an incubus," he adds, as if this explains everything. Which, given the context, it sort of does.

"Of course you are," you mutter.

Sunoo grins and pushes the door open. "Come in. We have a lot to cover and not much time before morning."

His room is exactly what you would expect from someone who introduced themselves by stopping time and stealing a corpse. It's large, larger than your entire apartment, with silk sheets on the bed, candles that light themselves as you enter, and a balcony that overlooks the Academy grounds. You stand in the center of the room, not sure where to put yourself. Sunoo gestures at a velvet armchair.

"Sit. You look like you're about to collapse."

You sit. The chair is too comfortable. You hate it a little. "The other me," you say. "The dead one. Tell me about her."

Sunoo settles onto the edge of his bed, crossing one leg over the other. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything. If I'm going to pretend to be her, I need to know everything."

"She's human," he begins. "That's important. Most of the elite students at the Academy are something more, vampires, demons, elves. She was fully mortal, which made her talent even more impressive. Or infuriating, depending on who you ask."

"What was she like?"

Sunoo considers this. "Cold. Confident. Kind of a bitch if you ask me. She was the top of our class without seeming to try. People admired her or hated her. There wasn't much middle ground."

"That's not very helpful. What did she like? What did she do? How did she treat people?"

"She treated people like furniture," Sunoo says frankly. "She was not a nice person, Y/N. I know it's weird to speak ill of the dead, but you should know what you're stepping into. She was my best friend, and I loved her, and she was also a nightmare."

This is not comforting. "Great. So I'm replacing a nightmare."

"You're replacing a nightmare and you need to convince everyone you're still her. Which means you need to be cold and confident and kind of mean, at least at first." He tilts his head, studying you. "Can you do that?"

You think about the loan sharks. You think about the way you learned to make yourself small, to avoid eye contact, to apologize for things that weren't your fault. The opposite of cold and confident. The opposite of mean. "I don't know," you admit.

"You'll learn." He says it like it's a guarantee. "Now. Magic."

"Magic."

"The old Y/N had no defined sin affinity."

You frown. "What does that mean?"

"Most sinners have a natural pull toward one of the seven sin categories by the time they reach adolescence. It's like-" He pauses, searching for his words. "It's like a calling. A resonance. You feel drawn to a particular type of magic the way some people feel drawn to music or art. The old Y/N never felt that pull. She was completely neutral. It's rare. It's also why she was so powerful. She could theoretically access any of the seven."

"But she couldn't?"

"She was still waiting for her affinity to manifest. Most students have theirs by sixteen at the latest. She was twenty. It was a point of... frustration for her. One of the reasons she made that deal with Tristitia." Sunoo's expression darkens briefly. "She was tired of waiting."

You digest this. "So I'm supposed to have no magic?"

"For now. But here's the thing." He leans forward. "You're not her. You're from another universe. Your soul is different. Exposure to Emperion might trigger an affinity in you that she never had. Or it might not. We won't know until we know."

"How do we find out?"

"We wait. You should feel it eventually, if it's going to happen. A pull. A resonance. Something that feels like-" He gestures vaguely. "Like coming home."

You sit in the too-comfortable chair and try to feel something. Anything. A pull, a resonance, a sense of coming home. You close your eyes and reach out with whatever internal sense you're supposed to have.

Nothing.

Just the vague nausea of teleportation and the lingering shock of not being dead. "I don't feel anything," you say.

Sunoo's brow furrows. "Nothing at all?"

"Nothing."

"That's..." He trails off. "Weird. Usually Dimensionals start feeling the resonance within hours of arrival. Your soul should be reacting to the ambient sin energy by now."

"Is that bad?"

"I don't know." He doesn't sound happy about this. "It might mean your affinity will take longer to develop. It might mean you don't have one at all. It might mean something else entirely." He waves a hand. "We'll figure it out. For now, the important thing is that no one finds out you're not her."

"How do I explain not knowing things I should know?"

"Head injury." Sunoo says it immediately, like he's already thought this through. "The mission where she died…where she was supposed to have died involved a confrontation with a witch. We'll say she took a magical blow to the head. It affected her memory. It's not uncommon. Sloppy spellwork can scramble things. People will believe it because they'll want to believe it. No one likes the alternative explanation."

"The alternative explanation being that I'm an imposter from another dimension?"

"Exactly. Which you can never, ever tell anyone." His voice loses its playful tone. He is suddenly, startlingly serious. "Dimensional travelers are rare, Y/N. They're studied. Dissected. The Academy would love to get their hands on someone from a non-magical universe. You'd spend the rest of your life in a research cell. Do you understand?"

You swallow. "I understand."

"Good." The playfulness returns, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll tell you everything else you need to know step by step. There's no point overwhelming you tonight. Tomorrow, we'll start with the basics. The Academy layout. The other students. The professors. What classes you're supposed to be taking." He stands up. "For now, you should sleep."

"Here?"

"Where else?"

"In your room?"

"It's fine. The old Y/N stayed over all the time." He says this casually, already moving toward his closet. "We had an arrangement."

You feel your face do something complicated. "An arrangement."

"Mutually beneficial." He pulls out a spare blanket and tosses it to you. "We slept together. It wasn't romantic. Don't look at me like that."

"I'm not looking at you like anything."

"You're looking at me like I just confessed to murder."

"You did confess to stealing a corpse!"

"That was retrieval. Very different." He drapes himself across his bed. "Look, the old Y/N and I were close. We were friends. We were also both attractive and bored and neither of us had any interest in emotional attachment. It worked for us. If people think we're still doing that, it gives you an excuse to spend time with me. And you need to spend time with me, because I'm the only one who knows your secret."

This is, unfortunately, logical. You hate it. "Fine," you say. "But I'm sleeping in the chair."

"Suit yourself. The bed is big enough for two."

"I'm sleeping in the chair."

"Your loss."

You wrap the blanket around yourself and curl up in the velvet armchair. "Weird," you whisper to yourself. "Everything is so weird."

Sunoo has already closed his eyes. His breathing is slow and even. You don't know if he's actually asleep or just pretending. With him, it's impossible to tell.

You don't sleep. You can't. Every time you close your eyes, you see the other you's face, pale and peaceful on your bathroom floor. You see the bullet hanging in the air. You see the portal. You hear Sunoo's voice: She was not a nice person. She was my best friend, and she was also a nightmare.

You think about the fact that you are, technically, dead. Y/N died tonight in a cramped bathroom.

But eventually, despite everything, your body gives up. Your eyes grow heavy. And you dream. You are in a garden.

Not the Academy grounds. Something else. Somewhere else. The garden is vast and formal. Roses climb trellises made of bone-white wood. The flowers are red. So red they're almost black. The sky above you is neither purple nor blue. It's gray. Featureless.

You walk down a path of crushed white stone. The roses watch you. You can't explain how you know they're watching, but they are. Their petals turn to follow your movement. The path ends at a fountain. The water in the fountain is black. Not dirty. Just black, like ink, like oil. It reflects nothing.

"Do you like my garden?"

The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. It is not a voice so much as the memory of a voice, the impression of sound pressed directly into your mind. It is cold. It is very, very interested in you. You turn. There is nothing behind you. There is nothing anywhere, except the roses and the fountain and the gray sky.

"I asked you a question."

"I-" Your voice echoes strangely. "Who are you?"

A pause. The roses rustle, though there is no wind. "Disappointing," the voice says. "You're not her. You're wearing her shape, but you're not her. The contract was with her. Not you."

"Contract?"

"The Sorrow remembers its own. You are not its own." A sigh, like stone grinding against stone. "I will have to start over. How inconvenient."

The roses burst into flame. Not real flame, black fire that consumes without heat. The petals curl and blacken. The bone-white trellises crack. The crushed stone path turns to ash beneath your feet. The fountain boils, and the black water rises, and the voice speaks one last time:

"Find me anyway. Perhaps you'll be more useful than she was."

You wake up. You're still in the chair. The blanket is tangled around your legs. The candles in Sunoo's room have burned down to stubs. Outside, the purple sky has lightened slightly, taking on a grayish tinge. Dawn, or whatever passes for dawn in a land without sun.

Sunoo is sitting up in bed, watching you. His expression is unreadable. "You were talking in your sleep," he says.

You press a hand to your chest. Your heart is pounding. "I had a dream. There was a garden. Roses. A voice."

"A voice."

"It said I wasn't the real contractor. It said-" You struggle to remember the exact words. "The Sorrow remembers its own. I am not its own."

Sunoo goes very still. "That's Tristitia," he says quietly. "That's the deity she made the deal with. It spoke to you."

"It wasn't happy."

"No. It wouldn't be." He swings his legs over the side of the bed, suddenly all business. "This complicates things."

"What things?"

"Everything." He stands up and crosses to the window, looking out at the impossible sky. "Tristitia doesn't let go of contracts easily. If it knows you're not her, it might come looking for answers. Or payment. Or just to express its displeasure."

"Can it hurt me?"

"I don't know. Probably. Eventually." He turns back to you, and his smile is back. "But that's a problem for later. Right now, we have a more immediate concern."

"What?"

"Breakfast." He tosses you a folded uniform from his closet. It's identical to the one he's wearing. "Put this on. You have a reputation to maintain, and mean girls don't skip meals."

You catch the uniform. It's heavier than it looks. You stare down at the emblem on the collar, the crest you don't recognize, the colors you've never worn.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you can still smell the burning roses. Find me anyway, the voice said. Perhaps you'll be more useful than she was. You don't know what that means. You don't know what any of this means. But you're here now, in a world with two moons and purple skies and seven kinds of sin magic, wearing a dead girl's clothes and carrying a dead girl's secrets.

And breakfast, apparently, waits for no one. "Alright," you say. "Let's go."

Sunoo grins. "That's the spirit."

You're not sure it is. But it's the only spirit you've got.

The uniform fits perfectly. This is unsettling for several reasons. First, because it means the dead girl really was identical to you in every physical way, down to the exact measurements of your shoulders and the precise length of your legs. Second, because the uniform itself is clearly expensive in a way you've never experienced, the fabric is soft and heavy and probably costs more than your monthly rent. Third, and most disturbing, because when you look at yourself in Sunoo's full-length mirror, you don't see yourself at all.

You see her.

The old Y/N stares back at you with your eyes. She wears the dark uniform with casual elegance, the emblem on her collar catching the candlelight. Her hair falls exactly the way yours does, but somehow it looks intentional on her. Like she woke up this morning and decided to be beautiful, and her body simply obeyed.

You lean closer to the mirror. Your reflection leans closer too. You try to find something in her expression that looks like you, the girl who worked double shifts at a convenience store, the girl who ate instant noodles for dinner six nights a week, the girl who sat on a bathtub with a gun in her lap and didn't die.

She's not there. Or maybe you're not here. Maybe you're both somewhere in between.

"You're making a weird face," Sunoo says from behind you.

"I'm practicing my mean face."

"That's your constipated face. Very different."

You turn away from the mirror. Sunoo is already dressed, which seems unfair given that you didn't see him change. He's leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching you with an expression that might be amusement or might be assessment.

"How do I look?" you ask.

"Like her." He says it simply, without flattery or comfort. "Your posture is wrong, though. She stood straight and confident. You stand like you're apologizing for taking up space."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. That's exactly what I mean."

You straighten your spine. Pull your shoulders back. Lift your chin. It feels ridiculous. It feels like wearing someone else's bones.

"Better," Sunoo says. "Still not right. But better. We'll work on it."

"Can we just go to breakfast? I'm starving."

"Just remember-" He opens the door and gestures for you to follow. "You're not the new girl. You're the old girl. You've been here for years. You own this place. Everyone else is beneath you."

"I thought you said she was a nightmare."

"She was. But she was their nightmare. They respected her for it." He flashes you a grin over his shoulder. "Fear and respect are the same thing in this academy. Remember that."

You follow him into the hallway. A group of students passes you in the hallway. They're younger than you, first or second years, probably, and the moment they see your face, something changes in their expressions. Eyes widen. Postures straighten. One of them actually stops mid-sentence, her mouth hanging open slightly.

"Morning," you say, because you don't know what else to say.

The students exchange glances. One of them, a girl with pointed ears and silver hair, clearly an elf manages a nervous nod.

"Good morning, Lady Y/N," she says. Her voice is slightly shaky. "We heard you were injured on your last mission. We're glad to see you recovered."

Lady Y/N. You have a title. Of course you have a title.

"It was nothing," you say, channeling every mean girl you've ever seen in a movie. You let your voice go flat. Dismissive. "A scratch."

The students don't question this. They just nod rapidly and hurry past, their whispers trailing behind them like smoke. You keep walking. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your teeth.

"That was good," Sunoo murmurs. "The it was nothing was a nice touch. Very her."

"Who calls someone 'Lady'?"

"You do. Well, you don't. But people call you that. Your family is nobility. Old blood. Lots of money. I probably should have mentioned that earlier."

"You think?"

"Shh. More students."

Another group rounds the corner. These ones are older, your age, maybe, or close to it. Their reactions are more subtle but no less noticeable. Conversations pause. Eyes track your movement. One boy with dark hair and distinctly wolfish features actually flattens himself against the wall to let you pass.

You don't know whether to be flattered or horrified. "Do they always do this?" you whisper.

"Always. She was the top of the food chain. Everyone else is just trying not to get eaten."

"Great. No pressure."

You reach the end of the hallway and descend a spiral staircase that seems to go on forever.

The dining hall is at the bottom of the stairs. It's massive, far larger than you expected, with vaulted ceilings supported by pillars carved to look like the seven animals of the sins. A peacock pillar. A lion pillar. A pig, a toad, a goat, a snake, and a snail, all rendered in dark wood that gleams in the candlelight.

The tables are arranged by dorm affiliation. You can tell by the banners hanging above each section: the peacock for Pride, the lion for Wrath, the pig for Gluttony. Students cluster together in their respective groups, and the room hums with the low murmur of conversation and the clink of silverware.

Sunoo guides you toward the Goat section with a hand on your lower back. His touch is light, familiar. You realize with a start that he's performing, that this is what the old Y/N and Sunoo looked like together. Intimate. Comfortable. Two people who shared more than friendship.

You try not to stiffen under his hand. "Relax," he breathes. "You're doing fine."

"I haven't done anything yet."

"Exactly. Keep doing nothing. Nothing is very in-character for her."

The Goat table is populated by students who all share Sunoo's particular brand of effortless beauty. Incubi and succubi, mostly, though you spot a few humans and what might be a siren based on the faint iridescence of her skin. They greet Sunoo with casual waves and lazy smiles. They greet you with something closer to wariness.

Sunoo steers you to a seat at the end of the table, slightly apart from the others. A plate of food materializes in front of you the moment you sit down. You stare at it.

The food is... not what you expected.

The main dish appears to be some kind of meat, but it's faintly blue and glistening. The side dishes include something that looks like purple mashed potatoes studded with silver seeds, and a bread roll that appears to be steaming, except the steam is going downward instead of up. The drink in your goblet is clear, but when you tilt it, the liquid moves in slow motion.

"This is breakfast?" you ask.

"Welcome to Emperion cuisine," Sunoo says cheerfully. "The blue thing is moonhare. It's a delicacy. The purple mash is starroot. The bread is…well, it's bread. Mostly. And the drink is crystallized dawn mist. Very refreshing."

"Refreshing."

"Try it."

You pick up your fork. The moonhare quivers slightly. You cut a small piece and lift it to your mouth. It tastes like someone liquefied a dream and then added salt. You swallow convulsively. Your throat tries to reject it. You manage to keep It down through the knowledge that vomiting at breakfast would probably not be in-character for the old Y/N.

"Good?" Sunoo asks innocently.

"Delicious," you manage. Your voice comes out strangled.

"You're a terrible liar."

"I know. I'm working on it."

You push the moonhare around your plate and focus on the bread instead. The bread, at least, tastes like bread. Normal bread. You tear off pieces and chew slowly while Sunoo launches into what you quickly realize is a prepared lecture.

"The Academy operates on a term system," he says, his voice low enough that the other students can't hear. "Eight terms per year. Each term is four weeks. You've already completed six terms of your third year, which means you have two terms left before the final assessments."

"What are the final assessments?"

"Combat trials. Academic examinations. And the Selection." He pauses. "The Selection is the most important part. It's when the Imperial Division chooses the next seven Deadly Sins. You’re possibly one of the seven."

"One of the seven."

"Obviously. You're one of the strongest sinners in the Academy." He says this matter-of-factly. "Or you were. Before you died. But I don’t think the old Y/N would have go for the Imperial Division, that’s not her style at all."

"Great. No pressure. Again."

"Your schedule is as follows: Sin Theory in the morning, taught by Professor Vex. She's a demon. Don't make eye contact for too long. Then Combat Training with Professor Thornwood, he's a Graveborn, very stern, hates tardiness. Then Basic Hexes and Curses after lunch, which is taught by Professor Willowisp. She's an elf, she's been alive for nine hundred years, and she will know if you haven't done the reading."

"I can't do any of those things."

"You can't do them yet. That's what the extra lessons are for." He spears a piece of moonhare and eats it without flinching. "After classes, I'll teach you the basics. What you should already know. We'll start with magical theory and work our way up to practical application."

"And if I can't learn?"

"Then we're both in trouble." He says it lightly, but his eyes are serious. "This isn't a game, Y/N. If people find out you're not her, it's not just embarrassment. It's dangerous. For both of us."

"I know."

"Do you? Because you keep making jokes."

"I make jokes when I'm terrified. It's a coping mechanism."

Sunoo studies you for a moment. Then his expression softens, just slightly. "Fair enough. Just be careful. Not everyone here is as forgiving as me."

"Are you forgiving?"

"No," he admits. "But I'm on your side. That's almost the same thing."

You're not sure it is. But before you can argue, a voice cuts across the dining hall.

"Y/N!"

The voice is loud and warm. You turn toward it and see a young man weaving through the tables toward you. He's mortal. You can tell immediately, though you're not sure how, something about the way he moves, the way his eyes are just eyes. He has brown hair that flops across his forehead and a smile that takes up his entire face and arms that are already reaching for you before he's even close enough to touch.

"Y/N! You're back! I heard you got hurt and I was so worried and Sunoo wouldn't tell me anything and I thought-" He reaches your table and pulls you into a hug without breaking stride. "I'm so glad you're okay!"

You go rigid. His arms are around you, warm and solid and completely unexpected. He smells like something sweet, honey, maybe, or vanilla. You have no idea who he is. Your arms stay at your sides. Your spine locks up. Your brain, which has been handling the morning's challenges with surprising competence, decides to shut down. You stand there, frozen, while a stranger hugs you like you're his favorite person in the world.

"Um," you say.

The young man pulls back. His smile flickers. "Y/N? Are you okay?"

Say something. Do something. Be mean. Be cold. That's what she would do.

"I'm fine," you manage. "Just tired."

He doesn't look convinced. "Are you sure? You seem..."

"She's recovering," Sunoo cuts in smoothly. He's suddenly at your side, his hand on your elbow. "Magical injury. It's affected her memory a bit. She's still getting her bearings."

"Memory?" The young man's expression shifts to concern. "How bad is it?"

"Nothing permanent. Just some gaps. She'll be fine in a few days." Sunoo's voice is perfectly casual. "Right, Y/N?"

"Right," you echo. "Gaps. Temporary. No big deal."

The young man looks between you and Sunoo. His brow furrows. "You're being weird. Both of you."

"We're always weird," Sunoo says. "Jake, don't you have somewhere to be? Don't you have…what is it you do…eating? Don't you have eating to do?"

Jake. His name is Jake. You file this away frantically.

"I was eating. Then I saw Y/N and came over to say hi." Jake crosses his arms. "Is that a crime now?"

"Technically, yes. New Academy rule. No saying hi to Y/N without written permission."

"There's no such rule."

"I'm proposing it. I have connections."

While they bicker, you study Jake. He's wearing the emblem of the pig on his collar, Gluttony, the Gula dorm. He's mortal, which is rare among the elite students. And he knows you. He knows you well enough to hug you in public, well enough to notice when you're acting strange, well enough to look at you with those worried eyes and make you feel like the worst person in the world for deceiving him.

"We should get to class," Sunoo says abruptly. "Jake, we'll catch up later. Y/N needs to-"

"Wait." Jake reaches out and touches your arm. His hand is warm. "Y/N. If something's wrong, you can tell me. You know that, right? We've known each other since we were kids. You can always tell me."

Childhood friends. This man was the old Y/N's childhood friend. "I know," you say quietly. "Thank you, Jake."

His smile returns, smaller this time but real. "Okay. Good. Come find me later? I missed you."

"I will."

He squeezes your arm once and then heads back to his table, where a plate piled high with food waits for him. You watch him go and feel like the worst kind of fraud.

"Come on," Sunoo murmurs. "Before anyone else decides to check on you."

He pulls you out of the dining hall and into a side corridor. The moment you're out of sight of the other students, you slump against the wall and press your hands to your face.

"That was awful."

"That was fine."

"He knew something was wrong. He could tell."

"Jake always knows. He's perceptive in ways people don't expect." Sunoo's voice is thoughtful. "But he doesn't know what he's perceiving. He just knows something's different. We can work with that."

"Who is he?"

"Jake. Gluttony. Pig dorm. Your oldest friend." Sunoo leans against the wall beside you. "Your families were neighbors when you were children. He's known you since before you got into the Academy."

"Great. So he knows the real me better than anyone."

"He knew the real her. Not the real you." Sunoo tilts his head. "That's an important distinction. The girl he grew up with was already on her way to becoming the nightmare. You're not her. You're something else entirely."

"A worse liar."

"True. But maybe a better person." He pushes off the wall. "Come on. We have time before your first class. I should show you around."

"Wasn't my first class like twenty minutes ago?"

"I told Professor Vex you were still recovering. She was... understanding."

"Understanding? You said she was a demon."

"She is. Demons understand injury. They also understand the importance of appearing strong. She agreed that you shouldn't return to class until you can make a proper entrance." He grins. "See? I'm good at this."

You're not sure if "good at this" means good at lying or good at manipulating demons, but either way, you're grateful. You push yourself off the wall and follow him back into the main corridor.

The Academy tour takes the better part of an hour.

Sunoo shows you everything. The Verity Palace, where most academic classes are held, The Stellar Chamber, an observatory whose ceiling shows a real-time map of the night sky, The library, a multi-story cathedral of books where the shelves rearrange themselves when you're not looking and certain texts are chained to their pedestals with chains that glow faintly red.

"The restricted section is through there," Sunoo says, pointing to an iron gate at the back of the library. "Don't go in without permission. The books bite."

"The books."

"Some of them. Others just scream. It's very distracting."

You file this under "things I wish I'd known before signing up" and keep walking.

The greenhouse is next. It's a massive glass dome filled with plants that move. Some of them turn toward you as you pass, their leaves rustling like whispers. One vine reaches out and tries to grab Sunoo's ankle; he steps over it without breaking stride.

"The Venomous Kiss," he says, gesturing at a flower with petals the color of dried blood. "Beautiful but fatal. Students use it in potions. Carefully."

"What happens if you're not careful?"

"Then you don't make it to graduation."

The tour continues. The Nocturna Dorms, seven buildings arranged in a semicircle around a central courtyard where a fountain sprays water that glows faintly silver. The medical wing, where a harried-looking healer is treating a student whose arm appears to have been temporarily turned into glass. The administrative offices and then the arena.

It's a massive stone amphitheater, open to the purple sky, with tiered seating that could hold the entire student body. The floor is sand, but it's not normal sand, it's darker than it should be, and it shifts occasionally, as if something beneath it is breathing.

And in the center of the arena, a young man is training.

He's tall. Pale. His hair is black as ink and his face is the kind of beautiful that makes your brain skip a beat. He's wearing training clothes instead of the uniform, simple black fabric that clings to his shoulders and arms in ways that seem specifically designed to make thinking difficult. He's holding a sword that appears to be made of crystallized shadow, and he's moving through forms with a precision that is almost hypnotic.

Around the edges of the arena, students have gathered to watch. They're not subtle about it. They're staring openly, whispering to each other, pointing. A few of them are fanning themselves.

"Who is that?" you ask.

"That," Sunoo says, his voice carrying a note of warning, "is Sunghoon. Avaritia. Greed. Your ex-fiancé."

"My what!?"

"Ex-fiancé. You broke up with him last year. Well, the old you did. She said he was boring." Sunoo's tone is carefully neutral. "He's been trying to win her back ever since."

You stare at the young man in the arena. He finishes a particularly complicated sequence, the shadow-sword cutting through the air and pauses. His chest is rising and falling with exertion. His dark hair is slightly mussed. There's a sheen of sweat on his forehead that catches the light from the purple sky and makes him look like a painting come to life.

"Boring," you repeat.

"Her words, not mine."

"She called that boring?"

"Are you okay? You look a little flushed."

"I'm fine. I'm totally fine. I'm just processing the fact that I apparently broke off an engagement with someone who looks like he was carved out of moonlight by a team of very dedicated artists."

Sunoo makes a face. "Please don't romanticize him. It's bad enough that he's been pining for a year. If you start encouraging him-"

In the arena, Sunghoon looks up. His eyes find you instantly, as if he knew exactly where you were standing. As if he always knows where you are. His expression shifts, and a smirk spreads across his face, slow and confident and deeply irritating.

He raises his hand in a wave. And you, operating on pure instinct, raise your hand back. It's small and shy and accompanied by a smile that you didn't give permission to appear.

Sunghoon's smirk falters. His hand freezes mid-wave. His pale cheeks flush slightly, barely noticeable, but you catch it. His eyes widen just a fraction. He looks, for a single moment, completely thrown off balance. Then he recovers, his smirk returning, but it's different now. Softer. Almost uncertain.

You realize what you've done. "Oh no," you whisper.

"Yeah," Sunoo says. He grabs your arm and starts dragging you away from the arena. "Oh no is right."

He pulls you around a corner and into an empty corridor. The moment you're out of sight, he rounds on you with an expression somewhere between exasperation and horror. "What was that?"

"I waved!"

"You waved. You did not just wave. You did a whole thing. You did a shy little wave with a shy little smile and he blushed, Y/N. I have known Sunghoon for three years and I have never seen him blush. He doesn't have enough blood flow for blushing. He's a Graveborn. He's technically dead."

"It was an accident! I panicked! He waved first!"

"Waved? Waved? He was being arrogant. You were supposed to ignore him. That's what the old you would have done. She would have looked at him like he was a piece of furniture and then walked away."

"I don't know how to do that!"

"Clearly."

You press your back against the corridor wall. "I'm going to mess this up. I'm going to mess everything up. I can't do this."

Sunoo sighs, his expression shifting from exasperation to something closer to sympathy.

 "You can do this," he says. "You just need to be more careful. Sunghoon is…he's intense. He loved her. The old her. He loved her even when she was cruel to him. If he thinks she's suddenly become soft-"

"Maybe that's a good thing? Maybe people will think she changed after the injury?"

"Maybe. Or maybe they'll think something else happened. Something worse." Sunoo's eyes are serious. "There are people at this Academy who would love to find a weakness in you. In her. If they think you're vulnerable, they'll exploit it."

"So what do I do?"

"You learn. You adapt. And you stop waving at your ex-fiancé like you're in a romance novel."

You groan and drop your head into your hands. "Who is he, anyway? You said ex-fiancé. Why were we engaged?"

"Your families arranged it when you were children. Noble politics. Sunghoon's family is old money, older than yours, actually. The engagement was meant to merge your houses. And then you broke it off because you got bored."

"Bored."

"According to her, he was too sincere. Too devoted. She said it was exhausting being loved that much."

You think about the young man in the arena. The way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world. The way your tiny, accidental wave made him blush.

"That's really sad," you say quietly.

"It's also not your problem." Sunoo stands and offers you his hand. "You're not her. You don't have to love him or hate him or anything in between. You just have to avoid making him suspicious."

"What if he already is suspicious?"

"Then we deal with it. But for now…Let's focus on getting through your first day. One disaster at a time."

"I think I've already had three disasters."

"Those were small disasters. Practice disasters. You haven't even met Jay yet."

"Who's Jay?"

Sunoo's smile turns slightly evil. "He hates you. Well, he hated her. He's going to hate you too, but for different reasons."

"What reasons?"

"Because you won't be able to do any of the things she could do. And he's going to notice." Sunoo pats your shoulder. "Good luck."

You stare at him. "I thought you said you were on my side."

"I am. That doesn't mean your life is going to be easy."

You follow him down the corridor, your mind spinning with new information. Jake, the childhood friend who knows you too well. Sunghoon, the ex-fiancé you apparently broke for no reason. And somewhere out there, Jay, the guy who hates you and is about to discover you can't do magic. You've been in this world for less than twelve hours, and you're already exhausted.

"What was the old me even like?" you mutter. "How did she handle all of this?"

Sunoo glances back at you. "She didn't have to handle it. Everyone was either beneath her notice or a tool to be used. She didn't worry about what people thought because she genuinely didn't care."

"That sounds lonely."

"It was. I think that's why she made the deal with Tristitia." His voice goes quiet. "She wanted power because power was the only thing that made her feel safe. And in the end, it killed her."

"I'm not her," you say finally. "I can't be her. I don't know how to be cold and cruel and untouchable."

"No," Sunoo agrees. "You can't. But you can pretend. And maybe-" He pauses, something flickering in his expression. "Maybe pretending will be enough."

You hope he's right. You really, really hope he's right. Because if he's not, you're going to have a lot more problems than expected. 

The rest of the day is a masterclass in improvisation. Your first class, Sin Theory with Professor Vex. Sunoo guides you to the front row before the other students arrive, his hand on your elbow steady.

"The front row?" you hiss. "Why am I in the front row?"

"Because the old Y/N always sat in the front row. She said it was easier to intimidate the professor that way."

"How does sitting in the front row intimidate anyone?"

"Eye contact. Unbroken eye contact. For the entire lecture." Sunoo pats your shoulder. "Good luck."

He retreats to a seat near the back before you can protest. Other students file in, filling the rings around you. You feel their eyes on the back of your head like tiny lasers.  You stare straight ahead. Your spine is rigid. Your face is, you hope, expressionless. The old Y/N wouldn't turn around. The old Y/N wouldn't acknowledge the whispers. The old Y/N would sit here like she owned the room and everyone in it.

Professor Vex enters through a side door.She stops when she sees you. Her black eyes fix on your face. "Lady Y/N," she says. Her voice is like silk. "You've returned."

"Professor Vex." You incline your head slightly. Sunoo told you not to make prolonged eye contact. You make exactly two seconds of eye contact and then look at a point just over her shoulder. "I apologize for my absence."

"No apology necessary. Magical injuries are unpredictable." She moves toward her desk, her robes sweeping the floor. "I trust you've recovered sufficiently?"

"Mostly."

"Good. We were discussing the theoretical foundations of cross-affinity contamination. Perhaps you can enlighten the class on the Terullian Paradox?"

You have no idea what the Terullian Paradox is. You have never heard those words in that order. For all you know, the Terullian Paradox is a type of pastry.

But Sunoo, bless his manipulative heart, prepared for this. "I'm afraid my memory is still... fragmented," you say, exactly as he instructed. "The healer advised against intellectual strain for the first few days of recovery. I'm here to observe and reacquaint myself with the material."

Professor Vex considers this. Her black eyes are unreadable. Then she nods slowly. "Very well. Observation is acceptable. I expect you to catch up on the missed material by next week."

"Of course."

She turns to the rest of the class. "The Terullian Paradox, then. Who can explain it?"

A student in the third row raises her hand. You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding.

The lecture continues. You take notes frantically, scribbling down terms you don't understand. Sin magic, you learn, is not just about drawing power from wrongdoing. It's about resonance, the way a sinner's personal sins align with their deity's domain. A wrathful person draws Ira more easily. An envious person channels Vanagloria. The magic shapes the sinner, and the sinner shapes the magic.

It's fascinating. It's also terrifying, because you have no idea what sins you carry or which deity might claim you. If any deity claims you. You still haven't felt the pull Sunoo described. The resonance. The sense of coming home.

The second class is Combat Training with Professor Thornwood. The training ground is an outdoor space adjacent to the arena, covered in the same dark sand that shifts occasionally. Professor Thornwood is a Graveborn, tall and gaunt with hollow cheeks. He speaks in short, clipped sentences and does not appear to be the warmest person (literally).

"Today," he announces, "We practice defensive warding. Partner up. Y/N, you're with me."

You freeze. "Professor?"

"You've been absent. I need to assess what you've retained."

Sunoo, who was already moving toward you, stops in his tracks. His expression flickers with alarm before smoothing into careful neutrality. He catches your eye and mouths something that might be good luck or might be don't die. It's hard to tell.

You walk toward Professor Thornwood. "Defensive ward," Thornwood says. "Basic barrier. Show me."

You raise your hands. You've seen enough movies to know how this is supposed to look. You spread your fingers. You concentrate. You try to feel something, anything, any spark of magic, any pull of sin, any resonance whatsoever.

Nothing happens.

Thornwood waits. The students watch. The dark sand shifts beneath your feet. "Whenever you're ready," Thornwood says.

"I'm-" You lower your hands. "The injury. It's affected my connection. The healer said it might take time."

Thornwood's hollow eyes study you. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he nods once. "Magical disruption is common after head trauma. We'll focus on physical conditioning instead. Run the perimeter. Ten laps."

The perimeter of the training ground is approximately half a mile. Ten laps is five miles. You haven't run five miles since high school gym class, and even then you walked most of it.

"Of course," you say, because the old Y/N wouldn't complain. The old Y/N would probably run twenty laps just to show off.

You start running. By lap three, your lungs are burning. By lap five, you've developed a stitch in your side that feels like someone is stabbing you with a very small, very persistent knife. By lap seven, you're fairly certain you're going to die a second time, and this death will be even less dignified than the first.

You keep running. The other students have moved on to practicing wards, their barriers shimmering in the air. Sunoo catches your eye as you pass and gives you a sympathetic grimace.

By lap ten, you're barely upright. You stumble to a halt in front of Thornwood, gasping for breath, sweat soaking through your clothes.

"Acceptable," Thornwood says. "We'll work on your stamina. Dismissed."

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and stagger toward the edge of the training ground. Sunoo appears at your side with a flask of water. "That was painful to watch," he says.

"That was painful to do."

"At least he bought the injury excuse."

"Is everyone going to buy the injury excuse?"

"Probably not. But we only need it to work for a few weeks." He hands you the flask. "Drink. You look like you're about to collapse."

You drink. The water tastes faintly of something floral, probably not normal water, probably enchanted or blessed or whatever they do to water in this world but it's cold and wet and you're too exhausted to care.

"Next class is Basic Hexes and Curses," Sunoo says. "Professor Willowisp. She's old, she's observant, and she doesn't like excuses. We need a different strategy."

"What strategy?"

"You're going to have a magical flare-up."

"A what?"

"Magical disruption from head trauma can cause unpredictable bursts of power. It's a documented phenomenon." Sunoo's voice takes on a scholarly tone. "If you accidentally destroy something in class, it'll explain why you can't do anything the rest of the time. Everyone will assume your magic is unstable rather than absent."

"Destroy something."

"Nothing important. A desk. A window. Something dramatic but non-lethal."

"How am I supposed to destroy something if I can't do magic?"

Sunoo reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, glass sphere. Inside it, something dark swirls like smoke caught in a bottle.

"Throw this at the ground when I give the signal. It'll create a concussive blast. Very showy. Very convincing."

You take the sphere. It's warm in your palm, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. "Where did you get this?"

"I have a supplier. Don't worry about it." He glances at the sky. "We have ten minutes before class starts. Try not to drop that before then."

Professor Willowisp's classroom is in the Verity Palace, on the third floor. The walls are lined with jars containing things you'd rather not identify. Professor Willowisp herself is ancient. Nine hundred years old, Sunoo said, and she looks every century of it. When she looks at you, you feel like she's reading your thoughts, which is probably not paranoia given that mind-reading magic almost certainly exists in this world.

"Lady Y/N," she says. "You've returned to us."

"I have, Professor."

"How fortunate. We were just beginning our unit on emotional affliction curses. Perhaps you'd care to demonstrate?"

The class goes very quiet. You grip the glass sphere in your pocket. "I'm not sure that's wise, Professor. My magic has been... unstable since the injury."

"Unstable?"

"Fluctuations. The healer warned me." You're getting better at lying. The words come easier now. "I wouldn't want to accidentally harm anyone."

Willowisp's ancient eyes study you. "A considerate concern. However, this classroom is warded against magical accidents. Whatever happens within these walls will be contained."

She's not going to let this go. She wants to see you do magic. She wants to test you. Sunoo catches your eye from across the room. He gives a tiny nod.

Now.

"Very well," you say. "But don't say I didn't warn you." You walk to the front of the classroom. Your heart is hammering. Your palms are sweating. The glass sphere is warm against your fingers. "What curse shall I demonstrate?" you ask, stalling for time.

"The Despondency Hex. A simple emotional affliction. Target the practice dummy." Willowisp gestures to a mannequin in the corner of the room. You position yourself in front of it, your back to the class.

You take a deep breath. You raise your hands dramatically. You make a show of concentrating, your brow furrowing, your fingers trembling with apparent magical effort. Then you "lose control." You throw your hands wide, stumble backward, and hurl the glass sphere at the ground between you and the practice dummy. The sphere shatters. A wave of force erupts from the impact point, sending the practice dummy flying across the room. The windows rattle. The jars on the walls shake. Several students scream. One desk is knocked over.

When the dust settles, you're on the floor, deliberately, because it sells the performance and the practice dummy is in pieces against the far wall. Professor Willowisp is staring at you. Her expression is unreadable.

"I did warn you," you manage.

For a long moment, no one speaks. Then Willowisp's ancient face creases into something that might be a smile. "Fascinating," she says. "A magical flare-up of considerable intensity. You're excused from practical demonstrations until your condition stabilizes. Please observe from the back of the room."

You pick yourself up off the floor. Sunoo helps you to a seat in the back row, his hand steadying your elbow. "Perfect," he whispers. "Absolutely perfect."

"I almost hit the ceiling."

"But you didn't. And now everyone thinks your magic is dangerously unstable. No one will ask you to demonstrate anything for weeks."

"Great." You slump into your seat. "Weeks of pretending to be magically volatile. This is going to be exhausting."

"Welcome to your new life."

After the final class, Sunoo walks you toward the training grounds. "Classes are done for the day, which means we have time for your first real lesson," he says. "Professor Thornwood might have bought your excuse, but you still need to learn basic combat skills. I'll teach you what I can."

"I thought you said we'd start with magical theory."

"We will. But you also need to know how to defend yourself physically. Magic isn't always available. Sometimes you just need to know how to throw a punch."

You've never thrown a punch in your life. You've been punched, the loan sharks' enforcer had a mean left hook but you've never hit anyone back. The idea of learning how feels strange. 

"Wait here," Sunoo says when you reach the training ground. "I need to grab some equipment from storage. Don't talk to anyone."

"Who would I talk to?"

"Anyone. Everyone. You're a magnet for attention. Just stand here and look unapproachable."

He disappears into a nearby building, leaving you alone on the edge of the training ground. You stand there, trying to look unapproachable. It probably looks more like you're constipated.

A shadow falls over you.

"There you are." You turn. Sunghoon is standing behind you, closer than you expected. He's still wearing his training clothes from earlier, though he's added a jacket that makes him look somehow even more put-together. His eyes are fixed on your face with an intensity that makes your stomach do something complicated.

"Sunghoon," you say. Your voice comes out slightly strangled.

"I've been looking for you." He steps closer. You step back. He steps closer again. "You left so quickly this morning. I didn't get a chance to welcome you back properly."

"I was busy. Classes."

"Classes." He says the word like it personally offends him. "You almost die on a mission and your first priority is classes?"

"The old Y/N would have prioritized classes."

"You're the old Y/N." He tilts his head. "Aren't you?"

Danger. Danger. Abort mission.

"Obviously, it’s just sarcasm," you say. "What do you want?"

"What I've always wanted. You." He says it simply, without embarrassment, like he's stating a fact. The sky is purple. The moons are sisters. He wants you. "I've been thinking about us."

"There is no us."

"There was."

"And now there isn't."

"Because you got bored." He doesn't sound angry. He sounds curious. "I've been trying to understand it. You said I was boring. But I remember the way you looked at me. I remember the way you-"

"Sunghoon."

"-responded to me. We were practically married, Y/N. Everyone assumed we'd formalize it eventually. And the physical aspect of our relationship was-"

"Oh my god."

"-extremely satisfying for both of us. You told me so yourself. Multiple times. You were quite vocal about it, actually."

Your face is on fire. "Please stop talking."

"I'm just trying to understand." He takes another step closer, and this time you're backed against the wall of the equipment building and there's nowhere left to retreat. "You ended things without explanation. You said you were bored, but you weren't bored. I know you weren't bored. So what was it?"

"I don't-" You struggle to remember what Sunoo told you. "I just needed space."

"Space." His eyes search your face. "You've had space. You've had a year of space. And now you're back, and you're different."

"I'm not different."

"You are. You waved at me this morning."

"So? People wave."

"You never wave. You used to walk past me like I didn't exist." His voice softens. "Today you waved. And you smiled. A real smile. Not the cold one you used to give me. A real one."

You have nothing to say to that. You can't explain it without revealing everything. So you just stand there, pressed against the wall, your heart pounding and your face burning, while your dead self's ex-fiancé looks at you like you're a puzzle he's desperate to solve.

"You're blushing," he observes.

"I'm not."

"You are. It's charming." He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingers are cold against your skin. "I've never seen you blush before."

"I hit my head. It damaged my blood Circulation."

"That's not how blood circulation works."

"It's magical blood circulation."

He laughs. It's a soft sound, barely more than an exhale, but it transforms his face. "I've missed you," he says. "Even when you were cruel to me. Even when you ignored me. I've missed you every day."

"Sunghoon-"

"I know you don't want this. I know you don't want me. But I'm not giving up." He leans in, and before you can react, his lips brush against your cheek. It's barely a kiss, light, fleeting, cold and warm at the same time. "One day, I'll convince you to go on a date with me. A real date. And you'll remember why we worked."

He pulls back. Then he turns and walks away, his jacket billowing slightly in the breeze, leaving you pressed against the wall with your hand over your cheek and your brain completely offline.

Sunoo returns approximately thirty seconds later, carrying a bag of training equipment. "Why do you look like you've seen a ghost?" he asks. "You're pale. Paler than usual. What happened?"

"Sunghoon happened."

"What?"

"He came over. He said-" You press your hands to your burning face. "He said they had a very satisfying physical relationship and she was very vocal about it and he kissed my cheek and said he'd convince me to go on a date one day and I just stood there like an idiot because I didn't know what else to do!"

Sunoo drops the training bag. "He kissed you?"

"On the cheek! Just the cheek! But still!"

"Where?"

"My cheek! I just said!"

"No, I mean where were you? Were there witnesses?"

"I don't know! I was too busy having a crisis!"

Sunoo pinches the bridge of his nose. "Okay. Okay. This is fine. Sunghoon has been trying to win her back for a year. It's not suspicious that he's still trying. The cheek kiss is new, but it's not-" He pauses. "Did you respond?"

"I stood there like a statue!"

"Good. That's good. That's in-character. The old Y/N would have been cold about it. Dismissive."

"Sunoo, I think I blushed."

"You what?"

"I blushed. He noticed. He said it was charming."

Sunoo stares at you. Then he closes his eyes and takes a very deep breath. "I'm going to be honest with you," he says. "I don't know how to handle this. Sunghoon is not supposed to be charmed by you. He's supposed to be pining from a distance while you ignore him. That's the dynamic. That's how it's always been."

"Maybe he's just glad I'm not being cold to him anymore?"

"Which is exactly the problem." Sunoo opens his eyes. "The old Y/N was cruel. That's who she was. If you're not cold, people will notice. Sunghoon has already noticed. Jake noticed this morning. How long before everyone notices?"

"What do you want me to do? Start being mean to people?"

"Maybe! I don't know!" He throws his hands up. "I didn't plan for this. I planned for a smooth transition. I planned for you to be cold and distant and slowly warm up over time. I did not plan for you to be accidentally charming your ex-fiancé on day one."

"I wasn't trying to be charming!"

"That's the worst part! You're not even doing it on purpose!"

You both stand there in frustrated silence. "Can we just do the combat training?" you ask finally. "I think I need to hit something."

Sunoo exhales. "Fine. But we're not done talking about this."

The combat training is a disaster.

"Okay," Sunoo says, standing in the center of the training ground with a padded dummy. "The most basic defensive maneuver is the shield ward. It creates a temporary barrier between you and an attack. Even if you don't have an affinity yet, you should be able to produce at least a flicker of one. The theory is simple."

He explains the theory. It involves visualizing your sin energy, whatever that means, and channeling it through your hands into a physical barrier. The barrier doesn't need to be strong. It just needs to exist.

"Go ahead," he says. "Try it."

You raise your hands. You concentrate. You try to visualize your sin energy. Nothing happens.

"Try harder."

You try harder. You scrunch up your face. You push with your mind. You make straining noises that would be embarrassing if you weren't already beyond embarrassment. Nothing happens.

"Maybe try a different approach," Sunoo suggests. "Instead of pushing, try pulling. Imagine drawing energy from the air around you."

You imagine drawing energy from the air. The air does not cooperate. The air, in fact, seems actively uninterested in being drawn from.

"Anything?" Sunoo asks.

"Nope."

"Okay. Let's try a physical approach instead." He gestures to the dummy. "Basic punch. Just hit it."

You punch the dummy. It's not a good punch. Your thumb is inside your fist, which you're fairly certain is wrong. Your wrist bends at an awkward angle. The impact sends a jolt of pain up your arm.

"Ow."

Sunoo stares at you. "Have you ever thrown a punch before?"

"No."

"Ever?"

"I've been punched. Does that count?"

"No. It doesn't." He walks over and adjusts your stance. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Weight on your back foot. Thumb outside your fist, outside, Y/N, not inside. You're going to break your thumb if you punch like that."

"My thumb already hurts."

"Because you punched wrong. Do it again. Properly this time."

You punch again. It's slightly better. Your thumb remains unbroken. The dummy wobbles a little.

"Better," Sunoo says. "Now do it fifty more times."

"Fifty?"

"Muscle memory. Your body needs to learn what your mind already knows. Again."

You punch the dummy fifty times. 

"Good," Sunoo says. "Now the other hand."

"The other- are you serious?"

"Most people are right-handed, which means they expect attacks from the right. If you can throw a decent left hook, you'll have an advantage. Again. Fifty times."

You punch the dummy fifty more times with your left hand. Your left hand is even less coordinated than your right. Several punches miss entirely. One hits the dummy's stand and sends a fresh jolt of pain through your wrist.

"I hate this," you announce.

"You hate it because you're bad at it. You'll hate it less when you're good at it."

"Will I ever be good at it?"

Sunoo considers this. "Probably not. But you'll be better than you are now."

"That's not comforting."

"It wasn't meant to be. Again. This time, try a kick."

You kick the dummy. You miss and your momentum carries you around in a full circle. You end up facing the wrong direction with your back to the dummy and your arms pinwheeling for balance.

Sunoo covers his mouth with his hand. His shoulders are shaking.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"No," he says, his voice strangled. "Absolutely not."

"You're laughing at me."

"I'm not. I'm-" A snort escapes him. "Okay, I am. I'm sorry. It's just…you spun. You spun like a top. How did you spin like a top?"

"I don't know! Physics happened!"

"Physics doesn't usually make people pirouette!"

"I wasn't pirouetting!"

"You were definitely pirouetting. If we were grading this, you'd get full marks for artistic impression and zero for technique."

You grab a handful of training sand and throw it at him. He dodges, still laughing, and the sand scatters harmlessly across the ground.

"This is serious!" you protest. "I'm trying to learn how to defend myself!"

"You're right, you're right." He composes himself with visible effort. "I'm sorry. Let's try again. This time, don't spin."

"I didn't spin on purpose!"

"Plant your foot. Keep your weight centered. Kick through the target, not at it."

You try again. This time you don't spin, but your kick connects with the dummy's stand instead of the dummy, and the whole thing topples over. The dummy hits the ground with a thud that echoes across the training ground.

"I'm never going to be able to do this," you say quietly.

Sunoo walks over and rights the dummy. "You're not going to be able to do it today. Or tomorrow. Or probably next week. But eventually-"

"Eventually I'll what? Learn to throw a punch? That's not going to help against witches and demons and whatever else is out there."

"No. But it's a start." He turns to face you. His expression has lost its humor. "Y/N, I know this is overwhelming. I know you feel like you're drowning. But you're not alone. I'm going to help you. We're going to figure this out."

"And if we can't?"

"Then we'll figure out something else." He picks up the training bag. "That's enough for today. Let's go back to the dorm. We have plans tonight."

"Plans?"

"We're going to Malachar. There's someone I need you to meet."

The teleportation stone is a small, flat disc that fits in the palm of Sunoo's hand. "Teleportation stones are rare," Sunoo explains as you stand in his dorm room. "Most people use portals, but portals can be tracked. Stones are untraceable. This one is keyed to a specific location in Malachar, an underground bar called the Rusted Nail. Not the kind of place Academy students usually frequent."

"Then why are we going there?"

"Because the person we need to talk to doesn't frequent Academy-approved establishments."

He presses the stone into your palm and closes his fingers around yours. The stone is warm, warmer than it should be, and the silver veins pulse faster.

"Hold on," he says.

The world dissolves. This time, the teleportation is slightly less disorienting than before. Maybe you're getting used to it. Maybe the stone is smoother than whatever portal Sunoo used earlier. Either way, when your feet hit solid ground, you only stumble a little. 

"Where are we?"

"The Undermarket," Sunoo says. "Goblin territory. It's the black market of Malachar. Anything can be bought here if you know who to ask."

"And we're meeting a witch."

"An old contact of mine." He says it casually, but something in his tone makes you look at him sharply.

"An old contact?"

"We used to have an arrangement." He starts walking toward the end of the alley. "She provided certain services. I provided certain payments. It was mutually beneficial."

"What kind of arrangement?"

"The kind that's none of your business."

"Sunoo."

He sighs. "We slept together. Occasionally. It wasn't romantic. She's a witch, I'm an incubus, we both had needs. Are you happy now?"

You're not sure if "happy" is the right word. You're not sure what you're feeling. Surprise, maybe. Curiosity. A strange, uncomfortable twist in your stomach that you decide to ignore. "Is there anyone in this world you haven't slept with?"

"Plenty of people. I'm selective." He grins over his shoulder. "Don't worry. You're not my type."

"I wasn't worried."

"You looked worried."

"I looked curious. It's different."

He doesn't argue, but his grin widens. The Rusted Nail is tucked between a weapons shop and what appears to be a brothel. Its sign is a literal rusted nail. The door itself is iron, heavy and black, and it groans when Sunoo pushes it open. Inside, the bar is dim and smoky. Sunoo approaches the bar and orders two drinks in a language you don't recognize. The bartender, a goblin with one eye and a scar across his throat, grunts and produces two glasses filled with amber liquid.

"Don't drink too much," Sunoo says, sliding one glass toward you. "This stuff is stronger than anything in your world."

You take a cautious sip. It burns going down, but it's not unpleasant. It tastes like honey and smoke and something else, something that makes your head swim slightly. "The witch?" you ask.

"She'll be here soon. I sent word ahead."

You wait. Then the door opens, and a woman walks in. She's wearing robes that are clearly expensive but deliberately understated, and when she sees Sunoo, her lips curve into a smile that's equal parts warmth and wariness.

"Sunoo," she says. Her voice is low and smooth. "It's been a while."

"Mara." Sunoo rises to greet her. They don't embrace, but there's a familiarity in the way they stand close to each other. "Thank you for coming."

"You said it was urgent." Her golden eyes flick to you. "Who's this?"

"A friend. I need information."

"What kind of information?"

"About Tristitia."

Mara's expression doesn't change, but something in the air shifts. "Sit down," Mara says quietly. "And order me a drink." Sunoo signals the bartender. Another glass of amber liquid appears. Mara takes a long sip before speaking. "Tristitia," she says. "You don't ask easy questions, do you?"

"I wouldn't be here if I did."

Mara's golden eyes study you again, more intently this time. "Why do you want to know about the Sorrow?"

"I'm looking for a witch," you say. "One who serves Tristitia. She killed someone important to me."

"Who?"

"Someone I can't name."

Mara is silent for a moment. Then she shakes her head slowly. "I can't help you."

"Why not?"

"Because the Tristitia coven isn't like other covens. They don't operate in the open. They don't trade with other witches. They don't even acknowledge the rest of us exist." She takes another sip of her drink. "Most covens have structure. Hierarchy. Rules. The Tristitia witches are... something else. They answer only to the Sorrow itself, and the Sorrow doesn't share its secrets."

"So you know nothing?"

"I know they exist. I know they're dangerous. I know that anyone who makes a deal with Tristitia ends up dead or wishing they were." She sets her glass down. "That's all anyone knows. The Tristitia coven is a mystery, and it's a mystery that kills people who try to solve it."

You exchange a glance with Sunoo. His expression is unreadable, but you can see the tension in his jaw. "There has to be something," you press. "Any rumor. Any lead. Anything."

Mara considers you for a long moment. Then she leans forward, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "There's a place in the Wraithwood. Deep in the forest, some say the Tristitia witches gather there, but no one who's gone looking has ever come back." She sits back. "That's all I have. And frankly, I'm risking my life just telling you that much."

"Why?"

"Because the Sorrow doesn't like being discussed. And the Sorrow's servants don't like people asking questions." She finishes her drink in one long swallow. "My advice? Let it go. Whatever revenge you're looking for, it's not worth what you'll find."

You want to argue. You want to demand more. But Sunoo puts his hand on your arm, a gentle warning. "Thank you, Mara," he says. "We appreciate the information."

"Don't thank me. I didn't give you anything useful." She stands, pulling her hood up over her dark hair. "Be careful, Sunoo. I'd hate to hear you got yourself killed."

"I'm always careful."

"No, you're not. You're just good at surviving anyway." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her golden eyes. "Take care of yourself. And your friend."

She leaves. The door groans shut behind her. The bar resumes its low murmur, the other patrons returning to their drinks and their card games as if nothing happened.

"Well," Sunoo says, "that was unhelpful."

"She seemed scared."

"She was. Mara doesn't scare easily." He stares at his glass for a moment. "The Tristitia coven is even more secretive than I thought. This is going to be harder than I expected."

You watch him. His usual playful mask has slipped, and underneath it you can see something else. Frustration. Worry. Maybe even fear.

"Why do you care so much?" you ask quietly. "About finding this witch?"

He doesn't answer right away. When he does, his voice is softer than you've ever heard it. "Because she killed my best friend. And I couldn't stop it."

"Is that the only reason?"

He looks at you. "What other reason would there be?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."

A long pause. Then Sunoo's mask slides back into place, and he smiles, bright and charming and completely fake. "We came all the way to Malachar," he says. "We might as well enjoy ourselves while we're here. Drink up. The night is young."

An hour later, you're both slightly tipsy. The amber liquid is stronger than you thought. Your limbs feel loose. Sunoo has abandoned his careful composure and is sprawled in his chair, laughing at something you said that wasn't even that funny.

"You're a terrible liar," he says, pointing at you. "Terrible. The worst. You couldn't lie to a rock."

"Rocks can't hear."

"That's how bad you are. You couldn't even lie to something that can't perceive lies."

"I lied to Professor Vex."

"You lied to Professor Vex with a script I wrote for you. That doesn't count."

You laugh. It feels good to laugh. The past two days have been so strange and terrifying that you'd almost forgotten what it felt like.

"Sometimes I think you're not telling me everything," you say.

"I'm not telling you everything. I've been very upfront about that."

"That's not comforting."

"It wasn't meant to be comforting. It was meant to be honest."

You drain the last of your drink. "I don't understand you," you say. "You found a dead body. You stopped time. You recruited a stranger from another universe. You're risking everything to find a witch who might be impossible to find. And you're doing it all with a smile on your face like none of it bothers you."

"It bothers me."

"It doesn't look like it bothers you."

"That's the point." He takes a sip of his drink. "I'm an incubus. We're not supposed to be bothered by things. We're supposed to be charming and carefree and shallow. That's what people expect. That's what people want."

"But it's not who you are."

He doesn't answer. "We should go back," he says. "It's late."

"Okay," you say. "Let's go back."

He pays the bartender with coins. Then he takes your hand and presses the teleportation stone into your palm, and the world dissolves.

Back in Sunoo's dorm room, he collapses onto his bed with a groan. He looks exhausted, not just physically, but something deeper. His skin is paler than usual. His eyes has dimmed.

"Are you okay?" you ask.

"I'm fine. Just... drained."

"Drained how?"

He hesitates. "Incubi need to feed. Emotional energy, physical intimacy. It's been a few days since I've-" He gestures vaguely. "It catches up with me."

"Is that why you look like death?"

"Thank you for that charming description." He pushes himself up on his elbows. "I'll be fine. I just need to find someone. There are usually willing partners in Goat Hall at this hour."

He starts to get up, but you reach out and catch his arm. "Wait." He looks at you. His expression is wary. "You've been helping me all day," you say. "You've been covering for me and teaching me and dragging me across the city to talk to witches. You're exhausted because of me."

"It's not because of-"

"It is. And I haven't done anything to help you." You take a breath. "So let me help you now."

The words hang in the air. Sunoo's eyes widen slightly. "Y/N..."

"I know what I'm offering. I'm not drunk. Well, I'm a little drunk. But I'm not so drunk I don't know what I'm saying." You meet his eyes. "You need to feed. I'm willing. It's the least I can do after everything."

"You don't have to-"

"I know I don't have to. I'm offering." You're blushing again. Your face is definitely on fire. But you don't look away. "The old Y/N did it, right? You said you had an arrangement. So it's not weird. It's not out of character. And you need it."

Sunoo stares at you. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Then he laughs, a real laugh, surprised and slightly incredulous. "You're something else," he says. "You know that?"

"I've been told."

He sits up fully. His expression is still tired, but there's warmth in it now. "Are you sure?"

"Do I look unsure?"

He considers this. Then he reaches out and cups your face with his hand. His palm is warm. "Tell me to stop," he says quietly, "and I'll stop. At any point. For any reason. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"I mean it. I don't care if we're in the middle of-"

"I understand, Sunoo."

He looks at you for another long moment. Then he leans in, and his lips meet yours. The kiss deepens, growing hungrier with each passing second. Sunoo's lips move against yours with practiced expertise, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth before slipping inside. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer until there's no space between your bodies.

When he finally breaks the kiss, both of you are breathing heavily. His eyes, now glowing with renewed energy, lock with yours. "Last chance to back out," he murmurs, though his hands are already sliding under your shirt.

You shake your head, reaching for the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head. "I'm not going anywhere."

A genuine smile spreads across Sunoo's face as he watches you undress. His own shirt follows, revealing his torso. As he removes his pants, your eyes catch something unusual, a dark, intricate mark on his lower belly, just above his waistline. It looks like a tattoo of swirling patterns that almost seem to move in the dim light.

"That's..." you start, but words fail you.

"The incubus mark," he finishes, noticing where you're looking. "It glows when I'm... well, you'll see."

Before you can respond, he gently pushes you back onto the bed. The mattress dips under your combined weight as he follows, hovering over you. His fingers deftly unhook your bra, tossing it aside before his mouth finds your breast.

Sunoo's lips close around your nipple, his tongue swirling in patterns that make you arch against him. One hand cups your other breast, thumb rubbing circles around the hardened peak while his free hand slides down your stomach, hooking into the waistband of your panties. He doesn't remove them immediately. Instead, his fingers dip beneath the fabric, tracing patterns on your skin that send shivers through your body. You can feel his smile against your breast as he feels your reaction.

"Sensitive," he murmurs against your skin before shifting his attention to your other breast.

When he finally slides your panties down, you're already wet with anticipation. His fingers part your folds, exploring with a familiarity that surprises you. Sunoo's fingers are skilled, moving with a precision that speaks of centuries of practice. He finds your clit immediately, circling it with just the right pressure to make your hips buck. Then he's sliding lower, collecting your wetness on his fingertips before returning to your sensitive bundle of nerves.

"You're so responsive," he whispers, his voice husky with renewed energy. "I can feel your emotions, your pleasure. It's... intoxicating."

As if to demonstrate, he increases the pressure slightly, and you gasp as a wave of pleasure washes over you. His mark begins to emit a soft purple glow, pulsing in time with his movements. "I want to hear you moan," he says, looking up at you with darkening eyes. "Your sounds... they feed me as much as your touch."

His words send another jolt through you, and you can't help but moan as he slides a finger inside you, then another. His thumb continues to work your clit as his fingers curl inside, finding that spot that makes you roll your eyes.

"That's it," he encourages, his own breathing growing heavier. "Let me hear you."

The magic is unmistakable now, each touch seems amplified, each sensation more intense than you've ever experienced. Sunoo shifts, turning you onto your side. He positions himself behind you, one arm wrapped around your waist to keep you close as he enters you with a smooth, practiced motion. The angle is new to you, hitting spots inside you that you didn't know existed.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice strained with restraint.

"More than okay," you manage to gasp out.

He begins to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that has you moaning continuously now. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through your body, building steadily toward something you've never experienced before. You can feel his mark growing hotter against your lower back, the purple glow intensifying.

"Sunoo..." you moan, reaching back to tangle your fingers in his hair.

He responds with a particularly deep thrust that makes you cry out. His own sounds join yours now, soft whimpers and moans that vibrate against your back. The closer he gets to his own release, the more his mark glows, bathing the room in an ethereal purple light. You've never enjoyed sex like this before. Every nerve ending is alive, every touch electric. You're so wet you can hear it with each movement, the sounds mixing with your moans and his to create a symphony of pleasure.

"I'm close," Sunoo gasps, his movements becoming more erratic.

His hand slides down to your clit again, rubbing in time with his thrusts. That extra stimulation is all it takes to push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes over you with the force of a tidal wave, your body convulsing with pleasure as you cry out his name. Sunoo follows almost immediately, pulling out at the last second. You feel his warm release against your pussy and inner thighs as he moans your name, his mark flaring brightly before dimming slightly.

Before you can recover, he's shifting again, turning you onto your back and positioning himself between your legs. His eyes meet yours as he lowers his head.

"Sunoo, what-"

Your question cuts off in a gasp as his tongue laps at the mixture of your release and his on your skin. He's thorough, cleaning every drop with an enthusiasm that sends aftershocks of pleasure through your still-sensitive body. When he finally reaches your center, his tongue delves inside, and you arch off the bed. The pleasure is almost too much, too intense, but you don't want it to stop. You can feel him drawing energy from you, not just physical but emotional, the remnants of your pleasure, your contentment, your satisfaction.

With each pass of his tongue, you can see the color returning to his skin, the glow in his eyes brightening. His mark, once again dark, seems to pulse with renewed energy. Finally, when you're spent and trembling, he lifts his head. His face is flushed, his lips glistening, and he looks... healthy. Vital. The exhaustion that had plagued him earlier is gone, replaced by a vibrant energy that makes him seem almost otherworldly.

"Thank you," he says, his voice soft but strong now. "Are you okay for another round?"

You nod, still catching your breath. "Why am I still feeling hot though?"

"Incubi magic." He says with a small smile. 

You wake up sore.

Not the pleasant kind of sore that comes from a good workout. Not even the satisfying sore of muscles that have been productively used. This is the kind of sore that makes you question every life choice that led you to this moment. Your thighs ache. Your back protests when you try to move. Sunoo, the absolute menace, is already awake and looking disgustingly fresh. He's perched on the edge of his bed, his bed, which you are still in, because apparently you fell asleep here after last night's... activities, and he's scrolling through something on a thin crystal tablet that seems to function as this world's version of a smartphone.

"Good morning," he says cheerfully. "You look terrible."

"I feel terrible." You attempt to sit up and immediately regret it. "Oh my god. What did you do to me?"

"I did exactly what you asked me to do. Multiple times, if I recall correctly. You were very enthusiastic."

"Was I?"

"Incredibly. It was flattering, honestly. At one point you said-"

"Please don't finish that sentence."

"-something about my eyes being like honeyed starlight. It was very romantic. I didn't know you had it in you."

You grab a pillow and press it over your face. The pillow smells like him, something floral and slightly citrusy. "I was tipsy and under your incubi magic."

"You were two drinks in. That's not tipsy, that's barely buzzed. And my magic doesn’t make people poetic, it just makes them extra horny there’s a difference."

"I wish I was dead."

"That seems extreme." He plucks the pillow off your face. "Come on. We have classes in an hour. You need to shower, eat something, and figure out how to walk without limping."

"I'm not limping."

"You're definitely limping. I saw you try to stand earlier. It was pathetic."

You throw the pillow at him. He catches it without looking, which is infuriating. His reflexes are annoyingly good. Probably an incubus thing. Probably all the feeding he did last night, which, okay, you're not going to think about that. You're not going to think about any of it. You're going to shower and eat breakfast and pretend last night was a normal, reasonable thing that normal, reasonable people do.

Sunoo grins. It's the same grin he wore last night when he first kissed you, equal parts mischief and affection. "You're cute when you're flustered."

"I'm not flustered. I'm sore. There's a difference."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night." He stands and stretches, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of stomach that you absolutely do not look at. "Bathroom's through there. Use whatever products you want. I recommend the blue bottle for muscle aches. It's enchanted."

"Enchanted how?"

"It makes your muscles stop hating you. Very useful for mornings after."

You stare at him. "Do you have a lot of mornings after?"

"I'm an incubus who lives in the Lust dorm. What do you think?"

"I think I don't want to know."

"Probably wise." He tosses you a towel. "Go shower. I'll get breakfast. You're going to need your strength, we have Potiology today, and Professor Thornwood doubled your conditioning laps."

"He what?"

"I may have mentioned that you were eager to improve your stamina. He was impressed by your dedication."

"Sunoo."

"Yes?"

"I'm going to kill you."

"That's the spirit. Channel that anger. Maybe it'll trigger your Ira affinity."

You throw the pillow at him again. He dodges again. You limp to the bathroom and slam the door.

The shower helps. The enchanted blue bottle helps more. By the time you're dressed and fed and walking (mostly) normally, you've been staring at Sunoo like he murdered your ancestors. 

"Why do you keep making that face?" Sunoo asks as you walk toward the Verity Palace.

"What face?"

"That scrunched-up thinking face."

"I don't have a scrunched-up thinking face."

"You absolutely do. It's very endearing."

"I'm not-" You take a breath. 

He pauses. "Are you sure you're fine?"

"I will throw you down these stairs."

"That's a no, then."

The first classes are doing strangely great for you. The break between Combat Training and Basic Hexes is when everything starts to go wrong.

You're sitting in the classroom, waiting for Professor Willowisp to arrive, when the door opens and a young man walks in. He's not the professor. He's a student, an elf, you can tell by the pointed ears and the faint luminescence of his skin. He's also, you notice, wearing the emblem of the snake on his collar. Vanagloria. Envy.

"Good afternoon," he says. His voice is smooth and pleasant and somehow makes you feel like you're being evaluated. "I'm here to collect the mid-term consent forms. Professor Willowisp asked me to handle the paperwork before class begins."

Consent forms. You have no idea what consent forms he's talking about. You have no idea if the old Y/N turned hers in. You have no idea what's happening at all. The other students are pulling papers from their bags. You sit frozen, your hands empty, your expression carefully blank.

The elf makes his way around the room, collecting forms from each student. When he reaches your desk, he pauses. "Y/N," he says. "Your form?"

"Right." You don't move. "The form."

"The mid-term consent form for practical hex application. It was due today."

"Of course. The form." You pat your bag, pretending to search for it. "I must have... forgotten it. In my room. The injury. Memory gaps."

The elf's eyes narrow slightly. "You forgot?"

"Temporarily. It'll come back."

"I see." He doesn't sound like he sees. He sounds like he's cataloging this information for future use. "I'll note the late submission. Professor Willowisp may deduct points."

"That's fine. Points are... fine."

He studies you for a moment longer. Then he smiles, a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and moves on to the next student. You don't realize you've been holding your breath until he's on the other side of the room.

When the elf finally leaves, papers in hand, Sunoo slides into the seat beside you. His expression is carefully neutral. "That was Jungwon," he says quietly. "Student representative. Head of every committee. Controls the flow of information in the Academy like a spider controls a web." Sunoo's voice is low. "And he's suspicious of you."

"I noticed."

"Jungwon doesn't forget things. If he thinks something's wrong with you, he'll dig until he finds out what it is."

"Great." You press your palms against your eyes. "Another person I have to worry about."

"Jungwon is different from Jake or Sunghoon. They care about you. Jungwon cares about leverage. If he figures out you're not the real Y/N, he won't keep it secret out of loyalty. He'll use it."

"So what do I do?"

"Avoid him. Don't give him anything to work with. And for the love of all seven deities, turn in your paperwork on time."

"I didn't know there was paperwork!"

"Now you do." Sunoo squeezes your shoulder. "It's fine. One late form isn't proof of interdimensional identity fraud. Just be more careful."

Potheology is your first class without Sunoo. It takes place in the greenhouse. Sunoo isn't in this class. He's across campus in Advanced Luxuria Theory, which is apparently restricted to incubi and succubi for reasons you don't want to think about. You're on your own for this one. No safety net. No whispered instructions. No one to cover for you if you mess up.

You take a seat near the back, hoping to blend in. 

Then Jake walks in. He spots you immediately. His face lights up. "Y/N! You're in this class?"

"Apparently."

"I didn't know you took Potheology. I thought you said potions were beneath you."

The old Y/N said potions were beneath her. Because of course she did. "I changed my mind. The injury. It's given me a new perspective."

Jake's expression softens. "I'm glad. It's nice to have you here." He takes the seat next to you, dropping his bag on the floor. "Fair warning, today's lesson is on aphrodisiacs. Professor Nightshade thinks they're medicinally significant but really she just likes making students uncomfortable."

"Wonderful."

Professor Nightshade enters before Jake can elaborate. She surveys the class with the expression of someone who has seen everything and been disappointed by most of it.

"Aphrodisiacs," she announces without preamble. "Contrary to popular belief, they are not recreational substances. They are medically significant compounds used to treat a variety of conditions, including emotional trauma, sensory deprivation, and certain types of magical damage. Today you will learn to brew a basic desire tincture. The instructions are on your desks. Begin."

You look at the instructions on your desk. Moonbloom petals. Siren's tear essence. Crushed firepearl. Powdered duskwing moth. You have no idea what any of these things are.

"Need help?" Jake asks.

"No," you say automatically. Then, because you're trying to be better at accepting help: "Actually, yes. The injury. I'm having trouble remembering the... ingredient properties."

Jake's face softens even further. "Of course. Here, let me show you."

He walks you through the brewing process step by step. "The key is the proportions," Jake explains, his hands steady as he measures ingredients. "Too much moonbloom and it's basically a love potion. Too much firepearl and it's just... spicy. You want balance."

"Right. Balance."

"You're doing Great."

You're not doing great. Your tincture is a muddy brown color while Jake's is a shimmering rose gold. But you're following instructions and not actively setting anything on fire, which feels like a victory. By the end of class, you've produced something that might technically qualify as an aphrodisiac. It's lumpy and it smells slightly burnt, but Professor Nightshade passes by your station with only a raised eyebrow and a muttered "acceptable."

"See?" Jake says, beaming. "Told you you could do it."

"Thanks to you."

"That's what friends are for." He packs up his supplies while you do the same. "Hey, do you want to study together later? I know you've been spending a lot of time with Sunoo since you got back, but I thought maybe we could-"

"Actually, I'm going to the library after this. Sunoo said I should catch up on magical theory."

"Oh." Jake's face falls slightly. "Okay. Maybe another time?"

"Definitely."

He brightens. "Great! I'll hold you to that."

You feel a twinge of guilt as he leaves.

The Delictum Academy library is, as Sunoo mentioned during your tour, a multi-story cathedral of books with shelves that rearrange themselves when you're not looking. You find a seat in a quiet corner and pull out the list Sunoo gave you. Magical Theory for Beginners. A History of Sin Magic. It's a lot of reading. It's more reading than you've done in your entire college career combined.

But you need to understand this world. You can't keep faking your way through classes forever. Eventually, someone is going to ask you a question you can't deflect, and you need to have an answer ready. You start with A History of Sin Magic, Volume I. By the time you finish the third chapter, your eyes are starting to glaze over. You need a break. You need to stretch your legs. You need to-

You need to find information about Tristitia.

It's been lurking in the back of your mind all day, ever since last night's meeting with Mara. The Tristitia coven is a mystery. No one knows anything about them. But this is a library. Libraries have information. Libraries have records. Maybe there's something here that no one's thought to look for.

You glance around the reading room. The other students are absorbed in their own work. The librarians are busy at the front desk. No one is watching you.

You stand up, leaving your books on the table, and slip between the shelves. Tristitia is something else, a deity outside the sanctioned system, forbidden and dangerous. If there's information about it, it wouldn't be in the main sections. It would be in the restricted area.

You find the iron gate Sunoo pointed out during your tour. It's at the back of the library, tucked behind a row of shelves that seem to have been deliberately arranged to obscure it. You try the gate. It's locked.

Of course it's locked. You didn't expect it to be unlocked. But you also didn't come all the way here just to give up at the first obstacle. There has to be another way in. A side door. A gap in the wards. Something.

You circle the perimeter of the restricted section, looking for weaknesses. And then you see it. A gap in the shelves. Not a door, exactly, but a space where two shelf units don't quite meet. It's narrow, barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through and it's partially hidden by a tapestry. You check your surroundings. Still no one watching. Still no one paying attention.

You slip through the gap.

The restricted section is darker than the main library. You move carefully between the shelves, reading the labels. None of them mention Tristitia by name. None of them even hint at the Sorrow. You spend what feels like an hour searching. But nothing specifically about Tristitia. Nothing about its coven. Mara was right. The Tristitia coven is a mystery, and it's a mystery that doesn't want to be solved.

Frustrated, you slip back through the gap and return to your table. You came to this library hoping for answers, and all you found was more questions.

"Y/N!"

You look up. Jake is hurrying toward your table, something clutched in his hand. "Hey," you say, closing your book. "What are you doing here?"

"You left this in the greenhouse." He holds up the vial of your lumpy aphrodisiac. "I thought you might want it. Professor Nightshade said it was acceptable, which is basically an A in her class."

"Oh. Thanks." You take the vial from him. It's still warm from the greenhouse. "You didn't have to track me down for this."

"I wanted to." He grins. "Also, I was hoping to convince you to take a study break. You've been in here for hours. Your brain needs rest."

"My brain is fine."

"Your brain is going to turn to mush if you keep reading magical theory without breaks. Trust me. I've seen it happen."

"That's not a real thing."

"It's absolutely a real thing. Last year, a fifth-year tried to read the entire Terullian Principles in one sitting and his brain literally liquefied. They had to call a healer."

"You're making that up."

"Maybe. But do you want to risk it?"

You laugh despite yourself. Jake has a way of making everything feel lighter. Less serious. He's the opposite of Sunoo's calculated charm, he's just genuinely, effortlessly warm.

"Fine," you say. "A short break."

"Yes!" He pumps his fist. "Okay, so there's this spot in the greenhouse I want to show you. There's a plant that only blooms during the false dawn, and if you time it right, you can see-"

He's gesturing enthusiastically as he talks, his hands moving in wide arcs. One of those arcs catches the aphrodisiac vial, still balanced precariously on the edge of the table.

Time slows down. You see the vial tip. You see Jake's face shift from excitement to horror. You see his hand reach out, too late, as the vial tumbles off the table and hits the floor.

It shatters. The liquid inside, your lumpy, "acceptable" aphrodisiac spreads across the stone floor in a shimmering puddle. And the smell that rises from it is... intense. Floral and spicy and something else, something that makes your head swim and your skin prickle.

"Oh no," Jake breathes.

"What?"

"That's the aphrodisiac. The concentrated aphrodisiac. And we just-" He gestures at the puddle, then at the two of you, standing directly over it. "-inhaled a lot of it."

"How much is a lot?"

"I don't know. I've never-" He swallows. "Do you feel anything?"

You open your mouth to say no, of course not, you feel fine. But the words don't come out. Because you're suddenly very aware of the fact that you don't feel fine. You feel warm. Too warm. Your skin is tingling, and your heart is beating faster than it should be, and when you look at Jake, really look at him, you notice things you didn't notice before. The way his hair curls slightly at the ends. The way his eyes catch the light. The way his uniform fits across his shoulders.

This is bad.

"I feel something," you admit.

"Me too." Jake's voice is slightly higher than usual. "Okay. Okay, this is fine. Aphrodisiacs are temporary. The effects wear off. We just need to-"

He's interrupted by voices. Loud voices, coming from the direction of the library entrance.

"-absolutely unacceptable. The restricted section has been accessed without authorization."

"I'm aware, Headmaster. We're investigating."

Professors. Multiple professors. And they're heading this way. If they find you here, standing over a shattered aphrodisiac vial, clearly affected, alone together-

"We need to hide," Jake hisses.

"Where?"

"I don't know! Somewhere!"

He grabs your arm and pulls you between the shelves. The voices are getting closer. You can hear footsteps now, heavy and purposeful. The professors are searching the library, and they're going to find you if you don't find cover immediately.

Jake's eyes dart around wildly. Then they land on something, a panel in the wall, barely visible, half-hidden behind a bookshelf. "There!" He pushes against the panel, and it swings open to reveal a small, dark compartment. "In here!"

There's no time to argue. No time to think. You dive into the compartment, and Jake dives in after you, and the panel swings shut behind you just as the professors round the corner. The compartment is tiny. Cramped. It was clearly designed for storage, not for people. There's barely enough room for one person, let alone two people to hide.

You and Jake are pressed together in the darkness, your bodies flush against each other. It takes you a moment to realize what position you've ended up in. Your head is down near his legs. Your rear end is... somewhere near his face.

"Is your-" Jake's voice comes out strangled. "Is your- are you-"

"What?"

"Your... ass. It's on my face."

You close your eyes. You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time and never come to this library, never brew this aphrodisiac, never agree to hide in this horrible, tiny compartment.

"I'm aware," you manage.

"Okay. Okay, that's- that's fine. This is fine. Everything is fine."

"Stop saying everything is fine."

"I can't. If I stop saying it, I'll start screaming."

The voices are right outside now. You can hear them clearly through the thin wall of the compartment. "-no sign of the intruder. The restricted section appears undisturbed."

"Keep searching. The wards were triggered. Someone was here."

You hold your breath. Jake holds his breath.The aphrodisiac is definitely still burning. You can feel it. Every point of contact between your body and Jake's is electric, heightened, overwhelming. The warmth of his chest. The press of his hands on your hips, trying to steady you. And from the way his breathing keeps catching, from the way his fingers are gripping your hips a little too tightly, you're pretty sure he's feeling it too.

"This is bad," you whisper.

"Very bad," he agrees.

"The aphrodisiac-"

"I know."

"It's making me-"

"I know. Me too."

You both fall silent. The professors are still outside, their footsteps heavy on the stone floor. The compartment is still dark, still cramped, still unbearably warm. And the aphrodisiac is still working its way through your bloodstream, turning every accidental touch into something more. Jake shifts slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position. You bite your lip to keep from making a sound.

"Sorry," he breathes.

"It's fine."

"It's not fine. Nothing about this is fine." A pause. "Can I just say, for the record, that this is not how I imagined my evening going?"

"You imagined your evening?"

"I imagined a lot of things. None of them involved hiding in a closet with my childhood best friend's ass on my face."

"Can we stop talking about my ass?"

"I would love to stop talking about it. Unfortunately, it's very present."

You would laugh if you weren't so mortified. You would cry if you weren't so pent up. The aphrodisiac is reaching its peak, you can tell, the warmth is spreading through your entire body now, pooling low in your stomach, making your thoughts hazy and your skin hypersensitive. And Jake is right there. His body warm and solid and smelling like honey and vanilla and something else, something that the aphrodisiac is making you notice far too intensely.

"Y/N," Jake says. His voice is strained. "We might have a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"The kind of problem that is... physically manifesting."

It takes you a moment to understand what he means. When you do, your face burns so hot you're surprised the compartment doesn't catch fire.

"Oh," you say.

"Yeah."

"That's- that's the aphrodisiac."

"I know."

"It's not- you're not-"

"I know. But my body doesn't know. My body thinks-" He cuts himself off with a strangled sound. "Can you please stop shifting?"

"I'm not shifting!"

"You're shifting! Every time you move, your-"

The compartment door rattles. You both freeze.

"Is someone in there?" a voice calls out. One of the professors. Right outside. Right there.

You don't breathe. He doesn't breathe. The compartment is silent, and dark, and so hot that you're both sweating, and the aphrodisiac is still pulsing through your veins, and this is quite possibly the worst moment of your entire life.

The footsteps move away. The voices fade. "Must have been a false alarm. The old wards are too sensitive."

"We'll check again in the morning." The footsteps retreat. The library falls silent.

You don't move. Jake doesn't move. The two of you stay frozen in the darkness, pressed together, hearts racing, the remnants of the aphrodisiac still singing through your blood.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Jake speaks. "We should probably-"

"Yeah."

"Wait until we're sure they're gone."

"Yeah."

The silence stretches, thick and heavy in the darkness. You can still hear some faint voices.

"We should..." Jake starts, his voice a strained whisper. "We should try to stay still. Control our breathing. It'll pass faster if we don't... feed it."

You nod. Control. That's a good idea. A rational idea. You try to focus on your breath, pulling in slow, steady inhales and pushing them out. But every time you breathe in, you fill your lungs with Jake's scent, all amplified by the potion into something intoxicating, something that makes your mouth water. The heat inside you isn't fading. It's building. It pools in your stomach, a low, heavy ache that spreads downwards, between your thighs. You can feel a dampness gathering there, a slick warmth that has nothing to do with sweat and everything to do with the man pressed against you.

Jake shifts, a tiny, aborted movement meant to create space, but it only makes things worse. His hips roll forward, just slightly, and the hard line of his erection drags against the right side of your face. A gasp tears from your throat before you can swallow it.

"Sorry," he grits out, his voice tight. "I'm sorry. I'm trying."

"I know," you whisper back, your own voice shaky. "Me too."

His hands are still on your hips, his fingers gripping you through the fabric of your uniform skirt. You can feel the heat of them even through the layers of cloth. You want him to move them. You want him to take them away. You want him to slide them under your skirt and press them directly against your skin. The thought is so shocking, so potent, that it makes you dizzy. You're not supposed to be thinking about his hands on your bare skin. 

You feel one of his hands move. It slides slowly, tentatively, from your hip to the hem of your skirt. His knuckles brush against the back of your thigh, and you shudder, a full-body tremor that you can't control.

"Y/N," he breathes, his voice right next to your ear, a puff of hot air that makes you clench. "I can’t hold back anymore."

You don't say anything. Screw your inhibition. You just press back against him, a silent, involuntary plea. He takes it as permission. His fingers hook under the waistband of your tights. He pauses for a second, giving you one last chance to refuse. You don't. You hold your breath, your entire body tensed in anticipation. Slowly, carefully, he peels the tights down, followed by your underwear. The fabric whispers down your legs, bunching around your knees. The cool air of the compartment hits your heated flesh, and you gasp.

"Jake," you whisper, his name a ragged sound. "What are you-"

And then you feel something else. It's the wet, heat of his tongue, tracing a slow, deliberate line up your inner thigh. You bite down hard on your lip to keep from crying out. The sensation is overwhelming, a jolt of pure pleasure that shoots straight to your core. He does it again, on the other thigh, his movements slow and unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world. His thumbs part your folds, exposing you completely to him. And then his mouth is on you.

Not a tentative lick, but a firm, confident press of his lips against your most sensitive spot. A choked moan escapes your lips.

"Quiet," he whispers against you, the vibration of his voice sending another shockwave through you. "We have to be quiet."

You nod frantically, trying to focus, to muffle the sounds he's pulling from you, but it's impossible. He starts to move his tongue, and all rational thought dissolves. He's not rushing. He's exploring. He licks around your clit, tracing the shape of it. He dips down, gathering your wetness on his tongue before circling your entrance, teasing you with shallow thrusts that make you buck back against him. The aphrodisiac is amplifying everything, turning every flick of his tongue into a bolt of lightning, every slow lap into a wave of fire.

He builds a rhythm, a slow, maddening tempo that has you climbing higher and higher. He alternates between broad, flat strokes that cover your entire core and sharp, precise flicks of his tongue directly on your clit. It's too much and not enough. You can feel the pressure coiling in your stomach.

You're lost in it. Your mind is blank, filled only with the feeling of his mouth on you, his hands on your hips, the scent of his skin. And then, through the haze of pleasure, a new thought surfaces. Your own hands begin to move. You fumble in the darkness, your fingers searching for the button of his trousers. You find it, your knuckles brushing against the hard length straining against the fabric. He groans against you, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through your entire body.

Your fingers are clumsy, shaking with a combination of the aphrodisiac and your own rising desire. You manage to undo the button. His erection springs free, hot and heavy in your hand. You wrap your fingers around him, and he hisses, his hips jerking forward. You stroke him once, twice. A bead of moisture gathers at the tip, and you swipe at it with your thumb. He shudders.

You shift your position slightly, Until you can take him into your mouth. The taste is clean and salty. You hollow your cheeks, sucking gently, and he rewards you with another groan, the sound muffled against your skin. This is it. This is the breaking point. You're pleasuring him while he pleasures you, a tangle of limbs and mouths in the suffocating darkness. Every time he flicks his tongue, you tighten your grip on him. Every time you take him deeper into your mouth, his own movements become more frantic.

You have to swallow your moans, muffle your cries against his skin. He has to muffle his groans against you. The sounds you do make are choked, breathless, desperate. The pressure inside you is almost unbearable now. You're so close. You can feel the orgasm building. Jake seems to sense it too. He focuses his attention, his tongue working faster, harder, with a devastating precision. He slides one hand from your hip, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight, circles as his tongue continues its assault. That's all it takes. The wave breaks and your orgasm crashes over. 

This is bad. Really really bad.

This was the nth time. The nth damn time since you’d moved in six months ago. With a sharp exhale, you shoved your chair back and stormed out of your apartment, not even bothering to change out of your oversized hoodie and sweatpants. The hallway reeked of spilled beer and expensive cologne.

You could already hear the chaos before you even reached his door. Laughter, glasses clinking, some girl’s high pitched giggle cutting through the music.

You banged on the door harder than necessary. It took a few seconds before someone inside yelled over the noise, “Yoo Heeseung! Someone’s banging at your front door!”The door finally swung open.

Heeseung stood there in all his infuriating glory tall, broad shouldered, black hair slightly tousled like he’d been running his hands through it. His button up was half undone, revealing a silver chain that rested on his collarbones and a glimpse of toned chest. Behind him, the party pulsed with red solo cups, dim lights, and at least half the basketball team.

A pretty girl with long hair and a tight dress was pressed close to his side, her hand resting possessively on his arm. He’d clearly been in the middle of charming her into his bed by the end of the night.

The second his dark eyes landed on you, that signature cocky smirk curved his lips.“Hi, miss morals,” he drawled, voice low and teasing, like he’d been waiting for this exact interruption.

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. “Can you turn it down? The music is too loud.”

Heeseung didn’t move. Instead, he leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms in a way that made his biceps strain against the fabric of his shirt. The girl behind him shifted, clearly annoyed at the sudden attention shift, but Heeseung didn’t spare her a glance now.

“Miss morals strikes again,” he laughed, the sound rich and mocking. It sent an unwelcome spark of irritation down your spine. “What’s the problem this time, neighbor? Come to bless us with your righteous presence?”

“I’m serious, Heeseung,” you said, voice sharp as you folded your arms tightly across your chest. “Not everyone has the pleasure of partying all night. Others have to actually study to pass their exams whereas others can just have daddy pay for everything when they fuck up.”The words hung in the air between you.

Heeseung’s smirk faltered instantly. His jaw tightened, and he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. For a split second, something raw annoyance, maybe even hurt flashed across his face before he quickly shoved it back into that indifferent mask. His eyes darkened, the playful glint gone.

“Whatever,” he muttered, voice suddenly flat and cold. “I’ll lower the volume.”He said, “Thank you,” you replied curtly, refusing to let the small victory show on your face even though your heart was hammering.

Heeseung didn’t say anything else. He simply stepped back and shut the door right in your face with a firm click that echoed down the empty hallway.

You stood there for a moment, staring at the closed wooden door, fists clenched at your sides. The music inside dropped almost immediately, not completely off, but low enough that you could finally breathe. Muffled laughter and voices still filtered through, but at least your walls wouldn’t shake anymore.

“Asshole,” you whispered under your breath, turning on your heel and heading back to your apartment.As you closed your own door behind you, you leaned against it for a second, eyes closed. Why did he always have to make everything so difficult? Why did one look from him always manage to crawl under your skin like this?

You shook your head, forcing the thoughts away. Back to studying. Back to pretending Lee Heeseung didn’t exist. But deep down, you already knew tonight’s silence between you two had just gotten a little louder.

You were halfway through rewriting your notes when your phone buzzed on the desk, the screen lighting up with a new message.

yunjin : you know sunghoon righttt? he’s throwing a massive party after midterms and he personally invited me. pleeease come with me?? i don’t wanna go alone 🥺

You stared at the text, already feeling the familiar dread settle in your stomach. Another party of course. You typed back quickly

you : No thanks im good have fun tho

The two dots appeared immediately.

yunjin : babe come onnnn

yunjin : it’s after midterms!! you deserve to relax

yunjin : sunghoon’s parties are actually fun i swear

yunjin : there’ll be good music, free drinks, and i heard the basketball team is coming too 👀

You groaned, rubbing your temples. The last thing you wanted was to be anywhere near the basketball team especially not after tonight’s lovely encounter with their captain.

you : exactly why I’m not going pass

yunjin : please please please i really like sunghoon and this could be my chance

yunjin : i’ll owe you big time i’ll even help you study for the next round of exams i’ll buy you that expensive matcha you like for a month!!

You leaned back in your chair, biting your lip. Yunjin was relentless when she wanted something. And honestly she had been there for you through every late night breakdown this semester. Saying no felt a little cruel the pleading texts kept coming

yunjin : i won’t leave your side the whole night ( she is lying )

yunjin : we can leave early if you hate it , pretty please with cherries on top?? 🥺🍒

You sighed deeply, already knowing you were about to lose this battle.

you : fine, ONE HOUR that’s it if it sucks, we’re out.

yunjin : YESSSSS!!! you’re the best i love you so much

yunjin : we can dress up together at my place okay , see you tomorrow <33

You tossed your phone onto the desk and dropped your head into your hands. Great, just what you needed. Another night surrounded by loud music, drunk athletes, and the very real possibility of running into the Lee Heeseung again.

You glanced at the wall that separated your apartment from his. The music was still playing faintly, but at least it was bearable now. Just one party, you could survive one party right?

The next morning, the art history lecture hall was already filling up with the usual mix of sleepy students and last minute crammers when you slipped into your regular seat in the middle row.

The faint scent of fresh coffee and old books lingered in the air. Yunjin dropped dramatically into the chair on your right, her long hair still slightly damp from her morning shower, eyes bright with far too much excitement for a 9 am class.

On your left, Soobin settled in quietly, tall frame folding gracefully into the seat. He placed his neatly organized notebook on the desk and pulled out a perfectly sharpened pencil, offering you a soft, reassuring smile.

Soobin was always like this calm, steady, the kind of friend who showed up without making a fuss. He was the complete opposite of the loud, chaotic energy that seemed to follow Heeseung everywhere.

Yunjin, however, was already completely distracted. She was leaning forward, chin resting on her hand, openly staring toward the front rows where Sunghoon sat chatting with a couple of friends. Her gaze was soft and dreamy, a tiny smile tugging at her lips every time he laughed at something.

You nudged her arm with your elbow, voice low and teasing. “You’re oogling him again it’s getting embarrassing at this point.”Yunjin didn’t even pretend to deny it. “I’m not oogling, im appreciating art,” she whispered back, still not tearing her eyes away. “Look at him he’s literally perfect.”

Soobin let out a quiet chuckle beside you, shaking his head as he flipped open his notebook. “Sure ‘appreciating’ that’s why half your notes from last week were just little hearts around his name.” He teased her, to which she replied,

“Traitor,” Yunjin hissed playfully, finally glancing at both of you as her cheeks flushed pink. “You two are supposed to be on my side.”The light banter continued until Soobin turned to you, lowering his voice a little. “Hey, I heard there was a party at Heeseung’s last night, did you survive the noise?”

You let out a long, dramatic groan and slumped back in your seat, the memory of last night’s confrontation still fresh and irritating. “Barely. That idiot had the music blasting so loud my textbooks were literally vibrating on the desk. I had to march over there in my hoodie and sweatpants like some angry neighbor from a sitcom again.”

Soobin listened attentively, his expression patient and sympathetic. He never interrupted your rants or told you to just ignore it. He just nodded along, dark eyes focused on you, making you feel genuinely heard.

It was one of the many reasons you treasured his friendship he was thoughtful, kind, and never loud or arrogant for the sake of it. The polar opposite of Heeseung.

“And of course he answered the door half dressed with some girl hanging off his arm like a trophy,” you continued, voice dripping with annoyance. “Called me ‘miss morals’ like it’s the funniest joke in the world.

Then when I pointed out that not everyone has a rich daddy to bail them out when they party instead of studying, he got all pissy, sucked in this dramatic breath, and slammed the door right in my face. He’s such an entitled asshole.”

Soobin hummed softly, a small frown creasing his brow. “That sounds exhausting, you should’ve texted me you know, i could’ve come over with snacks and we could’ve studied together instead of dealing with his nonsense alone.”

You smiled faintly at the offer, warmth cutting through the irritation. “Next time, maybe at least someone in this building has basic human decency.”

Yunjin finally tore her gaze away from Sunghoon long enough to grin at you. “Heeseung’s just bored and likes getting a rise out of you if you stopped reacting, he’d probably get bored and stop.”

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “You don’t have to live next door to the human equivalent of a walking migraine.”The professor walked in moments later, cutting off any further complaints.

The next hour passed in a blur of projected slides on Renaissance techniques, quiet note taking, and the occasional whispered comment from Yunjin whenever Sunghoon shifted in his seat.

When class finally ended, the three of you packed up your things and joined the stream of students flowing out into the crowded hallway. The air was filled with chatter about upcoming midterms, weekend plans, and the usual campus gossip.

As you walked side by side, Yunjin suddenly looped her arm through yours, her excitement bubbling over again. “So, about Sunghoon’s party after midterms you’re definitely coming, right? And Soobin you should come too! It’ll be so much more fun with all three of us there.”

Soobin blinked, surprised, his eyebrows raising slightly. “Wait you’re actually going?” He looked at you, genuinely shocked. “I thought you hated parties, especially ones thrown by the popular crowd.”

You shrugged, already regretting your decision a little. “Yunjin begged a lot and guilt tripped me with matcha promises. One hour max, if it sucks, I’m dragging her out.”

Yunjin squealed happily and squeezed your arm. “See? She’s coming! So you have to come too, Soobinn please?”Before Soobin could respond, a familiar voice cut through the hallway noise from behind you.

“Can’t imagine miss morals at a party but I’m looking forward to seeing you there.” Your stomach dropped, you didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was.

Heeseung was leaning casually against a set of lockers a few feet away, arms crossed over his varsity jacket, that signature cocky smirk playing on his lips. He must have overheard the entire conversation.

His dark eyes locked onto yours with clear amusement, like he lived for these moments of catching you off guard.

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a verbal response. Heat crept up your neck partly from annoyance, partly from the embarrassment of him hearing your plans.

Yunjin stifled a laugh beside you while Soobin just shook his head quietly, a small, amused smile tugging at his mouth.

Heeseung’s low chuckle followed you as the three of you kept walking, but you kept your gaze fixed straight ahead, jaw tight. God, you really, really hated that guy.Midterms week stretched into a brutal two week marathon, and as an art curator major, you felt every single hour of it in your bones.

Your apartment had become a war zone of curated chaos towering stacks of books on museum exhibition design, printed slides from Art Conservation and Curatorial Practices, mood boards pinned to the wall for your upcoming gallery proposal project, and color coded flashcards scattered across every surface.

Late nights blurred into early mornings as you hunched over your laptop, drafting proposals for hypothetical exhibits while trying to memorize the intricate history of 19th century European collections. Sleep was a distant dream. Caffeine was your only reliable companion.

And then there was Heeseung.

He didn’t blast music or bring girls over every single night that would have been almost predictable. No, he was crueler than that. He chose random days, like he knew exactly how to keep you off balance, turning your already exhausting study schedule into a minefield of unwanted interruptions.

The first time hit on the second night of midterms. You were deep into analyzing a case study on museum ethics when the wall behind your desk started to vibrate faintly. At first it was just low music.

Then came the giggles two distinct female voices, breathy and flirtatious. Heeseung’s deep laugh cut through it all, followed by the unmistakable sound of bodies moving against furniture.

“Fuck, Heeseung you’re so good at this,” one of the girls moaned loudly, the words carrying crystal clear through the thin shared wall. The headboard started thumping a slow, steady rhythm against your wall rhythmic, insistent, growing faster.

You could hear the wet slap of skin, her exaggerated gasps turning into full throated cries every time he thrust.You yanked your noise canceling headphones on so hard the band dug into your temples, cranking the volume until classical music drowned most of it out.

But you could still feel it, the steady bang bang bang vibrating through your desk, through your chair, through your skull. Your cheeks burned with secondhand embarrassment and pure rage.

'Of course he’s fucking some random girl while I’m trying to memorize the difference between Baroque and Rococo curation techniques.' You thought bitterly, stabbing your highlighter across the page. Must be nice to have zero responsibilities except basketball and dick appointments.

It stopped around 2 a.m., but the damage was done. You only managed three hours of sleep before your 8 a.m. lecture.

The next morning, you were running on pure spite and too much coffee when you caught Heeseung in the hallway just as he was stepping out of his apartment. He looked annoyingly fresh — hair still damp from a shower, varsity jacket slung over one shoulder, that perpetual cocky smirk already in place.

You stopped right in front of him, arms crossed tightly. “Keep it down next time,” you said flatly, voice low but sharp. “Some of us are actually trying to pass our midterms instead of auditioning for porn.”

Heeseung raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Aw, miss morals heard everything? Didn’t know you were such a light sleeper.” You glared at him, heat rising to your cheeks. “Just tone it down, the headboard banging is ridiculous.”

He chuckled lowly, the sound sending another spike of irritation through you. “Noted.” Then he leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “Though from the sounds of it last night, she seemed to enjoy the banging.”

You rolled your eyes and walked away without another word, his soft laugh following you down the hall.The next disruption came four days later. A random Thursday when you had a massive group project due on modern curatorial strategies.

You’d just settled in with your laptop open to a half finished exhibition proposal when his door slammed open down the hall. One girl this time, but she was even louder.

The moment they got inside, the sounds started again her high pitched whimpers, Heeseung’s low, cocky murmurs “Yeah? You like that? Tell me how much you want it” followed by the unmistakable wet sounds of them going at it on what sounded like his couch first, then migrating to the bed.

The headboard slammed against the wall so hard your framed print of Van Gogh’s Starry Night rattled. Her moans turned into broken sobs of pleasure, each one punctuated by Heeseung’s grunts and the filthy slap of bodies. “Harder fuck, right there, Heeseung don’t stop—”

You ended up studying in your bed instead, laptop balanced on your knees, pillows stacked around you like a fortress. Headphones on full blast. Still, every thrust made the wall tremble.

Every moan crawled under your skin and made focusing on your notes feel impossible. By the time they finally finished (or at least quieted down) around midnight, your eyes were burning and your proposal was only half done.

You hated how your body reacted sometimes not with attraction, but with pure, simmering resentment that made your stomach twist.That same night, after the noises finally stopped, you grabbed your phone in a fit of exhausted anger and texted him.

you : keep the noise down, some people are trying to study for actual grades, not coast on basketball talent and daddy’s money

His reply came faster than you expected. A picture popped up first. A close up selfie of Heeseung lying in bed, shirtless, messy hair, lazy smirk on his face, with the caption

heeseung : sorry, miss morals hard to stay quiet when they scream my name like that

heeseung : next time i’ll try to fuck quieter or maybe you can just join and tell me how to do it right?

You stared at the message, face flaming with a mix of rage and disbelief. You immediately blocked the image from your mind ( and definitely did not linger on the way his abs looked in the dim lighting ) before typing back a single furious reply

you : delete my number, asshole

The worst random night came during the final stretch, just three days before your last exams.

You were pulling an all nighter on your capstone project a full digital mock up of a contemporary art exhibit you’d spent weeks perfecting when the noises started again around 11 p.m. This time it was two girls.

Their laughter spilled into the hallway first, then straight through your wall. Heeseung’s voice was low and teasing, the kind of filthy charm that probably worked on every girl on campus.

Soon the bed was creaking loudly, headboard banging in a frantic rhythm while both girls moaned in tandem one breathy and high, the other deeper and more desperate.

“Heeseung oh god, yes fuck me like that—” mixed with wet, obscene sounds that left zero doubt about exactly what was happening next door. The wall vibrated so intensely your coffee mug slid an inch across the desk.

You sat there in your oversized hoodie and sweatpants, staring at your glowing screen, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Every moan, every dirty encouragement from Heeseung, every rhythmic thud felt like a personal attack on the one thing you actually cared about your future.

Your grades, your dream of curating real exhibitions someday. While I’m over here trying not to fail out of the only thing I’m good at, you thought, fingers flying angrily across the keyboard, he’s over there living his best life with a rotating cast of girls screaming his name.

You wore the headphones until your ears rang. You even tried white noise apps, earplugs underneath nothing fully blocked it. The sex noises went on for nearly two hours that night, loud and shameless, until they finally quieted around 1:30 a.m.

By the end of the two weeks, you were running on fumes dark circles under your eyes, caffeine shakes in your hands, and a permanent knot of irritation lodged in your chest whenever you passed his door.

The random nights had been spaced out just enough to feel like psychological warfare instead of constant chaos.Heeseung never once toned it down. Never once seemed to care that someone on the other side of the wall was actually trying to build a future that didn’t involve daddy’s money or NBA scouts.

When Friday morning finally arrived and your last exam was over, you dragged yourself back to the apartment building, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. The hallway was quiet for once. Heeseung’s door looked innocently closed.

You unlocked your own door, stepped inside, and immediately collapsed face first onto your bed, still in your clothes midterms were done.But the resentment toward the boy next door had only grown sharper and Sunghoon’s party was tonight. You groaned into your pillow one hour in and out. Just don’t kill Heeseung on sight.

You took the quickest shower of your life, and changed into the first comfortable outfit you could find—a simple black crop top that showed just a sliver of your midriff and your favorite pair of dark jeans—comfortable, practical, safe.

You texted Yunjin that you were ready to head over to her place to “get ready together,” secretly hoping she wouldn’t make a big deal out of your clothes—big mistake. Yunjin’s apartment was only two blocks away, and the second you stepped inside, she took one look at you and gasped like you had personally offended her.

“No no absolutely not,” she declared, hands on her hips, eyes scanning you up and down with pure horror. “You cannot go to Sunghoon’s party looking like that.”

You glanced down at yourself, confused. “What’s wrong with this? It’s cute it’s comfortable.”“Cute? Comfortable?” Yunjin repeated, already dragging you toward her bedroom like a woman on a mission.

“Babe, we’re going to a party, not the library. You just survived two weeks of hell tonight you’re supposed to look hot, not like you’re about to give a museum tour.”

Before you could protest, she flung open her closet and started pulling out clothes with frightening speed. She held up a black mini skirt dangerously short, made of soft leather like material and a sheer black button up shirt that was practically see through.

“Try these,” she ordered, shoving the hanger into your hands. You stared at the outfit like it might bite you. “Yunjin, no way, that skirt is barely legal and the shirt is see through i’m not wearing that.”

“Yes way, you are,” she sang, already pushing you toward the bathroom. “You agreed to come to the party that means you’re under my styling jurisdiction for tonight go change now”

You argued the entire time you were changing. “This is ridiculous! im going to freeze, people are going to stare i look like I’m trying way too hard—”

But Yunjin was relentless. The second you stepped out in the mini skirt and sheer shirt ( with a black bralette underneath so you weren’t completely exposed ), she clapped her hands and squealed.

“Oh my god, yes! Look at you!” She spun you around in front of her full length mirror. The skirt hugged your hips and ended high on your thighs, making your legs look longer.

The sheer shirt draped softly over your shoulders, the black bralette visible underneath in a way that was teasing but not outright scandalous. “You look insane like, dangerously hot.”

You tugged at the hem of the skirt, cheeks burning. “I feel naked. Can't I at least wear the jeans over this or something?”“No,” she said firmly, already sitting you down in front of her vanity. “We’re doing makeup now sit still.”

For the next twenty minutes, Yunjin worked her magic. Winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass, soft smoky eyes, a touch of highlighter on your cheekbones, and a bold red lip that made your mouth look fuller. She even styled your hair into loose, effortless waves that framed your face perfectly.

When she finally stepped back, she let out a satisfied sigh.“Anyone would worship the ground you walk on looking like this,” she said, grinning proudly. “Trust me tonight, you’re not the stressed out art curator girl who yells at her neighbor. You’re the girl who turns heads even Heeseung won’t know what to do with himself when he sees you.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small flutter of nerves mixed with reluctant confidence settled in your stomach as you looked at your reflection. The outfit was way bolder than anything you’d normally wear, but you had to admit it looked good.

“Fine,” you muttered, smoothing down the skirt one last time. “But if I hate it, we’re leaving early and if Heeseung says one word about ‘miss morals’ in this outfit, I’m pouring a drink on him.”Yunjin laughed and linked her arm with yours. “Deal now let’s go make Sunghoon’s party unforgettable.”

You and Yunjin barely made it out of her apartment before your phone buzzed with a text from Soobin saying he was already waiting downstairs. The three of you had agreed he would drive so none of you had to worry about getting home later.

The elevator ride down felt too short. Your heart was already beating a little faster than usual partly from the unfamiliar outfit, partly from the knowledge that you were actually going to a party after surviving two brutal weeks of midterms.

The black mini skirt kept riding up slightly with every step, and you kept tugging nervously at the hem while Yunjin wouldn’t stop complimenting how good you looked.

When you stepped out of the building into the cool evening air, Soobin’s car was parked right in front, engine idling. He was leaning casually against the driver’s side, scrolling through his phone, but the moment he looked up and saw the two of you approaching, his eyes widened noticeably.

Especially when they landed on you. Soobin froze for a second, his usual calm expression cracking into pure, genuine shock. His gaze traveled slowly from your loose waves and sharp winged eyeliner, down to the sheer black shirt that subtly revealed the black bralette underneath, then to the dangerously short leather like mini skirt that made your legs look endless.

He blinked once, twice, before quickly clearing his throat and straightening up, ears turning a light shade of pink.“Wow” he said, voice a little higher than his normal soft tone. “You both look really nice like, really nice.”

Yunjin grinned triumphantly, looping her arm through yours and squeezing. “See? Told you! Even Soobin is shook, she looks hot, right?”

You felt heat creep up your neck and quickly crossed your arms over your chest, suddenly hyper aware of how different you looked from your usual oversized hoodie and jeans self.

“It’s all Yunjin’s doing. She basically held me hostage in her room until I changed. I tried to wear my normal clothes and she acted like I committed a crime.”

Soobin gave a small, shy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as he opened the back door for both of you like the gentleman he was. “No, it really suits you, you look great tonight.” His compliment was sincere and gentle, making the awkwardness feel a little softer. “Ready to go? Sunghoon’s place isn’t too far from here.”

The car ride was filled with easy, light chatter that helped calm your nerves. Yunjin sat in the front passenger seat, already buzzing with excitement about seeing Sunghoon, while you sat in the back, occasionally tugging at your skirt and staring out the window at the passing streetlights.

Soobin kept the conversation flowing comfortably, light complaints about how brutal midterms had been, predictions about how wild the party might get, and Yunjin’s endless teasing about how

Sunghoon had “personally invited” her. Every now and then Soobin would glance at you through the rearview mirror, still looking a little flustered whenever your eyes met.

Before you knew it, Soobin was pulling up to a large off campus house that was already pulsing with loud music and flashing colored lights. Cars lined both sides of the street, and groups of people were laughing and chatting on the front lawn, red cups in hand.

The three of you climbed out of the car, and the heavy bass from inside immediately hit you like a wave. The night air smelled like a mix of cheap beer, sweet perfume, and fresh cut grass. Yunjin practically bounced on her heels with excitement as the three of you walked up the pathway toward the front door.

Sunghoon was standing right at the entrance, playing the perfect host in a simple black shirt and jeans. His sharp, handsome features broke into a warm, genuine smile the moment he spotted your group approaching.

“Hey! You guys actually made it,” he greeted cheerfully, voice carrying easily over the noise from inside. His eyes lingered on Yunjin for an extra beat, a soft grin tugging at his lips. “Yunjin, glad you came and you brought friends, nice.”

He gave Soobin a friendly nod and then turned his attention to you, eyebrows raising slightly in pleasant surprise as he took in your bold outfit. “Hey! you clean up really well. Welcome to the party, hope you guys have fun tonight.”

You managed a small, polite smile, still feeling slightly out of your element. “Thanks for inviting us.”Sunghoon handed each of you a red solo cup filled with something fruity and strong smelling a sweet cocktail that had a sharp kick of alcohol when you took your first cautious sip.

“Drinks are flowing inside help yourselves to whatever you want. There’s food in the kitchen, beer pong in the living room, and dancing. Pretty much everywhere enjoy!”

Yunjin thanked him brightly, her cheeks already a little flushed with excitement, and steered you and Soobin further into the crowded house. The interior was packed wall to wall with people.

Students were laughing loudly, dancing in the middle of the living room, playing intense games of beer pong, and making out in dimly lit corners. The music was loud but not yet overwhelming, colorful lights flashing across the walls and bodies.

For the first few minutes, the three of you stuck close together, weaving through the crowd while sipping your drinks. Soobin stayed protectively near your side, occasionally leaning down to say something quiet and reassuring whenever he noticed you looking a bit overwhelmed by the chaos.

Then you felt it. That familiar, annoying prickle on the back of your neck, like someone was watching you. You turned your head slightly, and there he was.

Heeseung was leaning casually against the wall near the staircase, a red cup dangling from his fingers. He was surrounded by a small group of his closest friends—Beomgyu laughing at something on his phone, Jake with his usual bright smile, and Jay nursing his own drink while scanning the room.

Heeseung looked effortlessly good tonight in a black button up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his toned forearms, and dark jeans that sat low on his hips. His hair was styled in that signature messy but perfect way.

The moment his dark eyes found you across the crowded room, his conversation with the guys stopped mid sentence.

His gaze dragged slowly and shamelessly down your body, taking in the short black mini skirt that hugged your hips and thighs, the sheer shirt that teased the black bralette underneath, the way the outfit accentuated your curves before snapping back up to your face.

For once, his usual cocky smirk didn’t appear instantly. Instead, there was a flash of genuine surprise, followed by something darker, more heated, and appreciative.

He pushed off the wall and started walking straight toward your group, completely ignoring whatever Beomgyu was saying behind him.

“Well, well, well,” Heeseung drawled when he was close enough, his voice cutting smoothly through the music. His eyes were still shamelessly roaming over you. “Look who decided to show up. Miss morals in a mini skirt i almost didn’t recognize you damn.”

You felt your stomach twist with that familiar mix of irritation and unwanted warmth. Before you could even open your mouth to snap back, Yunjin jumped in defensively, stepping slightly in front of you with a bright but sharp smile.

“Excuse me, Heeseung? She looks amazing, and she doesn’t need your backhanded compliments,” Yunjin said, tilting her head with fake sweetness.

“Unlike some people who only know how to throw loud parties and bring random girls over during midterms, maybe focus on your own game instead of commenting on her outfit.”

Heeseung chuckled lowly, clearly amused by Yunjin’s quick defense, but his eyes never left you. Jake, Beomgyu, and Jay were now watching the exchange from a few feet away, Beomgyu smirking like he was enjoying the show and Jake looking mildly entertained.

“Relax, Yunjin,” Heeseung replied smoothly, taking a sip from his cup. “I’m just saying that she cleaned up dangerous tonight, didn’t think our neighbor owned anything shorter than ankle length. Beomgyu, Jake, Jay back me up here. She looks good, right?”

Beomgyu grinned and raised his cup in a lazy toast. “Yeah, she do be looking fire tonight.”Jake nodded with a bright laugh. “For real, new look suits you.”Jay just shook his head with a small smile, staying quiet but clearly entertained.

You rolled your eyes, lifting your red solo cup to your lips to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks. “Don’t start with me tonight, Heeseung i’m only here for one hour, and I’d rather not spend it dealing with your nonsense.”

Heeseung tilted his head, that signature cocky smirk fully back in place now as he took another slow step closer. The way he was looking at you made the noisy room feel suddenly ten degrees warmer.

“Gonna dance tonight, or are you just here to supervise everyone else’s fun like usual, miss morals?”

You didn’t even give Heeseung the satisfaction of a proper reply. Instead, you flipped him off with a sharp middle finger, turned on your heel, and grabbed Yunjin’s arm. “Come on, let’s go.”

Yunjin laughed loudly, clearly proud of your reaction, and let you drag her deeper into the crowded house while Heeseung’s low chuckle followed behind you. Beomgyu, Jake, and Jay were already teasing him in the background, but you refused to look back.

For the first half hour, the party actually felt manageable. You stuck close to Yunjin and Soobin, sipping from your red solo cup and people watching from a quieter corner of the living room.

The music was loud, the lights flashed in rhythm with the bass, and the alcohol slowly started to loosen the tight knot of stress that midterms had left in your chest. Then Sunghoon appeared again.

He approached your group with that easy, charming smile, eyes mostly locked on Yunjin. “Hey want to dance?”Yunjin’s face lit up like he’d just offered her the moon. She turned to you quickly, squeezing your hand. “You’ll be okay for a bit, right? I’ll be right back!”

Before you could even answer, she was gone, disappearing into the sea of bodies on the dance floor with Sunghoon’s hand on her waist, now it was just you and Soobin.

You tried to keep the conversation light, but the longer you stood there, the more the party energy started to pull at you. The drink in your cup was strong and sweet, and after two weeks of pure academic hell, the idea of letting loose felt dangerously tempting.

“Fuck it,” you muttered under your breath. You downed the rest of your drink in one go, the burn sliding warmly down your throat. Then you grabbed another cup from a passing tray and started sipping again. Why not? Midterms were over. You deserved this.

Soobin noticed and raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t judge. He stayed beside you, chatting quietly, making sure you weren’t completely alone. But after a while, you started feeling guilty. He was sweet, always listening, always there and here he was babysitting you instead of enjoying the party.

“Go talk to your friends,” you told him, giving him a gentle push toward a group of guys waving at him from across the room. “Seriously, Soobin i’ll be fine, i don’t want you wasting your night stuck with me. Go have fun i’ll text you if I need anything.”

He hesitated, looking concerned, but you begged him with your best pleading eyes until he finally nodded. “Okay but stay safe, text me if anything feels off.”

Once Soobin walked away to join his friends, you let yourself drift toward the dance floor. The alcohol was hitting nicely now a warm, fuzzy buzz that made the music feel better and your body lighter.

You moved to the edge of the crowd first, swaying gently, then slowly worked your way deeper into the pulsing bodies.

You didn’t notice him at first. But Heeseung had been watching you the entire time. From the moment Yunjin disappeared with Sunghoon, his eyes had followed you. He watched you down your drinks. He watched you convince Soobin to leave.

And now he watched as you finally stepped fully onto the dance floor, hips moving to the heavy beat, the short black mini skirt riding up just enough to draw attention, the sheer shirt catching the flashing lights.

Heeseung set his cup down and started moving through the crowd toward you, slow and deliberate. When he was close enough, he didn’t just grab you like most guys would. Instead, he leaned in slightly, voice low and surprisingly respectful against the loud music.

“Hey can I dance with you?”

You turned your head, alcohol making you bold. Your eyes met his, and for once, you didn’t immediately snap at him. The buzz in your veins, the way he was looking at you like he couldn’t look away…it made something reckless spark inside you.

You nodded “Yeah okay.” Only then did Heeseung step closer. The moment he did, the space between you disappeared. His body pressed lightly against yours at first, hands hovering respectfully before you started moving together.

The music was sensual, slow and heavy, and your bodies naturally fell into rhythm. It didn’t stay innocent for long. Heeseung’s hands gradually grew bolder one sliding to your waist, the other brushing up your side, fingers grazing the sheer fabric of your shirt.

You moved closer, hips rolling against his, the short skirt brushing against his thighs. His touch grew hotter, palms sliding down to grip your hips, then slowly roaming over the curve of your ass, pulling you flush against him.

The air between you thickened. Your breathing grew heavier. Every brush of his body sent sparks through your skin. Heeseung leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke, voice low. “fuck, not being able to kiss you right now is actual torture.”

The words hit you like a shot of pure heat. The alcohol, the weeks of built up tension, the way his hands felt all over your body everything crashed together in one reckless moment.

You didn’t think, you just acted. turning your head as you grabbed the front of his shirt, and crashed your lips against his.

The kiss was messy, desperate, and instantly wild. Heeseung groaned into your mouth the second your lips met, one hand flying up to cup the back of your neck while the other tightened possessively on your waist, pulling you even harder against him.

You kissed like you were angry at each other—teeth clashing, tongues sliding hot and deep, lips moving with raw hunger.

Heeseung kissed like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. His mouth was demanding, devouring, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. You moaned softly against him, fingers threading into his hair and tugging, which only made him kiss you harder.

The dance floor disappeared around you. The music faded into background noise. There was only the heat of his body, the taste of alcohol on his tongue, and the way his hands roamed greedily over your curves sliding up your back under the sheer shirt, gripping your hips, pressing you so close you could feel exactly how much he wanted you.

The makeout was crazy sloppy, passionate, breathless. You bit his lower lip, and he responded with a low growl, sucking on your tongue before kissing you even harder.

Your bodies moved together to the beat, grinding slowly while your mouths stayed locked in a heated battle.

When you finally pulled back for air, both of you were panting, lips swollen and shiny. Heeseung’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as he stared down at you like he wanted to devour you right there on the dance floor.

“Shit” he breathed, forehead resting against yours. “You’re going to kill me tonight.”The kiss finally broke, both of you breathing hard, lips swollen and glistening under the flashing party lights.

Heeseung’s forehead rested against yours, his hands still gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

His eyes were dark, pupils blown with want, and the way he looked at you sent another rush of heat straight through your body.

You didn’t think. The alcohol, the weeks of hating him, the way his hands had felt all over you everything made you reckless. You leaned in closer, voice low and breathless against his ear. “Wanna go back to your apartment?”

Heeseung pulled back just enough to look at you, a dangerous smirk tugging at his swollen lips. For a split second, surprise flashed across his face, but it quickly melted into pure hunger.

“Fuck yes”

He didn’t waste another second. His hand slid down to grab yours firmly, fingers lacing tight as he started pulling you through the crowded dance floor. People moved out of the way as Heeseung cut a path toward the front door, his grip on you possessive and urgent.

You barely had time to register anything else Yunjin and Soobin were somewhere in the house, but right now, none of that mattered.The cool night air hit your flushed skin the moment you stepped outside, but it did nothing to calm the fire burning in your veins.

Heeseung’s car was parked a little down the street. He didn’t let go of your hand the entire way, and the second you reached the passenger side, he opened the door for you with surprising speed before rounding the car and sliding into the driver’s seat.

The moment the doors closed, the tension exploded again. Heeseung started the engine, but you were already growing impatient. The short drive back to your apartment building felt too long. Every red light, every stop sign made the ache between your legs worse.

You kept stealing glances at him his jaw tight, hands gripping the steering wheel, the way his shirt was slightly undone from your earlier tugging. At the third red light, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.“Fuck this,” you muttered.

Before Heeseung could react, you unbuckled your seatbelt, climbed over the center console, and straddled his lap in one swift motion. The mini skirt rode up high on your thighs as you settled on top of him, your hands immediately cupping his face as you crashed your lips back onto his.

Heeseung groaned loudly into the kiss, his hands flying to your waist to steady you. The kiss was even wilder than on the dance floor desperate, messy, all tongue and teeth. You rocked your hips against him, grinding down slowly at first, then harder, feeling him harden beneath you through his jeans.

His hands roamed greedily, one sliding up under your sheer shirt to palm your breast over the bralette, the other gripping your ass and pulling you tighter against his growing bulge.

“Shit you’re driving me crazy,” he muttered against your mouth between kisses, voice rough and wrecked.

You moaned softly, grinding down harder, the friction sending sparks through your entire body. The car windows started to fog up as you moved together, lips never leaving each other for long.

Heeseung’s tongue slid against yours, deep and filthy, while his hips bucked up to meet your movements, the steering wheel pressing into your back.

You were completely lost in him hands in his hair, tugging, lips sucking on his bottom lip, hips rolling in desperate circles when the sharp sound of honking suddenly pierced through the haze.

Once, twice, then a chorus of angry car horns blaring behind you reality crashed back in.

You pulled away from the kiss with a gasp, lips shiny and swollen, breathing ragged. The light had turned green, and the cars lined up behind you were laying on their horns, some drivers shouting out their windows.

Heeseung let out a breathless laugh, his hands still gripping your thighs tightly. His eyes were dark, hair messy from your fingers, lips red and kiss bitten.“Fuck,” he rasped, voice hoarse. “We’re gonna cause an accident if you keep this up.”

You quickly scrambled back into the passenger seat, heart pounding, cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and lingering arousal.

Your skirt was hiked up dangerously high, and you tugged it down with shaky hands while Heeseung adjusted himself in his seat, clearly struggling to focus on the road.

He shot you a heated sideways glance, smirk returning as he pressed the gas pedal.“Almost home,” he said, voice low and promising. “Try not to jump me again until we’re inside or don’t. I'm not complaining.”

The rest of the short drive was torturous. The air in the car was thick with tension, both of you stealing glances, the memory of your grinding still fresh and electric.

When Heeseung finally pulled into the parking spot outside your shared apartment building, he killed the engine and turned to you, eyes blazing.

The second you were both out of the car, he grabbed your hand again and practically dragged you toward the entrance, the promise of what was about to happen hanging heavy between you.

The second the door to Heeseung’s apartment slammed shut behind you, all restraint vanished.He had you pinned against the wood before you could even catch your breath, mouth crashing back onto yours in a filthy, open mouthed kiss.

His hands were everywhere one sliding up under your sheer shirt to palm your breast roughly, the other gripping your ass and yanking your hips flush against the hard line of his cock already straining in his jeans.

“Been thinking about this since you walked in wearing that tiny fucking skirt,” he growled against your lips, biting your bottom lip hard enough to make you moan. “Look at you acting like such a good girl all semester and now you’re begging to get fucked in my bed.”

You didn’t deny it you couldn’t. The alcohol and weeks of pent up hatred had turned into pure, desperate need. You tugged at his shirt buttons, popping a few open in your haste, and Heeseung chuckled darkly before ripping the rest off himself.

The shirt hit the floor. Yours followed a second later, then your bralette, leaving your tits exposed to the cool air of his apartment.

Heeseung’s mouth was on your neck instantly, sucking a mark right below your jaw while his hands squeezed your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples until they were hard and aching. “So fucking pretty when you’re needy like this,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Bet you’re already soaked for me, huh?”

You whimpered when he shoved the mini skirt up around your waist and cupped you over your panties. His fingers pressed against the soaked fabric, rubbing slow circles over your clit.

“Shit you are dripping already.” He smirked against your throat. “Such a dirty little secret you’ve been hiding, miss morals.”

You didn’t have time to snap back. Heeseung dropped to his knees right there in the entryway, hooked your panties to the side, and buried his face between your thighs without warning. His tongue dragged a long, nasty stripe up your pussy, groaning at the taste of you.

“Oh my god—” Your head thunked back against the door as he licked and sucked like a man starved, two fingers sliding inside you easily because you were so wet.

He curled them perfectly, pumping fast while his tongue flicked mercilessly over your clit. The sounds were obscene wet, sloppy, loud and he didn’t care. He ate you like he wanted to ruin you.

You came hard on his tongue within minutes, thighs shaking, fingers yanking at his hair as you cried out his name. Heeseung didn’t stop until you were trembling and pushing at his head, then he stood up, lips shiny with your arousal, and kissed you deep so you could taste yourself.

“Bedroom now,” he ordered.

He didn’t wait for you to walk. He grabbed the back of your thighs and lifted you like you weighed nothing, carrying you down the short hallway while your legs wrapped around his waist.

Your skirt was still bunched around your hips, panties shoved to the side. You could feel his cock pressing against your soaked core with every step.

The second he kicked his bedroom door open, he dropped you onto the bed. You barely had time to bounce before he was stripping the rest of his clothes off. His jeans and boxers hit the floor and his cock sprang free—thick, hard, and already leaking at the tip.

Your mouth watered at the sight. Heeseung climbed over you, caging you in with his arms. “You want this?” he asked, voice dark, one hand stroking his cock slowly as he looked down at you. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it,” you breathed, reaching down to wrap your hand around him. “Fuck me, Heeseung.”That was all it took.

He shoved your legs apart wider, lined himself up, and pushed in with one long, brutal thrust. You gasped at the stretch, nails digging into his shoulders as he bottomed out inside you, so deep you swore you could feel him in your stomach.

“Fuck, so tight,” he groaned, forehead dropping to yours. “Taking me so well already.”Then he started moving hard fast and filthy.

The headboard slammed against the wall with every thrust, the same wall that separated your apartments. The irony wasn’t lost on you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Heeseung fucked you like he’d been imagining this exact moment for months.Deep, punishing strokes that made your tits bounce and your breath hitch.

He grabbed one of your legs and hooked it over his shoulder, folding you in half so he could fuck you even deeper. The new angle made you cry out, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“Look at you,” he rasped, eyes locked on where his cock was disappearing inside you. “Taking every inch like a good little slut, who would’ve thought the girl next door gets this fucking nasty?”

The degradation was light, just enough to make your pussy clench harder around him. You moaned louder, hips trying to meet his thrusts.

Heeseung’s hand slid between your bodies, thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit while he pounded into you.

“Come on, baby. Come on my cock again, wanna feel you squeezing me.” You shattered for the second time, back arching, walls fluttering around his thick length as your orgasm crashed through you. Heeseung fucked you through it, hips never slowing, chasing his own release.

“Fuck— I’m close,” he growled, voice strained. “Where do you want it?” He asked, “Inside,” you gasped, still riding the high. “Come inside me.”

Heeseung cursed loudly, thrusting a few more brutal times before he buried himself to the hilt and came hard. You felt every pulse, every hot spurt filling you up as he groaned your name against your neck, hips jerking through the aftershocks.

For a moment the only sounds were both of you breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat.

Heeseung stayed inside you for a long minute, forehead pressed to yours, before he finally pulled out slowly. A trickle of his cum leaked out of you onto the sheets, and he watched it with dark, satisfied eyes then collapsed beside you.

Instead of pulling away, Heeseung immediately reached for you. He wrapped one strong arm around your waist and tugged you against his chest, your back flush to his front in a tight, warm hug. His other hand gently pulled the duvet up over both of you, cocooning your naked bodies in soft warmth.

You were still sticky with sweat and cum, thighs trembling, but the way he held you possessive yet surprisingly gentle made something soft flutter in your chest despite everything.

Heeseung pressed a lazy kiss to the back of your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.“Stay,” he murmured, voice already thick with sleep as he tightened his arm around you. “Just stay.”

Exhausted, fucked out, and strangely comforted by his warmth, you let your eyes drift shut. His steady heartbeat against your back and the heavy duvet wrapped around you lulled you quickly into sleep, safe in Heeseung’s arms for the night.

ꪆ୧ ─── ドラマ. next morning !

The first thing you registered was the pounding in your head. Your eyes fluttered open slowly, the dim light filtering through unfamiliar curtains making everything feel hazy. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed red 4:28 a.m.

Your mouth was dry, throat scratchy, and a dull throb pulsed behind your temples the unmistakable aftermath of too many drinks and not nearly enough sleep. You shifted slightly under the heavy duvet, and that’s when you felt it.

A warm, solid body pressed against your back. An arm draped heavily over your waist, holding you close skin against skin. The faint scent of cologne, sweat, and something distinctly masculine filled your senses.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Memories from last night crashed over you like ice water.

The party, the red solo cup dancing. Heeseung’s hands all over your body on the dance floor. The reckless invitation. The car ride where you’d climbed into his lap like you had no shame.

The way he’d pinned you against his door, dropped to his knees in the entryway, fucked you hard on his bed until you were crying out his name. The filthy sounds. The way he’d filled you up. The way he’d pulled you against his chest afterward, hugging you tight under the duvet as you both drifted off.

You had fucked Lee Heeseung

You had fucked your loud, cocky, insufferable neighbor the basketball captain you’d spent months complaining about, the one who called you “Miss Morals” like it was the funniest joke in the world.

Mortification burned hot through your entire body. Your stomach twisted violently. What the hell had you been thinking? The alcohol had stripped away every ounce of common sense, and now you were lying naked in his bed, his cum still faintly sticky between your thighs, his arm wrapped around you like you belonged there.

Heeseung was still sound asleep behind you, breathing deep and even, his chest rising and falling steadily against your back. His face was relaxed in sleep no smirk, no cocky grin but you knew the second he woke up, everything would change.

He would never let you live this down. The teasing would be relentless. “Miss morals” would turn into something far worse. He’d smirk every time he saw you in the hallway, make dirty little comments about how loud you’d been, how desperate you’d sounded begging for him.

The walls between your apartments were thin he’d probably bring it up every time you complained about his noise again. Your life next door would become a living hell.You couldn’t stay here.

Panic clawed up your throat. You had to leave before he woke up. Before this became real. Before he opened his eyes and looked at you with that knowing, satisfied smirk.

Carefully, so carefully, you lifted his arm from your waist. He stirred slightly but didn’t wake, murmuring something incoherent under his breath. Your heart hammered as you slowly slid out from under the duvet, the cool air hitting your naked skin and raising goosebumps.

You moved like a ghost around his room, gathering your scattered clothes as quietly as possible. Your sheer black shirt, the black bralette, the dangerously short mini skirt, your panties all crumpled on the floor where they’d been tossed in the heat of the moment.

You dressed as fast as you could, fingers trembling as you buttoned the sheer shirt and tugged the mini skirt down your thighs. Your hair was a mess, makeup probably smudged, but you didn’t care. You just needed to get out.

Barefoot, shoes in hand, you tiptoed toward the bedroom door. Every creak of the floorboards felt deafening. You glanced back once at Heeseung still asleep, one arm now stretched across the empty space where you’d been, dark hair messy against the pillow.

A strange, unwelcome pang twisted in your chest, but you shoved it down hard. This never happened.

You slipped out of his bedroom, quietly closing the door behind you. The living room was dark and silent. You navigated through the unfamiliar space, heart racing, until you reached the front door. The lock clicked softly as you turned it.

The hallway was empty and dimly lit when you stepped outside. The cool air felt like freedom. You didn’t even bother putting your shoes on yet you just hurried the few steps to your own apartment door next door, fumbling with your keys until they finally slid into the lock.

The moment you were inside, you locked the door behind you, leaned against it, and slid down to the floor, breathing hard.

Your body still ached in the best and worst ways. Thighs sore, a faint bruise forming on your hip from his grip, the ghost of his touch lingering everywhere. You could still feel him inside you, still taste the heat of his mouth.

You buried your face in your hands, mortified beyond words. What had you done?You had slept with the one person you couldn’t stand and now you had to live right next door to him, pretending it never happened.

Because if Heeseung ever found out you’d run away like this, the teasing would only get worse much, much worse. You spent the rest of that early morning in a haze of denial.

Your phone vibrated then again. You reached for it with a heavy sigh, squinting at the bright screen.

yunjin ( 3 new messages )

yunjin : babe where did u go?? one second u were dancing and then u disappeared 😭

yunjin : sunghoon said he saw u leave with someone?? pls tell me ur okay

yunjin : im worried call me when u wake up!!

soobin ( 4 new messages )

soobin : hey, you okay? you left pretty suddenly last night without telling both of us yunjin’s freaking out a bit

soobin : let me know if you got home safe

soobin : if you need anything or want to talk, i’m here no pressure

soobin : hope you’re resting well ❤️

You stared at the messages, throat tightening. The kindness in Soobin’s texts and Yunjin’s worried energy made fresh tears prick at your eyes. They had no idea what you had done. No idea you had spent the night in Heeseung’s bed, letting him touch you, kiss you, fuck you like you’d lost all common sense.

You typed back with trembling fingers, keeping it short and vague

you : got home safe, just drank too much and needed to leave early sorry for worrying you guys i’m okay, just tired talk later ❤️

You sent it and immediately turned your phone on silent, burying your face in your hands the memories wouldn’t stop replaying. Heeseung’s hands on your hips, his mouth on your neck. The way he had groaned your name when he came inside you.

How safe and warm his arms had felt when he pulled you under the duvet afterward. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to push it all away this never happened.

After sliding down your front door and sitting on the cold floor for what felt like hours, you finally dragged yourself to the shower.

You scrubbed your skin until it was raw, trying to wash away every trace of Heeseung his scent, his touch, the sticky evidence of what you’d done between your thighs. The hot water did nothing to erase the soreness or the vivid flashbacks that kept playing on loop in your head.

By the time the sun came up, you had made a decision this never happened. You would bury it so deep that even you would start to believe it. No one needed to know. Not Yunjin, not Soobin, not even yourself on most days.

You would go back to normal go to classes, focus on your art curator projects, complain about the noise next door like always. And most importantly, you would avoid Lee Heeseung at all costs.

ꪆ୧ ─── ドラマ. flashback !

Heeseung stepped out of his apartment with a half empty water bottle in hand, planning to grab the last box from his car before the evening practice. The hallway was quiet until it wasn’t.

A girl came rushing around the corner, arms overloaded with a massive cardboard box that completely blocked her line of sight. She collided straight into his chest with a startled gasp.

The box flew out of her hands and crashed to the floor, spilling books, notebooks, and what looked like art supplies everywhere across the hallway carpet. Heeseung instinctively reached out and grabbed her arms to keep her from stumbling backward.

She looked up at him, flushed and clearly annoyed, strands of hair falling across her face from the chaotic move. She was pretty, sharp eyes, determined expression the kind of girl who didn’t seem impressed by campus status.

A smirk tugged at his lips before he could stop it.“Easy there, neighbor,” he drawled, voice laced with amusement. “You always run into people like you’re trying to tackle them, or am I just lucky?”

She blinked, then quickly crouched down to gather her scattered belongings, avoiding his gaze.“Sorry,” she muttered, tone tight and clipped. “Didn’t see you.”

Heeseung crouched down as well, picking up a thick book on museum curation that had slid toward his foot. He turned it over in his hands, raising an eyebrow.“Art stuff, huh?” he asked casually. “You moving in next door?”

“Yeah just today,” she replied shortly, snatching the book back from him with a little more force than necessary.

He stood up first and leaned against the wall, arms crossing over his chest as he watched her struggle to reorganize everything into the box. Most girls would have smiled, maybe even recognized him as the basketball captain.

This one? She looked like she already wanted nothing to do with him.“I’m Heeseung,” he said, flashing his most charming grin. “Lee Heeseung, your new neighbor. Need help carrying that? Looks heavy.” He offered,

“I’m good thanks,” she answered without even looking up, standing quickly and slinging the tote over her shoulder.

Heeseung didn’t move out of the way. Instead, he tilted his head, studying her with open curiosity. There was something refreshing about her indifference that it made him want to push a little harder.

“Just so you know,” he added, voice dropping into a teasing tone, “The walls here are pretty thin, try not to be too loud when you’re studying or doing whatever it is, serious art curator girls do at night.”Her eyes finally snapped up to his, narrowing with clear irritation.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said flatly. “And maybe you can try keeping your parties down some people actually have to study to pass their classes.”

Heeseung let out a low, genuine laugh that echoed down the empty hallway. She had bite and he liked that.

“Welcome to the building, miss morals,” he called after her as she turned toward her door, the nickname slipping out naturally. She didn’t respond. She fumbled with her keys, unlocked her apartment, and slipped inside without another word, the door shutting with a firm click.

Heeseung stood there for a moment longer, still grinning to himself. The girl next door already hated him, and he hadn’t even thrown his first party yet. This was going to be interesting.

The gym echoed with the sharp squeak of sneakers and the rhythmic bounce of basketballs. Afternoon practice was in full swing, but during a water break, Heeseung leaned against the bleachers, towel draped over his shoulders, a cocky grin already plastered on his face.

Jay tossed him a bottle of water. “You look way too happy for someone who just ran suicides.”Heeseung laughed, taking a long sip before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can’t help it ran into the new neighbor again this morning.”

Beomgyu perked up immediately, spinning the ball on his finger. “The girl next door? The one who already hates your guts?”

“miss morals herself,” Heeseung confirmed, his smirk widening. “I was just leaving for practice when she came out, i told her the walls are thin and she should try not to be too loud at night. You should’ve seen her face, she looked like she wanted to throw her coffee at me.”

Jake, who was stretching nearby, let out a loud laugh. “Dude, you’re obsessed! that’s like the third time this week you’ve mentioned her.”

“I’m not obsessed,” Heeseung shot back, but his grin betrayed him. “It’s just too easy. She gets so worked up over the smallest things. Last week I had a couple of people over, nothing crazy and she banged on my door at midnight like the apartment was on fire, called me an entitled asshole who only passes because ‘daddy pays for everything.’”

The group burst into laughter. Sunghoon shook his head, amused. “She’s got balls, most girls on campus would be throwing themselves at you the second they find out you’re the captain.”

“Exactly,” Heeseung said, tossing the towel aside. “That’s what makes it fun, she doesn’t give a single fuck who I am. No flirty smiles, no asking for tickets to games, nothing. She just glares at me like I personally ruined her life by existing next door it’s hilarious.”

Beomgyu grinned mischievously. “So what’s your plan? Keep annoying her until she moves out?”

“Nah,” Heeseung replied, bouncing the ball once. “I’m just getting started, next time the music’s on, I might turn it up a little louder to see how long it takes before she comes marching over again. Bet she’ll have that cute little angry face on.”

Jake, who had been quietly listening while stretching his hamstrings, suddenly straightened up with a knowing look.“Don’t you think you’re in love with her or something?” he asked casually, but loud enough for the whole group to hear.

The gym went quiet for half a second before the guys exploded with laughter and teasing whistles. Heeseung nearly choked on his water. “What the fuck, Jake?”

Jake shrugged, completely unfazed. “Think about it, she’s literally the only girl who doesn’t give a shit about you no ego stroking, no chasing after the basketball star. She treats you like any other annoying neighbor and instead of leaving her alone, you keep poking at her like a kid with a new toy. That sounds like a crush to me.”

“Bullshit,” Heeseung scoffed, but his ears turned slightly red. He dribbled the ball harder than necessary, trying to play it cool. “I’m not in love with her, she’s just entertaining. It's fun watching her get all riled up, that’s it.”

Jay raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Sure ‘Entertaining.’ that’s why you bring her up every single practice.”

“Exactly,” Jake added with a grin. “If she suddenly started being nice to you, you’d probably be bored in a week but because she ignores you and calls you out, you can’t stop thinking about her.”

Heeseung pointed the ball at Jake threateningly, though his smirk was fighting to stay hidden. “Keep talking and I’ll make you run extra laps, Sim.”

The team laughed again, but Jake just held up his hands in surrender, still smiling. “I’m just saying, man. One day you’re gonna realize you’re not annoying her because it’s funny, you’re doing it because you like the way she fights back.”

Heeseung rolled his eyes and turned away, dribbling the ball toward the court to end the conversation. But as practice resumed and he sank a clean three pointer, Jake’s words lingered in the back of his mind longer than he wanted to admit.

Maybe there was a tiny bit of truth to it. Or maybe he just really, really enjoyed getting on your nerves.

The laughter from the team slowly died down as practice resumed. Heeseung shook off Jake’s teasing comment, channeling the slight irritation into sharper shots. He sank another clean three pointer, the ball swishing through the net with satisfying precision.

For a few minutes, the court felt like the only place where everything made sense no annoying neighbors, no complicated feelings, just the game. Then the gym doors swung open with a loud bang.

Everyone turned as a tall, sharply dressed man in a tailored coat strode in, his presence immediately sucking the casual energy out of the room. Coach paused mid instruction, nodding respectfully.

Heeseung’s stomach dropped the moment he recognized the figure his father. Mr. Lee didn’t smile. He never did when he showed up unannounced like this. His eyes scanned the court with cold calculation, lingering on Heeseung with clear disapproval.

“Take five, boys,” Coach called out, sensing the shift in atmosphere. Heeseung wiped the sweat from his brow and walked over, jaw already tight. “Dad what are you doing here?”Mr. Lee stopped a few feet away, arms folded behind his back. His voice was low but carried easily across the quiet gym.

“I came to see if my son is actually putting in the work that’s supposed to get him into the NBA,” he said flatly. “From what I’ve been hearing, it doesn’t look like it.”Heeseung’s friends lingered nearby, pretending to drink water but clearly listening.

“I’ve been at every practice,” Heeseung replied, keeping his tone even. “Coach said my shooting percentage is up this week—”

“Don’t make excuses,” his father cut him off sharply. “Your brother Heedo was never this distracted at your age, he was laser focused top scorer captainfull ride to the best program in the country. And you? You’re out here laughing with your little friends during water breaks, probably thinking about parties and girls instead of the game.”

Heeseung’s grip tightened on the basketball until his knuckles turned white.“I’m not distracted,” he said through gritted teeth. Mr.Lee stepped closer, voice dropping into that familiar, cutting tone that always found its mark.

“You’re good for nothing if you can’t even focus on what matters. All that talent wasted because you’d rather play around and act like some campus king. You think the scouts care about your popularity? they don’t, you will never be enough if you keep this up and you will certainly never be better than your brother.”

The words landed like punches. Heedo — the golden child. The one who had already made it pro overseas. The one their father never stopped comparing him to.Heeseung’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. He wanted to snap back, to defend himself, but years of this had taught him it was useless. His father never listened.

Mr. Lee straightened his coat, expression unchanging. “Fix it or don’t bother coming home for the holidays, i didn’t raise a failure.”Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked out of the gym, the heavy doors swinging shut behind him with a final, echoing thud. The silence that followed was uncomfortable.

Heeseung stood there for a moment, staring at the floor, chest tight with anger and something heavier he refused to name. The team slowly went back to practice, but the energy had shifted. Jake shot him a concerned look, but Heeseung ignored it, dribbling the ball harder than necessary as he moved back onto the court.

Inside, the familiar bitterness churned.His father’s words echoed louder than any cheering crowd ever could. You will never be enough. You will never be better than your brother. Heeseung sank another shot, but this time it didn’t feel satisfying.

All he could think about was how easy it was to annoy the girl next door because at least when she glared at him and called him an entitled asshole, he felt something other than this hollow, crushing weight.

The heavy gym doors swung shut behind Mr. Lee, leaving an awkward silence in his wake. The team tried to resume practice, but the atmosphere had soured.

Heeseung stood frozen for a few seconds, staring at the spot where his father had been. The familiar sting of those words good for nothing, never enough, never better than your brother settled heavy in his chest like lead.

Jake jogged over, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, man don’t let him get to you, your dad’s always been like that you’re killing it out here.”

“Yeah,” Beomgyu added, spinning the ball on his finger. “Ignore him, you’re the one who’s gonna make it to the NBA, not Heedo.” Jay nodded. “Come on, let’s run some more plays we’ll crush the next game.”Heeseung forced a half smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah sure.”

He went through the motions for the rest of practice dribbling, shooting, defending but he was quiet. No cocky jokes no teasing his teammates no loud laughter. Every time someone tried to pull him into conversation or hype him up after a good play, he gave short, one word replies and kept his head down. The usual spark was gone.

Even Coach noticed, shooting him concerned glances but saying nothing.The moment practice officially ended, Heeseung grabbed his bag and left first, ignoring the calls from his friends asking if he wanted to grab food. He needed air. He needed to get away from the echoes of his father’s voice.

He walked aimlessly for a while, the cool evening air doing little to clear his head. Eventually, his feet carried him toward the small café just off campus the one with decent coffee and quiet corners where he sometimes went to think.He pushed open the door, the bell jingling softly, and scanned the room out of habit and then he saw you.

You were sitting alone at a corner table near the window, surrounded by textbooks, notes, and your laptop. Your hair was tied up messily, a pen between your teeth as you frowned at something on the screen. You looked focused serious and annoyingly cute in that concentrated way of yours.

A small, familiar spark ignited in his chest the one that always appeared whenever he spotted you. Before he could think better of it, Heeseung walked straight over and slid into the seat across from you without asking.You looked up, startled at first, then your expression quickly shifted into pure annoyance.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you asked, voice sharp but low enough not to disturb the other customers. You closed your laptop slightly, glaring at him. “This is my table, go sit somewhere else.”

Heeseung leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms, that signature smirk slowly returning despite the heavy weight still sitting in his stomach. Seeing your irritated face felt lighter somehow. Easier than dealing with everything else.

“Relax, miss morals,” he said, voice teasing. “I’m not here to ruin your precious study time. Just saw you and thought I’d say hi to my favorite neighbor.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was almost impressive. “Favorite? We barely tolerate each other and I’m trying to work unlike some people who can afford to slack off because ‘daddy can pay for everything.’”

The jab should’ve stung more, especially after his father’s visit, but instead it made Heeseung’s smirk widen. There, it was that fire. That complete lack of care for who he was or what people usually said to him. You didn’t tiptoe around him. You didn’t try to impress him. You just called him out.

It felt strangely nice. Not in a romantic way, just refreshing ( liar liar liar he is totally in love with her ) He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “Ouch straight for the throat today. What are you working on that’s got you so grumpy? Another museum thing? Planning to curate an exhibit called ‘Why Heeseung Should Shut Up’?”

You gave him a flat look, clearly not amused. “It’s for my capstone project and yes, if it helps keep loud neighbors quiet, I might include a whole section on it.”

Heeseung chuckled softly, the sound genuine even if it was quiet. For the first time since his dad had shown up, the tight knot in his chest loosened just a fraction. He realized something in that moment. Your company wasn’t bad.

In fact, sitting here watching you get all annoyed and snappy at him felt better than sitting alone with his father’s words ringing in his head. It was simple predictable in the best way. You gave him a reaction real, unfiltered and for a few minutes, it made everything else fade into the background.

He loved annoying you. Not because he wanted to hurt you but because when you pushed back, it reminded him he was still here. Still capable of feeling something other than pressure and disappointment.

“Fine,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender, though he made no move to leave. “I’ll behave for now but only if you tell me what that exhibit is actually about.” You narrowed your eyes suspiciously, clearly debating whether to kick him out or just ignore him. Heeseung waited, smirk still in place, secretly hoping you’d keep arguing with him a little longer.

ꪆ୧ ─── ドラマ. heeseung’s pov !

Heeseung woke up to a heavy, unfamiliar silence.

His eyes opened slowly, the soft gray morning light filtering through the curtains. His body felt sore in places that reminded him immediately of last night a dull ache in his shoulders, the faint stickiness between the sheets, the faint scent of sex still hanging in the air.

He turned his head to the side the bed was empty. The spot where you had been lying was cold, the pillow slightly dented but untouched now. No clothes scattered on the floor no shoes by the door nothing.

Heeseung sat up slowly, rubbing his face with both hands. The memories came back in quiet, unflinching flashes the party you in that short black skirt.The heated dancing that turned into something reckless.The desperate makeout in his car while horns blared behind you.

How he’d carried you inside, how urgently you both had moved against each other against the door, then on this bed.The way you had moaned his name.The way he had finished inside you.

And how, afterward, he had pulled you close under the duvet, your back against his chest, both of you falling asleep in silence.

Now you were gone. He glanced at the clock. 7:23 a.m. You must have woken up in a panic sometime in the early hours and slipped out while he was still asleep. The realization settled in his stomach like a stone heavy, uncomfortable, and strangely final.

Heeseung let out a long, tired breath and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat there for a moment, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. This was a mistake, a stupid, drunken mistake.

You had always made it clear how much you couldn’t stand him. The constant complaints about his noise, the glares in the hallway, the way you called him entitled behind his back.

Last night had been nothing more than too much alcohol and bad judgment on both sides. You waking up and running away only confirmed it.He didn’t blame you. If anything, he felt a quiet wave of regret wash over him. He should have known better.

He should have stopped things before they went that far. Now things between you two were already tense, this was going to be even more awkward.

Heeseung stood up and walked to the bathroom. While the shower heated up, he looked at himself in the mirror. There were faint scratch marks on his shoulders and a small bruise near his collarbone. Physical proof that last night had really happened.

He stepped under the hot water, letting it run over his face and shoulders. It never happened, he told himself. That was the only way forward.He would forget about it. Pretend the entire night was a blur he couldn’t quite remember.

No teasing no comments in the hallway no bringing it up ever again. You clearly wanted to erase it, and honestly so did he. The last thing he needed right now was more complications in his life especially with someone who lived right next door.

After the shower, he got dressed in a simple black t-shirt and sweatpants. He made coffee in the kitchen, moving on autopilot. The apartment felt too quiet now.

Heeseung leaned against the counter, sipping the bitter drink, and stared at the wall that separated his place from yours.From now on, things would go back to normal. You would keep avoiding him like you always did.

He would keep his music at a reasonable volume when he remembered. And neither of you would ever speak about what happened last night. It was better this way, cleaner and simpler.

He finished his coffee, rinsed the mug, and set it in the sink. Last night was a mistake and as far as Heeseung was concerned, it was already forgotten.

For the next two weeks, you turned your life into a carefully orchestrated mission of avoidance while your body slowly started betraying you in ways you couldn’t ignore. The mantra remained the same this never happened.

Every morning began the same way. Your alarm went off at 6:15 a.m., pulling you from restless sleep. The moment you sat up, a familiar wave of nausea rolled through your stomach, not violent, but persistent and queasy, making the room feel slightly off balance.

You’d sit on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, breathing slowly through your nose, waiting for it to pass. Some mornings it did. Others, you’d rush to the bathroom and dry heave over the sink, nothing coming up except bitter bile and a metallic taste that lingered on your tongue.

Once the worst of it subsided, you’d quickly get ready, choosing simple, comfortable clothes that wouldn’t draw attention. Then came the listening part. You’d press your ear to the front door, heart beating a little too fast, straining to hear any sound from Heeseung’s apartment next door.

If you caught even the faintest click of his lock or the low murmur of his voice on a phone call, you’d wait sometimes ten minutes, sometimes twenty pretending to reorganize your bag or check your notes until the hallway was silent again.

Leaving became a tactical exercise. You slipped out as quietly as possible, taking the side staircase instead of the main hallway whenever you spotted his car in the parking lot. The fatigue hit hardest during these moments.

Your legs felt heavier than usual, and by the time you reached campus, you were already drained, needing to sit down in the library for a few minutes just to catch your breath. Coming home was even more stressful.

You started timing your returns obsessively. If practice usually ended around 6 p.m., you’d stay late at the library or in an empty classroom, working on your capstone exhibition proposal until you were sure Heeseung was either out with friends or already inside. One evening, the dizziness caught you off guard.

You had just turned the corner into your hallway when the world tilted slightly. You had to lean against the wall, breathing shallowly, while a strong wave of nausea made your stomach churn.

The faint scent of someone’s dinner cooking nearby sent you rushing the last few steps to your door. The moment you got inside, you barely made it to the toilet before vomiting actual, forceful vomiting that left you trembling on the cold tile floor.

You told yourself it was stress. The constant hyper vigilance. The lack of proper sleep. The emotional weight of pretending that night had never occurred. But the symptoms kept creeping in, growing harder to dismiss.

Smells became your enemy. The aroma of coffee from the café near campus, which you used to love, now made your stomach revolt. You switched to plain crackers and ginger tea, keeping a secret stash in your bag.

Even the scent of your own shampoo sometimes triggered a gag reflex. Food tasted strange too salty, too sweet, or completely off. You lost interest in meals altogether, surviving on small portions that you could keep down.

The fatigue settled deep in your bones. You’d come home from classes, collapse on the couch, and wake up hours later feeling like you hadn’t rested at all.

Your breasts felt tender and slightly swollen, brushing against your shirt making you wince. Mood swings hit at random. One minute you were focused on your work, the next you felt inexplicably teary or irritable. All of this made the avoidance even more draining.

One Thursday night, your timing failed you had stayed late at the library, hoping Heeseung would already be inside. When you finally dragged your tired body back to the building, the hallway lights felt blindingly bright.

Just as you reached your door, fumbling with your keys, you heard the unmistakable click of his lock opening.Panic surged through you. Your hands shook so badly that the keys nearly dropped. You managed to slip inside just as his door opened, pressing your back against the wood, heart hammering wildly.

You held your breath, listening to his footsteps pass by. The moment they faded, the nausea hit like a wave. You barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up again, knees weak, tears stinging your eyes from the force of it.

Afterward, you sat on the bathroom floor with your forehead resting on your knees, breathing shakily. This was getting worse.You were exhausted from the constant calculation when to leave, when to return, which route to take, how long to wait in the stairwell. The thin wall between your apartments felt like a constant threat.

You’d hear him moving around sometimes. The low sound of his music ( mercifully quieter these days ), the murmur of his voice when he was on the phone, the occasional laugh. Every sound made your stomach twist with anxiety and unwelcome memories.

You became hyper aware of everything. You avoided cooking anything with strong smells. You did laundry at 2 a.m. when you were sure he was asleep. You even changed the time you took showers, worried the sound of running water might coincide with him coming home.

Yunjin and Soobin noticed the changes. “You’ve been canceling plans a lot,” Yunjin said during one quick lunch. “And you look really tired, are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” you lied, forcing a weak smile while fighting the nausea brought on by the smell of her food. “Just stressed about the capstone deadline it’s taking everything out of me.”

Soobin watched you quietly, concern clear in his eyes, but he didn’t push. Inside your apartment, the symptoms continued to build.

Mornings were brutal. You’d wake up with tender breasts and that persistent queasy feeling. Some days the vomiting was so bad you had to keep a small bucket discreetly by your bed.

The fatigue made it hard to focus during lectures. You'd find yourself zoning out, head heavy, fighting the urge to lay your head on the desk. Yet you refused to connect the dots .It’s just stress, you told yourself repeatedly. The avoidance the guilt the lack of sleep.

You pushed through, continuing your careful dance of avoidance. You timed every exit and entry with military precision. You became an expert at predicting Heeseung’s schedule ( she should become a dispatch employee )

You kept your headphones on to drown out any sound from next door. You buried yourself in your art curator work, sketching exhibition layouts late into the night until your eyes burned.Two full weeks passed in this strange limbo.

You were pale, exhausted, and constantly on edge. The nausea came in unpredictable waves. The fatigue made simple tasks feel monumental. And the fear of accidentally seeing Heeseung in the hallway kept you trapped in this self imposed isolation.

Deep down, a small, terrified voice in the back of your mind whispered that something was very wrong. But you silenced it the same way you silenced every memory of that night this never happened.

You would keep avoiding him. You would keep pretending everything was normal.Even as your body screamed louder and louder that nothing was normal anymore.

One ordinary afternoon, everything shifted. You were sitting in the small campus café with Yunjin and Soobin, the three of you squeezed around a corner table. Yunjin was dramatically slumped in her chair, one hand pressed to her lower stomach, complaining loudly.

“Ugh, my period is literally killing me today,” she groaned, stirring her iced latte with a pout. “Cramps are so bad, I can barely sit straight why does it always hit the worst during the worst season? I swear my uterus hates me.”

Soobin chuckled softly, offering her a sympathetic smile. “Do you want me to grab you some painkillers from the convenience store?” You tried to smile and nod along, but the words barely registered.

Her period is killing her…..

The sentence echoed in your head like a siren your own period. You mentally counted the days. It should have come a full week ago. Seven days late. Maybe more.

You had been so caught up in avoiding Heeseung, dealing with the constant nausea, fatigue, and vomiting that you hadn’t even noticed the date slipping by. Your heart started beating faster.

You pulled out your phone under the table and quietly opened your cycle tracking app. The screen glowed with the familiar calendar. A bright red notification stared back at you

period : 7 days late

You stared at the words until they blurred. No no, no, no. You tried to push the thought away immediately. It had to be stress. The irregular sleep, the constant anxiety of avoiding Heeseung, the vomiting all of it could easily throw your cycle off. That was normal right?

But then the symptoms started flashing through your mind like warning lights. The persistent nausea every morning. The vomiting that left you weak on the bathroom floor. The crushing fatigue that made it hard to stay awake in lectures.

The dizziness, sensitivity to smells, tender, swollen breasts. Your stomach dropped, could you be pregnant?

The word felt foreign and terrifying in your head. No. Absolutely not. You wouldn’t get pregnant from one night. One reckless, stupid night. People had unprotected sex all the time and nothing happened.

You were on the pill…wait, were you? You had been so stressed with midterms that you couldn’t even remember if you had taken it properly that week. The thought made bile rise in your throat again.

Across the table, Yunjin and Soobin were still talking something about upcoming assignments and a group project. Their voices sounded far away, like you were underwater.You couldn’t focus on a single word they were saying. Your mind was spinning, heart pounding so hard you were sure they could hear it.

Yunjin waved a hand in front of your face. “Hello? Earth to you! you’ve been spacing out the entire time are you okay?”You blinked, forcing yourself back to the present. Your mouth felt dry.

“I—yeah, sorry just tired,” you mumbled. “Guys, I think I’m gonna head home early today my head’s killing me.”Soobin frowned, concern clear in his eyes. “Do you want me to walk you back?”“No, it’s fine,” you said quickly, already standing up and grabbing your bag. “I’ll text you later promise.”

You left the café before they could protest, walking fast, then almost jogging once you were out of sight. The nausea was back, stronger now, mixing with pure terror. Your hands were shaking as you headed straight for the small convenience store two blocks away.

Inside the store, you felt like every camera was watching you. You moved quickly through the aisles, heart hammering, until you found the family planning section. There were several pregnancy test kits.

You grabbed the most reliable looking one with trembling fingers, not even reading the brand properly. The cashier gave you a neutral look as you paid, but you couldn’t meet her eyes.

Bag clutched tightly to your chest, you practically ran the entire way back to your apartment building. You took the side stairs again, praying Heeseung wasn’t around. The moment you were inside your own apartment, you locked the door twice and leaned against it, breathing hard.

You pulled the kit out of the bag with shaking hands. The box felt heavy dangerous. You read the instructions carefully, twice. Pee on the stick. Wait three minutes. One line = not pregnant. Two lines = pregnant simple but terrifying.

You went to the bathroom, heart pounding so loudly it echoed in your ears. You followed every step exactly, hands trembling so badly you almost dropped the test. When you were done, you placed the stick on the counter and set a timer on your phone three minutes.

You paced the small bathroom, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. Every second felt like an hour. The nausea was back, but this time it had nothing to do with morning sickness. It was pure fear.

What if it was positive?

What if you were actually pregnant with Heeseung’s baby?

The thought made your knees weak. You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the cold tile floor, staring at the test on the counter like it was a bomb about to go off.The timer was still counting down.

Two minutes left. You hugged your knees to your chest, eyes fixed on the small plastic stick that now, held your entire future in two little lines. You were so scared.

The timer on your phone hit zero with a soft chime that felt deafening in the small bathroom. You stayed frozen on the cold tile floor for several long seconds, knees drawn to your chest, staring at the pregnancy test lying face up on the counter like it was a live grenade.

Slowly, you pushed yourself up on shaky legs and stepped closer. One line was already dark and clear the control line. The second line was faint at first, but unmistakable. A pale pink line slowly darkening right beside the first one.

two lines = positive

You blinked hard, once, twice, as if the result would magically change if you stared long enough.“No…” you whispered, voice cracking. “No, that can’t be right.”Denial crashed over you like a wave. You snatched the test off the counter and held it closer to the light, turning it at different angles. Maybe it was a faulty test.

Maybe the line was an evaporation line. Maybe you had read the instructions wrong. You grabbed the box again and reread the instructions three more times, your hands trembling so badly the paper shook.

But no matter how many times you checked, the two lines stared back at you, clear and undeniable. It was positive. You were pregnant. The reality slammed into you all at once.

Your knees buckled. You sank back down to the bathroom floor, the test still clutched tightly in your hand. A sob tore out of your throat before you could stop it. Hot tears spilled down your cheeks as the full weight of what this meant crashed over you.

You were pregnant with Heeseung’s baby. The boy you couldn’t stand. The neighbor you had spent months avoiding. The one person you had sworn to pretend never touched you.

A broken sound escaped you half sob, half laugh of pure disbelief. Your free hand moved instinctively to your stomach, pressing lightly against the still flat surface. There was a life growing inside you right now. A tiny, real consequence of one reckless, drunken night.

The crying came harder. You curled in on yourself, forehead resting on your knees as sobs wracked your body. All the symptoms you had tried to blame on stress the nausea, the vomiting, the fatigue, the dizziness suddenly made perfect, terrifying sense.

You were going to have a baby. And the father was the last person on earth you wanted to be tied to. After several long minutes, the tears slowed, leaving you drained and hollow. You wiped your face with the back of your hand, staring blankly at the two pink lines.

You made a decision right there on the bathroom floor. You were not telling Heeseung anything, not a single word.He didn’t need to know. He would never know. Telling him would only make everything worse the teasing, the drama, the forced proximity, the endless complications with someone you already couldn’t stand.

You could barely handle living next door to him as it was. Bringing a child into that mess was unthinkable. This was your problem. Your body, your choice. You would handle it quietly. You would get rid of it.The thought made fresh tears sting your eyes, but you forced them back. There was no other option.

You were still in school, chasing your dream of becoming an art curator. Your life was barely stable right now. A baby, especially one with Heeseung as the father would ruin everything.

You stayed on the floor for a long time, clutching the test, letting the weight of the decision settle over you.

Eventually, you stood up on unsteady legs. You wrapped the test in toilet paper and hid it deep in the trash can under some tissues. You washed your face with cold water until the redness in your eyes faded a little.

You looked at your reflection pale, exhausted, terrified and whispered to yourself “This never happened.” You would schedule an. appointment. You would end this quietly.You would move on with your life and never speak of that night again.

But as you turned off the bathroom light and stepped into your silent apartment, the weight in your chest felt heavier than ever. You were pregnant. And for the first time since that night, the wall between you and Heeseung felt like it was closing in.

The decision sat heavy in your chest like a stone. You weren’t going to tell Heeseung. You were going to end this quietly and move on with your life. The very next morning, you tried to make the appointment.

You sat on your bed with your laptop open, hands shaking as you searched for clinics near campus that offered termination services. Your stomach was already churning with nausea again, but you forced yourself to focus.

You found a few options a women’s health clinic downtown and a Planned Parenthood branch about twenty minutes away. You clicked on the booking page for the first one. The form asked for your name, date of birth, contact number, and reason for visit.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long time. You couldn’t do it. Every time you tried to type your real information, panic surged through you. What if someone recognized your name? What if the clinic called or sent confirmation texts while you were near Heeseung?

What if the appointment somehow got back to campus gossip? The thought of walking into a clinic alone, explaining your situation to a stranger, and going through with it made your throat close up.

You closed the laptop without saving anything. You told yourself you’d try again tomorrow when you felt calmer. But tomorrow came and went. Then the next day. And the next. Meanwhile, the symptoms grew worse.

The nausea was no longer just morning sickness it hit you at random times throughout the day. The smell of food in the cafeteria made you gag. Even walking past the coffee shop near campus triggered violent waves that left you rushing to the nearest bathroom.

You started carrying saltine crackers and a small bottle of ginger ale everywhere, but they barely helped anymore.

Vomiting became more frequent. One afternoon during a lecture, you had to excuse yourself midway through and barely made it to the restroom before throwing up.

You returned to class pale and sweaty, mumbling something about food poisoning when Yunjin looked at you worriedly.

Fatigue wrapped around you like a heavy blanket. You fell asleep in the library twice that week, waking up with your cheek stuck to your notebook. Simple tasks like climbing the stairs to your apartment left you breathless and dizzy.

Your breasts were constantly tender, and your mood swung wildly one moment you were numb, the next you felt like crying over nothing. Yunjin and Soobin started noticing. During lunch on Thursday, Yunjin set her chopsticks down and stared at you.

“Okay, something is seriously wrong,” she said, voice firm but concerned. “You’ve been looking like a ghost for days, you barely eat anything, you keep disappearing to the bathroom, and you look exhausted even when you say you slept are you sick? Is it stress? Talk to us.”

Soobin nodded, his gentle eyes filled with worry. “You’ve been canceling plans and spacing out a lot. If something’s going on, you don’t have to deal with it alone. We’re here.”You forced a weak smile, pushing your untouched food around your plate. The smell of it was making you nauseous again.

“I’m okay, really,” you lied, voice quieter than usual. “Just… really behind on my capstone. The deadline is stressing me out more than I thought. I’ll be fine once I catch up.”

They didn’t look convinced, but they let it drop for the moment. Still, you could feel their eyes on you for the rest of the meal. Even Heeseung started noticing something was off.

You had managed to avoid direct contact with him for weeks, but it was impossible to hide everything when you lived next door.

One evening, you were coming home later than usual after another failed attempt to book the appointment online. You felt dizzy and nauseous, moving slowly up the hallway with your keys already in hand. As you reached your door, Heeseung’s door opened.

He stepped out, wearing a simple black hoodie, hair slightly messy like he’d just come back from practice. His eyes landed on you immediately.

You froze for half a second, then quickly turned your face away and fumbled with your lock, trying to get inside before he could say anything. But Heeseung didn’t tease you this time.

Instead, he paused in his doorway, brow slightly furrowed as he watched you. You looked pale. Thinner. There were dark circles under your eyes, and the way you moved seemed off fragile.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. For once, the usual cocky remark didn’t come.“You good?” he asked quietly, voice lacking its normal edge.

You didn’t answer. You finally got the door open and slipped inside without looking at him, shutting it quickly behind you

Heeseung stood there for a moment longer, staring at your closed door with a strange, unsettled feeling in his chest. Something wasn’t right with you. He could see it.But after everything after that night you both had silently agreed to forget he didn’t know if he had the right to ask.

Inside your apartment, you leaned against the door, breathing hard. Fresh tears stung your eyes as another wave of nausea hit you. You slid down to the floor, hugging your knees. You still hadn’t been able to book the appointment.

The symptoms were getting worse every day, your friends were worried and now even Heeseung had noticed something was wrong. You pressed your forehead to your knees, whispering to yourself again and again

“This never happened… this never happened…” But the lie was starting to feel impossible to keep. Heeseung had noticed. For the past two weeks, it had become painfully obvious that you were avoiding him like the plague.

At first, he thought it was the usual the cold shoulder after that night you both had silently agreed to forget. But it quickly went beyond that. You timed your movements with military precision.

He would hear your door open and close at odd hours, always when he was either inside or already gone. You took the side stairs. You left earlier than usual in the mornings and came back much later at night.

Even at university, catching a glimpse of you had become nearly impossible. You seemed to disappear into the library or empty classrooms the moment practice ended.It was clear you were doing everything in your power to never cross paths with him.

Heeseung told himself it didn’t bother him. He had decided to forget that night too. No teasing. No bringing it up. Just normal or as normal as things could be when you lived right next door

But something was wrong. You looked terrible lately. He first noticed it in passing the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders seemed to slump with exhaustion. Then it got worse you moved slower.

Your face was paler than usual. You barely left your apartment except for classes, and even then you looked like you were running on empty.

One evening, after a long basketball practice, Heeseung was walking back to the apartment building, gym bag slung over his shoulder. The sun had already set, and the streetlights cast long shadows on the path. That’s when he saw you.

You were a few meters ahead, heading toward the entrance. Your steps were unsteady, one hand pressed lightly against the wall for support.

Even from behind, he could tell something was very wrong. Your posture was slumped, your breathing looked shallow, and you looked like you were barely holding yourself upright.

Heeseung’s stomach tightened. He quickened his pace without thinking and caught up to you just as you reached the building door.“Hey,” he said, voice low and serious, no trace of his usual teasing tone. “Are you alright?”

You turned your head slightly, eyes glassy and tired. The moment you recognized him, your expression hardened.“I don’t have time for your teasing right now, Heeseung,” you muttered weakly, trying to push past him toward the elevator.

Heeseung felt a flash of annoyance, not because you were dismissing him, but because he was genuinely worried and you clearly didn’t believe it.“I’m not teasing,” he said, more sharply than he intended. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

You didn’t respond, just kept walking toward the elevator. Heeseung followed, stepping in right after you. The doors closed, trapping the two of you in the small space. The silence was thick and uncomfortable. He could hear your breathing too fast, too shallow.

When the elevator reached your floor, you stepped out first. But the moment your feet hit the hallway, your legs buckled. You swayed dangerously, one hand reaching out blindly for the wall as the world spun around you. Heeseung moved fast.

He dropped his gym bag and caught you before you could hit the floor, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other supporting your back. Your body went limp against him for a few terrifying seconds.

“Shit—” he muttered, heart pounding. “Hey, stay with me.” You were half conscious, mumbling something incoherent about being fine. Heeseung didn’t waste time arguing. He adjusted his grip and lifted you carefully into his arms in bridal style, your head lolling against his shoulder.

Your apartment was right next to his. He fumbled for a moment with your keys ( which had fallen from your hand ) until he managed to unlock the door. He carried you inside, kicking the door shut behind him, and headed straight for your bedroom.

The room was neat but clearly lived in textbooks stacked on the desk, a half finished sketch on the table, a small trash can near the bed. Heeseung gently laid you down on the bed, pulling the blanket over you. Your face was pale, forehead slightly damp with sweat.

He stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. You looked so small and fragile like this. Nothing like the fiery girl who used to bang on his door and call him an entitled asshole.

Heeseung grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen and placed it on your nightstand. Then he pulled up the chair from your desk and sat down beside the bed, watching you carefully.

Your breathing slowly evened out. The tension in your face relaxed as you slipped into a deeper sleep. Heeseung stayed there, elbows on his knees, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t know what was going on with you.

He didn’t know why you looked so sick. He didn’t even know if you’d want him here when you woke up. But right now, leaving you alone didn’t feel like an option. So he stayed quietly waiting.

Until your breathing became steady and deep, and he was sure you were fully asleep. Heeseung stayed. He told himself he’d only wait until you fell into a proper sleep, but the longer he sat there watching your pale face and shallow breathing, the harder it became to leave.

You looked exhausted, truly exhausted in a way that went beyond simple tiredness. Dark circles under your eyes, lips slightly chapped, skin lacking its usual color. Something was clearly wrong, and the protective instinct he didn’t know he had kept him rooted to the chair.

After almost an hour, when your breathing had deepened into steady, even inhales, Heeseung stood up quietly. He couldn’t just sit there doing nothing. He moved silently through your apartment, careful not to make noise.

Your kitchen was small and neat, but the fridge was nearly empty a few bottles of water, some crackers, and not much else. Heeseung frowned. No wonder you looked so drained. He opened the cupboards and found rice, a couple of eggs, and some ginger.

Simple gentle on the stomach. He decided to make congee something light that his mom used to make for him when he was sick.

He worked quietly, chopping what little he could find, boiling water, and stirring the pot on low heat. The smell of ginger and warm rice slowly filled the small apartment. He hoped it would help when you woke up. Maybe it would make you feel a little better.

He kept glancing toward the bedroom every few minutes, making sure you were still resting. Almost two hours later, you started stirring.

Heeseung was just turning off the stove when he heard movement from the bedroom. He poured some congee into a bowl, added a bit of water to make it lighter, and was about to bring it to you when

You bolted upright in bed, eyes wide with sudden panic. The smell of the food hit you like a wave. Your face went even paler, hand flying to your mouth as nausea surged violently. Heeseung’s eyes widened. “Hey—”

You didn’t wait. You scrambled off the bed on shaky legs and ran straight to the bathroom, barely making it in time.

Heeseung followed right behind you, worry spiking through his chest. He reached the bathroom door just as you dropped to your knees in front of the toilet and started throwing up violently.

“Shit—” He moved quickly, kneeling beside you without hesitation. One hand gently gathered your hair, holding it back from your face. His other hand rubbed slow, soothing circles on your back. “It’s okay I’ve got you, just breathe.”

You retched again, body trembling with the force of it. Heeseung stayed right there, murmuring quiet reassurances, his hand never stopping its gentle motion on your back.

When the worst of it seemed to pass, he reached over and flushed the toilet, then grabbed a clean towel from the rack and dampened it with cool water.“Here,” he said softly, handing you the towel. “Wipe your face.”

You took it with trembling hands, still breathing hard. Heeseung stood up briefly to get a glass of water from the sink and brought it back to you.“Small sips,” he instructed, crouching down again. “Don’t drink too fast.”

While you rinsed your mouth and took careful sips, Heeseung’s eyes wandered around the small bathroom, looking for anything that might help. His gaze landed on the trash can beside the sink. Something white and plastic was poking out from under some tissues.

Curious, he reached down and pulled it out, it was a pregnancy test. Two distinct red lines stared back at him clear, unmistakable, and positive. Heeseung froze.

His brain short circuited for a second. The test felt heavy in his hand as the reality sank in. Positive you were pregnant. He slowly turned his head toward you. You were already looking at him.

Your eyes were wide with pure terror, face drained of all color, lips parted in shock. You looked caught completely and utterly caught like the worst secret in the world had just been ripped open. The glass of water trembled in your hand.

Heeseung’s mouth opened, but no words came out at first. His gaze flicked between the test in his hand and your terrified expression.

The pieces clicked together horribly fast the avoidance, the exhaustion, the vomiting, the way you looked like you were barely holding yourself together for the past two weeks.

This wasn’t just stress this was because of that night because of him. Heeseung swallowed hard, his voice coming out quieter than he expected.

“…Is this yours?” The bathroom fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. You were still staring at him, tears already gathering in your eyes again, looking like you wanted the floor to swallow you whole.

Heeseung didn’t know what to say. He only knew that everything had just changed. Heeseung stared at the two red lines on the pregnancy test for what felt like an eternity.

The bathroom was deathly quiet except for your shaky breathing. When he finally looked up at you, your face was pale, eyes wide with pure terror, tears already spilling down your cheeks. He swallowed hard, his throat tight.

“…Are you pregnant?” he asked, voice low and rough. You didn’t speak at first. Your lips trembled as fresh tears rolled down your face. Then you gave a small, barely noticeable nod.

Heeseung felt something twist sharply in his chest. He looked back down at the test, then at you again. His next question came out quieter, almost hesitant.

“Is the baby mine?” The moment the words left his mouth, your face crumpled completely. You broke into heavy, broken sobs, shoulders shaking as you tried to cover your mouth with one hand.

“I’m sorry…” you choked out between cries. “I’m so sorry… I didn’t want this to happen, i never meant for any of this, it was just one stupid night and I— I’m planning on getting rid of it. I won’t bother you with any of this, i won’t get in your way. You don’t have to worry about anything, i’ll handle it quietly.”

Heeseung’s expression shifted the instant you said those words. Hurt flashed across his face raw, unguarded hurt. His brows drew together, jaw tightening as he processed what you were saying.

The idea that you were planning to terminate the pregnancy without even telling him felt like a punch to the gut. His hand holding the test lowered slowly to his side. You kept crying, words tumbling out faster now, desperate and apologetic.

“I’m really sorry. I know you didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for this either, i’ll take care of everything. You can just forget about it…i promise I won’t drag you into anything.”

Heeseung stayed silent for a long moment, staring at you as you sat on the bathroom floor, looking small and devastated.

The hurt in his chest mixed with something heavier confusion, disbelief, and a strange ache he couldn’t quite name. Finally, his voice came out low and strained.

“and you didn’t bother telling me?”

PERMANENT TAGLIST : @wonscrchy @miniij @ni-kichromeheartzz @evansfangz @jakeycakeys @addictedtohobi @babydumplingpandabamboo @simjakeyjake @angelhyuka @nodoubtily @chanchamm @ni-k1ttie @yangw0ni3 @mystgene @enheenie

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"Sunghoon!"

Headshot, headshot, assist—that's all that's being processed when the front door bursts open hard enough to rattle the empty energy drink cans on Sunghoon's desk. He doesn't blink, even as one of them falls over, rolling around on the floor. He doesn't even stop to think about the remaining drop left in the can that's probably leaking onto the carpet somewhere.

"Sunghoon, get your ass out here!"

He's in game mode, and nobody stops him when he's like that. Not even his roommates, whose approaching footsteps he fails to register. The only thing that matters is the screen in front of him as he lines up his next shot, just waiting for the remaining enemy teammate to peek around the corner. His prey is right there. Right behind that wall. All they have to do is walk into his trap.

Just peek already, you little pussy bitch—

"Sunghoon!"

He yelps when a hand clamps on his shoulder. His arm jerks, aim twitching, and the enemy peeks at that very moment, landing a clean headshot on him. His teammates start cursing at him in the voice chat. A lovely, overlapping chorus of "kill yourself" and "delete the game" as if he hadn't carried them for the past two rounds.

Sunghoon mutes the mic and pulls his headphones down around his neck, glaring behind him at Heeseung, who is practically dragging him up from his seat. He tries to yank his arm away, but then another pair of hands is hauling him out of his seat. He directs his glare back at Jay.

"What the f—"

"Don't act surprised. I literally told you we needed your help an hour ago. It's your fault for queueing a ranked game," Jay states, patting his shoulder. Sunghoon is now on his feet, blinking at him. Annoyed, but... ultimately unable to argue back, given he had ignored all his texts.

"Can't you just get Jake or something?" He mutters.

Jay is already leaving his bedroom, and Heeseung nudges him forward, forcing him to follow. Sunghoon rolls his eyes, a heavy sigh escaping him. He moves with begrudging footsteps out into the hallway.

"It's a four-man job. Turns out my grandma's coffee table is heavy as shit."

"Your grandma's coffee table...?"

He's not exaggerating. The thing is solid oak—masterfully crafted, intricately carved, and so extremely fucking heavy that by the time they've wrestled it through the front door, all four of them go down, collapsing to the couch. Jake, already muttering something about needing a drink, Heeseung describing his physical decline in real time, and Jay, heaving in silence.

Sunghoon sinks into the cushions, and his vision blurs, wondering which is more to blame for it: the summer heat or the fact that he's been skipping the gym to play ranked and living off microwave ramen for the past few weeks. His headset is still around his neck, and he can hear his teammates losing without him. He doesn't care. He can't feel his arms.

"Fuck, I'm gonna feel that in my back for weeks," Heeseung announces to the ceiling, then his head lifts, "but look at that—really ties the place together, right?"

He gestures to the room. Sunghoon's eyes glaze over the sight. Bare white walls, curtainless windows, a TV that sits directly on the floor, and a trash bag in the corner full of takeout containers and red solo cups—and of course, now, the beautiful table, sticking out like a sore thumb amid the room's college-boy barrenness.

"We've lived here a whole year now," Sunghoon starts between breaths, not enough energy in him to glare at his roommates. "Not once has any one of us said, 'Oh no, where will I put my cup of coffee?'"

"Who says we have to use it for coffee?"

He blinks. He doesn't know when Jake left the room, but he's now returning with a six-pack of beer, setting it down on the new table. He cracks one open immediately, settling next to him on the couch.

"My grandma's downsizing." Jay reaches forward, patting the table's surface with genuine affection. "She gave it to us for free. You don't say no to a free coffee table."