ִֶָ. hina ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

anton has broken your heart three times, and counting.

the first time was at the sandbox, when you were both four. he didn’t say hi when you joined him, and he didn’t offer you any of his shovels. your mom laughed when you cried about it later at home.

the second time was in the third grade, when you saw him for the first time in years at an arts summer camp. the two of you were in different camp groups, but you happened to share the same time slot for music class. he was still cute and quiet. he smiled the same way he used to.

you sat beside him with a shy smile. he scooted away.

“anton,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

he looked at you from the corner of his eye before slowly turning toward you.

“we went to preschool together. i’m yn.”

you watched anton open and close his mouth.

“oh, really. that’s cool,” he said dryly, before turning away.

your heart dropped straight to your stomach. it was a worse reply than anything you could have imagined.

your mom laughed about that incident, too.

because your parents knew each other, you heard about anton every now and then. when your mom told you he’d be attending the same middle school as you, you really didn’t care. after the failed conversation at summer camp, you had sworn him off.

but then you saw him.

anton at twelve years old was handsome. his hair had been freshly cut, leaving the back of his neck clean and exposed. he stood slightly taller than the other boys, all long limbs and awkward movements, like he’d grown too quickly and hadn’t figured out what to do with the extra inches yet.

you shared the same homeroom, and this time he greeted you first. you pretended not to care, and he shrugged in response and gave you a tight-lipped smile.

a few weeks into the school year, you learned that anton was musically gifted compared to the rest of your peers, some sort of cello genius. you also learned that he was awkward in more ways than one. not only in the way he moved, but socially, too.

from across the courtyard, you watched him take a step back when a girl approached him with a smile. anton’s cheeks turned pink when she reached up to poke his shoulder. he nodded slowly at whatever she was saying, and you couldn’t help but wonder what could have possibly made him blush like that.

you felt frustrated and wronged at the sight of another girl standing so close to anton. you decided it couldn’t happen again.

after school, you found him slouching outside, leaning against the brick wall of the building.

“anton!” you waved from the door and walked toward him. he didn’t step back the way he had with the girl in the courtyard, and that made you smile.

“hey, yn,” he smiled back.

you wish he wouldn’t. you had to look away before he noticed the pink blooming across your cheeks.

“i’m sorry i didn’t say hi back to you earlier.”

anton watched you tuck your hair behind your ear, only to pull it free and tuck it back again. you were chewing on your lip. he realized he hadn’t answered you.

“it’s ok, i get it,” he gave you a tight-lipped smile.

you let out a relieved sigh and told him that was great. then you waved goodbye and told him you’d see him tomorrow.

anton had been your best friend ever since.

your eyes follow anton as he walks into the cafeteria, shoulders slouched beneath a backpack that is definitely full of things he could get rid of.

he sits at a lonely table in the corner of the room and pulls out a meal-prepped lunch of ground beef and rice. he doesn’t take a bite until he’s put on his expensive noise-canceling headphones and started his music. His eyes stay fixed downward. his leg bounces frantically beneath the table.

you think anton should be more confident. he’s smart, talented, kind, and everything about the boy is gorgeous. you wish he could see himself through your eyes. but then he would be in love with himself.

“i still don’t understand how you’re such good friends with him,” giselle follows your gaze and points her yogurt spoon in anton’s direction.

“i genuinely don’t think i’ve ever seen him open his mouth to speak.”

your other friends glance up from their phones and giggle, looking between you and anton before returning to their screens.

“it’s just been so long. we’re comfortable. we grew up together,” you shrug, and it’s true.

you and anton have grown into completely different people.

he’s continued with orchestra, eventually becoming section leader and making most of his friends there. outside of orchestra, he’s a record-breaking swimmer who, ironically, can barely speak above forty decibels.

no one pays Anton much attention unless he’s standing beside you.

when high school began, you found yourself in the center of everything. teachers loved you, you had friends in every class, and your grades were good. while anton was always alone, you found yourself constantly surrounded by people.

“but do you think that'll last?” giselle stirs her yogurt without looking at you.

“what? me and anton being friends?”

“yeah.”

you furrow your brows. giselle finally looks back up.

“boys and girls can't just be friends,” she says knowingly.

“it’s worked all this time. i can’t see why it would stop,” you answer.

the look on her face makes you want to eat your words, because she knows you like anton, and you know you like anton, and everyone besides anton knows you like anton.

“you’ll meet someone better in college, anyways.” one of your friend offers, nudging your shoulder.

you ponder the reality of college. for the first time in eight years, you and anton will be going separate ways. what if everything between you really does end?

you stop by the orchestra room at the end of the day, as always. anton is sitting on the ground with his back to you. his head hangs low over his phone.

you think he’s adorable.

maybe it’s because he’s so earnest. maybe it’s because he’s so nerdy and quirky. there’s something endlessly endearing about him, something that makes your chest ache whenever you look too long.

you walk over quietly and wrap your arms around his neck.

anton knows it’s you.

he knows how you smell, and he knows how you feel. it’s crazy, but anton thinks he could even recognize the way you breathe. even so, he still freezes every time you’re near. he doesn’t know why.

“i’ll be over after cheer practice,” you say against his ear.

you know his face is red. he brings one of his large hands up and closes it around both of yours, gently pulling you off him.

“i know,” he says so softly, you almost think you imagined it.

the way anton looks at you makes it seem like he wants something more. the way he keeps holding your hands makes it seem even more possible. he shifts his body until he’s facing you completely, and for a moment—just one—you think he might kiss you right here in front of everyone.

then he breaks into a smile and stands up, offering you a hand.

anton is a sweet boy. he’s always been a good boy. sometimes you worry he might be too sweet for his own good. especially in moments like this, when he offers you his hand to help you up. when he insists on carrying your backpack all the way across campus to the gym, even though his car is parked in the opposite direction. when he does things that feel so much like love and never once calls them that.

it would feel right to kiss him on the cheek before you part ways. it would feel natural.

but you know you can’t. so instead, you punch his arm lightly and tell him to drive safe. and anton smiles that small, gentle smile that has been breaking your heart for years.

it’s the end of your last summer with anton and you’ve finally figured out the breaststroke he’s been trying to teach you every week.

being a fresh alumnus on a swimming scholarship to a big university, anton had been granted personal hours at the pool whenever he wanted. the hours you two didn’t spend bussing tables for pocket money were spent at the indoor pool, where anton and you played coach and student.

you’re wearing your lucky bikini when it finally clicks.

the first time you wore it, last summer, anton had been completely lost for words. he’d turned red and coughed whenever you got too close. by the end of the day, after working up an almost painful amount of courage, he’d quietly told you that you looked pretty. you think about it more often than you should.

when you emerge from the water, anton is grinning from the next lane over, shaking his head. You immediately swim beneath the lane line until you’re only a foot away from him. he hasn’t smiled at you like that in a while. it means more than usual.

“i really didn’t think it’d happen this summer,” he admits.

his voice is so soft you probably wouldn’t have heard it from any farther away. so you move closer.

your chest is still rising and falling from the swim when you make your way toward him. underwater, your footing slips. before you can lose your balance completely, anton’s arm wraps securely around your waist. he catches you without hesitation.

one second you’re falling, and the next you’re pressed flush against him.

you’re suddenly terrified that anton can feel your heartbeat through your chest.

the last time his arm had been around your waist like this was when he kissed you in the basement of his family’s lake house.

you never thought your parents would agree to let you and anton spend a few days there together. anton’s parents, sure. yours, never. it was a testament to how much they trusted anton, they’d said.

you brought giselle, and anton brought a friend, too.

even though you’d spent the entire summer in swimsuits around one another, everything felt different at the lake house.

the lake house was skin against skin and stolen glances. it was lingering looks quickly disguised whenever the other person noticed.

every time you climbed out of the water, anton was there waiting with a warm towel. every morning, after his run, he brought back an iced latte for you before you’d even gotten out of bed.

one morning, anton disappeared on a hike with his friend without telling you. so when he came back, you picked a fight with him out of pure spite. you’re not proud of it. in the middle of your anger, you stormed down to the dock and slipped off the edge.

the moment panic set in and your arms began flailing, anton dove in after you. one second you were alone. the next, his familiar arms were around you. he pulled you back to shore.

“are you okay?” his voice had sounded frantic. his eyes looked even worse.

wet hair dripped onto your shoulders as he waited for an answer.

you already knew you loved anton. you’d known for years. but in that moment, it was staring you in the face.

he hadn’t even stopped to take off his shirt. his clothes were soaked through with lake water. all because he’d been worried about you.

a few tears escaped before you could stop them. thankfully, they blended in with the water on your face.

you searched his eyes for any sign that he didn’t love you back. you couldn’t find one. you couldn’t find the courage to speak, either. so you just nodded.

anton spent the rest of the day convinced it was his fault. if he had told you about the hike, you wouldn’t have gotten upset. if you hadn’t gotten upset, you wouldn’t have wandered off. if you hadn’t wandered off, you wouldn’t have fallen. the logic didn’t make much sense, but neither did anton whenever it came to you.

he spent the rest of the afternoon hovering nearby, catering to you in every way he could think of. anton hated when you were mad at him. he hated feeling like he’d done something wrong. sometimes you thought he would do absolutely anything if it meant seeing you happy.

after dinner, giselle puts on a movie that no one is particularly interested in. it’s the last night and you need to pack, so you retreat to your room first, then followed an hour later by giselle, then anton’s friend. around midnight, you sneak out of bed, careful not to step on the creaky floorboards as you make your way downstairs. 

the basement was dark except for the television.

anton was still there. another movie played quietly across the screen while his head rested against the back of the couch.

he looked up when he heard you. he scoots over when he sees you at the foot of the stairs, but you sit right beside him anyways, resting your head on his shoulder.

“thank you for saving me earlier, anton.” your voice always sounded softer around him.

“of course, yn,” he replies before sitting up.

“i’m glad you’re ok.”

he’s looking into your eyes again. the basement was dim, but somehow that only made him prettier. your faces are only inches apart, and you think he’s getting even closer.

you were suddenly aware of every breath, every blink, every tiny movement.

“i’m sorry for getting mad at you, too,” you whispered.

anton’s eyes kept dropping to your lips, the same way yours kept drifting toward his. he shook his head.

“it’s okay,” he mumbled. his voice was barely audible.

“you’re the only thing that matters anyway.”

for a moment, neither of you moved. then anton kissed you softly.

the world seemed to stop. you felt detached from your own body, as though you were floating somewhere above the room, watching it happen to someone else.

your first love became your first kiss.

when you kissed him back, you felt him smile against your lips.

his hand found yours. he pulled you closer until there was nowhere left to go, gently trapping you between the couch arm and the warmth of his chest.

it was clumsy and messy, but it was anton, so you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

after kissing for what felt like an hour, anton tucked you under the covers in your room and kissed your forehead before retreating to his own room. neither of you ever brought it up again.

“i didn’t think a lot of things would happen this summer,” you admit softly, your fingers tracing absent-minded shapes through the water droplets scattered across anton’s chest. anton coughs and immediately drops his arm from your waist.

anton has been different since the lake house. he’s been more awkward. distant.

you let your hand fall from his chest, but you stay where you are. you’re close enough to see the way his jaw tightens, and to notice that he still won’t look at you. that’s how you know something is wrong. because anton always looks at you.

“our time slot’s almost over,” he says after a moment with a quick glance at his watch. his voice is flat and careful.

when he turns away again, you feel something sink inside your chest.

he doesn't even offer you a hand to get out of the pool.

it’s incredibly hot outside.

the second you step into the sun, you almost groan. the heat presses against your skin like a heavy hand. the pavement shimmers. the air feels thick enough to drink.

but you don’t. you don’t want to do anything that could possibly upset anton. you already think he’s mad at you.

normally, he opens the passenger door before you even reach it. today, he walks straight past you and gets into the driver’s seat.

your stomach sinks.

the heat trapped inside anton’s car is almost as suffocating as the silence between you.

he starts the engine and immediately cranks the air conditioning. then he pulls out of the parking lot without turning on any music. he doesn’t offer you his aux cord, so the two of you drive in silence.

by the time anton parks outside your house, you feel confused and nervous and scared all at once. everything is ending. you move into your dorm next week, so today was the last swimming session of the summer. you and anton don’t have any plans after this. the thought sits heavily in your chest. the way he’s acting makes it worse. the fact that he’s been acting like this ever since the lake house makes you feel sick.

because what happened at the lake only deepened your feelings for him. it solidified them and made you completely confident that he liked you too. because who kisses someone they don’t like? not your anton, you’re sure of it.

you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn toward him.

“thank you again,” you say, leaning closer.

anton leans toward you, too. almost unconscious, almost instinctive. a small smile appears on his face, shy and reluctant, like he doesn’t entirely mean for it to happen.

“for what?” his voice is quiet, always quiet.

“teaching me the breast stroke.”

neither of you say anything.

you could kiss him right now. you could close the distance and relive that night at the lake house, when everything felt simple and life seemed to settle into the shape it was always meant to have.

your eyes drift to his lips, soft and pink. only inches away.

anton notices. he watches your gaze drop before it returns to his eyes.

his chest tightens. he thinks his heart might burst out of his chest if you get any closer. he’s been a nervous wreck since he picked you up this morning. his pulse hasn’t slowed down once.

everything is a mess.

“i should never have kissed you.”

the words come out suddenly. anton pulls away as if he’s been burned and sinks back into his seat.

for a second, you think you misheard him.

“what?” your heart drops. you watch him drag his hands down his face. the motion looks exhausted. desperate.

you think you stop breathing.

“i never should have kissed you, yn.”

“anton—” you reach for his wrist, but he pulls away immediately. the rejection is so quick it stings.

“i kissed you and i messed everything up, and now things are never going to be the same.”

“wait, stop—”

“i didn’t want to go to college without kissing a girl, okay?”

you shake your head. tears immediately fill your eyes. you know anton. you know him better than anyone, and you know that isn’t true. he wouldn’t care about something like that. he wouldn’t use you. he couldn't.

anton keeps talking, but the words blur together. you can see his mouth moving, and you can hear his voice. but you’re somewhere else. you’re back in the lake, and the water is dark and cold. you’re reaching for something solid, but this time, anton isn’t there to pull you out.

“anton, i’m in love with you.”

the words escape before you can stop them. tears spill down your cheeks, and your bottom lip trembles. this isn’t how you wanted to tell him. you imagined a hundred different confessions over the years. none of them looked like this.

none of them happened inside a sweltering car with tears on your face and your heart hanging open between you.

anton freezes. his brows furrow. he looks confused, flustered.

you tell yourself it’s because he didn’t expect you to say it first. you tell yourself he likes you too. that even though he’s shaking his head right now, he’s going to smile in a second. you tell yourself he loves you the same way you love him.

that he’s going to reach for you. that he’s going to kiss you again before you go inside.

“you shouldn’t have said that.”

silence follows. only the hum of the engine remains. the steady rush of air from the vents fills the space between you.

you feel your heart physically shatter. your chest aches so suddenly and so sharply that you struggle to breathe. anton’s voice sounds unfamiliar. it’s still hushed, but now there’s something harsh underneath it, something final. the worst part is that you know he means it.

“what?” is all you can manage to croak.

anton refuses to look at you. “you shouldn’t have said that, and i shouldn’t have kissed you.” he swallows hard. “everything is all… fucked up now.”

you stare at him. you don’t know who you’re sitting beside anymore. the anton you knew seems to have disappeared sometime during this conversation. this person looks like him, sounds like him. but it isn’t him. it can’t be.

“i’m not someone you can like, yn,” anton says it after a long pause. you don’t understand what he means. the sentence sounds absurd. it sounds insane, and so not anton.

“i love you, anton,” your voice cracks on his name, and it feels like a plea. it feels like a final attempt to save something that’s already sinking.

anton turns farther toward the window, away from you, and everything.

the closest thing you get to a response is a slow shake of his head, followed by a heavy silence. the last five minutes is all it took to destroy the future you’d spent years dreaming of.

your mind drifts back to the sandbox, where anton first rejected you. then the summer camp, where anton ignored you.

maybe he’s always been the same. the realization settles quietly inside your chest.

this is the third time anton has broken your heart. when it finally sinks in, you open the car door and this time, you don’t look back.

you leave in tears.

you haven’t seen anton since.

for the next four years, you do everything you can to avoid going back home.

during the summers, you stay in the same city as your university and work as much as you can. when winter break comes around, you spend most of it shut inside your house, only leaving when absolutely necessary.

you become good at avoiding places that might still remember you.

there is only one sighting of anton during your entire college career, when your only serious college boyfriend wanted to meet your parents.

it was your twentieth birthday, the second one you would celebrate without anton. you'd been missing home lately, and taesan thought surprising both you and your parents would make the day feel special. he told you he was taking you somewhere nice for dinner. you believed him. it isn't until he merges onto the interstate that your stomach drops. you know exactly where he's taking you.

when taesan insists on stopping at the grocery store to buy your mom a bouquet of flowers, you convince yourself it'll be fine.

it's the end of september. anton would be at school. there's no reason for him to be home. there's no reason for him to be here.

but there he is, standing in front of the cake display near taesan.

you hear him before you see him and somehow, that's enough.

his younger brother has shot up over the past few years, nearly as tall as anton now. anton himself has grown even taller. broader. stronger. his shoulders stretch wider beneath his sweatshirt than you remember, the kind that could probably block out the sun if he stood in front of it.

he's wearing a baseball cap. from the strands of dark hair curling out beneath it, you can already tell it's the longest you've ever seen him wear it. you can't bring yourself to imagine what he looks like from the front.

then he laughs, and suddenly you're back in the basement of the lake house. your first kiss. his hand in yours. his smile against your lips.

you wonder if he remembers it's your birthday. you wonder if that's why he's standing in front of the cakes. you wonder why he's here. you wonder if you still love him.

it becomes too much.

your chest tightens and the grocery store disappears.

you're back inside anton's car, the air conditioning blasting against your skin while you struggle to catch your breath. two years of running away haven't changed anything. you're still the same girl and somehow, anton is still the same boy.

you hear someone say your name. you aren't sure whether it was anton, or junyoung, or taesan. you see anton begin to turn and you dash. you text taesan that you forgot your purse in the car, that you’ll wait for him there. you broke up with him two months later.

anton can’t wait to see you. or rather, he can’t wait for you to see him. he knows it’s selfish of him. you still have his number blocked and he’s never been able to find your instagram. still, anton believes you'll find your way back to each other. because if you weren’t meant to, you wouldn’t have spent so much energy avoiding him. people don’t run from strangers, they run from the people who still matter.

he hears through your mom that you'll be moving back home after graduation while you search for a place in the city, just like him. he thinks it's fate. he can't wait to see you. he wants to show you that he's different now. better. he isn't the painfully quiet boy you left behind four years ago. he's confident now, almost too confident. his body he built through swimming at the collegiate level is something he’s proud of. he’s read so many self-help books in the past three years he prides himself in his mindset. he likes the person he’s becoming. anton thinks everything he’s done to improve himself was to ultimately benefit you. he thinks he’s finally deserving of you. that now he could be someone you can like.

when he runs into your mom at the grocery store, it feels like confirmation that he's right. she smiles at him with the same warmth she always has, like she's finally found a son who wandered too far from home. his own grin appears before he can stop it. when he tells her he'd love to see you sometime soon, she gives him a hint about where you spend most of your weekdays.

anton smiles for the rest of the afternoon.

it’s been a month since you’ve graduated, and you’ve accepted that seeing anton again is a possibility. you’ve spent that same month hoping it never happens.

a part of you believes you’ll be ok if it does. you don’t think you’ll feel the same anymore. you’ve grown. you’ve lived. you’ve dated, you’ve broken up. you’ve learned to move on. anton is a memory at most.

“you’d never guess who i ran into at the store, yn.” your mom’s voice drifts in from the kitchen along with the rustle of grocery bags. anton comes to mind. you have a feeling he's the only person she'd bother making you guess. still, you decide to play dumb.

“oh. who’d you see?”

your mom sets her purse on the counter before taking a seat at the island, leaving you to put the groceries away.

“you’re supposed to guess.”

you have to fight back an eye roll and instead settle for a heavy sigh and make your voice flat. “i genuinely have no idea.” 

she takes a long drink from her water without taking her eyes off you. she’s being careful, so you know it has to be anton. she wouldn’t dance around anyone else’s  name like this. her gaze grows heavier by the second. you turn away and busy yourself washing grapes beneath the faucet.

"i ran into anton," she says at last, her voice softer now that she can only see your back. "he was picking up groceries for his mom. always been such a sweet boy, that one."

“tiny toni?” your dad enters the kitchen, saving you from having to respond. he nudges your shoulder and grabs a grape. “the one who broke my daughter’s heart?”

you freeze. he catches your expression and laughs.

“that was so long ago,” you say lightly. it really was. you and anton are different people now.

"i'm not sure we can call him tiny toni anymore," your mom says.

teenie tiny toni started as something a sixth-grade boy called anton to make fun of him. you'd stolen it before it could hurt him and turned it into something affectionate, something that belonged only to you and your parents.

he would always be tiny toni. his voice had been tiny. his body had been tiny. he'd always seemed too gentle for the world. hearing your mom say there was no more tiny toni feels strangely unsettling.

"and judging by the way he looks now," she continues with a smile, "i'm sure he's broken more than just yn's heart."

your hands stop beneath the running water. "what?"

you turn around, your brows pulling together. the words don't make sense. how could anton possibly look like someone who breaks hearts?

anton, the quiet orchestra kid. anton, who apologized when someone else bumped into him. anton, who never believed there was anything particularly special about himself. anton, who once looked you in the eye and told you you couldn't possibly like him.

"impossible," you mumble, your thoughts somewhere else entirely. "he's a total nerd."

you know that version of anton. or at least, you used to. the realization settles heavily inside your chest. you don't know who anton is anymore. and somehow, that's harder to accept than never seeing him again.

your mom smiles, almost knowingly.

"you'll have to see for yourself, sweetie."

being back at home is boring.

giselle would normally be your only option for someone to hang out with, but she’s moved to tokyo. with nothing much to fill your days, your mind keeps circling back to anton. you find yourself wondering what he could possibly be like in 2026. what he did in college. whether he ever dated anyone. whether he fell in love with a concert pianist, or maybe a ballerina, and convinced himself that because they were alike, he was finally someone she could like. you wonder if he’s even taller now. your mom seemed to think so. the last time you saw him, he'd already filled out in a way that caught you off guard, but you wonder if swimming had changed him even more. you wonder if he finally thinks well of himself. if he ever thinks about you at all.

by the third night of lying awake imagining anton, you decide you need to put your mind somewhere else.

hardly anyone is at the gym at 10:30 p.m. you're halfway through your cooldown on the treadmill when your attention drifts toward a girl struggling beneath a bench press. her arms are shaking so badly that you're almost certain she'd have trouble lifting the empty bar.

"help," she calls weakly. it sounds almost theatrical. you notice her turn her head deliberately to the right, toward someone whose view is blocked by a row of machines. you assume help is already on the way and turn your attention back to the treadmill.

"thanks, toni." the syrup in her voice makes your stomach tighten.

without even looking over, you know she's batting her eyelashes at him. you hope it isn't your toni. you hope it isn't anton. you don't want to hear his voice. you don't want to find out.

closing your eyes for a brief second, you decide to cut your cooldown short. you'd come here to get your mind off him, and somehow he'd followed you anyway. of course the first time you'd run into anton in years would be when you're sweaty, exhausted, and feeling like the least attractive version of yourself. you need to leave before he sees you.

you hurriedly stop the treadmill and grab your things. by the time you're speed-walking toward the exit, you hear footsteps quickening behind you. you walk faster, but it doesn't help.

"do you always come to the gym at such degenerate hours, yn?" it's anton's voice, or at least you think it is. it's deeper than you remember. louder. steadier. somehow more certain of itself.

maybe you can still get away. maybe he'll think your music is playing too loudly through your headphones. maybe if you just keep walking—

a careful hand closes around your arm. "yn."

you brace yourself before turning around. somehow, the reality is worse.

it would be ridiculous to call him tiny toni now, even as a joke. he's settled into himself in a way you never imagined he would. the awkward, lanky boy you grew up with is gone.

anton's shoulders have broadened enough to stretch the black compression tank across his chest, the fabric hugging muscle that simply hadn't existed the last time you saw him. a faint sheen of sweat catches the light along the curve of his arms before disappearing beneath the edge of the tank. when he lets go of your arm, the muscle shifts naturally beneath his skin.

his face has changed, too. the softness is gone. his cheeks have given way to defined cheekbones and the beginning of a sharp jawline. he's handsome. he’s anton.

he's looking at you with the same bright grin you've known since middle school, the same familiar gleam sitting quietly in his eyes. for one dangerous second, you think maybe he isn't just a memory anymore. maybe anton could still be your friend.

"do you let other girls call you toni now, too?"

you watch his grin stretch into an even bigger smile. you almost smile back, almost. your question was genuine.

instead, you roll your eyes, and for the briefest moment everything feels strangely familiar.

"you're still the only one who gets to put a 'tiny' in front of it," he says. "if that makes you feel any better."

"aw, thanks." you clap your hands together dramatically, smiling only for show.

anton laughs, and the sound lands somewhere deep inside your chest.

"and no," you continue, "i'm only here this late because i couldn't sleep." you hesitate. the last thing you want is to stand here talking to anton while you're flushed and sweaty and he somehow looks like that. "but i think i'm pretty tired now."

his smile fades into the slightest pout. "but we—"

"we can make plans," you interrupt quickly, turning back towards the door. "you know where to find me."

anton blinks, then breaks into a blinding smile. “yeah. i do.”

everybody wants anton now. at least, that’s how it feels to him. and from what you’ve seen, that’s how it feels to you, too. so why didn’t you want him? why couldn’t he have you?

anton asks himself those questions as he knocks on your front door for the third day in a row. he comes around midday, when he knows your parents will be at work and you'll most likely be home. today seems like it'll end the same way the last two did, in silence.

he waits anyway. it's been almost five minutes before he smiles to himself. he knows exactly where to find you. the problem is, you don't want to be found.

he can't blame you. some days, he still isn't sure he's forgiven himself for what he did four years ago. but he wants you. and somewhere beneath all the hurt, he thinks you might still want him, too.

he fishes around the center console until he finds an old receipt, flips it over, and scribbles across the blank side before sliding it beneath the flower pot beside your front door.

let’s grab a bite. pick u up @ 6 on friday - your toni.

giselle doesn’t believe that anton could be hot. when you go as far as using the word sexy, she decides she really doesn't believe you and that she’ll need a picture as proof. you tell yourself that’s the only reason you’re taking so much time to doll yourself up for tonight. it’s only because giselle wants proof. that’s what you tell yourself.

the days after running into anton at the gym had been spent mourning the version of him you'd always known. the quiet, awkward boy seemed to have disappeared somewhere during college, replaced by broad shoulders, easy confidence, and a smile that flirted without even trying. you used to be the only girl anton talked to. now you're fairly certain you're the only girl in town who isn't talking to him.

you're not even sure you want to know this version of him. what if you still like him? worse—what if after all these years, you still want him just as much?

but curiosity has always been your biggest weakness. what did anton do in college? what did his weekends look like? did he ever fall in love? what kind of people became his friends? did they know the shy little boy who used to hide behind you? or only the man he seems to have become?

by five-thirty on friday evening, you feel sixteen again. it's embarrassing.

you're standing in front of the bathroom mirror curling your hair because you're excited to see a boy. except this isn’t any boy, it’s anton. a version of anton you’ve never met before, one that’s sexy and charming and confident. one you're quietly afraid has nothing left in common with the boy you fell in love with.

when the doorbell rings, you immediately decide you hate him. anton’s wearing a fitted black tee with jeans. the shirt sits just short enough that if he lifts his arms even a little, you're certain the abs you already know exist would be visible. his thumbs are hooked casually through his belt loops. he leans against your doorway with a grin that belongs somewhere between charming and evil. it’s unfair.

“you might be the first person i’ve ever seen to enter a room dick first,” your voice light. anton's brows knit together in confusion before you wave a dismissive hand toward him.

"my parents are out of town for the weekend." you start toward the stairs. "wait here. i forgot my purse."

he listens, without arguing, without following. maybe this still is your anton.

"i think you clean up pretty well, too, yn," he calls after you.

you hate how quickly your cheeks warm.

the drive starts quietly. you try very hard not to stare at anton's forearms. you fail.

it's not just the veins. it's the way they trace beneath his skin whenever his hand turns the steering wheel. the way muscle shifts so effortlessly underneath them. the way one hand rests lazily across the wheel while the other taps absentmindedly along with the music. he looks comfortable, like this version of himself fits.

it's distracting enough that you almost forget the last time you sat in one of anton's cars. this one's newer, nicer. it still smells faintly like him and clean laundry. he hums softly beneath his breath as the song plays through the speakers, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. you wonder if he even realizes he's doing it.

at a red light, he glances over. there's that smile again, small and knowing, almost like he can hear every thought running through your head. instead of looking away like you want to, you hold his gaze. before you know it, you're smiling too.

anton reaches across the center console. his fingertips brush lightly against the hem of your denim skirt. it's barely a touch, more of a graze than anything. still, warmth spreads through your entire body. his hand is so much bigger than you remember. you wonder when that happened. you wonder where else he could put his hand.

"it's a little short, yn." his voice is casual and teasing. the light turns green, and he pulls his hand back to the wheel.

"do you always wear stuff like this when you go on dates?"

your heart is still racing from where he'd touched you. it takes a second for his words to register. date? you let out a laugh before you can stop yourself. "who said this is a date?" you glance over at him with a grin. "we're only friends, toni."

"are we?" he tilts his head slightly. the question is quiet and more hopeful than teasing.

you look back out the window.

"we were." you pause. "we still can be."

for a moment, anton doesn't answer. you catch him jutting out his bottom lip, nodding once as though he's carefully turning your words over in his head. you smile to yourself.

"but..." you say after a moment, chewing absentmindedly on your bottom lip, "if you want this to be a date..." you glance at him from the corner of your eye. "...i guess we'll see how it goes."

the longer you spend with anton, the more it feels like nothing has changed. somehow, he’s still your best friend, and you’re both seventeen years old and secretly in love with each other.

two and a half hours later, your cheeks are warm and your face is flushed from laughing. anton sits across from you in the booth, looking at you the way he always used to. everything feels funny and every minute you spend with him makes you feel lighter than the last. you think that if anton keeps looking at you with that adoring gaze of his, you might not make it to the car before throwing yourself at him. anton can’t drink because he’s driving, but he insists on letting you order all the fun drinks your heart desires. every time your glass gets low, he asks if you want another. meanwhile, you’re working very hard to convince him that you aren’t nearly as drunk as you apparently look.

you’ve already learned that college was kinder to anton than high school ever was. most of his closest friends came from the swim team, mostly because he spent nearly every waking hour training with them. he double majored in business and audio production because he wanted to work somewhere in the music industry one day. he stayed involved with the campus orchestra all four years and somehow found time to become swim captain his senior year. he graduated summa cum laude, and for reasons you can’t quite explain, you’re relieved to hear he almost joined a fraternity but decided against it. 

there’s only one thing you haven’t asked him. it’s also the only thing you’ve wanted to know all night.

“how many girls have you dated?” the question slips out before you can stop it.

the second anton laughs, your embarrassment immediately turns into irritation.

“don’t laugh at me,” you pout, lifting your hand like you’re about to smack him across the table.

he only laughs harder. reaching over, he gently catches your wrist before you can follow through, guiding your hand back down onto the table.

“what do you want to hear, yn?” he asks, resting his chin in his palm as he looks at you. his eyes seem softer tonight, warmer.

you try to remember if he’s always looked at you this way. then you realize he’s flirting with you and nothing is funny.

“just tell me the truth,” you mumble, bringing your straw back to your lips. after a moment, you add, “i had three boyfriends.”

anton leans back against the booth and lets out a slow breath, tipping his head toward the ceiling.

“three boyfriends,” he repeats quietly. his lips twitch into a smile. his brows pinch together for just a second before relaxing again.

anton has learned over the course of the evening that your patience has gotten noticeably shorter over the last four years. you’ve already gotten annoyed with him more times than he can count tonight. he thinks it’s adorable. he also isn’t sure how much more teasing you’ll tolerate.

“i didn’t date.”

anton has always been able to read you. he could when you were twelve. he could when you were seventeen. he still can. he watches you roll his answer around in your head, searching for something that isn’t there. you’re chewing on your bottom lip now, avoiding his eyes completely. that wasn’t the answer you expected, he can tell. he can also tell you don’t like it.

“that might be worse than if you said one.” you frown into your drink. you aren’t sure you believe yourself, either.

if anton had spent all four years in love with one girl, maybe that would’ve been worse. maybe she’d still have his heart.

but if he’d never dated anyone...

you glance back up at him. with the way he looks now, with the confidence he somehow grew into, it’s hard to imagine he spent four years alone. maybe he just never stayed long enough. maybe he had his fun without ever making anyone his.

“see...” anton begins, his voice quieter now.

he laces both hands behind his head, stretching the fabric of his shirt across his chest and your eyes betray you immediately.

“there was this one girl in my past.” his smile softens.

“she kind of ruined everyone else for me.”

the words leave his mouth before he has the chance to think better of them. he hadn’t meant to say it so plainly. he certainly hadn’t meant to hand you the truth so easily. all he can do now is hope you’re too tipsy to understand what he really means.

you do. you hear every word. worse—you feel them. heat blooms beneath your skin until you swear your entire body is burning. your thoughts disappear. whatever you’d been trying to figure out only seconds ago is completely gone.

all you can think about is anton.

about the lake house. about your first kiss. about the way he looked at you then. and the way he’s looking at you now. all at once, you realize something you’d spent four years trying not to hope for. he loved you too. he loved you enough that every girl after you became impossible.

“anton.”

he looks up. he’s never heard you say his name like that before, so quietly. he can’t tell whether you’re about to cry, or kiss him, or yell at him. he only knows you’re leaning closer. close enough that your perfume reaches him before you do. close enough that he can feel himself making the same mistake twice.

“come home with me.” the words are barely louder than a whisper.

you blame the alcohol as you cling to anton’s arm on the way out of the restaurant.

your fingers wrap around the solid curve of his bicep, your nails pressing lightly into his skin as you stumble beside him. anton lets out a quiet laugh beneath his breath and settles his hand over yours. he smells good, clean, familiar. like anton.

he opens the passenger door for you before walking around to his side. when he leans across you to fasten your seatbelt, he gets so close that your lips nearly brush his cheek. you breathe him in before he pulls away. when he catches you doing it, he only grins. then he closes your door.

the air between you and anton buzzes in the close confines of the car. you rest your elbow on the center console and your chin atop your fist, ogling anton. you find the strength to keep your hands off of the boy, and he keeps his hands to himself as well. each time he glances over to see your big eyes fixed on him, his grin grows a little wider.

when anton parks in your driveway, you’re out of the car before he can open your door for you. you stumble out of your boots, slip your jacket off of your shoulders, and leave them at the foot of the stairs. you know anton will pick them up.

he reaches your room with a smile plastered on his face and your belongings in his arms. you’re sitting on the edge of your bed with your legs crossed and break into a giggle. you watch him gently set your things down near your closet. he wanders around the room, picking things up and examining them. you grow impatient.

“you’ve been here before, anton.”

“i know.” he pauses, voice soft like how it used to be. “everything’s still the same.”

you dig the heels of your palms into the mattress and lean your weight back. “i barely spent any time here during college.”

“i know,” anton repeats. finally, he turns back to you. when he’s close enough, you hook your fingers into his belt loops and pull him toward you. you rise to your feet and reach your hands up to his shoulders, tracing the broadness of them.

“you’re drunk, yn.” anton’s voice is soft. hearing it in your room again makes you smile. you bring your hands to press against the hard muscles in his chest.

“and you’re…very sexy.” you have to rise onto your toes to try to reach anton’s lips.

“come on, toni. it’s just a kiss.” you whisper against his lips with a grin.

anton knows it won’t just be a kiss. the air between you and him tells him it won’t just be a kiss, too. he remembers the last time he kissed you, and even that wasn’t just a kiss, either. but he knows he can’t leave you hanging there with your lips puckered and your eyes closed. he’s still the same anton who’d do anything to make you happy.

both of you immediately sigh when your lips touch. anton tilts his head down further and brings a hand up to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss so he can reach you better. he’s gotten better at kissing, but you’re still taken back to the basement of the lake house. you’re still the girl hopelessly in love with her best friend, and anton is still the boy who finally found the courage to kiss you.

the way anton kisses you makes you more and more desperate. when it feels like he’s beginning to pull away, you instinctively rise onto your toes to chase his lips, needing just one more second. you’re fisting the fabric covering his chest and breathing into him when you feel him chuckle against your lips. when you both pull back, there’s saliva around both of your mouths. you watch anton’s tongue dart out to taste you on his lips.

you’re scared he’s going to say something cheeky about how badly you need him, so you push him down to sit on the bed before he gets the chance. the smug grin anton was wearing is replaced with a puzzled raise of his eyebrow. when you pull your leg up to straddle him, the grin returns. anton’s hands find your hips and press you against him. you crash your lips against his again and bring your hands to his hair.

anton’s hands move to your ass as he sucks on your face. you start lifting your hips to settle them back onto his lap, your hands in his hair tugging lightly in desperation. you pull away for air and anton goes to your neck, craning his head to suck and nip at the skin. you throw your head back to give him more room and sigh in content.

anton’s plush lips against your skin make you feel even more needy. the breeze from ceiling fan makes anton’s remaining spit on your skin feel cool in comparison to your body burning up. you can feel his bulge beneath you, and the size of him like this already makes your mouth feel dry. he returns to your lips and sticks his tongue into your mouth.

anton’s hands bring your hips down on his and grind you against his dick. he swears he can feel you. a moan escapes your lips that makes him throb in his pants. he has to hide his face in the crook of your neck, and your arms cradle his head to hold him there.

you stop moving suddenly and anton wonders if you came. he pulls away from your neck to find your eyes closed. “yn?” he murmurs.

you don’t answer. anton laughs in disbelief. he’d kissed you to sleep.

he wipes off your makeup and tucks you under the covers before he leaves.

in the morning, you wake up with an upset stomach and swollen lips. you aren’t afraid to check your phone because anton’s number is still blocked. memories of last night flash through your mind as you brush your teeth, making you giggle to yourself. when you change out of your clothes, you notice anton even left a mark near your shoulder. you can’t help but smile.

you don’t remember how it all ended, though.

it isn’t until later that afternoon that you notice the note tucked by your door.

For a split second, there was nothing that could’ve been heard over the sound of the ball being kicked. After the initial impact, all sound was gone. Sungchan watched the ball in slow motion travel through the air. Everyone on the field watched, except for the goalie. Sungchan saw him behind the ball, moving to the other end of the goal. 

Sungchan saw its trajectory. Right below the furthest corner from the goalie. It was going to hit the rim, surely. The goalie was just jumping to the corner for extra insurance. He was going for the ball, gloved hands fully extending. 

Sungchan didn’t hear anything else besides the ball making contact with the net. It was crisp, it filled the air and bounced off the walls in his brain.

A moment later the venue erupted. Sungchan watched, mouth agape. Cheers filled the air around him, barely heard over the blood rushing in his ears. 

That was it. He couldn’t believe that was it. No one on the field believed it. Even the enemy team were stunned, only coming to when the scorer ran towards the crowd to do his celebration. Sungchan had to stop himself from collapsing to the floor. He watched his teammates around him wander the field, trying to figure out what to do next. This had been all of their lives for so long. They didn’t know what to do if they weren’t playing. 

He needs to tell them it’s over. He watched a few of his teammates go back to their spots like the next dribble was about to begin. He felt his chest get tight. Others were standing around, looking at the team and the fans in the rafters. A few looked to him. Sungchan didn’t know what to do. He hadn’t lost to this point. How do losers exit the field? He should know this.

It was the coach that had to call for the players. In the end, two of his teammates had to fetch him from his frozen place at half-field.

In the locker room, it was quiet. No one spoke. In the showers, between the steam everyone hung their heads, mechanical movements as they washed off the game. Sweat, dirt, grass, blood, tears. Sungchan thinks he went over his body eight times with the soapy cloth. Nothing got rid of what he could only describe as the heavy. It loomed over him, stuck to his body like dirt underneath fingernails. Around him the showers turned off, the eerie screech and the sound of rough water hitting tile ceasing. Sungchan was the last one. The steam cloud only hung over him, drifting over the tiled barriers of the individual stalls. 

He didn’t look up from the water and suds slipping past his feet to go in the drain until he was sure he was alone. Only then did he let the water stop beating him. The knob was turned, the water ceased. Sungchan’s fingers were pruned when he wrapped his white towel around his waist. He followed the steps of his teammate who was already on his way out by the time he made it back to the dressing room. His teammate had his duffel slung over his shoulder and was putting on his headphones. They made eye contact neither of them wanted; Sungchan fixed his gaze on his cubby and his teammate only paused for a second before continuing to get his things in order. 

Sungchan grabbed his shirt from the hook. He barely dried his body but he was desperate to get out. He had to leave this stadium. Maybe it would rid him of the tight feeling in his chest if he left the premises. Now he regretted taking so long in the shower. He could’ve been at the hotel by now, trying to forget everything about today.

He was surprised to still feel the presence of his teammate behind him. He lingered by the door, Sungchan could hear the repetitive motion of shoes dragging against low-pile carpet. If he was a good captain he would’ve looked at his teammate and read his mind for him. But he missed the shot that cost them the game and said nothing when they all came into this room defeated.

“Next time,” his teammate started. 

Sungchan gripped the wooden frame of his cubby. He froze, the water droplets at the end of his hair splashing onto his shirt and trailing down the sides of his face. It was like sweat, the pointless sweat he had in this heat that lead to nothing.

Next time hung in the air. It was heavy, and Sungchan felt the binding around his chest pulled tighter. Like the strings on a corset it caused him to lean slightly forward. He was already hunched to grab his things from his cubby, now his head was partially in like he was trying to hide. He felt the sting in the corner of his eye and the stone in his throat. Next time wasn’t the case for all of his teammates. This specific assortment of people: the crew, the medical team, the coaches, the teammates would never be the same. Sungchan needed to be the one to bring them the win. He needed to delegate it. He wasn’t sure if he deserved next time. 

But still, he nodded his head and swallowed. He did not turn around, his teammate did not leave. Sungchan cleared his throat, knocking on the brown wood slightly.

“Next time,” he agreed.

He knew that his teammate had nodded too. Probably stuck his hands in his pockets and was looking around the room for what to say next. Sungchan heard nothing besides the retreating footsteps.

He was lucky to run into no one else on his way out of the venue. There were the staff who cleaned the stadium who couldn’t care less who he was. Sungchan had his cap pulled down tight and his sunglasses on despite it being night. His world was almost completely black as the venue worker drove him to the private parking on the golf cart. Sungchan knew that this worker cared about who he was. He could feel the occasional side-eye, it was quick and failed at being subtle. But in the workers defense every stare or glance or look felt amplified. Sungchan also felt sorry, because no part of him could engage in a conversation with the worker. He continued to stare forward, pretending that he didn’t notice the gaze. 

The cart parked right by Sungchan’s tinted out SUV. He did mutter a thank you, albeit tight-lipped. He thinks the worker said it back before turning the cart around and going back the way he came. 

Sungchan was rounding to the trunk when the chauffeur was already there. He was already touching the button that made the automatic door float. He was reaching for Sungchan’s suitcase, which he pitifully let be taken and put in the back. Some of his other suitcases were already packed in. How convenient he thought. But the automatic door was already coming down as he grabbed his backpack and went to the backseat. He silently opened and closed his own door behind him. Him and his chauffeur both buckled in without saying a word. The car came to life and the radio station was turned off before the host could say a single word about the game.

Him and his chauffeur drove in silence. He also got the occasional look through the rearview mirror.  He pretended to be asleep. He didn’t check his phone to see the pity messages or the inevitable meeting he would have with his managers and the coach. He was avoiding the team’s groupchat all together. He hoped they had stayed silent. Sungchan knew it was his job to say something. There was nothing he could say. He will say sorry personally to everyone during the meeting tomorrow.

“Try to get some sleep son,” the chauffeur said when he handed Sungchan his rolling luggage.

He nodded, feeling the tightening in his chest persist and the feeling of guilt. The relationship he built with his driver over his time in America was surrounding his Korean heritage. The driver told him he should be proud to represent his country. Sungchan knew that every good luck meant we’re counting on you. Sungchan on the receiving end of gently paternal worry made him feel awful. The driver, was also someone he let down.

Sungchan bit back a sorry as he left the temporary parking. He went through the automatic revolving door, going straight for the elevators.

Sungchan passed by the small amount of hotel staff who were already stiff and avoiding contact. He was simply experiencing the fallout of his teammates who walked through this lobby before him. He was sure nobody exchanged nasty words with the staff, he’d make sure of it. But he was sure the staff were walking on eggshells, scared to make the wrong move. Athletes were stereotyped as hotheads, especially if they had the entire nation rooting for them. So he said nothing, neither did the staff. He just made a straight line for the elevators and they all avoided his path.

Sungchan was grateful there was already an elevator waiting for him. He needed this luck earlier. He bitterly thought he needed the talent too as the number climbed up to his floor.

Not a single passenger was picked up on the way either. This was unfortunately the losers hotel. Another team that was already eliminated was lodging here as well. There would be no parties spanning between the floors. No one with champagne glasses or well wishes. No celebrations. Just Sungchan alone, staring at the yellow lights in the elevator through a tint.

The gray doors slid open to his floor. Sungchan immediately started his path. He didn’t stop by his teammates rooms. He went all the way to the end of the hallway where his room was. He was extra quiet too, trying to avoid any of his teammates who may have tried to talk to him. He looked down the hallway while hastily grabbing his keycard and trying to swipe it before remembering it’s a tap.

Sungchan pressed his keycard to the door. The second he heard the lock he pushed the door open. The bedside lamp already being on did not stop him. He was sure room service came through, folded his towels all nice and offered a nice note trying to lessen the load of his loss right next to it. He didn’t even look towards his bed, too busy putting the Do Not Disturb! sign on the doorknob. He locked and dead-bolted the door behind him for good measure. 

He stared at the tinted view of the back of his door. He felt that overwhelming pressure meld into his body. Every safeguard vanished. He was out of the public eye. He felt it eight him down, made a terrible sensation ripple across his body. Like something getting ready to erupt. Pressing his head to the door provided little relief. He took off his cap and did it again. He took off his sunglasses, clutching both of the items in his fist. He had to breathe deep to not crush the items in his hand. He thought about the expensive frames pressing into his skin that was too soft. He thought about the pain, the look of disappointment in his teammates faces. The fans who were let down, the cheers as his team lost. Everyone watching at home, everything was too much. Sungchan let out a shaky breath.

“Sungchan.”

His breath caught in his throat. Blood was roaring through his ears the voice was almost muffled. He thought for a second this was a dream. For half of that he thought the loss was just a nightmare. He was going to wake up and it’d be the morning of the match.

“Sungchan,” the voice called again.

He turned around slowly. Without a tint he saw you, standing next to the bed. Your own suitcase was beside the bed. You must’ve landed only a short while ago. He told you to not even worry about today’s game because he was sure he’d win it. 

You must’ve heard the news. You didn’t run excitedly into his arms like you usually did. You just waited, messing with your hands as you looked to him.

Sungchan thought he was going to crawl on the floor to get to you. His feet turned to brick, scraping across the carpet to get to you. Your arms were wide-open and you closed half the distance. Sungchan instantly wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tight into him. He felt you squeeze and the rock came back. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Sungchan let it take over. Warm tears prickled his eyes then blurred his vision. He felt the warm trail down his face. He took in a pitiful breath that shook when he breathed it out. You looked up at him, sympathetic tears welling in your eyes. You blinked them away, reaching up to his face to collect his tears.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” you repeated.

Sungchan pulled you impossibly closer, feeling that sob rack through his body. You were quick to guide him to the edge of the bed. He sat down when he felt the bed touch the back of his leg. He let just enough space between his knees for you to slot in. One hand went to his shoulder, massaging the tension out while the other went to his hair. He was still a little damp, the indent of his hat still there. You smoothed it out again and again, rubbed gentle fingernails across his scalp just the way he liked. He breathed you in between desperate gulps of air, trying to calm himself.

“Let it all out,” you cooed.

Sungchan still kept his arms around you like you were going to disappear. He pressed his fingers into your back, desperate for proof that you were there. He remembers the look of defeat on his coaches face during that last water break. His teammates refused to look at him as they left the field.

Any words he tried to get out failed in his throat. His leg started becoming restless, already feeling the shame of his loss and crumbling like this. He was supposed to be captain. He was supposed to lead the helm, the voice of reason, a pillar. He was weak, crying in his hotel room clutching to you for dear life.

But you continued to soothe him. Tell him that you know and understand. You emphasized that he needed to let all of it out, even when the weeps turned to tiny hiccups and the tears finally subsided.

Just when Sungchan was starting to control it you used both of your hands to tilt his face upwards. He had seen that a few tears of your own had fallen, despite your voice remaining steady.

“This is your life. I understand that,” you searched his eyes and Sungchan felt the tears welling up again. He held onto your hips desperately, rubbing soothing circles like he was trying to calm himself through you. “please don’t blame yourself. You did everything you could. You gave it your all.”

“My all wasn’t enough,” Sungchan said.

“I’m so sorry,” you empathized, bringing his head back to rest against your stomach. “I watched the game on the plane. Everyone fought like Hell to advance.”

Sungchan couldn’t fault his team. They all gave it their best. South Korea cheered them on with everything. He felt their passion every game and through support online. Another wave hit him right in the chest. He closed his eyes tight and more tears streamed down his face.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be here for you earlier,” you cooed.

Sungchan tried to tell you it was okay, but the words caught in his throat. He just let tears escape while you rubbed your hands over his head. This comfort was enough. Knowing you wanted to be there for him helped, as much as it pained him that you watched the game.

You were between Sungchan’s legs stroking his hair for the better half of an hour. He talked through his frustrations of the game and with himself. You were there every sentence, listening and providing support. Eventually the tears faded, although they left his cheeks warm and the rest of his face flushed. There were still a few wet marks your thumbs and tissues missed. But Sungchan felt calmer, the strong emotions bubbling to something smaller. The disappointment was still there, but so were you. You said you were unbiased and that was the best game you had ever seen. Other people on the plane, who didn’t know who you were, shared the same sentiment. 

“No matter who they were cheering for, they couldn’t deny your passion,” you said while looking him in the eye. “they respected it. They said that was the whole point of the World Cup.”

Sungchan nodded his head and held your hand tight. He pressed his bitten lips to the back of your hand, giving you a sad smile when you wiped tears from your chin.

“In four years time, you’ll get another chance,” you assured.

Sungchan wasn’t sure if he deserved it. You seemed so sure it made him doubt himself even more. He kissed your wrist next, then the inside of your tricep. He made it to the inside of your elbow when you gently pulled away.

“Want to call it a night?” you asked.

Sungchan nodded his head. He was restless, whether it was from the adrenaline of crying or being with you again or needing comfort, he knew he wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon. He would definitely lay down with you though. He was already leaning back on the bed and opening his arms for you to join him when you backed away from the bed. He felt his chest tighten at the thought of you not joining him immediately. He must’ve showed it because you were instantly pointing towards the bathroom behind you.

“I just landed. I just have to change to something comfortable,” you said.

Sungchan was starting to get up from the bed. He loved watching you change. He needed to be close, but you were pressing hands to his shoulders to keep him close to the bed.

“I have to go to the bathroom, too.” Sungchan tried getting up from the bed again, but you pressed your hands to his shoulders again and laughed. “I’ll be right back,” you assured. “just try to relax.” 

Sungchan nodded his head and reluctantly watched you back away from him. You turned on your heel, grabbed something next to the swan he didn’t see and made a crooked path for the restroom. You made a pit-stop on the way there, but Sungchan wasn’t sure what it was. He was too drained to think. He stayed in the spot you left him, only turning to his side to face the swan.

Sungchan laid on the bed running his fingers over the folded wings of the towel-dove. He thought about the effort that went into it. How much practice did it take? How many times did the maid fail before it came out perfect? He pinched the wing and bent it. When he let go it went back to being perfectly upright. He saw the note that you took with you into the restroom. He imagined you were tearing it up into little pieces to flush down the toilet. He didn’t want pity, he just wanted to apologize. He was going to say it until his voice gave out.

The bathroom door cracked open and Sungchan moved up to sit on the edge of the bed. He was right next to the perfect dove, trying to figure out what to say to you after he lost. He didn’t want to know if you watched the game. He knew you came here expecting to spend time in this city thinking he’d win. He rubbed the bottom of his palm over his heart soothingly.

Sungchan watched the door open further and the light shut off. He saw the door open even wider, and he pressed his feet to the ground. Before he could get up from the imperfection he made in the duvet you came out. He was frozen as you came to view, emerging from the dark of the bathroom into the dim lighting of the bedroom.

You walked up to him in his uniform. You repped his country, the red and elements of white against your skin. The arm sleeves coming down, the shorts around your waist too. His lips parted. He wanted to close the distance between the two of you but he was frozen. He was dumbfounded as you came closer, playful smile on your lips.

“I grabbed your bag and you didn’t even notice,” you said playfully.

Sungchan slowly shook his head. He didn’t notice. He didn’t know you were in there getting ready for him. He didn’t know how seeing you in the uniform made the loss not seem so apocalyptic. He found himself almost smiling with you, before the severity of the situation brought him back. But he was restless again. Not in the way he was after the loss, but how he felt kissing up your arm a few minutes ago. He was getting close to comfort, and now his comfort was wearing his greatest burden. The uniform didn’t weigh down on you at all. You stood giggling with that captain armband staring right back at him. 

Sungchan sank from the corner of the bed until he was on his knees in front of you. You didn’t understand the severity in the situation. You were still smiling when you playfully flexed in the uniform

“What do you think?” you asked. “I think I’m ready for the team.”

“Captain,” Sungchan’s perspective of you changed as he slowly sank to his knees. “my captain,” he repeated.

Sungchan watched you smile even bigger. You looked proud. He imagined your face smiling when you’d secure the win easily.

“I was afraid wearing this might make you feel bad,” you admitted.

Sungchan shook his head so fast his hair moved too. His shirt went down to your mid-thigh, he knew his shorts were hanging loose on your waist. He saw his number across your chest, hovering above your knee. You smelled like him, the sweat mixing with you. He pushed his face forward, nose pressing into your stomach as he breathed it all in. He felt your stomach tighten from a laugh as one hand went to his shoulder and the other to the crown of his head. Sungchan turned his face to press his cheek into your stomach. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close, interlocking his fingers right underneath your ass to keep you there. He felt lulled by the vibrations of your quiet laugh as it went through the silent room.

“I smell that bad?” you asked.

Sungchan looked up at you shook his head. He was sure his eyes were still bleary because the playfulness turned soft. You rubbed his warm cheek and he leaned into your touch.

“You make the smell good,” he said. The words took awhile to register to you both. He was still recovering from his lack of air  when he swallowed spit gathering in his mouth. “I like seeing you wear this.”

“I’m glad,” you separated from him enough to do a little twirl. Then you posed with your fists balled on your hips and one of your legs bent at the knee. “put me in coach,” you said.

Sungchan leaned back on his haunches and put his hands on his knees. He rubbed them in a small motion up and down. Adrenaline has been coursing through his body on and off all day. For the nth time it was climbing again.

“Show me again baby,” he said quietly.

Sungchan watched you tilt your head playfully before you repeated the motion, spinning around just for him. He watched the captains band on your bicep disappear then come back into view. 

You looked back at him and he reached a hand towards you. Instead of pulling your body towards his he lifted the bottom of his jersey. He lifted the red and white, lifting and lifting until he finally saw your bare skin. He twisted the fabric in his hands until red and white swirled between his knuckles. He tugged at the jersey, not you. He let go and watched it fall on your body again, talking up so much of you. Sungchan’s whole body shook as warmth flooded one part of his body.

He was fixed on your stomach when your hand went underneath his chin. He left his head be tilted upwards, even though you only applied the smallest amount of force.

Sungchan locked eyes with you. The dark room behind you made you appear in a void, the dim bedside lamp made the carnality soft.

“We can fuck like you won,” you say gently. 

Sungchan shivers again as your index finger ran over his lip. He tasted dried sweat and could smell the grass on your hand. He closed his eyes and breathed it in. He was on the field today as a leader. He failed. The armband was too tight on his arm. He kept messing with it the entire match. But when he opens his eyes and follows your hand up it seems to fit you just right.

“You’re the captain,” he said.

His voice was weaker than he expected. He sank a little deeper too, he lost his perfect posture. He saw your smile, then in a split second it turned to a slight pout. You nodded, and Sungchan mirrored you without a second thought. He felt his eyes droop further from the disappointment. His eyelashes were still wet, he could feel them momentarily clump together each time he blinked. 

You pulled your hand away from his face and he followed. His whole body tilted forward after your touch. When he saw your hands go to the bottom of the jersey he shook his head.

“Keep it on,” Sungchan had the bass back in his voice as he looked from the arm band to you. He was panicked and crawled forward to stroke your ankles gently. “please,” he begged.

You let go of the shirt and let it fall back down your body. When the jersey went back you went down too, until you were eye level with Sungchan. He was starting to get teary holding his eyes open in an effort to not blink. 

Your hand went back to his face, but you didn’t stroke his chin or gently touch his lips. You clutched his face with your hands, applying force until his lips puckered. 

“I thought I was the captain?” you asked.

Sungchan tried telling you that you were the captain, but his words couldn’t be enunciated. There was a string of sound, then he felt your hand manually nod his head. He did it on his own volition. His fingernails were dragging against the carpet as he lowered himself even closer to the floor. He ended up on his hands and knees while you went back to standing straight. He tilted his head up only slightly, just enough to see your hands slip underneath the jersey. He could see the indent of your hands through the fabric as they were to the hiked waistband. He could see your thumbs tuck underneath it, then the shimmy in your hip as you pushed them down.

There wasn’t much needed for the shorts to pool at your feet. They were made to be loose, and you stepped out of them like they were nothing. Your bare thighs were exposed, the large jersey being your only form of cover. Sungchan followed the trail of skin as high as it could go, until it was cut off at your mid-thigh by the bottom hem. He debated sinking lower to the ground just to take a glance underneath. Even a shadowy peak would be enough. 

Before he could get any lower you moved your finger in a circle.

“On your back,” you said gently.

Sungchan didn’t need to be told again. He was on his back on the floor in seconds, already prepping himself. He knew what came next. He wet his lips, he flexed his hands at his side. Sungchan watched you lift the bottom of the jersey like it was a dress before you faced the bathroom door.

“Remember the safe word?” you asked.

Red Card—of course.

“I remember,” he said quickly.

You looked down at him with an incredulous look. You laughed a little before putting your feet on either side of his head.

“Very eager Sungchan,” you tsked.

He nodded while looking up at your sex. The air in the room made the hem of the jersey blow. You held it open enough for him to see and you lowered yourself to your knees.

Sungchan was tented underneath the canopy of the jersey. He saw the light from the bedside lamp and something else as you sank down. The tent closed in the smell of you waiting all day for him and the dried sweat from playing. He already had his hands pressed into the top part of your thigh. He was so desperate his fingers dimpled your skin, but he did not pull. He was there as a guide, a support to his captain. He guided you where you go, but he let it come at your pace. No matter how slow, he was already pressing hopelessly against the fabric of his pants when he felt your thighs press against his head. 

There was no light underneath the cover of the jersey. Sungchan was operating on instinct and touch. When he felt wet pressure against his chin he did all the work. His hands went to the underside of your thigh and lifted slightly up. He shimmied his body down to accommodate, he stuck out his tongue quickly to gauge where he was. When he tasted you his hands went back to where they were before, and he waisted as you lowered yourself again.

He was lifting his head off the ground before you pressed to his lips. He groaned out and you let more of your weight rest on him. He took all of it, he urged you to lay even more of it on him. He kept you suspended to lick you top to bottom. He felt you shiver above him. You were reaching for the wooden corner of the bed for stability. Sungchan couldn’t see but he could hear nails scraping against wood. He kept licking, needing you to fill his mouth and coat his tongue before he could keep going.

He prodded your entrance with his tongue and you gasped. He did it again and again, just to feel your little twitches and hear your sounds. Sungcahn let you rest on his face so he could focus on your clit. He was operating in complete darkness, but he knew his way around. He latched his lips to your slit quickly, sucking and flicking gently with his tongue.

Then, he saw the light. You pulled up the bottom of his jersey, quickly. Sungchan had to adjust to the light but he didn’t stop. He was happy to see you so visually wrecked in such a short amount of time. You were already trying to hold back little thrusts, tilting your head to the side as you looked down at him.

“So good for me, Channie,” you praised.

He was too needy right now. He was liable to cum in his pants from the sweet nicknames and the praise. He could barely handle having you like this in your civilian clothes. Now you were dressed like him, biting the fabric of the jersey to keep yourself from recklessly riding his face.

He wanted you to let go. He didn’t mind if you put him on medical leave for a season or two. He believes it’d be worth it. He would without the red card, not stopping until his captain was spent. He could already see your stomach tensing from how close you were to doing it. Sungchan mumbled around your clit. You ran a free hand through his hair splayed out in a soft heap around his head. You casted a glance behind you. Sungchan sucked a little harder. He needed your complete attention

“Take your dick out,” you say.

He hesitated for a moment. What was supposed to be a relief felt like a punishment. You seemed unforgiving for something he wasn’t sure he was doing wrong. But he knew he had to do what you said.

He moved one arm to splay across your thighs to keep you in place while the other hand goes to his jeans. He undoes the button and pulls down the zipper with just one hand. He only cared to push his jeans the minimum amount before letting his dick spring free. It barely had time to smack his stomach before he wrapped his large hand around it. 

He kept it there, holding the root with a decent grip. He focused on letting a tongue full of spit make a mess on your cunt. He made the executive decision to use his hand that was holding you in place down to your clit. 

You sighed and motioned gently towards his dick.

“Jerk off for me,” you said.

Once again, a reward that felt like discipline. He almost struggled to focus on you both. But you were watching to make sure he stroked himself the right way. He felt obligated to take time with himself and you. Only when he picked up the speed did you stop looking behind you to look at him again.

Sungchan looked at you looking down at him. Jersey between your teeth and a hand gripping your chest. Your eyes were unforgiving, so was the bite in your orders. Sungchan was breathing through his nose but was barely getting enough air from the excitement. Each inhale brought more of you in, making the air in the room seem thin. 

He was good at following orders. When you mumbled faster behind the bitten fabric he understood perfectly. His lips were already suctioned around your nub, tongue flicking the sensitive skin. He knew that you meant for his hand to go faster, because you were grinding on his face taking what you wanted at your own pace. He detached from your clit and let your grind against his tongue and lips. Each drag of your hips ended when his nose would bump into your engorged clit. He was happy to see you finally start to twitch, he was doing his job. His hand moving fast was no longer enough. He planted his feet to the ground and thrusted into his hand.

Whatever he did to himself didn’t matter, he was going to get there regardless. Sungchan was dangerously close because you were, too. Your body was beginning to shake, the fierce look in your eyes melted into something weaker. You tilted your head back. The ball of jersey in your mouth was a muzzle now, holding back the sounds you were making from going into the neighboring rooms. Sungchan was making noises of his own, vibrations were absorbed by your skin and noises were muffled into your sex.

You reached a hand back and it landed on his flexed thigh. His strength kept you upright and locked onto his mouth, and he was fucking his hand feeling the coil about to snap. He just needed to see your face. Seeing your stomach move from the grinding was sexy, but he needed to see your face. He needed to know that he was good at listening to his captain, getting you where you needed to go. 

Your head finally looked down at him again. Sungchan felt it coming when your hand went to pinching your sensitive nipple. He could see it peaking through the shirt and you grabbed it perfectly, stroking the erect nub between your fingers.

Right when your sounds started getting higher he felt you rise. He let out a loud, pitiful sound, and had a knee jerk reaction to lock you in place by the arm across your thighs. You rose too fast though, leaving Sungchan with a wet face and chasing after your cunt. His hand was still wrapped around his dick but his legs melted back to the floor. The crash from a near-orgasm was intense, leaving him cold and breathing heavy.

He was only upset that you were the same way. You let the jersey fall back down your body as you looked around the room quickly. You were lost, Sungchan wanted to tell you what the correct play was. But he remembered that you were the captain, and a moment later you were pushing the perfect dove off the bed and climbing onto the mattress. It landed to the floor with a dull thud as you pointed to the headrest. Sungchan was already moving to sit up, wincing at how sensitive he was all over.

“On the bed,” you said quickly, wiping sweat from your forehead. “lean against the headboard.”

Sungchan got up quick, getting ready to climb on the bed. Before he could you put a hand up. He froze in the middle of his action, looking to you immediately. He was sweating seeing the wild look in your eyes, going over what you said to make sure he didn’t mishear anything.

“Take your clothes off first,” you said.

He was so quick taking off his clothes he scratched himself. The scratches along his side throbbed and then a small scratch throbbed down his thigh. He was kicking off his pants, tearing off his socks and throwing them somewhere. 

He was sitting against the headboard, spread out with his heavy dick resting upright against his abs. He had been leaking since the start. His hand was sticky when he balled it into a fist. He felt it rubbing against the sheets, and now he felt the cooling precum against his abs. He was twitching, his whole body was. You were perched in front of him so perfect, your jersey showing your hardened nipples again.

“Baby,” Sungchan whimpered. 

You refused to move. You raised an eyebrow at him, and Sungchan felt the heat fan across his entire body.

“Captain,” he said. He twitched against his stomach and felt his body lean into the headboard. “please.”

That made you move. You stood on your knees and crawled over to him. Your two hands picked up the bottom hem of your jersey, letting Sungchan take the peak. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from your face. You were half-lidded, so warm Sungchan could tell just from looking at you. He was enamored, he could see that you were too. He brought his legs close together whenever your knees straddled his feet. When the fabric grazed against his calves he finally looked down. He let out a whimper beyond his control, reaching out a hand that just ended up falling to the mattress. 

You were even slower walking up his body. Sungchan was forced to grab the. sheets and watch you. Each new indent in the mattress made Sungchan twitch uncontrollably, or let out a sound that was close to a whine. You took it all in stride, not changing speed or giving him something to do to occupy himself.

“Is this what a captain does?” you asked.

Your knees were pressed against his thighs. You were so close to straddling him. You rested your weight on his thighs, Sungchan felt your hot and wet cunt against his muscle. He looked down trying to get a visual but all the was was your jersey pooling over both of your legs.

“Hello?” you asked.

Sungchan blinked several times and brought his gaze back up to you.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly.

“Is this what a captain does?” you ask.

Sungchan nods his head. He slowly brings a hand to rest on your covered thigh, half scared you’ll smack his hand away.

“Yes,” he says. He strokes your skin over your jersey, trying to subtly coax you to continue your way up. “You’re such a good captain.”

Sungchan feels your hips jerk the smallest amount over his thigh. He flexes the muscle.

“Not as good as you,” you say.

Your hip flicks again and you put your hand over his. Sungchan feels you thread your fingers through his. He squeezes to let you know he feels it. But he shakes his head regardless. He knows that he isn’t the captain his team needed. He failed, he couldn’t lead them to victory. You could, the armband fit around you perfectly. Sungchan looks down to your hand over his. You command him so well. He doesn’t know if he could command a room the same way you did.

You squeeze his hand tighter. Sungchan feels your hand caress his cheek gently making him look at you. That gentle look is back. He likes the pity, that you seem truly sorry for him. From you, that’s something he can accept. He finds himself thriving on it. He has your attention but he also needs it elsewhere. He knows he is too selfish to be captain when he wraps his warm hand around his dick. He watches the pity in your eyes fade as you look down. Sungchan watches you watching his hand. He pumps himself, he squeezes around the tip once he makes his way up. He pushes his dick between the gap of his index and middle finger. His head lulls against the headboard when he does it again. He watches you lick your lips and does it faster, until a fresh bead of precum appears.

“Captain,” Sungchan whispers.

He thinks he could cum like this. He goes over you in your jersey again. He will cum like this. 

“Captain,” he whimpers. “please.”

He bites his lip. He reaches forward with his other hand and folds your jersey. He sees your bare cunt and the mess you leave on his thigh. He prays the fabric stays where he leaves it and goes back to gripping your thigh. He pulls you in slightly by the hold. He is grateful you give in. You continue to come closer, you even hold your jersey up so he can see your pussy. 

He strokes himself slower, and when you finally get close enough he guides you up by your thigh. You’re hovering right over him, your hands go to his shoulders. The fabric falls but Sungchan just looks at you. You look at him so tenderly, massaging his shoulders gently.

You sink down at the right spend. He needed it slow, to ground himself again and to feel it all. The moment of resistance as you sank lower. He bumped your clit but he corrected it immediately.  He prodded your entrance and you kept going lower. You sucked him in, your walls warm and pulsing from riding his face. Sungchan’s hands went to your hips when you had taken enough of him. He was gripping you for dear life, he knew he’d be leaving bruises underneath your jersey. Your mouth was still slightly open as you took all of him. When he was fully inside he pressed his forehead to your chest. He pulled you close by your hips, and you wrapped your arms around him.

You two were like that for a while. You pulsing around him, Sungchan twitching inside of you. He liked being connected, he liked having you close and you scratching his scalp. For the second time tonight you brought him so much comfort, and he felt the tears threatening to come out again. 

“I feel so good,” he murmured.

He meant it in every sense of the word. He guided your hips to grind against him just to feel you squeeze around him. Your body didn’t want him to move either. You wanted him to stay sheathed, not pulling out an inch. When he even tried to life you  he felt the panic across your body. He didn’t want to part either. He wanted to be close in this way, he wanted to feel himself inside of you and he wanted to keep it that way.

“I feel good too,” you say.

You start massaging his scalp again. He nestles further into your warmth and your smells mingling together.

Sungchan feels you begin your small grinds. They’re erratic, varying in speed and length. The only thing that is consistent is that you don’t lift your hips. You only grind, if anything you try to press deeper.

“You need it like this, right?” you ask.

Sungchan nods his head against your chest. 

“Look at me, Sungchan,” you command.

Instantly he’s pointing his head upwards. He’s still leaned against your shirt and your chest. He knows he looks pathetic. He can nearly see himself in the reflection of your blown out eyes. He revels in it. Knowing you are seeing him like this makes him throb inside of you, and you’re digging your nails into his back.

“I can feel you,” you say. Sungchan feels your hand tug slightly at his hair. “I can feel you getting even harder.”

“I can’t help it,” he confesses.

“I know,” you coo and pat his head. He feels his eyebrows press together like he’s worried. “I like it. The captain likes it,” you stutter.

Sungchan wheezes out a breath. He throbs again and both of you lull your heads back. Sungchan watches your grinds and you look at him sideways, biting your lip. He knows you want to say something. Your hand in his hair was soothing again and your grinds were  gentle and slow.

“They made you captain but you’re still young,” you said. “one of the youngest on the team.”

You weren’t lying. Sungchan was the third youngest on the team. It was his first time competing in the World Cup. He never had so much pressure on him in his life. He gripped your waist harder, helping your movements stay consistent.

“I have so much to learn,” he said.

“We all do,” you assured.

Sungchan nodded. He you let out a tiny gasp when he flicked his hips to meet yours. He held you and did the same movement again. You struggled to keep eye contact, he saw you fight the urge to close your eyes and ride it out.

“But that doesn’t make you a bad captain,” you continued. Sungchan felt you alternate between gripping his hair to steady yourself and smoothing out the strands to comfort him. “just makes you a captain who’s learning.”

Sungchan looks down where you two meet. He won’t last long like this.

“I lost the game,” he groans.

“It is not on your shoulders alone.” you said. “How can you be a good captain if you can’t show your team how to bounce back?” you ask.

Sungchan can’t think properly. Everything is filled with you, the grass stain on the chest of his jersey and the feeling of you around him. The mattress creaks underneath you when the movements become more desperate. 

“You have four years to train,” you say, going even faster. “come back next time and win it all.”

Sungchan nods his head. He continues to flick his hips in tandem of yours.

“I can’t,” he says.

You pull on his hair and he hisses from the pain. You get rougher with him and add the tiniest lift to your hips. The wet sound fills the hotel room. Sungchan bites his lip to stop the sounds from tumbling out. With the grip you have on his hair you force him to look at you.

“You will,” you command. “you’ll do it as captain too.”

He can’t help that you’re persuasive. He’s nodding along with you, helping you lift off his hips just to come right down. There’s so much wet between the two of you he’s sure everything will be ruined. That doesn’t stop him and it seems to push you to keep going. Sungchan’s thighs are a wet mess and stick to yours as you two keep going.

There are no more words that are exchanged. Sungchan knows what this was, and he does feel healed. He needs to finally catch the feeling he’s been chasing for the past hour. He goes deeper and deeper inside of you, and your body tries desperately to keep him in place. Sungchan feels like he’s being drained and he hasn’t even given you anything yet.

The wet and lewd sounds fill the room. Words of affirmations are replaced with tiny gasps and the sound of lips connecting. Sungchan sticks his tongue in your mouth and when you start sucking he feels the tension building up. One hand leaves your hips and goes underneath his jersey. He rubs on your clit, just the way his captain showed him. 

You break apart to put your head in his shoulder.

“So close,” you whimper. 

Sungchan nods against your head. His other hand wraps around your body, keeping you close. He continues with the revolutions, looking at your face. He can tell your close, he can feel the came before the storm inside of you. Sungchan bites his lip in concentration.

“Cum for me, baby,” he says.

As if that pulled you out of your stupor you snap out of the haze. You start grinding against him again, and your hand stopped pulling so hard at his scalp.

“You gotta cum for me, remember?” you asked.

Sungchan didn’t stand a chance. Hearing you try to hold onto your dominance through a cracked voice made him finish abruptly. He emptied inside of you, coming out in endless spurts. He felt relaxed, his hand leaving your clit to hold onto your body roughly. His jersey twisted in his hands as he moaned, feeling your walls spasm around him perfectly. He was so snug he knew you felt it. 

Sungchan was slouched against the bed frame, eyes already threatening to close when he felt your hips move again. His eyes shot open and he shook his head. You nodded and continued the heavy grinds. You were fully rocking into him causing the bed creaks to sway with you. You were at the helm. Sungchan held onto you out of necessity. He was crying out, body still slouched and lethargic against the headboard. He just whimpered, trying to tell you please stop. The pain hurt so good, he could barely open his eyes through the sensitivity. His shaking hand found your clit, rubbing tight circles while you panted above him.

“That’s right,” you breathed. “I’m so close.”

He was lucky you came shortly after. Your walls closed around him again, which made a few more dribbles of cum seep from your cunt. Sungchan wasn’t sure if he shot blanks or if it was real. He couldn’t piece a full action together. He brought his hands to your waist, but instead of guiding you off of him they stayed there, rubbing tiny shapes. It was you who laughed above him and moved off. You were the one who moved him so he was laying properly on the bed. His chest was still heaving when you settled in the crook of his arm, placing gentle kisses to his cheeks.

“I’m really proud of you, Sungchan,” you said between kisses. “making it this far is a feat in and of itself.”

Sungchan sleepily nodded his head. He was going to tell you in the morning how grateful he was. But the entire day caught up to him at once, and he felt that tight feeling in his chest go away. His eyelids were already heavy before you placed gentle kisses over them. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stay awake for much longer.

“Love you, captain.” he whispered, pulling you closer.