skzhotpot

The horn blares across the woods, sharp and triumphant. Your team has the flag. Cheers erupt from the red plumes in the distance, but you’re too busy wiping blood from your split eyebrow to join them. Capture-the-flag was brutal tonight: swords clashing, shields cracking, arrows whistling past your ear close enough to nick the skin. You fought like you always do: first in, last out, taking hits so others don’t have to.

Now the adrenaline is draining, leaving a dull throb in your shoulder, a sting across your ribs, and a dozen smaller cuts that burn whenever you move. You roll your neck, spit a little blood into the dirt, and start limping toward the cabins. The Ares cabin is closer, but you don’t head there. Your siblings will just slap you on the back, call you a beast, and hand you ambrosia like it’s candy. That’s not what you need right now.

You need quiet. And, though you’d never admit it out loud, you need him.

The Apollo cabin glows softly at the edge of the clearing, golden light spilling from the windows like it’s leaking sunlight even after dark. The door is cracked open, always is, in case someone stumbles in bleeding. You push it wider with your shoulder and step inside.

The air smells like honey and antiseptic herbs. Lyres hang silent on the walls. A couple of Seokmin’s younger siblings are curled up in the far bunks, asleep after their own long day of archery practice and music lessons. No one stirs as you move deeper into the infirmary wing.

Seokmin is at the back counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sorting bundles of dried marigold and yarrow under a single hanging lantern. His hair catches the light like it’s woven from actual sunbeams. He doesn’t look up right away; he’s humming under his breath, low and melodic, the kind of tune that makes wounds itch to close.

You clear your throat.

He turns, and the humming stops. His eyes, warm brown shot through with gold, flick over you in one quick, practiced sweep. You watch his brows draw together, just slightly.

"You’re bleeding on my floor" he says, voice gentle but edged with something that might be exasperation.

You glance down. A thin trail of red drips from your knuckles onto the polished wood. "Sorry. I’ll lick it up."

He sighs, but the corner of his mouth twitches. "Sit."

There’s a long wooden cot against the wall, covered in a clean white sheet. You drop onto it heavier than you mean to, wincing as the motion pulls at the gash along your ribs. Seokmin crosses the room in three quiet strides, already pulling on thin latex gloves that glow faintly when his healing power stirs beneath the surface.

He kneels in front of you without ceremony. Up close, you can see the faint freckles across his nose, the tiny scar on his lower lip he got from a runaway pegasus years ago. He smells like summer grass and the sharp tang of medicinal salve.

"Let’s see the damage" he murmurs.

You shrug off your dented breastplate and peel away the torn orange camp T-shirt underneath. The cool air hits the slice across your ribs, long but shallow, already crusting with blood. There’s a deeper bruise blooming over your collarbone, purple and angry. Smaller cuts crisscross your arms like red thread.

Seokmin doesn’t flinch. He never does. He just tilts his head, assessing, then reaches for a clean cloth and a bowl of warm water infused with something that smells like lavender and nectar.

You hiss when the cloth touches the rib wound.

"Sorry" he says automatically, even though he’s barely pressing. His touch is feather-light, methodical. He cleans the blood away in slow circles, revealing the clean edges of the cut.

"You could’ve blocked that one" he says quietly.

"I did block it. With my body."

He exhales through his nose. "That’s not what blocking means."

You smirk, even though it pulls at the split in your eyebrow. "Worked, didn’t it? We won."

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he sets the cloth aside and places two fingers just above the gash on your ribs. Warmth blooms under his touch: golden, soft, like sunlight soaking into your skin. You feel the tissue knitting together, the sting fading into a faint itch. It’s always a little disorienting, how gentle his power feels compared to the violence that caused the wound.

"You don’t have to take every hit" he says, eyes fixed on the healing skin.

"Yes, I do."

He glances up then. There’s no judgment in his expression, just something steady and searching. "Why?"

You open your mouth for the usual answer "because I’m Ares’ daughter, because I’m built for this, because someone has to" but the words stick. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s the way the lantern light makes his eyes look softer than usual. You settle for a shrug.

He lets it go. Moves on to the bruise at your collarbone. His palm settles over it, warmth spreading deeper this time, easing the ache in the bone beneath. You find yourself watching his face: the concentration between his brows, the way his lower lip catches between his teeth when he focuses.

"You’re staring" he says without looking up.

"Am I?" You don’t stop. "Hard not to. You’ve got that glowy thing going on."

The corner of his mouth lifts again. "It’s called healing. You should try not needing it so often."

"Where’s the fun in that?"

He shakes his head, but he’s almost smiling now. The bruise fades from purple to yellow to nothing under his hand. He shifts to the smaller cuts on your arms, fingers brushing over each one until the skin seals smooth and unmarked.

You flex your hands, testing. Everything feels new. Strong. You always forget how good his healing is, like he doesn’t just fix the wound, he gives the muscle back its full strength, like it never happened.

He sits back on his heels, peeling off the gloves. "Anything else?"

You hesitate. There’s a shallow slice along your jaw you forgot about, but it’s already scabbing. You touch it lightly. "Nah. I’m good."

He studies you for a moment longer, like he’s checking for lies. Then he reaches for a small jar on the shelf behind him, something pale gold and shimmering.

"Hold still."

Before you can ask, he dips two fingers into the salve and smooths it over the cut on your eyebrow and the one on your jaw. It’s cool at first, then warms, tingling faintly. The skin there tightens, the sting vanishing completely.

You catch his wrist before he can pull away. "You don’t have to baby me, sunshine."

Seokmin stills. His pulse flutters under your thumb, quick, but steady. "I’m not babying you" he says quietly. "I’m making sure you don’t scar."

"I like scars. They’re stories."

His eyes flick to yours. "Some stories don’t need to be written on your skin."

The room feels suddenly smaller. Quieter. You realize you’re still holding his wrist. He hasn’t moved to pull away.

You let go first, leaning back on your palms. "You worry too much."

"I worry exactly enough" he corrects. He stands, busying himself with putting away the salve and cloth, but you catch the faint flush across his cheeks.

You swing your legs off the cot, testing your weight. Everything holds. You feel… light. Whole. It’s a dangerous feeling: makes you want to run back into the woods and find another fight just to test the limits of what he’s given back to you.

Instead, you linger.

"Thanks" you say. It comes out gruffer than you meant.

He glances over his shoulder. "Anytime."

You head for the door, but pause on the threshold. Moonlight spills across the porch outside, silver and cold compared to the warmth in here.

"Hey, Seokmin?"

He looks up, hands stilling over the herb bundles.

"Next time, I’ll try dodging. Maybe."

He snorts softly. "I’ll believe it when I see it."

You grin, sharp and quick, and step out into the night. The door swings shut behind you with a gentle click.

Behind you, inside the golden cabin, Seokmin exhales slowly. He touches the spot on his wrist where your fingers had been, then shakes his head and goes back to sorting herbs. But he’s smiling.

The second time you show up at the Apollo cabin, it’s two days later, and you’re pretending it’s an accident.

Capture-the-flag was Tuesday. Today is Thursday, which means sparring rotations in the arena. You spent the afternoon paired against a couple of Hephaestus kids who fight dirty and a Hermes girl who fights fast. You won all three bouts, but not without cost: a shallow slice across your left forearm from a serrated dagger, a blooming bruise on your thigh where a shield rim caught you, and a split knuckle from punching someone’s breastplate a little too enthusiastically.

The sun is dipping low when the whistle finally blows to end practice. Most campers head straight for the dining pavilion, laughing and shoving each other, comparing new scars like trading cards. You linger by the weapon racks, wiping down your sword longer than necessary, letting the crowd thin out.

Your siblings are already halfway across the green, shouting about who gets the first shower in the Ares cabin. One of them: Jae, glances back and raises an eyebrow at you.

"You coming, or you got a hot date with the strawberry fields?"

You flip him off without looking up. He laughs and jogs to catch up with the others.

When the arena is finally quiet, you sling your sword across your back and head in the opposite direction of the Ares cabin. Again.

The Apollo cabin is busier this time. A couple of younger kids are practicing scales on lyres in the front room, the notes bright and plucky. Someone else is strumming a guitar softly in the corner. The infirmary door is ajar, and the warm lantern light spills out like an invitation.

You push through without knocking.

Seokmin is restocking shelves, standing on his toes to reach the higher ones. He’s swapped the camp T-shirt for a pale yellow hoodie tonight, sleeves pushed up again. His hair is a little messier than usual, like he’s been running his hands through it. When he hears the door, he glances over his shoulder.

His expression doesn’t change much, just that same quick sweep of his eyes taking inventory of the damage, but you catch the tiniest tightening around his mouth.

"Back so soon?" he asks, voice mild.

You shrug, leaning against the doorframe. "What can I say? I’m injury-prone."

He sets the bundle of gauze down and turns fully toward you. "Arena?"

"Sparring."

He nods like that explains everything. "Cot’s free."

You cross the room and drop onto the familiar white sheet. The cot creaks under your weight. You stretch your legs out, wincing slightly when the bruise on your thigh protests.

Seokmin washes his hands at the small sink, then pulls on fresh gloves. He doesn’t ask you to take anything off this time; the cuts are all on exposed skin. He just kneels in front of you again, close enough that you can see the faint shadows under his eyes. Long day, probably.

He starts with the slice on your forearm. It’s clean but angry, blood crusted along the edges. He cleans it gently with a warm cloth, the same lavender-nectar scent rising between you.

"You’re favoring your left leg" he observes without looking up.

"I am not."

He glances up then, one brow arched.

You sigh. "Fine. Thigh bruise. It’s ugly, but it’s fine."

"Let me see."

You hesitate. It’s not modesty, Ares kids don’t really do modesty, but something about rolling up your shorts in front of him feels different tonight. Still, you hitch the hem of your gym shorts up just enough to expose the bruise: a dark purple bloom spreading across the outer muscle, shaped vaguely like the edge of a shield.

Seokmin’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t say anything, just dips his fingers into that same golden salve and smooths it over the bruise in slow, careful circles.

The warmth sinks deep immediately. You feel the ache recede, the muscle loosening like it’s exhaling. His touch is clinical, but there’s something in the way his thumb lingers at the edge of the bruise, tracing the border where purple meets normal skin, that feels less clinical.

"You could ice this" he says quietly. "Or, you know, not get hit there in the first place."

"I tried dodging" you say, echoing your promise from two nights ago. "I really did. She was just faster."

He huffs a soft laugh. "Progress, I guess."

He finishes with the bruise and moves to your hand. Your knuckles are scraped raw, two of them split. He cleans the dirt out with precise dabs, then lets the golden light pool in his palm. He cups your hand in both of his, thumbs pressing gently over the splits.

The warmth spreads up your wrist, into your fingers. You watch the skin knit closed, the redness fading to pink and then to nothing. His hands are steady, calloused in places from bowstrings and lyre strings, but gentle in a way that doesn’t feel weak.

"You’ve got good hands" you say before you can think better of it.

He pauses, just for a second. "Thanks. Comes with the territory."

You flex your fingers once he’s done. Perfect. Like you never punched solid metal. You bump his shoulder lightly with your newly healed fist. "See? Told you I’d try dodging."

He looks at you sidelong. "One attempt doesn’t make a habit."

"Give me time, sunshine."

There’s that almost-smile again. He stands, peeling off the gloves and tossing them into the bin. You don’t move to leave. Instead, you lean back on your elbows, watching him tidy up.

He notices. "Something else hurt?"

"No." You tilt your head. "Just… not in a rush."

He pauses with a roll of bandages in his hand. For a moment, the only sound is the distant plucking of lyres from the front room. Then he nods, like that makes sense, and goes back to organizing.

You let the silence stretch. It’s comfortable in a way you’re not used to. Most places you hang out: the arena, the Ares cabin, even the dining pavilion, are loud. Full of shouting, clanging metal, trash talk. Here, it’s quiet. Warm. The lantern flickers softly overhead.

Eventually, he finishes and leans against the counter opposite you, arms loosely crossed. "You don’t have to keep coming here, you know. The infirmary’s always open, but your cabin has ambrosia. Basic first aid."

You snort. "Yeah, because Jae’s idea of first aid is 'walk it off' and a beer if you’re lucky."

Seokmin’s lips twitch. "Fair."

"Besides" you add "your way’s better. Feels like I come out stronger."

He looks down at his hands, flexing them absently. "That’s… kind of the point. Apollo kids don’t just patch you up. We try to give everything back the way it was supposed to be."

You study him. "You ever get tired of it? Fixing everyone else all the time?"

He shrugs. "Sometimes. But mostly no. It’s what I’m good at."

"You’re good at a lot of things" you say. You’ve seen him shoot, his archery is terrifyingly precise. You’ve heard him sing during campfire, voice clear and warm enough to make even the Ares table shut up for once. "Healing’s just the one people notice most."

He meets your eyes then, something curious in his expression. Like he’s trying to figure out if you’re teasing or not.

You’re not.

He pushes off the counter and grabs a small tin from the shelf. Opens it, inside are square pieces of ambrosia wrapped in wax paper. He offers you one.

You take it, unwrap it, and pop it in your mouth. It tastes like the first bite of your favorite food from back home, your mom’s bulgogi, smoky and sweet. You close your eyes for a second, savoring.

When you open them, he’s watching you with a soft look you can’t quite name.

"What?" you ask around the ambrosia.

"Nothing" he says quickly. "Just… you look less like you’re about to bite someone when you eat that."

You grin. "Don’t get used to it."

He laughs under his breath and turns to blow out one of the lanterns, dimming the room slightly. The front room has gone quiet now; the younger kids must have gone to dinner.

You should go too. You’re hungry for actual food, and your siblings will start placing bets on whether you got lost or started another fight somewhere.

But you stay seated.

Seokmin notices, of course he does, and instead of kicking you out, he pulls up a stool and sits across from you, close enough that your knees almost touch.

"So" he says "how’d the Hermes girl get the drop on you?"

You launch into the story, hands moving as you describe the feint she pulled, the way you overcommitted, the shield bash that left the bruise. He listens intently, asking small questions about footwork, about timing, like he’s genuinely trying to understand.

You realize halfway through that you’re rambling. You don’t ramble. Ever.

But he doesn’t seem to mind.

When you finish, he nods thoughtfully. "Next time, watch her hips. She telegraphs left before she goes right."

You blink. "You watched?"

"I was on archery duty. Had a clear view of the arena." He shrugs like it’s no big deal.

You lean forward, elbows on your knees. "You're spying on me, sunshine?"

His ears go pink. "Observing. For… medical reasons."

"Sure" you drawl, grinning. "Medical reasons."

He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling now, open and easy.

You stand finally, stretching. Everything feels loose, strong. Ready for tomorrow’s chaos.

"Thanks again" you say, heading for the door.

He follows you out onto the porch. The night air is cool, stars bright overhead. Crickets chirp in the grass.

You pause on the steps. "Hey. If I promise to try dodging again tomorrow… will you save me a spot on the cot?"

He leans against the doorframe, hands in his hoodie pocket. "Cot’s always open for you."

Something warm flips in your chest. You nod once, sharp, like that’s just practical information and not something that makes you want to linger longer.

"Night, Seokmin."

"Night" he says softly.

You jog down the steps and across the green, the taste of ambrosia still on your tongue, the memory of warm hands still on your skin.

Behind you, Seokmin watches until you disappear into the shadows near the Ares cabin. Then he exhales, slow and steady, and closes the door.

A week slips by in a blur of sweat, steel, and the constant thrum of camp life. You throw yourself into every drill, every skirmish, every volunteer slot for border patrol like you’re trying to outrun something. Maybe you are. The memory of warm hands and quiet lantern light has been following you around like a shadow you can’t shake.

You keep finding excuses to pass the Apollo cabin. Sometimes you linger on the porch steps during archery practice, pretending to watch the targets while actually watching Seokmin coach a line of younger campers. His voice carries across the range, patient, encouraging, with that low melodic undertone that makes even criticism sound kind. You tell yourself you’re just checking form. You’re a liar.

By Saturday, Chiron announces a full-day monster drill in the woods: live harpies released in waves, enchanted illusions, the works. It’s meant to simulate a real breach, chaotic, unpredictable, exhausting. Perfect.

You spend the morning in the arena warming up with your siblings, sword singing through the air, shield strapped tight. Jae bumps your shoulder as you gear up.

"You’ve been weirdly chipper lately" he says, smirking. "Either you’re plotting something evil or you’ve got a crush."

You elbow him hard enough to make him grunt. "Mind your business."

He laughs, but doesn’t push it.

The drill starts at noon. Horns blast. Harpies screech overhead. You’re assigned to the eastern flank with a mixed group: some Athena kids for strategy, a couple of Demeter campers for vine traps, and you as the frontline muscle. It’s exactly where you want to be.

The first wave is easy. You cleave through illusions and real feathers alike, shouting orders, keeping the line tight. Adrenaline sings in your veins like it always does. You feel invincible.

The second wave is rougher. The harpies dive faster, talons sharper. One clips your shoulder as you spin, carving a hot line through armor and skin. You barely feel it, just pivot and slash, sending the creature spiraling. Blood runs warm down your arm, but the fight is too good to stop.

By late afternoon, the third wave hits. These harpies are bigger, smarter. They herd the defenders toward a rocky outcrop, trying to pin you against stone. You refuse to be pinned.

You break formation, just for a moment, to draw three of them away from the younger campers. It works. They follow you into a narrow ravine, shrieking. You duck and roll under talons, come up swinging. Your sword bites deep into one wing; another rakes claws across your side as it barrels past.

Pain flares bright and immediate. You stagger, pressing a hand to your ribs. Wet. Too wet. The harpy circles back for another pass.

You grit your teeth, plant your feet, and meet it head-on. The clash is brutal, talons scrape your shield, your blade finds flesh. The creature crashes into the rocks behind you, stunned. You finish it with a downward thrust.

The ravine goes quiet except for your breathing.

You look down. Your orange camp shirt is shredded along the right side, dark with blood. The slash is long, starting just under your armpit and curving across your ribs. Not arterial, not lung-deep, but bad enough that every breath tugs painfully. You press your palm harder against it and feel the warm pulse of blood between your fingers.

The drill horn sounds in the distance: all clear. Cheers echo faintly through the trees.

You lean against the ravine wall for a minute, catching your breath. The adrenaline crash is starting, leaving you shaky. You could head straight to the big infirmary tent set up near the arena, there are multiple Apollo kids on rotation there, ambrosia stations, everything efficient and impersonal.

But your feet carry you the long way around, through the trees, toward the golden cabin on the edge of the green.

The sun is low now, painting everything bronze and rose. Most campers are still gathered around the arena, recounting victories, getting patched up. The Apollo cabin is quiet when you push open the door.

Seokmin is alone inside the infirmary wing, back turned, writing something in a ledger at the counter. He’s in a simple white tunic today, sleeves rolled high, hair brushed back. There’s a faint streak of blood on his forearm, someone else’s, already cleaned but not quite washed away.

You shut the door harder than necessary.

He turns immediately. His eyes find you, then drop to the way you’re holding your side, to the blood darkening your fingers and soaking your shirt.

His face goes very still.

"Sit" he says. The word is quiet, but it carries.

You cross the room and lower yourself onto the cot. The motion pulls at the wound; you can’t quite hide the hiss that escapes.

Seokmin is already moving, grabbing supplies with quick, economical motions. Gloves, gauze, a bowl of steaming water, jars of salve. He sets everything on a rolling tray and pushes it close.

"Shirt off" he says. His voice is calm, but there’s an edge under it you haven’t heard before.You peel the ruined fabric away carefully. It sticks where blood has dried. The slash is ugly, jagged, about eight inches long, deeper in the middle. Bruising is already spreading around it like spilled ink.

Seokmin kneels. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just soaks a thick pad of gauze and presses it gently to the worst part of the wound to staunch the fresh seep of blood.

You watch his face. His jaw is tight, eyes focused entirely on the injury. The usual softness is still there, but it’s layered under something sharper.

"That bad, huh?" you try, aiming for light.

He doesn’t answer right away. He lifts the gauze, checks the bleeding, presses again. When he finally speaks, his voice is low.

"You broke formation."

You blink. "How did you-"

"I was on the ridge with the archers. I saw you draw them off." His eyes flick up to yours, just for a second. "It was brave. It was also stupid."

You open your mouth to defend yourself, someone had to, the younger kids were exposed, but the words stall when you see his expression. It’s not anger, exactly. It’s something heavier.

"I’m fine" you say instead.

"You’re not." He sets the soaked gauze aside and starts cleaning the wound properly. The warm cloth stings, but his touch is careful. "This needed pressure ten minutes ago. Stitches, maybe. You walked here like this."

You shrug with your good shoulder. "Didn’t want to wait in line at the big tent."

He pauses. Looks at you fully now. "That’s not why."

The room feels smaller again. You hold his gaze, stubborn. "Maybe I just prefer your bedside manner."

Something flickers across his face, too quick to name. He exhales through his nose and goes back to work.

He cleans every inch of the gash with meticulous care, irrigating it with a nectar-infused solution that burns cold for a moment before numbing. Then he smooths a thin layer of golden salve along the edges. Only when the wound is prepped does he place both hands over it.

Warm light blooms under his palms, brighter than usual, deeper. You feel it sink into muscle, knitting tissue, sealing skin. It’s slower this time; the injury is worse than anything he’s healed on you before. You watch the concentration in his face: brows drawn, lower lip caught between his teeth.

Minutes pass. The pain ebbs gradually, replaced by that familiar golden warmth. When he finally lifts his hands, the slash is closed, a thin pink line that will fade to silver in a day or two. The bruising is already yellowing at the edges.

He doesn’t move back right away. His hands hover just above your skin, like he’s checking for anything he missed.

You catch one of his wrists gently. "Hey. I’m okay."

His eyes meet yours. They’re darker than usual, stormier. "You don’t have to prove anything" he says quietly. "Not to them. Not to me."

The words land heavier than you expect. You swallow. "I know."

"Do you?"

You don’t answer. You’re not sure you have one.

He sits back on his heels finally, peeling off the gloves with sharp, controlled motions. He tosses them into the bin harder than necessary.

You pull on the spare camp shirt he hands you without asking, soft, clean, smelling faintly of honey and herbs. It’s one of his; it hangs loose on you.

Silence stretches. Not the comfortable kind from last time. This one feels loaded.

You swing your legs off the cot, testing. The side twinges, but holds. You feel whole again, stronger than before the fight, like always. But something else feels off balance.

Seokmin stands too, busying himself with cleaning the tray. His shoulders are tense.

You step closer. "Seokmin."

He stills, but doesn’t turn.

"I’m sorry" you say. The words feel foreign in your mouth, you don’t apologize often. "For worrying you."

He turns then. His expression softens, just a fraction. "I hate seeing you hurt."

The honesty in it knocks the air out of you for a second.

"I know" you say again, softer. "I’ll… try to be more careful."

He studies you, like he’s weighing whether to believe it. Then he nods once.

You move toward the door, but pause. "You were on the ridge?"

"Yeah."

"Did you get any of them? The harpies."

He huffs a small laugh. "Four."

You whistle low. "Show-off."

That earns a real smile, small, but there. The tension eases a little.

You linger on the threshold. The sky outside is deep indigo now, first stars pricking through. Crickets are starting their nightly chorus.

"Hey" you say. "Next drill… watch my left side? Tell me if I’m dropping my shield too low."

He leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely. "You want pointers?"

"From the guy who can thread an arrow through a harpy’s eye a hundred meters? Yeah."

His smile widens. "Deal."

You nod, step out onto the porch. The night air is cool against your newly healed skin.

Behind you, the door doesn’t close right away. You glance back.

Seokmin is standing in the doorway, watching you go.

"You don’t have to walk back alone" he says.

You smirk over your shoulder. "Scared I’ll get mauled by a squirrel?"

He rolls his eyes, but steps out anyway, pulling the door shut behind him. Falls into step beside you as you cross the green toward the cabins.

You don’t talk much on the walk. Just the crunch of gravel under sneakers, the distant laughter from the dining pavilion where late dinner is still going. Fireflies blink in the grass.

When you reach the fork, one path to Ares, one back to Apollo, he stops.

"You're sure you’re okay?" he asks.

You flex your side experimentally. Barely a twinge. "Good as new. Better, even."

He nods, but his eyes linger on the spot where the wound was.

You take a half step closer. "Thanks for patching me up. Again."

"Anytime" he says, same as always. But this time his voice is quieter.

You want to say something else, something about how his worry doesn’t feel like a burden, how the warmth of his hands stays with you longer than it should, but the words don’t come.

So you just bump his shoulder lightly with yours. "Night, sunshine."

He smiles, soft and tired. "Night."

You head toward the Ares cabin, feeling his gaze on your back until you disappear inside.

Later, lying in your bunk while your siblings snore around you, you trace the faint new scar under your shirt. It’s smooth, barely raised.

You think about golden light and quiet voices and the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

You fall asleep with the ghost of warmth along your ribs and the decision settling in your chest: next time, you’ll fight a little smarter.

Not because you’re afraid of pain. But because someone out there hates seeing you bleed.

The nights start to feel different after the monster drill.

You still fight, harder, maybe, because now you’re conscious of someone watching from the ridge or the sidelines. You dodge more, shield higher, footwork sharper. You come back with fewer cuts, smaller bruises. But you still come back.

And every time, you find yourself on the familiar porch of the Apollo cabin.

It’s been ten days since the ravine. Ten days of this quiet new rhythm: sparring until the sun drops, dinner with your rowdy siblings, then the walk across the green while most of camp winds down for campfire or cabin games. You tell yourself it’s just practical, healing is faster with Seokmin, no lines, no fuss. But you know it’s more than that.

Tonight is no different. Sparring ran late. The arena lights, those big enchanted torches, flicker low as the last pairs finish up. You went three rounds against a Dionysus kid who fights like he’s drunk even when he’s not: unpredictable, looping, frustrating. You won, but he landed a solid hit to your upper arm with the flat of his blade just before you disarmed him. It’s not broken, but it throbs deep in the muscle every time you rotate your shoulder.

You roll it gingerly while crossing the green. The grass is cool and damp under your sneakers; fireflies drift lazy circles in the dark. Most cabins are lit from within, laughter and music spilling out. The Ares cabin is loudest, someone’s blasting heavy metal from a contraband speaker, but you veer left instead of right.

The Apollo cabin glows soft gold, as always. The front porch is empty. No younger siblings practicing chords tonight. You push the door open quietly.

Inside, the main room is dim, just a few wall sconces burning low. The infirmary door stands open, lantern light pooling warm onto the wooden floor.

Seokmin is at the counter, head bent over a mortar and pestle. He’s grinding something that smells sharp and green, mint, maybe, mixed with something earthier. His hair is loose tonight, falling across his forehead as he works. He’s humming again, the same low melody you caught the very first night.

You lean in the doorway and watch for a moment. The tune is slow, almost wistful. It suits the quiet.

He senses you before you speak, head lifting, eyes finding you instantly.

"You’re late" he says. No accusation, just observation.

"Sparring ran long." You step inside and close the door behind you. "Hope you weren’t waiting up."

He sets the pestle down. "I wasn’t." A pause. "But the cot’s free."

You smile at that and cross to it, dropping down with a quiet groan. The arm throbs harder now that you’re still. You rotate the shoulder again, testing.

Seokmin washes his hands, pulls on gloves, and rolls the tray over. He doesn’t ask what hurts; he just waits.

"Upper arm" you say. "Bruised deep. Maybe a little muscle tear. Nothing dramatic."

He nods. "Shirt?"

You pull the orange camp tee over your head in one motion and toss it aside. You’re in a black sports bra underneath, practical, nothing fancy. The bruise is already blooming dark across your deltoid, purple-black in the center.

Seokmin’s eyes flick over it, clinical at first, then lingering a second longer. He reaches for the salve jar.

"Cold or warm first?" he asks.

"Warm" you say. You’ve learned he always asks now, some bruises respond better to cold compresses, some to heat and light.

He nods, scoops a generous amount of the golden salve, and warms it between his palms first. Then he smooths it over the bruise in slow, even strokes.

The heat sinks in immediately. You let your head fall back against the wall, eyes half-closing. His hands are careful, pressing just hard enough to work the salve into the muscle without aggravating it.

"Tell me if it’s too much pressure" he murmurs.

"It’s good" you say. Your voice comes out lower than usual.

Minutes pass like that: quiet room, quiet touch, the faint scent of herbs and honey. His thumbs circle slowly over the worst of the bruising, coaxing the salve deeper. You feel the ache dull, the muscle loosen.

You open your eyes and watch him. He’s focused, but not distant. There’s a softness in the set of his mouth, in the way his brows draw together just slightly.

"You’ve been dodging better" he says without looking up.

You huff a small laugh. "Keeping tabs?"

"Observing." He echoes your old tease. "You dropped your shield less today. Good footwork against the Dionysus kid."

"You watched again."

"I was restocking the archery range. Had a view."

You shake your head, smiling. "Medical reasons, right?"

This time he meets your eyes. "Something like that."

The air shifts. Not charged, exactly, just aware. You’re both conscious of how close he is, kneeling between your knees, hands on your bare skin. Neither of you moves away.

He finishes with the salve and lets his palms rest lightly over the bruise. Golden light blooms, gentler than the deep healing he used on your ribs, more like sunlight through leaves. You feel the muscle fibers knit, the blood vessels mend. The pain fades to nothing.

When the light dims, he doesn’t pull away immediately. His hands stay, warm and steady.

You reach out without thinking and cover one of his hands with yours. His skin is warm, calloused in some places. He stills.

"Hey" you say quietly.

He looks up. Lantern light catches in his eyes, gold flecks bright against warm brown.

"You don’t have to worry so much" you tell him. "I’m listening now. Shield up, feet quick. See? Barely a bruise tonight."

The corner of his mouth lifts. "Barely."

You squeeze his hand lightly. "I’m trying."

"I know." His voice is soft. "I see it."

Your thumb brushes over his knuckles without permission. He doesn’t stop you.

Silence stretches, comfortable but heavy with something unspoken. You’re close enough to see the faint freckles across his nose, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he glances down.

He turns his hand under yours, palm up. An invitation, maybe. Or just curiosity.

You lace your fingers through his without deciding to. His hand is bigger than you expected, strong from drawing bowstrings every day. It fits well.

Neither of you speaks.

After a long moment, he exhales slowly. "Does it still hurt?"

You flex the arm, roll the shoulder. "Not even a twinge. You’re too good at this."

He smiles at that, small, genuine. "Practice."

You don’t let go of his hand. He doesn’t pull away.

The infirmary feels like its own world tonight. Outside, you can hear faint laughter from the campfire circle, someone strumming a guitar badly. Inside, it’s just the two of you, breathing quiet and even.

You lean forward slightly, elbows on your knees. The motion brings you closer; your joined hands rest on your thigh now.

Seokmin’s eyes drop to your mouth for a fraction of a second, then flick back up. You catch it.

Your heart thuds once, hard.

You could close the distance. It would be easy, lean in, tilt your head, find out what his mouth feels like. You can almost imagine it: warm, careful at first, then not.

But something holds you back. Not fear, exactly. Just the sense that this, whatever this is, is fragile in the best way. Worth going slow.

So instead, you squeeze his hand again and sit back.

He lets out a quiet breath, like he’d been holding it.

You stand, picking up your discarded shirt but not putting it on yet. The room is warm enough.

"I should head back" you say. "Before my siblings send a search party."

He nods, standing too. He doesn’t let go of your hand until you gently untangle your fingers.

You pull the shirt on, smoothing it down. When you turn, he’s closer than you expected, close enough that you have to tip your head up slightly to meet his eyes.

"Thanks" you say. Simple, but it carries weight tonight.

"Anytime" he answers, same as always. But his voice is rougher around the edges.

You step toward the door. He follows, like he’s done before.

On the porch, the night air is cool against your healed skin. Stars are thick overhead, the moon a sharp crescent.

You pause on the steps.

"Seokmin?"

He stops in the doorway, one hand on the frame. "Yeah?"

You turn to face him fully. "I’ll probably be back tomorrow. Probably with another bruise."

His smile is slow, warm. "Cot’s always open."

You nod. Then, because you can’t help it, you reach out and flick the loose strand of hair off his forehead. Your fingers linger just a second against his skin.

He goes very still.

"Good night, sunshine" you say softly.

You jog down the steps before you can do something reckless, like kiss him right there on the porch.

Behind you, Seokmin stays in the doorway a long time, watching the place where you disappeared into the dark.

Eventually he closes the door, leans his back against it, and presses his palm to his chest like he’s checking that his heart is still beating in the right rhythm.

It is. Just a little faster than usual.

The day it finally breaks open is a Thursday, three weeks after the monster drill.

Training has been brutal all week: Chiron upped the intensity, pairing cabins against each other in rotating skirmishes. Today was Ares versus Apollo. Swords against bows, aggression against precision. You spent the afternoon in the arena leading charges, breaking shield walls, taking arrows on your shield instead of your skin. Your team won, barely, but the cost was high: bruises everywhere, a shallow slice on your forearm from a practice blade that got too sharp, and a deeper one along your thigh where someone’s spear tip caught you mid-spin.

The sun is long gone by the time the whistle blows. Campers limp off the field in clusters, laughing through the pain, trading boasts. You hang back, wiping blood from your thigh with the hem of your torn shorts, pretending to check your sword for nicks. Your siblings head for the dining pavilion without you, Jae throws a mocking salute over his shoulder when he notices you lingering.

You wait until the arena is empty, torches flickering low, before you start the familiar walk.

The Apollo cabin is quiet tonight. Most of Seokmin’s siblings are still at dinner or tending to their own scrapes in the big infirmary tent. The porch light is on, though. It always is now.

You push the door open without knocking.

The main room is dim, just a few sconces glowing. The infirmary door stands ajar, golden lantern light spilling out like it’s been waiting for you.

Seokmin is inside, back to you, rolling fresh bandages at the counter. He’s in a loose gray hoodie tonight, sleeves pushed high, hair combed back again. There’s a faint sheen of sweat at his temples, he must have been out on the field too, picking off your teammates from the tree line.

He hears your footsteps and turns.

His eyes sweep over you in one quick, practiced motion: the blood on your shorts, the way you’re favoring your right leg slightly, the slice on your arm already crusting.

His shoulders drop, just a fraction.

"You’re late" he says, but there’s no lightness in it tonight.

"Had to make sure we won first" you answer. Your voice sounds rougher than you meant.

He doesn’t smile. Just nods toward the cot. "Sit."

You cross the room and lower yourself carefully. The thigh wound pulls when you bend your knee; fresh blood wells along the edges. You hiss through your teeth.

Seokmin is already moving, gloves, gauze, antiseptic, the golden salve. He sets the tray down harder than usual. The metal instruments clink.

He kneels in front of you without a word.

You pull off your shirt first, sports bra again, practical, and drop it on the floor. Then you ease your shorts down just enough to expose the gash on your outer thigh: long, jagged, deeper than you realized in the heat of the fight. Blood has soaked into the fabric and dried in dark streaks down your leg.

Seokmin’s jaw tightens. He soaks a thick pad and presses it to the wound to slow the bleeding. You feel his hand tremble, just once, before he steadies it.

You watch his face. The usual calm is cracked tonight. His brows are drawn tight, mouth set in a line you’ve never seen on him before.

"Hey" you say quietly. "I’m okay."

He doesn’t look up. "You’re not."

The words come out sharper than you’ve ever heard from him. Not angry at you, angry at the wound, maybe. At the fight. At the fact that you’re here again.

He lifts the gauze, checks the bleed, presses again. His breathing is careful, controlled.

You reach down and cover his wrist with your hand. "Seokmin." He stills. "Look at me."

He does, finally. His eyes are darker than usual, stormy gold-brown. There’s something raw in them: worry, frustration, fear he’s been holding back for weeks.

"I took most of those hits on purpose" you admit. "To keep the younger ones safe. To end it faster. I knew what I was doing."

"That doesn’t make it better" he says, voice low.

You swallow. "I know."

He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to let go of something heavy. Then he goes back to work: cleaning the thigh wound with steady hands, irrigating it carefully, smoothing salve along the edges. The forearm slice he handles next, quicker but no less gentle.

When both wounds are prepped, he places his palms over the thigh gash first. Golden light blooms, brighter, hotter than usual. You feel it sink deep, knitting muscle, sealing skin. It takes longer tonight; the cut was deeper. His hands stay steady, but you can feel the faint tremor again.

You rest your hand over one of his without thinking. He doesn’t pull away.

Minutes pass in silence. The light fades slowly. When he lifts his hands, the gash is closed, a thin pink line that will fade by morning. The forearm is flawless.

He sits back on his heels, peels off the gloves, and tosses them aside. His shoulders are tense, head bowed.

You slide forward on the cot until your knees bracket his. Reach out and cup his face with both hands, careful, like he’s something precious.

He lets you. His skin is warm, faint stubble along his jaw. You brush your thumbs over his cheekbones.

"I’m here" you say quietly. "Whole. Because of you."

His eyes close for a second. When they open again, the storm has quieted, but something else has taken its place, something fierce and soft at once.

"I can’t keep watching you bleed" he says. The words come out rough, like they’ve been stuck in his throat for weeks.

You lean forward until your forehead rests against his.

"Then don’t watch" you whisper. "Be with me instead."

The air between you goes still.

You feel his breath catch. Then his hands come up, slow, careful, and settle on your waist, just above the new scar. His thumbs brush bare skin.

You tilt your head and close the last inch.

The kiss starts soft, tentative, like he’s afraid you’ll break. His lips are warm, gentle, tasting faintly of honey and the mint he was grinding earlier. You press closer, deepening it, and he answers immediately, hands tightening on your waist, mouth opening under yours.

It turns hungry fast. You slide off the cot and into his lap in one motion, knees straddling his thighs. He catches you easily, arms wrapping around your back, pulling you flush against him. The kiss breaks only long enough for you both to breathe, ragged, close, before you dive back in.

His hands slide up your spine, tracing the line of your sports bra. You arch into the touch, fingers threading into his hair, tugging so it becomes a mess. He makes a low sound against your mouth that sends heat pooling low in your stomach.

You rock your hips once, testing. He groans softly, grip tightening.

"Cot" you mutter against his lips.

He understands immediately. Shifts his weight, stands with you still wrapped around him, stronger than he looks, and turns to lower you onto the white sheet. You pull him down with you, unwilling to break the kiss for long.

Clothes come off in impatient layers. Your sports bra first, he peels it over your head with careful hands, eyes dark as they roam over you. You tug his hoodie off, then the shirt beneath, fingers tracing the lean muscle of his chest, the faint tan lines from hours in the sun. His skin is warm, golden even in the lantern light.

You push him onto his back and straddle him again, taking control the way you do in every fight. He lets you, hands settling on your hips, thumbs stroking the skin just above the waistband of your shorts.

You lean down and kiss him slow this time, deep, deliberate, while your hands work at the drawstring of his sweats. He lifts his hips to help you drag them down, along with everything underneath.

Skin on skin now. You both pause, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

"You sure?" he asks, voice rough but steady. His hands are gentle on your hips, waiting.

"Do i look unsure?" You answer, kissing him again, fierce, grateful and guiding his hand between your legs. He touches you like he heals: careful at first, learning, then bolder when you gasp into his mouth. His fingers are perfect: long, calloused, knowing exactly how much pressure you need.

You rock against his hand, chasing the building heat, until you can’t wait anymore. You reach between you, wrap your fingers around him: hot, hard, like velvet over steel and guide him to where you need him.

The first slide in is slow, deliberate. You sink down inch by inch, watching his face: eyes fluttering shut, lips parting on a silent breath. When you’re fully seated, you both still, adjusting, savoring.

Then you move.

You set the pace, strong, steady rolls of your hips that make him groan low in his throat. His hands grip your thighs, guiding but not controlling. You brace your palms on his chest, feeling his heart hammer under your touch.

He sits up suddenly, arms wrapping around your back, pulling you chest to chest. The new angle drags a moan from you both. He kisses you, messy, open-mouthed, then trails his mouth down your neck, teeth grazing the spot just below your ear.

You ride him harder, chasing the edge. One of his hands slides up to cup your breast, thumb circling until you arch into him. The other stays low on your back, urging you closer, deeper.

The coil in your belly tightens fast. You bury your face in his neck, breathing him in, sunlight and honey and sweat. He murmurs your name like a prayer, voice breaking on the second syllable.

You come first, hard, sudden, clenching around him with a choked gasp against his skin. He follows moments later, hips stuttering up into you, arms locking tight as he spills deep with a low, shuddering groan.

You stay like that, wrapped around each other, breathing slowing, hearts pounding in tandem. He presses soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, the corner of your mouth.

Eventually you ease apart just enough to collapse sideways on the narrow cot, tangled together. He pulls the spare blanket from the foot of the bed over you both, tucking you against his chest.

You trace idle patterns over his collarbone. He strokes your hair, fingers combing through gently.

"Still worried?" you ask after a while, voice sleepy.

He huffs a quiet laugh. "Always."

You tilt your head up to look at him. His eyes are soft now, golden in the low light.

"But I’ll take this kind of worry" he adds quietly. "If it means I get to hold you after."

You press a kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart.

"Deal" you whisper.

Outside, the camp has gone quiet, fireflies drifting, stars bright overhead. Inside the infirmary, the lantern burns low, casting warm shadows over your two bodies tangled together on a narrow cot.

You fall asleep to the steady beat of his heart under your cheek and the faint glow of golden light still lingering on his fingertips where they rest against your skin.

Tomorrow you’ll fight again. Tomorrow you’ll probably bleed again. But tonight, you’re whole. And you’re his.

The first morning after, you wake up in your own bunk with sunlight slanting through the Ares cabin windows and the unfamiliar weight of something new in your chest. You’re sore in places that have nothing to do with fighting, good sore, the kind that makes you bite back a grin when no one’s looking. Your siblings are already up, clattering armor and arguing over who ate the last protein bar. Jae catches your eye across the room and smirks like he knows something. You flip him off and roll out of bed.

You don’t head to breakfast right away. Instead, you detour past the Apollo cabin. The porch is empty, but the door is cracked open. You push it wider and lean in.

Seokmin is at the counter, measuring dried chamomile into jars. He’s in a plain white t-shirt, hair still damp from a shower, humming softly. When he sees you, the humming stops. His smile starts slow and spreads wide, warm enough to rival the sunrise outside.

"Morning" you say, voice rough with sleep.

"Morning" he answers, soft. His eyes flick over you like he’s checking for new injuries out of habit, then linger because he’s allowed to now.

You cross the room in three strides, slide your hands around his waist, and kiss him good morning, slow, lazy, thorough. He tastes like mint toothpaste and smells like soap and honey. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs brushing under the hem of your shirt.

When you pull back, his cheeks are flushed.

"Thought I’d check if the cot was still warm" you tease.

He laughs quietly. "It missed you."

You steal one more kiss, then tug him toward the door. "Come on. If we’re late to breakfast, your siblings will eat all the good pancakes."

He lets you pull him outside, fingers laced with yours.

The walk to the dining pavilion is short, but it feels different with his hand in yours, solid, steady, public. A couple of younger campers do double-takes. One Hermes kid actually drops his tray. You don’t let go.

At the pavilion, you split toward your separate tables like always. But before you part, Seokmin squeezes your hand once and brushes a quick kiss to your temple. It’s small, almost shy, but it lands like a claim.

Your Ares siblings notice immediately.

Jae whistles low. "Well, damn. Sunshine boy finally grew a spine."

You slide into your seat and steal half his bacon in retaliation. "Mind your business."

They don’t, of course. The table erupts in good-natured ribbing, who tops, who made the first move, whether Seokmin’s healing hands have "other talents." You let them have their fun, cheeks warm but not embarrassed. You’ve faced down harpies; you can handle teasing.

Across the pavilion, Seokmin’s table is quieter, but his siblings keep glancing over with soft smiles. One of his younger sisters gives him a thumbs-up. He hides his face in his hands for a second, laughing.

After breakfast, training starts like any other day. You’re in the arena by nine, sword in hand, barking drills at the newer Ares kids. Seokmin is on the archery range, coaching form and loosing arrows with that terrifying precision. You catch his eye across the field more than once. He smiles every time.

Sparring rotations begin at noon. You’re paired against a Hephaestus kid built like a tank, slow but hits like a freight train. You dance around him, shield high, feet quick. You remember Seokmin’s voice in your head: watch the hips, telegraph left. You dodge, counter, disarm him clean.

When the whistle blows, you’re barely winded. A shallow bruise on your forearm, nothing more.

You glance toward the ridge out of habit. Seokmin is there, bow lowered, watching. He lifts a hand in a small wave. You grin and salute with your sword.

That evening, you still end up in the Apollo cabin. Old habits.

The bruise on your arm is minor, barely worth mentioning, but you sit on the cot anyway, rolling up your sleeve. Seokmin kneels in front of you, palms glowing soft gold. The ache vanishes in seconds.

"Overkill" you murmur.

He shrugs, not pulling away yet. "I like the excuse."

You lean forward and kiss him, slow this time, savoring. His hands slide up your arms, settling at the nape of your neck.

The door to the infirmary is closed. The rest of the cabin is at campfire. You have time.

Later, tangled on the cot with the blanket pulled haphazardly over you both, you trace the freckles across his shoulder.

"You know" you say quietly, "I still plan to fight like hell tomorrow."

He presses a kiss to your collarbone. "I know."

"And I’ll probably still get scraped up."

"I’ll be here."

You prop yourself up on an elbow to look at him. His hair is mussed, lips swollen, eyes soft in the lantern light.

"I’m not going to stop being me" you tell him. "I like the rush. I like the front line. I’m good at it."

He brushes a strand of hair from your face. "I don’t want you to stop. I just want you to come back."

You nod slowly. "I will. Because now I’ve got something worth coming back to."

His smile is small, fierce. "Good."

The next weeks settle into a new normal.

You fight just as fiercely, maybe fiercer, because now every charge, every block, every calculated risk has purpose beyond proving yourself. You have someone waiting with warm hands and steady eyes.

You still get hurt. Not as often, not as deep, but scrapes and bruises are part of the life. And every time, you end up here: on the cot, in his lap, under his hands. Sometimes it’s quick, golden light and a stolen kiss. Sometimes it’s slower, clothes discarded, mouths hungry, bodies learning each other in new ways.

You learn the small things: how he shivers when you kiss the spot just below his ear, how his voice drops an octave when you take him in your mouth, how he says your name like it’s sacred when he comes apart beneath you.

He learns you too: that you like it when he pulls your hair just hard enough, that you melt when he murmurs praise against your skin, that you’ll let him take control sometimes if he asks with that soft, certain look in his eyes.

Camp notices. Of course they do. During capture-the-flag, you and Seokmin end up on opposite teams again. You charge his line like always, shield first, war cry ringing. He looses an arrow that whistles past your ear close enough to part your hair. You grin mid-stride, pivot, and keep coming.

Later, when your team wins (barely), you find him by the creek cleaning his bow. You tackle him into the grass, kissing him breathless while he laughs against your mouth.

"Trying to kill me out there, sunshine?"

"Trying to slow you down," he admits, hands sliding under your armor. "Didn’t work."

You nip his lower lip. "Keep trying."

Some nights, you don’t make it to the cot. You drag him into the woods after campfire, press him against a tree, sink to your knees in the moonlight. Other nights, he pulls you into the empty music room, bends you over the piano bench, fingers tangled in yours while he takes you slow and deep until you’re shaking.

You’re careful, always careful, about protection (Apollo kids have access to the best herbs and charms). But the risk only makes it hotter.

One evening, after a particularly rough skirmish that leaves you with a split lip and a wrenched shoulder, you limp into the cabin later than usual. Seokmin is waiting, lantern lit, worry in his eyes.

He heals you in silence at first, hands gentle on your shoulder, light sinking deep to ease the joint. When the pain is gone, you pull him down onto the cot with you.

"I’m okay" you whisper against his mouth.

"I know" he whispers back. "But let me take care of you anyway."

That night is softer than most. He undresses you slowly, kisses every old scar and every new bruise. You let him set the pace, gentle, reverent, until you’re both trembling with it. When you come, it’s quiet, pressed close, his face buried in your neck.

Afterward, you lie tangled together, listening to crickets outside.

"I love you" he says into the dark. Simple. Certain.

You swallow hard. Ares kids aren’t raised on soft words. But you’ve never been good at following rules.

You turn in his arms, find his mouth, kiss him slow and deep.

"I love you too, so much" you say against his lips. "And I’m keeping you."

He laughs softly, arms tightening around you. "Good luck getting rid of me."

Months pass like that, fights and healing, teasing and tenderness, fire and light braided together.

You still charge into battle first. You still come out scratched and bruised and grinning.

But now, every time, you come home to warm hands and a softer smile than the sun itself.

And every time, he’s there, waiting, steady, yours.

The taglist for the next parts is still open!

“You’ll always be a kid to us,” Jimin said. “You’re basically Jungkook’s little sister by extension, at this point.”

“Gross.” You shoved Jimin playfully, laughter spilling out of your mouth. “One nasty, overprotective  brother is enough. I don’t need two.”

“Looks like you have no choice,” Jungkook taunted, a teasing smirk playing on his lips.

“Whatever. Let’s go.” You turned away with a huff. “And brother?” You asked, facing Jungkook. “Why don’t you go tell mom and dad that we’re ready to leave?”

“You grew up to be so sassy.”

“You see, I just took after my brother,” you replied, making air quotes. Jimin snorted.

“Touche,” Jungkook said, flicking your forehead. “Sure thing then, little miss.” And he was off. 

 Jimin and Jungkook had been best friends since you were in seventh grade, meaning that they’ve seen you through all of your worst phases. The phase where you thought tucking sweaters into high rise shorts was cool. The phase where you would follow every text with a capitalized “LOL,” even if there wasn’t anything to laugh out loud about (e.g. “Where are you going LOL,” or “Can I come LOL”). 

There was one thing that wasn’t a phase for you, though, which was your big fat crush on Jeon Jungkook himself. 

You couldn’t help it. He was always so effortlessly cool. Even though he was only three years older than you, it was easy to put him on a pedestal. You liked the way he absentmindedly fiddled with whatever was in his hands, be it his phone or a pencil. You liked the way he tilted his head snappily whenever he got competitive. You liked how he would fight for silly little things like the TV remote or the last carton of banana milk as if his life depended on it.

When he first started hanging out with Jimin, the most you would do was nod to each other politely. But as time passed and he started becoming a face you’d see everyday, you two also grew closer, eventually exchanging friendly conversations and tubs of ice cream on family movie nights. 

The unfortunate matter, however, was the fact that he always treated you like a kid. He’d say things like, “Maybe I’ll tell you when you’re older,” or “You’ll see when the time comes,” always putting distance between you two. 

It didn’t help that you were the youngest child in an extremely coddling family, and that you’ve always been babied. There was never a bag or a box that you carried yourself, no item that was placed too high out of your reach – although your family did run on the shorter side – and no educational opportunity that your parents would let you miss out on.

That included this one-year joint program between your university and a university in Italy, where you’d study abroad for one year before finishing the next three years at home. It was the only thing you ever had to beg your parents for, but of course, they eventually reluctantly relented as they always did.

That brought you to now.

The last thing you saw before turning around and heading towards the security check-in line was: your teary-eyed parents, Jimin, who was anxiously waving at you, and Jungkook, who had an unreadable expression on his face. 

Truthfully, the idea of having to live all by yourself for one whole year and somehow stay alive terrified you. But you weren’t about to let it show in front of your parents, who were already near the brink of collapse just imagining you having to board an airplane by yourself.

So, you gave a bright smile and waved, before pivoting on your feet and trotting away, luggage in hand, ready to start a brand new chapter in life. 

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

You boarded on the plane to Italy with an oversized grey sweater, skinny jeans, and hair that was haphazardly air dried as you finished up the last of your packing.

You boarded on the plane from Italy with a full-on blowout, thanks to your heatless sock curls, wearing a hot pink tracksuit that was purposefully zipped just enough to reveal the tiniest sliver of cleavage. 

The difference in how you left and how you came back was jarring.

You owed your transformation largely to your roommate, who had graciously lent you almost all of her hair and beauty supplies upon your first night out together. She basically transformed you overnight, turning you unrecognizable. 

“Okay, we have to go shopping,” Mina had said. “You look way too good right now to not look like this everyday.”

Thus, you embarked on a journey of learning how to do your makeup for the first time, how to perfect heatless overnight curls, and how to dress in a way that accentuated your body’s best features. Thanks to not having your parents and your overprotective brother (plus his best friend) breathing down your neck every time you went out, you were confident enough to play around with riskier styles.

Eventually, you were also confident enough to start playing around with men.

With the encouragement of Mina and the ignorance of your family, you learned a lot about the art of seduction. But despite the various adventures you had with men (and the occasional woman), you never went all the way. The most you’d done was oral, but usually, your adventures would come to an end with making out in the back of a club. 

Penetration was a big no-no for you, and most of the time, you could play it off by saying that you were scared, or that it was your first time. Luckily, the guys you were with liked that even more, saying that you could take it slow and try again next time – except you would ghost them before there could be a next time.

 You treated it like a study. What got them hooked? What made them stay?

You easily learned how to get a man wrapped around your finger: act pretty, be needy, and use lots and lots of spit when giving head. Smile with a stupid look on your face. Tease with downward stolen glances. And laugh – a lot – even if nothing was funny.

Needless to say, you came back feeling and looking like a whole new person. 

Jimin wasn’t too excited about it. His first words to you when he picked you up from the airport were:

“Are you really my little sister?”

You laughed, throwing your bag to the back of the car, grateful to see a familiar face. 

“How about a ‘nice to see you’ or a ‘how are you?’” You buckled your seatbelt as he gave you a once over. 

“You better put on a jacket or something before we get home. Mom and dad are gonna kill you if they know you’ve been dressing like this.” He started driving, letting his favorite pop playlist hum in the background. “I’ve been seeing your stories, Y/N. Looks like you had a lot of fun there.”

“Meh,” you sighed, rolling down the window. “I had fun, but I missed home a lot. I’m glad to be back.”

Jimin smiled at you fondly. 

What he didn’t know, perhaps, was that there was a very specific reason why you were so excited to be back: Jungkook.

As someone who had been crushing on him for nearly seven years, you were quite attentive to his love life – or whatever of it you could figure out in between conversations that hushed down whenever you entered a room. Or sometimes, your brother would bring over a large group of friends and you’d pick out which girls Jungkook tended to gravitate towards. 

To summarize your findings simply: he liked edgy girls. 

He liked girls who were the perfect balance of daring and playful – someone that could step on him and still look as feminine and sweet as ever. He didn’t like girls who were too uptight, too serious or smart – although another of Jimin’s friends, Namjoon, did. He didn’t like girls who didn’t know what they wanted, like an indecisive deer.

In short, you used to think that there was no way he could ever come to like you as is. 

You were always shielded by your overbearing parents and brother; most of the things you wanted to do or try were quickly put to an end if deemed even slightly scandalizing.

Daring and playful were out of your vocabulary. 

For example, you couldn’t leave the house with shorts on if they were too far up your thighs. Crop tops? In your dreams. Spaghetti straps? Your parents would rather you get hit by a car.  Sleepovers were a no-no and friends had to be carefully handpicked and screened through Jimin before they could even come over. 

The occasional boys who were interested in you never had a chance. You had tried dating some guy back in the eighth grade, but that was promptly shut down by Jimin, who said you were way too young to even look at guys. Thus, the only guys you had ever hung around were Jimin’s friends. 

But if you were being honest, you didn’t really mind that part.

What you minded, was your complete and utter inability to feel like an adult.

But now, there was no denying it. You’ve had your taste of freedom, finally, and you were a thousand times more confident now than ever before.  Finally, your parents stopped trying to micromanage every part of your life (although they did give occasional scoffs at your attire, they were mainly just happy to have you back home).

You used to think that adulthood was about knowing how to do taxes and how to master the art of parallel parking, but from your time abroad, you found that adulting was less about figuring out the world around you, but rather, figuring out yourself.

You always wondered: what kind of music did you like? What style suited you? What were you good at? What were you bad at? What was so you? And conversely, what was so not? You didn’t have it all answered, but you learned quite a lot.. 

You liked hiphop more than jazz. You looked better in low-rise jeans than in high-rise jeans, but you looked good in any kind of skirt. You were horrible at public transportation but great at making friends with strangers. Purply-pink lip gloss was so you. Dipping fries in ice cream was so not (seriously, you wondered how the hell Mina enjoyed it).

Taxes were still a mystery to you. Parallel parking even more so (you almost died trying to park a golf cart at the edge of a hill in Spain). But you loved learning  a little bit more about yourself everyday, and maybe that was what becoming an adult really meant.

And now, you finally felt ready to tell Jungkook how you felt. 

You were sure that at the very least, getting it off your chest would lift a burden that you had been carrying since seventh grade. You could either get with your lifelong crush or finally move on and live life with the confidence you had only ever dreamed of before.

However, you weren’t just going to waltz up to Jungkook and tell him that you’ve been practically in love with him for nearly half of your life.

Of course, you had to go about it in a much more exciting way.

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

The first time you saw Jungkook after you returned from Italy was at graduation.

Jimin and Jungkook were finally going to see the light of the real world as tax-paying citizens, but you could only see them as the same dorky boys who would get way too excited over video games in the middle of the night.

Your choice of clothing was strategic: a plain white dress that hugged your body — but wasn’t too short — with a pair of red kitten heels. It was pretty, but not tragically sexy.

When you saw Jungkook in the crowd, chatting with some friends, you made a beeline for him.

He turned to you instantaneously, as if sensing your presence, and expertly caught you in his arms as you gave him a big bear hug. He smelled of old spice cologne.

“Congratulations, idiot,” you said into his fluffy black hair as he lifted you slightly off the ground. “I never dreamed that this day would come.”

“Well hello to you too, little miss Italy,” he chuckled, putting you back down. “Thanks, Y/N.” His eyes scanned your face, then briefly looked downward. “Wow. You’re all grown up now.”

“I said the exact same thing.” Jimin appeared from behind, arms crossed. “So Jungkook gets a congratulatory hug but not me? Jeez, I can totally see who your real brother is.”

A laugh tumbled out of your belly. “C’mere you shortie!” 

You all but tackled Jimin (nearly) to the ground, a fit of giggles and smiles, comfortably fulfilling the role you always had: a well-meaning, slightly bratty little sister. Your dress rode up a bit, exposing the more scandalous part of your upper thighs, but you paid no mind. Only Jungkook was looking at you two, anyway.

You let Jimin and Jungkook go congratulate and take pictures with the rest of their friends. You stayed back with your parents, taking candids from afar and engaging in friendly conversation with Jungkook’s parents who always adored you.

It was later, at home, where you would strike.

After what felt like hours of festivities, snapping polaroids and shaking hands and connecting with people on LinkedIn and whatnot, the boys finally returned home. Jimin mentioned earlier in the week that they would binge Marvel movies together to commemorate many years of friendship and completing a pivotal chapter in their lives.

It was nearly three in the morning; you were lazing around your room when you heard the familiar sound of Iron Man’s suit-up theme song, and you decided to make your move.

In the mirror, you gave yourself a once over. You were wearing tiny satin shorts that hung low on your waistline. To go with it, a white spaghetti strap tank top that was tight enough to show the curve of your breasts, but thick enough to keep your nipples a secret despite not wearing a bra. 

As predicted, when you went to the living room, Jimin was fast asleep. Iron Man was his least favorite, while it was Jungkook’s number one superhero movie ever. Jimin laid on the couch, cuddled in the corner while hugging a random throw pillow.

Jungkook turned to you. “Sorry, did we wake you?” He was wearing a black t-shirt with those baggy grey sweatpants that you always drooled over. 

“Not at all,” you replied, making your way over. “I wanted to watch this part of Iron Man, too. It’s my favorite.” 

He was sitting on the couch, and you took a seat on the floor near him, making sure that if he looked down, he’d get a clear view of your shoulders and cleavage. You saw the remnants of a charcuterie board on the coffee table, and you lit up when you spotted some of your favorite cotton candy grapes.

“Can I have some?” You whipped around to him, eyes big and excited. 

“Sure,” he chuckled, motioning to you to have whatever you wanted. You didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered on down to unknown territory for a brief moment, no doubt noticing your new sleep attire.

You watched the movie for a while. 

“So, how does it feel to be an adult, now?”

“It doesn’t feel real.” He sighed. “You better enjoy your time in college. It goes by so fast.”

“There you go again.” You rolled your eyes, putting a grape into your mouth. “You’re treating me like a little kid. You’re not that much older than me, you know?”

“How could I not?” He retorted with a laugh. “I’ve known you since you still liked My Little Pony.”

You threw a grape at him. It smacked him in the face but he caught it and promptly chucked it in his mouth with a satisfied smirk.

“It’s a good show,” you said, quieting your voice to a hush to remind him that Jimin was still sleeping only a meter away. 

He was silent for a moment. “But you really have grown up a lot. I feel like I’m looking at a different person than I did last year.”

You smiled. “True.”

“How was it, by the way? Your time abroad?”

You started going on a tangent, explaining all the fun events of the year. The trip to Spain where you almost crashed a golf cart. The time in the Netherlands where your umbrella broke in the heavy rain. The time you nearly failed one of your classes since you didn’t know that attendance was mandatory (you passed since you did great on the exam). 

“Sounds like a lot of fun,” he commented. “You went on these trips mainly with your roommate, right?”

“Yeah.” You popped a final grape into your mouth. “Some other friends too. There was also Mateo, Cindy, and Max who joined us from time to time.”

You didn’t turn to see his reaction to the names. As far as he knew, you had never had guy friends before. In fact, he had even helped Jimin on the rare occasion to scare them away from you in high school. But you wanted him to feel far away from you. You wanted him to feel like you were someone completely new – worth learning more about.

“I kind of want ice cream,” you declared. “Want some? I think we have Ben & Jerry’s.”

“Sure.”

You stood up, pretending to be slow and cautious to not wake Jimin, when in reality you just wanted him to take a good long look at your ass. 

You took out ice cream from the freezer and forgoed bowls, opting to just grab two spoons and eat straight from the pint. You returned to your position on the floor by the couch, turning around to face Jungkook and handing him the other spoon.

“Here you go,” you said quietly.

“Thanks,” he whispered. 

From his point of view, you were sitting below him, looking up with your wide eyes as you licked your spoon clean of chocolate chip ice cream, the tub balancing treacherously on the pillow by him.   A drop of ice cream dribbled down your chin, which you clumsily wiped with your thumb, before proceeding to suck it clean. 

Iron Man was still playing in the background, but both you and Jungkook had watched it millions of times together already. You sure as hell weren’t paying attention to the movie, but pretended to. 

When you turned to watch the screen again, you found ice cream in your hair.  Feigning a huff of annoyance, you started putting your hair in a ponytail so it wouldn’t be in the way. You took your time, arching your back and making sure that Jungkook could get a good view of your body from above. 

At some point, a strap of your tank top fell, exposing nearly your entire shoulder. You didn’t make any effort to pull it back up. Then, you resumed, alternating between watching the movie and turning to get a bite of ice cream. At some point, you were leaning against his leg, teetering closely to laying your head in his lap. 

He didn’t move away, even when your bare shoulder was gently pressed against the soft fabric of his sweatpants.

Throughout all of this, you hadn’t said a single word to Jungkook. Nor did you glance at him to check his expression. Only when the movie ended did you speak to him.

“I’ll put the ice cream back and clean up,” he offered. 

“Sure thing.” You stood up. “You crashing on the couch with Jimin?”

“Looks like it,” he said slowly. The darkness made it hard to read his expression. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Night night,” you said, making yourself seem sleepier than you were. “See you around, Jungkook.”

Then, you returned to your room, and had a long, restful sleep with dreams of waking up in his arms. 

You had no idea what he could possibly be thinking or feeling, or if he even noticed that you were being a little more daring than usual. 

But it was precisely the unknown that excited you. 

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

It was in the middle of the summer when you saw Jungkook again. Jimin brought him over to celebrate their first paycheck. Jimin was signed at a well-known dance agency, and Jungkook was due to start his job as an assistant producer for some film studio soon. On the other hand, you were preparing to finally start your university life in your home country. 

You were clearing out some stuff, putting clothes and books you didn’t want in a bunch of boxes to make the move to your dorm later in the month easier. 

They were in Jimin’s room when you knocked softly on the door.

Jimin opened it. Jungkook smiled when he saw you and you gave a polite nod in acknowledgement.

“Hey guys, can someone help me move some boxes to my car? I want to drop them off at the donation center.”

“How many do you have?” Jimin asked.

“Just a few,” you said. “But they’re really heavy.”

“Seems like a job for the muscle pig,” Jimin said, stepping away to gesture to Jungkook as if he were a grand reveal. “Kooks, you’re up.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes and grunted, but you knew he loved being called that. You giggled.

“One of these days, I’m taking you to the gym with me.” Jungkook motioned towards Jimin.

“Dancing is already a form of exercise!” He yelled, but you and Jungkook were already walking to your room.

There were only three boxes, but you purposely made them as heavy as possible so you had no choice but to ask for help. One was slightly lighter than the others, so you took that one. Even then, it was so heavy that you barely made it to your car without face planting.

Jungkook, on the other hand, was as nonchalant as ever. He lifted two boxes with ease, forearms flexing and highlighting veins that you were sure could lead to Rome if you took the time to trace them.

By the time you got to your car, you were panting and sweating. The walk from your room to the garage had never been so long. 

He laughed in your face. “Maybe I should take you to the gym, instead.”

“Whatever,” you replied, turning away with a tired huff.

“I don’t even get a ‘thank you?’” He challenged you in mock offense. “You’re not doing a good job of debunking the ‘spoiled little girl’ rumors.”

“I said whatever!” You retorted, already making your way to the car door. “I’ll have to carry all of these into the donation center myself, anyway. Not like you did that much work.”

He paused. “You could hurt yourself, you know. Those boxes are way too heavy.”

You hummed in consideration. “Then I’ll just ask a strong handsome guy nearby to do it for me.”

His face paled. The thought of you approaching some random guy was like a shockwave through his body. He had never pictured anything like it.

Conversely, you looked entirely unfazed, as if this were a normal solution to most of your problems: just asking a man nearby. He gritted his teeth as you hopped into your car and slammed the door shut. 

“Thanks anyway, though!” you said brightly, rolling up your window with a wave. 

Before you could leave, he marched up to your door and knocked three times. You rolled the window back down.

“I’ll go with you and help. The center is only ten minutes away right?”

You smirked.

Everything was going according to plan.

The drive to the donation center was filled with lighthearted conversation. Jungkook explained what he’d have to do at his new job, how nervous he was about working in a professional setting for the first time, and how excited he was to finally make his own money. You updated Jungkook on your housing situation, explaining how you’d live in the dorms during weekdays but come home for the weekends. You shared the experience of meeting your new roommate, then groaned over how much you missed Mina.

It was always so easy with him; he laughed at your jokes no matter how absurd they were, and you humored his ego by agreeing with whatever he said – unless it was actually outrageous, like when he said that he thought he might be the reincarnation of Princess Diana (rest in peace, beautiful soul).

When you arrived at the donation center, you made a move to leave your car, but Jungkook promptly halted you with a grab of the wrist.

“Just stay in here. I’ll do it.” He unbuckled his seatbelt.

“What happened to those ‘spoiled little girl rumors’ I was trying to debunk?” You grinned.

He scoffed. “Before that, I have my ego to protect. No way I’m letting you carry those boxes again. I genuinely thought you’d fall down the stairs and die earlier.”

“Suit yourself,” you said, leaning back in your seat and whipping out your phone. 

He gave you a satisfied smile before leaving the car. Your tone might have been sarcastic, but really, you were beaming.

This was another thing about Jungkook that you liked. As cocky he could be, he was always the perfect gentleman.

While waiting for Jungkook to get all the boxes inside, you pulled down your mirror and looked at yourself. You were wearing a comfortable pair of sweatpants and a white tube top. At your neck, you adorned a lovely gold necklace that you thrifted in Rome.

It didn’t look too lovely right now, though, as it was a tangled mess around your neck, a clump of knots where the heart-shaped centerpiece of the necklace should be. That was on purpose.

You started fiddling around with it when you noticed Jungkook returning to your car. When he hopped in, you turned to him, gesturing to the mess at your fingertips.

“Hey, can you help me untangle this? I can’t see it very well.”

Jungkook looked at you cautiously, before leaning in to take a closer look. “Okay, sure. You’re always giving me chores to do, aren’t you?” 

You giggled, leaning forward so he had easy access to the necklace. Of course, it would be easier to take it off before untangling it, but that would kill all the fun. If Jungkook realized that there was a better way, he said nothing of it.

His fingers gently pulled at the chain, hands brushing against your chin and collarbone. His focused gaze made you nervous. Your insides tingled every time his skin touched yours. 

Your tube top was riding down, revealing more of your chest and your Victoria Secret Bombshell push up bra.  Occasionally, his pinky would gently graze your upper breast. You didn’t say anything about it and neither did he.

“This is one kinky knot,” he commented, face so close to your collarbones that you felt his breath hit your skin. 

Your eyebrows raised at the choice of words. You put your hand over his.

“It’s fine. I’ll just untangle it at home.”

His hand lingered on the chained knot for a bit longer than you thought necessary. You might have had your provocations planned out, but you weren’t really sure what to expect of it. The thought of his next move had you nervous – and you were sure he could tell by how your voice suddenly started sounding small.

“Suit yourself,” he said, echoing your earlier words.

The drive home was a little bit more awkward than usual. If you felt it, he definitely did too.

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

Jungkook was sure he was losing his mind.

His best friend’s little sister? Really? 

He thought he was better than that. Sure, he may have found you cute for a while now, but it felt wrong – almost illegal. 

He remembered first meeting you, when you were so shy that you could only look at him for a few seconds before disappearing into your room. You were just an endearing girl to him, not anyone capable of sending his heart into mayhem.

Then, as you got older, he realized that he actually quite loved the way you laughed so loud, so charmingly, when he talked. He found your bratty stubbornness cute sometimes, like when you demanded that Jimin let you play Minecraft on his account because he got you banned while using yours. Or, when you helped him insist that Iron Man was the best movie of all time, even though Jimin was sure it was the Amazing Spiderman.

Once, earlier in his friendship with Jimin, you were sick with food poisoning. Jungkook didn’t quite understand why Jimin was freaking out so much. But then he came to visit and saw you lying in bed, door wide open in case you needed to run to the bathroom to puke, and he started to understand.

You looked like a bundled up kitten in your bed, lying on your side with a fever patch on your forehead and a book in your hand. Maybe it was then that he started to realize his feelings for you.

But of course, you were always out of reach. Too young and too precious. Jimin loved you to bits and wanted to protect you for as long as possible. Jungkook could at least honor that, he thought. So of course, Jungkook had his adventures with other girls here and there. Nothing too serious, but fun enough to keep his mind off you.

Until you came back, and suddenly the lines started to blur. No longer was there a clear distinction between you – the little sister you – and the you that could make Jungkook’s heart skip a beat.

Before it was easy; reminders of your innocence were everywhere. Sure, you could still be a stubborn brat, but now, it was like you were practically begging him to get his hands on you with the way your eyes seemed to devour him alive, unapologetically.

Your shoulders drove him insane. Your laughter seemed fuller, healthier, and happier. He didn’t know you had such a beautiful body after years of only seeing you in baggy, oversized clothing. Your Instagram stories made his heart pinch.  

It killed him that he felt like he didn’t know you anymore – not really at least. 

And all he wanted to do now was find out everything he missed out on this past year. 

After the tangled necklace incident, he couldn’t get his mind off you. And his final straw came in the middle of the night when you called him. He had just showered, getting ready to hop on a quick video game before going to sleep. He smiled at his phone.

Usually, you called him to ask him a stupid question, like: how did you come up with your Princess Diana theory again? Or, did he think Jimin would notice if you drew a dick on his face tonight? Better yet, how mad would he be?

But today was different.

“Yo,” he answered. “What’s up.”

“Hiiiiiiiii.” You giggled, clearly drunk. The laughter of other people could be heard, too. Jungkook didn’t miss the sound of other guys in the room with you.

“Where are you?” He immediately stood up.

“Club,” you answered simply. “Can’t find my friends. But this guy said he could drive me home. Should I go?”

“Do you know him?”

“A little. I know that his hair smells nice.”

At that moment, a male voice could be heard from the other side, saying something vaguely along the lines of: “Gonna get to hit tonight, man.”

Jungkook clenched his jaw. “No. Don’t go. Which club are you at?”

He was already pulling his hoodie over his head when you answered:

“Dunno. I’ll send you my location, though.” You laughed again, pulling the phone away from you to say, with a playful chuckle: “Jackson, stop!”

He had to do everything he could to not crash out. “I’ll be there soon,” he said, checking your location. You were ten minutes away. “How drunk are you?”

“Just a few shots.”

He didn’t know your drinking tolerance whatsoever, but he knew he hated the idea of you being drunk around a bunch of horny men. 

It took Jungkook nearly every bone in his body to not go over the speed limit. When he finally arrived, you were sitting on the curb outside the club, and of course, there were two guys sitting with you. One guy’s arm was around your shoulder. 

Jungkook didn’t even care to go into the parking lot, opting to leave his car right at the front entrance. He marched up right to you, making brief eye contact with the guys.

Your face was ruddy with alcohol when you looked up at him. 

“You’re here!” You broke out into a wide grin, vodka-induced strength sending you leaping up to pull him into a hug. 

“Yes, I’m here,” he said, patting your back as he all but death glared at the other two guys. “Let’s get you home.”

“Okay,” you said, surprisingly calm. “Bye Jackson! Bye Mark!” You waved cheerfully as Jungkook took your hand.

You didn’t get to see them wave back at you as Jungkook quickly tugged you, urging you to walk fast.

“Don’t mess around with guys like them, Y/N,” he commented as you settled into the passenger seat. “Didn’t Jimin and I tell you? Men are vile creatures.”

“You did,” you confirmed. “But maybe I can be the judge of that.”

He clenched the steering wheel harder, slowly driving out. “Whatever.”

It wasn’t his place, he chided himself. You weren’t his real little sister. How could he tell you who to mess with and who not to?

A few minutes into the drive, you spoke up.

“Can we go to the gas station? I want a milkshake.”

At the redlight, Jungkook smirked at you. “You sure you won’t throw it all up after?”

“Positive.” You grinned back. “I bet it’ll help me sober up.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

What Jungkook didn’t know was that you were already pretty level-headed, just putting on a drunk act to make yourself seem more vulnerable. You only had two shots of vodka and one glass of gin & tonic. A part of you liked being dragged around angrily.

He relented to your request for milkshake, pulling up to the gas station’s fast food drive through. You ordered a strawberry milkshake, while he got a banana chocolate one. He parked the car in a secluded part of the station.

“You have work tomorrow?” you asked in between sucking your straw.

“Tomorrow is Saturday, silly.” He was already almost halfway done with his. 

“Oh, right.” 

You continued to devour your milkshake, letting Jungkook’s RnB playlist fill the silence. When you were almost done, you took off the lid and started pouring whatever strawberry syrup was left into your mouth.

You tapped the bottom of the cup – a little more harshly than you needed – to get the stubborn parts down. After one especially strong tap, a wave of melted milkshake and gooey syrup came tumbling down, drenching your chin and dribbling down your neck and body, effectively soaking yourself in the sticky mixture.

Jungkook barked out a laugh. “Oh my god, that was so stupid,” he teased, pulling out his phone to capture the moment in a 0.5 picture.

“Not funny! Stop that!” You pouted at him, covering the camera. He snapped several photos before returning the phone into his pocket. “Do you have tissues?”

At this point, the milkshake remnants were also dripping down your cleavage and onto your thighs. Your outfit today was a low cut white halter top with a black mini-skirt, and somehow you managed to spill the substance only on your skin and not on your clothes. 

“I think I have some,” he said, finally recovering from his fit of laughter. “Move over.” 

He leaned over you, arm reaching towards the compartment above your knees. You leaned back, but felt his hair brush against your arm. He eventually found two flimsy napkins, reserved from previous takeout adventures. 

You took them gratefully, starting by wiping your chin and neck. But by the time you got to your chest, the tissues were already slimy and unusable. Your skin glistened with the sticky liquid drying on you. 

“No more?”  you asked, pitching your voice up high.

Jungkook’s tongue probed at the inner side of his cheek. He had been looking at you this whole time. “No.”

His answer was simple but powerful. 

Typically, in this kind of situation you’d expect Jungkook to still be heartily guffawing at your predicament. But instead, his jaw was locked, gaze piercing. 

“But I’m so sticky,” you whined. “Do you have water, maybe?”

He slowly pulled out a water bottle from his side’s door compartment. “I do. But won’t you make a mess?”

“Don’t worry,” you said, taking the bottle from him. “Thanks,” you added quietly, suddenly nervous.

You poured a small bit of water on your hand and slapped it on the spots that still had milkshake on them. At this point, you really were making a mess in his car. 

“It got even stickier,” you said after a moment, defeated.

He laughed a little, but still couldn’t take his eyes off your form. “Need help?”

The voice that came out of you didn’t feel real. “Yes.”

Slowly, he reached over, taking the water bottle out of your hand. Using the sleeve of his hoodie, he started patting you down, starting with your jaw, to your neck, and to your collarbones.

He was oh-so gentle, wiping away with so much caution you thought you could dissolve right then and there. When he reached your cleavage, he hesitated. 

“There, too,” you whispered. 

Slowly, he took his sleeve and wiped in between your breasts, patting them down tenderly. You could feel the warmth of his hand through the cloth of his hoodie. Your belly flopped. 

This was unknown territory, and he wouldn’t stop exploring it.

“Down there, too.” You didn’t mean to sound as needy as you were.

“Fussy, aren’t you?” His usually light and airy voice was replaced with something closer to a grunt.

His hands slid down to your thighs, with more intention this time. You let your legs open slightly, giving him easier access. The tension you felt was so thick you were sure you could drown in it. 

“All good?” he asked, although he himself looked anything but fine.  His eyes were glazed with desperation. 

“No,” you said quietly. 

“No?”

“Still sticky.”

Jungkook clenched his jaw. “Y/N, what are you trying to do?”

There it was. The question you had been avoiding. What were you trying to do? Sure, you wanted to seduce him – tempt him – but now what? You hadn’t thought this far yet. You were just having fun.

“I don’t know,” you admitted softly.

He was stern. “You know what you’re doing to me, right?”

At this moment, you saw the beginnings of a bulge at his groin, poking through his sweatpants. You gulped, heart racing. 

“Sorry.”

He sighed, exasperated, hand ruffling through his hair. “Don’t apologize.” 

You could only look down and fiddle with your hands, embarrassed. All of your so-called confidence disappeared now that you were faced with the consequences of your actions. He didn’t like you. He didn’t know you as anything other than his best friend’s little sister. How naive were you to think that a few tricks here and there could get him to fall for you?

“Don’t try this with other guys, you hear me?” he scolded. “They wouldn’t be able to hold back.”

“I would never do this to anyone else!” You yelled, suddenly completely over trying to dance around your feelings. “Stop trying to act like my older brother. I don’t like that. I don’t want that.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, unable to process your words.

“What I mean is that I wouldn’t ever do this with anyone else because I like you, you idiot!” You huffed, feeling grateful for the two shots of vodka in your body. “I don’t want you to be my honorary brother or whatever, because I’ve been crushing on you since seventh grade!”

It was too late to turn back now, you thought. He’d kick you out of his car and call you an Uber home instead. Then, he’d never come over again and you would have just ruined his friendship with Jimin forever.

So, you might as well tell him everything while you could.

“I did everything to be the kind of girl you liked. I read all of the Iron Man comics for you. I went along with your stupid Princess Diana theory for a while. I always made sure we had banana milk in our fridge and the only reason why I ever messed around with other people in the first place was so that I wouldn’t be an inexperienced snob when I finally gathered the courage to tell you this!”

You were out of breath, panting at your endless confessions. Jungkook’s jaw was hanging slightly open, eyes wide. 

“That’s why I’m doing this, idiot.”

Tears pricked your eyes. You couldn’t even look at him. You were sure that you ruined everything.

“You’re gonna be the end of me,” he growled, before cupping your jaw and practically dragging you into his mouth.

His lips were on yours in a matter of seconds, a frenzy of teeth and tongue before you finally settled into an aggressive rhythm. He was pulling you towards him, hands on your waist. He quickly pulled his seat’s lever, pushing his seat back to make room for you.

“Come here,” he demanded. You hungrily found a seat on his lap, straddling him.

You couldn’t believe it. Here you were, hands all over Jungkook in what was most definitely not an appropriate way when moments ago you were sure that you’d never be able to look at him ever again. 

You felt his cock poking at your crotch, and you ground against it, eliciting a soft moan from the both of you.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he said in between kisses. You whimpered in response, desperate for more of him.

He kept pulling you in closer, peppering kisses down your jaw and neck. He nibbled at the skin at the base of your jaw for a while, before sucking in with a pop, definitely giving you a hickey. You hissed at the stinging sensation. Then, he trailed more kisses down your collarbone, to your chest and then the mound of your breast.

Your halter top held up with only a zip at the back, which he promptly undid, leaving your bare chest in all its glory for him to see. 

“Perfect,” he whispered against your skin. “So fucking perfect.”

He licked your breasts, tongue rolling over one nipple while his hand tweaked at the other. You couldn’t help but let out an embarrassing moan, the friction of his cock beneath you only adding to your ecstasy.

“Jungkook, please,” you panted. “More.”

“Needy as always, little miss.” He gave your ass a tight squeeze as he gave your other breast the attention it deserved. 

You humped him desperately, angry at the cloth separating you two. He was sweating, eyes dark with hunger and eyebrows furrowed in pleasure. Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Let’s go to the back,” he said, breathless. 

You nodded, practically throwing yourself into the backseat as he climbed over shortly after. From there, you tugged at his hoodie, and he took it off in one swift motion. He pushed you down, lying on top of you as you felt his bare chest connect with yours.

You continued to kiss for a while in that position, before your hand hesitantly went to the hem of his sweatpants. In a moment of courage, you pushed him off you and got onto your knees. 

“I want to touch you,” you whispered. “Can I?”

Your sweet voice nearly made him cum right then and there. 

“You can do whatever you want.” 

You pulled his sweatpants and boxers down and positioned yourself between his legs. His cock sprang to life, and you couldn’t help but admire its thick, veiny structure, gulping nervously at how big it was. His tip glistened with precum. 

You went for that first, licking the tip tentatively as he fisted your hair.

“Jesus, you’re driving me insane,” he panted. You smirked, before licking up and down the shaft, letting your tongue paint his skin damp.

After a few more licks, you took him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as much as you could. You wanted the look on his face to be tattooed to your forehead. Usually, you didn’t enjoy giving head all that much, but when you saw just how much you could disorient him, you thought that you could do this forever. 

You bobbed your head up and down, making sure to let your saliva-covered hand fiddle with his balls occasionally, while helping you pump the base of his shaft. His huffs and moans filled the air with your sickeningly sweet slurping sounds.

After a good minute of bobbing, you took him deep into your throat, letting it block your airway. It was painful, but the reaction you got made it worth it. 

“Fucking hell, Y/N,” he grunted, watching from above as you gagged on him and held back tears. The sight was so beautiful he could cry. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Y/N! Get off!” He pulled on your hair, urging you off of him.

You quickly complied. “What’s wrong?”

He took a moment to regain his breathing. “I almost came,” he admitted, embarrassed. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

“Here and there,” you said vaguely, a stupid smile on your face. He clenched his jaw. 

“I’m gonna get you back for that,” he said, pulling you up from your kneeling position.

“Oh yeah?” 

 He pushed you back down, pulling your skirt up to your waist to reveal your white lacy panties. He was rendered speechless for a moment.

“Holy shit.”

You grinned at him with a sweet request. “Clean me up?”

He wanted to melt into you. Your voice was like a siren’s lullaby.

He dragged his tongue from your chest all the way down to your tummy, letting one hand fiddle with your nipple clumsily as he used the other hand to push your underwear to the side. He marveled at your pussy for a while, entranced by how it was already dripping with pleasure.

“Please, Jungkook,” you pleaded, arching your back.

“Anything for you, little miss.” The typically cute nickname sounded naughty now. 

He lapped at your clit relentlessly, sucking and slurping just how you’d done for him. Moans tumbled out of your mouth, and you writhed beneath him as he firmly held your hips in place. Your eyes rolled back when he dug his tongue inside you, wiggling it like a vibrator, and you couldn’t help but whimper embarrassingly loud.

“Oh my god, Jungkook,” you cried. “Shit, Jungkook, wait!”

He wouldn’t stop, no matter how hard you pulled on his hair or how hard your hips jolted. He only went even harder, tongue flicking unforgivingly against your heat.

“Oh my god, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum,” you repeated helplessly. “Jungkook please – oh fuck, fuck, fuck!”

And you were undone in a matter of seconds, blinded by a white, ephemeral light. 

You were panting, barely regaining your vision when you looked up to see Jungkook smirking smugly at you. 

“Looks like I made an even bigger mess,” he said, referring to all the sticky substances at your crotch. “Need a minute?”

You huffed defiantly. “No. I want more.”

“More?” he started. “I don’t have a condom, though.”

“Don’t care,” you said, making your way to his lap to straddle him. “I’m on the pill. And you’re seriously hard. Did you want things to end here?”

He couldn’t answer. Your boldness seriously turned him on. 

“That’s what I thought,” you said assertively. You started kissing his jaw and sucking on his neck, giving him the same treatment he gave to you earlier. Your bare pussy was grazing his rock solid cock.

“Y/N,” he exhaled. “You’re seriously perfect.” 

You sucked harder, letting your wet pussy glide against his member.

“You know you didn’t have to do all of that, right?” he said through gritted teeth. “The Iron Man comics and banana milk and – fuck,” he panted at the increasingly intense friction. “You’re already perfect for me.”

You melted at his sweet words. “Wanna be good for you, though.”

“You’re already so good,” he affirmed, hands pulling you in closer so you were chest to chest. “God, you’re perfect,” he said for the millionth time. 

He positioned his cock at your entrance, looking up at you hesitatingly.

“You wanna, uh, do the honors?”

A snort bubbled out of you. “Seriously? Do the honors?” Truthfully, you were nervous too. It was going to be your first time.

“Should I do it?” he asked, only a little bit embarrassed. 

“No,” you said. “I’ll do it.” 

After years of fantasizing about his dick being in you, you wanted to be the one to make it a reality. Slowly, you let yourself sink onto his cock. It was excruciatingly slow for Jungkook, but he didn’t make any move to rush you, only wincing and taking steadying breaths as you took your time.

Once you were halfway in, it started to hurt a little bit.

“You okay?” 

“Yeah,” you quipped, although it was strained. “Can we start with this?”

“Okay,” he said softly. “I’ll move.”

Gently, he started lifting his hips up and down. You groaned; the fullness felt weird – not good yet. But something was starting to tingle at the base of your belly. A few more thrusts later, it started feeling different. Like the nerves in your vaginal walls were finally starting to appreciate being stretched out by his dick.

You let out a shaky breath. “Feels good,” you whispered.

“Yeah?” His eyes hadn’t left your face once, careful to make sure that you weren’t uncomfortable.

Then, his thrusts started to feel like something else entirely. Filling you up with pleasure that you didn’t know was possible. His cock was warm and hard, not flimsy like your fingers or cold like a dildo. He was basically entirely in you by now. His rhythm started getting more shaky.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he moaned into your shoulder. “You’re so tight.”

You moaned, head falling back as he started getting faster – more aggressive. 

“It feels really good now,” you mewled. “Shit, Jungkook. More, please.”

He started thrusting up even harder; his dick was now pumping into you relentlessly. You joined him, humping up and down in a similar, but messier rhythm. Whimpers and moans were tumbling out of your mouth like a song, and Jungkook’s animalistic grunts  grew intense.

The car’s windows fogged up and you left a handprint on it when you briefly put your hand there to steady yourself. Your tits were bouncing in his face, and he stuck out his tongue to occasionally lick at your nipples as he thrusted into you. His hands dug into your waist, guiding your motions so that they aligned with his.

“Please, please, please – oh god, Jungkook, fuck!”

You were reaching your climax soon. Jungkook as well, looked like he couldn’t hold it anymore. 

“I’m gonna cum – I’m gonna cum!” You whimpered.

“Fuck, same.” 

Then, you and Jungkook sped up even more, each movement adding to your climax. Your moans crescendoed into a desperate, loud wail, and Jungkook let out one big groan as his warm semen filled your insides, sending tingles down your spine.

You were both breathless and sweaty, panting from the effort, but gooey smiles were plastered on your faces from the pleasure.

You lifted yourself off of him, wincing at your sensitive womanhood, before plopping on the seat next to him and leaning on his shoulder. He planted a soft kiss on your temple.

“That was amazing,” Jungkook said exactly what you were thinking.

You two sat like that for a while, basking in the other’s presence, naked and damp in the humid car.

“How are we going to tell Jimin?” you asked.

Jungkook hummed in consideration, less worried than he thought he’d be. 

“Let’s worry about that later, little miss.” 

I KNOW IT'S WARMER WHERE YOU ARE AND IT'S SAFER BY YOUR SIDE BUT RIGHT NOW, I CAN'T BE WHAT YOU WANT JUST GIVE IT TIME

-

WONWOO IS INFURATING. Infuriatingly good at doing his job, infuriatingly good looking, infuriatingly quiet, and infuriatingly good at keeping a respectable distance. He is watching you with that same infuriating calm he always does as you step out of the Sapphire Room into the cool night, his umbrella steady as he stretches his arm to shield you from the Autumn drizzle.

He's dressed in his usual all black coat, dark hair slicked back, leather gloves pulled over his hands. He doesn't speak when you glance at him - he never does. Not unless you speak first, which is one of the many infuriating things about him.

The rain is light but persistent, a fine mist that darkens the shoulders of his coat in soft patches. You pause in the alley, letting the false door swing shut behind you. It smells like wet brick and the faint, lingering smoke from the speakeasy behind you. Streetlights and neon signs catch in the shallow puddles, the faint tang of the dumpster behind you in the air.

Wonwoo waits as you slide your gloves on to keep the chill off. He's as patient as ever, the umbrella angled perfectly to cover you without crowding, his body positioned between you and the alleyway - always protective. Always a barrier between you and anything or anyone who might desire to do you some harm.

And there's plenty of people who would, given the chance. Rival bosses to your father, men you've rejected, women who'd love to get close only to stab you in the back. The list of enemies is as endless as Wonwoo's silence.

You glance at him. His eyes are on the street ahead, scanning the alley's mouth. When he feels your gaze, he flicks his attention back to you for a beat. His eyes are dark in the evening's mist, calm as ever, unreadable as ever. Something tightens in your chest - annoyance, maybe. Often annoyance. Or the sharper, more volatile thing that lives under it, the thing you refuse to give a name.

Without warning, you step forward. He matches your pace without a word, keeping the umbrella tilted so not a single drop of rain touches you. Your heels click against the wet pavement as you both walk to the idling car. He opens the reader door one-handed, keeping the umbrella over you as you slide into the interior.

The leather seat is cool through the thin silk of your dress. He closes the door firmly, popping the umbrella shut as he rounds the car to slip into the driver's side. You wait for him to glance at you in the rearview because you know he will. He always does, eventually, a quick check on you, eyes meeting yours in the reflection before he starts driving.

It's been three years of this routine. Three years of him driving you from charity halls to hidden jazz cellars, from rainy streets and across the bridge from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Three years of you sitting in the back of this car, watching his steady hands on the wheel, wondering what it would take to make him break that maddening silence.

You lean your head against the window, letting the cool glass press to your temple. Rain traces slow paths down the glass, turning the lights beyond into a smear of color. He adjusts the rearview mirror, drawing your attention back to him. Your eyes meet in the glass and he doesn't look away for a moment, eyes steady.

Finally, he breaks your gaze. Your heart pounds as he shifts the car into gear and pulls out onto the street, tires hissing in the rain. Your gaze is still fixed to the mirror, watching his side profile, the way he turns his attention from you to the road. So easily dismissed, so easily uninterested.

It makes your blood boil.

The car is silent as Wonwoo turns onto Fifth Avenue, the rain tapping on the roof steadily. Traffic thins to a handful of yellow cabs and the occasional black town car cutting through the dark, the neon marquees from the theaters glowing like phantoms beyond the misty window.

You watch the back of Wonwoo's head for a while, studying the near line where his hair meets the collar of his coat, the faint tension in his shoulders. You've watched him like this more times than you can count, always from the back set, always just out of reach.

"Do you remember," you say, breaking the silence, "the summer we were fourteen? When you used to sneak into the garage after your shift and we'd sit on the running board of your father's old Ford?"

He doesn't answer right away. You ignore the twist of irritation in your gut and push on anyway. "You told me once you'd drive me to California yourself. You'd hot-write a car just so we could leave - even drew a map on the back of one of dad's ledgers."

A muscle flickers along his jaw. Barely. You catch it in the reflection of the side window, lit for a moment by the glow from a corner drugstore still open, its window display of patent medicines and Lucky Strike posters shining wetly.

“You laughed when I said I’d marry you if we made it to the ocean,” you add.

The car slows for a red light at 57th Street, the wet gold from the Plaza Hotel’s canopy lights bleeding across the hood. A doorman in a long coat stands under the awning, cigarette glowing.

"That was a long time ago, Miss." Wonwoo says finally, voice low and careful.

It's the same measured tone he uses when he's handing you your stole or confirming your schedule with your father's secretary. Professional. Polite. Infuriating. The light turns green. He accelerates smoothly, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"It really wasn't."

"I'm not a silly little boy anymore."

You sit back, arms crossing over your chest. "Yeah, you're an ass now."

"Is my service to you unsatisfactory this evening, Miss?"

His tone hasn't changed, but for once, he sounds annoyed. It's the closest he's come to the Wonwoo you grew up with, the boy who used to blush when you brushed shoulders on the back steps of your family's brownstone, the boy who could go from quiet to sharp at the drop of a hat. That boy had vanished when your father assigned him to your personal driver and security detail. New role, new rules.

You hated it.

"How can I be unsatisfied, Mr. Jeon?" You clip. "You're so good at treating me like I'm just some passenger."

His eyes flick to the rearview. "You are a passenger, Miss."

The urge to scream claws up your throat. Instead, you rot in anger, streaming in the backseat as you stare sullenly out the window. The rain drums harder now, streaking the windows in long silver lines.

"You know what," you say, turning to him to continue your tirade. "I think-"

"Hold on."

Wonwoo's demeanor changes immediately. His shoulders square, hands tightening on the wheel. His eyes dart to the rearview again - not casual to check on you this time, but alert and focused. You turn in the car, a needle-like awareness pricking at the back of your neck. You see it too - a dark car, tailing at a distance.

Your pulse kicks. The annoyance drains away, replaced by the cold clarity that comes with years of living under your father’s name in this city. Your heart kicks, instinct taking over as you turn around, glancing at Wonwoo, who is rippling with tension, eyes on the rearview.

“Tail?” you ask, already reaching for the small .32 automatic tucked inside your coat.

“Looks like it.”

He accelerates just enough to test them. The city blurs past faster now, empty sidewalks glistening under the arc lights, the dark bulk of the Plaza sliding by on your left, shuttered storefronts along the avenue, rain sheeting across the windshield in sheets.

"Tail," he confirms.

"Take the next right onto Central Park South," you order. The weight of the gun in your hand is familiar, a security blanket. "Cut through to Sixth if we need to lose them. If they follow-"

"They're going to follow."

His eyes meet yours in the mirror again. Not the professional glance this time. Something raw flickers there, just for a second, and then it's gone again.

The engine growls as Wonwoo speeds up, switching lanes carefully down the narrow streets. You turn in the seat, watching as the black cars keep pacing, looping through the thin traffic to keep pace. Wonwoo curses under his breath, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for a gun.

"They know we know." He puts the gun on his thigh, calm as ever. "No point in playing coy."

You grip the edge of the seat, the small .32 already in your hand, thumb brushing the safety. The rain has turned the city into watercolor, beautiful in a way that feels at odds with the promise of violence that shivers through you.

Central Park South looms ahead, the dark wall of trees on your left a potential escape or a trap, depending on how this plays out. Wonwoo doesn’t wait for your input. He cuts the wheel hard right onto the park drive, the big car leaning into the turn.

A crack splits the night and the rear window shatters. You duck on instinct, heart slamming against your ribs. Wind and rain rip at you, the sound of the city and the engine filling the interior of the cab immediately.

"Stay down," Wonwoo commands.

You drop lower, folding yourself against the leather seat, pistol still clutched tight. Your pursuers get another two shots off, one after the other. You hear the punch of bullets in the metal trunk and roll forward toward the floorboards, not eager for one to hit you through the back of the seats.

Wonwoo doesn’t flinch. He yanks the wheel left, darting across the empty lanes toward the narrow service road that skirts the park’s southern edge. The car fishtails for a moment, your heart leaping before the tires catch and it levels out.

Two more shots ring out and Wonwoo ducks as the rearview mirror shatters. You growl and lean up, twisting in the seat as you lift the pistol and fire twice through the shattered rearview. The recoil jars your arm but you keep your elbows locked, squeezing off another shot.

The car behind you swerves and Wonwoo takes advantage, jerking into a sharp left of another service lane. It throws you against the door and you yell, a tangle of limbs and curses as you right yourself in the backseat, gripping his headrest, furious.

"A warning, if you please! I have a gun back here!"

"Here's your warning that I'm hitting the brakes!"

You barely have a moment to brace yourself as he does. The car slides sideaways across the narrow lane, blocking the path like a barricade. You both scramble from the vehicle as the pursuing car slams into your car, metal crunching on metal.

Rain sluices as you and Wonwoo turn as one, arms pressed together, guns raised. You feel the kick of your gun as you squeeze the trigger, both of you raining gunfire through the frontview window of their car. The driver and passenger are pinned, exchanging fire back once. Twice.

The return fire ceases, and for a moment, there's just silence except for the rain and the dying tick of the engine and sirens in the distance. Wonwoo is breathing hard at your side, the .38 still raised. He steps in front of you, walking with one foot in front of the other, careful as he examines the pursuers.

He drops his gun and turns back to you, moving quickly. "Dead. Let's go."

You don't argue. He takes your wrist and pulls you into a run, both of your breaths fogging in the night. The rain is cold and relentless, plastering your dress to your skin and turning your shoes to weights. You kick them off after a block, your bare feet cutting against rough stone and pavement. It bites but you ignore it, following Wonwoo as he leads you through back alleys and overflowing rain gutters.

Five blocks later, he slows, breathing steadily as you pant. You're both drenched and shivering, the cold so severe that you feel it in your bones as he stops in front of a narrow brownstone on a quiet cross street. The gun is shaking in your hand, more from the cold than the adrenaline pumping through you, breaths coming fast.

There are no lights in the windows, no sign of anyone home. You watch in surprise as he fishes out keys from his pocket and unlocks the door, turning back to grab you by the arm and yank you inside. You stumble as he does, immediately losing your sight in the dim of the room.

The dim room smells of dust, old wood, and the faint metallic bite of coal ash from the stove that hasn’t been lit in weeks. Wonwoo flicks on a single bare bulb overhead. You stand dripping in the entryway, water pooling around your bare feet. The cold has sunk so deep your teeth won’t stop chattering. He looks you up and down, gaze freezing at your feet.

“Fuck,” he mutters, the word slipping out before he can catch it. Not the polished chauffeur. Just Wonwoo, raw and unguarded for half a second.

You look down. The cobblestones and broken glass have left thin, angry slices across the arches and balls of your feet. Blood mixes with rainwater, staining the worn floorboards. You hadn’t felt the worst of it until now as the adrenaline wears off, leaving behind the sting.

He’s already moving. “Upstairs. Now.”

You don’t argue. He takes your elbow, his grip gentle but firm. He guides you up the staircase, careful of your steps, the wood creaking under your weight as you go. At the top is a short hallway with two closed doors. He pushes open one to reveal a bathroom, hand dropping from your elbow.

"Shower," he murmurs. "Hot as you can stand. There are towels and clothes in the cabinet. I'll be right outside."

You nod, too cold to argue as you shuffle into the bathroom. It's tine and tiled in cracked white, a single clawfoot tub and a showerhead rigged above it. You're shaking as you strip out of the silk dress, the wet fabric clinging like second skin. You turn on the faucet, listening to the pipes whine for a second until the water kicks on.

Naked, you stand shivering, occasionally putting a hand under the stream of water until it's warm enough to stand. The water is scalding at first and you hiss, a ripple of pleasure-pain going through you. You force yourself to stay under the water until the shivering stops, replaced by the relief of warmth. You wash quickly, mechanically, scrubbing away blood and alley grime.

Your mind reels as you scrub. You have no idea if your would-be killers followed you from the club or long before that. You'd been to a few hidden bars tonight, making deals and collecting assurances on your father's behalf, signing off on agreements for guns brought in through the harbor and liquor shipping to Chicago under the guise of cleaning supplies.

It isn't the first time someone has tried to kill you, but it's the first time Wonwoo has had to step in. You think of him in the rain, wet and slick, standing next to you like a dark guardian, rattling off shots in tandem. Once upon a time you'd been kids in sync like that, practicing on coke cans in the back yard or teaming up against your parents when playing cards.

Tonight had been different. The weight of it presses down on you, the reality that Wonwoo has just saved your life. You swallow, looking down at the water that runs pink, your feet cut up, still stinging but warm.

When you shut off the tap, you find the promised clothes in the cabinet, pulling on a men's cotton undershirt that fits all wrong and drawstring trousers too long for your legs.

Opening the door, you're surprised to see Wonwoo lingering. He's shed his soaked coat and vest, white shirt clinging to his shoulders and chest. His hair is no longer slicked back - the rain has loosened it, dark strands falling across his forehead. He looks younger like this. More like the boy you remember.

He beckons to the bedroom where a small tableside lamp burns dim and gold. "Sit."

You do. The mattress dips under your weight. The room is sparse, with just a bed, the small table, and a single window with heavy blackout curtains drawn tight. A safehouse, unmistakably. One of your father’s bolt-holes, probably. You’ve never been here, but you know the type, anonymous homes fully stocked and often forgotten.

Wonwoo disappears for a moment before returning with a battered tin box that must live under the sink. He sets it on the bed beside you and kneels, popping the lid with a metallic click. It's full of bandages, iodine, tweezers and a small bottle of alcohol.

"Arm," he says gently.

You look to where he points, realizing your arm is bleeding. You extend it, peering at the shallow cut alongside the outside of your bicep. Glass, you think, from the shattered window. He dabs alcohol on a cloth and presses it to the wound, earning a hiss from you. His fingers are careful and warm, his thumb brushing the inside of your elbow as he wraps the wound with gauze. It makes you shiver, a thin ripple of pleasure going through you at the contact.

“Cold still?” he asks quietly.

"No."

He doesn’t comment. Just moves to your right arm, then your hands, checking each finger for splinters or cuts. When he’s done with your arms, he shifts lower.

"Feet, please."

You hesitate, then lift one onto his knee. He cradles your heel in his palm, so gentle that it makes your heart skip. The cuts are worse here, deeper with dirt ground in despite your shower. Wonwoo works methodically, using the tweezers to pull out tiny shards of glass, using alcohol to clean each wound.

It is maddening, the way he handles you. Every graze of his fingers against the arch of your foot is hell, his touch electric. Your lids flutter as you watch his face for any sign that he's as affected as you are, but there's nothing. He's focused, jaw tight, brows drawn.

When he finally sets your foot down, he doesn’t move away. He stays kneeling between your knees, hands resting lightly on your calves, finally - finally - looking at you. His gaze is dark, pupils blown, for once staring at you with more than polite restraint.

You swallow. “I missed this.” You watch his jaw tick as he adverts his eyes. His hands are still on your calves, like it's the only thing grounding him. "Having your hands on me. Even like this."

“Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

"Because I'm not the same little boy you were friends with splitting ice cream and learning how to play cards." He swallows. "And I am trying very hard to obey your father's rules. You make it difficult - you always make it fucking difficult."

You stare at him, the words hanging between you. The glow of the lamp casts long shadows across his face, sharpening the line of his jaw, the faint scar just above his left eyebrow from that time you both got into a scrap with some dock rats when you were sixteen. He’s still kneeling between your knees, hands warm and steady on your calves, but his eyes are finally open. Vulnerable.

Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your neck. The room smells of rain and iodine and him - of the faint trace of the cedar cologne he’s worn since he was old enough to steal it from his father’s dresser. You’re shivering again, but not from the cold anymore.

“Difficult,” you echo, voice low. “That’s what you’re calling it? You’ve been driving me around like I’m a goddamn package for three years, Wonwoo. Looking at me in the mirror like you want to say something and then shutting it down every single time."

He exhales sharply through his nose, fingers flexing against your skin. “I’m doing my job.”

“Your job,” you spit, leaning forward so your face is inches from his. “Your job is to keep me alive, not to treat me like I’m made of glass and forbidden to touch. We almost died tonight, Wonwoo. And you still want to hide behind my father's rules?"

“You’re the boss’s daughter. I’m the driver. One slip and I’m at the bottom of the East River."

"I'd never let that happen to you. You know that, right?" He swallows and you reach down to cup his face with both hands. "I was willing to run away with you. I would do it."

"We were children."

"And now we're adults with the means to make it real."

"Don't tell me to do this. I wouldn't give you back."

Your fingers tighten on his face. "I wouldn't ask you to."

He makes an agonized sound and surges up from his knees. His mouth crashes into yours. It's not gentle - it's years of restraint snapping all at once, his mouth warm and demanding. One hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading into your damp hair, the other sliding down to grip your waist, grip tight.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, tongues sliding, teeth clicking. Your hands fist in his damp white shirt, yanking him closer until he’s half on the bed, one knee between your thighs. Your head is full of him, of the way he groans into the kiss, the way he smells. You whimper and he breaks the kiss, panting.

“Careful,” he murmurs against your lips. "You're hurt-"

“I don’t care,” you whisper, tugging at his shirt buttons. "I’ve been hurting for three years while you stared at me in a fucking rearview mirror. Please, Wonwoo. Please."

He curses softly, and helps you, shrugging out of the shirt to reveal lean muscle from years of hauling crates and working on cars, a faint trail of dark hair disappearing into his trousers, old scars you recognize and new ones you don’t. You trace one with your fingertip and he shudders.

Then he’s kissing you again, slower this time - worshipful. He maps your mouth with his tongue before trailing down your jaw, your throat, sucking lightly at the pulse point on until you're arching into him, whining. His hands slide under the hem of the undershirt, palms warm and calloused against your bare skin. He lifts the fabric slowly, pausing to kiss every inch of new skin he reveals.

When the shirt is gone, tossed somewhere on the floor, he sits back on his heels and just looks. His eyes are black with want, pupils blown wide. “God. Look at you. So fucking perfect. Always were. Even when we were teenagers and you were stealing my ice cream."

You laugh breathlessly, but it turns into a moan when he leans down and takes one nipple into his mouth. He sucks gently, tongue swirling, while his hand cups the other breast, thumb brushing the peak. But his mouth is greedy, moving from one breast to the other, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.

His name drips from your mouth, your fingers winding in his hair. He hums against your skin, the vibration shooting straight between your legs. He kisses lower, down the plane of your stomach, pausing at the drawstring of the trousers. His eyes flick up to yours, asking. You nod frantically.

Wonwoo unties them with steady fingers and peels them down your legs gently. He looks up at you, eyes fucked out as he kisses the inside of your knee, then higher, careful not to brush the worst of the cuts on your feet. His mouth finds the soft skin of your inner thigh and he lingers there, sucking sharply. Your legs twitch, knees pressing against his shoulders as he nips the soft flesh of your thighs.

His fingers trace up your other thigh, leaving goosebumps in their wake until they reach your cunt where he brushes his fingers through your folds. You're soaked already, aching, hips coming off the bed. He groans, middle finger tracing an idle circle around your clit, sparking pleasure in your gut.

“All this for me?” he murmurs, voice wrecked.

"Yes, fuck."

He circles your clit slowly, watching the way your breath catches, the way you arch off the bed, head digging into the mattress, eyes fluttering shut. Two fingers press inside you, curling just right, and you cry out, hips jerking. He holds you down gently with his other hand on your hip as he works you open slowly, his mouth pressing wet, spit-slicked kisses to your thighs.

“You’re so tight,” he whispers, lips brushing your thigh. “Been dreaming about this for years. About making you come on my fingers, cock - anything. About hearing you say my name like that.”

You’re babbling now, hips rolling, chasing the pleasure. The stretch is perfect, his fingers long and thick, scissoring and stroking that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. You hear him laugh as he presses his fingers deeper into your cunt, working that spot inside of you that had you clenching around his fingers hard, thighs clamping suddenly as you come without a warning.

He doesn’t stop, drawing it out, murmuring praise against your skin until you’re trembling and oversensitive. When you finally go limp and lift your head, he withdraws his fingers and brings them to his mouth, licking them clean while holding your gaze.

He stands long enough to strip out of his trousers and underwear. His cock is thick, flushed dark, curving slightly up, a bead of precome glistening at the tip. You reach for him but he catches your wrist gently.

“No,” he says, voice rough. “I need to be inside you. Need to feel you.”

He settles between your thighs, one hand bracing beside your head, the other guiding himself to your entrance. He rubs the head through your slick folds, teasing until you curse and bite his shoulder angrily. He laughs and pushes in, inch by inch, both of you groaning as he slides home. The stretch is exquisite, almost too much, but you want it more than anything, fingers digging into his lower back, pushing him closer - always closer.

Fuck,” he breathes. "You feel so fucking good. So hot. So wet. Made for me.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper. “Move, Wonwoo. Please.”

He does. Slow, deep rolls of his hips, grinding against your clit with every thrust. He pulls back a little to look at you, pupils blown, eyes darker than ever. His gaze doesn't leave yours, watching you as your breathing becomes uneven, heart fluttering in your chest.

The wet sound of him moving inside you is obscene in the quiet room. The rain outside is louder now, a steady roar that matches the blood rushing in your ears. His mouth finds yours again, tongue tangling with yours as one hand slides under your ass, tilting you just enough to change the angle, and the new depth makes you cry out into his mouth.

“Right there?” he pants. “Yeah? Feel me there, baby?”

You nod frantically, nails digging into his back. “Don’t stop - holy shit please don't stop."

He doesn’t. He keeps that same devastating rhythm, slow and deep and relentless, until the pleasure coils so tight in your belly you can barely breathe. His free hand cups your breast, thumb brushing your nipple, then slides down to where you’re joined. His fingers find your clit and circle it with the same slow precision.

“Come on my cock,” he breathes against your ear. “Let me feel you fall apart around me. I’ve dreamed about it so many times, wanted to know what you sound like when you come with me inside you."

The words tip you over. Your orgasm crashes through you, sudden and devastating. You clamp down around him, soaking him as your walls flutter. You sob his name, thighs locking around his hips, back bowing off the bed. He keeps moving through it, drawing it out, whispering praise into your skin until the last tremor fades and you’re boneless beneath him.

Only then does he let himself go a little harder, chasing his own release. His hips snap forward, deep and urgent, the bed creaking beneath you. His mouth is on your neck, your collarbones - anywhere he can kiss, tongue darting out to lick the sweat from your skin, to taste you.

You urge him, nails raking across his shoulders, his back, his thighs, trembling as you claw him closer to you, heart hammering so hard you think your ribs might crack.

When he finally comes, it’s with your name on his lips and his face buried in your shoulder. You feel the hot pulse of him deep inside, the way his whole body shudders, the broken groan that vibrates against your skin. He keeps moving through it, slow and shallow now, like he can’t bear to stop, until he’s spent and trembling.

For a long moment the only sounds are rain and ragged breathing. Then he lifts his head, eyes soft.

“I love you,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’ve loved you since we were kids. I’ll love you even if your father kills me for this.”

"He'd have to get through me first," you growl, pulling him closer. "I'm not letting him keep you away from me anymore. We can run away and I can marry you by the ocean like I said I would. Or we stay and fight with my family - I don't care. As long as it's you and I."

He stays silent as he averts his gaze to your boots, muddy from the rain and possibly jumping in every puddle available. You always liked doing that when the rain was light, and it usually ended up with him offering you a pair of sweatpants when you got home. 

Or, to his apartment. It’s not home to you, not anymore. 

He doesn’t say anything as he moves to the side, opening the door wider for you to step inside. You’re seemingly rooted in place until he turns his head to face the inside of his apartment. Slightly messy, with blankets and sweaters strewn everywhere. Candles burning on his coffee table fill the place you once called home with smells of salted caramel, vanilla and a hint of cedarwood. 

You’re quiet as you slip your feet out of your pink rain boots, your mismatched yellow and purple socks doing nothing to keep you warm from the freezing tile of his foyer. You shake off the umbrella, wrapping it closed and leaning it against the brick of his building. 

“No one will take it, right?”  “You know no one will.” 

You shove your hand in your pocket as you duck into his apartment, feeling the sting of tears prick at your eyes as you look around his living room. He’s got his journal open on the coffee table, the list of films you promised you’d watch together displayed in his handwriting. Smudges of blue and splats of ink from what you presume to be tears cover the page. 

The Netflix account you once shared is paused forty minutes into Mary and The Witch’s Flower. 

“I thought we said—”  “We said a lot of things, let’s not go down that rabbit hole.” 

You suck in a breath, nodding as he shuts the door. You hear the lock click, before hearing him skirt into the kitchen. 

“Drink?”  “Any soju?” 

A scoff is heard, before the familiar clinking of the green bottles you know he hasn’t touched and possibly been sitting since you left. Hansol never did like to drink alone. 

Even if it meant drowning in every sinking thought he had about you. 

He comes out of the kitchen with the bottled gripped between his knuckles, and a bottle of juice in his other hand. It’s new, and it’s one of your favorites. One that he hates. 

“Force of habit, huh?”  “I guess.” 

You inch towards the couch, the Persian rug beneath your feet soft and cushiony. You remember buying it with him, browsing a website he’d gotten from Seungkwan and buying three things while stoned out of your mind. The tiger blanket draped across the couch was one of the three, and a personalized cushion with your initials was the other. 

That was nowhere to be found. 

You perch on the edge of the couch, suddenly feeling hot as he sets the drinks on the coffee table. He still smells the same, soft aftershave and cotton deodorant. 

Cotton deodorant you used to buy for him, in bulk at Costco. 

He had half a stick on the vanity before you left. He’s had to have bought more since. 

He’s almost too close as he opens the bottles, flicking the caps onto the table and leaning back into the couch. Your fingers brush the sweating neck of the soju bottle as you grab for it, cold and slippery. He takes it from you abruptly, a bit of it spilling down his hand as he shakes his head. 

“Wrong one.” 

You look at the bottle in his hand, his fingers just barely covering the word Fresh scrawled on the label. Your cheeks heat as you nod, grabbing for the other one. 

Yogurt. 

“Do you need a glass?”  “No, I’m okay.” 

He hums, picking at the label on his bottle with his ringed forefinger. He doesn’t press play on the movie; he doesn’t move to comfort any sort of awkward situation. Hansol knows you’ll speak when you’re ready. 

“What’s the movie about?”  “The kid’s a witch.”  “Oh, cool.”  “Yep.” 

Silence. 

Agonizing, excruciating, debilitating silence. 

“Do you hate me?”  “What?” 

His eyes are wide as he quickly faces you; your eyes glued to the burning flame of the salted caramel candle on his coffee table. You bought that one. You bought it at a home goods store, and you remember scowling at him when he raised an eyebrow at you when you beelined for it – you'd told him you’d just wanted to get new pillows for the bed. 

Pillows you left behind. 

“Do you hate me, Hansol? I’d hate me?”  “I could never hate you.” 

You swallow hard, your fingers tightening around the bottle of soju. He sighs, setting his down on the coffee table before running a hand through his hair. Or lack thereof, he’s buzzed it off since – chocolate brown hair you’d run your fingers through before bed or swipe out of his eyes when he was too concentrated on Mario Kart. 

He looks good. 

He looks...tired. 

“I could never hate you.” He repeats, and suddenly, the air feels thicker around you. Everything feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, your chest tight as you force yourself to look up at him. His eyes are rimmed with unshed tears, your jaw dropping slightly as you inch forward. 

He looks away, wiping his eyes quickly before clearing his throat. 

“You did what you thought was best. I can’t hate you for taking care of yourself, that’s what you’re supposed to do.” He mumbles thickly, shrugging his shoulders as he traces the spout of the bottle. You follow his fingers carefully, your heart sinking at the slight tremble in them. 

“I’m sorry I disturbed you tonight, Hansol.” You murmur back, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans, still damp from sprinkles of the rain. He shakes his head, sighing. You’re both staring at the condensation dripping on his coffee table. 

His coffee table that you bought together. His bottle of juice that he’s never going to drink. His television, and the remote that you always changed the batteries to because he would forget. 

His apartment. Speckled with you, everywhere. Everywhere you looked, you saw yourself. 

“You didn’t.”  “I did.” 

“Don’t tell me how I feel, Y/N. I’m so tired of everyone telling me how I feel, or how I’m supposed to feel, or whatever. I’m human, too. I can feel whatever I want. And you didn’t disturb me, okay? I wouldn’t have opened the door if I didn’t want to.” 

Your chest aches at the sound of your name from his lips, eyes wide as you look at him; his own still trained on the condensation gathering on his coffee table. You watch him as his eyes follow the drops sliding down the bottles, your tongue darting out slowly to wet your lips. 

“Why...did you?”  “Why did I what?”  “Open the door.” 

“It’s storming. You only like rain when it’s light.” He whispers to himself, before glancing at you. “You still...right? You still don’t like thunder?” 

It’s only been a year, but he acts like it’s been an eternity. 

Maybe it has been. 

Maybe it’s been a millennia for him, as it has been for you. 

“Right,” you nod, picking at your nail polish as your leg starts bouncing. He used to stop you – when he was your boyfriend. He’d splay his hand on your kneecap; his thumb would rub gentle circles into the side before giving it a squeeze. You found solace in the touch. 

Now? He’s more than a cushion and a half away, and the space between you is hot; it’s burning hot. And you so badly want to close the gap, to feel his hand on your knee and feel the comfort of him spread through your body. 

In any way. You’d allow it in any way. 

“It’s been a year. Today.” You clear your throat, and he closes his eyes – folding his hands in his lap as he leans back into the couch. He nods before resting his head on the back of his couch and opening his eyes to look at you. 

“...Is this where we do the whole ‘how have you been’ bullshit?” 

There is a lilt of a smile in his voice, but it doesn’t show on his face. You shake your head, shrugging your shoulders. 

“I don’t know.”  “You don’t know how you’ve been, or you don’t know if—” 

“I miss you, Hansol.” You blurt, wincing inwardly as you shove your hands under your thighs; your fingers cold from the bottle and the rain and the way all the blood in your body rushes to your chest to aid the fire of anxiety in growing. You shift, wondering how long you could stare at the coffee table before your eyes wore holes into it. 

“...Is that why you’re here?” 

You suck in a shaky breath, opting to close your eyes. If you’re going to cry, you don’t want to see his reaction to it. You don’t want to see the flame in his eyes when he tells you to get out, to leave – that you’re too little, too late. 

That he doesn’t want you anymore, and you’ll have to live with the regret of leaving him for the sake of nothing for the rest of your life. 

“I know I don’t get to say that. I know it’s my fault. I left, and I...I’m sorry, Hansol. I’m sorry that I was a coward and I jumped ship when things started getting serious. I was a douche, and you don’t have to miss me. You don’t have to feel anything, I just...” Your tongue darts out to lick your lips, the salty taste of a stray tear coating the tip. 

“I wasn’t even in the neighborhood. I was six blocks away; I’d gotten coffee with Seungkwan. He told me you still lived here, and that you were good. That you were doing well.” 

“And you wanted to...what? Check and make sure for yourself? Ruin it, if I was?” 

There’s no poison in his voice. Hansol has always been diplomatic, respectful. Sometimes you wondered if there was a single bone in his body that ever felt rage. The urge to make everything look like a war zone, the subtle need to want to destroy every relationship he’s ever built from the ground up. 

Sometimes, you feel that kind of rage. 

“I don’t know,” you murmur, tightly squeezing your eyes shut as you feel him shift on the other edge of the couch. A roll of thunder is heard outside, your fingers gripping the fabric of the cushion beneath your thighs as it fades. 

You don’t catch the way he instinctively reaches for you, before sinking back into the cushion. 

“I don’t know what I wanted to do. I don’t know what I’m doing here.” 

He hums, and you sniffle. One of your hands reaches to swipe at your face, wiping the tears on your jeans as you face away from him. You open your eyes, looking at the wall through the blur of tears. All the frames on the wall are still the same, and they hold all of your pictures together. Your face is still cemented in the memories, and you wonder how he felt looking at those pictures every single day. 

“Do you want to talk about everything?” He asks softly, and you glance over your shoulder to see him resting his cheek on his palm. His eyes are just as gentle and understanding as they’ve always been. 

As warm as they’ve always been. 

“It could help you...uh, figure yourself out.” 

Help you figure yourself out. 

“What is there to talk about? I left for no reason.”  “Don’t do that. You left to find yourself. You left to take care of you.” 

“And it was selfish,” you scoff, and he clicks his tongue. 

“You think so?”  “I know so.” 

“I think it would’ve been worse if I kept begging you to stay, knowing you wouldn’t have been happy here. I mean, look around,” he gestures to the apartment. There is so much of you, and so much of him. “Everything in this apartment was a display of what our relationship was. Everything was you and me, me and you and us. It was never just Y/N, and it was never just Hansol. I could not, in good faith, keep you here if it was me that was suffocating you. It was not fair.” 

“You could never suffocate me,” you mumble to yourself, feeling a few tears trickle down your face as you speak.  

It’s silent for a moment. 

“What about you, Sol?” 

The nickname slips from your bitten lips, and he sighs. 

“What about me, Y/N?”  “If the tables were turned. If I had begged the way you did, would you have stayed?” 

It’s not a fair question. You know it’s not, and you can tell he thinks it’s not as his eyes shut, and he silently nods his head. He tongues his cheek, running a hand over his buzzed hair and down his face. 

“That’s not a fair question.”  “I know.” 

You nod, choosing to refocus your gaze on the coffee table. There was a sticker you’d peeled off an apple a few weeks before you left, still stuck to the table leg. It looks glossed over, like it’d come unstuck and somehow been put back. Glue, maybe. Clear nail polish. 

“Why didn’t you change the apartment?”  “In case you ever found your way back.” 

There was a hint of hope in the back of his throat, and you realize that he’s wearing the same hoodie he wore the day you left. Baby blue, over a white t-shirt. You bought it for him, just a few weeks before you decided that things were too overwhelming. That the idea of forever was too similar to the feeling of impending doom, that seeing him so irrevocably in love with you when you couldn’t even understand the ache in your chest when you looked at yourself in the mirror...it felt unfair. It felt unfair to lose yourself in him. 

It felt unfair to have the goodness of Hansol’s heart in the palm of your hand. 

And it was unfair to get to break it into pieces as he knelt in front of you that very day, his forehead pressed against your thighs int he very same jeans you’re wearing now. The way his tears soaked through the material the same way the rain had, and how you bit back your own sobs as you carded your fingers through his hair that night – before untangling his arms from around your knees and walking out of the navy grey door you wish would open so you could bolt out right now. 

“If I beg now—”  “You never have to beg for anything. Not from me.” 

You felt your throat ache as you forced yourself to swallow, holding back a sob as he sighed quietly. 

“Can I...talk about what it was like not having you around?” His voice is tentative, almost like he was talking to a deer he didn’t want to spook. You nod in silence, letting the tears drip onto your pants freely as you continue to stare at the coffee table. 

“I still go by the grocery list you left on the fridge. Eggs, bread, strawberry jam and that gross fucking juice.” 

His words are enough to get a snorted laugh out of you, your hand reaching to dig into your pocket for the napkin you’d taken from the café you’d been at earlier. You wipe the tip of your nose with it, shaking your head. 

“I haven’t used pots or pans. I bought a crappy set from the dollar store to get myself through the days alone. I haven’t used the silverware, but I haven’t polished it either...so it’s just gathering dust in the drawer. I haven’t slept in the bedroom, either. I usually sleep here, on the couch. You left a tube of lipstick on the bathroom counter, and your shampoo is still in the shower caddy.” 

He nods, and you can feel the heat of his gaze leave your face. You peek at him through the corner of your eye, seeing him looking behind you – at the wall of photos. 

“I bought a sample size of your perfume, so the bathroom would still smell like it did in the morning when you would leave for work.” 

You can feel your chest ache; almost like someone had reached into your ribcage and squeezed your heart so tight, it could burst in their hand. 

“I refill the same disposable soap you bought the week you left. The detergent is still the same cotton scent, because you said that the other scents made your head hurt. I bought a new air freshener a few months ago but went back to return it because it was Febreze, and you don’t like Febreze unless it’s the Linen & Sky scent. I replaced the baking soda in the refrigerator, but the only food in there is what I mentioned earlier. Eggs, bread, strawberry jam.” 

“And the juice,” you utter, and you can sense a dull ache start to thump at your temples. You bring your fingers up to your face, rubbing slow circles. Your eyes are low as they flicker up to the wall next to the door – his caps are hung up in the exact order they had been when you left. His navy New York Yankees, blue Texas Rangers, black Chicago White Sox and a pink one he rarely wore unless the two of you were going somewhere together. 

It had your initials embroidered on the bill. 

“I left everything exactly the same. I wanted it to still feel like home to you, if you ever came back.” 

You turn to face him, seeing his eyes brimming with tears as he clears his throat, but interrupt him before he can speak. 

“I carry a Polaroid of us in my wallet,” you start, running a hand over your face as you bring your knees to your chest, leaning back fully into the couch. “I carry a Polaroid of us, and I would show it to guys when they asked me if I was dating anyone. I couldn’t bring myself to delete any of our photos, so I put them all in a locked folder and forced myself to never look at it. I’ve eaten so much peanut butter, and it doesn’t even taste good. I hate it, actually. I hate peanut butter.” 

He covers his mouth with his fingers, pursing his lips so as to not let his laughter out. You feel a smile try to fight its way onto your lips, but you swallow it down as you pick at a loose thread on the couch. You used to snip them when you still lived here. You’re sure if you reach just under the middle cushion, the gold pair of sewing scissors would still be tucked away safely. 

“I left, and I was miserable. I was miserable because I was doing everything to let go of something...of someone I was so sure I didn’t deserve. I was trying to erase you from my life, but you were already missing. I would order too much food and wonder what to do with the leftovers. I would see a poster for a new indie movie I thought you’d like, and I’d go to text you, typing in the message box before I realized I couldn’t just do that. It wasn’t fair.” 

“I saw the bubble pop up a lot,” he confesses softly. You must look confused, because he clears his throat before shrugging, “I once opened the chat while I was in the grocery store. I was going to ask you if we needed anything else. You were typing and then you stopped. I cried in the dry cereal aisle, a little girl called me a wimp, and I left without groceries. It’s kind of funny, now that I think about it.” 

“I’m sorry.”  “That’s the last time you say that to me. I’m sick of hearing it.” 

His eyes are serious, no longer glazed with tears. You nod slowly, before you run your tongue over your lips for a third time. It’s suddenly too dry in his apartment, and you feel your skin start to itch as you clear your throat. 

“I miss you, Sol.” 

You feel your eyes flood, a fat teardrop splatting onto your hand. You wipe it off on your jeans, before sniveling one last time and pushing off the couch. 

“Thank you for listening, and for letting me in.” 

He nods silently, before standing up. He doesn’t move towards the door – instead beelining for what used to be your shared bedroom. You wipe at your eyes haphazardly, drying your hands of what few tears were left on the back of your jeans. You can hear him rooting around, and you opt to move towards the hallway mirror to check your reflection. 

In the corner of the mirror’s frame is a Polaroid of you and him. Your cheeks squished together, with your birthday scrawled in blue marker across the bottom in his handwriting. A lopsided heart follows the date. 

It’s been so many years since that photo. It feels like so long ago. 

He’s wearing the same blue hoodie, and your shoulders brave the same hot pink windbreaker. 

He’d spotted it at a thrift store, the windbreaker. And the jeans you have on. And the t-shirt you wear to bed, still sullied with the scent of his deodorant and his toothpaste stain that doesn’t come out no matter how many times you wash it. 

And you realize – that you are entangled. 

You are everything he is, and he is everything you are. You mirror one another – from the love of cinema to the way you find each other in every universe; whether it’s in a baby blue hoodie and a hot pink windbreaker, in bottles of Fresh and Yogurt soju, or in a pink cap with your initials embroidered on it and the locket he got you with his engraved. 

It burns the skin of your chest under your shirt. 

Your bedroom at your mother’s house is riddled with more of him – from the single love letter you took when you left, to the odd collection of his shirt and hoodies you’d stolen from him over the years. He picked the forest green paint on the walls a few summers ago, and he made you a shitload of tchotchkes to line the floating shelves he’d helped you put up. You’d escaped there when you left him a year ago. 

Only a few miles from him. 

From home. 

You bring your hand to your chest, feeling around for the gold locket and finding it twisted in your cleavage. It held two pictures – one of him as a baby, and one of you together. Close to your heart, close to your soul – you carried him. 

You would beg. God, you would beg. 

You would – if it meant you didn’t have to leave. If it meant you could leave your umbrella outside and know that Mrs. Kim next door would borrow it in the morning to get her newspaper before putting it back. You would beg on your hands and knees if it meant that Hansol wrapped his arms around you in this very moment, and let you breathe in the cotton and salted caramel and vanilla and everything he’s ever been. 

You would beg, plead, pray to whatever God was out there to feel the warmth of his lips against your forehead. To hear that he missed you, he misses you. To stay up well into the night watching Princess Mononoke on his iPad in the kitchen while you bicker about how bad he is at polishing the silverware. 

To lay in bed with him and count his eyelashes. To stuff a towel on the windowsill so you can open the window and breathe in the petrichor but not ruin the paint. To throw the duvet off the bed and run your hands under his shirt, likely stained with splatters of kimchi stew and the juice he fucking hates but drinks because it reminds him of the way you taste. 

But it’s much sweeter when he thinks of it that way, he told you once. It tastes a lot better when it’s on your lips. 

He loves that gross fucking juice when it’s lingering on your tongue. 

You sigh, finally looking at your face in the mirror. Hansol is standing behind you, brows slightly furrowed as he seemingly stares at the back of your head. You jump, your hand splaying on your chest as you suck in a breath too quickly. 

“You jerk, you scared me!” 

“I’ll wear a bell next time,” he rolls his eyes, before holding up something in the mirror. Purple with white flowers, yellow with cats – your socks. 

Ones you lost a year ago. 

“Where did you find those?”  “Mrs. Kim next door found them in her basket after she pulled her clothes from the dryer yesterday. She said she remembered you running in your underwear for the newspaper and you were wearing the purple ones.” 

Your eyes widen, “I’ve never run outside in my underwear! And I had shorts on that day!” 

“My boxers do not count as shorts,” he snorts, before holding them out to you. “Underwear is still underwear, no matter who wears it.” 

“Pft. Whatever.” You mutter before hesitating to take the socks. It could mean the end of whatever this was – you would have to stuff them in your pocket and walk towards his front door. You would have to turn his doorknob and hold onto the threshold of his apartment as you slipped your feet back into your wet rain boots. You would have to stand in his stoop as you shook out and opened your umbrella. 

You would have to look into his eyes and say goodbye. 

And for how long? 

How long will goodbye be this time? 

You reach behind you and carefully take the socks, your thumb brushing him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t react – only watching as you tuck the socks into the pocket of your windbreaker. His eyes return to the mirror, the Polaroid in the corner catching his attention. 

“I haven’t looked at that photo in so long,” he murmurs, stepping forward slightly. You can feel the heat of his body on your back, before nimble fingers pluck the photo from the corner of the frame. He looks like he’s in pain as he takes it, as if it hurts him to move anything that was there when you left. 

His thumb wipes dust off the photo, particularly off your face. You look at the mirror and see the perfect outline of the Polaroid, formed by the dust. You reach over and wipe it off, before wiping your hand on your jeans. 

I’m ready to come home. 

Please. Ask me to come home. 

He glances up at the motion, tonguing his cheek as he manages to place the picture back perfectly. 

“Nice try.” 

You don’t respond, but he doesn't say anything else, either. He simply stares at the photo before sighing softly. He looks hesitant, and you continue to let your eyes linger on the heart-shape of his smile in the photo as you mutter under your breath. 

“It’s still raining.”  “It’s only going to get worse. I’m surprised you agreed to go out with Seungkwan at all.” 

You nod, before your eyes flit back to the mirror. He’s not looking at the photo anymore – but at you. His eyes are full of emotions you can’t place as he scans the entirety of your face, as if he’s taking you in; as if he can’t believe you’re real. 

As if he can’t believe you’re home. 

“You changed your mascara.” 

You blink, opting to clear your throat as you nod, “how’d you know?” 

“The other one was kind of blue, I think. This one is brown.” He shrugs, “I liked the blue one.” 

“I’ll wear it more often,” you reply smoothly, before realizing it was one of the responses you’d give him when he complimented something you donned during your relationship. The hot pink windbreaker, the jeans you have on, OPI polish in Cos-mo Money on your fingernails. 

“I mean, I didn’t...ugh. Sorry.”  “Mhm.” 

He doesn’t say anything else, and you feel your throat dry as his eyes continue their path around your face. Eyes, nose... 

Lips. 

“I miss you,” he murmurs. 

You feel your back stiffen as he shifts away, hearing his footsteps round the edge of the couch. He doesn’t sit down – instead, blowing out his candles as he gathers the bottles of untouched soju and tucks the unopened juice under his arm as he speaks. 

“I miss you, and I don’t want you to leave. I understand if you have to, and I’ll be here when you’re ready to come home.” 

You’re rooted in place as you watch him slink away into the kitchen, hearing him pour the liquor down the drain. The clinking of the bottles is mocking you as he rinses them, before sliding them into the glass-only recycling bin. The sound of the refrigerator opening pains you, hearing the clunk of the heavy juice bottle being slid into the door before it shuts again. 

For what seems like the thousandth time today, you feel your eyes sting with tears. Your nose burns as you wait for him to slip out of the kitchen, your fingers toying with the zipper of your windbreaker before it gets the chance to start feeling too sticky on your skin. You tug it off, bunching it up and tossing it over the back of the couch before running your hands over your face in frustration. 

“Too sticky?” 

He appears next to you; eyes rimmed red as he sidles up. Or at least you wish he would – he's a good foot and a half away. The tip of his nose is pink, and there is a soft sheen on his cheeks – from tears finally spilling, you assume. 

It makes you ache. 

It makes your teeth hurt, the bittersweet pain of watching the man who you were sure put the stars in the sky every night feel like he had to act like you were a stranger while still yearning for you – just to make you comfortable. Why does he do that? 

How can he do that? 

“Hansol?”  “Mmh?” 

You should feel pathetic, selfish, with the way the words crawl up your throat so easily. 

“Can I stay?” 

He doesn’t respond; his eyes glancing at the clock above the television. It was one of the first things you bought together – at yet another thrift store. It had a badly painted version of Shrek and Donkey on the face; the numbers shakily smeared, but the two of you bought it for giggles. It became a statement piece; your friends always commented on how ugly the thing was in comparison to everything else in your home. 

But it was so you, and it was so Hansol. 

So, who cares? 

“Please. Please, let me stay, Sol.” 

“You don’t need to beg. This is your home.” He shakes his head, and you can feel your voice shaking before you can even get the words out. 

“You don’t have to miss me because I miss you. You don’t have to love me, because I love you. It’s not transactional.” 

You almost miss the way he rolls his eyes, before he glances down at you by the slope of his nose. His brow is raised, your skin prickling at the sight. 

“Don’t tell me how to feel.”  “I’m not.” 

He shrugs, perching on the back of the couch. His hands are hidden in the pocket of his hoodie, and the proximity is enough to make your knees grow weak – worsening as a hint of that soft aftershave floats up your nostrils. 

“You are. I’m allowed to miss you, you know. I’m allowed to think about you before I go to bed at three in the morning. I’m allowed to feel the twist in my stomach when I look at the toothbrush you left that I haven’t had the balls to replace, as if you’re still here. I’m allowed to still love you, after all this time.” 

“I was gone for a year. You should hate me.” You lament, absently picking at your cuticles, “an entire year, Hansol. Two birthdays, yours and mine. So many holidays so many special events...all over my own insecurities of not knowing who I was and if I was even worth your time.” 

He scoffs, shaking his head, “a year, ten years, a millennia. My heart has only ever been my own when you’re not the one holding it. Only then, could you have told me how to feel, and I still wouldn’t have listened to you. I will love you even if you do not love me, and even when you feel like you don’t deserve it. Even when you know who you are, and especially when you don’t. Because I know.” 

You feel your lip jut out in a pout as you try to hold back the pathetic sob in your throat, only to see his hand slip out of his pocket and stop you from picking at your skin. He’s warm, like he always is. 

He’s warm, inviting. Comforting. 

You look up cautiously, only to see the same gaze you’d been used to in the mornings just a year ago. Soft, gentle, loving. Unadulterated adoration. 

Glazed over with a hint of uncertainty. Of the present, of the future. 

Of us, and everything we are. Everything we could be, and everything we are. 

You look around the apartment, the weight of his hand on yours seeping into your bones. You take everything in again – the coffee table, the condensation left from the bottles, the remote. The television. The journal, with smudged blue ink. The candles. The hideous Shrek clock. 

Your coffee table that you bought together. Your television, and the remote you always changed the batteries to because he would forget. The journal you bought him at a bookstore while he was preparing to visit his sister in New York City. The candles you bought around the time of that trip, because they reminded you of him – though he smells like cotton and they smell like candy. 

The blanket you knitted yourself when he complained about being cold one evening – it took you four months, but it was well worth it to see the giddy grin on his face when you finally threw it over him before bed. The glass chess set that had been gathering dust in the corner for far longer than you’d been gone – one that you lost three games to him on, and sulked for hours as he peppered kisses all over your face. 

Your bright red coat hung by the window, one that you’d gone frantic looking for as the colder months crept in – right next to his black one. 

Coats you bought together. 

“Can I see the bedroom?” 

He nods silently, pushing off the back of the couch as you nervously intertwine your fingers. He says nothing, only squeezing your hand softly as he leads you down the hall – as if you’d never been there. He twists the doorknob open; the room illuminated only by the gloomy sky outside. 

You reluctantly let go of his hand to step inside, your fingers flexing at your sides as you walk on the soft beige carpet. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed and watching you stare at the floating shelves on the walls. Everything is still where you left it – wooden plane models, a few Smiski figurines, a singular LEGO wildflower bouquet. A deck of tarot cards that you used to fool around with him on long nights, stoned and flipping your bar of selenite through your fingers while he actively asked what upright Lovers meant. 

The bed is made – the sage green sheets neatly tucked and folded under the mattress. The pillows are fluffed and stacked exactly the way you left them the day you went out the front door. Your pitcher of water had been refilled, and the glass wasn’t fogged over – it was new water. 

Clean water. 

The window is open, and a familiar pink towel is rolled carefully and stuffed onto the windowsill – the room smells of petrichor and your perfume. You spot the wall still lined with your shared collection of vinyl records, the player still holding Dizzy Up the Girl by The Goo Goo Dolls. 

He bought you that one the day before you left. You remember laying on the floor with him, your head on his stomach while his fingers ran through your hair. You had told yourself you wouldn’t cry that night – but you did anyway, at half past four in the morning as he lay asleep in your arms. 

Your fingers gently run over the needle, before you pick it up carefully and place it on one of the grooves. The first few notes of All Eyes on Me play through the small speakers before you lift the needle and stop it. You let it fall back into its slot in front of the record, before folding your hands behind your back and turning to face him – your eyes immediately dropping to the floor. 

“Are you ready to come home?” 

You look up wearily, feeling your breath catch in your throat. 

“I love you, Hansol.”  “That doesn’t answer my question, Y/N.” 

You move forward abruptly, circling your arms around his waist and tucking yourself into his chest. He reciprocates carefully, almost as if he’s afraid. 

His hands tremble slightly as they ghost over your back, your own fisting the back of his hoodie as you press your face into the fabric. You feel his cheek rest on the top of your head, hearing a sigh slip from his lips as his hand slides up your back. Your voice is muffled as you speak into his chest, but you know he can hear you just fine. 

Hansol has always understood you, deeper than words. 

“I have to pick some stuff up from my mom’s.”  “Y/N. Answer the question.” 

“I’m ready to come home, Sol.” You murmur, before feeling the tips of his fingers move your hair away from your neck. He smooths it down your back with one hand, the other swiping stray tendrils from your forehead. You look up at him, resting your chin on his chest as he pads his thumbs over your cheeks. 

“I hate it when you cry. It makes my stomach hurt.” 

His honesty makes you snort, and you struggle not to roll your eyes as he continues to caress your face. He runs his thumbs over your brows, across your eyelids, down your cheeks... 

On your lips. 

“You cut your hair,” you whisper, and he nods. 

“I was having one of those moments. Like when girls give themselves bangs because they need to feel in control of something,” he shrugs, before his eyes light up slightly. “Didn’t you bleach—” 

“Shut up. You promised me we wouldn’t talk about it after it happened. Plus, you look like Buzz Lightyear. Leave me alone.” 

“I’ll have you know that being called Buzz Lightyear is actually a compliment,” he gloats, making you huff. 

“Yeah, because being compared to a delusional space cowboy is the way to go.”  “You did not just call him a delusional space cowboy, bro.”  “You did not just call me bro, Hansol.” 

He bites back his smile, carding his fingertips through your hair. You close your eyes at the sensation, preening at the way it sends subtle shivers down your spine. 

“Call me babe, or something. Honey. I like doll, too, that was a good one.” You’re murmuring into his sweater, hoping you’ll open your eyes, and he won’t suddenly disappear. Your fingers reflexively tighten around the fabric of his sweater in your fists, and you hear the rickety laughter you’ve missed so much ring through the air. 

“I’m not going anywhere, just relax.” His fingers tug gently at the hair on the nape of your neck, making you scowl. Your lip juts out as you look up at him through damp lashes, eyes full of guilt. 

“Do you forgive me?” The words weigh on your tongue, and you feel the tiniest bit pathetic laying yourself out like this – but it’s Hansol. 

“Nothing to forgive, you know.”  “You don’t resent me at all?”  "Not one bit.” 

Your eyes scan his; narrowing at the hint of mischief in the depth of them as you pull back slightly. Your brows furrow, a scoff leaving your lips as you poke your finger into his chest. 

“You’re lying.” 

“I’m not. If anything...I just missed you.” He admits quietly, pressing his forehead to the top of your head before wrapping his arms around your neck and pulling you close, “I miss seeing you when I come home from work. I miss finding you passed out while folding laundry on the carpet. I miss holding you, like this.” 

He sighs, shaking his head as he tucks strands of your hair behind your ears before thumbing at your pierced earlobes. Small hoops loop through them – gold ones, a gift from him many years ago. 

“I miss sleeping next to you, in our bed. That couch has awful cushions, why did we buy it?” 

“...We didn’t. Seungkwan made us take it when you moved out, remember? Because we...you know. On it.” You glance up at him quizzically, his cheeks tinging pink as the memory settles in the forefront of his mind. He grimaces, baring his teeth slightly as he shudders. 

“I still can’t believe he didn’t knock.”  “It was his apartment, Sol.” 

“...And it was his couch, huh?” He snorts, glancing down at you. You nod, letting a smile paint your lips as your laugh slips out. He smiles at the sound, leaning slightly closer. His fingertips tug on your earrings lightly. 

“You missed me, right?” 

“Is this when you fake me out two or three times before you kiss me?” You raise a brow, palms clammy as he shrugs. 

“I could, or I couldn’t. Depends on your answer, and how much.” His face is ever so slightly closer to yours, and you never really know how to react to this side of him – now, or a year ago – despite being the only receiver of it for over half a decade. Everyone views him as someone so cool, so calm, so collected – no one really understands how easily flustered you get at his subliminally flirtatious comments, or the way he looks at you like he could eat you alive...or the way he eggs you on with his provocative insinuations and those stupid eyes of his until you fold like a house of cards. 

He’s an enigma of a man, a lover, a soul. 

“A lot.”  “A lot.”  “So much. I’ll get a billboard and make it say I love Hansol Chwe.” 

“Oh, you missed me so bad.” He chides, making you scoff as you dig your fingers into his sides lightly. He squeals, his hands grabbing your wrists and holding them away from his body, “don’t do that!” 

His eyes are considerably lighter than when you’d arrived – and you feel your cheeks grow warm as he lets your arms go, once more carding his fingers through your hair. 

“You’re still awful at detangling,” he murmurs, before cradling your face in his hands. “Horrible, awful, no good at detangling your hair.” 

“Yeah, well...” you huff, crossing your arms as you look away. “You kind of get used to someone else doing it for you.” 

He hums, “do you need to go get your stuff tonight?” 

You shake your head, glancing up at him with a small smile, “if I go tonight, the silverware won’t get polished. And we need that, so we can have dinner.” 

“I am not polishing silverware tonight.”  “Oh, yes, you are. I can’t imagine how dusty my forks are.” 

“Our forks, first of all. Second of all, we’re not polishing them tonight. We have other things to do,” he rolls his eyes, pressing a kiss to your hairline. 

You swallow the hitched breath in your throat, feigning nonchalance as you raise a brow at him. 

“Oh, do we? What other things, Hansol?” 

“The usual, you know.” He plants another kiss to your temple, “first order of business is actually ordering takeout.” 

“Takeout, he says. Have you got money for that?” You close your eyes as his lips brush the soft arch of your brows, your eyelids, forehead...the tip of your nose. “Last I checked, we were very frugal. Eggs, bread, strawberry jam.” 

“You made us expand our budget for your nasty ass juice. I think takeout can be an option tonight,” he mumbles against your cheek, and you feel your stomach start to flutter as he brushes his lips against it. “Second order of business is actually a shower. We can listen to that true crime podcast you like while I detangle your hair. This is just unacceptable.” 

“Maybe I should shave my head.”  “I’d hate for you to think that you’re a delusional space cowboy, babe.” 

Your eyes widen slightly at the pet name, but he doesn’t allow you to speak as he presses his lips to yours softly – smooth with the scent of strawberry lip balm. It’s chaste, it’s fast. 

Too chaste, too fast for your taste. 

“Third order—”  “No, no. Kiss me.” 

He raises a brow, but does as you ask. His lips mold against yours, your hands finding home on his chest. He moves to pull back, but you chase after him – pulling him back and deepening the kiss. You feel like you’re on fire as he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him; your fingers pawing at his sweater as you slip your tongue into his mouth. 

The groan from his throat still tastes like home. 

He still tastes like home; like strawberry jam and your disgusting juice. Sweet, tart. Loving. 

“I missed you, Sol.” 

He doesn’t reply, his hand gingerly wrapping around your throat as he pulls you back in. The way he kisses you is desperate; holding you against him tightly as he pushes off the doorframe. He starts moving you backward, your hands wrapped around his wrist as the back of your knees hit the foot of the bed. 

“Sol—”  “Shh.” 

His lips never leave yours, his hand moving from your neck to the back of your head, tangling in your hair. He lays you back against the comforter gently, your hand fisting the collar of his hoodie. You tug at it as he licks into your mouth, a soft groan falling from your throat as his fingertips breach the hem of your t-shirt and graze over the skin of your belly. 

You pull back from his lips with a quiet pant, your own swollen as you blink up at him. You feel his fingers squeeze your side carefully, eyes searching your face. 

“Y/N?” 

His voice is soft as he hovers over you lightly, his knee slotted between yours, and you feel your throat burn as your hand strokes his jaw. 

“I’m sorry for leaving.” 

He shakes his head, his hands moving to hold your face, “stop it. Stop being sorry for taking care of yourself. I love you. I know you, and I know that if you felt the need to leave...you had to do it. Please stop being sorry. Just...just let me love you, even if you have to leave again in another year. In ten years, in a month...tomorrow.” 

You breathe out shakily, peering at him through teary eyes. His gaze is still everything it’s ever been. 

Warm, gentle. 

Home. 

“Please, just let me.”  “I love you.”  “I know, babe. I know.” 

You sit up abruptly, your hand moving to pull at the hem of his sweatshirt. He obliges, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the side as you move up the bed. His lips find yours again as your head hits the pillow, slower than before. Like he’s savoring the moment, his fingers toying with the button of your jeans before he pops it free. He breaks the kiss briefly, pulling your jeans down with ease. You kick them off the edge of the bed as his hands slide up your thighs slowly, warm and soft. A finger snaps the waistband of your underwear against your hip, making you scowl as you swat his hand away. 

“Don’t be mean.” 

“M’not being mean, baby.” He bites back a smile, watching as you sit up on your elbows, feeling the bed sink slightly under him as he hovers over you, the tip of his nose brushing yours. You look up at him through your lashes, moving to bridge the gap as he pulls back slightly. 

“Sol?”  “I love you.” 

Your chest heats as he presses his lips against yours, his hand pushing your thighs apart slightly. It slides up your hip; his thumb rubbing circles into your lower belly before he slips it under the hem of your shirt. He deepens the kiss, pushing your shirt up to the bottom of your breasts as the cool air makes your skin prickle with goosebumps. You move to pull it over your head, tossing it somewhere across the bedroom before pulling him back to your mouth, slipping your tongue between his lips.  

His hands wander, softly clawing at your sides and enveloping your hips in the warmth of his fingers as your own pull at the short ends of his hair. His lips trail up your jaw, soft and feathery, before his teeth nip at your earlobe. Your knee digs into his side as he tugs lightly at your earring, and you twist away from him – only to feel the scrape of his teeth against your neck, earning a whine from your throat as your legs tighten around his hips. 

“Take your pants off,” you whisper, a frown tugging at your lips as you feel him shake his head. 

“Not yet,” he speaks against your skin, his lips trailing down your neck and across your clavicle. His hold on your hips loosens as his hands slide down your thighs, parting them further to slot himself between them as he peppers kisses down your chest – flattening his tongue on your nipple before you can speak. A choked sound leaves your mouth as he rolls his tongue over the sensitive bud, his thumb brushing over your neglected nipple with precision. He’s gentle, your thighs trying to close around his hips as he hums against your skin. 

“Missed seeing you like this,” he murmurs, switching sides and pulling your nipple into his mouth with a soft suck. Your breathing is shaky, embarrassingly shaky – and you feel him smile against your skin, “really? Already? I’m flattered.” 

“Shut up,” you bite, earning a chuckle as he trails his lips back up your neck with a tentative roll of his hips against yours. Your cheeks grow hot, feeling the weight of his cock against your clit through your flimsy underwear. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders lightly as you try to grind your hips up against him, only for him to pin you to the mattress. 

“God, I missed you.” His voice is gravelly, rutting his shaft against you harder before his hand suddenly slips between your legs and slide over the damp patch of arousal soaking through your panties. He presses his fingers against it, a gasp catching in your throat – your cheeks burning as you feel him pull away from your neck. Your fingers move to pull at his sweatpants, but he moves your hand away with a quick shake of his head as his hands slide down your legs. He follows their path with his lips, dragging open-mouthed kisses up your thighs and calves, even pulling your socks off to kiss the sides of your feet. 

His fingertips hook around the cotton fabric of your panties, his eyes flickering up to meet yours as he pulls on them gently. You lift your hips to let him pull them down entirely; the fabric flung somewhere across the room as he spreads your thighs, settling between them with a kiss to your hip. You cover your face with shaky hands as his lips trail across your skin, peering up at you through his lashes as he ghosts over your center. You peek out from between your fingers to see him biting back a smile as he shakes his head, “baby, it’s just me.” 

“Yeah, well—” Your sentence is cut short with a choked gasp as he flattens his tongue against your cunt, licking a fat stripe through your folds and gathering your arousal before sucking your clit into his mouth carefully. His eyes flutter shut at the taste, your teeth sinking into your lip to stop the embarrassing whine trying to claw its way out of your throat. He sucks harder, your fingers flying to his hair and tugging the short strands as best as you can before you feel his fingers prodding at your entrance. They slide in easily, your thighs closing around his head with a soft whimper. He forces them apart with his shoulders, pinning your rutting hips to the mattress with his arm as he curls his fingers inside you, his tongue working you over almost painfully slow — and the warmth in your lower just starts to spread as he pulls away.

“Did you touch yourself while you were gone?” His voice is much steadier than you trust your own to be, his fingers expertly working you open as you nodded, feeling his lips trail down your shoulder. “Did you think about me while you did it?” 

“E-Everyday,” you hate the meekness in your tone, your nails digging uselessly into his bicep as he smiles against your skin. His free hand trails up your arm, gently pulling your hand away from his body and kissing your knuckles. 

“Show me.” 

You force yourself to peer at him through your lashes, eyes low as he brings you closer to the edge — only to see him kiss the tips of your fingers, before pulling them into his mouth. Your lips part with a soft groan, rolling your eyes as you feel his tongue slide between them, perfectly coating them with his salvia before pulling them out and snaking your hand between your thighs. His eyes are dark — desperate, even. Needy. 

“Show me.” 

His fingers slow inside you as you swallow hard, dragging your fingertips through your folds, spreading them slightly and circling your swollen clit. His eyes don't leave yours as you cover your mouth with your hand, your thighs twitching at the stimulation. You break eye contact, your body feeling hot as you let your head hit the pillow, squeezing your eyes shut as the mix of your fingers with his bring you closer to the edge. 

“Sol, I’m—” 

He didn’t let you finish your sentence, pulling his fingers out of you just as the taste of your orgasm tried to hit the back of your tongue. You let your lips part, brows furrowing as the feeling died right at his fingertips. His fingers are wet against your thigh, and he has a small smirk toying with the corner of his lip as you pout. 

“Sol…” your voice is whiny as he trails his lips up your body, ghosting over your chest as you huff. “I thought you said you weren’t mad at me.” 

“Oh, I’m not.” He shakes his head quickly, but he’s not looking at you. His hand pulls at the waistband of his sweatpants, low enough to let his leaking cock spring free. It’s hot and heavy against your thigh, your mouth watering slightly as he looks up at you, “I could never be mad at you.” 

“Then why—” 

“Because I can,” he interrupts, wrapping his fingers covered in your juices around himself. He brushes a kiss to your lips, “because I want you to ruin me all over again.” 

Your eyes fluttered as he rolled his hips against yours, his length dragging through your wet folds and his tip bumping your puffy clit with a hiss from his lips. Your hands fist the sheets as he speaks against your jaw, “I thought about you every single day. Just like this.” 

“Sol—” 

“Fucked my hand thinking about you. Every night. Even the smell of your perfume made me want you, I missed you so much.” He’s whispering, and you can hardly hear him over the blood rushing to your ears, “missed seeing your pretty lips all swollen after sucking me off. Will you? Have I earned it?” 

He doesn’t let you respond, his hand gently tilting your chin up to slot your lips with his before snaking down your bodies and wrapping around his cock. He guides himself through your slit, teasing the thick head against your hole as you gasp into the kiss. 

“Please—” 

“Don’t beg.” He mutters against your mouth, “I won’t do anything if you beg.” 

“Sol, please—”  “Y/N.” 

His tone is warning as he circles your entrance, smearing beads of precum on your slick skin before gently easing himself inside you. Your thighs close around his hips instinctively, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as he slowly sheathes himself in your gummy walls — before he stops, not even halfway in as he looks you dead in the eyes. 

“Tell me you missed me." His hands hold your thighs tightly, the rings on his fingers digging into your skin. Your mouth falls open as he gives a tentative roll of his hips, but he pulls right back out before you can savor the feeling. He shakes his head with a click of his tongue, "tell me you missed me, Y/N."

"Missed you," you whisper, tears pricking at your eyes as you tilt your head up to kiss him. He lets you, slotting his lips with yours as you wrap one leg around his hip, "missed feeling you. Haven't stopped thinking about you."

The admission is enough to make him grind his cock against you, the fat head bumping your clit over and over as you slip your tongue in his mouth. The kiss is all teeth and tongue as he rocks against you, a groan falling from your throat as you taste yourself all over him and making you clench around nothing. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you roll your hips with his, only for him to pull away with a chaste kiss to your lips, still ghosting over your face as he peered at you through thick lashes.

"I love you." Your hand cups his jaw gently, his own trailing up your arm to wrap around your wrist. He kisses your palm, leaning into your touch as his eyes close, "I love you, Y/N."

You pull him down to you, brushing your lips to his, "I love you, Sol."

He nods, tapping your hip with his hand and squeezing the flesh, "turn around."

You roll your eyes, a smile trying to fight its way onto your lips as his hands slide up your hips, helping you turn onto your belly, "you never change."

"Man of habit, what can I say?" His voice is low as he presses his lips to the dip of your spine, your skin littering with goosebumps as he moves your hips flush to his. He drags his mouth up your back, his fingers caressing the skin of your sides as he moves them up to your shoulders, gently wrapping his hand around your throat with a soft squeeze, "missed you so much. Missed touching you…kissing you. Having you."

"I'm here." You whisper back as he presses kisses to the side of your face, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips brush your eyebrow. "Have me."

"M'not gonna last very long," he murmurs against your cheek, your hand reaching back and tugging gently at his hair. His hand snakes between you, wrapping around his cock and dragging it up your slit with a hiss. You push your hips back against him, biting down on your lip as he nudges your clit, his lips pressing kisses to the curve of your jaw, "might not last at all, actually."

"Just wanna feel you," you let him tilt your head back, brushing your lips with his as he pulls you up, your back flush to his chest as he finally bottoms out. You clench around him, his nose buried in your neck as he inhales shakily. His hand falls away from your throat, slipping down to cup your tits, squeezing gently as he gives an experimental roll of his hips. You're embarrassed at the tremble in your thighs, the sharp breath you suck in as he mumbles against your skin, "there she is…missed this."

"Have it…use me," you whisper back, your jaw falling slack as he starts moving his hips into you. He keeps you close as he grabs at your soft skin, kissing up the slope of your shoulder, inhaling deeply at the dip of your neck before gently pinning you to the mattress. Your fingers grip the sheets as he kisses down your spine, hiding your face in the pillows as you meet his thrusts halfway. His rings are digging into your skin as he palms at your ass, the sharp sound of the smack registering before the sting of his palm, soothed by his grip as he kisses your shoulder.

You feel yourself growing fuzzy, your limbs melting into the fabric as he sucks the sweet spot just under your ear — his cock dragging perfectly against your walls and making your skin litter with goosebumps, the pillow absorbing your whines as your skin muffles his.

"Just take it, please…" he breathes out, his fingertips digging into the meat of your hips as his movements grow sloppy, "it's yours. I'm yours."

"M-Mine," you mewl weakly, and he only groans as he pulls out abruptly, flipping you onto your back and slotting his lips with yours as he slides back in. Your nails dig into his back, sinking down the expanse of his shoulders as he swallows your whimpers — the kiss is all teeth and tongue as he spreads your thighs with his hands, his lips trailing down your jaw and nipping at your earlobe.

"Should've knocked you up years ago, fuck." He buries his face in your neck, mouthing at the skin there as your breathing grows shaky, your walls clenching around him. He nips at your collarbone, "need to fill you up every day. Make you mine forever…you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Y-Yeah," your voice is full of air as your cunt squeezes around him, earning a spent laugh from his throat. His hand snakes between your bodies, thumb finding your puffy clit and making you jerk as he rubs tight circles into it, the coil in your belly threatening to snap. You let out a shuddered whimper, feeling his lips brushing the column of your throat, "missed this pussy so much, baby. So perfect for me. Made for me."

His lips are frantic, kissing every inch of skin he can reach as your breathless pants fill the room, the air smelling like sex and sweat as you wrap your legs around him. He snakes his slips into your mouth in a sloppy kiss, your thighs tight around his hips as you let go, soaking his cock in your release with a whine pouring into his mouth. He twitches inside you, mumbled reassurance as your thighs tremble, his forehead damp against your shoulder as he spills inside you.

He kisses the dip of it, stamping his lips along the column of your throat as he runs his hands up and down your thighs, squeezing softly as he meets your mouth again.

"I love you," you murmur, cupping his face in your hands as he hovers over you slightly. He nods limply, kissing you smoothly as his hands spread your thighs, holding your knees to your chest as he gives another slow roll of his hips — making you jolt with overstimulation as he lets out a weak laugh.

"Gotta make sure it takes, baby." He speaks into your mouth, kissing you chastely as your legs shake around him, "love of my life. I love you."

He mumbles something else, but it's lost as he kisses you firmly, overstimulating you both as he keeps making a mess between your thighs. You pull away, holding him away from you by the short hair, "what did you say?"

He blinks at you, raising a brow before his cheeks tinge with embarrassment. He shakes his head, trying to brush a kiss to your lips but you move away.

"Don't let me ruin this, Y/N." He sighs, closing his eyes as he presses his forehead to yours. He peels them open again, the swirl of adoration and worry circling the light amber of his irises. You give him a pointed look, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, "what did you say?"

"…Please don't leave me again." He buries his face in your neck, your eyes burning as he whispers against your skin, "please, please, please…don't leave."

You pepper your lips to the side of his face, pulling him away from your neck to connect your lips. Tears wet your lashes as you hold him close, your hands pressing against his cheeks as you pull back.

"Don't beg," you mumble, your voice thick as tears brimmed his eyes, "you never have to beg for anything. Not from me, never again."

"I love you, Y/N." "I love you, Sol."

YOU'RE ANXIOUSLY SCRUBBING PANS THE NEXT MORNING WITH A JOINT HELD BETWEEN YOUR LIPS.

You know he said you could come back, you know he said that you can stay…but something about it makes you nervous. The way his shirt barely covers the curve of your ass but still smells like him, the way you've relit all the candles around the apartment as he sleeps soundly in your shared bedroom. His lips were pouted when you slipped out of his arms early that morning, your body sore in places it hadn't been in months. The bathroom mirror confirmed the tightness of his grip — bruises littering your hips, nips of his teeth along your ass and thighs, even a mark sucked into the dip of your hip.

You foolishly texted Soonyoung if he could drop off something to take the edge off at the apartment — and you realized you'd forgotten to tell him that you would be there. His jaw had dropped as he held out the bag of pre-rolls, expecting to see Hansol in his comfortable sweatpants glory — only to see you, in the shirt that didn't even remotely cover the black fabric of your underwear. You'd paid him in a wad of cash and closed the door before he could say anything, shooting him a text the moment you lit one of the pre-rolls to please keep his mouth shut.

The vibrations of your phone on the counter, messages from your groupchat and Seungkwan — told you that he hadn't been able to do that for very long.

You'd opened the windows, the sky still gloomy but the air fresh and cool — settling the anxiety in your stomach as you dried the last pan. He'd been right — he hadn't touched them since you left, the dust settled on them from sitting in the cabinet for so long. You fumbled around the kitchen, pulling the silver polish from the top shelf of the pantry when you felt hands on your waist. You jumped, your hand settling on your chest when you realized it was him.

"You really need to get a bell," you mutter, feeling his lips curve into a smile against the back of your neck as he takes the silver polish from your hand and tosses it somewhere on the counter. His arms wrap around you, pulling your back to his chest as he squeezes gently.

"Called Soonyoung?" His voice is raspy, the way it always is when he's just woken up. You smell mint on his breath, and you figure you must've not noticed when he started moving around in your anxious state. You nod, holding the joint out to him over your shoulder as he sways you both.

"He already ran his mouth, can't keep a secret to save his fucking life." You mutter as you feel his lips brush your fingers, wrapping around the end of your joint and pulling back. He grimaces, "is this that gross ass strain you like?"

"Everything I like is gross to you. My juice, my weed, my favorite PopTart." "I'm not gross, and Brown Sugar Cinnamon isn't even close to being the best." "I'm gonna ignore that, and good thing I don't like you, Sol."

"I know you think that's a compliment and sick segue to say you love me, but not liking me is embarrassing as fuck," he snorts, gingerly placing the gross thing back between your lips. "Keep that shit to yourself."

"You're so fucking annoying," you mutter, smiling despite yourself. Your skin prickles slightly as you feel his hands slide down your hips and bunch his shirt under his palms. He slips his hands under it, thumbs barely hooking on the waistband of your panties before he presses his lips just under your ear.

"You wanna polish all this shit now?" "We didn't do it last night." "I'd argue we did better things last night—"

"Get off me, you little freak." You huff, trying to wiggle out of his hold but failing miserably as he only turns you around. You tongue your cheek, tapping the joint out on an ashtray you'd fished out from under the double-decked coffee table before letting him pull you close again. "You're not getting out of doing this today, Chwe. I mean it."

"Seungkwan invited us to lunch," he murmurs, caging you between him and the counter. You raise a brow, "Seungkwan invited us?"

"You, my girlfriend, and me, your boyfriend. Me and you. Us. We," he gestures between the two of you, "are cordially invited to lunch at the Boo Seungkwan residence. Expect ridicule, badgering and half a cold pizza slice because Soonyoung is already over there and stoned out of his mind."

You stopped listening after me, your boyfriend.

"You love me, right?" You ask softly, tugging at his shirt gently. Another plain white one, but there's a red stain on the collar that belonged to you. Red lipstick that didn't come out after you washed it twice, leaving a lingering of your presence behind.

Just like the bruises that littered your hips, and the toothpaste stain on your shirt that belonged to him. Just like your initials on his cap, the locket around your neck, the windbreaker, the hoodie. His journal, the stickers from your apples stuck to the leg of your coffee table. The sample bottle of your perfume that you'd seen sitting on the bathroom counter, and every single vinyl in your collection. The gross juice in your fridge that he didn't like but you loved, the Shrek and Donkey clock, the chess set…and everything you are. Everything he is.

You and him.

Him and you.

Together, in everything. Lingering, cohabitating, sharing…

Entangled, enamored, bounded by souls not willing to be apart…

Cosmically meant to exist as lovers.

"I do. I love you, Y/N." "I love you, Sol."

"…Enough to not polish the silverware tonight?"

He didn't judge it, exactly. He just couldn't relate.

Jungkook lived loudly. He collected experiences the way some people collected shoes: hookups at parties, tangled sheets in expensive apartments, mornings that smelled like someone else's perfume. He didn't apologize for it. Why would he? Life was short, and he was young, rich, and too good-looking to waste time on guilt.

And you? You were the opposite of everything he knew.

Soft-spoken but sharp. Polite but immovable. The kind of girl who dressed modestly, kept her circle small, and apparently believed that waiting until marriage was still a thing people did in the 21st century. Jungkook had heard rumors, sure. Everyone had. The girl who didn't date. The one who quoted scripture and turned down half the rugby team without blinking.

He'd probably never have thought about you twice if it wasn't for Political Science 304.

The class was an easy A, or it should have been. Show up, nod along, write a few essays about democracy or whatever. Jungkook usually sat in the back, barely listening, scrolling through his phone or nursing a hangover behind dark sunglasses.

But then came the debate.

The topic was something about religious freedom versus secular governance. Dry as hell, or so he thought. Jungkook had thrown out some half-assed argument about keeping church and state separate, the kind of thing that sounded smart if you didn't think about it too hard. He'd gotten a few nods from his buddies. Even the professor seemed fine with it.

And then you raised your hand.

"With all due respect," you said, voice calm but cutting, "that's an incredibly shallow reading of both history and ethics."

The room went quiet.

You didn't yell. You didn't have to. You dismantled his argument piece by piece, citing philosophers he'd never heard of, constitutional law he'd never bothered to read, and real-world examples that made him look like he'd gotten his politics from Twitter threads. You spoke with precision, with conviction, and worst of all, with thinly veiled disgust.

Not just for his argument.

For him.

By the time you finished, Jungkook felt like he'd been skinned alive in front of thirty people. A few classmates were staring. One guy actually whistled under his breath. And you? You just sat back down, expression unreadable, like you'd done nothing more than correct a typo.

Jungkook left that class with his jaw tight and his pride in his pocket.

Later that night, he met up with his usual crew at the apartment Taehyung's parents kept near campus: all floor-to-ceiling windows, imported liquor, and zero supervision. They were sprawled across the leather sectional, mid-argument about someone's latest breakup and cheating, when Jungkook brought you up.

"Anyone know the girl from PolySci? Y/N?"

Taehyung snorted into his drink, nearly spilling whiskey on the cream leather. "Oh, you mean the one who made you look like an idiot today?"

"She didn't make me look like anything," Jungkook shot back, a smirk tugging at his lips. "She just has opinions. Strong ones. It's kind of hot, actually."

"She destroyed you, man," Jimin cut in, grinning wide enough to show his teeth. "I heard about it from like three people already. Someone recorded it. It's in the group chat."

"There's a video?" Jungkook's jaw tightened, though his eyes gleamed with something dangerous. "Good. Maybe she'll watch it and realize I was paying more attention to her mouth than her argument."

Jimin choked on his drink. "Jesus, man."

"Relax, it's only got like fifty views," Hoseok said, not looking up from his phone. Then, after a beat: "Wait, no. A hundred and twelve now."

"Perfect," Jungkook drawled, leaning back with his arms spread across the sectional like he owned it. "Free publicity."

"Free humiliation, more like," Hoseok finally glanced up, smirking. "You got academically destroyed by a girl who probably irons her cardigans. And now it's immortalized."

"It doesn't sting," Jungkook said, rolling his neck lazily. "It's a challenge. There's a difference."

"She's the religious one, right?" Hoseok said, scrolling again. "Doesn't go to parties. Doesn't drink. Doesn't…" He trailed off with a smirk, letting the silence fill in the rest. "Yeah. Doesn't do anything."

"Waiting until marriage," Taehyung added, like it was the punchline to a joke. He topped off his glass, ice clinking. "Serious about it, too. Like, aggressively serious. Turned down Namjoon last year without even blinking."

Jungkook blinked. "Namjoon? Kim Namjoon?"

"Yep. Man wrote her a whole letter and everything. Like a Victorian gentleman or some shit." Taehyung laughed, shaking his head. "Three pages. Hand-written. Quoted poetry."

"And?" Jimin asked, leaning forward.

"She said no in under ten words." Taehyung mimicked a flat, polite tone: "'I appreciate this, but I'm not interested. Thank you.'"

"Cold-blooded," Hoseok muttered, impressed despite himself.

Jungkook laughed, low and genuinely amused. "I like her already."

"Of course you do," Jimin said, shaking his head. "You always want what you can't have."

"I respect it, honestly," Jimin continued. "That's commitment. Like, imagine actually having principles in this place."

"Or delusion," Hoseok countered, scrolling again. "Same thing, really."

"She's probably one of those 'love is patient, love is kind' people," Taehyung said, voice dripping with mockery. "You know, thinks she's special because she's repressed."

"Or maybe she just hasn't met anyone worth breaking her rules and standards for," Jungkook said, his voice smooth as silk. He tilted his head, eyes half-lidded, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Yet."

Taehyung barked out a laugh. "And you think you're that person? The guy who just got publicly humiliated by her, a college student acting like a 1950s housewife-in-training. That's not standards, that's a complex."

Jungkook didn't say anything for a moment. He was thinking about the way you'd looked at him in class. Not like he was attractive. Not like he was rich or charming or untouchable.

Like he was nothing.

Like he wasn't even worth the effort of contempt, just a nuisance to be corrected and dismissed.

"She really hates me," he said.

"Probably hates what you represent," Taehyung said, swirling his drink. "You know: shallow, shameless, morally bankrupt. Everything her little prayer group warns her about." He grinned. "No offense."

"None taken." Jungkook's smile widened, sharp and wolfish. "I've been called worse by better people."

"And yet here you are, still thinking about her," Jimin observed, pouring another drink. The bottle was already half-empty, and it wasn't even midnight. "She's like a fortress. No weak spots. No cracks. I don't even think she has Instagram."

"She doesn't," Hoseok confirmed. "I checked. Just LinkedIn. LinkedIn. Who our age has LinkedIn but not Instagram?"

"Someone who thinks she's above all this," Jungkook murmured, more to himself than anyone else. Then louder, with a reckless grin: "Which means she's exactly the type who's dying to let go. She just doesn't know it yet."

"Psychopaths," Taehyung said immediately.

"Or people with actual career plans," Jimin countered.

"Same thing."

"You're delusional," Hoseok said flatly. "She looked at you like you were gum on her shoe."

"Exactly," Jungkook said, eyes glinting. "That's what makes it interesting."

Taehyung's grin widened then, slow and dangerous. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes glinting with the kind of mischief that always ended badly. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Jungkook raised an eyebrow, his tongue dragging slowly across his lower lip. "Depends. Are you thinking I could have her on her knees by midterms?"

The room erupted. Hoseok choked on his drink, Jimin covered his face, Taehyung laughed so hard he had to set his glass down.

"Jesus Christ, Jungkook," Jimin managed, half-horrified, half-impressed.

"What? I'm just being honest." Jungkook shrugged, shameless. "You all act like I'm the devil, but at least I don't pretend to be anything else."

"You're insane," Hoseok said, wiping tears from his eyes. "She would literally rather die."

"I'm thinking," Taehyung said slowly, ignoring them both, like he was savoring each word, "that even you couldn't crack someone like her."

The room went still.

Jungkook tilted his head, eyes narrowing, but there was heat there now, something dangerous and hungry. "That a challenge?"

"It's a bet."

Hoseok barked out a laugh, finally setting his phone down. "Oh, come on. That's not fair. She'd sniff him out in a second. This isn't some girl from a club who's three drinks in. She studies people like him."

"Exactly," Taehyung said, leaning back with satisfaction. "That's what makes it interesting. That's what makes it worth something."

Jimin was shaking his head, but he was smiling, the same way people smile at car crashes. "What are the terms?"

"Make her fall for you," Taehyung said simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world. "For real. Not just a kiss or a coffee date or some hand-holding bullshit. I'm talking full-on, 'I trust you,' 'I'm breaking my rules for you,' 'you've changed me' territory."

"That's cruel," Jimin said, though he didn't sound particularly bothered by it.

"That's the point," Taehyung shot back. "If it was easy, it wouldn't be a bet."

Jungkook should have said no.

He should have laughed it off, called Taehyung an idiot, told him to sleep off the whiskey, and moved on.

But he kept thinking about the way you'd looked at him. Like he was less. And Jungkook had spent his whole life being more: more money, more charm, more attention, more everything. He didn't lose. Not at anything that mattered.

And this? This was starting to feel like it mattered.

Besides, he'd never met a rule he didn't want to break. Or a girl who didn't eventually want him to.

"What are we betting?" Jungkook asked, voice low and even, already leaning forward like a predator catching a scent.

Taehyung leaned back, thinking, tapping one finger against his glass. Then his eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. "Your Porsche 911."

Jungkook's jaw tightened. The vintage '73 he'd spent two years restoring himself: forest green with cream leather interior, original wood-grain dash, engine he'd rebuilt by hand. His pride and joy. The one thing his father couldn't buy for him because he'd earned it himself.

He let the silence sit for a beat. Two. Then he smiled, slow, dangerous, certain.

"And what do I get when I win?"

"When?" Taehyung laughed. "I love the confidence. Alright." He tapped the platinum watch on his wrist, the one that caught light like a quiet threat. "My Rolex Daytona. The one my grandfather left me. The one I'm not supposed to gamble with."

Hoseok whistled low, actually looking up now. "Wait, you're serious? That watch is worth more than my tuition."

Jimin set his drink down, eyes wide. "That's a $200,000 watch."

"And that's a $150,000 car," Taehyung countered. "We're both gambling something we shouldn't. That's how you know it's real."

The room held its breath.

Jungkook met Taehyung's eyes across the table: dark, amused, daring him. Then he leaned back, arms spread wide, grin sharp enough to cut.

"Deal," he said, voice dripping with arrogance. "But just so we're clear, I'm not doing this for the watch."

"No?" Taehyung raised an eyebrow.

"No." Jungkook's smile turned wicked. "I'm doing it because I want to see what she looks like when she finally stops pretending she's a saint."

"You're going to crash and burn so hard," Hoseok muttered, but he was grinning.

"We'll see," Jungkook said smoothly.

They shook on it. Firm. Final.

And in that moment, Jungkook felt something settle in his chest. Not guilt. Not hesitation.

Certainty.

He was going to win. He always did.

—

You sat cross-legged on the worn carpet of the campus ministry lounge, your notebook balanced on your knee, half-listening to the discussion happening around you.

"I just think if we frame the outreach event as a community wellness fair instead of an evangelism thing, we'll get way more people to show up," Sarah was saying, her voice bright and earnest.

"But isn't that kind of... misleading?" Daniel asked, pushing his glasses up. "Like, we're still trying to share the Gospel, right?"

"It's not misleading, it's strategic," Sarah countered.

You made a note in the margin of your planner, tuning them out. You'd heard this debate a thousand times. Same script, different week.

Your phone buzzed on the floor beside you.

Mom: Your brother got expelled again. We're meeting with the dean tomorrow. How are your grades? Still maintaining that 4.0?

You stared at the message for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

No "how are you." No "we miss you." Just another crisis with him, another expectation that you'd keep being perfect while they scrambled to fix his messes. The eternal assumption that your achievements didn't need celebration because they were simply expected.

You typed back: Yes. Hope the meeting goes well.

Then you muted the conversation and set your phone face-down.

"Y/N? What do you think?"

You looked up to find everyone staring at you. Sarah's smile was patient, but there was something performative about it, like she was waiting for you to say the right thing so they could all move on.

"I think both approaches have merit," you said carefully. "But we should prioritize authenticity over attendance numbers."

"See? That's what I'm saying," Daniel said, nodding enthusiastically.

Sarah's smile tightened. "Right. Of course. Authenticity."

You felt the familiar weight settle over your chest. The sense that you were always saying the right thing but never the real thing. That you could sit in a room full of people who shared your faith, your values, your entire worldview, and still feel completely alone.

Because none of them actually knew you. They knew the version of you that showed up on time, volunteered for everything, smiled through exhaustion, and never, ever complained.

They knew the performance. Not the person.

"Alright, let's take a quick break before we finalize the budget," Sarah announced, standing and stretching. "I'm going to grab some coffee. Anyone want anything?"

A chorus of polite nos.

You stayed where you were, staring at your planner. You'd color-coded every hour of your week. Church. Study groups. Volunteering. Tutoring. Not a single block marked "rest" or "fun" or "something just for me."

You used to like this. The structure. The purpose.

Now it just felt like a cage you'd built yourself.

The door to the lounge creaked open.

You didn't look up until you heard Daniel's voice, uncertain and confused.

"Uh... can we help you?"

You glanced toward the door.

And froze.

Jeon Jungkook stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking around the room with an expression that could only be described as amused curiosity. He was dressed down in black joggers, an oversized hoodie, a silver chain catching the light at his collarbone. But somehow he still looked like he'd walked off a magazine cover.

"Hey," he said, voice smooth and casual, like he belonged there. "This the campus ministry thing?"

Silence. Sarah blinked at him, coffee forgotten. Daniel looked like he'd short-circuited. Even Grace, who never got flustered, was staring.

You felt your entire body go rigid.

"No," you said flatly.

Jungkook's eyes found yours across the room, and his mouth curved into a slow, lazy smile. "No? That's weird, because the flyer outside said..."

"I don't care what the flyer said." You stood, closing your notebook with a sharp snap. "You're not here for ministry. So you can leave."

"Wow." Jungkook tilted his head, smile widening. "Hostile. I just wanted to check it out. I've been... thinking about faith lately. Exploring spirituality, you know?"

"Exploring spirituality," you repeated, voice dripping with disbelief.

"Yeah." He stepped further into the room, completely unbothered by your tone. "Figured I'd start somewhere. This seemed like a good place."

"Y/N," Sarah said gently, stepping forward with that welcoming smile she always used on newcomers, "maybe we should..."

"No." Your voice was sharp enough to cut. You didn't take your eyes off Jungkook. "He's not staying."

"That's not very... Christian of you," Jungkook said, and the way he said it (playful, teasing, like he was daring you to react) made your blood boil.

"Don't." Your voice was low, dangerous. "Don't you dare use that word in here like it's a joke."

"I'm not joking." He spread his hands, the picture of innocence. "I'm genuinely interested. I mean, you seem really passionate about it. I thought maybe you could... teach me."

The way he said teach me (slow, deliberate, with just enough edge to make it sound like something else entirely) made your stomach twist.

"Okay, that's enough." You crossed the room in three strides, stopping directly in front of him. You had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes, but you didn't flinch. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but it's not going to work. Not here. Not with me."

"Game?" Jungkook raised an eyebrow, leaning down slightly so you were almost eye-level. His voice dropped, quiet enough that only you could hear. "You think pretty highly of yourself if you think I'd go through all this trouble just to mess with you."

"I know you would," you shot back, just as quietly. "Because people like you don't do anything unless there's something in it for you."

For a split second, something flickered in his expression. Something sharp and real. But then it was gone, replaced by that infuriating smirk.

"People like me," he echoed, straightening up. "You don't even know me."

"I know enough." You stepped back, raising your voice so the whole room could hear. "You're not welcome here. Leave."

"Y/N..." Daniel started, looking genuinely distressed. "We're supposed to be open to everyone."

"Not him," you said firmly. You turned to Daniel, then to Sarah, your voice steady and unyielding. "He's not here in good faith. And if we let him stay, he's going to make a mockery of everything we're trying to do."

"That's a pretty harsh judgment," Sarah said carefully, though she looked uncertain now.

"It's the truth." You turned back to Jungkook, crossing your arms. "So. Are you going to leave, or do I need to call campus security?"

The room went dead silent.

Jungkook studied you for a long moment, head tilted, eyes dark and unreadable. Then he smiled, slow and dangerous, like he'd just won something.

"Alright," he said softly. "I'll go."

He turned toward the door, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

"But just so you know, I wasn't lying. I am curious. About faith. About you." His eyes locked on yours, and for a moment, the playfulness dropped away entirely. "Maybe that scares you more than you want to admit."

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

You stood there, heart pounding, fists clenched at your sides.

"That was... intense," Grace said quietly.

"He wasn't serious," you said, though your voice sounded shakier than you wanted it to. "He was making fun of us."

"Are you sure?" Daniel asked, frowning. "I mean, he seemed..."

"I'm sure." You grabbed your bag, suddenly desperate to leave. "I'm going to head out. I'll see you all on Sunday."

"Y/N, wait..."

But you were already out the door, walking quickly down the hallway, trying to ignore the way your hands were shaking.

You didn't know what Jungkook was trying to do.

But you knew, with absolute certainty, that he was dangerous.

Not because of what he said.

Because for one terrible, fleeting second, when he'd looked at you like he actually saw you, not the performance but the person, you'd wanted to let him in.

And that terrified you more than anything else.

—

The next morning, you were determined to forget the entire incident.

You'd woken up early, gone for a run, made yourself breakfast, reviewed your notes for your afternoon exam. Normal routine. Normal day. Everything was fine.

Except you kept replaying that moment in your head: the way Jungkook had looked at you before he left. Maybe that scares you more than you want to admit.

It didn't scare you. It annoyed you.

Because he was wrong. He had to be wrong.

You were halfway across the quad, headphones in, when someone fell into step beside you.

"Morning."

You didn't need to look to know who it was. That voice, low and smooth and infuriatingly casual, was burned into your brain now.

You kept walking, eyes straight ahead. "Go away."

"That's rude," Jungkook said, matching your pace easily. "I'm just trying to have a conversation."

"I don't want to have a conversation with you."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't trust you."

"Fair." He tilted his head, considering. "But you didn't even give me a chance yesterday. You just... assumed the worst."

You stopped abruptly, turning to face him. A few students passing by glanced over, curious. You lowered your voice. "I didn't assume anything. I know exactly what you are."

"Oh yeah?" Jungkook's eyes glinted with something sharp. "Enlighten me."

"You're someone who thinks everything is a game. Someone who gets bored easily and looks for the next thrill. Someone who sees a girl who won't fall at his feet and decides she's a challenge."

His jaw tightened, just slightly. "You really think that little of me."

"I think realistically of you." You crossed your arms. "So whatever you're trying to do, showing up at my ministry group, pretending to be interested in faith, just stop. It's pathetic."

"Pathetic." He repeated the word slowly, like he was tasting it. Then he stepped closer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "You want to know what's pathetic? The fact that you're so scared of letting anyone in that you've convinced yourself everyone has ulterior motives."

"I'm not scared..."

"You are." His voice dropped, quieter now, more intense. "You're terrified. Because what if I'm telling the truth? What if I actually do want to know you? What then?"

Your breath caught. He was too close. You could smell his cologne, something clean and expensive and distracting.

"You don't," you said, but your voice came out shakier than you intended. "You don't want to know me. You want to prove something. To yourself, to your friends, I don't know. But it's not real."

"How do you know?"

"Because..." You gestured vaguely between the two of you. "Look at us. We're from completely different worlds. You go to parties, you hook up with random people, you don't take anything seriously. I'm not like that. I never will be. So why would you actually be interested in me?"

"Maybe that's exactly why."

You blinked. "What?"

"Maybe I'm tired of my world," Jungkook said, and for the first time, there was something raw in his voice. Something that didn't sound like a performance. "Maybe I'm tired of people who don't give a shit about anything. Maybe I saw you, really saw you, and thought, 'That's someone who actually believes in something. Someone who actually cares.' Maybe that's what I'm interested in."

You stared at him, heart pounding. "You're lying."

"I'm not."

"Then prove it." You stepped closer, challenging him. "Tell me the real reason you showed up yesterday. Tell me what you really want."

His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you thought he might actually walk away. That you'd finally called his bluff.

But then he said, so quietly you almost didn't hear it: "I fell in love with you."

The world seemed to tilt.

"What?"

"I know how it sounds," Jungkook said quickly, running a hand through his hair. "I know it's insane. But I've been watching you for weeks. Not in a creepy way, just... noticing you. The way you light up when you're talking about something you care about. The way you're kind to everyone, even when they don't deserve it. The way you're so sure of who you are." He laughed, but it sounded almost bitter. "And I realized I wanted to understand that. Understand you. So yeah, I showed up at your ministry group because I thought maybe if I joined your world, even for a second, I could..."

"No." You shook your head, stepping back. "Absolutely not. You don't love me. You don't even know me."

"Then let me get to know you."

"Why would I do that?" Your voice was rising now, frustration bleeding through. "You're literally everything I stand against. You sleep around, you drink, you treat people like they're disposable. And you think you can just show up and say some pretty words and I'll what, fall into your arms?"

"I don't think that." His voice was steady, but his eyes were burning. "I think you're smart enough to see through bullshit. I think you're strong enough to tell me to go to hell if that's what you really want. But I also think..." He stepped closer again, and this time you didn't move back. "You're curious. Just a little. And it's killing you."

"You're delusional."

"Am I?" He was close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. "Tell me you don't feel it too."

Your heart was hammering so hard you were sure he could hear it. Everything in you screamed to push him away, to run, to protect yourself.

But there was something in his eyes, something vulnerable and desperate and utterly sincere, that made you freeze.

"I..." Your voice came out barely above a whisper. "I don't..."

"You do." His hand came up, hovering near your face but not quite touching. Asking permission. "You feel it. I know you do."

And God help you, he was right.

Because standing this close to him, looking up into those dark eyes, feeling the heat of his body just inches from yours, something was shifting inside you. Something dangerous and electric and completely terrifying.

You'd spent your whole life building walls. Carefully constructed boundaries that kept you safe, that kept you good. And in less than two days, Jungkook had found every single crack.

"This is wrong," you said, but you didn't move away. "Everything about this is wrong."

"Why?" His thumb brushed against your cheek, the barest touch, feather-light, and you felt it everywhere. "Because I'm not what you planned for? Because I don't fit into your perfect life?"

"Because you're going to hurt me." The words came out raw, honest. "You're going to make me feel things I shouldn't feel, want things I shouldn't want, and then you're going to walk away. Because that's what people like you do."

Something flickered across his face. Pain, maybe, or recognition. His hand dropped. "What if I don't?"

"You will."

"How do you know?"

"Because..." You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. "Because I've seen what happens when girls like me fall for guys like you. I've watched my friends lose themselves, compromise everything they believe in, all for someone who never actually loved them. And I refuse to be that girl."

"Then don't be." He stepped back, giving you space, but his eyes never left yours. "Don't lose yourself. Don't compromise. Just... let me in. Even a little. Let me prove I'm not who you think I am."

You wanted to say no. You wanted to walk away right now and never look back.

But that traitorous part of you, the part that had been waking up slowly over the past forty-eight hours, whispered: What if he's telling the truth?

"No."

The word came out firmer than you expected, cutting through whatever spell had settled between you. You took a deliberate step back, putting distance between your bodies, between the heat and the confusion and the dangerous pull you'd almost given in to.

"No," you repeated, stronger this time. "This, whatever this is, it stops here. I want you to leave me alone."

Jungkook's expression shifted, surprise flickering across his features. "Wait..."

"I mean it." You wrapped your arms around yourself, a physical barrier. "I don't care what you think you feel. I don't care about your reasons or your pretty words or any of it. Just... stay away from me."

Inside, your heart was screaming at you, a chaotic mess of confusion and fear and something else you refused to name. Every instinct told you to run, to get as far away from him as possible before you did something you'd regret.

Before you became someone you didn't recognize.

"Please," you added, and you hated how your voice wavered. "Just leave me alone."

For a long moment, Jungkook just looked at you. Something in his eyes had gone quiet, intense. Then he nodded slowly.

"Okay," he said. "If that's what you really want."

"It is."

You turned to leave, desperate to escape before the tears burning behind your eyes could fall. But his voice stopped you.

"I'm not giving up on you."

You froze, your back still to him.

"I know you want me to," Jungkook continued, and there was something almost gentle in his tone. "I know it would be easier if I just walked away. But I can't. I won't. So even if you don't want to see me, even if you think I'm everything you stand against, I'm not giving up. Not on this. Not on you."

You didn't respond. You couldn't. Instead, you forced yourself to walk away, one foot in front of the other, your vision blurring.

You didn't look back.

—

By the time you reached your dorm, you were shaking.

You locked the door behind you and slid down against it, finally letting the tears come. They were hot and angry and confused. At him, at yourself, at this entire impossible situation.

Why? you thought desperately. Why is this happening to me?

You'd been so careful. So good. You'd followed the rules, kept your boundaries, protected your heart. You'd built a life that made sense, that aligned with everything you believed in.

And then Jungkook had to go and exist.

You pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to stop the flood of emotions. But they kept coming, wave after wave of confusion, frustration, and underneath it all, that terrifying spark of want that you couldn't quite extinguish.

You cursed the day you'd decided to argue with him in that class. Cursed whatever impulse had made you speak up, had made you catch his attention. If you'd just kept your head down, stayed quiet, none of this would be happening.

He never would have noticed you. You never would have noticed him.

And you wouldn't be sitting here on your bedroom floor, crying over a boy who represented everything you were supposed to avoid, wondering why it hurt so much to push him away.

I'm not giving up on you.

His words echoed in your head, relentless.

You pulled your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them, and let yourself feel the full weight of your confusion. Because as much as you wanted to believe you'd made the right choice, the only choice, some traitorous part of you was already wondering what would happen next. What it would feel like if he kept his word.

And whether you'd be strong enough to keep saying no.

—

The week had been a nightmare.

Not just bad. Catastrophic. The kind of week where the universe seemed to conspire against you, piling one disaster on top of another until you could barely breathe under the weight of it all.

Monday: Your sociology professor had announced a group project worth 40% of your final grade, due in two weeks. Your assigned partners? Three people who'd never once shown up to class on time.

Tuesday: Your theology paper, the one you'd been planning to start over spring break, got moved up. New deadline: next Friday. Ten pages, minimum, on the intersection of faith and modern ethics.

Wednesday: Midterm exam in your hardest class. You'd barely had time to study between everything else.

And Thursday. Thursday, your brother had called.

You'd known something was wrong the moment you heard his voice. Too high, too fast, words tumbling over each other in a panic. It had taken twenty minutes to get the full story out of him, and when you finally did, your blood had run cold.

Gambling. A poker game that had gotten out of hand. Money borrowed from people who didn't take "I'll pay you back eventually" as an acceptable answer.

Dangerous people. The kind who broke bones first and asked questions later.

Your brother had begged you not to tell your parents. They'd already sacrificed so much to send you both to college. He couldn't bear to disappoint them, couldn't stand the thought of them finding out what he'd done.

So now you carried his secret like a stone in your chest, heavy and cold. You'd been trying to figure out how to help him, reaching out to financial aid offices, looking into emergency loans, calculating how many shifts you could pick up at your campus job without failing out of school entirely.

The math didn't work. It never worked.

And through it all, through every sleepless night, every panicked moment, every overwhelming deadline, your mind kept drifting somewhere it absolutely shouldn't.

To him.

To Jungkook.

You'd been running into each other all week. At first, you'd convinced yourself it was coincidence. The campus wasn't that big, after all. But by the third "accidental" encounter, he'd started calling it fate, that infuriating smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," he'd said on Monday, appearing beside you in the library. "People are going to talk."

"Then stop following me," you'd shot back, not looking up from your textbook.

"Following you? I was here first." He'd gestured at the study carrel across from yours, his backpack already sitting there. "But hey, if you want to think the universe is pushing us together, I'm not going to argue."

On Tuesday, you'd literally walked into him coming out of the coffee shop, his iced americano sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

"Careful," he'd said, steadying you with one hand. "I know you're falling for me, but you don't have to be so literal about it."

You'd rolled your eyes and walked away, but not before catching the laugh in his voice.

Wednesday, he'd somehow ended up in line behind you at the dining hall.

"Are you stalking me?" you'd demanded.

"A man's got to eat," he'd replied, all innocence. "Not my fault you have excellent taste in mediocre cafeteria food."

By Thursday, you'd started (God help you) looking for him. Scanning crowds, checking corners, your heart doing a stupid little jump every time you caught a glimpse of dark hair and broad shoulders.

You hated that you'd started to enjoy it. Hated that his stupid comments and ridiculous observations had become the only thing making you smile during this absolute hell of a week.

Hated that every night, alone in your dorm room, your mind replayed his words: I fell in love with you.

Which was insane. He didn't love you. He barely knew you. This was just whatever game he was playing, whatever bet or challenge he'd set for himself.

Right?

By Friday afternoon, you were running on three hours of sleep and more caffeine than should be medically advisable. You'd finished your theology paper at 4 AM, printed it between classes, and now you were headed to your professor's office to turn it in before the deadline.

The stack of papers felt like gold in your hands. Ten pages of pure exhaustion, but it was done. One disaster averted. One small victory in a week of absolute chaos.

You were so focused on not dropping anything, so desperate to just make it to the office and collapse, that you didn't see him coming.

Neither did he.

You collided at the corner of the hallway. A full-body impact that sent both of you stumbling. Your coffee, which you'd been clutching in your other hand, went flying.

Time seemed to slow down.

You watched, horrified, as the cup arced through the air, lid popping off, the contents spilling out in a perfect catastrophic arc. It hit your papers (your beautiful, finished, done papers) and soaked through them instantly. Coffee spread across the pages like blood, turning your carefully formatted paragraphs into brown, illegible mush.

You and Jungkook both hit the ground. Hard.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You just sat there on the floor, surrounded by coffee-stained papers, your empty cup rolling sadly across the tile.

"Shit," Jungkook said, scrambling up. "Shit, I'm so sorry, I didn't see..."

He stopped.

You weren't looking at him. You were staring at your papers, at the ruined results of an all-nighter, at hours of work literally dissolving before your eyes. And you felt something inside you finally, completely shatter.

The tears came before you could stop them.

Not delicate, pretty crying. Ugly, gasping sobs that you couldn't control, couldn't hide, couldn't shove back down. Your entire body shook with them, weeks of stress and fear and exhaustion finally breaking through every wall you'd built.

"Hey," Jungkook's voice was suddenly gentle, concerned. "Hey, it's okay, we can..."

"It's not okay!" The words burst out of you, raw and desperate. "It's not... I don't..."

You couldn't even finish the sentence. You just sat there on the hallway floor, crying like your heart was breaking, while students walked past and pretended not to notice.

And Jungkook, infuriating, persistent, impossible Jungkook, sank down beside you without a word.

Jungkook looked at you (really looked at you) and something in his expression shifted. The usual playfulness vanished, replaced by something intense and determined.

"I'll fix this," he said firmly. "I'll fix everything."

You didn't respond. Couldn't. You were too exhausted, too broken, too tired to even process what he was saying. The tears kept coming, silent now, streaming down your face as you stared at the ruined papers.

It was all too much. The deadlines, your brother's crisis, the sleepless nights, the constant pressure to be perfect, to be strong, to hold everything together. And now this. This final, stupid disaster that felt like the universe laughing at your attempts to keep it all under control.

You were so tired of dealing with everything alone. So tired of being the one everyone relied on, the one who had to have all the answers. You were human too, after all. You were allowed to break down sometimes, weren't you?

"Stay here," Jungkook said, already pulling out his phone. "I'm going to print these out right now. I have quick access to the college paper office. I can use their printer."

You barely registered his words through the fog of exhaustion.

"How..." you started, but he was already standing up.

"Don't worry about it," he said quickly, a slight flush creeping up his neck. "I just know someone there. They owe me a favor."

The way he avoided your eyes, the awkward edge to his voice. It wasn't hard to read between the lines. You should probably care about the implications, but you were too drained to even process it.

And then he was gone, jogging down the hallway with your ruined papers in his hands.

You sat there on the floor, too stunned and exhausted to move. Students continued walking past, giving you wide berth. You should probably get up, find a chair, pull yourself together. But your body felt like lead.

You managed to drag yourself to a nearby bench, collapsing onto it and pressing your palms against your eyes. You focused on breathing (in and out, in and out) trying to calm the storm of emotions still swirling through your chest.

You'd barely settled when you heard footsteps approaching rapidly.

"Got it."

Your eyes snapped open. Jungkook was standing in front of you, slightly out of breath, holding a fresh stack of papers. Your papers. Perfectly printed, clean and crisp, no coffee stains in sight.

Goosebumps broke out across your arms.

"How..." You stared at him, then at the papers, then back at him. "How did you do that? That was maybe five minutes. The office is across campus, and you'd have to upload the file, and..."

"I ran," he said simply, handing you the stack. "And the printer was already warmed up."

"But why?" The question came out smaller than you intended. "Why would you do this?"

He looked at you like you'd asked why the sky was blue. "Because you needed help."

Something cracked open in your chest. Something you'd been keeping carefully locked away.

"Thank you," you said, and you meant it. Genuinely, completely meant it. "Really. Thank you."

You moved to stand up, to head to your professor's office before anything else could go wrong, but Jungkook's hand on your shoulder stopped you.

"Wait."

You looked up at him, and the expression on his face made your breath catch. He was looking at you like he was really seeing you, not the put-together, religious girl who always had the right answers in class. Not the person you tried so hard to be.

Just... you.

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly. "And before you say you're fine, what actually happened? What's going on?"

"It's nothing," you said automatically, the default response you'd given everyone all week. "I'm just tired. Midterms, you know how it is."

"Bullshit."

You blinked at him.

"I've seen you tired," Jungkook continued, his voice gentle but firm. "I've seen you stressed about exams and projects. This isn't that." He crouched down so he was at eye level with you, his gaze unwavering. "You're always so strong. So together. It has to be something really big to break you down like this."

You opened your mouth to deny it, to brush him off, to rebuild the walls that had temporarily crumbled. But something about the way he was looking at you (concerned, patient, genuinely caring) made the words die in your throat.

And for the first time all week, you felt like maybe, just maybe, you didn't have to carry everything alone.

You took a shaky breath, your fingers twisting in your lap. The words felt heavy, dangerous even, like once you said them out loud, they'd become real in a way you couldn't take back.

"It's my brother," you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. "He... he got involved with some people. Bad people. They gave him money for something (I don't even know what) and now they're threatening him because he can't pay them back."

Jungkook's expression didn't change, but you saw the way his jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath his skin.

"Who are they?" he asked quietly. "The people threatening him."

You took a breath, trying to steady yourself. "I don't know all their names, but my brother mentioned a few. There's someone called Dex. He's the main one, I think. The one who gave him the money initially. And there are a couple others who've been calling and showing up. They operate out of some bar or club off campus. I don't know exactly where, but it's supposedly near the old industrial district." You met his eyes. "They're into money lending with ridiculous interest rates. My brother said they also deal in... other things. Drugs, maybe. I don't know for sure, but he was terrified when he told me about them."

"How much does he owe them?"

"I don't know exactly. A lot. More than either of us has." You pressed your palms against your eyes again, trying to stop the fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over. "He's scared. Really scared. And I don't know what to do. I've been trying to figure it out all week, but I just... I can't..."

Your voice broke, and you couldn't continue.

Jungkook was quiet for a long moment. When you finally looked up at him, his lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyes distant, like he was calculating something, running through options in his head.

And then you really looked at him.

Had he always been this handsome?

The thought came unbidden, unwelcome. But now that you'd noticed, you couldn't un-see it. The sharp line of his jaw, the way the afternoon light caught the angles of his face. The intensity in his dark eyes, the way they seemed to hold entire universes when he focused on something. Or someone.

No wonder everyone on campus seemed to orbit around him despite his reputation. No wonder girls whispered about him in the dining hall, wrote his name in their journals, dreamed about being the one to finally pin him down.

You'd never understood it before. Had actively judged them for it, if you were being honest. How could they overlook everything he represented just because he was attractive?

But now, sitting here, with him looking at you like your problems were his problems, like he'd move mountains if you asked him to, you understood. Kind of.

There was something almost magical about the way he existed in the world. Untouchable and yet completely present. Confident in a way that bordered on arrogant but somehow never quite crossed that line when it mattered.

Stop it, you told yourself firmly. Stop thinking like that. This is exactly how people get hurt.

"I know those people," Jungkook said suddenly, pulling you back to reality.

You blinked. "What?"

"The ones your brother owes money to. I know them." His expression was unreadable now, carefully neutral. "I can get him out of it."

Your heart stopped. "No."

"Yes."

"Jungkook, no." You stood up abruptly, the papers nearly sliding from your lap. "You can't... you shouldn't... this isn't your problem."

"Seems like it's about to be." He stood too, infuriatingly calm. "I'll talk to them. They'll listen to me."

"Why would they listen to you?" The question came out sharper than you intended, edged with something close to panic. Because if he knew these people, if they'd listen to him, that meant...

You didn't want to finish that thought.

"Because I'm extremely charming," he said with a crooked smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "And devastatingly handsome. You said so yourself."

"I absolutely did not..."

"You were thinking it. I could tell." The smile widened, becoming more genuine. "Don't worry, I'm used to it. The effect I have on people can be overwhelming."

Despite everything (despite the terror coiling in your stomach, despite the moral alarm bells ringing in your head) you felt your lips twitch. Almost a smile. Almost.

"This isn't a joke," you said, trying to sound firm. "These are dangerous people. You can't just walk up to them and... and charm them into letting my brother go."

"Watch me." There was something fierce in his expression now, something that made your breath catch. Not arrogance. Confidence. Pure, unshakeable confidence that he could do exactly what he said he'd do.

"Jungkook, please." You grabbed his arm without thinking. "This is too much. You barely know me. You don't owe me anything. You can't put yourself at risk for..."

"For you?" He looked down at your hand on his arm, then back up at your face. "Yeah, actually, I can. And I will."

"But..."

"No buts. Consider it done." He gently removed your hand from his arm, but his fingers lingered on yours for just a second too long. "Go turn in your paper. I'll handle the rest."

"You can't just..."

But he was already walking away, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed like he'd just agreed to pick up coffee, not confront dangerous criminals on behalf of someone else's brother.

You stood there in the hallway, papers clutched to your chest, watching him disappear around the corner.

And for the first time in a week, the fear wasn't about your brother.

It was about the boy who'd just walked away. The boy who seemed to think he was invincible, who threw himself into danger with a smile and a joke, who looked at you like you were worth saving.

What had you done?

You didn't hear from Jungkook for the rest of the day.

At first, you told yourself it was fine. He was probably in class, or busy, or dealing with whatever he'd promised to deal with. But as the hours ticked by and your phone remained silent, the knot in your stomach grew tighter. Worse thoughts crept in uninvited: maybe he was at some party, maybe he'd already forgotten about you and your problems, maybe he was with someone else, tangled up in someone else's sheets, laughing at something they said, not thinking about you at all.

By evening, you'd convinced yourself something terrible had happened.

You tried to focus on other things: homework, dinner with your roommate, the Bible study group chat that was planning next week's meeting. But your mind kept circling back to Jungkook. To the casual way he'd walked away. To the confidence in his voice when he said he'd handle it.

What if that confidence had been misplaced? What if those people were more dangerous than he'd anticipated? What if he was hurt, or worse, and you were the reason?

Stop, you commanded yourself. Stop spiraling.

But you couldn't.

Around 9 PM, you finally broke down and did something you'd never imagined doing: you started asking around for Jungkook's number.

It was embarrassing. Humiliating, even. You'd spent two years carefully maintaining your distance from people like him and his world, and now here you were, approaching mutual acquaintances with increasingly desperate questions.

"Hey, do you happen to have Jungkook's number?"

Most people gave you strange looks. A few smirked knowingly, like they thought they understood what was happening. One girl from your sociology class raised her eyebrows so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline.

"You want Jungkook's number?" she'd said, voice dripping with disbelief and barely concealed amusement.

You'd wanted to explain, to defend yourself, to make it clear this wasn't what it looked like. But you couldn't. Not without explaining about your brother, about the loan sharks, about everything you'd been trying to keep private.

So you just nodded, face burning, and accepted the number she eventually pulled up on her phone.

You texted him immediately.

Hey, this is Y/N. Are you okay? Please let me know you're safe.

No response.

You waited fifteen minutes, anxiety climbing with each passing second, then called.

Straight to voicemail.

You called again. And again. Each time, the same automated message, the same hollow beep inviting you to leave a message you didn't know how to articulate.

By midnight, you'd sent six texts and made twelve calls. Your roommate had given up trying to comfort you and had gone to bed, leaving you alone with your phone and your spiraling thoughts.

You barely slept. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Jungkook's face: confident, smiling, completely unafraid. And then you saw it changing, crumpling, as faceless men with cruel intentions closed in around him.

This is your fault, the voice in your head whispered. You should never have told him. You should have figured it out yourself. Now he's hurt because of you.

The next morning came grey and cold, matching your mood perfectly. You dragged yourself through your routine on autopilot: shower, coffee, pretending to eat breakfast while your stomach churned with anxiety.

Your phone rang at 10:47 AM.

You lunged for it so fast you nearly knocked over your coffee mug, heart hammering against your ribs. The caller ID showed an unfamiliar number, but you didn't care. Maybe it was Jungkook calling from someone else's phone. Maybe...

"Hello?" Your voice came out breathless, desperate.

"Y/N!"

You froze. Not Jungkook. Eliot.

Your brother's voice was bright, almost manic with happiness. It was a tone you hadn't heard from him in weeks. Maybe months.

"Yes, Eliot?" you managed, trying to mask your disappointment. Trying to focus on the fact that your brother was calling, which meant he was alive, which should have been a relief. But all you could think was: Not Jungkook. It's not Jungkook.

"I just... God, I had to call you. I had to tell you." He was talking fast, words tumbling over each other. "You're the best sister in the entire world. Like, actually. I don't tell you that enough, but you are. I love you so much. I'm so lucky to have you."

Your grip on the phone tightened. "Eliot, what happened?"

"They let me go!" The joy in his voice was almost painful to hear. "The guys who were after me, they just... they said I'm free. The debt's gone. Just like that. They said I can't ever take money from them again, but who cares? I can live with that. I'll happily live with that. I'm free, Y/N. I'm actually free."

The world seemed to tilt slightly. You sat down heavily on your bed, pressing the phone so tight against your ear it hurt.

"How?" The word came out barely audible. "How is that possible?"

"That's the crazy part." Eliot laughed, the sound bright and unburdened. "This guy showed up yesterday. Jungkook, his name was. He talked to Dex and the others, and I don't know what he said or did, but after that they just... backed off. Completely. They told me the slate's wiped clean. They actually apologized for scaring me." He laughed again, like he still couldn't quite believe it. "Can you believe that? They apologized."

Your heart was pounding so hard you thought it might break through your ribs.

"Jungkook," you repeated numbly.

"Yeah! I didn't know who he was at first, but then I looked him up and found out he goes to your college. So I figured..." Eliot's voice took on a teasing quality. "Is he your boyfriend? You've been holding out on me, sis. I didn't even know you were seeing anyone."

"He's not..." you started, but the words caught in your throat.

Because what was Jungkook, exactly? Not your boyfriend. Not even really your friend. He was someone who'd seen you break down in a hallway and decided to walk straight into danger for you. Someone who'd disappeared for over twenty-four hours while dealing with criminals on your behalf. Someone you'd called twelve times last night, each unanswered ring feeling like a small death.

Someone you'd been terrified for in a way that felt far too intense for someone who was supposedly nothing to you.

"He's just a classmate," you finally managed, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue. "Someone I know from school."

"Well, your 'classmate' saved my life." Eliot's voice went serious, the joy dimming just slightly. "I mean it, Y/N. Those guys were going to hurt me. Really hurt me. And now I'm free because of him. Because of you, probably. I'm guessing you asked him to help?"

"I... yes. Sort of. It's complicated."

"Well, uncomplicate it long enough to tell him thank you from me, okay? Tell him I owe him. Big time." He paused. "And thank you. For everything. For caring enough to help even when I got myself into this stupid mess."

"Eliot..."

"I know, I know. I'll be more careful. I'll make better choices. I promise." He sounded like he meant it. "I love you, sis."

"I love you too," you whispered.

After he hung up, you sat there on your bed, phone still pressed to your ear, listening to the silence.

Jungkook had done it. He'd actually done it.

Your brother was safe. Free. The nightmare that had been consuming you for weeks was over, just like that, because one boy had decided you were worth helping.

But where was he? Why hadn't he called? Why hadn't he answered any of your messages?

The relief you should have felt was tangled up with a different kind of fear now, sharper, more personal. Because somewhere in the past twenty-four hours, between the coffee-stained papers and the desperate phone calls and the image of Jungkook walking away like he had nothing to lose, something had shifted.

You cared about him. Really cared. In a way that felt dangerous and inevitable and completely, utterly terrifying.

And you had no idea if he was okay.

The second day of silence was unbearable.

You'd tried everything. Texted again. Called again. Even considered reaching out to people who might know him better, but you didn't know who those people were. Your worlds had never overlapped before this, before he'd decided to crash into yours like a force of nature, upending everything.

By mid-afternoon, desperation had overtaken dignity.

You found yourself walking toward the dining hall with your heart in your throat, hands clenched at your sides. It was a long shot, a prayer thrown into the void. Jungkook's circle rarely ate there. They preferred off-campus spots, places with more privacy and fewer rules. But maybe, just maybe, if God was listening...

You pushed through the double doors, scanning the crowded space.

And there they were.

Your breath caught. At a corner table near the windows: Hoseok, Jimin, and Taehyung. The golden trinity of Jungkook's inner circle, minus their centerpiece. They were mid-conversation, Hoseok gesturing animatedly about something while Jimin laughed and Taehyung leaned back in his chair with that effortlessly cool posture he always had.

Your feet were moving before you could talk yourself out of it.

As you approached, Hoseok was the first to notice you. His hands froze mid-gesture, the smile sliding off his face so quickly it was almost comical. Jimin's laughter cut off abruptly. Taehyung's eyes found you and something flickered there. Surprise, maybe, or something harder to name.

The three of them stared at you like you were a ghost materializing at their table.

"Hi," you said, hating how breathless you sounded. How desperate. But you were past caring. "Sorry to interrupt. I just need to ask you something."

Hoseok recovered first, his expression smoothing into something carefully neutral. "Y/N. Hey. What's up?"

You focused on him, the friendliest face of the three. "Where's Jungkook?"

The question hung in the air.

Instead of answering, Hoseok's eyes cut to Jimin. Then to Taehyung. Some silent communication passed between them, too quick for you to decipher. Your stomach twisted.

"What?" you demanded. "What was that? Why are you looking at each other like that?"

Hoseok cleared his throat. "I, uh... I haven't heard from him since last week."

Last week. Last week.

Something inside you snapped.

"Last week?" Your voice came out sharper than you'd intended, loud enough to turn a few heads at nearby tables. You didn't care. "What kind of friends are you? How do you not know where he is? He could be hurt. He could be in trouble." You cut yourself off, chest tight. "And you're just sitting here eating lunch like everything's fine?"

Jimin leaned forward, elbows on the table, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Why are you looking for him?" His eyes searched your face. "Are you mad at him? Did he do something?"

"I'm not mad," you said, frustration bleeding into every word. "I'm worried. I'm worried because he helped me with something and now he's gone and he won't answer his phone and I don't know if he's okay."

"Fuck."

The word came from Taehyung, sharp and annoyed. You turned to find him looking at his watch, jaw tight, then looking back up at you with an expression that made your skin prickle. Like you'd done something wrong. Like you were the problem here.

"What?" you asked, defensive now. "What's your problem?"

Taehyung just shook his head, mouth pressed into a thin line, still looking at you like you were a complication he hadn't accounted for.

"Whatever," you muttered, stepping back from their table. Your hands were shaking. "Thanks for nothing."

You turned and walked away, their stares burning into your back.

Weirdos, you thought viciously. What kind of friends don't even know where their best friend is?

But beneath the anger, fear coiled tighter in your chest.

Because if even they didn't know where Jungkook was, if even the people closest to him had no idea, then where the hell could he be?

—

By the third day, you were unraveling.

Sleep had become impossible. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Jungkook walking away from you in that hallway, shoulders squared like he was heading into battle. Every time you opened them, you reached for your phone, hoping and praying for a message that never came.

You'd exhausted every option. Called again. Texted again. Even walked past his usual haunts on campus: the library corner he sometimes occupied, the coffee shop he frequented, the parking lot where his motorcycle usually sat. Nothing. It was like he'd vanished into thin air.

There was only one place left.

The thought had been creeping around the edges of your mind for hours now, growing louder with each passing minute. The Jeon family mansion. You'd heard about it in passing: whispered references, casual mentions from people who moved in those circles. You'd never been there. Never had any reason to be.

You weren't even sure regular people were allowed there. But you were about to find out.

The address had been surprisingly easy to find. A quick search online, public records, the kind of information that was technically available but felt forbidden to access. You'd stared at it on your phone screen for a full minute before copying it into your maps app.

The drive took forty minutes, each one feeling like an eternity and a heartbeat all at once.

The neighborhood changed gradually as you went, buildings growing sparser, lots growing larger, until suddenly you weren't in a neighborhood anymore. You were in an entirely different world. Tall iron gates. Long driveways disappearing into private forests. Houses so large they barely qualified as houses anymore.

And then you saw it.

The Jeon mansion sat at the end of a tree-lined drive, and calling it a house felt like a fundamental misunderstanding of language. It was massive. Three stories of pristine white stone and floor-to-ceiling windows, with wings extending in both directions like outstretched arms. Perfectly manicured gardens flanked the circular driveway. A fountain sat in the center, water cascading down multiple tiers in an elegant display that probably cost more than your family's entire house.

Your car felt absurdly small as you pulled up to the front entrance, the tires crunching on gravel that looked like it had been individually polished.

For a long moment, you just sat there, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring up at the imposing structure before you.

You'd known Jungkook was rich. He wore designer clothes like they were an afterthought, drove a motorcycle that cost more than a year's tuition, carried himself with the kind of ease that only came from never having to worry about money. You'd known.

But this...

This wasn't just rich. This was generational wealth. Old money. The kind of different that made the gap between your worlds feel less like a distance and more like an ocean.

What were you even doing here? Who were you to show up at a place like this, demanding to see someone who lived in a world you could barely comprehend? You didn't belong here. This wasn't your space, your life, your world.

He might be in danger because of you.

The thought cut through your spiral like a knife.

He'd walked into that situation for you. He'd faced down criminals, wiped out your brother's debt, disappeared for three days without a word, all because you'd asked him to help. Because he'd seen you breaking down in a hallway and decided you were worth the risk.

If he was hurt, if he was in trouble, if something had happened to him because he'd helped you...You couldn't just turn around. You couldn't just leave.Before you could second-guess yourself again, you got out of the car.

The front door was enormous. Solid wood with intricate carvings, flanked by columns that belonged in a museum. Your hand trembled slightly as you reached for the doorbell, which was actually an intercom system with a small camera.

You pressed it. Heard a soft chime echo somewhere inside.

For a few agonizing seconds, nothing happened. Then a voice crackled through the speaker, male, older, professionally polite. "May I help you?"

"Hi, I'm..." Your voice came out rough. You cleared your throat. "My name is Y/N. I'm here to see Jungkook. Please."

Another pause. You could almost feel yourself being assessed through the camera, judged, measured.

Then: "One moment, please."

The silence that followed felt eternal. You stood there on the doorstep, hands clasped in front of you to stop them from shaking, wondering if they were about to politely tell you to leave. Wondering if you'd just made a huge mistake.

But then you heard the distinctive sound of a lock disengaging. The door swung open smoothly, revealing a man in his sixties wearing an impeccably tailored suit. A butler. An actual butler.

"Miss Y/N," he said with a slight bow. "Please, come in."

You stepped inside, and the entry hall alone was bigger than your entire apartment. Marble floors gleamed under a crystal chandelier. A grand staircase curved upward to your right. Artwork that looked like it belonged in galleries lined the walls.

The butler closed the door behind you with a soft click that felt oddly final.

"You're here to see young master Jungkook?" he asked.

"Yes." The word came out desperate. "Is he here? Is he okay?"

Something in the butler's expression softened. "Master Jungkook is home, yes."

The relief that crashed through you was so intense you nearly swayed. He's here. He's alive. He's home.

"Thank God," you breathed. "Can I see him? Please?"

The butler hesitated, and dread crept back in.

"He is currently resting," the man said carefully. "In bed, actually. He's been... unwell, and requires peace and quiet. No stress." His eyes met yours, kind but firm. "If you wish to see him, I must ask that you not worry him or cause any disturbance. He needs rest above all else."

Unwell. In bed. Needs rest.

Your heart clenched. "What happened? Is he hurt?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss the young master's condition," the butler said gently. "But if you promise to keep your visit brief and calm, I can take you to him."

You nodded quickly, perhaps too quickly. "Yes. I promise. I just need to see him. I need to know he's okay."

The butler studied you for another moment, then nodded. "Very well. Please, follow me."

He led you through hallways that seemed to stretch on forever, past rooms with doors closed against mysteries you couldn't begin to imagine. Up the grand staircase, down another corridor lined with family portraits. Serious faces in expensive frames, generations of Jeons staring down with expressions that ranged from stern to imperious.

Finally, the butler stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall. Dark wood, understated compared to the ornate entrance downstairs, but somehow more intimate because of it.

"Master Jungkook's room," he said quietly. Then, with a pointed look: "Remember. Brief and calm."

"I will," you promised.

He knocked twice, then opened the door just enough to speak through. "Master Jungkook, you have a visitor. Miss Y/N."

You couldn't hear the response, but the butler stepped back and gestured you inside.

"I'll leave you two alone," he said, and there was something almost paternal in his expression. "But please do keep your voice down."

You nodded, throat too tight to speak.The door opened wider, and you stepped inside. The butler closed it behind you with a soft click, and suddenly you were alone in Jungkook's bedroom.

It was large. Of course it was large. But not ostentatious. Dark wood furniture, clean lines, floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the gardens. A bookshelf packed with worn paperbacks. A desk with a laptop and scattered papers. It felt lived-in, personal, his in a way the rest of the house hadn't.

And there, in the center of it all, was Jungkook.

He was sitting up in bed, pillows propped behind him, wearing a simple white t-shirt. A book lay open in his lap. Some thick fantasy novel with a dragon on the cover. His hair was messy, unstyled, falling into his eyes. He looked up as you entered, and for a split second, his expression was pure surprise.

But he looked fine.

No visible injuries. No bruises. No blood. No broken bones. He looked perfectly, completely, maddeningly fine.

Something inside you broke.

"You..." The word came out choked. Your feet were moving before your brain caught up, carrying you across the room in a rush. "You asshole!"

"Y/N, what..."

You didn't let him finish. You reached the bed and threw yourself at him, arms wrapping around his shoulders, face burying against his neck. The book tumbled off the bed with a soft thud.

"You're okay," you gasped against his skin. "You're okay, you're..."

For a moment, Jungkook just sat there, frozen in shock. Then his arms came up around you, tentative at first, then tighter. Much tighter. Like he was trying to convince himself you were real.

"Hey," he said softly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. "Hey, I'm okay. I'm fine."

That's when the tears came.

They hit you like a wave, sudden and overwhelming, and suddenly you were sobbing into his shoulder like a child. All the fear, all the worry, all the sleepless nights and unanswered calls and terrible imaginings came pouring out in great, heaving gasps.

"You disappeared," you choked out between sobs. "You just... you walked away and you didn't answer your phone and I didn't know if you were hurt or dead or..."

"I know," Jungkook murmured, his hand moving to rub soothing circles on your back. "I know, I'm sorry."

"Three days, Jungkook! Three days of nothing! Do you have any idea what I thought? What I..." You pulled back just enough to hit his chest with your fist, not hard, just desperate. "You stupid, reckless, idiotic..."

"I know." His voice was gentle, patient, like he was calming a frightened animal. His arms tightened around you again. "I know. I'm sorry."

You couldn't stop crying. Couldn't stop the words from spilling out. "You could have been killed. You could have been hurt. You walked into that place for me and I didn't even know if you made it out and..."

"But I did." He pulled you closer, until there was no space between you at all. "I made it out. I'm here. I'm okay."

Slowly, your sobs began to quiet, settling into shaky breaths. You pulled back just enough to look at him, really look at him, searching his face for any sign of injury you might have missed.

His eyes were dark and soft, fixed on yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. Your gaze dropped involuntarily to his lips.

"Hey." Jungkook's voice was quieter now, almost tender. One hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing away the tears still tracking down your cheeks. "Why are you crying like this? You think I'd let myself get hurt that easily?"

A laugh bubbled out of him then, low and a little cocky, so incredibly him that it made your chest ache.

"You really thought I wouldn't come back?" he continued, eyes crinkling with amusement even as his thumb kept wiping your tears. "Come on, Y/N. You think I'd let you go that easily? Not a chance. Only in your dreams."

The audacity of it. The sheer nerve of him to joke right now. It made you want to hit him again. So you did, your fist connecting with his shoulder in a light punch.

"Ow!" Jungkook immediately recoiled, face contorting in exaggerated pain. His hand flew to his shoulder like you'd actually wounded him. "Shit, that hurt..."

Your heart stopped. "Oh my God, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... did I hurt you? Are you..."

But then you saw it: the corner of his mouth twitching. The barely suppressed smile.

He was faking.

"You..." You shoved him, not hard, just enough to make your point. "You asshole! I thought I actually hurt you!"

Jungkook burst out laughing, the sound bright and genuine and so alive it made something in your chest settle. "Sorry, sorry, I couldn't resist. Your face was..."

"Not funny!" But you were fighting a smile now too, even as fresh tears threatened to spill. "God, I hate you."

"No you don't." He was still grinning, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You took a shaky breath, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. "Why weren't you answering your phone? Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

The smile faded from his face, replaced by something more serious. He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair.

"My phone's gone," he said. "Lost it during the altercation."

"Altercation," you repeated flatly. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"They tried to fight me," Jungkook continued, his voice taking on a matter-of-fact quality. "When I showed up to clear your brother's debt. Thought they could intimidate me, push me around." He shrugged. "Didn't go well for them."

Your heart clenched. "Did they hurt you?"

"No." He said it simply, like it was obvious. "Once they realized who I was, who my family is, they backed off pretty quick. But by then my phone was already smashed. And I just... I needed some time to rest. To decompress."

"You could have borrowed someone's phone," you said, but the anger had drained out of your voice. Now you just sounded tired. "You could have let me know you were okay."

"I know." He reached for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. "I'm sorry. I didn't think... I didn't realize you'd worry this much."

Fresh tears welled up in your eyes. "Of course I worried, you idiot. You walked into a dangerous situation because of me and then disappeared for three days. What did you think I'd do?"

"Hey, hey, no more crying." But even as he said it, his own voice was rough. He pulled you back against his chest, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other hand coming up to cradle your head. "I'm fine. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

You let yourself sink into him, let yourself believe it. He was warm and solid and alive, and for the first time in three days, you could breathe properly.

"I'm okay," he murmured into your hair. "I promise. I'm okay."

You nodded against his chest, not trusting your voice.

For a long moment, you just stayed like that, wrapped in his arms, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The fear that had gripped you for three days was finally loosening its hold, replaced by something warmer, something safer.

"Come here," Jungkook said softly, shifting back against the pillows. "Lie down. You look exhausted."

You hesitated for only a second before letting him guide you down onto the bed beside him. He was right. You wereexhausted. Three days of barely sleeping, of constant worry, had left you hollowed out.

The moment your head hit the pillow, something in you settled. His bed was soft, the sheets cool against your skin, and he was right there, solid and warm and alive. Right now, no other place in the world could be as safe and sound as being around him.

"See?" Jungkook's voice carried that familiar cocky edge as he settled beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. "I told you I'm fine. You worried for nothing."

"I didn't worry for nothing," you mumbled, but there was no heat in it. You turned onto your side to face him, taking in the sight of him. Really looking at him now that the panic had subsided.

He looked soft like this. Without the usual bravado and swagger he wore around campus. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes. His expression was gentle, almost tender as he watched you. There was something about being in his space, in his bed, that made everything feel more intimate. More real.

You found comfort in this safe embrace of his, in the way his presence alone seemed to quiet all the noise in your head. Your eyes traced the lines of his face. The sharp angle of his jaw, the curve of his lips.

Those lips.

Before you could second-guess yourself, before logic could catch up with impulse, you leaned forward and kissed him.

Jungkook went completely still, clearly startled by the sudden contact. For a split second, you thought you'd made a terrible mistake.

But then he responded.

His hand came up to cup your face, fingers threading into your hair as he kissed you back with an intensity that made your head spin. His other hand pushed the forgotten book off the bed completely, sending it tumbling to the floor with a muted thud.

The kiss deepened, became something more urgent, more real. His lips were soft but firm, moving against yours with a confidence that made your breath catch. You felt his tongue brush against your lower lip and you opened for him without thinking, letting him in.

Heat bloomed in your core. Unfamiliar, overwhelming, terrifying in its intensity. You'd never felt anything like this before. Never wanted anything like you wanted this, wanted him.

Your hand found his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him closer. He made a low sound in the back of his throat that sent shivers down your spine.

His breath was coming faster now, matching yours. You could feel his heart racing under your palm, could feel the tension coiling in his body as he held himself back.

Then suddenly, he pulled away.

Not far. Just enough to break the kiss, to put a breath of space between you. His hand was still cradling your face, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting.

"Y/N." His voice came out rough, strained, like gravel scraping against his throat. A warning. "If you don't want this... if you want to stop... we need to stop now."

His eyes locked onto yours, dark as midnight, pupils blown wide with raw hunger. But beneath that fire, you saw the iron grip of control, the restraint he was barely holding onto. He was handing you an escape, even as his body thrummed with the need to claim you, to bury himself deep inside your heat.

"Because if we don't stop now," he continued, his thumb tracing a slow, teasing path across your cheekbone, "I don't know if I'll be able to pull back."

"No," you whispered, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, clutching it like a lifeline. "I want this. I want you. Every inch of you, pounding into me until I can't remember my own name."

Something snapped in his expression, that fragile control fracturing like glass under pressure. Then his mouth crashed against yours, the kiss brutal and desperate, tongues tangling in a wet, frantic dance.

His hands shoved under your shirt, palms scorching your bare skin, rough calluses dragging sparks of electricity across your sides. You gasped into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his growl as he pressed his hard length against your thigh, letting you feel the thick ridge of his cock straining through his jeans.

"Tell me if you want to stop," he murmured against your swollen lips, his breath hot and ragged. "Any time. Just say the word, and I'll fucking stop."

You nodded, words lost in the storm of your pounding heart, the way it hammered against your ribs like it was trying to break free and fuse with his.

His fingers hooked the hem of your shirt, and he paused, eyes searching yours one last time. A silent question hanging in the thick air. You raised your arms in silent permission, and he yanked it over your head, flinging it across the room without a second thought.

For a heartbeat, he just stared, his gaze raking over you like a physical touch, intense enough to make your skin prickle and your nipples tighten into hard peaks. You fought the urge to shield yourself, but before insecurity could take root, he descended, lips brushing yours in a softer kiss that quickly ignited into something deeper, hungrier.

"You're so beautiful," he breathed against your flushed skin, voice thick with awe and lust. "So fucking beautiful, I could devour you whole."

Heat flooded your cheeks, but you held his gaze, emboldened by the raw desire in his eyes. His hands roamed the dip of your waist, tracing the flare of your hips, then up along your ribs, thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts.

With a flick of his fingers, he unclasped your bra, letting the straps slide down your shoulders. It pooled at your elbows before you shrugged it off, baring your chest to him completely. Your breasts felt heavy, aching under his scrutiny, nipples begging for attention.

"Jungkook..."

"I've got you," he said quietly, the words a vow etched in the air between you. "I promise. Now let me worship this body like it deserves."

His mouth descended on your neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin before soothing it with his tongue, hot and insistent. He trailed lower, lips ghosting over your collarbone, then latching onto the swell of one breast.

His tongue circled your nipple, flicking it with deliberate pressure before sucking it deep into his wet mouth. You arched into him, a sharp moan ripping from your throat, the pull of his lips sending jolts straight to your core, where slick heat was already pooling between your thighs.

Everything blurred into pure sensation: the scrape of his stubble against your skin, the firm grip of his hands kneading your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers until they throbbed. He switched to the other side, lavishing it with the same attention, his cock grinding against your leg in rhythm with his sucks, the friction making him groan low in his chest.

Your fingers wove into his dark hair, tugging as he kissed a scorching path down your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel before continuing lower. When his fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants, you lifted your hips eagerly, helping him peel them down along with your soaked panties.

The cool air kissed your exposed pussy, making you shiver, but the distant echo of your religious upbringing faded to nothing against the roar of need in your veins. This was right. This was you, alive and burning.

"Still okay?" Jungkook asked, his voice a gravelly rasp, eyes fixed on your glistening folds like a man starved.

"Yes," you managed, voice breathy and broken. "Don't stop. Please, I need your mouth on me."

He parted your thighs wider, settling between them, his breath fanning over your sensitive skin. He pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper. Higher now, his lips brushing the crease where thigh met core, teasing, drawing out the anticipation until your clit pulsed with desperate want.

Then his tongue finally touched you, flat and broad, licking a slow stripe up your slit from entrance to clit.

You cried out, back bowing off the bed as stars burst behind your eyelids. He groaned against your pussy, the deep vibration humming through your clit, making your walls clench around nothing.

"Fuck," you gasped, the curse tumbling free without shame. Nothing had ever felt like this, his hot mouth devouring you, tongue swirling around your swollen clit with expert flicks that had your toes curling.

He lapped at you greedily, sucking your clit between his lips, teeth grazing just enough to edge the pleasure into something sharper, more intense. Your hips bucked, chasing the pressure, but his strong hands pinned you down, forearms flexing against your thighs as he held you open for his feast. Slick coated his chin, your arousal dripping down to your ass, but he didn't care, plunging his tongue inside your tight heat, fucking you with it in shallow thrusts that mimicked what you craved from his cock.

One thick finger breached you then, sliding through your wetness with ease, stretching you deliciously. You keened, the sound raw and animalistic, hips grinding down to take him deeper. He curled it upward, stroking that spongy spot inside that made your vision blur, and added a second finger, scissoring them to open you up, the burn blending with bliss.

Pressure built like a storm, coiling tight in your belly, every nerve alight as his fingers pumped faster, thumb circling your clit in tandem. Your thighs trembled, breaths coming in short, desperate pants, the room filled with the wet sounds of his mouth and fingers working you over.

"Come for me, baby," he murmured against your folds, voice muffled but commanding. "Let me feel this pussy squeeze my fingers while you scream."

It shattered you. The orgasm ripped through like lightning, waves of ecstasy crashing over you, your walls fluttering and gushing around his digits. You thrashed, crying out his name in a broken wail, tears spilling hot down your temples as pleasure consumed you whole, leaving you boneless and quivering.

When the aftershocks finally ebbed, you were a trembling mess, chest heaving. Jungkook crawled up your body, kissing your stomach with tender reverence, then your ribs, nuzzling into the valley between your breasts before reaching your face. He licked your tears away, murmuring praises you could barely process through the haze.

"You okay?" he asked softly, fingers combing your damp hair back, eyes searching yours with gentle concern.

You nodded, words still beyond you, your body humming with ethereal glow, every inch sated yet already craving more of him.

Your body still thrummed with the echoes of that shattering release, every muscle loose and heavy, but the ache deep inside refused to fade. It pulsed hotter now, demanding more, urging you to pull him closer, to feel him stretch you open and claim every inch.

Jungkook hovered above you, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, eyes locked on yours with a mix of tenderness and feral need. You reached for him, fingers threading through his sweat-damp hair, tugging him up from between your thighs. The slick evidence of your pleasure smeared across his chin, his lips swollen and glistening, and the sight made your core clench with fresh hunger.

"Please," you whispered, voice raw and honest, stripped bare by the vulnerability of it all. "I need you inside me. Now. Fill me up until I can't think straight."

He groaned, low and guttural, his restraint cracking further at your plea. But he moved with deliberate slowness, muscles flexing under his skin as he shifted up your body, caging you in with his arms. "Easy, baby," he murmured, voice thick with effort, like holding back was pure torture. "We take this slow. Don't want to hurt you. Not when you're this perfect, this ready for me."

His playful smirk flickered, but his eyes burned with desire, pupils dark pools that promised ruin. He brought his fingers to his mouth, the same ones that had just fucked you through your orgasm, and sucked them clean with a deliberate swirl of his tongue, tasting you on his skin. The wet pop as he pulled them free sent a shiver racing down your spine.

He trailed those fingers lower, over your heaving breasts, pinching a nipple hard enough to draw a gasp, then down the quivering plane of your stomach. They circled your entrance, slick and swollen, teasing the sensitive folds before pressing one inside. Your walls fluttered around it, still hypersensitive, the intrusion sparking fresh sparks of pleasure that made your hips twitch.

"So tight," he breathed, pumping that finger in and out with agonizing leisure, watching your face twist in bliss. "Gonna feel so good wrapped around my cock."

You moaned, the sound desperate, arching into his hand as he added a second finger, stretching you wider, the burn delicious and insistent. "Twist them," you begged, voice breaking. "Deeper. Prepare me for you."

He curled them just right, stroking that inner spot that made your toes curl and your breath hitch. His thumb found your clit, rubbing in firm circles that had you grinding against his palm, chasing the building pressure. "Fuck, yes," you panted, exposing yourself fully, legs falling open wider in invitation. "I want all of you. Take me."

Jungkook's gaze darkened, admiration flashing hot as he drank in your willingness, your abandon. "You're incredible," he rasped, gripping your thigh with his free hand, nails digging into the soft flesh. "So open for me. So mine."

He withdrew his fingers slowly, the drag pulling a whine from your throat, leaving you achingly empty. Then he shifted, shoving his jeans down just enough to free his cock. It sprang out, thick and veined, the head flushed dark red and leaking pre-cum, curving up toward his taut abs. He fisted it at the base, guiding the blunt tip to your entrance, rubbing it through your folds, coating himself in your arousal.

Teasing you with just the tip, he nudged inside barely an inch, the stretch immediate and intoxicating. You both gasped, breaths mingling in the charged air. "Okay?" he asked, voice strained, forehead beading with sweat as he fought the urge to thrust.

"Yes," you breathed, nodding frantically, hands roaming his back, nails scraping lightly. "More. Give me everything."

He pushed in then, inch by torturous inch, his girth splitting you open, filling you so completely that stars danced at the edges of your vision. The sensation was overwhelming: the hot slide of skin on skin, the way your walls gripped him like a vice, fluttering around his length as he sank deeper. You felt every ridge, every pulse of his cock as it claimed you, bottoming out with a shared groan when his hips met yours.

Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, heels digging into his ass to pull him closer, adjusting the angle until he hit that perfect spot inside. A sharp gasp tore from you, pleasure spiking white-hot, your pussy clenching around him in response.

Jungkook paused, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours, breaths harsh against your lips. "You feel... fuck, so good. Taking me like this." He kissed you then, slow and deep, tongues sliding together in a mimicry of what joined your bodies, his hips rocking in tiny circles that ground his pubic bone against your clit.

"You okay?" he whispered against your mouth, one hand cupping your face, thumb stroking your cheek with aching gentleness. "Tell me if it's too much."

"Perfect," you murmured, voice husky, lost in the fullness of him. "You feel so big. So right. Move. Please."

He started with shallow thrusts, pulling out halfway before sliding back in, the wet sounds of your coupling filling the room, obscene and intoxicating. Each drag sent ripples of ecstasy through you, his cockhead kissing your cervix on every plunge. Sweat slicked your skin where you connected, bodies sliding together in a rhythm that built like a storm.

"Faster," you urged, nails raking down his shoulders, leaving red trails that made him hiss in pleasure. "Harder. I can take it."

He obliged, pace quickening, hips snapping with more force, the slap of flesh echoing louder. He captured your mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing your moans as he angled deeper, hitting every sensitive nerve. Your breasts bounced with each thrust, nipples grazing his chest, adding friction that had you keening into him.

The friction was relentless, his thick length dragging along your walls, the head pounding that spot that made your vision blur. Pressure coiled tight in your core, hotter than before, every thrust pushing you higher, your clit throbbing against his grinding pelvis.

"Jungkook," you gasped, breaking the kiss, head falling back as stars exploded behind your eyes. "I'm close. Don't stop."

He growled, thrusts turning powerful, piston-like, one hand sliding under your ass to lift you, driving even deeper. "Come for me again," he demanded, voice wrecked, lips at your ear. "Milk my cock. Let me feel you shatter."

It hit you like a tidal wave, orgasm ripping through your body, walls convulsing around him in rhythmic squeezes that pulled him under too. You cried his name, a broken chant, trembling as ecstasy flooded every cell, gushing wetness around his pounding cock.

"Fuck, Y/N," he groaned, burying himself deep with a final, brutal thrust, spilling hot inside you, pulse after pulse of cum flooding your depths. His body shuddered against yours, hearts slamming in unison, the shared release binding you in sweat-soaked bliss.

He collapsed onto you gently, still sheathed inside, peppering your face with soft kisses as you both caught your breath, the afterglow wrapping you in warm, sated haze.

—

The next month felt like something out of a dream. Surreal, intoxicating, magical in ways you'd never imagined possible. You'd never thought you'd be dating someone, let alone Jungkook of all people. The campus bad boy who'd somehow become the person who knew you better than anyone.

He took care of you in ways you didn't know you needed. Small things: remembering how you liked your coffee, texting to make sure you'd eaten, showing up with your favorite snacks when you were stressed about exams. Big things: listening when you talked about your fears, holding you when the weight of everything became too much, making you feel seen in a way you'd never experienced before.

You'd never had that before. Not really. And it terrified you how much you'd come to depend on it, on him.

You still kept your distance on campus, not quite ready to go fully public. The thought of your church community finding out, of facing their judgment and disappointment, made your stomach twist with anxiety. But Jungkook never pushed, never complained. He'd just smile that soft smile reserved only for you and say he'd wait as long as you needed.

He'd give you rides to your dorm after late study sessions, his hand warm in yours in the privacy of his car. He'd take you on dates to places outside campus where no one would recognize you. Quiet cafes, hiking trails, that little bookshop you'd mentioned once in passing. He remembered everything.

Today he'd texted you to meet him by the arts building. Your heart did that stupid flutter thing it always did when you saw his name on your screen, and you'd grabbed your bag with perhaps too much enthusiasm.

The late afternoon sun cast golden light across campus as you made your way toward the meeting spot. You spotted him easily. He always stood out, that magnetic presence impossible to ignore. But he wasn't alone.

Jimin was with him, and something about their body language made you slow your approach. They were standing close, voices low but intense. You couldn't hear what they were saying from this distance, but Jimin's expression was serious, almost concerned.

You should've announced yourself. Should've called out or texted that you were there. But something made you hesitate, made you drift closer without making your presence known.

"We haven't seen you in a month," Jimin was saying, shaking his head. "Isn't this too much devotion for a bet?"

The word hit you like a physical blow. Bet.

Your feet stopped moving. The world seemed to tilt sideways.

"She is not a bet." Jungkook's voice was sharp, dangerous in a way you'd never heard before. He grabbed Jimin's shirt, yanking him closer. "I told you. I love her."

"She doesn't know that she was a bet, right?" Jimin pulled away, his expression turning harder. "This isn't fair, Jungkook. If you truly love her, you should have said that..."

"Seriously, Jungkook." Your voice came out surprisingly steady, almost amused. You stepped into view, and both of them froze. "So I was a bet?"

You were laughing. Why were you laughing? Maybe because if you didn't laugh, you'd break completely. Maybe because this felt so absurdly, perfectly predictable. Of course this was too good to be true. Of course there was a catch.

The color drained from Jungkook's face. "Y/N..."

"No, please." You held up a hand, that hollow laugh still spilling from your lips. "Don't let me interrupt. I'm curious now. What were the terms? How much was I worth?"

"It's not like that..." Jungkook started toward you but you stepped back, and something in his expression shattered at the movement.

"Not like what?" Your voice was still light, conversational, even as your chest felt like it was caving in. "Not like you made a bet about me? Not like everything was a lie? Everything?"

"It was a bet." The words came out raw, desperate. "At first. I'm not going to lie to you about that. But Y/N, please, it stopped being about that the second I actually got to know you."

"When?" The question cracked through the air like a whip. "When did it stop being about the bet? After our first conversation? Our first date?" Your voice dropped, became something sharp and cruel. "After I slept with you?"

Jungkook flinched like you'd struck him, then stepped forward, closing the distance. "Don't. Don't do that."

"Why not?" You shoved him hard in the chest, your hands trembling. He stumbled back but immediately moved closer again. "I gave you everything. My first kiss, my virginity, my trust. Things I'd been saving my whole life because they meant something to me. And you..." Your voice finally broke. "It was all just part of winning a fucking bet."

"No." He grabbed your wrists as you tried to push him again, desperation bleeding through his touch. "No, Y/N, I love you. I love you. That's real. Everything between us is real."

"Let go of me!" You wrenched away from him, tears streaming down your face. "How am I supposed to believe that? How am I supposed to believe anything you say when it all started with a lie? When I was just a game to you?"

"You weren't. You aren't..." He reached for you again but you backed away, laughing bitterly through your sobs.

"What was the prize, Jungkook? Money? Bragging rights?" Your voice turned vicious, sharp as broken glass. "Did you tell them? Did you tell your friends every detail? Did you laugh about how easy I was, how naive?"

"Stop it." His voice cracked, eyes wet. "I know I fucked up. I know, and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I should have told you from the beginning. I should have..."

"You should have never started this." You were shaking now, rage and heartbreak warring inside you. "You took something sacred to me and turned it into a joke. You made me believe..." Your breath hitched. "You made me believe I mattered."

"You do matter. You're everything to me."

"Don't you dare." The words came out raw, feral. You stepped forward and shoved him again, harder this time. "Don't you dare say that to me. You don't get to pretend this meant something after what you did."

He caught your wrists again when you tried to push him a third time, holding on even as you struggled. "Please, Y/N. Please, just let me..."

"Let me go!" You finally broke free, stumbling backward. The tears were blinding you now, but you could still see his face. Stricken, devastated, guilty. "You ruined me, Jungkook. You made me question everything I believe in, made me go against everything I was raised to be, and it was all for a bet."

"It stopped being a bet..."

"I don't care when it stopped!" Your voice broke on a sob. "It never should have started! I trusted you with parts of myself I've never given anyone, and you used me. You used me."

"I didn't..."

"Yes, you did!" The scream tore from your throat. "And the worst part? I would have done anything for you. I loved you. I thought..." You laughed, the sound hollow and broken. "I actually thought you were different."

You turned away, vision blurred with tears, and started walking.

"Y/N, please!" His voice was ragged, desperate. You heard him following, his footsteps quick behind you. "Just let me explain..."

"Don't follow me." You didn't look back, didn't stop. "Don't call me. Don't text me. Don't look at me." Your voice dropped to something cold and final. "You're dead to me, Jungkook. Do you understand? Dead."

You kept walking, leaving him standing there in the golden afternoon light. Leaving behind the best month of your life.

Leaving behind the first person who'd ever made you feel like you mattered.

All of it built on a lie.

.

.

You pull back, narrow your eyes, tilt your head all suspicious:

“Wait… when I’m not here… do you, like… get yourself off?”

San freezes mid–back rub.

“…Huh?”

“Answer. The question.” Your eyes squint even harder.

He sighs, looks away, rubs the bridge of his nose.

“Baby, why would you ask me something like—”

“Cause I wanna know!”

He stares at you… then gives up.

“I watch our tapes.”

“Huh?”

“Our sex tapes.”

“San—”

“And I look at your Instagram pictures.”

“San.”

“And sometimes I screenshot your bikini photos before you delete them.”

“San???”

“And sometimes I use the ones where you’re adjusting your top because you always look flustered and—”

“Stop—”

He keeps going, dead serious, like he’s reading a grocery list:

“And that one video where you’re laughing and your boobs bounce a little? Yeah. That one goes crazy. Top-tier.”

“What????”

“And those mirror selfies where your hair is messy. And the ones where you’re not even trying. Those are the worst.” He shifts under you, already getting hard just thinking about it.

You smack his chest.

“You’re SICK.”

He shrugs.

“I’m in love.”

You slap him harder.

“You’re DEPRAVED.”

Another shrug.

“You’re SEXY.”

You bury your face in your hands, dying.

He gently pulls them away, lowering his voice:

“You asked, baby. You really think I jerk off to random women? No. Everything I do, I do to you.”

He leans in, kissing your cheek, jaw, neck.

“And if you want… I can show you exactly how I do it.”

You slide off his lap just a little, sitting between his knees, eyes wide and way too curious for his sanity.

“…Show me, then.”

San blinks once. Twice. His Adam’s apple jumps.

“…Yeah?” he asks, voice already dropping into that low, dangerous tone.

You nod.

He drags a hand down his face like he knows he’s about to ruin you with this demonstration alone.

“Okay,” he mutters, leaning back into the couch, legs spreading a little, “but don’t— don’t laugh. I’m serious.”

You bite your lip.

He sees it. He groans.

Then he slips a hand under the waistband of his sweats, pulls himself out, already half-hard from the conversation alone. His breaths get shaky, on purpose, because he knows you’re watching.

“Normally…” he starts, eyes flicking to yours, “…I start slow. Just— thinking about you walking around the house, tiny little outfit, pretending you’re not teasing me.”

His thumb glides over the tip spreading the precum, — and he sighs, deep, breathy, borderline whimpering.

You swallow so hard he hears it.

“And then,” he continues, pumping slowly, “I think about how you look when you ride me… all loud and needy…”

You shift on your knees.

He definitely notices.

His lashes flutter, and he lets out a soft, broken “mmh—fuck…”

You scoot closer.

He moans again, high, pretty, shameless, because he’s absolutely doing this on purpose now.

“You like watching me, baby?” he breathes out, jaw clenching, hips lifting into his own hand. “Yeah… you do…”

You nod, dazed.

He groans, throwing his head back for a second, biting his lip dramatically, exaggerating it because he knows it gets you.

Then he looks at you through heavy lids.

“You always make me this hard,” he whispers, voice cracking just a little. “Even when you’re not here.”

Your thighs press together.

He smirks, then lets out another deliberate whimper, soft and choked, like he knows it shoots straight into your bloodstream.

“Come here,” he murmurs, hand stroking himself faster. “If you’re gonna watch… watch up close.”

You crawl into his lap.

He pulls your hand to his stomach— so warm, tense, shaking, and keeps moaning softly, messy and pretty, just for you.

He’s doing all of this on purpose.

You lean in so close he can feel your breath on his throat, eyes glued to every movement of his hand, every twitch of his stomach, every shaky inhale he lets slip.

And San loses his mind over it.

“Jesus…” he whispers, voice cracking when he looks down and sees your face—eyes blown wide, lips parted, studying him like he’s something you want to taste. “You’re really watching me like this…?”

You nod slowly. His chest stutters.

He bites his lip so hard a muscle in his jaw jumps.

“That’s— fuck— this is the hottest thing you’ve ever done,” he mutters, voice warm and breathless. He spreads his legs wider, giving you a better view, pumping his hand a little harder… slower… letting you see everything. “You’re looking at me like you wanna eat me alive.”

“San,” you breathe. His eyes darken instantly.

“Oh my god…” he laughs under his breath, ruined already, “you’re obsessed with me.”

Your face heats.

He cups your chin with his free hand, forcing you to hold eye contact while the other keeps stroking, wet and filthy and slow enough to make your stomach twist.

“You like how I do it?” he whispers. You nod. His smile is evil.

“You like seeing what I do when you’re not home?” Another nod.

His grip tightens. His thighs flex under you.

“Y’know what I think about?” he murmurs, leaning closer until your noses almost touch. “You. On your knees. Mouth open. Eyes like that. Waiting for me.”

Your breath catches.

He groans. 

“Keep watching,” he says, voice low and trembly. “Don’t look away. Not once.”

You don’t.

Your eyes track the movement of his hand, the veins on his forearm, the way his stomach tightens every time he pumps upward. He notices. He feels your stare. It makes him moan again—soft, involuntary, almost shy.

You whisper, barely audible:

“…You look so hot.”

He chokes on a breath. His hips jerk.

And his voice drops even lower, wrecked and proud and starving:

“Say that again.”

You whisper it again, slower. “So fucking hot.”

You slide closer—slow, curious, innocent in that way that makes his whole body seize up—and tilt your head.

“Can I help…?”

His hand falters on himself, eyes snapping to yours like you just offered him the cure to every problem he’s ever had.

“…yeah,” he whispers, voice already breaking, “yeah—baby, c’mere.”

Your smaller hand slips under his, replaces his stroke. The second your skin touches him he whimpers—a real one, sharp and desperate, right against your neck.

“Oh—fuck—” His head drops to your shoulder. He’s trembling.

He grabs your wrist gently, guiding your rhythm, but you’re already doing it exactly how he likes—soft at the base, tight at the top, twisting up just a little—

“Baby,” he gasps, breath hitting your collarbone, “you’re—fuck—you’re so good at this—”

His hips buck into your palm. His hand is gripping your thigh, hard enough to bruise.

You look up at him through your lashes and his knees actually shake.

“That’s it,” you whisper, teasing, “you like when I do it?”

He moans. A pretty, broken, breathy sound right into your ear.

“I love—when you—help me—god—fuuuck” He’s collapsing, chest heaving, face flushed, thighs tense beneath you. The wet slick sound of your hand working him faster fills the room and he completely loses the last bit of control he had.

“Y/N—baby—oh my god I’m gonna cum—”

You tighten your grip, stroke him exactly how he likes—

His whole body jerks—

He lets out the most ruined groan you’ve ever heard—

And he finishes right into your hand, warm and messy and so much more than you expected.

He collapses into you, panting into your shoulder, completely melted.

Your sticky hand is still resting on him when he finally breathes again.

“…you’re gonna kill me,” he whispers, voice wrecked, trembling all over. “You’re actually gonna kill me.”

You hold your hand up— dripping.Absolutely covered in him. A warm, glossy mess. Your eyes go wide on purpose.

“…San.”

He looks up from your shoulder, dazed, hair a mess, breaths still shaking.

And you wiggle your fingers.

“Look at this! You're. SO. Desperate.”

His whole face flushes scarlet.

“Baby—” he groans, grabbing your wrist to hide the evidence, “don’t… don’t say it like that…”

But you lean back, smirking like the menace you are.

“You made a huge mess. This is—San, this is ridiculous. You couldn’t even hold it for a second??”

He hides his face in your neck, mortified, whining like a grown man being scolded.

“You can’t tease me after what you just did to me,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin, “I warned you—I told you I was close—you kept going—baby, you know what you were doing—”

“No,” you say, faking innocence, showing your sticky palm again, “you’re nasty. Nasty. Look at this.”

He pulls your wrist down, panicked.

“Stop showing it to me!” His voice cracks. “I know what I did!”

You laugh so hard he swats your thigh lightly, embarrassed, still breathless.

Then he looks up at you—eyes heavy, lips parted, totally ruined—and mutters:

“…clean your hand before you start teasing me again or I swear I’ll make an even bigger mess.”

OH.

You grab a warm towel and clean him up gently, slow little wipes that make him flinch because he’s still sensitive.

You purposely kiss the tip softly just to watch him jolt.

“Y/N—!” You kiss it again..

He slaps a hand over his face. “Stop… you’re gonna kill me…”

You hop off the bed, still glowing, still smug, and go to the mirror. You clean yourself up too—wiping your mouth, fixing your hair—

But then curiosity hits.

You look at your fingers. You look at him in the reflection. You drag your tongue over them.

Slow. Purposeful.

San’s jaw drops.

“…that tastes kinda good. Somebody changed their diet. Good boy.”

His ears turn red.

“Why would you DO that?!”

You shrug in the mirror, wiping your lips.

“I was curious.”

“That’s not— you can’t just— you—” He’s literally malfunctioning.

Then, quieter, almost proud:

“…but yeah, I did start eating more fruit.”

You grin.

“Mm. I noticed.”

He hides under a pillow. Absolutely finished.

Masterlist

You chuckled. “Why are you being so awkward? I thought we were over this phase.”

Well, he should be. You had known Seokjin since elementary school and seen him, er, date was a strong word for what you both were doing in middle and high school, more like being bumbling messes and walking in on each other bonking classmates, but, hey, what mattered is that you both got better at it over the years.

It being sex.

Not romance.

You both still had only sketchy ideas about what romance was supposed to be.

“We are,” your best friend coughed, clearing his throat for absolutely no reason. “We are, I just…”

“Used my name for purchasing goods from an online sex shop?”

He choked and nearly flung his Switch. You caught it, swiftly placing it on the coffee table as you procured the cardboard box from behind your back, already open, address and name circled in thick black permanent marker on the rather inconspicuous package.

“W-What, that’s absurd, why would I ever–?”

You hummed pleasantly, sweeping the box away from his lanky limbs and his flailing hands. For someone who didn’t purchase goods from an online sex shop, he sure was interested in getting the box. He tumbled into your lap, and quickly scrambled back, black hair suddenly fluffed and wild from the movement.

“Something tells me you didn’t check the autocomplete form before clicking submit.”

You saw Seokjin choke on air.

He jerked away from you and fumbled with his phone beside him. You peeked over his broad shoulder and saw that he was scrolling through his emails like a madman, except Seokjin had a bad habit of never deleting any. He had maybe fifteen thousand unread emails to sort though.

“You don’t have to check. I am sure I didn’t order red cotton bondage rope and a leather flogger.”

Seokjin whipped his head around, face redder than a tomato, looking halfway between fainting and screaming.

You raised an eyebrow. “Is it for you or a mysterious imaginary girl that you’re dating?”

Now your best friend seemed to be contemplating holding his own breath until he passed out to avoid your questioning.

“I-It’s not for me!”

“Oooh, then who? You’re not an internet hookup kind of guy though… unless she was dumb enough to put her full name as her username, then she’s too airheaded to be a catfish–”

Seokjin flapped his hands, smacking you in your pajama-covered chest, sputtering. “No one! There’s no one! I just…!”

You caught one of his wrists, raising an eyebrow.

“Just?”

He froze.

Silence.

“… Seokjin?”

You left go of his hand. It stayed there, frozen in the air.

Ah, it seemed as if his soul left his body.

Rest in peace Kim Seokjin. You were the handsomest best friend one could ask for.

You prodded him in the side again and Seokjin doubled over, trying to cover his face with the large sleeves of his sweatshirt, long legs in black sweatpants curling up as if he could cocoon himself away from the conversation.

“Seokjin, you can be interested in whatever you want,” you snickered, placing the package next to his fetal positioned body. “I simply thought it was funny that you accidentally used my name. Although I wouldn’t use that flogger on a real person, only for posing in pictures. In any case, have fun being freaky by yourself and not for some mysterious woman you refuse to tell me about.”

You stood up, about to leave and give your best friend some space. You shouldn’t go too far teasing him after all.

“What do you mean?”

You stopped, looking back. Seokjin’s large brown eyes were peeking out of his splayed fingers, shifting awkwardly when you made eye contact. He cleared his throat. He was doing that a lot for someone who seemed perfectly healthy ten minutes ago, shrieking at himself for missing the ledge in his game and dying.

It had seemed like a good time to interrupt and embarrass him so you could save your eardrums.

He coughed and pointed to the box. “About the… um… whip… thingmabob…”

You cocked an eyebrow. “Isn’t it obvious?”

You marched over and opened the box, making Seokjin jolt and cover his red ears instinctively, but you ignored him, pulling out the black pleather flogger you had already unwrapped from the plastic – purely from thinking it was your own package, by the way, no other reason, surely not because you were mildly curious about what your best friend was into, nope – and you slapped the short three tails into your hand, wincing.

“This kind of cheap material is too plastic-like. If you use this on bare skin and hit too hard, you’re going to cut someone and I know you’re squeamish around blood, unless you secretly have a blood fetish too and have been a really good actor all this time–”

“How do you know that?”

You blinked at his question.

“What?”

Seokjin sat up, giving you a confused pout. “Why do you know something like that?”

Now it was your turn to shift your eyes around.

“Uh…”

Er… how to tell your best friend that the younger guy you were casually fucking for the past couple of weeks was, ah, rather knowledgeable about certain things, was, um, interested in teaching, uh, yeah, teaching…

Seokjin squinted at you suspiciously. “Is it that idol trainee that was here two nights ago when I was out drinking with Hose–”

You waved your hands very quickly, tossing the flog aside carelessly and slapping your thigh to silence Seokjin and his far too invasive questions. “Look. I just don’t want you to hurt anybody on accident, okay? Your rope choice was good though. You should always use an organic material for shibari, cotton, hemp, linen if you’re rich, but you’re a cheapskate, so–”

Your best friend narrowed his eyes into slits. “How much younger is that guy compared to you again? Hm? And what was his name? Ye–”

You slapped a hand over Seokjin’s mouth, smiling sweetly and dangerously, reaching into the box and pulling out the red cotton rope.

“I know a lot of knots now and I can tie a noose just for you, Seokjinnie.”

Your best friend, rightfully so, looked terrified.

“Now. Let’s talk about you, okay? Okay.”

You removed your hand and held onto the rope.

Seokjin gulped, but then shook his head vigorously, frowning. “What did you call it?” He was already moving past your death threat. Smart man.

“Call what?”

“Shi-something?”

“Shibari? Japanese rope tying?” You lifted the cotton cord in your hand. “Is that not what this is for?”

Seokjin blinked very rapidly.

You blinked back at him. Then it dawned onto you. “The diamond-y rope patterns where they’re all tied up and stuff.”

“Ah! Yeah! That!”

“You want that done to you?”

Seokjin jerked to one side. “What? No! To someone else. Maybe. No. What?”

You slowly placed the rope on his lap and scooted away.

“Uh… huh. Okay. Enjoy.”

“Wait,” he blurted.

“What?”

“CanIpracticeonyou?”

“Can you WHAT?” you echoed shrilly.

“Right, yeah, okay, never mind–”

-

“Seokjin.”

Your best friend choked on his own toothbrush and threw himself into the bathroom wall, colliding into the towel bar and howling in pain while simultaneously hacking up a lung.

“I’ve decided I am going to teach you some simple knots to prevent me from having to pick your naked ass up from the police station or hospital,” you said calmly as Seokjin half-died on the floor tangled in your mint green and his navy-blue bath towels. “And because I don’t want to have to cut some poor girl off your bedframe because you’ve blacked out running onto your door trying to find me.”

“I’ve never–” he wheezed.

“But you will if I don’t take precautions,” you cut in, grabbing your purple toothbrush and putting toothpaste on it as Seokjin attempted to collect himself off the ground. “Like that one time you ran into the window when that wasp was in the apartment.”

“That was a fucking wasp, you freaked out too!”

You started brushing your teeth. “Yeah, but I didn’t knock myself out and wake up with a fat bump on my forehead. That was you,” you gargled.

“Ack…”

“Anyway, I know a few things and I figured I would do a good deed and enlighten you.”

“Who taught you? Was it Ye–”

You jabbed Seokjin forcefully in the ribs and he immediately shut up because he choked on his toothbrush again.

-

“Why do you have scissors?”

“For cutting the rope.”

“Yeah, but why are they so big?”

“That’s what she said.”

Seokjin narrowed his eyes. “I hate you.”

“Cool, now I’m gonna tie you up. Give me your hands.”

You unwound the end from the bolt and frowned, nudging his knee with yours. You were both sitting on his bed, him cross legged and you on your knees because he was wearing black sweatpants and you were wearing no pants, just your usual large lavender pajama shirt with a pattern of yellow stars.

“Take off your sweatshirt. It’ll get in the way.”

“But I’m cold.”

“You won’t be because apparently this shit turns you on,” you snickered.

“Shut up, it does not. It’s the other way around,” Seokjin grumbled, yanking his chocolate brown sweatshirt over his head.

You paused.

“I thought you were more sub.”

Seokjin froze, head half-out of his sweatshirt. You waited. He didn’t move. You waited some more. He coughed and chucked the article of clothing aside, yanking his white t-shirt down and smoothing his hair, not looking at you.

You waited.

He smoothed his hair for a full two minutes.

“Um, anyway–”

You planted a hand on his knee and Seokjin tried to chop your hand away, only for you to snatch his wrist, so his other hand came up to stop you, but you wound the end of the rope around his wrist and bounced off his mattress, pinning your knees on top of his knees and making him squeak as he tumbled back into his pillows, bringing you with him. You had to jerk your head out of the way to avoid collision.

“My nuts!”

“I didn’t hit your precious nuts, you numbsku–”

Hang on.

You locked eyes with Seokjin under you, who gawked back at you, absolutely terrified.

“… You are still a sub.”

Seokjin winced. “Ugh, it’s just… I’m getting older, alright? I can change my mind…”

You could get off him. You could let it be. You totally could.

But were you going to?

No.

You straddled his abdomen and brought his hands to his chest with a big grin. Seokjin’s eyes turned into giant brown saucers. He looked ready to pass out and not from your weight because you weren’t putting much weight on him.

“W-W-What are y-you d-doing?!” he shrieked.

You rapped him in the forehead. “Teaching. Pay attention. Hands up.”

“You aren’t taking your rings off?”

He was referring to the three silver rings you wore on a daily basis – an onyx stone on your left middle finger, a goat-head shaped ring on your right thumb, and a skull with a jester hat on your right ring finger.

You raised an eyebrow. “Why do I need to take them off?”

He lifted his hands and gave you an exaggerated shrug in between your thighs. Come to think of it, Seokjin had a rather broad chest so you had to spread your legs pretty wide to accommodate and hover over him.

Precarious.

“Ah, perfect.”

Your best friend yelped as you wrapped the rope around his wrists, leaving the end sticking out between them, first focusing on loosely binding. He tried to break away, but you harshly squeezed his sides with your thighs, narrowing your eyes.

“Stop squirming.”

He froze at your cold tone, shifting his eyes awkwardly.

“Watch. Now.”

His eyes immediately snapped to your hands.

“Wrists together.” You nudged them so the inner parts of the wrists were touching. “A little space in the center,” you added, looping out the end of the rope. “I’m just teaching you how I learned it, there are a few ways, but the details are important so you don’t prevent loss of circulation,” you added seriously, waiting for him to nod before continuing. “So, wind it around a couple times, but don’t overlap. Four or five?”

“But I can still get out.”

You glared at him. Seokjin shut up and jammed his plush pink lips together, shaking his head rapidly as if to say, who me? I wasn’t talking!

“Turn it ninety degrees like this,” you demonstrated. “And start going perpendicular to and in between the wrists to create the binding. Line up each coil side by side. Mind the starting end here. Then…” You reached for the scissors and snipped the excess away, dropping the rope and scissors beside you on the bed. “You tie it off on the outside. I use a square knot, so this end over this end, and then retie it the opposite way. Try to break free.”

Seokjin frowned at the red rope around his wrists, twisting it this way and that, squirming underneath your legs. You put your hands on your waist triumphantly, nodding to yourself in pride. You did a good job! It looked neat and it was inescapable without tightening on any blood vessels to cause any dangerous loss of circulation.

Hang on.

Seokjin froze.

You froze.

You both looked down.

You smacked him in the cheek.

“Ow!”

“What are you looking there for?!”

“Why did you hit me? Why do you always resort to violence?!” Seokjin accused, jabbing you underneath your breasts with his bound hands. “What is going on down there?”

“Nothing! Stop moving!”

“No!”

“You–”

You closed your thighs around Seokjin’s waist and sat down on him, causing him to gasp, wind knocked out of him as his diaphragm was pushed up into his lungs, struggling with the rope between his wrists and resorting to slamming them down on the bed above his head. You growled as you towered over him. He started yelling, as he always did.

“Yah!”

You slapped your free hand over his mouth.

“Silence.”

He glared at you behind your palm, breathing hard. You sat on top of him, breathing just as hard. He was bigger, strong, yes, but not in the position of power and – being honest, after all – your best friend was never really out to fight you and win. He was more of a ‘I’m-going-to-be-stupidly-annoying-until-you-do-what-I-want’ type, which made him rather childish in some ways. You were more of the ‘I’m-gonna-beat-your-ass’ type.

In conclusion, it was a healthy friendship.

Seokjin started licking your palm and making crazy eyes at you.

Your eye twitched.

“Stop it.”

Unsurprisingly, he did not, in fact, stop it.

“I said, stop it.”

And you slid down, past the wet spot now on his t-shirt, planting your soaked panties on top of his crotch, grinding down, and, yup, Seokjin bucked and yelped, immediately stopping and seizing up as if he could hide the massive erection that you had been willing to ignore but he was being a little – nah, actually, an extra-large, supersized – shit and it was getting on your last nerve, so what better way to resolve a wordless argument (on his part, heh) then humping his hard-on?

You removed your hand and Seokjin had a brief moment to gasp your name before you slid the pads of your fingers onto his tongue, rubbing it roughly and making his eyes nearly bulge out of his head.

“I told you to stop, but you aren’t listening,” you snarled.

Seokjin whimpered, brown orbs glassy, pupils blown out.

You stilled.

Hold on a second.

You had a brief epiphany where you realized you were grinding on your best friend’s dick with him tied up and you were wetter than the Yellow Sea. This wasn’t some guy you picked up at the night market that won you that sleeping Pikachu at the claw machines, only to chat him up and end up with bed with a guy who was – ack, never mind his age – anyway, this was your best friend.

Kim Seokjin.

Oh shit, I’ve gone too far.

You let go, backing up. “S… Sorry, I–”

But then Seokjin’s plush lips closed around your fingers, sucking hard and you choked slightly, feeling his hips roll and the tip of his clothed erection hit your covered clit. He was glaring at you. You gasped as his teeth gently but firmly caught your two fingers. It did hurt, but only a little. Mostly it sent a rush of rather uncomfortable and mind-boggling arousal racing from your knuckles to your core, drenching your panties further.

“Don’t stop,” he mumbled around your fingers.

Don’t stop?

DON’T STOP?

His teeth let go, panting, staring into your eyes.

“Don’t make this weird,” Seokjin muttered, shifting his gaze. “Don’t make this weird, okay?”

His brown eyes flickered back to you. His bound hands were still over his head, black hair flaring out of his pillows, white t-shirt messed up, still trapped between your thighs. You paused, fingers slipping out of his lips, the pads trailing on his lower lip, turning it glossy with his saliva.

Your heart was racing fast.

He furrowed his dark brows and, for the first time, his serious expression made you think that perhaps, maybe, there was a side of him down there, the other side to the coin.

“I just…” Seokjin exhaled slowly, not looking away from you. “I trust you to do this. You’re capable and knowledgeable. I know you are. Word gets around with your, er, habits with younger guys…”

You felt your cheeks heat and you scratched your head awkwardly.

“Anyway, it’s fine if you wanna… er… get off. With me. Because I’m so handsome and all.”

You were thiiiiiiis close to leaving out of sheer embarrassment that instantly dissipated at Seokjin’s sudden unexpected self-compliment. Instead, your eye twitched and you squinted in annoyance.

Seokjin coughed, ears singeing bright red. “Unless you can’t, of course. Because it’s easy to fall in love with me, and that would be very bad considering I don’t want to marry you–”

“I don’t want to marry you either,” you snapped. “You’re ugly.”

Seokjin gasped dramatically, highly offended. “How dare you–!”

He abruptly sat up and you twisted back, only for his arms to swing over your head and sandwich you between his tied wrists and his chest, ramming you back onto his lap and his hard dick. You hissed and bit down your moan, not willing to admit it was mildly turning you on, because of course neither you or Seokjin hated each other – only in that classic way best friends hate and love each other at the same time – and, yeah, sure, you could admit Seokjin was handsome and cute and fun to be around, but he wasn’t the one, not that you knew what the one was supposed to feel like or knew if you would ever feel such an intense, romantic love, but you had this strange idea that the one for you would be someone who could understand you on a different level, and you didn’t have that with Seokjin even if you did talk all the time. You were quite sure the feeling was mutual and now, looking into his brown eyes with a scowl, you saw that the feeling was indeed mutual.

Also, Seokjin was an immature shithead.

A loveable, worldwide handsome, immature shithead. Redeemable.

Still.

You were horny.

And Seokjin was horny.

You weren’t going to date Seokjin ever, but your best friend was hot as hell and you could definitely bang him without any regrets.

“Let’s fuck,” he breathed into your face.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t make it weird.”

Don’t make it weird, yeah, okaaay dude–

Your thoughts were suddenly cut off when Seokjin kissed you.

His forearms closed in behind your back and he pressed his bound wrists into your shoulder blades, pushing you into his solid chest and his embrace, taking your breath away. He always had good hugs, even if they were just to comfort you when your favorite flavor of ice lollys stopped being stocked at your local grocery store – still tragic to this day – and even when he was clinging onto you like a howling monkey because a cockroach was in the bathroom and he was screaming at you to kill it and nearly blowing out your eardrums, even then…

Now.

You closed your legs in around his hips and rolled your crotch into him, suddenly kissing him back.

He gasped into your mouth, your eyes half-opening, him gazing back at you, long lashes and dark eyebrows and glowing tan skin, holy shit, your best friend was handsome as fuck, why did other men even try when Kim Seokjin existed?

“Are you falling in love with me because I’m so handsome?” Seokjin teased, nipping at your lower lip.

Your eye twitched. Oh, yes, that’s right, because you’re annoying.

You shoved him and he yelped, clutching your back as you both fell onto the bed with a flump! You slid out from under his arms, skin prickling at Seokjin’s involuntary whine at your departure. Don’t make this weird, yeah, okay, don’t turn me on this much, dumbass, you are reminding me of… You pushed the thought away.

You didn’t want to think about other people when the person you were touching was right in front of you.

“What are you – yah!”

You gripped the waistband of his sweatpants and yanked down, exposing his underwear – bright blue, nice, nice – and his clothed erection, leaning in, hot breath ghosting over it, Seokjin jerking his arms about because he seemed undecided on either if he wanted to see or not see, but you let him deal with that in his own time, lowering your mouth, tongue extended, fingers splayed over his hips, silver rings glinting in his bedroom lights.

“You look like a demon,” you heard from above you.

You planted your tongue on the spot where the head of his cock would be and soaked it with saliva.

“F-Fuck!”

That shut him up real quick.

Your eyes drifted up, lapping slowly, barely stimulating the sensitive head through his underwear, closing your lips around it so the fabric clung wetly to the taut skin underneath. His cock swelled and twitched under your mouth; the action was mirrored by Seokjin’s jaw. He was clenching it along with his hands balled into fists, gasping for breath.

“O-Oh, f-fuck…!”

You were beginning to get the hint with each passing second of working your tongue around his rapidly hardening cock. Seokjin had put himself in the sub category when you asked back then because he liked to things being done for him. It was less about the mental aspect and more of the physical acts of service in his case. However, he wasn’t very good at articulating what he wanted and thus the natural pattern of someone just doing it led to, ah, exhibit A.

You currently parting your lips and letting your tongue snake out, coating the length with saliva.

But.

You could see it in his eyes, that burning intensity.

Maybe part of it was because it was you. He probably didn’t have those butterfly jitters of trying to woo a stranger or the nervousness of looking bad in the honeymoon phase of a relationship. There was already a level of comfort – and the ability to readily shit-talk each other at any moment – and so Seokjin was free to relax, even if it was a bizarre situation of sexual discovery.

“Take it off,” he growled.

Your fingers creeped up his sides, hooking over his boxer briefs. Slow, deliberate, kissing up his length, on the tightrope, dominant in your control, submissive in the action, raising your head so Seokjin could lift his hips, feathering kisses on the exposed skin and making him hiss and shudder, eyelids fluttering, slipping into subservience a little.

At the end of the day, who killed the unwanted bugs in your shared apartment?

Yeah, you.

“Oh, f… fucking shit…”

You tilted your head and ran your tongue up and down the length, licking up the sides and circling around the thick head, bordering on frustratingly soft, switching to wet, sloppy kisses when his hands raised, making him pause, gazing down at you curiously and attentively, entranced by the action. You ducked down, tongue slurping around his balls, lifting his cock, kissing, sucking, eyes closing, tip of your wet muscle drawing zig-zag patterns that soft skin.

Seokjin moaned your name.

A shiver of electricity went up your spine.

Alright, fine, you were getting turned on.

You wrapped your lips around his balls and enveloped them both with your mouth.

“Whoa!”

You opened your eyes to see Seokjin staring wide-eyed at you, hands straight up to stare at you between his upper arms. You almost laughed at the hilarious triangular-looking pose, but your mouth was currently full, so you restrained yourself.

“That’s possible?! You can put both nuts in your mouth at the same time?!”

Uh.

Where you supposed to respond with your cheeks stuffed with his nutties?

You hummed casually in response.

“A-Ah…!”

Seokjin gasped at the vibrations and the movement of your tongue slapping all over them, short, rapid licks all over his skin, watching him with a cocked eyebrow, but he didn’t even notice, hands dropping and moaning to the ceiling, his eyes closing and savoring the hot wet warmth and the power of your mouth, shivering as your hand slowly stroked his length in time with your tongue.

You let him bask in it before detaching and swallowing his cock.

“Gah!”

Seokjiinie, you thought wryly, we gotta work on your repertoire of sex sounds.

You spied him looking down at you, so you paused around the swollen head and slid your tongue out, circling and wrapping around his length while sucking on the tip and rubbing the back of your tongue along the underside.

Seokjin made a bunch of weird croaking noises that were, strangely, rather attractive. Okay, you could admit it. You were kind of a sucker for your best friend in the most platonic way possible… while in the middle of sucking his dick.

What?

He was handsome!

You began to bob your head up and down, tongue and lips descending, taking him deep so you kissed the base of his cock, head buried in your throat, waiting for him to glance down at you, hazy brown orbs under lush lashes, and you would peek your tongue out and lap at his balls, interrupting the tightness, causing him to swear and jerk his hips up, urging you to keep consistent speed and pace, all the while watching every single movement of your tongue. You kept this irregular pace, slow, then fast, then slow again when he looked at you, then fast when the ecstasy was too much and he closed his eyes, over and over. You could see that a battle was being waged Seokjin’s pretty head, between wanting to observe the lewdness of you licking his balls with his hard cock buried in your throat while also desperately needing to get to the fuck off.

“You… bitch… suck me off properly, fuck…”

You raised all the way so only the head was in your mouth and sucked, rubbing up and around it, swirling all over, teasing the slit and soaking the sensitive skin, rutting it against the roof of your mouth and Seokjin groaned, pressing his head back into the pillows, black hair covering his eyes, fists pressed to his chest.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, please, let me cum!”

His hips rammed up and you dug your nails into them, wincing as the head hit the top of your throat and slid down, cutting off your air, and then he began to thrust erratically, the position, inability to use his hands as leverage, and your resistance not letting him set up a good rhythm. You had to force him back down, popping your mouth off, snarling.

“I’m gonna gag if you do that! You want me to vomit on your dick or what?”

But all of a sudden Seokjin sat up again, grabbing your pajama shirt and yanking you to him, saliva dripping down your chin and then it was on his chin, a messy, savage kiss, ravenous need in his actions, pulling you to him, close, closer, you twisting and then gasping as he pushed one of your thighs down, planting your soaked panties on the exposed part of his thigh.

“Ah, Seok–”

He attacked your lips again with a light growl, sparks shooting across your skin, his thigh rising and bouncing you both on the bed, his legs still tangled in his pants and underwear but the effect was undeniable.

Seokjin was making you ride his thigh.

Whoa.

He bit your lower lip and sucked hard, your eyes fluttering closed, hips rocking, heat turning hotter, wet turning wetter, your sticky, sweet juices clinging to his upper thigh, your own pressed against his saliva-covered cock, wrapping your arms around him, close, closer, you thrusting your tongue in his mouth and him moaning before he did the same to you, starting a tug of war, rubbing harder against his skin, his muscle tensing against your covered clit, friction and wetness everywhere, too many clothes and no eye contact, one of your hands slipping into his black locks and tilting his head, deepening the kiss and inhaling his exhale, shuddering at the erotic nature of the moment.

He mumbled your name against your lips, still clutching your pajamas, stars bunched in his hands, fingertips pressed into the curve of your breasts.

“Can I try the rope tying now?” Seokjin whispered, voice gravelly and low.

-

“Excuse me?”

There was a ripped-open condom wrapper sitting on the bed.

“What?”

Your pajama shirt, bra, and panties were on the floor, along with Seokjin’s shirt, sweatpants, and underwear.

“Why are you – gah!”

You sucked in a breath as you sank down on his cock. Fuck, it was tight, tight as you lowered yourself onto his hips, Seokjin gasping and clutching the long length of red cotton rope that you had carefully untied from his wrists. You had even taken the extra step to massage them afterward, not that he needed it because of your careful work – good job, past you – but he appreciated it all the same, because deep down Kim Seokjin was a prince.

“Oh my God, you’re so tight, shit, shit, shit…”

You neglected to tell your best friend that you were both low-key proud of and turned on by your own ability to take dick without much foreplay. That little edge of tightness added just the right amount of spice of pain that amplified to the pleasure.

Okay.

And yes, you felt a special kind of glee as you witnessed Seokjin’s stunned shock and near passed-out expression from being inside you.

You held out your wrists and grinned. “Go ahead. Tie me up.”

Seokjin gawked at you like you had three heads.

You squeezed your breasts together with your upper arms, tilting your head with a devilish grin.

“God, you’re so hot, but you look crazy,” he wheezed.

Your grin dropped and your eye twitched. “Is that supposed to be a compliment or…?”

Seokjin shrugged, and moved your hands so they were in the better position for him. Much to your annoyance, he didn’t elaborate.

“Um, let’s see, you left a bit out to use as a tie and…”

You began to rock your hips.

“H-Hey!”

The side of your lips curved upward. “What? We’re multitasking.”

“We–?” Seokjin choked, gritting his teeth as you pulsed around his hard length, rolling your hips gently, adjusting until you found a comfortable spot so the head hit you in just the right spot, ah, yes, right there, spreading your fingers out over his chest, leaning your forehead against his, not quite going full force but a slow, deliberate rhythm that wasn’t going to make either of you cum, but, damn, did it feel good.

Seokjin shuddered, gasping your name.

“Tie me up, Seokjin,” you murmured back, caressing his skin.

His eyes darted up, saturated with lust, searching your eyes, and you gazed back.

You could be a real jerk right now.

His hot exhale washed over your lips, a shudder of nervousness.

But this was your best friend, and he was trusting you.

You tilted your head and kissed him softly, flush against his plush lips.

“Come on,” you nudged his nose lightly. “Do it.”

You viewed him from under your lashes. He shivered. Almost.

He needed only one more little push.

“Want you, Seokjinnie,” you breathed against his skin, hints of need and desperation in your voice.

A small smile danced on his lips, staring into your eyes.

You might have fallen for him a little bit in that moment.

“Okay.”

He kissed the side of your mouth, a teasing little peck, and you smirked, turning your head so you wouldn’t break the image you had created for him, but he was already looking down, busily occupied with your wrists, so you drew back, focusing instead on riding him, closing your eyes. You built a leisurely, pleasurable pace, leaning forward a bit to rub your clit against the base of his cock, sighing contentedly at the way he filled you, a wonderful, thick, satisfying girth that you could get used to, other than the fact that most of the time Seokjin drove you up the wall, but, hey, maybe if both of you reached a certain age and you were still single, maybe you could marry your best friend solely for having accessible dick…

“Ah! Perfect.”

You cracked open one eye.

And tried not to burst out laughing.

“Erm… well…” you coughed, tugging at the rope a little. It looked messy and rather hideous, parts overlapping and twisting awkwardly, but he had the… basic idea? It wasn’t like you were going to do anything dumb anyway, so it was pretty good for a first time.

Seokjin frowned. “I don’t know how you did it so neatly…”

“You line up the coils next to each other – ah!”

He seemed to think that was good enough and grabbed handfuls of your ass, causing you to tip forward and brace your hands against his chest, gasping as his hips thrust up into you, abrupt pleasure blooming up your core, sudden squelch of wetness between your joined hips.

“Come on,” he grunted, clenching his jaw, tone getting deeper and more dangerous with each word. “I have to get off, and now.”

He smacked his hands down on your ass and you almost whimpered.

Almost.

Seokjin drew back a little, giving you a strange look.

“W… What?” you managed to get out.

He tilted his head. “Do you like that?”

You almost said, no, of course not, but you stopped yourself, looking down at the red rope tied around your wrists, heat flaring in your cheeks, ass stinging slightly from his slap.

His cock twitched inside you.

Your eyes flickered up to him. A sly smirk danced on your lips.

“Yeah. I like the things you do to me.”

You saw Seokjin pause, brown eyes widening a little, black hair over his forehead.

You pushed him down on the bed. He gasped, but he was used to it now, gripping your ass and tipping his head back as you began to really ride him, waving your hips to ram his cock into your pussy, not even noticing the moan seeping from your lips, fuck, it was good, fulfilling and deep, your bound hands on his chest, fingers spread out and nails digging into his skin a little, but Seokjin seemed to be into it, his own nails sinking into your ass, pushing you down with every descent, hitting you harder, rougher, intensifying the pleasure, building onto it. Hot breath, warm skin, joined hips, loud slaps, rocking bedframe, your breasts bouncing with each thrust, gazing at each other through half-lidded eyes, not quite seeing each other but drowning in the gratification, the roughness, gasping sharply as his open palm smacked down on your ass again, making it bounce and jiggle in his hands, your core and thighs squeezing tighter, witnessing his tight hiss of desire, mesmerized by your sound so he did it again, spanking the other cheek, and you did it again, whimper creeping out, arousal consuming his handsome features, intoxicated by your reaction to his action so he did it again and again, hard, stinging slaps as you rode his stiff, quivering cock harder and faster, fuck, Seokjin must be incredibly turned on because he was so fucking hard, just so incredibly sexy how hard he was right now, even the pain was nothing but an injection of added carnal pleasure, throwing your head back and sinking your nails into his skin, fucking him recklessly, forgetting about hiding your moans, who the fuck cared, not you and not him because Seokjin too was crying out, the sinful sound of sex echoing off his bedroom walls, except instead of you in your bedroom putting headphones on to drown him out, you were in his bedroom, doing it, fucking the daylights out of him.

Alright.

You could see why girls wanted to date your best friend now.

Seokjin was a loud dork, but he had a great dick.

“F-Fuck, Seokjin, fuck!”

He had a similar response, although it was more a choked garble of your name mixed with, “Oh fuck, I’m gonna cum, fuck!”

You must really be drunk on his dick because even that turned you on and tipped you over the edge.

Your thighs tensed and you moaned deeply, tucking your chin down and spreading your palms onto his pecs, wrists straining against the cotton rope, a rapid torrent of adrenaline soaring through you and then you smacked your ass down onto Seokjin’s crotch, whining as you came in vicious pulses of pleasure, clenching around his jerking length and you realized Seokjin was clutching your ass, pinning it down so you couldn’t move, shooting his release into the condom, so much that you felt his cock shudder and throb inside you, head buried in your deepest, most pleasurable spot, you feeling all of him and him feeling all of you.

Holy shit.

You almost saw stars.

“Hah… wow… I guess I can’t blame younger dudes for wanting this pussy…”

Your eyes weren’t open but your eyebrow twitched in annoyance.

“Shut up, Seokjin.”

-

“Come on, man! Look what you did!” Seokjin barked accusingly, pointing to his chest with red indents of your rings.

“Excuse me? I’m the one who has scratches and a bruised ass!”

“You’ve marred my beautiful skin! I should fine you!”

“Where’s that fuckin’ whip – get your naked ass back here, Kim Seokjin!”

-

Hm, well, maybe you would find your true love some other time. Maybe try gambling?

--

✧.* note: i just know he's the best kisser in svt... you get it. this is the most unserious thing i've written so far, but i ended up really liking it? i might do a christmas version im not sure yet. last thing, I apologize if there are any mistakes🙏

Halloween is the one night a year when you can be someone else and not feel bad about it, when you can let your deepest desires get to the surface and let them take over, because, who cares? Right? 

Who cares that you spent half an hour doing shots and discussing your best hook ups with a bunch of girls, which led to them going into heavy detail about their hookups with your best friends and now you can’t forget about it? And now you’re sitting too close to them in a couch too small for the four of you, with vivid images and descriptions of how your friends like to go down on girls and a feeling on the pit of your stomach you can’t shake off? 

It doesn’t help that all of them are dressed like idiots and acting like horny teenagers who desperately want to get laid, but somehow, the costumes work for them. If you weren’t drunk, it would be embarrassing. A potato with stab wounds, a firefighter with a tiger-printed uniform, and a clown that has no sense of style? You can’t be seriously getting the hots for any of them, but you’re not the only one with that issue. 

Earlier, from the kitchen, you could see where they were sitting and how girls went up to them again and again, twirling their hair and biting their lips to get their attention, Chan even going up to his room with one of them. Those things happen at every single frat party, but something about tonight’s is just different. 

Looking around the room, very little people are alone, doesn’t matter the costume. Everyone’s either hand in hand with someone, flirting standing against the halloween decorated walls, taking up space on the other couches making out furiously (Mingyu has been jealously throwing popcorn at one specific couple for over five minutes and they still haven’t noticed), and approximately every ten minutes you see another frat guy going upstairs with a girl. It's not easy not to get horny when this is the vibe you’re surrounded with.  

From the corner of your eye, even with the dark purple and red lighting, you can see a group of girls ogling your friends, probably not pleased at you for keeping them hostage. 

How they all managed to get fuckboy reputations is beyond your comprehension, because they’re still the same boys who like to stay up all night playing videogames and ask you to leave when talking about jerking off, but apparently getting into a fraternity just does that for men. Anywhere you go with them, they always gather a group of girls, and even sometimes boys, gawking at them so furiously you sometimes think they’re capable of undressing them with their stares. And now you’re becoming one of them. Knowing how popular they are and knowing how each of them behave during sex are two fundamentally different things. Sure, you have eyes. You know they’re handsome and hot, but the thought of having sex with any of them never crossed your mind for some reason. 

The effects of your little chat are starting to be obvious as they talk about something right by your side, and your eyes are trained to the way Seokmin’s lips move as he talks, mind going to dangerous places imagining how they would feel against yours. 

The ridiculous make-up he has on accentuates the way his mouth moves in an weirdly enticing way, the red across his lips and the lipstick streaks going down his face drive your eyes instinctively to his lips, and they stay there, like they have a life of their own. His nose is painted red, imitating the fluffy noses clowns usually wear, accentuating one his undoubtedly best feature, and it makes it virtually impossible for you not to focus on his face either way. You wouldn’t mind getting your pale make-up ruined by the cheap lipstick he bought if it meant you’d get to smash your mouths together and test what all those girls told you about him. 

The man in question shakes your leg, his hands on your knee giving you infinite goosebumps, and they’re all looking at you, like they’re waiting for an answer to a question you did not hear. 

“What?” 

“We saw you talking to those girls earlier. Did they say anything about us? Should we go up to them?" Mingyu repeats, his head peaking out from behind Seokmin. 

“They were rating their hook ups with all of you, feedback included.” First mistake of the night, telling them the truth. 

“Really?” Mingyu sounds way too excited hearing your reply. “What did they say?” 

“I bet you think it was good… but I’m not telling you.” 

“C’mon! You can’t just tell us something like that and not follow up!” Soonyoung comes up right behind Mingyu, just as eager. 

“Why do you want to know what a few girls, that you clearly don’t even remember by the way, think about you? All of you already have half the campus waiting for the chance to hook up with you.” 

“This is an opportunity for us to get better! What if Mingyu’s terrible at making out and doesn’t know it?” Soonyoung doesn’t miss the chance to tease the other. 

“Hey!” Mingyu pouts as the others chuckle at his cuteness, “not that you need to know, but I’m actually a really good kisser.” The declaration makes all of you burst out laughing, but it only eggs him further. 

“Yo! I’m being serious! Why don’t you ask your sister?” Soonyoung shuts up instantly, sending Mingyu a death stare, making you and Seokmin die of laughter. He’s been quiet until now but starts clapping to accompany his loud laughter in a second. 

Sitting right by his side, every move Seokmin makes, you feel. His arm brushes against yours every now and then, and you're so close you could prop your legs on top of him if you wanted to sit more comfortably. Even the slightest touches make your tummy do cartwheels. Touches you wouldn’t normally think about twice, as it’s usual for friends to be physically close to one another, but tonight, every touch, graze and glance of his sends electric waves rushing through every vein of your body. 

It can’t be normal. He’s acting goofy like he always is. Nothing in his demeanor changed. He still screams when laughing, claps and moves around when he’s entertained, and sings the songs coming out of the speakers out of nowhere. There’s nothing out of the ordinary besides the ridiculous costume he decided to wear and an uncommon, confident attitude you’ve seen only a few times. 

“Everyone knows that a true good kisser doesn’t say they’re good.” Soonyoung’s still laughing hysterically, but doesn’t miss the opportunity to tease Mingyu further. 

“Ah really? And are you one?” Mingyu replies smugly, trying to set a trap for him, but his plan backfires. 

“Why don’t you ask your sister?” The smile on Mingyu’s face disappears in an instant, triggering another choir of laughter, echoing across the entire room and catching a few stares. 

“Alright, alright.” A sulking Mingyu waits for the laughs to die down, not wanting the conversation to keep going, to not be the center of the teasing for any longer. 

“Wait, guys! Let’s not forget the main issue here. Our dear, dear friend, is keeping important information from us!” You hoped they’d forget about it for a little bit longer, but Soonyoung refuses to let it go. 

“I don’t know, guys, it feels wrong.” It’s not like those girls asked you to keep it a secret, but still. Your gaze connects with Seokmin’s for the first time tonight after you’ve started avoiding him, pleading him with your eyes to help out of the situation, but a voice gets between you. 

“C’mon! You don’t even have to tell us who said what. We only want the feedback.” Mingyu tries again, and it’s a rather good argument. You can get them off your backs, and you don’t reveal the girls’ names. 

You pretend to think about what to say, like one specific thing the girls said hasn’t been plaguing your mind, like you haven’t been thinking about it since you sat by his side, like your stomach doesn’t flip and your ears don’t turn burning red at the single thought of testing if what they said was true. 

“Well, there’s something they all agreed on…” They turn completely silent waiting for you to continue, “since we’re talking about kissing, they all agreed on who’s the best one out of you.” 

Something deep within you heats up with a jealousy you’ve never felt before. So many girls got to kiss him, feel his lips against theirs, his hands on their body, and none of them were you. Curiosity, jealousy, and want all combine inside you. 

“Well? Are you gonna tell us who?” Soonyoung‘s voice brings you back to reality. They’re still looking at you expectantly, small smirks starting to show on their faces, expecting their respective names to be called. 

“It was… Seokmin.” 

The air stills as you pronounce his name, and your eyes grow wide, waiting for their response. Nothing in your line of sight looks useful to relieve the heat growing inside of you at the embarrassment. The two men you didn’t name look at each other with wide eyes, raising their eyebrows before erupting into laughter. 

“What’s so funny?” Seokmin’s voice only makes the sound of laughter grow. “You’re so envious, both of you.” A tinge of pride manages to escape through the tone of his voice. He looks so hot when he’s confident. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry, it was just… unexpected.” Soonyoung replies, still cackling. 

“My man! You have to tell us your secrets!” Mingyu teases, fully believing what you said but not stopping his giggles. 

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Seokmin here?” Soonyoung asks you directly, but you don’t get to answer. 

“I will literally kiss every one of you to prove it, right here, right now.” A sulky Seokmin interrupts the conversation, making a kissy face to Soonyoung, who feigns disgusts and slides away from him. 

Their banter distracts them from your curious form, eyes fixed on Seokmin as he defends himself from the teasing duo. Their voices blur as they become background noise, everything slows down around you, only Seokmin’s face present in your mind, how his eyebrows quirk as he talks, how his nose scrunches at the teasing, the way his soft lips move at every word he pronounces. You realize you’ve never seen him kiss anyone with your own eyes, and thank god for that, because if you’re in this state with only a few references, you wouldn’t be able to manage with visual proof. 

A loud cough distracts you from your train of thought, luckily before your imagination goes too far, but when you focus your eyes, you find the three men staring at you. 

“Fantasizing about something?” Soonyoung asks teasingly. 

“Yeah, about you shutting the hell up.” It comes out a lot more defensive than you want, definitely blowing your cover. 

“If you want him to prove it to you, you can just ask.” Your eyes dart between Soonyoung‘s teasing smirk and Seokmin’s surprised face. 

“Oh shut up.” Heat rushes to your cheeks, and before anyone can see you getting more embarrassed, you get up and start walking towards the empty kitchen. “I’m getting something to drink.” 

The realization hits you right then and there, with all the shouting and laughing on the background, in the dirty kitchen of the frat house. You really, truly, desperately want your clown-dressed fratboy friend to fuck you. Well, not necessarily fuck you – even though you wouldn’t be opposed – but at least kiss you dumb until you can’t feel your lips anymore. 

The poorly-lighted kitchen is sadly not empty, currently occupied by at least three couples making out, but you’ve learned to ignore them for tonight. The lonely bottle of water at the back of the fridge calls your name, and it might just be the only thing able to drag you back to earth and lower the little drunkenness left in your system. You can’t be fantasizing like that, not about one of your best friends, and especially not in front of him! 

You’re still standing with your shoulder against the fridge as you try to fill your brain with any other thought that isn’t Seokmin’s mouth on yours and his big slim hands pushing you against him. It’s not working, and the universe taunts you further. The door opens, revealing that same clown costume invading your every thought. He stands by your side without saying a word and takes the water bottle out of your hands after you’ve gulped down half of it. 

“Are you okay?” His voice startles you. But he sounds caring, and it just sends you down the spiral again. You don’t want to face him. Not right now. Not ever. 

“Yeah, sorry for rushing off like that…” Your voice trembles slightly as he takes a few steps and stands in front of you, forcing you to look at him. 

“They can go overboard sometimes.” He sounds actually worried, and it just makes you want him more. He cares about you, and he’s hot, and you’re surrounded by couples making out! It’s too much. 

“I just wanted them to drop the topic.” No more than a few words manage to mumble out of you. You feel so stupid. Never in the history of your friendship were you ever nervous to talk to him. Fuck those girls for talking so casually about guys, fuck them for putting those thoughts on your mind, fuck them for being the ones who can experience getting kissed by him. 

“Maybe they would’ve let it go after a few minutes.” Panic sets in as his words register on your brain. Shit, you’ve made him uncomfortable by putting him on the spot. 

“I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” 

“Don’t worry, you didn’t. I don’t actually care what they think about it, they’re not the ones I’m kissing after all.” He tries to calm you down with a joke and you chuckle back as a reply, but your stomach does a funny little jump at the mention of kissing. 

“It’s the only thing I could think of so it kinda just spilled out, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.” You try to justify yourself and apologize once again, but Seokmin stopped listening after the first part of your sentence. 

“The only thing you could think of? Why?” Something in the tone of his voice sends warning signals to the rational part of your brain, but it's already too dizzy to understand. 

He takes half a step forward, looking at you intensely, like he’s Pennywise, and he wants to have you for dinner. You’d let him. 

“I-I- I don’t know…” His sudden closeness makes a blank slate of your brain. He’s getting ever so slightly closer by the second, almost entering your personal space, and words take you double the time to process, like you’re just learning how to speak. “It surprised me.” 

He places his hands on your side, caging you against the counter, forcing you to keep looking him in the eyes. His body heat embraces you, warming up your own body until red can be seen even under your white makeup. Is this how he usually flirts? Is this what all those girls felt? He’s taller than you, so naturally, you have a perfect view of his lips. Lips that move, asking something you don’t get to hear, too entranced in the way they quirk with each word to pay attention to anything else. A smirk begins to show on his face. He’s definitely noticing his effect. 

“You don’t think I can be a good kisser?”  

Does his smirk have superpowers? The clown makeup only seems to make it hotter, and you can’t look away. It’s hypnotizing, calling to you to fulfill your desires. 

“Do you care what I think about it?” What he said before about not caring resonates in your brain. 

“It depends.” His dark eyes dart down to your lips as his face gets closer to yours, so close your noses bump into each other. 

“On what?” You manage to breath out. Your eyes flutter closed instinctively, waiting for him to finally connect your lips and end your suffering. But you feel nothing besides his breath fanning over your lips. 

“You know, Soonyoung was right before.” His voice makes your eyes fly open. His face is still only a couple of inches away from yours, but his smug expression tells you you’ll have to work for what you want. “If you want me to prove it to you, you just gotta ask.” 

You can feel his hands right beside yours on the counter surface, his skin calling for your touch. Does this mean he wants to kiss you too? If all it takes is you asking for it... 

“What makes you think I even want that?” His smirk doesn’t even come close to twitching at yours words. 

“So, we’re just gonna pretend you weren’t drooling over me before?” Yeah, you were caught, right in the act, and there’s no way out. If you back out now, your chance will be lost, and it will forever be awkward for the both of you to interact after this. 

“I wasn’t drooling…” He doesn’t believe you, and you don’t either. “I was just thinking about the information I was given.” 

“And did you come to any conclusion?” You’re sure you’ve never felt this kind of closeness before. Not even the ugly jacket he’s wearing is capable of breaking the spell casted by your personal spaces fusing together. The drunk dizziness left your body a long time ago, only leaving Seokmin’s effects to play with your body. You crave more of him. Your hands fly away from the counter down the hem of his clown t-shirt, playing with it as Seokmin's levels of confidence reach a new peak. 

“Yeah…” A shiver runs down your spine and to your core at the feeling of being observed by him. His hands place themselves on both sides of your hips, making you almost stutter your words. “That I’m the best person you could ask for advice.” 

“Right… and why is that?” He nods tauntingly, smirk getting wider as his eyes focus on your parted lips. 

“First, I’m always the first one to tell you when you make a mistake, so you know I won’t lie, and secondly, I just think it would be fair for me to know,” your words make him chuckle and your stomach contracts. Fuck, you really love that sound. “If every girl on campus gets to know, then I should too, right?” 

“Know what exactly?” 

“H-how,” He really got you. You can’t even say it. 

“How, what? How I kiss? You have to use words, baby, tell me what you want.” If he could hear the way your heartbeat speeds up at the pet name, you’d fall right to the floor out of embarrassment. 

A look around the kitchen to check if it’s a safe space calms you down. The couples making out are all long gone, and you haven’t been paying much attention to your surroundings beyond Seokmin's body, but you realize people haven’t been entering the kitchen for a while either. It’s now or never. 

“Fine,” you let him win, but not without rolling your eyes, “can you kiss me?” 

“Hmm, you can do better than that.” He’s still playing his little game, waiting for you to say what he wants. You lay your hands on his chest, learning at the worst time possible that he’s actually quite ripped, and you forget his game, and your surroundings, and your worries. 

“I want you to kiss me, and if you don't do something in the next two seconds, I swear I'm leaving this fucking party and never speaking to you ag–” 

First, you feel his fingers on your chin, tilting it up to reach his height, and then he presses his lips against yours, so softly you can’t fathom him being the same person that was teasing you just a second ago. Both of your hands fly to the back of his neck, pushing him harder against you as your lips start to move. He reciprocates immediately, moving his lips over yours with a sweetness that would drive a diabetic straight to the hospital. 

You get drunk of the feeling of him, deepening the kiss far more than you first intended as his mouth leads yours as he wishes, and his hands sneak to the sides of your waist. It’s not messy nor rough like you’re used to with other men, on the contrary, Seokmin takes his time savoring the raw skin of your lips, a tender deepness that keeps you in for more. 

The last bit of air in your lungs leaves you as a sigh, and Seokmin separates from you just in time before you pass out in his arms due to the lack of oxygen. You absentmindedly chase his lips, but he doesn’t smirk cockily like you expected and just glares at you, his eyes dark and clouded with something you’ve never seen in him, and lips parted with red lipstick smeared around them. 

Only breathing sounds are heard for a second before you’re both smashing your mouths together again. No time for thinking about how this will affect your friendship, letting yourselves dwell in this newfound desire. 

He dominates the new kiss immediately, his hands pushing you against him even more if possible. There’s no softness this time, nothing to prove, only lust and want pushing your bodies closer and closer until there’s no space left. Your nose brushes against his when he switches the angle, lighting a fire all the way down to your core. But he’s still not rough. He moves with a controlled power that makes you whimper on his lips. It is the perfect opportunity for him to finally sneak his tongue and tangle it with yours. 

You welcome the intrusion eagerly, sighing on his lips again as he explores to his liking. His hands don’t stay put and travel to your thighs to effortlessly lift you on top of the counter. Your legs open, welcoming him to slot between them, and his groin hits just on the crevice of your inner thigh. 

Sounds are made that shouldn’t be heard in any public place when Seokmin bites on your lower lip, but he drinks them all in, his mouth not letting your little moans reach any other ears beside his. His hands grope your thighs, bringing you closer to his growing hard, nearly desperate for more friction, but he explores more of your body with the same attitude, like he wants you to feel him everywhere. Your arms wrap around his neck and flush your chests together, and the plastic hair of the clown wig tickles on top of your skin, but it doesn’t prevent you from caging him against your body so the kiss never ends. 

A loud shattering sound makes you break apart, both of you worried trying to locate the source, but it luckily didn’t come from inside the kitchen, still empty as it was earlier, and when you look back at each other, eyes wide and jaws slightly hanging, realization hits the both of you simultaneously. 

“Fuck!”, “Holy shit.” 

While your reaction leans more to a ‘fuck, you’ll never be able to forget about this', his sounded more of a ‘holy shit, that really happened’. 

“You’ve been keeping that from me this whole time!?” Your question creates a smugness in his face that weirdly sends a wave of arousal through your body. 

“You could’ve always known, if you asked.” There's something more to what he’s saying, more than a reference to what Soonyoung said earlier. “So, what do we do now?”

“We’re gonna leave this gross kitchen, sneak past everyone on the living room, and then you’re gonna take me up to your room.” The words leave your mouth firmly, confidently, like you’re not proposing to change your friendship forever, like you’re not about to shit your pants waiting for his reaction. 

“Are you serious?” 

“You don’t want to? Fuck, this is embarrassing.” And your fantasy has come to an end. It was good, it served its purpose. Now you’ll just have to figure out how to transfer universities and get a new group of friends as quick as tomorrow. 

“Wait!” His loud, almost desperate voice makes you remove your hands from your face. You’re positive your blushed state can be seen from a mile away, but he seems more worried about what you said than anything else. “Yes, I want to, so badly.”

A breath you didn’t know you were holding escapes your lungs as you scrape your runaway plans. He notices you visibly relaxing and grabs your hand, which shouldn’t feel electrifying, especially not after exchanging saliva for a hot minute, but it still sends goosebumps across your arms and chest. He makes sure to peek his head out the door to check if the way’s clear, and you only hear a light chuckle before he fully opens the door to let you through behind him.

The few people left in the living room don’t know you. They’re either too drunk, too high, or sliding their tongues down someone else’s throat to even care about you. Mingyu’s long gone, leaving Soonyoung on the couch with a girl dressed like a tiger sitting on his lap, mouths attached, and making sounds you wish you could unhear.

Going up the stairs, you catch your reflection on a small dirty mirror hanging on the wall. You’re lucky none of your other friends saw you in this state cause you'd be subjected to lifelong bullying –lovingly they'd say. Your make-up is ruined. Not only is there red lipstick smeared all around your lips and chin, there’s also a stain on the tip of your nose. Your hair is completely disheveled, and if you were to check your outfit, you’re sure you’ll find your black dress wrinkled up far more than what would be considered decent in public.

But none of that really matters. Not when Seokmin leads you through the path of caution tape and forbidden sings covering the entire second floor. Not even when you finally reach his door, breathing heavily and still holding hands. And especially not when you finally enter his room and he traps you against the door as he closes it shut.

Your mouths are quick to find each other again, lips moving against the other, so naturally you’d think you have been doing this for years. You hurriedly take his wig off and throw it somewhere on the floor, revealing his beautiful hair ready to be tangled in between your fingers. He wastes no time and presses himself against you, letting you feel how hard he already is as his tongue finds its way inside your mouth again.

You moan freely in his arms, a new sound escaping you every time his hands find another sensitive spot anywhere on your body, and now that you’re really alone and the music isn’t blasting right beside your ears, you can hear the sounds he makes too. Every time you suck on his bottom lip, he lets out the tiniest whimper, that he fights to hold back and keeps failing, and sends a wave of arousal all the way down to your core, making you grind on his hard length and encouraging him to kiss you harder.

Harder and down your jaw and neck, kissing and nibbling your sensitive skin that isn’t painted for your spooky makeup, while his hands travel up your torso and cup your covered boobs.

Your hands find their way inside his colorful jacket, forcing him to take his hands off of you so you can slip it off, but not daring move his lips off your skin. His mouth works relentlessly on every part of your neck he can reach, and you’re discovering there’s more things he can do with it than just making out. You claw your nails on his newly discovered biceps when he lightly bites on the uncovered skin above your clavicles. It’s unbelievable how he manages to hide his gym body under his usual comfy clothes.

“Before we do anything, can I ask you what you’re supposed to be dressed up as?” The question takes you by surprise, and he’s serious about it too. But with the feeling of his lips still lingering on every bit of skin of your neck, it takes a second to find the answer in your mushy brain.

“Wh– I'm Morticia Addams! I thought it was obvious?” Seokmin takes look up and down your body –as best as your closeness lets him, and nods with a raise of eyebrows, which would’ve had your legs turn into jelly a minute ago, but you’re too confused by his sudden intervention. “Fuck, you ruined the moment.”

“Did I?” In the most cliché way possible, he flutters his eyes closed as he gives you a peck on the lips, and then on the corner of your mouth, and on your left cheek, leaving you sighing for more. He kisses his way up to the shell of your ear, his breath tingling lightly as he parts his lips to whisper in your ear. “You looked really fucking hot, but I think you’ll look even better with this off.”

Your skin lights on fire under his fingers as he runs them up your thighs and inside your dress, lifting it slowly. His words and actions take a second to match in your brain, but as soon as you understand, you’re holding your arms up, ready to finally have the skin to skin contact you crave. You’re left only in your underwear, but he’s still fully dressed, and before he resumes his ministrations on your body, your hands start lifting up his shirt so he takes the hint.

How your eyes don’t pop out of your face seeing Seokmin’s defined chest for the first time will remain a mystery. A quiet curse leaves your lips, which you only know he heard because he chuckles before lifting you up by your thighs and heading to his bed.

He drops you softly on the mattress, and you prop on your elbows to admire him as he takes his pants off. He’s always been reserved with his body, never taking off his shirt, even at the pool or the beach. And you’re not going to deny and say that the thought of what he’d possibly look like under his baggy clothes never crossed your mind, but the reality knocks your imagination right out of the park.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You’re staring shamelessly, and his boxers tighten under your lust-filled gaze.

“I’ve never seen you so… naked before.”

“I’m guessing this is a good reaction?”

“You’re really fucking hot,” Seokmin crawls on top of you, his buff arms at both sides of your head and his hips between your legs, grinning at your words but not stopping your rambling yet, “like, you should just go around naked all the time, people deserve to see this.”

“You’re exaggerating.” In an attempt to shut you up, he lowers his head and starts a trail of kisses down your neck, his lips grazing your skin on the way down and giving you goosebumps.

“I’m not. I’m serious. I think you sh–” His fingers ghost over your damp panties, finally succeeding in deleting the stream of words coming out of your mouth.

“You think I should what?” You lift your hips to try and get more friction, but he removes it and pins you down with a cheeky grin as he looks at you again.

You feel his smirk against your hip bone, and a sigh leaves your mouth as his hand makes a comeback and presses his fingers harder against your core. But the closeness of his mouth to your covered folds sends one singular warning signal to your brain. And you decide to listen to it. “What are you doing?”

“I really want to eat you out right now.” Fuck. His dark eyes look at you so intensely, smirk widening as he most definitely feels the new rush of wetness damping your panties further.

“Shit, fuck,” the need for his tongue is so bad, your walls tighten over nothing, “I can’t, not with that makeup all over your face, I’m not about to get an infection.” His face just above your core, his breaths fanning over your wet panties making you shiver, is something you’ll never forget. It pains you to reject the best offer you’ve ever been given.

“That’s fine, I’ll do it next time.” He doesn’t give you the chance to process what he said, immediately aiming to kiss your neck again. “What should I do then?”

“I think you should get over here. Now.” He’s so close his chuckle reverberates through your whole chest. “And put that hand to use.”

Somehow, you find the strength to sound as serious as possible while you pat the empty spot beside you on the mattress. He complies with what you ask quickly, taking off your panties in a swift motion and circling around you to kneel by your torso, his hand never leaving his claimed spot on your inner thigh.

His hard strains under his boxers, and it’s so close to your head, so ready for your hand to take, so that’s what you do. Your touch over his clothed bulge makes him let out a long groan, followed by his hand sneaking down your body. The coldness from his middle finger sliding against your wet folds sends shivers up your spine, getting a breath caught in your lungs. You can’t speak, and the light teasing touches his other hand scatters across your bare chest aren’t helping.

Before he starts playing with your cunt, you use all your willpower to grab the fabric of his boxers and yank them down. A wave of arousal pulses out of you at the sight, his dick standing tall, pink and proud before your eyes, glistening from the precum already smeared on the tip. And just when he begins collecting the juices coming out of you, you swirl your tongue around his tip.

From your position, you have to wrap your hand around the base of his cock your mouth can’t reach. An unholy sound comes out of him, sensitive from being hard and caged in his pants for so long, and his hand falters against your needy core. Every sound of his encourages you more and more, you want to hear more, you want to make him feel good. And the more length you suck into your mouth, the more he presses his wet fingers against your clit, it’s a perfect combination.

You look up to find him already staring at you, his make-up smeared around his face, all because of you, not fully believing what’s happening. As you bob your head up and down his tip, his hips buck into you just as he pushes two fingers into you.

Your warm walls welcome the intrusion, ready for whatever pace he wants to set. And oh boy, does he. The wetness gushing out of you nonstop makes it easy for him to thrust his fingers in and out of you at the speed of light. Your mouth stops working, lips parted and moaning uncontrollably as you do your best to drag your hand up and down his cock to give him at least some of the pleasure back.

His fingers are so long, they reach places your hand could only dream of, slowing down and finding every spot that makes you squirm and clench around them embarrassingly fast. He’s slow but hard, letting the palm of his hand press against your clit before he slides out. It's dizzying, and your legs start feeling wobbly and threaten to close around his arm the second he finds your gspot and starts abusing it.

A stream of curses and praises mumbles out of you, and it barely makes any sense in your head, but his hand speeds up, drilling into you with a newfound energy. You’ve stopped touching him at this point, but Seokmin’s still so hard, getting off on your pleasure. He delights himself in the way your walls clamp around his fingers, feeling every new wave of wetness that coats them every time he reaches your sensitive spots.

The little control left you have over your body starts faltering, your stomach tightens, your hips grind against his fingers searching for more, even if you can’t handle it, and your legs begin trembling. Everything part of a chain reaction that culminates as he adds a third finger, finally getting you to the edge.

It hits you powerfully, making you lose control of your body as your legs shake and you spasm around his fingers that are somehow still sliding in and out of you, helping you ride out the earth-shattering orgasm.

“Fuck!” You breath out, voice hoarse, hinting that you might’ve screamed a little louder than usual.

“That was so fucking hot.” Seokmin slots between your legs again, his boxers nowhere to be seen, his cock slapping against his abs and barely grazing your sensitive cunt.

“You thought that was hot? You got me to like, another astral plane just now.” You’re so comfortable with him that the honesty just slips out. Does it really matter if it makes his ego grow? “The rumors are true.”

“Rumors?” His fingers run freely on your waist and the sides of your back, feeling your skin against his, touching and fondling where he pleases.

“Yeah, I’ve heard a lot about you, not only about kissing.” The reminder of the kissing makes you blush, silly now that he’s literally had his fingers inside you just a moment ago.

“Really? What else have those girls told you?” Feathery light kisses up your chest and jaw make a million butterflies erupt in your stomach. He’s so captivatingly close to your lips, you’re ready for another round again.

“Hmm, let’s not talk about you fucking other girls when you could be fucking me.” Reality hits him as you pronounce those words. “Where do you keep your condoms?”

“Right, right, right.” It's like his teasing persona fades off as he clumsily gets off the bed to look for them, in a rush and forgetting to avoid some of the things scattered on the floor.

With the shiny packet in his hand, he’s back between your legs like Flash, opening it and sliding the condom on his still fully erect dick in record time. You wrap your arms around his neck, and your legs hug his hip right against your once again needy core, and he’s about to lose his mind.

“Are you sure you want this? Like sure sure.” Where does this hesitation come from? You scan his eyes and his expression for answers, and he silently awaits your answer.

“Did what just happened not answer your question?” One of your hands sneak between your bodies, grabbing his cock and pressing it against your wet folds, earning a pretty sigh from him.

“I just– fuck, I wanna hear you say it.” His hips get a life of their own, sliding in between your cunt and your hand, covering his cock in all your wetness.

“Say what? That I want your cock inside me?” He twitches at your words, his hips faltering and moving his tip closer to your hole. “That I want you to fuck me?”

Your words flip a switch inside him. His eyes darken right before your gaze, and you don't register when his hands hold your legs up and place your calves on his shoulders. And you're at his mercy instantly.

“I want you to beg.” His voice sounds lower, deeper than you’ve ever heard. His length drags against your folds one last time, collecting his last coat of arousal before giving in and pushing his tip barely inside your hole. “Beg for me to fuck you until your legs give out.”

He alternates between sliding his tip inside of you just enough to have you craving for more, and removing it to tease your sensitive clit further. Begging for him is not going to be a problem.

“Fuck, I want you to fuck me, please. I need you.”

The stretch is immediate. Everything about him is big. His arms holding your legs up, his thighs on both sides of your hips, and his cock opening you up, making you lose your breath for the tenth time tonight. Your walls slowly welcome him in, like molding to his shape, and when he bottoms out, you both let out long groans.

You can’t talk. You can’t even breathe as he starts thrusting his cock in and out of you, hitting your deepest spots back and forth, slowly getting to know what makes you react. And for the first time in his life, he was speechless too.

The way your walls hug him as if to keep him there forever, sucking him in deeper and deeper with every thrust. Your legs quiver every time he pounds into you so deep and rough that his thighs slap against yours, and your nails claw just above his knees, leaving marks only he’ll be able to see.

“Pussy so tight, fuck.” He mumbles more to himself than to you, but your body registers his words and clenches around him harder. “Taking me so well, so wet, can’t believe it.” He's barely making sense, but the choked up sentences he manages to let out have the exact intended effect.

You can’t answer, and even if you could, you don’t know what unholy sounds would come out instead of words.

The wet squelching sounds eager him to go faster, harder, and he lowers his torso until your knees touch your chest and his arm that’s holding them presses against your tummy. His face is so close to yours, yet you can’t kiss him. His relentless rhythm doesn’t stop, jolting your body upwards with every hard thrust. Your instinctive reaction is to look away and close your eyes, but he won’t allow it.

His free hand grabs your jaw and forces you to look straight at him. Maybe he said something, but you can’t hear him, not when his cock hits so deep inside you, you feel him on your throat.

“I’m c-close.” Your voice comes out so small you fear he won’t hear you either.

But his arm frees your legs, and as you open them to wrap around his waist and push him deeper against you, his newly free hand creeps down your body. His finger toys with your clit so fast, you barely have time to comprehend what’s happening. You hold his face close to yours, eyes connected with his as you let out a string of screams and moans as you come undone.

He pounds you hard, and your walls clamp around him so much that he has to hold your hips in place with both hands. The room becomes a blurry mess as he prolongs your orgasm, thrusting and pounding into you, searching for his own.

“Come inside me, please, I wanna feel you.” His hips stutter against you, and a guttural moan escapes out of him as a response.

The feel of his cock twitching inside you, spilling into the condom as your walls hug him tight, will be tattooed on your mind forever.

His body falls on top of you, breathing heavily as his face hides on the crook of your neck. You stare at the ceiling, thinking of every possible outcome after this. But your thoughts come to an end as a pair of plush lips press against yours gently.

“You okay?” Seokmin’s shiny eyes look at you softly.

“Yeah, sorry, I was just thinking.” He slowly slips out of you to lay by your side, making you both wince.

“You’re not regretting it, are you?”

“No, actually, quite the opposite.” You’re afraid to look at him. To see his reaction to your pseudo-confession.

“Thank god, because there’s no way I could live with this only being a one-time thing.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Seriously, it was so much better than my imaginat– shit.” He shuts up immediately, blowing his own cover. He puts his boxers back in a hurry while you process his words.

“What?! You’ve thought about this before?” That alone has you ready for another round.

“Fuck, you weren’t supposed to know, but yeah.” You fight another chuckle, not wanting to make fun of him, but he takes notice and continues to explain. “You have no idea how hot you look all the time, it messed with my head! Stop laughing!”

“Sorry, I’m sorry, you look funny with the make-up ruined across your face.” You couldn’t hold back, and also, making him focus on something else might distract him from your blushed face and your heart racing.

“You look the same, by the way!” he says on his way to his connected bathroom.

“It’s your fault!” You shout back even though you don’t really care that your make-up’s ruined. “I'll just take it off before going to sleep.”

“Yeah, about that.” You think he’s about to ask you to sleep over, but one look at where he’s standing tells you the real reason. The soap all over his face and hands is stained pink, and even if he’s covered with pinky foam, you can see his worried expression. “This is not washing off.”

You run over to him after putting on one of his big t-shirts pooled over one chair by the bed, ready to look in the mirror and see just how much worse your face looks compared to when you left the kitchen. Seokmin’s drying his face off as you take in all the redness on yours. It’s going to fade eventually, right? After a few washes? At least you don’t have classes for two more days.

In the midst of your panicking, the door to the room shoots open, revealing Soonyoung with the couch girl. He sees Seokmin coming out of the bathroom and quickly realizes he’s in the wrong room.

“What the hell man!”

“Shit, sorry bro, thought it was my room.”

“Who was tha–” You stop in your tracks coming out of the bathroom.

Silence fills the room for the number of seconds it takes Soonyoung to analyze the situation. Seokmin in his underwear and you coming out of his bathroom with only a big t-shirt, both of you with matching red stains on your faces.

“Holy shit! I knew it! I can’t believ–“ He gets cut off by Seokmin shutting the door on his face.

You stare at him. And he stares at you. And Soonyoung‘s voice echoes through the hallway until he finally gets inside his actual room.

“He’s never going to leave us alone is he?”

“Nope, we'll have to own up to it.”

You don’t make a lot of noise as you get the machine ready for a nice cup of coffee. All three of you had gone in on it so you could get the expensive, fancy kind. Jeonghan had called it an investment, and you had wholeheartedly agreed. Seungcheol grumbled about it a little but gave his part of the money anyway. He kept claiming he wasn’t that big on coffee, but ever since you bought it, he has had a cup every morning without fail, something Jeonghan will never stop teasing him on.

The aroma is warm and rich in your nose as it slowly infiltrates the kitchen. You contemplate if you want breakfast now with your coffee or later, and decide to grab an apple. You’re just staring at it, wondering if the brown spot on it is something you can ignore or if you should discard the whole thing, when you hear light pattering on the floors outside.

You expect Jeonghan’s slumped, languid figure to slink into the kitchen, groaning about how tired he is, or maybe Seungcheol with his head of short, spiked hair all over the place and that perpetual pout that undercuts his years of effort building impressive muscle. But it’s neither of them. It’s someone you don’t know.

She blinks owlishly at you, hair tangled on her head and wearing a bright bodycon dress, holding a pair of heels in her hand. Her mascara is smudged, but under the distressed look, you can tell that she is amazingly pretty.

“Hi.” She chirps. It’s soft and almost melodic. You manage to smile back. The air is painfully awkward, so she shifts and takes a hesitant step back.

“I should just go.” She says sheepishly, and before you can say anything (not that you were planning to), she disappears from the doorway of the kitchen. After a few seconds, you hear the front door click shut. You swallow hard, but the knot formed in your throat doesn’t go away.

Friday nights don’t just mean waking up at noon with terrible hangovers. They also mean a girl trying to tiptoe out of Seungcheol’s room. And always a stranger. Never the same one twice.

You sigh and turn back to the coffee machine, which lets out a beep. You quickly take the pot to fill your cup, deciding against adding milk and just taking a sip of the dark mixture. You wince when it slides down your throat, but it’s hot enough and bitter enough that the knot in your throat loosens. You stare at your cup, the swirling liquid, and try your best to not think about your recent interaction.

There’s no point in it. Seungcheol is just….. like that. Someone so unbelievably different that you can’t fathom how you even ended up in the same orbit.

Well, you know exactly how. Yoon Jeonghan.

Jeonghan was in your first ever introductory class in college. He was seated right next to you, and after knowing you for the duration of just one lecture, he asked if you were looking for a place off campus, and then offered you his in the same breath. Apparently he and his roommate were desperate, and they really needed a third cohabitant in order to make rent. You just turned out to be the one who was looking for a place to stay, so you ended up saying yes, because Jeonghan gave you great vibes.

Seungcheol did too, when you met him.

You were immediately taken by him. He was loud and a little rough around the edges, but so endlessly kind. Seungcheol doesn’t look it, but he’s very in-tune with people’s emotions as well as his own. He knows what he wants out of life, he has endless confidence in himself. He’s charismatic, magnetic, and it only helps that he is beyond attractive. Tall, built like a brick house (something he is very proud of), soft dark hair and that charming smile accentuated by a dimple on his right cheek.

That fuckass dimple.

You knew you liked him. It was immediate. You were excited just at the thought of sharing space with him. And so you moved in, giddy at the thought of having your own place for the first time in your life, and sharing it with two guys who looked like seemingly amazing people.

And they truly are. It’s just that you were naïve to think Seungcheol’s appeal didn’t extend to everyone else like it did to you.

He’s like a lighthouse, attracting everyone to him like lost travelers. His friend circle is huge, from the gym dudes like Mingyu and Jihoon he works out with, to the party freaks like Soonyoung and Joshua he spends weekends with. He’s not in a frat, but he moves among a lot of similar people. Then there’s their friends, just an endless network that won’t stop expanding. This means meet-ups and parties every weekend, and that means there’s a girl in his room every two or three weekends.

You can’t even fault him. If someone looks like that, it would be criminal if they didn’t get regular action.

You and Seungcheol are fundamentally different people. You have friends too, but fewer, and more tight-knit. You are a homebody above anything else, and if it wasn’t for your friend Seungkwan, who is the most extroverted person you know outside of Seungcheol, you would never even leave your house. But Seungkwan’s definition of going out is much different to Seungcheol’s. So while Seungcheol likes the gym, pregaming, bowling and frat parties, you have scheduled cooking classes, basket weaving workshops, and arcade tournaments that Hansol drags you to once every month.

You’re poles apart. And you’re content with that. You can float in his periphery, and that’s enough for you. He’s miles out of your league anyway. So you’re happy just being an admirer.

“It’s pathetic.” Hansol often mumbles, voice devoid of any real venom. He sounds disinterested if anything.

“Thanks.” You shoot back. Seungkwan looks at Hansol, offended on your behalf.

“I think it’s cute.” He defends you. You grin at him and pinch his cheek. He swats your hand away, making you laugh.

“How bad can it really be if you just tell him?” Chan pipes up, his head down as he concentrates on pouring his wax into the mold slowly, trying not to spill it. You genuinely think his candle will smell the best out of your group, since he’s the only one truly concentrating. You’re too focused on telling them about the girl in your kitchen this morning.

Hansol snorts, tapping his mold on the table like your instructor told you to. His is a strange, muddy brown color. It smells like shit, but you don’t have the heart to tell him. You and Seungkwan did drag him to this candle making class on a weekend when he could just be sleeping all day, so he could make the worst candle known to man and you will still hype him up.

“She doesn’t have the balls.” He mumbles. You look at him with a gaping mouth.

“Hey!”

Hansol raises a challenging eyebrow. “Do you? You won’t tell him you like him. Ever. I’m not wrong.”

You scowl, feeling deeply offended. He isn’t wrong, and you all know it, because Seungkwan isn’t defending you this time. He just gives you a wince, indicating he agrees with Hansol. Dammit, you’re cornered.

“Your candle smells like shit.” You shoot back.

That distracts him, and he starts doubting and fretting over his candle, leaning down to sniff it over and over. The rest of the workshop is spent trying to salvage Hansol’s attempt, so you don’t get back to the topic you were previously discussing.

Good.

Jeonghan and Seungcheol are both on the couch by the time you come back in the late afternoon. They both look bleary-eyed and half dead, hair still damp on their heads from showering, eating takeout and watching TV. They greet you brightly when you come in, and you slump onto the couch next to them.

“What did you bring us?” Jeonghan asks. You always bring your crafts home, including today. You made three candles, one for each of you, and you’re excited as you take them out of your tote, hand them over, describing the scents you used.

“I made lavender and vanilla for you.” You hand Jeonghan his. He hums and nods in satisfaction as he sniffs, smiling big.

“Oh I need to light this immediately.” He pipes up, quickly standing to trudge into the kitchen. You grin.

“And me?” Seungcheol smiles at you, still leaned back on the couch so he can rest his head on the cushion. You can tell his head is still hurting a little.

“Your favorite.” You smile. “Cherry.”

Seungcheol looks excited as you hand it over. He eyes the dark color for a little bit before bringing it to his nose, sniffing. You watch his eyelashes flutter.

“Oh.” You see his lips tug up in realisation. “It smells like my cologne.”

“Yeah. The other note is sandalwood.” You feel the sides of your face heat up. “You…. you like those scents a lot.”

You immediately feel like you’ve revealed too much when Seungcheol’s eyes soften. He watches you for a few seconds, sniffing again.

“I love it.” He says, turning it over in his hand. It looks comically small in his hold. “It’s perfect.”

You nod jerkily and fidget a little, trying not to think about how fast your heart is racing, or how gentle this moment feels. Intimate, almost, sitting so close to him that your knee almost touches his thigh, his hair half falling into his eyes, the eyes he still has trained on you, the candle you put care into held delicately in his hand.

Jeonghan walks back into the living room with his lit candle, talking about how much trouble he had finding a lighter. The air around you breaks, and you stand up, mumbling something about how you’re tired already, so you’re going to head to bed. It’s only afternoon, and the excuse is bullshit, but you know you can’t be close to Seungcheol much longer without your heart hurting. You don’t feel Seungcheol’s eyes on your back as you leave, and you have no clue about the knowing way Jeonghan looks at his friend.

…………………………

Weekdays are filled with classes. So you have no time to relax.

You think it’s a fundamental flaw in you that you are taking so many classes, but your overachieving tendencies won’t let you back down from even one of them. Some days, it leaves you annoyed and frustrated, but often, those same classes serve as a blessing in disguise, because they preoccupy you so much that you don’t have to worry about any other problem in your life.

By the end of the week, you’re so exhausted that you just want to glue yourself to your bed, vowing not to move for the entire weekend. Of course, Seungkwan always plans something and inevitably drags you out of your humble abode, but you will take what time you have, unwinding and letting your brain shut down after a long and tiring five days. You fall asleep in the middle of your Modern Family marathon, managing to get only halfway through the season before you’re shutting your laptop, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Before you know it, you’re knocked out, and you don’t move until well into the next morning.

You wake up because you’re burning hot. Sweat makes your shirt cling to your back. In fact, your back is so warm that it’s uncomfortable. Your face pinches in annoyance, and you shift a little. At your movement, something tightens around your waist.

Your eyes pop open.

Morning light filters in through the curtains on your windows, setting the room up in a soft glow. You’re on your side, staring at the far off wall of your bedroom. There is weight draped over your waist, a warm touch splayed over your stomach. When you shift again, just slightly, the touch twitches and moves.

A hand.

You almost scream, but then you feel the soft hit of air on the back of your neck, periodic and deep. Like someone exhaling. You breathe in, the smell of cherry and sandalwood in your nose. You would recognise that anywhere. Even barely half conscious, you know who that scent belongs to.

Your entire backside, your torso, your ass, the back of your thighs, are pressed tightly to Seungcheol’s front, his arm a heavy weight draped around you so that he hand grips your stomach gently. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest, his exhales on your skin. You’ve gone so stiff you can barely feel your body, but you’re hyperaware of every part of you that touches him. You lay there in shock, contemplating.

What the hell is he doing? How did he end up in your room? How did he end up spooning you?

You have no answers, but you do know you need to get out of here. You brace yourself, using your leg in contact with the mattress to push until your body disconnects with Seungcheol’s a little. You freeze when he groans, a low sound that cracks under the weight of sleep, and you barely hold in a gasp when he tugs harshly with the arm around you, making you lurch back so he is once again pressed into you. He curls tighter around you, like his body is melting into yours, and your heart kicks painfully at your ribs. That’s when you feel it, hard and insistent, just nestled between your ass cheeks, his erection straining against the jeans he probably wore to whatever party he attended last night.

Mortification hits your veins like ice. You’re rock still in his arms, not even able to process what the fuck is happening to you. You feel his hand move a little, squeezing subconsciously, his fingers sinking into the plush of your stomach. Your face flames, and you can’t take it anymore. You grip his wrist tight and tug hard, loosening his grip, and immediately lunging out of bed. Your feet barely hit the floor before you’re already making a beeline out of the bedroom and straight into the bathroom. You don’t look back once. You definitely used enough force to wake him, but maybe he was so drunk before he passed out that he didn’t get roused by your movements.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, the horrified look on your face, your wide eyes, and the fact that your heart is beating so fast that it’s making you breath heavily. You lean against the sink, your legs shifting, and you realise you’re wet, nearly soaking through your shorts.

Your hands tremble as you wash them, staring at nothing. You remember how warm Seungcheol was, almost unbearably so, how good it was to feel him against you, the solid frame of him, caging you in like you were meant to be in his arms. His hand, digging into your flesh like it was his, and his bulge, so prominent and urgent, pressing into your ass, inches away from where you need him the most.

You’re so fucked.

You don’t think twice before jumping into the shower, letting the water pour over your head even though it’s not hair wash day. You don’t even wait for the hot water to come in, just standing beneath the stream as it slowly warms up. The initial shock of cold does wonders, calms your racing heart and smothers the heat in the bottom of your stomach. You let out a shaky breath.

It was a mistake. It had to be a mistake. He was probably so drunk he didn’t even realise where he ended up crashing. Your room is the first one on the left, his is the first one on the right. It’s an easy mistake, especially if someone is wasted. It seems like the best explanation, way more plausible than him actually sliding into your bed intentionally, a notion that just sounds absurd in your head.

You don’t know what to do.

You stay in the shower for so long that the pads of your fingers prune and the water turns cold again. You slip your pajamas back onto your wet body, because you didn’t bring a change of clothes with you, and finally, you brace yourself and return to your room, taking a deep inhale before opening the door. The bed is empty. He’s gone.

It’s relieving, because you were in no way prepared to see him. When you look at the clock, you realise it’s almost midday. So you pick up your phone and text Seungkwan, asking what his plans for the day are.

Seungkwan is honestly confused, because you almost never initiate meet-ups yourself, but he doesn’t turn you down. Him and Chan are both free, so you decide to meet up for a simple lunch. Hansol opts out, since his sister is in the city for the weekend. You’re grateful you have someone, because keeping this inside is feeling more and more impossible. As soon as you sit down, you blurt out everything that happened in the morning.

Seungkwan is beside himself, mouth opening and closing not unlike a fish, horror struck. He gasps at every detail, but groans disapprovingly when you talk about Seungcheol’s hard-on against your ass.

“You could’ve left that detail out.” He mutters.

“But it’s important!” You insist. “Kwannie, I’m a mess. What do I do? How can I even look him in the eye after this?”

Chan huffs, looking a lot calmer than Seungkwan. “Don’t do anything. Look, you’re right. It was probably a mistake. And if he remembers it at all, he will be pretty embarrassed. So just don’t talk about it at all. Don’t bring it up. Be normal.”

Right. That’s solid advice. Be normal.

But it’s hard to do that, not when you can’t stop thinking about it. The sizzle of his touch is something you’re reminded of when you lay in your bed that night, staring up at your ceiling and remembering how it felt to have his breath hit your skin, so close that you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. And when the heat becomes too much, when your mind goes awry and shuts down, your hand slides into your shorts.

It’s too much. You can’t face him when your brain and your actions are so depraved.

When Hansol finds out what happened, he says what he always does, that this is a problem of your own making.

“You chose this.” He says on Monday, when you finally meet him and tell him everything. “You live with him. It’s unavoidable that something weirdly uncomfortable would happen when you’re in close quarters with someone. And you can’t avoid him. You will see him every day.”

To you, it was always a net positive that you got to see Seungcheol every day, any unrequited feelings aside. Your hidden crush on him was trumped by the fact that he was so endlessly charming to you, your little puppy crush urged on by seeing him, being around him, basking in his presence. But now, that very thing is coming back to bite you in the ass.

You go a whopping three days without coming face to face with him. But then, your sneaking finally fails you. He catches you before classes on Wednesday, cornering you in the kitchen when you’re there to fill up your water bottle.

“I’m really sorry about that night.” He sounds sheepish, embarrassed. You remember Chan’s words, shaking your head in the best way you can think of to placate him.

“It’s fine! You were drunk, you probably don’t even remember that you did it. Honest mistake, right?”

Seungcheol smiles a little, his eyes trained carefully on you.

“Right.” He mutters.

He’s uncharacteristically quiet, and you want to blame it on his embarrassment. You feel uncomfortable, and you wonder if it has to do with what happened between you, or if he’s just being a little weird today.

“I should go.” You mumble. “Just had to fill this up.”

You hold up your water bottle for him to see. His eyes finally leave you to focus on it, and he raises a thick eyebrow.

“That’s new.” He points to the handle. You have a small Sanrio keychain hanging from it. You’re surprised he noticed, but you nod excitedly.

“Hansol’s sister came to see him for the weekend. She got all of us little trinkets.”

Seungcheol hums. “She knows your favorite Sanrio character? That’s cute.”

You smile and nod again, more enthusiastically. “I’m sure Hansol told her….”

A thought enters your head. You tilt your head to the side in thought. “How did you know?”

Seungcheol blinks, then lets out a small laugh. “You’re not exactly subtle about it, sweetheart. It’s plastered all over your room.

Right. Your room. The room he was in because he slept with you in your bed. Your stomach twists and you swallow hard. He looked around your room? When? After waking up? While you were showering? The thought of Seungcheol being in your private space, saying all your little interests laid out everywhere makes your heart flutter. You’re very private about your space, both him and Jeonghan know this. You don’t think either of them have been in your room since they first helped you move in.

You watch Seungcheol from where your back is against the counter. He watches you. You remember that night as the air around you two holds its breath. He was so close, closer than anyone had been in a long, long time. But you bet it was normal for him, this physical intimacy. After all, he’s had a steady rotation of girls in his room for as long as you’ve known him.

Right. This is Choi Seungcheol. Popular, attractive Choi Seungcheol. Wildly out of your league Choi Seungcheol.

“I’m gonna….” You gesture to the door. There’s a knot in your throat, and you don’t think you can speak. Seungcheol blinks and nods, steps away so you can walk past him. Your fingers shake as you tug your shoes on and escape quickly through the front door.

You walk to campus alone, already in agreement with Seungkwan that you will meet him there. You’re grateful for it, because you can go through your jumble of thoughts silently, so you can try to address this deep, uneasy feeling right in the center of your chest. It’s a strange mix of dread and longing that leaves you with a strange emptiness inside, like a sinking hollow. You think, for the first time since you moved in, that maybe being around Choi Seungcheol wasn’t the best idea. Maybe this will ultimately be your unraveling.

The hollow feeling settles like a weight. You walk to class slowly.

You still arrive ten minutes early, but you don’t have to worry about distracting yourself, because Seungkwan is practically buzzing in his seat. You raise a curious eyebrow as you sit next to him, and he immediately turns to you, like he was waiting for you to show up.

“There’s a party.” He says. “In the frat Seokmin is a part of.”

You blink. “Your biology lab partner Seokmin?”

Seungkwan nods. His grin is so wide you’re surprised his face hasn’t split.

“I didn’t know he was in a frat.” You mumble, pulling your laptop out and setting it on your desk.

“Well, he is.” Seungkwan answers impatiently. “Anyway, he and I just finished wrapping up the end of semester project. And I guess he’s super happy about it, because he said we should stop by the frat this Friday night for some party they’re having.”

You eye Seungkwan, giving him an incredulous look.

“You? At a frat party?” Seungkwan really isn’t the type. But then you pause. “Wait, what do you mean ‘we’?”

Now Seungkwan has the decency to look a little sheepish. “I was hoping you would go with me.”

“No.”

Seungkwan immediately starts pleading, like he was expecting exactly this. Which wouldn’t be surprising. You despise parties. You had gone to a few at the very beginning of freshman year since you were so curious about college parties, and every single one of them without fail were horrific experiences. This was before you met Seungkwan and the guys. The people you were friends with at the time always got shitfaced, leaving you to pick up after them and get them home at the end of the night. The drinks there were usually awful unless you were bringing your own. And everyone was horny out of their minds, just chatting so they could hook up. All of this is turned up to a hundred when the party is at a frat, which this particular one will be.

“Ask Hansol.”

“He already said no.”

“Chan, then.”

“You know he’s not good with crowds. Listen,” he looks at you so earnestly it makes your heart squeeze, “I know you don’t like parties. But please, we have to do this. I’ve never been to one ever. First and last time, I promise. I’m just so curious.”

You hesitate. You understand where Seungkwan is coming from. You had the same curiosity as him way back then, and no matter how much you tell him that you already know it won’t be his cup of tea, he really needs to see it himself to swear off them like you. So you sigh painfully and nod, slightly placated by the fact that it makes Seungkwan cheer so loudly and hug you until you can’t breathe, promising he will treat you to lunch for the next two weeks.

Sounds like a good deal.

When you get back home that evening, Jeonghan is frying something on the stove. You seat yourself on the kitchen island, telling him about your day, because he’s always kind enough to ask.

“Oh, by the way.” You tack on. “I’m going to a party this Friday.”

That makes Jeonghan pause, turning to look at you with wide eyes. “A party? You?”

You sigh. “I know. Seungkwan was invited and he’s never been to one before so he kinda talked me into it. It’s at Sigma Tau Nu.”

Jeonghan looks even more shocked. He lets out a laugh. “A frat party.”

You nod.

He whistles low, turning back to his sizzling pan. “Seungcheol’s not gonna be happy.”

That makes you pause. You scowl at Jeonghan’s back. “What do you mean?”

He shakes his head, not bothering to turn around again. “Nothing.”

“No, tell me. Why won’t Seungcheol be happy?”

Before Jeonghan can answer, another voice speaks up.

“I won’t be happy about what?”

You stiffen, turning to the kitchen doorway. You didn’t hear the front door at all. Seungcheol is covered in sweat, still in his gym clothes, face a little flushed. His gym bag hangs over his shoulder. You swallow tightly, looking away so you won’t stare. Jeonghan, however, has no qualms about speaking.

“She’s going to Sigma Tau Nu on Friday.”

Seungcheol’s head snaps to you, eyes wide. “What?”

You fidget. “Seungkwan was invited.”

“So?”

You can’t help but frown. “So, he’s my friend. I’m going with him.”

“Like hell you are.”

Your jaw drops. Jeonghan barks out a laugh. You want to strangle him, but you’re too shocked at how Seungcheol’s voice has hardened. In fact, his blatant and sharp refusal has only managed to irritate you.

“Why not?” You sound petulant.

Seungcheol is walking to the fridge, pulling out a water bottle. “Because that place is a cesspool.”

“You go there every weekend.” Your voice is accusatory. Something in Seungcheol’s face flickers.

“That’s different.”

The irritation in you is swelling now into more of an anger. You don’t appreciate his tone, or whatever superiority complex he has that makes him think it’s okay for him to go but not you.

“So you can go but I can’t?” Your voice is louder than before. Even Jeonghan pauses, turning to look at you both cautiously. “Why? I’m not good enough for your parties?”

Seungcheol’s face hardens, and you almost back down. He has never, ever, looked at you like that before. “You think that’s what this is about?”

“Looks like it.”

“It’s not.”

“Then what is it about?”

He huffs, annoyed. “I’m just saying. Sigma Tau Nu…. the guys there…. they aren’t good.”

“You’re a guy there.”

His face drops. It’s such a slight shift, but immediate, and his expression turns a muted and stoney smooth. His grip on his bottle tightens until the plastic crinkles a little, but his face is almost forlorn.

“I know.”

You don’t know what to say.

Seungcheol sighs, as if to break the heavy silence, hiking the bag he has on his shoulder a bit further up before walking past you to leave.

“Just don’t go, okay?”

You and Jeonghan are left standing in the kitchen after he’s gone, just staring at each other in the silence.

………………………………

“Seungcheol can fuck off.”

You roll your eyes, trying to keep a straight face as you apply finishing touches to yourself. But Seungkwan is not discouraged by your silence, continuing to rant on from where he’s sitting on your bed.

“No, seriously. Where does he get off telling you what to do?”

You sigh and shake your hair out, staring at yourself in the mirror. “He’s just looking out for me.”

That earns a scoff from your friend. “As if. More like he’s looking out for himself. He doesn’t want you to see what a sleazy, pervy bastard he is and how many girls he indulges when he goes out. Wants you to think he’s a good person.”

“He is a good person.” You turn to scowl at him. “He’s been nothing but kind to me.”

Seungkwan rolls his eyes. You keep going.

“Let it go, Kwannie. We’re going anyway. So it doesn’t matter.”

It really doesn’t, because you’re all dolled up already and ready to go. You’re in a plain black dress, nothing too fancy, thin straps and a flared out skirt. It’s from your freshman year, and to your dismay, it’s a little tighter on you at the bodice, but nothing that doesn’t fit, so you’re rolling with it. Seungkwan also made it a point to tell you twice that you look hot, so you’re taking that as a good indication.

“Ready?” He prompts, you nod.

“Remember our agreement. One hour. You get a feel of the place. Then we leave.”

He nods enthusiastically. You can’t help but smile.

The place is packed. You feel dread already when you and Seungkwan climb out of your cab, but your friend looks alarmingly apprehensive, enough for you to suck up your own negative feelings. You’re already here, might as well try and make this as enjoyable for Seungkwan as possible.

“Come on.” You take his arm, walking up the front steps and in through the open door. The music is so loud, the lights are dim enough that you’re worried about something spilling on your dress accidentally. Seungkwan has a death grip on your hand, and you try to navigate to the kitchen.

“Boo Seungkwan!” The voice is booming, so loud and bright, and it immediately catches both your and Seungkwan’s attention. From the relief on his face, you know instantly that this is Seokmin. He’s grinning wide, and draping an arm around his shoulder is another man with spiky blond hair and sharp eyes. They introduce themselves, Seokmin and his frat brother Soonyoung, and you do the same. Soonyoung watches you closely.

“I’ve never seen you here before.” He shouts over the music, leaning closer to you to speak. You think you would have heard him just fine even without it, but you suspect he is doing it on purpose to get close to you. This may not be your thing, but you’re not an idiot.

“I don't usually come to parties.” You reply, trying to be polite. Somewhere behind your back, Seokmin is putting drinks into plastic cups. You can see the exact path Soonyoung’s eyes take as they drag down your body, lingering on your chest. You almost want to sigh.

“Want a tour?” He offers. “I’ll show you around.”

You want to say no, but a tour would mean you and Seungkwan can see everything quickly and leave. So you nod and turn around, linking an arm with Seungkwan to pull him along. He’s got a cup in his hand, already half empty, and you want to groan. Drunk Seungkwan is almost impossible to deal with.

Soonyoung doesn’t seem perturbed. He just nods and gestures for you two to follow along. You make it through the seas of people in the huge house as he points and shouts names. You don’t even understand half of them, but you’re not particularly interested. Seokmin is trailing behind all of you, and when Seungkwan’s cup empties, he exchanges it for a new one. You wince. Seungkwan is a notorious lightweight. You play drinking games all the time, and he’s always the first one to tap out, leaning heavily on Hansol as he gets dragged out of your apartment. With the way his cheeks are flushing at a concerning rate, you know he’s getting to that point already.

Soonyoung occasionally grips your arm to steer you in the right direction. Seungkwan’s hold on you keeps increasing as you navigate through the house. Then, you’re in the living room, and your eyes find the large, sprawling couch pushing against the far wall, particularly, the man lounging on the corner of it.

He has a cup in his hand, arm thrown around a girl pressed to his side. On the arm of the couch next to him is a guy you vaguely recognise as his gym buddy. You watch him bring the cup to his lips and throw it back in one big gulp, shaking it at his friend when it’s empty, who just snorts and pours more in it from the bottle of clear liquid he’s holding.

His head turns to look at his glass, but his eyes meet yours instead. You see the exact moment he recognises you.

You feel it again, that hollow feeling in your chest, mixed with something else this time. You almost don’t recognise him. His hair is tousled, carelessly swept, his top is sleeveless and tight, silver chain hanging from his neck, pants baggy, legs sprawled without a care in the world. Your eyes are still on each other when the girl on his side leans in and whispers something in his ear, following it up with running her tongue up the side of his neck.

Bile rises in your throat. You look away.

Seungkwan has downed his glass, again, and Soonyoung is gesturing for you to follow him to some other part of the house. But the music is changing into something faster, and Seungkwan’s eyes widen with a gasp as he recognises it.

“This is the first song I know!” He exclaims. You want to snort at how excited he is. “Can we dance?”

Oh no. You open your mouth to protest, but Soonyoung nods enthusiastically and points to the dance floor not far off from where you are. You can feel Seungcheol’s eyes burning holes in the back of your head as Seungkwan tugs you along with him. Thankfully, Soonyoung doesn’t follow, because at that moment, he’s bombarded by another group of people. You’re left with Seungkwan only, which you prefer.

Except, Seungkwan is drunk, and pulling you close so you can sway together. You snort and indulge him, fully aware of how touchy he gets with alcohol in his system. He’s singing along to the song, hands on your waist, bobbing back and forth, side to side. You grin, laughing. You genuinely didn’t imagine yourself having a good time at this place, but being here with your friend is a little fun, though you would only begrudgingly admit that.

The song picks up, getting wilder, and you let yourself go to the music with Seungkwan. He’s laughing and grinning, turning you around so his back is against you. Bad idea, because as soon as you open your eyes, they meet heated, dark ones from across the room.

Seungcheol is watching, and he doesn’t look happy.

The girl by his side is now on her phone, tapping away. He’s not interested, raising his cup to his mouth and taking a long gulp while his stare is trained on you. Your heart pounds. You feel Seungkwan’s hands on your hips, your waist. There’s a voice in your head, and you listen to it, eyes fully on Seungcheol as you reach an arm up and behind you, running it through your friend’s hair.

Seungcheol’s face pinches. His lip curls in an ugly snarl. It catches you so off guard that you immediately turn back to Seungkwan, your heart pounding.

“I need air.” You shout over the music. “It’s too hot here.”

Seungkwan nods and points to the back of the house, past the staircase. You contemplate leaving your friend there. He’s having a good time, and you can let him dance a little before you start insisting that you should leave. Sliding glass doors take you into the patio overlooking the backyard. You take a deep breath.

The patio is less crowded, though there’s still people milling around. There’s a couple a few feet to your right, making out against the wall. You make a face and walk away from them. The cool air is working, clearing your head just a little. You wonder if there’s something in the hot, humid air inside that clouded your judgement, that made you look Seungcheol straight in the eye as you let your drunk friend sway you side to side. What did you want to achieve? Did you want to get a reaction out of him? Why? He doesn’t care about you that way, so what was the point?

Part of you is still annoyed at him because of the semi-argument in the kitchen. The other part is just…. sad.

“You came.”

You close your eyes. You were hoping he would leave you alone for the night.

“I did.” You reply.

Seungcheol stops right next to you, a little closer than you would like. You can feel the heat of his body. He doesn’t say anything, but he stays.

“Don’t worry, Seungkwan and I are just going to have one more drink and leave. I won’t….. disturb you much longer.”

He says your name, a tone of defeat in his voice. Your stomach twists. You turn to him, and for a brief second, your eyes meet his. He has that same look in them, that quiet desolation he had when he was with you in the kitchen. The heat from before, the simmering annoyance, has gone.

“Seungcheol.” Your throat tightens. Your chest is so hollow. “Just make sure to crash in your own bed this time. Okay?”

You turn and walk back into the house.

……………………………………

You don’t know the longest time you’ve gone without speaking to Seungcheol. You’ve never had any reason to count. You do now, and it has been seven days.

Seungkwan thanked you profusely for going with him to the party, vowed never to go again (that made you laugh), then bought you lunch for four days straight before you felt bad and just started paying for your own. You don’t think his experience was worth two weeks of comped meals, but you have a feeling he knows you’re bummed about something, so he keeps offering to pay.

You don’t even know why you’re bummed. You just are. And Seungkwan isn’t the only one who has noticed.

Jeonghan has been walking on eggshells with you too, watching you intently when you’re having a meal together, taking note of the fact that you leave to lock yourself in your room as soon as it becomes close to the time Seungcheol is due back home. It’s easy to avoid him because he himself makes no effort to talk to you either. It should make you glad, since it means you can dance around whatever this suffocating feeling between you two is. But it doesn’t. All you feel is more hollow, more crushed.

Something has changed between you, definitely for the worse. You regret going to that party every single day.

To Jeonghan’s credit, he never asks. You wonder if Seungcheol told him, but then you ask yourself what exactly there is to tell. Literally nothing happened. You don’t even know what to call that little stint on the dance floor, or the heavy way his eyes traveled over you. As for the girl he was with, you’re just upset because the man you have been pining for your whole life has a roster of romantic prospects outside of you. For so long, you had only known about it, like it was some far away entity, but seeing it with your own eyes, some unknown girl sprawled half on top of him, it broke something in you that you don’t know how to move on from. So while you grapple with your own mess of feelings, you just know you need to stay far, far away from him.

But seven days after your self-imposed Seungcheol ban, your roommate has apparently had enough, and he decides to break it. You hear a knock on your door and hum, expecting it to be Jeonghan asking about dinner or something. But instead, a head of thick brown hair pops in through your door.

“Can I come in?”

You're shocked for a good few seconds, before nodding and gesturing to him to do so. Seungcheol lumbers in, hesitating for a second before opting to sit on the chair in front of your desk, turning it around to face you. You’re still frozen in place, crosslegged on your bed, waiting for him to say something.

“I’m sorry.” He says.

You blink. “You didn’t do anything. What are you sorry for?”

He lets out a laugh, but it’s bitter and mirthless. “For everything. For all of it. For telling you not to go to that party. For going there myself and letting you see me like that. For even being like that….”

“Seungcheol.” You protest. “You didn’t do anything-”

“I did.” He cuts you off. “You don’t know it, but I did. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that my drunk, stupid mind thought it was a good idea to end up in your room that night. That I somehow genuinely believed that I could wake up next to you and you would be mine.”

Your heart pounds. Blood roars in your ears.

“I remember all of it.” He whispers, his eyes not leaving yours for a second. “How I felt that night. How badly I just wanted to be with you. No drink was helping, no one…..” He laughs again, shakes his head as if admonishing himself.

“You know what my drunken plan originally was? I wanted to wake you up and finally just tell you how much I love you. But I was so drunk and exhausted that by the time I got to you I just ended up passing out on your bed.”

“And then the next morning. I was awake the second you first moved. And I didn’t want to let go. Call it brain fog, I don’t know. I hoped I could lie there forever and just…… hold you.”

You only break your eye contact from Seungcheol when your vision swims, getting wetter and more blurred.

“This isn’t funny.” Your voice shakes.

“I’m not joking.”

You take a deep breath, trying to gather your frantic thoughts. Never, never in your life did you expect this. You remember that morning again, how Seungcheol’s hand tightened on you, how your ass pressed hard against his-

“You were awake.” It isn’t really a question.

“I was.”

When your eyes meet his again, it’s different. Something sizzles, sharp and anticipatory, like the air around you is afraid to move. But Seungcheol isn’t. He stands up and walks closer to where you are sitting, one knee planting on the mattress, until he’s right in front of you. His eyes are like melting pots of brown, and the intensity in them takes your breath away.

“You felt it, right?” He whispers. “That’s what you do to me, baby. You turn me on so much.”

You can’t move even if you try. It feels like something has severed the connection between your brain and body. When Seungcheol leans in, you don’t resist. Your eyelids flutter when you feel his breath on the side of your neck, just like that morning. His lips brush just so over your skin.

“Cheol….”

He hums, shifts just a smidge, and his lips plant a chaste kiss under your ear. But you don’t say anything more. You don’t know if you can. You’re overwhelmed, both physically and mentally, and the smell of the cherry and sandalwood in his cologne is making your mind foggy.

“Let me show you.” He whispers. “Let me show you how much I love you, just like I wanted to that night, just like I dreamed of for so long.”

You’re human, after all. And you’re weak for him. You’ve always been weak for him, and that’s why you’ve let all of it happen. Him in your bed, you at his party. So you turn your head and let your lips brush over his. You can almost feel his shaky sigh just before he closes the distance between you.

It’s rushed from the start, like he’s desperate. You feel the same, hands reaching up to cup his face, your heart squeezing when you realise that this is finally happening. You’re kissing Seungcheol, the guy you’ve been deeply enamoured with for as long as you’ve known him. The guy you never, ever thought you would have in this way, but still imagined it in the depths of the night when there was no one but you and your fingers. He was here now, on the same bed that you thought filthy things about him in, kissing you like he needs to steal the air from your lungs. He tilts his head, lips sliding over yours, capturing your bottom lip between his. He nibbles softly and it makes you moan.

The sound does something to him, because he curses brokenly and reaches for you. Strong hands grip your waist and tug, pulling you closer. Your legs scramble to find purchase, settling on either side of his as he pulls you into his lap. His tongue slides into your mouth, hot and wet, and you can feel something flutter right in the base of your stomach. Your panties are already damp, but from what you can feel, he’s straining through his sweatpants too. You whine into him.