RINNIE🤍

⊹₊⟡⋆Mingi

⊹₊⟡⋆Wooyoung

⊹₊⟡⋆Jongho

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The worst part was that none of these rules came from his father — a man who, at first glance, seemed exactly like the kind of parent who'd enforce discipline, high standards, high expectations, strict curfews, and strict grades. Except he wasn’t.

These rules came from you, his older sister. Scratch that — his terrifying older sister that’s also been known as a heinous bitch. You somehow managed to be nineteen years old and forty-seven years old at the same time, right after hearing Beyonce talk about girls running the world, and ultimately decided to make it your entire personality.

You remembered appointments, you knew where every important document in the house was, you made sure groceries appeared in the fridge, and you knew the hardware store. That was a good thing, especially since your Mother is a long story and has been gone from the picture since you turned eleven. It should be a good thing, because while your father forgot that he was meant to be a parent, you managed to step into the role for the then nine-year-old boy. 

The bad part was that you also happened to be ruining his life. 

"Don’t drink." you state.

Riki looks up from his phone, brows furrowed and eyes wide with confusion. "Why?"

You roll your eyes. "Because you're seventeen."

He stands up, his hands raised in even more confusion. "So are half the people going!"

You didn't even look up from your laptop, just continued on with your academic duties as the poster-child and perfect student you exactly are. Everything that Riki isn’t (he doesn’t give a fuck, he’s actually glad he isn’t as tense as you are). "Be home by ten."

He groans. "It's a party." 

You narrow your gaze at him. "Then leave at nine-thirty."

He had barely been there twenty minutes before somebody handed him a drink and accepted it immediately. He didn't even know what was in it, but it was blue and it was something that would give you an MI, which practically made every sense for him to take it. 

A hand suddenly smacked the back of his head. "Ow — what the fuck?!"

Riki turned around to find Jay looking unimpressed and clearly annoyed, arms crossed like he was already embodying your spirit for you. “Your sister would freak the fuck out if she saw you.” he says.

Riki scoffs, shaking his head before taking more sips. “Good thing she isn’t here.”

“Wow, someone’s bold.” Jungwon snickers.

Sunoo lets out a laugh from where he's leaning against the counter. “I can already count the amount of times she’ll call me tonight because you won’t be answering your phone.”

The worst part was that none of them were exaggerating. Most people heard the words overprotective older sister and pictured somebody mildly annoying that decided the takeouts. You were something else entirely, you were a mean person with good intentions, who treated Riki like a highly intelligent houseplant that couldn't be trusted unsupervised. Which, admittedly, was only a little unfair.

Jake looks significantly less invested in the conversation than everyone else, which makes sense considering he'd never actually met you before. He knew who you were, obviously. He had seen you around school a handful of times, though only in fragments, passing through hallways with your books tucked against your chest, standing behind podiums during assembly speeches, moving through student events with a clipboard in hand, and occasionally appearing in Riki’s house whenever his friends came over, though never long enough for Jake to understand what everyone meant when they talked about you like you were a natural disaster.

You didn’t hover during those visits, maybe because Riki was already home and therefore safely within the borders of your net, which meant Jake never had any firsthand evidence of the so-called atrocity people kept describing, no grand personal encounter with the hornless devil of a woman they swore you were. To him, you were just Riki’s older sister, put-together, sharper than most people, and clearly the kind of girl who knew how to keep things from falling apart.

He shrugs as if the entire conversation had been blown wildly out of proportion. “Honestly, she can’t be that bad.”

They all try and fail to hide the biggest smiles, until Riki finally let out a laugh so unhinged it sounded like Jake had just said the stupidest thing ever invented. “You’ve never met her, then.”

Jake frowned. “I mean, she just sounds responsible.”

That only made the laughter worse, because how exactly did someone describe you without sounding dramatic? How did anyone explain a girl who could build furniture, schedule doctor’s appointments, cook dinner, maintain perfect grades, and still somehow have enough energy left to lecture her younger brother about road safety, curfew, peer pressure, and why riding in a car with anyone named Jay was apparently a preventable tragedy? 

“She’s like…” Riki started, then stopped, because there genuinely wasn’t a normal word for you, only some abstract painting of red and black, wrathful but organized, terrifying but color-coded.

Jay stepped in with both hands raised, like he was trying to translate a myth. “Imagine your mom, but if she had anxiety.”

“And a planner,” Riki added immediately, “and a superiority complex, and an attitude, and the ability to track your location and all your friends’ locations. She has everyone’s number saved, too, just so she can call around and make sure I’m actually where I said I was.”

Riki smiles though, because the way Jake shrugs it off and doesn’t think you’re that bad makes a terrible idea begin forming in his head. If he felt that way about you, maybe some things could be arranged. 

The thing was, if anyone could survive you, it would probably be Jake. He was patient enough, he was also the kind of person teachers liked, parents trusted, classmates voted for, and strangers somehow ended up telling their life stories because he was just so easy-going. He was responsible enough to get good grades without making it his entire personality.

It was weird how the two of you had somehow never interacted despite orbiting the same school, same academic events, same kind of reputation, and yet somehow the universe had kept you separated for years. Now potentially united because of a very dumb idea.

Riki takes another sip of his drink while the idea starts taking shape. If Jake was as patient as he seemed, maybe he could handle you, if Jake could handle you, maybe he could distract you, and if somebody distracted you — Riki's life would finally begin.

Riki clears his throat, staring directly at Jake, with the kind of focus that makes Jake slowly lower his cup and narrow his eyes in suspicion.

"Why are you looking at me like tha —"

“Have you ever considered dating my sister?”

Jake simply stares, because a question that insane and honest has never landed on him before. The more Riki thinks about it, the better the idea becomes, which is unfortunate for everyone in the room because his expression slowly shifts from impulsive desperation to genuine, terrifying conviction. 

“No.”

“Why not?” Riki asks, genuinely offended, like Jake is the unreasonable one here.

Jake looks at him as if he has lost his mind. “Because she’s your sister.”

Riki waves a hand, dismissing the concern as if family relation is just a minor technicality on a form. “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”

Jake shakes his head, “What?”

“Take her out,” Riki repeats, slower this time, like Jake is the one struggling with basic comprehension. “Dinner, coffee, whatever girls like. Somewhere outside the house where she can’t govern my life.”

And for all the ridiculousness of the conversation, something in his face turns a little more serious. “Look, she’s always busy. Always. If she’s not studying, she’s doing house stuff, and if she’s not doing house stuff, she’s worrying about me, and ruining my life. Anyway, I think she needs to go outside and be a normal nineteen-year-old.”

“I’m not dating your sister because you want fewer curfew checks,” Jake says, though his voice has lost some of its earlier horror.

Riki stares at him for a long second, and whatever dignity he has left seems to lose the fight somewhere between desperation and the thought of another month spent being interrogated. So he will compensate. “Okay, fine,” he sighs, “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks weekly,”  

Unfortunately, the offer is not completely ridiculous in the financial sense. Your father might have forgotten how to parent somewhere along the way, but he had certainly remembered how to compensate for it by making sure money was never a scarce resource in the household. You're both pretty spoiled.

Jake was not desperate, of course, and he was not exactly suffering in the financial department either, because the Sim family had enough money for philanthropy. He did not need a hundred bucks a week, did not need to be paid to sit across from a girl at dinner, and definitely did not need to accept what was less like a favor and more like an internship. Still, there was something almost offensively easy about the idea of it — a challenge.

The proposition is ridiculous, the girl in question sounds even more ridiculous, and yet the more Riki talks about you, the more Jake finds himself wondering what kind of person could make everyone so terrified.

Jake exhales slowly, then shakes his head like he is disappointed in himself before finishing the rest of his drink. “When do I start?”

By the time the party began thinning out and people started calling rides home, Riki had graduated from slightly irresponsible to actively incapable of functioning like a normal human being. By his fifth blue drink, he started a speech about oppression that was very clearly about you and was dangerously starting to sound like a prick to the hard-earned established feminism that Jungwon had to cover his mouth. Jake was also unfortunately present for all of it, because he has to drive Riki home.

"You're a good man, Jake."

"I'm aware."

"No, like, a really good man."

"Thank you."

"The best."

Jake adjusts his grip on him, while Riki is leaning heavily against his shoulder, forcing most of his weight onto the former as they make their way up the front path of your house. Every few seconds he stumbles, nearly dragging both of them into the bushes.

"You know what my problem is?" Riki asks. "My sister."

Like he managed to summon you with a single call, the front door opens. And for the first time in his life, Jake finally sees you and not as a passing figure. The first thing he noticed was that you looked nothing like the distant, polished version of yourself he had seen around school. Those glimpses had always been quick and incomplete, a neat figure behind a podium during assemblies with your hair done properly and your expression fixed into something polite enough. Standing on your front porch at midnight, however, your hair loose, a few loose strands escaping around your face, and you're in sleeping clothes. The porch light caught the irritation on your face clearly, and you exactly had a face that looked like it had been designed to ruin a person’s confidence.

Your gaze landed on Riki first, and whatever thin thread of patience you had left snapped immediately. “You’re dead.” you said, voice flat enough. 

Riki, drunk and useless, pointed at you before looking back at Jake. “See?”

Jake could see, yes, but not exactly what everyone else seemed to see.

“I told you not to drink,” you said, already stepping forward.

“Technically,” Riki started. “You said I couldn’t drink too much, and I think —”

“No.”

Riki shut his mouth, which Jake found impressive considering he had spent the entire car ride arguing. You reached them and immediately took over, not gently, but not aggressively either. One second Jake was supporting most of Riki’s weight, and the next you had somehow taken your brother’s arm, and dragged it over your shoulder.

“You are seventeen years old,” you muttered. “Seventeen. Not grown enough to survive every stupid decision your friends encourage.”

Riki groaned and sagged against you, deciding, with the cruelty only younger brothers possessed, to become completely boneless. You nearly stumbled beneath his weight, and your annoyance sharpened so visibly that Jake almost took half a step back. “Stand properly,” you snapped. “I swear to God, Riki.”

“Uh,” Jake said, because apparently he was articulate, just not under porch lights and direct eye contact.

You paused, like you had forgotten he was there, then turned your head just enough to look at him. “What?”

“I can help.” The words left his mouth before he could fully decide whether he meant them, and for the first time that night, your attention shifted from Riki to him.

It lasted maybe two seconds, three if he was being generous, but it was enough for Jake to finally get a proper look at you and realize, with a strange and deeply inconvenient sense of betrayal, that nobody had mentioned the tyrant had pretty eyes. 

You looked at him like he was another problem that had arrived, taking in his face, his clothes, and his car behind him. Your expression did not soften, in fact, it became even more unimpressed. “No,” you said. “I’ve got him,”

You turned away before he could say anything else. The door closed a moment later, leaving Jake alone on the porch with the cool night air, and the silence of having been dismissed by a girl who had barely given him enough time to become charming.

For several seconds, he just stared at the closed door. 

That was it? That was his grand introduction to the infamous sister everyone had sworn was some terrible, unbearable monster? He had spent the entire night hearing stories about you, had driven your drunk brother home, had offered to help, and all he got in return was a death sentence aimed at Riki, two seconds of eye contact, and a rejection so cold.

Wow. Okayyy.

You’re sitting alone beneath one of the trees lining the courtyard, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, a planner open on your lap. Your attention is fixed on whatever system of color-coding you have, your neat cursive filling the page in careful lines. Even from across the courtyard, you look overwhelming. The Miu Miu loafers, the Bottega Veneta resting beside you, like you were deliberately trying to repel anyone who didn’t belong in the same tax bracket as your family.

Jake walks over easily, casually, friendly in the way he usually is without trying.

“Hey.”

You look up, not startled nor pleased, just disturbed. He smiles automatically, the kind people return before they even realize they’re doing it, because he has the sort of face that makes friendliness look charming instead of invasive. Your eyes move from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes, slow and blatantly judgmental, before returning to his face.

He waits, yet you close your planner, stand up, pick up your bag, and leave.

For a second, he just stands there while every gear in his brain grinds to a halt. Nobody has ever dismissed him that cleanly and efficiently, like he had been a minor scheduling conflict you decided to remove from your day. Obviously, he follows. You hear his footsteps behind you but you don’t react, your pace remains even, your expression unchanged, and by the time he catches up beside you, you still don’t give him so much as a glance.

“So that’s how this is gonna be?” he asks, amused despite himself. “You pretending you don’t hear me?”

You finally look over briefly. “Hi.”

Jake practically lights up at that; his smile widening, eyes brightening like he has just won something ridiculous, considering all you did was say hi. Still, he takes it as progress, watching your profile as you keep walking with your attention already returned to your planner. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you remember me?”

That barely gets your attention. “Yes, Jake Sim,” you say, your voice stays perfectly even. “You’re one of Riki’s friends.”

The answer comes instantly, and Jake has no idea why you saying his name feels satisfying. “So you do know me.”

You only look back down at your planner as he flashes another smile, the one that usually makes people start talking, or laughing, or tucking their hair behind their ear because what is anyone supposed to do with all of Jake Sim’s attention? Unfortunately, you aren’t looking at him at all.

He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Have you always been this friendly?”

“No.”

He frowns. “So it’s personal.”

“No.”

Before he can decide whether to be offended or impressed, you push open the door to a classroom. He follows one step too close, only for you to stop at the threshold and turn around, leaving him outside. Your eyes land on him properly, sharp and unreadable, and his thoughts stumble over themselves for half a second.

“What exactly do you need?” you ask. Your tone is calm, but somehow it feels like an insult wearing perfume.

Technically speaking, he needs nothing. This becomes obvious the longer he stands there saying absolutely nothing, and from the way your eyes narrow, you reach the same conclusion at the exact same time. “If you’re looking for assistance regarding academics, facilities, or student concerns,” you say politely, “I suggest you start by talking to a member of the student body.”

He opens his mouth, but you continue before he can speak. “Although,” you add, giving him one last slow once-over, “the nurse’s building might be more appropriate.”

For a second, Jake genuinely cannot tell if you’re joking.

You are not. You offer him the smallest smile imaginable, neither warm nor friendly, but decorative at best. Then you shut the door directly in his face — which, for the record, is the second time you have done that since he met you. He stands there, staring at the wood, while inside the classroom he can already hear you speaking to someone else in a perfectly normal voice, as if he had never existed at all.

Jake spots you three days later in the library, clearly because he was looking, but this time he has a plan, and for some reason, he still believes plans work on you.

Afternoon sunlight slips through the tall windows and stretches across the desks in pale strips, and Jake finds you near the history section, seated at a wide table with your laptop open and your papers arranged so neatly. Your curls are pinned back from your face, loose pieces framing your cheeks, your eyeshadow soft and precise in a way that makes you look even more put together. You are highlighting something when he sees you, chin resting lightly on your hand, completely absorbed and completely unreachable.

Naturally, he walks straight toward you. The chair across from yours screeches when he pulls it back, loud enough that two people at another table look up. Your eyes lift immediately, widening at the earsplitting sound before narrowing at him with such open irritation that he almost feels proud for earning a reaction at all.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice low.

Jake drops into the seat with the confidence of someone who has already survived two doors being shut in his face and is somehow eager for a third. “Studying.”

Your gaze moves from him, to the empty table behind him, to the empty seats beside you, then back to him. The silence that follows is not confused, just judgmental. “And you chose the only occupied table in this section?"

“It had the best lighting.”

“It has me.”

“Exactly.”

You stare at him for another second, face unreadable except for the small, unimpressed lift of your brows. Then you look back down at your notes, clearly deciding he is not worth the strain of further expression. For about twelve seconds, Jake pretends to open his textbook for a real reason — flips one page, glances at your highlighter, then at your face. “Can you help me with something?” he whispers.

You don’t look up. “No.”

Jake’s mouth parts slightly, then closes. He has been rejected before, technically, but never with so little effort. It bothers him more than it should, especially when you do not even look pleased with yourself. You simply continue highlighting, lips slightly parted in concentration, as if dismissing him is just another item on your to-do list.

“Fine,” he says, leaning back. “I need help with economics.”

Your highlighter stops moving, and for one hopeful second, Jake thinks he finally got you. Then your eyes lift from the page, slow and suspicious. “You got a ninety-four.”

He blinks. “So?”

“You have the second-highest grade in the class.”

“You know my grade?”

“I’m the TA,” you say flatly. “That isn’t special.”

It lands with embarrassing accuracy. His smile falters for half a second before he recovers and leans forward again, lowering his voice like the two of you are sharing a secret. “Maybe I want to be first.”

This time, you do smile, but it is not warm. “No,” you say, “Because I’m first.”

The corner of his mouth rises before he can stop it. “Then I definitely need your notes.”

“You need attention,” you correct, closing your highlighter with a soft click. “There’s a difference.”

You turn a page, your tone still calm after shutting him up. “You ask questions you already know the answers to. You sit where you clearly aren’t wanted. You make jokes because you think being charming is the same thing as being interesting.” Your eyes lift to his again. “It’s not.”

Jake stares at you. Around you, the library stays quiet, and the air feels suddenly too still, like everyone else has been kind enough not to watch him being quietly dismantled. He tries to laugh it off. “Wow.”

“You asked for help.”

“I asked for economics.”

“And I gave you something useful.”

His mouth opens, but nothing decent comes out of it — the worst part of it all. Usually, he has a joke, a grin, a way to make people soften, but with you, every easy thing he reaches for turns useless in his hand.

You begin packing your papers into your bag with that same infuriating grace, not rushed, not flustered, not even angry. You stand, bag over your shoulder, eyes catching the light when you tilt your head slightly. “Also, next time you want to sit with me, try having a reason that isn’t your ego.” Then you walk away.

For a long moment, Jake just sits there, staring at the library doors after they close behind you. The silence settles back into place around him, heavy and humiliating. He exhales slowly and comes to one devastating conclusion: he can’t do this.

“Come on, dude! It’s barely been a week and nothing happened yet. I already gave you the cash!” Riki practically begs on his knees.

Jake frowns from the other edge of the pool table as he chalks the cue, the crumpled bills still existing somewhere in his pocket because, technically speaking, he hadn't earned them. At this point, the arrangement felt less like a job and more like repeated exposure therapy that would actively ruin his psychological welfare rather than heal it. 

“No.”

Riki stares. “No? Jake.”

“No.”

Across, Jungwon looks up after his turn in billiards, with the expression of someone witnessing a familiar trainwreck but still expecting it from a mileway anyway. “What happened?”

Jake isn’t entirely sure where to begin. Maybe the front porch, then the devastating situations after it. Collectively, all encounters had taught him one important lesson: you’re impossible, not in the fun way people usually meant when describing someone to be cute — but actually a pain in the ass.

“She’s difficult,” Jake finally says while adjusting the cue against his purlicue. Jungwon just shrugs because such inference wasn’t surprising at all, I mean it’s you. 

“She doesn't want anything,” he adds. “There's usually something. People want you to laugh, they want you to like them, or they want attention. Dude, people want conversation — or literally anything.” Jake scoffs. “And she doesn't.” he exclaims, coming out more frustrated than he intended, resulting in a miscue.

Social interactions followed a pattern and Jake knew that well, even if he wasn’t the most outgoing person on this planet, he still spent his entire life understanding that pattern. With you, it felt like throwing pebbles at a castle wall that decides public embarrassment for his punishment. Normally, being Jake Sim worked. He was hot, smiley, handsome, smart, well-spoken, and had great, healthy hair too. You treated all of that the same way you'd treat a weather report; filed away and forgotten before opening up an umbrella. 

The more Jake thought about it, the more absurd you seemed. You’re nineteen years old and somehow functioning as a parent, a student, a volunteer, and whatever terrifying responsibilities that you could have stowed in that pink planner. There was probably a reason you looked perpetually exhausted, and why every conversation felt like you were mentally checking a to-do list. Also probably why you looked at Jake the way someone looked at a pop-up advertisement — unnecessary. 

“Please,” Riki says, and for the first time all afternoon there was genuine desperation in his voice. “Just keep trying.”

Jake groans. “No.”

“Please.”

Jake rubs a hand down his face, because he already knows he’s going to lose this argument. Not through Riki’s annoying persuasion, but because somewhere between getting his face ignored at the Humanities building and getting dissected in the library, Jake had become painfully curious. Every interaction left him feeling like he'd only managed to scratch the surface of an entire unearthing no one yet has discovered. He hated that a lot, the mysteries and the unfinished conversations because you just can’t seem to bear him. 

Most of all, of course, he hated that he was already wondering where he'd find you next.

A few days later, Jake finds himself in a bookstore three blocks away from campus, flipping through a poetry collection he absolutely does not want to buy. His teacher has insisted on physical copies because apparently PDFs are destroying the educational experience, while Jake personally believes the educational experience would improve significantly if the book cost less than a decent meal.

The bookstore is small, old, and crammed from floor to ceiling with shelves. It smells like paper, dust, and someone’s grandmother’s living room. He is still pretending to care about Shakespeare when the front door chimes, and he barely looks up until he hears your voice. You step inside with a headband pushing your hair back, still dressed like you came from school, except this version of you looks nothing like the girl he has been trying and failing to understand. For one thing, you are smiling, which isn’t polite smile you use like a weapon, but something real and easy.

“Hi, Mrs. Park,” you greet.

The elderly woman behind the counter brightens immediately. “There you are.”

Jake stares because, apparently, his brain has decided blinking is no longer necessary. A fat orange cat sprawled across the counter lifts its head when you approach, and you reach over to scratch beneath its chin. The cat melts instantly, stretching into your hand while you coo at it under your breath. He has seen you annoyed, composed, sharp, and dismissive, but this version of you, smiling at an old woman and whispering sweet nonsense to a cat, feels almost impossible to place beside the girl from campus.

It startles him how much he wants to keep watching.

After telling Mrs. Park you are only going to browse, you turn toward the shelves and move right into his aisle. Jake steps back instinctively, half-hidden behind a row of books, but the sensible part of him lasts for about four seconds before he decides, unfortunately, to bother you.

“You come here often?” he asks, leaning against the shelf like this is a normal thing to say and not the opening line of someone who has clearly run out of better ideas.

Your hand pauses on the spine of a novel, expression already rising from irritation. Slowly, you look at him, then around the aisle, then back at his face. “What are you doing here?”

He blinks, as if the answer should be obvious. “To read books.”

You stare at him for a second before your expression flattens. “Wow. I didn’t know you knew how to read.”

His face shifts into immediate offense. “I know how to read.”

You hum, entirely unimpressed, and continue walking down the aisle. “Coloring books don’t count.”

He laughs under his breath, dragging a hand over his face like he is trying very hard not to look too entertained. Or annoyed at how plainly rude you are without masking it. “Wow,” he mutters, following after you. “For the record, real books. Little Women. The Bell Jar. Percy Jackson.”

You stop walking and turn to him properly, huffing once through your nose. “Percy Jackson is new. Is that a thing now? The male campaign for feminism?”

His eyebrows lift. “All I’m hearing is you also read Percy Jackson and that we have something in common.”

Your eyes lift to his, flat and unimpressed, but there is the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. “Right, how exciting it is to bond over a children’s fantasy series.”

“Well,” he says, smiling. “It’s a start.”

You turn away, but he catches the tiny pause in your movement, the almost-smile you refuse to let happen. It feels ridiculous, how much that small reaction does to him even though he has won games in front of cheering crowds and accepted medals in crowded auditoriums, yet somehow, getting half a smile out of you in a dusty bookstore feels more victorious. “Since we’re apparently literary equals now, do you want to get coffee?”

You just stare at him, brows drawn together, lips parted slightly, as if you are trying to understand what series of events in his life has led him to think that was an appropriate thing to say to you. “No,” you say.

The answer comes cleanly, and he just blinks. “What? Why not?”

“I have coffee at home.”

For a second, he just stands there, disbelieved and a little done. You turn back to the shelf like the matter is settled, fingers skimming over another row of spines while he processes the fact that you have somehow rejected him without remorse or politeness.

“That’s not the point,” he says.

You scoff. “Then why did you ask?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Instead, he exhales a laugh, softer this time. “Because most normal people actually understand that getting coffee means spending time together.”

You hum, still not looking at him. “Then you should have asked that.” You reach for a book on the higher shelf, and when you glance at him again, there is the faintest flicker of amusement in your eyes.

He laughs under his breath, and this time, he doesn’t even bother hiding how entertained he is. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.”

“Fine,” he says, straightening a little. “Go out with me?”

You stop moving for barely a second, but Jake sees the tiny pause in your hand against the shelf, the way your face goes still like the question landed somewhere you didn’t expect. For once, he doesn’t grin.

Then you pull a book from the shelf and shove it against his chest. “No,” you say, coming out quieter than before, less mean than before. “Read your book.”

Jake catches it automatically, turning it a little to see that it’s the poetry collection he came here for.

By the time he looks back up, you’re already walking away, but not before he catches the smallest curve at the corner of your mouth. And, unfortunately for him, that feels a lot like a maybe.

The annual charity gala occupied all three floors of the Grand Ballroom, transforming an expensive venue into something that looked less like an event and more like a display of wealth (though, yes, it is). Guests emerged draped in custom couture and tailored suits, while somewhere near the entrance, a string quartet played softly enough not to interrupt conversation. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead in cascading tiers, fresh floral arrangements towered from the center of each table (imported blooms flown in specifically for the event, you coined in the suggestion of peonies). Waiters moved soundlessly between guests carrying silver trays lined with champagne flutes. 

You had spent your entire life in diamond rooms where people discussed acquisitions over appetizers and spoke about money like it was weather. You'd sat beside CEOs at dinner because they were family friends, and investors shared laughter with your father over barbecue in your backyard. Without the pretense of acting remotely impressed, you boredly made your way through the halls as you passed by familiar faces. You smile, greet, remember names, and pretend you enjoy hearing about quarterly growth projections — your father did tell you to learn from what the older ones tell you, but now you learn to breathe deeply through your nostrils so as to not yawn.

The Elie Saab Spring 2003 gown skimmed against your legs as you moved through the ballroom, pale fabric catching the chandelier light whenever you turned. It was just something your father had pulled from storage for tonight, another piece of old couture that had spent more time preserved in garment bags than actually being worn. The fabric itched, the fit was annoyingly snug around your hips, and entirely wasted on you considering all you could think about how little room it left for dessert.

You'd just escaped a conversation about market expansion into the rural regions of the country when you reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

"Wow."

You freeze immediately. Because you know that voice. Know it well enough that your eyes roll before you even turn around. Jake Sim stands a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, looking entirely too entertained by something.

Specifically you.

"What?" The question leaves you sharper than intended, but he has always had a talent for earning it.

His gaze sweeps over you once, slowly. It isn’t enough to be inappropriate, just enough to be annoying. "Nothing."

You narrow your eyes. Jake, unfortunately, appears completely unbothered by this, like he’s finally used to it and finds it amusing rather than frightening.

For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, shoulder to shoulder, watching guests drift across the ballroom that it almost looks normal — respectable, even, as if you’re two people attending the same charity gala with poise and tact instead of a high school bizarrerie of a situation this has become.

"You clean up well." His gaze drifts back to you for a brief second before returning to the ballroom. 

You turn so quickly towards him he actually laughs. "I always clean up well."

"Right."

"I do."

He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly trying not to smile. You take a sip of champagne as he steals a glass from a passing waiter, mirroring your movement to sip from his. "What are you doing here?" you shoot back under your breath.

He blinks at the question, looking almost offended on behalf of his own presence. "Are you asking why I'm at a charity event," he begins slowly, "or are you accusing me of stalking you?"

You practically glare at him but quickly shift to a warm smile when a familiar older face greets you, wrinkly and your father’s acquaintance. Once she leaves, you clear your throat and shrug casually. "I’m starting to think it's reached concerning levels."

That earns you a look — a long, disbelieving stare. He gestures vaguely to himself, as though presenting evidence before a jury, and that he clearly belongs here about as much as anyone else in attendance. "Come on." he chuckles as his eyebrows rise. "I look like this and your conclusion is that I trespassed just to see you?"

You hate how your eyes give in to immediately flicking toward him because, God, he's annoyingly right.

The black suit fits him unfairly well. His hair, usually left to do whatever it wants, has actually been styled for once, pushed neatly away from his face save for a single strand that has somehow escaped and fallen across his forehead. Standing beneath the chandeliers with a champagne glass in hand, he looks less like the guy who regularly shows up during the most random times and a prince, unfortunately.

You clear your throat and look away before that thought can do any more damage. "You make it hard not to think that way."

You almost forgot just how affluent the Sim’s are — that is, in your defense, was just a detail you overlooked. He isn't some random idiot who keeps appearing in your life through increasingly unlikely circumstances, his family name actually appears in newspapers and annual reports and conversations your father has over dinner. 

You drain the rest of your champagne before he can say anything. "Well," you say, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from your gown, "it's been lovely speaking with you, Mr. Sim." The title earns an immediate snort, and you continue before he can interrupt. "Please extend my regards to your family." Satisfied with yourself, you offer him the sort of polished smile that had been drilled into you and turn to leave, as you’ve decided that you will stop entertaining the jest.

A hand settles lightly at your shoulder. “There you are.”

You turn at the sound of your father’s voice and immediately straighten. It happens before you can stop it, your spine aligning, your expression smoothing, every loose, irritated part of you folding back into place like a napkin at a five-star restaurant. “Hi, Dad.”

He then guides you aside with the kind of effortless authority. “You’ve been doing well tonight,” he says.

The compliment should feel nice, and it does for half a second until you remember who it’s coming from and how rare it is, and suddenly it feels less like praise and more like something you have to catch carefully. “Thank you,” you say.

His eyes drift past you, scanning the room. “Where’s Riki?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the stem of your champagne glass. The room remains warm with bodies and lights and expensive alcohol, but somehow you feel cold all at once. “He probably forgot. He had practice earlier, and his workload’s been heavy.”

Your father looks at you then, and you immediately hate the expression on his face. Because it’s disappointment dressed up as responsibility, one you know too well. “You’re his older sister,” he says. “You know how he is. You should have made sure he came.”

For a second, you only stare at him, at the neat way he fixed his hair and made his collar. Somewhere near the stage, the host tests the microphone and the feedback screeches faintly through the room. “I can’t force him to come,” you say carefully.

Your father’s mouth presses into a thin line. “You’ve never had a problem controlling him before.”

Something hot sparks behind your ribs. You didn’t care for anyone to think that way about you, but the way your father had borrowed the notion feels shitty. “He’s seventeen, he’s going to be careless — that’s expected. But you know better.” he looks at you this time. “So do better.”

For a moment, you can’t speak. Because how can you be nineteen, and somehow old enough to be held responsible for everyone else’s failures. “I should talk to some friends,” you say as you take a step back.

Your father nods, already looking toward another guest who has begun approaching him. “Good.”

You turn before your face can betray anything and walk away, heels clicking against the marble floor. By the time you reach the hallway leading away from the ballroom, irritation has burned through whatever hurt came first — your jaw aches from clenching and your chest feels tight with things you can’t say. You turn the corner too quickly and a hand catches your wrist, a gasp spilling as you’re pulled backward, your shoes skidding slightly against the polished floor before another hand steadies you just enough to keep you from stumbling.

Then you look up to see Jake. 

“What the hell?” you hiss.

He raises both hands immediately, though one stays close in case you lose your balance again. “Okay, bad approach.”

You stare at him, breath uneven. “Are you insane?”

“A little,” he admits. “But I just came from the restroom and you came out looking very mad.”

Your expression shifts before you can stop it. “Move,” you say, trying to step past him.

However, he doesn’t move. “You need air,” he says.

“I need people to stop telling me what I need. And I need you to stop appearing everywhere.”

His mouth twitches. “Fair.”

You narrow your eyes again. “Then move.”

He glances behind him toward a side door at the end of the corridor and you follow. Beyond it, you can see the faint spill of garden lights through the glass, and when you look back at him, you can see the words in his eyes. “Two minutes,” he says.

“No.”

“Then one.”

“Jake.”

“You can yell at me outside.”

You should go back into the ballroom, smile at executives, pretend your father didn’t just hand you responsibility for a brother he barely remembered to parent. Instead, when Jake gently reaches for your wrist again, you let him anyway.

The garden outside is cooler, quieter, and beautiful. Tall hedges line the stone pathway, trimmed carefully beneath strings of warm lights while white roses climb the trellises, their petals pale and some aging. The distant sound of the ballroom fades behind the closed door until it becomes nothing but a muffled noise as you walk further.

The cold reaches you almost immediately, slipping through the thin fabric of your gown and settling against your skin, but you refuse to shiver in front of him. For a while, neither of you says anything as you only tighten your arms around yourself, pretending it’s irritation and not the cold making your shoulders rise. He watches you for a second, like he’s debating whether saying anything will get him killed faster than staying quiet. Then, with both hands tucked into his pant pockets, he nods toward the stone path. “Walk with me?”

You stare at him, unimpressed, but eventually follow because the alternative is going back inside and smiling until your face cracks in half. The two of you move beneath the garden lights in silence, your heels clicking softly against stone while his steps stay slower than usual, like he’s matching your pace without making it obvious. You keep your arms crossed tight, eyes fixed on the roses ahead, while Jake walks beside you with his hands still buried in his pockets. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence just to fill it.

Which lasts forty-seven seconds.

“Riki told me he wasn’t going.”

Every strange thing that had happened to you recently could be traced back to your brother tonight. When you open your eyes again, Jake is looking ahead, hands still tucked in his pockets. “Right. You’re friends.” you say as you remember. “So he just tells you things.”

He shrugs. “Occasionally.”

“About me?”

He looks like he already regrets opening his mouth, but only halfway. “Not that much.” He falls into step beside you again, catching up with your pace. “Him not showing up must be why you’re upset?” he says carefully.

You turn your head slowly and he immediately lifts both hands, palms out, although the smile pulling at his mouth ruins the surrender. “I’m just asking.”

“You’re nosy.”

“Well, yes.”

You stare at him for a second longer, trying very hard to remain annoyed. Unfortunately, Jake has this terrible habit of making honesty look harmless. Although, he is very much a threat, maybe not the loud or dramatic kind, but the sort that slips past defenses because it smiles and asks questions and walks slower beside you when your feet are hurting.

You look away first, only for him to take that as permission, because he continues. “Let me guess. Your dad’s pissed because he didn’t show up.”

“No.” Still, your jaw tightens. And he notices. His expression shifts slightly, amusement dimming into something quieter. “You’re shitty at guessing.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He nods like he’s accepting the challenge. “Then maybe it’s the champagne. Bad year?”

You give him a look. “It’s champagne.”

“So yes.”

“No.”

“Is it the gown? You keep tugging at it.”

Your hand immediately stills at your hip, growing a little insecure. “I am not.”

“You are.”

You glare at him, but there’s a traitorous twitch at the corner of your mouth that you immediately force away. He catches it anyway and his eyes brighten. “There it is.”

“There’s nothing.”

“Well, I think there is something. The garden’s very enchanted tonight.” he sighs in relief, looking very pleased with himself.

“You are so annoying,” you mutter, turning your face away before he can catch the smile fighting its way onto your mouth.

“I’ve been told.”

“Frequently, I hope.” You roll your eyes and keep walking, but the anger inside your chest has loosened slightly, enough that breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing flute glass anymore. It irritates you a little that he helped without doing anything grand, only so much as walking beside you, filling the silence with stupid guesses, making it impossible for you to fully sink into whatever your father had left behind.

He looks at you again. “Is it one of the donors?”

“No.”

“Board member?”

“No.”

Then, because Jake really is bad at guessing, he says, “Or maybe it’s about a guy.”

Your head snaps up. “A guy?”

He shrugs, trying for casual and failing spectacularly because there is something too deliberate in the way he doesn’t look directly at you. “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe a boyfriend.”

You actually laugh, disbelieving. “A boyfriend?”

“A shitty boyfriend,” he clarifies, like that makes it a more reasonable theory to hypothesize tonight. “Maybe he said something stupid. Maybe he’s the reason you look so grumpy in couture.”

You stare at him before you scoff, shaking your head as you look away. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

The silence that follows is immediate and loud. He doesn’t say anything, and because he doesn’t say anything, you look back to see he’s looking ahead now, with the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.

“Good.”

Your heart trips over itself. You stare at him, horrified by the fact that your face feels warm. “Good?”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”

“You’re being weird.”

He turns back to you then, eyebrows raised. “How?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Explaining it would mean admitting that you noticed the difference between his usual and this one; it would mean admitting that you were paying attention to the boy that’s making space for himself in your life, little by little. So instead, you do the mature thing of looking away and walking.

He hums, pleased with himself, and the sound makes your hands tighten around your arms again without the cold having to do with it at all. For a few steps, neither of you speaks as the garden path curves around a fountain, water spilling quietly over stone. Out here, your hair has loosened from its pins and the night air has cooled your cheeks after learning warmth a little too much tonight.

“You know,” he says after a while, softer now, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think Riki skipping tonight is your fault.”

Your throat tightens before you can stop it, continuing to stare ahead. “I didn’t ask.”

For once, he doesn’t tilt his head with that pleased little smile, doesn’t turn your sentence into something lighter just because he can. He only keeps walking beside you in silence, letting the water from the fountain grow louder as you near it. You almost wish he would say something annoying, just so that it would give you something to swat at, something easy to roll your eyes over, something that didn’t require you to stand there with all the ugly feelings still sitting in your chest like stones.

A bench sits just in front of the fountain, tucked between two rose trellises and half-hidden from the ballroom windows. One second you’re walking, the next you’re lowering yourself onto the bench, careful with the fabric of your gown, your hands folding tightly in your lap like you’re trying to hold yourself together through posture alone. He stops a few feet away and after a careful pause, he sits on the opposite end of the bench, far enough that there’s a whole stretch of cold stone between you, choosing to understand that closeness right now might make you run.

He isn’t looking back when you look at him, his hands are clasped loosely in front of him as he stares at his fidgeting fingers instead, giving you the sort of space he knows you need. The kindness of it is small. A boy sitting a respectful distance away from you in a garden at a charity gala, saying nothing while you pretend you don’t feel miserable.

You bite your bottom lip, contemplating whether you’ll entertain words sitting at the back of your throat, heavy and stubborn, and you tell yourself not to say them. You don’t even know him like that because he’s not your friend; he’s Riki’s friend, an irritating hallway apparition, a boy who somehow knows too much and still not enough.

Your eyes stay on the building across the garden, right where you both came from. When you speak, your voice is quieter. “It’s not just because Riki didn’t show up.”

Jake remains still, but you notice the way his attention sharpens a little. “I told him about tonight,” you say. “I reminded him. I even texted him this morning.” Your fingers tighten around each other in your lap. “And he didn’t come. Which is annoying, yes, but it’s also just Riki. He forgets things, gets distracted, acts like nothing bad can happen to him.”

The fountain fills the silence for a moment, the ballroom doors open briefly, spilling faint music and laughter into the garden before closing again. “I don’t do it for fun,” you say, almost under your breath. “The controlling thing.”

You hate that word and how easily people use it, like it explains everything, like you woke up one day and decided being difficult was easier. “I don’t know how to parent,” you admit. “I know he’s my brother, not my child, but somehow it became my job anyway.”

Jake does not interrupt, he only looks at you, steady and quiet, and that makes it worse because it makes you want to keep talking. “My mom’s a long story, and my dad…” You laugh softly, but there is no humor in it. “He pays for things. He’s not cruel. He just doesn’t know the small things. When Riki has practice, or when he has exams, or when he’s sick and pretending he isn’t.”

You look down at your hands. “He doesn’t know who to call when Riki doesn’t answer his phone.” Your throat tightens. “And I do.” The words sit between you, heavier than you meant them to be. “I just did what I thought was right. I’m not a mom. I don’t know what I’m doing. But then my father looks at me tonight and tells me to do better, like I haven’t been trying since I was eleven.”

For a moment, Jake doesn’t say anything. His expression shifts again, losing the last of its teasing until all that’s left is something quieter, something you don’t quite know how to hold without feeling embarrassed.

He looks down at your hands. “Is that why you’re upset tonight?”

You press your lips together before you nod. His gaze lifts to your face again, his voice gentle when he asks, “Is that why you’re upset every day?”

The question catches you so off guard that you laugh, a soft and helpless sound that slips out before you can stop it. 

Then you nod again and he smiles a little too. “Okay.”

You huff, wiping beneath your eye quickly before anything can happen there. Somehow sitting beside Jake Sim in the cold garden after admitting the worst parts of yourself feels less humiliating than it should. Maybe because he hasn’t moved closer, even though some terrible, traitorous part of you wonders what would happen if he did. Instead, he stays on his side of the bench, careful and warm from a distance.

You look at him finally. “Do people really think I’m a bitch?”

He freezes instantly, so immediate that you sigh for even asking. His eyes flick to you, then away, then back again, like he is suddenly trying to navigate a conversation with several live wires tucked into it.

You raise your brows, but you’re smiling. “So yes.”

“No.”

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, looking genuinely shy, which is oddly enough to distract you from your own misery. “I mean, I don’t think that.”

You tilt your head, amusement softening your face. “Okay, so what did you think?”

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. “I thought you were scary.” He looks at you, then immediately adds, “I still think you’re scary.”

Your eyes narrow, almost to a glare. “You’re scared of me?” You try to make it sound like a joke but it doesn’t quite work.

His mouth tilts. “The first time you shut the door in my face? Yeah.”

A breath of laughter escapes you as you remember a very irritable night of a brother coming home drunk. “You should’ve stopped then.”

“I considered it.” He leans back slightly, looking at the fountain instead of you now. “But then you smiled at a cat named Chicken.”

Your head snaps toward him. For a second, he looks like he wants to physically pull the words back into his mouth after saying it too easily and comfortably, like the memory had been sitting there the whole time and slipped out before he could decide. He exhales, rubbing a hand over the side of his face. “I saw it,” he admits. “You were with Mrs. Park, and then the cat got up, and you just...” He stops, suddenly aware of how much detail he is giving. “You looked different.”

Your face warms despite yourself, but you keep your expression sharp. “So you were watching me.”

He lifts one hand like he is surrendering in court. “I know how it sounds. I just mean I noticed you before you noticed me.”

You fold your arms, still looking at him like he has committed some minor felony against your privacy. “And you remembered the cat’s name?”

“You called him Chicken.”

“Because his name is Chicken.”

“Which is insane, by the way.”

You almost smile at that, but you press it down immediately. Unfortunately, Jake sees the attempt; fortunately, he has enough survival instinct not to mention it, and to choose his words with more care this time. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to look less angry.” His gaze flicks to yours.

You scoff, but there is barely any bite in it. “So you watched me because I looked less angry?”

“No,” he says, then pauses. “Maybe. A little. I don’t know.” He exhales, looking down at his hands. “Everyone talked about you like you were this impossible person. Then I met you and, yeah, you were mean to me.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, quiet and a little disbelieving. “Yeah, well,” you say, looking away first, “I wasn’t exactly making myself likable.”

His smile softens at that, not teasing this time. “I’m not saying you made it easy.” His eyes stay on you, steady enough to make your chest feel weird. “I’m saying I still wanted to get to know you.”

For once, you don’t have anything sharp to say back. You study him, searching for the joke, the little loophole where he gets to wriggle away from accountability. But he only sits there on the far end of the bench, shoulders slightly hunched, looking embarrassed enough that it almost feels unfair to keep glaring. The two of you listen to the fountain where water spills over stone, soft and repetitive, while the ballroom continues humming in the distance like another life waiting for you to come back and behave.

“You know,” you say slowly, “normal people introduce themselves.”

He glances at you. “I did.”

You give him a look. “You followed me through campus.”

“I said hey.”

“That is not an introduction, that was stalking.”

He laughs, and you roll your eyes, though the smile threatening the corner of your mouth makes the whole thing less convincing than you probably want it to be. He turns his body slightly toward you, still careful not to crowd your space, his expression shifting into something softer beneath the amusement.

“Okay,” he says. “Then let me redo it.”

He straightens a little, smoothing one hand over his suit jacket like he is preparing for something far more formal than a conversation beside you. It should look ridiculous, but then he looks at you with an earnestness that makes your guard hesitate before you can stop it.

“Hi,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m Jake Sim. I’m Riki’s friend. I have a border collie named Layla. I play soccer, I’m good at math, and I’m apparently terrible at approaching girls who scare me.”

You stare at him. Surprised. Confused. Heart fluttering a little.

His smile softens, but he keeps going, quieter now, like the next part matters more than the joke. “I also know I made a bad first impression. And I know you had every reason to think I was annoying.”

“You are annoying,” you say automatically while your hand reaches his to shake.

“I know.” His smile grows a little. “But I’m trying to be less annoying.”

“Unlikely.”

“Probably,” he admits. “But I’d still like to try.”

For a second after that, neither of you says anything. Your hand slips out of his, and both of you look away at almost the same time, like you’re both processing that you’ve just held hands. Jake clears his throat and fixes his posture, sitting up straighter as if that might undo the way his smile is still refusing to leave his face. 

“Well,” you say after a moment, folding your hands over your lap, “you’re the first person who’s actually lasted this long with me.” You say it lightly, almost dismissively, but your eyes stay in front of you. “Most people usually give up before this part.”

His smile fades just a little, not into sadness exactly, but into something more attentive. “Because you push them away?”

You huff out a small laugh. “Friends, mostly.” Then your mouth twists, like you’re deciding whether to soften the words or not. “Apparently, people can’t handle a heinous bitch for very long.”

He huffs a small laugh, looking down at his fidgeting hands. You glance at him, confused. “What?”

He shakes his head once, like he’s amused by something private. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

His gaze lifts to yours again. There’s a strange look on his face now, which isn’t teasing exactly, but not shy either. 

Then he says, “I’m not trying to be your friend.”

The sentence lands so cleanly that, for one impossible second, your entire brain goes quiet. You stare at him and Jake stares back.

Somewhere behind the doors, people are still drinking champagne and discussing donations and waiting for you to return as the version of yourself they understand, while here, on this bench, Jake Sim has just said something far too simple to be misunderstood.

Your mouth parts slightly. “What?”

His confidence seems to flicker only after he realizes he has actually said it out loud and not something he kept in his head. His ears go faintly red, but he doesn’t look away, keeping his legs crisscrossed on the bench like an idiot prince, looking at you like he knows exactly what he meant and is terrified by it anyway.

“I mean,” he starts, then stops. He exhales, laughing under his breath, embarrassed now. “I mean, I can be. Your friend.”

“That is not what you said.”

“I know.”

“You said you weren’t trying to be my friend.”

“I know what I said.”

Your face feels hot. Horribly, unmistakably hot.

His eyes drop for half a second to your mouth before returning to your face so quickly you almost think you imagined it. You look away first because if you keep looking at him, something very stupid is going to happen to your composure.

You clear your throat. “I should go back.”

His gaze lifts immediately, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah.”

You expected a joke, a dramatic sigh, maybe some irritating line about how tragic it is that society needs you more than he does. Instead, he only nods and begins unfolding himself from the bench. “You’re not going to convince me to stay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Jake stands, brushing one hand over his trousers. “Do you want me to?”

He looks at you, and something in his expression grows rigid again when he realizes what he just asked. So he corrects himself. “I mean,” he says, “I can. But I can also walk you back.”

You look away, pretending to adjust the fabric of your gown. “Fine.”

His mouth curves. “Fine?”

“Yes.”

He laughs under his breath, and you hate that you smile. You stand carefully from the bench, smoothing the skirt of your gown with both hands, only to freeze to find the pale fabric is stained. It’s not ruined, necessarily, but definitely marked where the garden path must have turned soft near the fountain, with a faint smear of mud that darkens the edge of the gown, and when you glance down at your shoes, the thin straps and pointed toes have flecks of dirt on them. You’ve spent all night holding yourself together, only to end up in a garden with Riki’s friend, exposing everything you’ve kept to yourself, and now covered in mud at your father’s charity gala.

“I can’t walk back in like this.” you can only sigh.

He grins, then his eyes drop again to your shoes, while the amusement fades into thoughtfulness. “Do you want me to carry you?”

You look at him so fast your neck nearly protests. “What?”

His face changes instantly and his ears go red again. “Sorry. I mean, not like that. I just meant because of the mud, and your heels, and the dress, and the path is kind of wet. It might get worse. Aren’t your feet tired?”

You stare at him as he exhales, glancing away for a second before looking back at you, steadier this time. “I can carry you back.” The correction is soft, because it’s not a question that leaves you to decide whether accepting makes you ridiculous. It’s an offer.

“In front of everyone?”

“No,” he says quickly, then gestures toward the side path. “Not everyone. There’s another entrance near the hallway, right? The one we came out of. I can take you there.”

You blink and the idea is absurd, too much for everything that has happened tonight. “I’m not letting you carry me.”

“Okay.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling again, and this time you don’t try to hide it anymore. 

The two of you start down the side path slowly, your steps careful over the damp stone and softer patches of grass. The garden seems colder now as the breeze slips beneath the thin fabric of your gown, crawling across your bare shoulders until you can’t stop the small shiver that runs through you. You tuck your chin, tighten your arms around yourself, and keep walking like your body hasn’t just betrayed you in front of the most observant boy alive.

One second he is walking beside you in his perfectly fitted black suit, and the next, warm fabric settles around you, heavy and soft, falling over your bare shoulders with a carefulness that makes your breath catch. You stop walking, letting his hands hover for half a second near your shoulders to make sure the jacket doesn’t slide off before he pulls them back.

You look down at the jacket, then back at him with a glare of concern. “You’re going to get cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re in a dress shirt.”

“And you’re shivering.”

“I was not.” You glare at him, but it has no teeth now, no bite, which he seems to know that too, because his smile turns softer. 

“Just wear it.”

The two of you continue toward the side entrance, slower than necessary, slower than you have ever been. Your gown brushes against the grass, stained hem gathered slightly in one hand, while his jacket hangs around your shoulders.

You should worry about the mud, the whispers, your father, the fact that Jake Sim’s jacket is currently covering your gown in a way that feels too intimate for something so practical. But you haven’t cared even though the vintage and expensive dress you wear is dirty. Instead, you laugh again when your heel sinks slightly into the damp ground. Your heels click against the marble as you step back into the hallway, the sound suddenly too clean after the wet grass and stone path outside. You can already hear the faint swell of conversation beyond the ballroom doors waiting at the end like a mouth full of gold light and noise; the clinking glasses, the polite laughter, the entire world you are supposed to return to with your posture fixed and your expression arranged.

You reach for his jacket before you can think too much about it. He takes it carefully, his fingers brushing the fabric where your hands had been. You smooth the front of your gown, trying to rebuild yourself enough to step back inside. “If you tell anyone what happened...”

“I won’t,” he says, before you even finish. “I won’t.” he repeats, softer.

For some reason, you believe him immediately. So you nod once, gathering yourself before pushing the doors open. The warmth and noise rushes back in at once, golden light spilling over your face as you step into the room again. 

It takes less than a minute for your father to find you, and once he does, his eyes move over you, first your hair, then the faint mud near your dress, then your shoes. His brows draw together. “What happened to you?”

Normally, you would straighten, explain and apologize, but this time, you only shrug. “I had a bit too much champagne,” you say lightly.

By the time you returned to your room that night, the mud had already dried along the hem of your gown, your hair had loosened almost completely from its pins, and even though Jake Sim’s jacket had been returned before either of you stepped back into the ballroom, the warmth of it still seemed to sit stubbornly across your shoulders — surreal until beneath the covers.

That was the irritating part, really. Things were supposed to end when they ended. Jackets were returned, doors were opened, conversations were folded away with the rest of the evening, but the garden did not leave with the night, nor did the memory of him sitting across from you on the bench, careful with the distance, looking at you like he had seen the worst parts and somehow decided they were not enough to scare him away.

Neither of you talked about it after. Not properly.

There were moments where it almost happened, which was perhaps worse than if nothing had happened at all, because the next morning at school, when you saw him across the courtyard with Riki and the others, laughing at something Jay said, his eyes found yours through the movement of students and sunlight, and for one strange second, the entire campus seemed to narrow into the space between you — before Riki shoved his shoulder like a dumbass.

Jake learns fairly quickly that he is feeling (concerned, of course, that’s all) for you. And it’s inconvenient.

At first, that is the only word he lets himself use, because it sounds harmless enough. It is easier to call you inconvenient than admit that somewhere between a porch light, a bookstore cat, and a garden bench, his original reason for approaching you has started to rot quietly in the back of his conscience.

Riki had paid him.

Not in a serious way, or in a way any adult would consider legally binding or morally sophisticated, but still enough that Jake sometimes thinks about the crumpled bills and feels something unpleasant crawl under his skin. At the beginning, it had meant a task, this whole idea of keeping you occupied so Riki could have room to breathe. You were a challenge then, a sharp-tongued older sister with a reputation, a schedule, a glare that could salt the earth, and a list of rules for a brother who needed to survive for his benefit.

It was getting harder to think of you as a job when you showed him what you thought were the ugliest parts of yourself, and he could only think you still looked pretty. 

He is also actively trying not to think about it on the pavement when his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

“Bro,” Riki says the second Jake answers, voice low and hurried. “I need you to take my sister out tonight.”

He pauses with one hand still on Layla’s leash, standing on the sidewalk outside his house while the dog sniffs a bush. Jake’s starting to think that Riki’s a bit more insane than you are, because he always asks the most unhinged favors. “What?”

“You know,” Riki says quickly, then seems to think about it. “Our deal. I need it badly tonight. I have plans.”

Jake’s expression flattens. “What plans?”

“A date.”

There is silence — one awkward silence.

Layla tugs at the leash and Jake lets himself be pulled two steps forward before asking, very carefully, “Does your sister know?”

“No, obviously not.”

“Riki.”

“It’s not bad,” Riki insists immediately. “I’m just going out with this girl from school, and I’ll be home early, but if my sister’s home and I’m not, she’s gonna start calling people and asking questions again. It’s part of her rules that I’m not allowed to date ‘til I’m eighteen.”

Jake rubs a hand over his face, already feeling the shape of the problem and disliking how familiar it has become. Especially not when he was just trying to control his little growing trouble that made up of you and your pretty eyes and adorable smile. “So your solution is to make me distract her.”

“I pay a hundred bucks a week for that!”

Jake almost laughs, because three weeks ago he might have been amused enough to play along with the joke, but now the whole thing sits differently in his chest. There is the old agreement, of course, the stupid one made at a party over drinks and Riki’s desperation, but there is also the garden, your face under the lights, your voice beside the fountain, your hand taking his jacket before you stepped back into the ballroom, and the way you had looked at him like you did not know whether to trust him but might have wanted to.

“I’m not doing this because you asked,” Jake says.

Riki makes a confused sound. “But I did ask.”

“I know.” Jake says, watching Layla sit neatly at his feet and look up as if even she understands this is going badly. “I’m saying if I take her somewhere, it’s because I want to.”

Then Riki says, with the kind of slow horror that proves he has begun realizing his plan may have developed organs and free will, “Oh.”

By the time evening settles over the city, you are in your room with your hair clipped back and a half-finished movie open in front of you when your phone lights up with Jake’s name, which is already annoying because he has apparently become someone whose name makes your attention trip over itself before you can discipline it with strict rules and bad parenting.

You stare at the screen for two rings. Then you answer. “What?”

There is a brief pause, and you can almost hear his smile through the phone. “Hi to you too.”

His voice slips through the speaker in a way that makes your room feel a little more warm than it did a second ago. You hate that he can do that now, that he can enter a space and rearrange the air without even being physically present, as though your life has become embarrassingly vulnerable to boys with good timing and probably bad intentions, because who calls at 9PM?

You lean back against your headboard. “Why are you calling me?”

“Because I’m going to the night market across town,” he says. “There are food trucks, stalls, probably overpriced shit,”

You cock a brow at relevance. “Okay?”

“Come with me.”

The sentence is too simple. Not do you want to come, or are you free, or any kind of question you can fold neatly into an excuse and return unopened. 

Your fingers tighten around your phone. “No.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and you expect him to push immediately, because that is usually what he does. He appears in hallways, sits at your library table, follows you through conversations until you leave, but now he only lets your answer sit there for a second.

Then he says, “Okay.”

You blink. The movie on your laptop continues playing in the background, but your attention has already abandoned it entirely.  “Then why are you still calling?” you ask.

On the other end, there is a small pause. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess I don’t really want to hang up yet.”

The movie keeps playing in front of you, bright colors moving across your laptop screen, but the sound has become nothing. You stare at the monitor instead, and try to ignore the way your face has warmed.

“That’s a terrible reason,” you say quietly.

“Yeah.” he laughs after. Neither of you speaks for a second until he breathes out softly. “I just thought you might like it.”

You smile down at your phone, suddenly brave because he can’t see your face. “You sound nervous.” 

He goes quiet for half a second before answering, softer, “I am nervous. A little.”

You press the phone closer to your ear without meaning to. “Why?”

Then, quieter, “Because I asked you to come with me and you said no.” he lets out a soft chuckle, like he can’t believe himself for what he’s about to say, “But I’m going to be there,” he says. “And I’d rather go with you.”

There it is again, that careless honesty of his, the kind that does not ask for anything too loudly. Despite the oddity of the situation, your brain is less of a shamble than it is mellowed out — which you should probably question and panic about. Later.

You stare at your laptop for a long second. And for reasons you cannot fathom, you wonder what’s so bad about going somewhere tonight. With Jake. “How far is it?”

He does not answer immediately, maybe busy weighing in what that means already. You can practically feel him trying not to sound pleased. “Across town,” he says carefully. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”

You still for a moment, playing with your blankets in between your fingers while you think this through. And like he can sense your hesitance, he helps you. “Give me one hour,” he says. “If you hate it, I’ll take you home.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re very confident for someone I haven’t technically agreed to go out with.”

The silence that follows is immediate as your eyes open wide, just realizing it at the exact same time he does. You sit up straighter, heat rushing to your face because you didn’t mean it like that. “I mean go out to the market.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “I know.”

Fifteen minutes later, you step out of the house in comfortable clothes, locking the door behind you before you can think too hard about the fact that you came out at all. The night air hits your face immediately, cooler than expected, and you hug your arms loosely around yourself as your eyes find him near the curb.

Jake is leaning against his car with his hands in his pants pockets, head slightly lowered, looking unfairly casual in a hoodie layered beneath a jacket, his hair falling over his forehead like he did not spend even one second thinking about how he looked before coming here. Which is ridiculous, because some people look better when they try, but Jake Sim has apparently been designed by nature to look the most when he appears completely unaware of himself.

His gaze travels over you once, slow to take you in. You usually look like you’ve been assembled by clothing that make people feel underdressed by association, but tonight you’re in sweatpants and a fitted tank top beneath a jacket, hair loose, face bare. He looks at you like he is taking in the fact that you came downstairs for him.

“What?” you ask, already defensive.

He shakes his head, but the smile gets there before his denial does. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

He pushes himself off the car, one hand already reaching for the passenger door handle. “You look cute.”

You physically jerk to a stop and your face warms immediately. “You’re weird.”

“I’ve heard.”

“You can’t just say things like that.”

He opens the passenger door and looks at you, smiling in a way that is trying to be innocent and failing by a devastating margin. “Get in.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re bossy tonight.”

“Please get in,” he corrects, still smiling.

You stare at him for another second, mostly because your pride requires a brief fight before surrender, then walk past him and slide into the passenger seat with as much dignity as possible. He closes the door once you are settled, and through the window, you catch the small smile he tries to hide as he circles around the front of the car. 

The ride’s quiet with the memory of Jake flirting with you in the gala garden — it makes you feel warm despite how cold the night is. You look out the window, watching streetlights slide over the glass, trying not to notice how different this feels from every other time you have been near him.  The night market appears before you in scattered pieces first, a line of cars, a spill of warm lights, people crossing the street in groups, then the whole thing opens up beyond the parking area in a bright, crowded stretch of stalls and food trucks and lanterns strung overhead.

You step out of the car and immediately pause, because it’s loud and crowded, which means it’s not your thing. There is smoke from grills twisting into the cold air, music blasting everywhere, laughter rising and falling in waves — which feels less like a market and more like a small fair.

You look at the crowd, then up at Jake. “This is busy.”

He closes his door and comes around the car, following your gaze. “Yeah.” He laughs, but softly, and when you look at him, he is already looking at you with that careful smile again, the one that does not make fun of you for being cautious. He looks at the crowd, then back at you, and for a second you think he might offer to leave, which would be considerate and therefore deeply inconvenient, but instead he reaches over and gives the sleeve of your jacket a small tug.

“Come on,” he says.

Before you can decide whether to argue, he starts walking, slow enough that you can follow without feeling dragged into the crowd. You hesitate for another second, but then the smell of something fried and warm cuts through the smoke, and your stomach chooses betrayal.

At first, you keep maneuvering to avoid everyone. You move through the crowd with shoulders turning at sharp angles, arms tucked close, stepping aside whenever someone comes too near. He notices after the third time you dodge a stranger by nearly stepping into a potted plant.

He laughs and you sigh without looking at him. “People have no spatial awareness.”

“People are walking.”

“Badly.”

Jake looks like he is trying very hard not to enjoy you, which makes the smile on his face even worse. You are halfway past a food truck with skewers smoking over a grill when you stop so abruptly that Jake nearly walks into you.

He catches himself at the last second. “What?”

You are staring at a small stall tucked between two larger ones, steam curling from bamboo baskets stacked in neat towers while a woman behind the counter folds dumplings quickly with practiced hands.

“I’ve been craving dumplings.”

The sentence leaves you softer than intended, and his expression changes in a way you do not have time to analyze because you are already in front of the stall. He follows without comment. A few minutes later, the two of you are walking again, slower this time, both eating from your trays with the market moving around you in bright, noisy pieces.

For a while, neither of you says anything, though it is not uncomfortable. You take another bite, then he glances at you. “Do you want a drink with that?”

You nod, mouth still full, and he’s already turning toward a nearby cooler display. He comes back with two cheap glass soda pops, the kind with bright labels and caps that need to be opened on the side of the stall counter, and hands one to you without making a thing of it.

You take it, fingers brushing condensation. “Thanks.”

“Was that gratitude?”

You look at him over the rim of the bottle. He lifts both hands in surrender, still holding his own drink. 

You walk with him after that, and slowly, your shoulders unintentionally begin to loosen. The crowd is still loud, still too close, still full of strangers with elbows and sauce and terrible directional instincts, but it becomes less unbearable now. He notices when your attention starts catching, but he never comments, which is the only reason you allow yourself to drift toward a booth crowded with little trinkets and charms. There are cats, dogs, bears, strawberries, cherries, tiny books, moons, stars, and one orange cat keychain with a round face and a deeply unimpressed expression.

You pretend your decision is practical, of course, like owning a tiny orange cat charm is somehow a necessary purchase. He watches quietly while you pay, your expression focused and pleased in a way that makes him look away for half a second because apparently he has some survival instincts left.

You attach it to your bag immediately. He looks at it, then at the rest of the display, and his mouth twitches. “That one looks like you.” You follow his gaze to a small cat charm with narrowed eyes, pointed ears, and an expression so deeply displeased it almost feels personally designed to insult you.

Your face flattens. “No, it does not.”

He picks it up. “It does.”

You glare at him and he smiles at the charm. “See? Same expression.” he says as he holds it up beside your face to compare.

“Put it back.”

Instead, he pays for it and you stare at him. “Why did you buy that?”

He looks at it once, and then pockets it without explanation. “Come on.”

“No, why did you buy it?”

“I liked it.” He keeps walking, and you have to follow because the crowd is moving again. For some reason the gesture bothers you more than the teasing does. 

The next booth that caught your attention is almost obnoxiously catered to your weaknesses, with neat stacks of sticker sheets, tiny memo pads, washi tape, highlighters in soft colors, planner tabs, bookmarks, stamps, and pens arranged in little acrylic containers. You stop so completely that Jake has to step aside to avoid blocking a passing couple.

For the next several minutes, you become very busy with the most random things, all as Jake stands slightly behind you, holding his soda and yours because at some point you handed it to him without looking, and he accepts this responsibility without saying anything. The two of you keep walking after, and you look more relaxed now than you did at the entrance, less like you are bracing for the world to touch you and more like you have forgotten that you disliked it. You stop at stalls, drift toward anything cute or useful, and Jake continues to follow at your side with no complaint, carrying your soda when you need both hands and slowing whenever you slow.

Then, just as you lean slightly toward a booth selling handmade bookmarks and tiny pressed-flower frames, a pair of kids comes rushing through the gap between stalls, chasing each other with glowing toys in their hands. He moves before thinking, his hand finds the space near your lower back, hovering as he shifts closer to keep the children from bumping into you. His other arm angles subtly between you and the crowd, and he looks over his shoulder just long enough to make sure they pass without catching your side.

You do not notice because you are too busy looking at a bookmark with a little painted cat on it. For some reason, that makes him smile to himself as he lets his hand fall away before you can feel the absence of it.

You turn to him a second later, holding up the bookmark. “This is cute.”

He looks at the bookmark, then at you, still smiling faintly. “Yeah.”

At some point, the crowd gets worse, which you didn’t even notice at first, but then the path in front of you disappears almost entirely, swallowed by families, couples, groups of students, people stopping without warning, people cutting through gaps that do not exist — just people. For a moment, both of you stand at the edge of the crowd, watching everyone press forward in a messy current of shoulders and laughter and swinging shopping bags.

You sigh. “This is ridiculous.”

He looks thoughtful for a second, then makes a decision you do not see coming at all. His arm lifts slightly, hovering behind your shoulders, and you immediately turn your head to look at him.

Jake, to his credit, only looks mildly nervous. “It’s practical.”

Your eyes narrow. “Is it?”

He glances toward the crowd like it might help him build a better defense. “There are a lot of people.”

He presses his lips together, fighting a smile, but his arm stays there, careful and waiting rather than assuming. It should not feel like such a big thing, but it does, mostly because he looks like he is giving you every chance to refuse. “You don’t have to,” he says after a second, already starting to lower his arm.

You hate that the consideration makes it worse. So before you can think too much about it, you roll your eyes and step closer, letting his arm settle around your shoulders like this is somehow the most casual thing in the world (it is not). Jake goes very still for half a second, like he did not actually expect you to allow it, and the brief pause is so obvious that your face warms immediately.

“This is practical,” you say, staring straight ahead.

“Yeah,” he answers, voice lower than before. “Very practical.”

You glance up at him despite yourself, and he is already looking away, but the corner of his mouth is lifted, and his ears have gone faintly pink beneath the market lights.

“Are you blushing?” you ask.

Jake looks at you then, and the smile finally breaks loose. “No.”

“You are.”

“It’s cold.”

You should move away after that because the path opens slightly, enough for you to walk without being separated, and there is no official reason for his arm to stay around your shoulders anymore. But he keeps it there, loose enough that you can step away anytime, steady enough that no one can push between you.

So you stay.

He walks half a step beside you, not dragging you, only guiding when the crowd tightens again. His shoulder angles gently through the busiest parts, his arm drawing you closer whenever someone cuts too near, and each time it happens, your side brushes against him.

You stare ahead and try to remember that this is for crowd navigation, nothing else. Then someone with a swinging tote bag steps backward without looking, and Jake reacts before you do, pulling you in carefully until your shoulder presses against his chest for one quick, breathless second.

“Sorry,” he says near your ear, already loosening his hold. “You okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

You hate how much easier it becomes after that. Not the crowd, because the crowd is still awful, still shifting and pressing and stopping without warning, but moving through it with him is easier. He notices gaps before you do, and he shifts when people come too close. At some point, without asking, he takes the unfinished cake cup from your hand too, tucking the little wooden spoon beneath the lid and holding it in his free hand like carrying your dessert is normal.

You do not protest, and that is the truly alarming part. For once, your brain gets to go quiet. Not completely, of course, because you are still you, but some strict part of you loosens just enough to let him lead. It should bother you more. It does bother you. But it also feels good.

By the time you finally return to the car, the one hour has become more than one hour by a margin neither of you mentions — you both had stopped checking the time altogether. 

He only opens the passenger door for you, takes your bags long enough for you to get in comfortably, then hands them back once you are settled like this is all very normal. You start to think that’s the kind of person who knows where your hands are too full and fixes it without asking (which is bad because it detangles the wires in your brain). The drive back is quiet because you’re both tired, and the city slips past the windows in streaks of light while you sit with your head turned slightly toward the glass. He keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely near the gear shift, his posture relaxed now, his eyes on the road.

When he finally pulls up outside your house, you both sit there. Then Jake unbuckles first, getting out already, and by the time you open your door, he is already there with your things gathered carefully in his arms.

“I can carry my own stuff,”

“I know.”

He hands you the paper bag first, then the little pouch from the trinket stall, then your phone, which you had somehow left in the cup holder without realizing. With your things in your hands, you stand across the passenger door while he leans back against it, spine resting against the car, hands slipping into his pockets after he has nothing left to hand you. He is closer like this, enough that the porch light catches the tired softness around his eyes.

Jake looks at you for a moment, and for once, he does not seem like he is trying to come up with anything clever. Then his voice goes soft. “Did you have fun?”

You look down at the paper bag in your arms, thinking that you could say it was fine, or tolerable, or simply that dumplings were good. Instead, you think about his hand around yours in the crowd, his laugh when you dragged him away from the flowers, the way he never made you feel strange for relying on someone.

“A little,” you say.

His smile appears slowly, like he is trying not to let it happen too fast. “A little?”

“Don’t get greedy.”

“I feel greedy.”

Your face warms immediately, but he seems to hear himself a second later because his smile widens just slightly. “I had fun,” he says and you hold his gaze. 

Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag. “You’re very easy to entertain then,” you say.

“Only tonight.”

“Because of the market?”

“Sure.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What was it then?”

He leans his head back lightly against the window, still watching you through half-lidded eyes, his smile barely there now. “You really wanna know?” he asks.

You smile despite yourself, shaking your head before he can answer. “No.” because you know what he’ll say, and it feels dangerous to hear it out loud.

He laughs softly, head still leaned back against the window, the porch light catching the slope of his cheek and the tired softness in his eyes. For a second, he looks less like someone trying to win an argument and more like someone who would be perfectly fine just standing there with you until the night runs out. “I figured.”

You lift the paper bag in your hand. “The dumplings were good.”

He sighs, disbelieving but still completely okay with it anyway. “I’ll take it,” he says.  Then he straightens slowly, pushing himself off the car like he has finally accepted that the night has to end, but even after he says, “I should go,” he does not actually move.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moves.

You should say goodnight, walk up the steps, unlock the door, and pretend the whole drive home had not gone quiet in a way that felt different from tiredness. But your feet stay planted near the passenger side, your bags looped awkwardly over your fingers, your phone pressed against the paper bag in your arms. The porch light spills softly over the driveway, catching the side of Jake’s face, and he looks tired in the gentlest way, hair slightly messy from the night air, hoodie sitting loose on his shoulders, eyes still on you like he is waiting for something without wanting to ask for it.

That is the worst part: he does not push, he does not tease, he does not make some stupid comment that would make it easier for you to roll your eyes and leave. He just stands there, patient in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“You should go,” you say, even though you are the one not stepping away.

His mouth curves faintly. “I know.”

“You’re not going.”

“Neither are you.”

You look away first, irritated by the truth of it. This is awful.

It is awful because you are used to handling things yourself, used to needing no one, used to being sharp enough that people stop trying. And then Jake Sim shows up, too warm, too persistent, too easy to like when he stops trying so hard, and suddenly your own brain feels like it has been rearranged.

He watches your face, his smile fading into something softer. “What is it?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

“Okay.”

He says it like he believes you have the right to keep it, and somehow that makes it harder to keep anything at all. You glance at him again, and he is still there, hands tucked into his pockets now, shoulders relaxed, giving you every chance to go inside.

You hate that. You hate him. You hate that you don’t hate him at all.

“You’re thinking really loud,” he says quietly.

You let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re very annoying.”

“I’ve heard.”

“No.” You look up at him properly this time, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. “You’ve been very inconvenient.”

He tilts his head, confusion crossing his face. “Inconvenient?”

You hate that he genuinely does not seem to understand. It makes the whole thing worse, somehow, because of course he would stand there looking at you like that, soft-eyed and patient, after spending the entire night making it harder and harder for you to pretend he was still just Riki’s friend.

“Yes,” you say, almost sharply. “Inconvenient.”

His mouth opens, probably to ask another stupid question, but you cannot handle another second of him being careful with you. So you drop your bags at your feet, step forward before you can change your mind, grab the front of his hoodie, and pull him down.

Then you kiss him. 

He goes completely still beneath your hands, so still that your heart drops almost immediately. The courage leaves you as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp rush of embarrassment that burns all the way up your neck. You pull away before he can even react, fingers slipping from his hoodie as your eyes fall anywhere but his face.

“I —” You swallow, already stepping back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have —”

But you’re already turning before you can finish. You barely make it half a step before his hand catches your wrist, gentle but certain. The next second, he turns you back toward him, and you stumble straight into his chest.

Jake is looking at you now like he has finally caught up with himself. His hands find your waist, careful for only a heartbeat before his grip firms, pulling you closer, and he kisses you back. It is warm and firm and breathless, like he is making up for the second he lost, like he cannot believe you almost walked away again. 

Your hands grab at his hoodie again, more out of surprise than anything, and he leans into you just enough that the whole world seems to narrow down to his chest against yours, his fingers at your waist, and the quiet night around you. He towers closer, holding you tighter when your knees buckle underneath you, especially when a gasp slips out of your lips and his tongue enters your mouth.

When he finally pulls back, he does not go far. For a moment, both of you just stand there, close and silent, breathing unevenly under the porch light. Then Jake lets out the smallest, stunned laugh, his forehead pressed against yours.

“You have no idea,” he says quietly with his hands steady at your waist. “How long I’ve wanted you to stop walking away from me.”

For once, there is no sharp answer on your tongue, no insult, no eye roll, no clean little exit you can use to save yourself from the way he is looking at you. There is only Jake and you.

“You froze,” you whisper, because it is the only thing your pride can still manage.

His laugh comes out breathless. “You surprised me.”

“That’s your excuse?”

His hands tighten at your waist, like even now he cannot believe you are still arguing with him. “That’s my apology.”

You lift your chin slightly. “It wasn’t very good.”

His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before coming back to yours, and this time, the smile he gives you is softer than it is teasing.

“Then let me do better,”

You barely have time to pretend you are annoyed before he kisses you again. This one is slower at first, like he is giving you the chance to pull away, but your hands are already gripping his hoodie and pulling him closer before either of you can pretend otherwise. You feel him smile against your lips as he deepens the kiss.

When you part again, your face is warm, his hair is a little messed up from where your fingers had caught in it, and both of you are breathing like the night has tilted beneath your feet.

You look toward the door, then back at him, suddenly shy now that the night has become quiet again. “Do you want to come in?”

His gaze lifts to yours, and the look on his face changes so quickly it makes your breath catch. The teasing is gone now, the stunned smile from earlier fading into something quieter, heavier, like he understands exactly what you just asked and is trying very hard not to make you regret saying it.

For once, he does not say anything clever. He only looks at you and nods.

You unlock the front door carefully, as if the sound itself might become suspicious, then step inside with him following after you. The house is dim, only the soft light over the staircase left on, and for a second the two of you stand in the entryway like you have smuggled the whole night in with you.

He closes the door quietly behind him as you slip off your shoes. Neither of you says anything, but when you glance back, he is already looking at you. You step toward him first, his expression shifting like he has not fully learned what to do with you when you are the one closing the distance. For once, he does not move first. He only stands there, still and watching, as your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie. You pull him in and his breath catches softly, then you reach up and kiss him again. He responds after half a second of surprise, hands lifting to your waist, like even now he is keeping some part of himself gentle.

The kiss is still sweet, still careful, but there is less hesitation in it this time. Your hand stays fisted in his jacket, and when he leans closer, you feel his smile against your mouth before he kisses you back properly.

He pulls away just enough to breathe, his face still close, eyes warm and slightly dazed in a way that makes your stomach turn uselessly soft. “You’re getting very bold,” he whispers.

You glare at him, which is difficult when you are still holding onto him. “Are you complaining?”

His smile breaks wider. “No. I’m not.” Then he kisses you again before you can argue, which is unfair because arguing has been your only reliable defense against him and he has apparently discovered a much better strategy. His hands stay at your waist, warm and steady, not pushing, only holding you close enough that you forget to keep track of where the hallway ends and where he begins.

Somehow, between one kiss and the next, your back meets the front door. You do not notice right away because all you notice is him, the warmth of his mouth, the careful way he keeps slowing down like he is reminding himself to let you breathe, the way his thumb shifts at your waist when your fingers tighten in his jacket. The whole house is quiet around you, but your heart is being so loud it feels impossible that he cannot hear it.

Then he pulls back just enough for his words to brush against your mouth. “I want to be your boyfriend.”

You go still, and his eyes open, searching your face. You look at him for a second, breath still uneven, then whisper, “Think you can wait a little bit more?”

His expression softens immediately. The shift is quick; the want in his face makes room for patience again, how fast he understands. He nods once, small and serious, his hands loosening at your waist like he would let go the second you asked him to. “I can wait,” he says quietly.

And he looks like he means it. Like he would stand there in your hallway with your lipstick slightly smudged on his mouth, with his heart in his hands, and let you kiss him while still waiting for you to decide what to do with it. Like he would take every almost, every maybe, every not yet, and still look at you like you are not being cruel for needing time.

Your hands slide up from his jacket to his hair, fingers threading carefully through the soft strands at the back of his head, and his eyes flutter like that small touch just ruined whatever patience he had left. You lean in again and he goes still for one startled breath before he melts into it, a quiet laugh slipping against your mouth as he realizes, too late, that you were not saying no. Your hands stay curled in his jacket, keeping him close, and this kiss feels different from the others, still soft, still careful, but warmer now, more certain, like an answer you are not ready to say out loud.

When you pull away (barely), he is smiling so openly that you almost regret letting him have this much evidence. His smile turns stupidly happy. “That sounds like a yes.”

“It sounds like you should kiss me again before I change my mind.”

He laughs, quiet and breathless, and does exactly that. Somewhere between the hallway and the kiss after that, the two of you become very bad at making responsible decisions. 

In whispered laughs and careful footsteps up the stairs, with your hand around his wrist and him following behind you like he is trying not to smile too loudly. The house stays dim around you, every creak in the floorboards suddenly dramatic enough. By the time you reach your room, your heart is doing something ridiculous again. You open the door slowly, letting the faint light from the hallway spill over your bed, your desk, the half-finished planner still open from earlier, the ordinary pieces of your life that suddenly feel less ordinary with him stepping into them behind you. He looks around for half a second, not nosy, just quietly taking it in.

You step toward him before he can say anything worse, catching the front of his jacket again, and he lets you pull him down with an ease that makes your stomach turn soft. The kiss starts as a way to shut him up, or at least that is what you tell yourself, but then his hands find the small of your back to steady you, careful and familiar now, and suddenly the room feels smaller.

You back up without thinking, until the backs of your legs meet the edge of the bed, and he stops immediately. He pulls away just enough to look at you. “Okay?”

You hate that he asks. You love that he asks.

Instead of answering, you sit down on the edge of the mattress and tug him gently. He follows, careful even when he looks like every bit of caution in him is being tested. The bed dips beneath both of you, your knees brushing first, then your hands finding his jacket again, pulling him close enough that he has no choice but to lean over you when you lie back against the pillows.

For a second, he just looks at you. It is almost funny, how still he goes, hands planted beside your shoulder like he has forgotten what to do with himself now that you are the one inviting him closer. His eyes move over your face, not rushing anywhere else, and something about that makes your chest feel warmer.

“You’re overthinking,” you whisper.

Jake lets out a quiet laugh, but it sounds strained in the softest way. “Yeah.”

“You usually have more to say.”

His smile appears, small and helpless, before he leans down and kisses you again. It is still gentle and careful, but being this close makes everything feel bigger. The quiet room, the faint light from the hallway, the warmth of him above you and being in between your legs, the way his breath catches when your fingers slip to the back of his neck. 

He pulls away, not far, just enough to look at you properly, his eyes searching yours. “Still okay?” he whispers.

You nod, but he does not move immediately, like he wants the answer to be something you choose twice. So you smile, softer than you mean to. “I’m okay.” The relief on his face is quiet, but obvious.

“You’re very careful.”

His mouth lifts faintly. “With you? Yeah.”

You look away for half a second, because that is a terrible sentence to hear while he is this close. He sees it, the way the gears turn inside your head, the way you’re suddenly pushing his jacket off him and your knees are tightening against his waist. He swallows, struggling as he keeps himself over you, trying not to dive into something he’s not sure you want.

Except, you do. And it is very obvious.

You pull him down again, kissing until you know you’ve bruised his plump lips, until his tongue finally slips into your warm mouth as you make a sound against him. You gasp when you feel his hips press in between your thighs and his breath hitches, like he’s in between behaving and giving in. He pulls away abruptly, mouths detaching with a pop, and you visibly grow annoyed.

“God,” he lets out an airy and startled laugh, “What the fuck.”

He hates that he really likes the way his growing bulge is pressing against your ass. The warmth of his body makes you so needy, embarrassingly enough, though you only pull him closer. “Why are you so far away?” you whine.

“We should probably stop,” he says, but it comes out more like a breathless laugh, his forehead dropping for a second.

But you frown. You grind your ass against his hips, feeling the imprint of his cock. “Your dick says otherwise,” God, you are so mean, and he loves it. 

A hand lifts from the mattress and slips towards your bare thigh that’s pressed against his waist, squeezing the soft fat there. You practically melt at the sight of veiny hand smoothing over the skin, until the tips of his fingers carefully disappear into the fabric of your shorts. You squirm against him and he shoots his eyes back up at you, eyebrows furrowed down to his lids. 

 “I don’t have a condom,” he says lowly, voice made of velvet and restraint.

You smile, evil and insatiable. “I don’t care.”

He sighs, disbelieving of how you’ve completely turned to a 180. “I’m trying to be good,” he says. “You’re making it impossible.” Yet he slips his shirt off his body, exposing the toned muscles of his abs, the deep grooves carved. His chest is flat and broad, expanding to the sculpted arms that are solid without looking heavy, just all quiet strength.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “And I will.” right before he bows down to kiss you again. His tongue brushes into your mouth, meeting yours as your hands find the privilege of slithering down his exposed skin, fingers grazing against the muscles that twitch from your soft touch.

He kisses your cheek next, then your jaw, until his lips reach the soft skin of your neck. He sucks there, until it’s littered with hickeys. “This isn’t good, baby,” he whispers, contradicting himself when he continues to bite the flesh above your pulse. You can only smile and moan, fascinated with the way he’s quickly losing composure.

He helps you out of your sweater next, carefully lifting your upper body up. “Arms up,” you follow, staring into his eyes once he takes it off you. His hand slides to your back, leaning down a little where his lips ghosts above your forehead, then presses a kiss there as he unclasps your bra, the black material slipping off you. You grow a little shy, lips pressing to a line while your own arms curl around yourself. He chuckles softly, then reaches for your wrists with careful fingers and gently uncrosses them. “Where did all that attitude go now, hm?” he murmurs before leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist, then another just above it, slow enough to make your breath catch.

He circles your arms back around his neck and you pull him closer to you, so he presses a soft kiss to your lips right before he bends down to your chest. “You’re making this too easy,” he whispers. “I thought you liked arguing with me.” You can only bite down on your bottom lip when he takes your perked nipple into his mouth, all wet and warm, before he sucks and bites down gently. 

“Shut up.” you somehow still manage, and you can feel him smile against your breast.

His tongue swirls around the bud before he pulls away, then takes the other one into his mouth next. After he fondles your breasts, caressing you gently but firmly, he moves down your belly, his soft tongue trailing down your skin slowly. He presses kisses on the swell of it, smiling when you tense against him. His large, veiny hands tightens on your waist, attempting to memorize the way the dip feels under his palms. They find your hips next, thumb teasing the hem of your thin shorts, slipping into the fabric just to feel how soft you can get underneath.

“Miss Attitude is so fucking soft,” he murmurs. “They have no idea.” 

He hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides it off you along with your panties. You’re already feverish when his face meets your cunt after, his breath fanning your folds, large hands holding your thighs so tightly you know it’d mark. 

He can smell how sweet you are, your wetness glistening with so much arousal. He looks over you, sharp eyes through the hoods, like he wants to make sure you’re watching him. “I’ve got you.” Then, because he’s so cruel and careful at the same time, he presses soft kisses on your folds first. Then he kisses your clit next, a deep breath spilling out of you, your hands locking through his hair, attempting to pull him closer. 

He licks a stripe this time, from your hole to your clit, your sensitivity reaching an all time high. “Fuck, Jake, come on,” you practically whimper.

With a prideful grin, he pins your thighs back against the bed. Then he buries his face into your cunt, his tongue laps inside your folds like you’re his favorite meal. He kisses the flesh, then sucks on it like he’s mad, sounds so wet and frenzy.

“Oh my God — Jake, fuck —” Your eyes shoot to your ceiling before your eyelids shut. He groans against you, sending vibrations through your pussy, his moans muffled while yours echo in your bedroom. He stuffs his face in, tongue slurping your entrance before his lips latch onto your clit next, sucking it dry. Your fingers tug at his roots, while your thighs threaten to clench around his head. 

He pushes his long tongue into your hole next, the tip of his nose nuzzling your clip as he buries himself deeper, making sure to coat his face with your sweetness and his saliva. He thinks he can do this until the sun sets again and again, just latching his lips around your clit and holding your shivering thighs around his head. 

He shakes his head slightly, just drinking your juices and moaning into your cunt, not being able to have enough of you. When he pulls away, he’s breathing heavily and you’re pouting, unsure why he’s stopping. Though the sight’s going to kill you still anyway, black hair soaked in sweat, brushing over his eyes while his plump pink lips and chin glisten with your juices.

“I want more, please…” you sigh, attempting to reach for him.

His hand lowers from your thigh to your cunt now, thumb gently grazing over your clit before spreading the folds apart. Practically glimmering with how drenched you are, he teases by pushing his thumb in and pulling back right after. He watches your face, at the way your brows knit together and how you flush into a puddle for him.

He smiles, all of his teeth showing, before he leans back down. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” Then he inserts his middle finger in, impossibly longer than yours, stealing a gasp from your throat when he pushes his digits so deep inside, reaching his pink knuckles. 

The squelch of your walls squeezing around him should be sin, as he feels just how soft you are. He sneaks another one in, two fingers buried deep into your pussy that you clench so tightly. “S-shit — s-so fucking good…”

“Fuck,” he huffs a chuckle. “So tight. How would my cock fit you?” 

He licks his lips, swallowing the remnants of you from his mouth. Then he dives back down, open mouth attaching on your clit while his thick fingers pull, push, and curl inside you. Your legs spread for him while you whine his name as if in a desperate prayer.

He continues to retract his digits before pushing it all back inside, carefully picking up the pace with the thrusts. He sucks on your clit hard, the sheer overstimulation of both his mouth and hand working on your pussy makes you a whining mess, loud and fucked, that you have to cover your mouth with your palm.

Though it’s no use, your brother definitely knows now just who’s fucking you with just his fingers and tongue. After a few more thrusts, the tips of his fingers touches that spot that makes your cunt clench tighter and your spine curve against your sheets. 

“I-I’m gonna cum — Jake, c-cumming —” He drinks up all your liquid but then abruptly pulls back, fingers leaving your entrance and his mouth detaching with a wet pop, leaving you so bare.

You feel empty without him filling you up, that you’ve got to open your eyes and look over your breasts and belly, where he sits up, adjusting his weight on his knees while his face and fingers are sopping with your arousal, somehow still making you embarrassed. He licks it off clean, making sure not to waste any of you that you’ve given to him, and you sheepishly curl a little in your bed.

He leans forward now, propping himself on his hands as he hovers over you. Your hands reach up to soothe over the muscles of his traps, warm and bulky under your palms, before you find his hair again, stroking through the black locks. “You’re such a fucking tease,” you mumble, soft and spent.

Jake only has to bite his bottom lip to keep from grinning, eyes soft with the kind of fondness that makes you want to look away. Your gaze falls on the veins protruding from his arms, trailing up to his elbows that you just have to turn away again because is his dick just as veiny? When you look back up at him, there’s something unbearably gentle in his eyes, like he’s looking at the prettiest thing he’s ever been allowed to keep close. Without any words, he leans down, kissing you again, soft but firm, but he presses you deeper into the bed. 

He lifts your leg again, spreading you wider than your dignity lets you, taking your thigh against his hip before he jerks forward, pushing his clothed bulge against your exposed pussy. Your kiss stutters and he pauses a little, pulling away suddenly to let out a shaky breath. “S-shit…”

You whine, weak but pitched. “Take it out, Jake, please,” You buck into his cock, feeling the heavy outline of it slide into your folds.

He doesn’t even argue this time, he just nods, breath uneven, eyes fixed on yours like whatever fight he had left in him disappeared the second you said his name. His hand finds your waist like he’s been waiting for permission all night, squeezing you tightly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and completely gone. “Okay.”

He lets go of you for a bit to push his sweatpants off, revealing his boner so prominent and practically hanging in his boxers. You can see his hands shaking a little as he takes his boxers off next, before throwing them into a corner of the room.

His cock practically springs forward to you, desperate and leaking. He’s thick, long, veiny. And pink at the tip.

You don’t even pretend you’re not staring anymore, and you don’t notice the tips of his ears flushing pink this time, a little hint of sheepishness. You’ve never really considered yourself a sex addict, much less even lustful, but the way your pussy throbs at the sight of his pretty cock makes you think maybe you’ve been wrong about yourself in many ways. You want nothing more but to see how he tastes, or how it’d slap against your tongue. He strokes himself, thumb playing with his own slit, spreading his pre around his thick head.

“No condom, baby, I’m so sorry,” His mouth twists into a pout before he can stop it, eyes wide and miserably apologetic. “I’ll pull out, I promise.”

“I don’t give a fuck, Jake,” you urge him closer to you, hands roaming down his abs. “I need you inside me, please — “

If his cock wasn’t twitching in hand, begging to be inside you, he’d probably let out a chuckle at how cute and eager you look right now, practically squirming and begging underneath him. But he’s no better than you, so he adjusts himself forward, leaning once again before aligning the head against your pussy. He nudges your clit, a gasp tumbling from his mouth at the contact. 

“It will only hurt for a second,” he warns and you swallow, staring at his dick as you wonder if it will even fit at all. “Breathe, baby, okay?” You nod, biting down your lip. 

You lift your hips slightly with the help of his hand against your hip, letting the tip nuzzle against your entrance. He’s breathing heavily, taking one final inhale before he pushes forward and lets the head of his cocks slide past your folds, meeting your gummy walls. You gasp as the stretch, making you tense up and clench around him.

“Fuck, t-that’s so tight — ah —” Jake’s forehead rests against yours, the feeling of your pussy squeezing him in, practically sucking his cock inside until you feel him brushing your cervix. He finally sinks in fully, and all he can think about is trying not to fucking cum right now. Not even 10 seconds in and he’s gone like a horny loser, but seeing you so spread open just for him is undoing him anyway.

He sets a pace, slow to stretch you out, having to bury his head against your neck just to suppress his groans, shallow thrusts getting deeper and deeper. The way his member touches rubs on your walls draws the prettiest whines from you, his name coming out as uneasy breaths as his rhythm picks up. Your hands thread through his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, and so his veiny hand settles beside your head, balancing himself on top of you. You claw at his back when his tongue slips into your mouth, his thrusts growing faster.

“J-Jake,” you whimper, just as he pins your thighs down the bed. Your legs spreading wider pretty much heightens the feeling in your pussy, letting you feel his cock as he begins to pound into you. He shifts slightly, grinding on that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back and whine his name again.

“Y-you’re clenching — shit, you’re clenching too hard, baby —” he moans, sweat dripping down his neck to his chest. His hips snap forward harder and faster, breath coming in ragged gasps. 

Your brain is short-circuiting and your skin is on fire, hot coil tightening in your abdomen. He continues rutting into you, bodies warm and sweaty, while your nails dig deep into his back. “I-I’m coming, Jake — fuck, I’m — “

He steals your mouth for another kiss when you finish, your orgasm striking through you, pussy clenching tight around his dick as you feel white ropes spill into you, full and so fucking hot. “S-shit…” he breathes against your mouth, riding out the last few seconds of your pleasure. 

Jake rests his forehead against yours, catching his breath while his hand caresses your waist so firmly, soothing the skin up and down like a lover. His panting slow down, breathing matching yours as the height of your drives lower, his twitching cock coming to a stop inside you. He pulls out, drawing a wince from him, his cum oozing from your hole as he does. 

“Fuck,” he curses, licking the inside of his cheek. You can only laugh tiredly, wiping the sweat from your forehead.

“I did not fucking mean to,” he clears his throat before looking back up at you, “cum in you.”

You hit his arm without any real force, a tired smile etching on your face as you pull him back down. He kisses you, and you try not to melt at how slow he does it, at how much deeper it is compared to the others. When he pulls away, he presses a softer one on your forehead. He straightens on his knees, sharp yet weary eyes looking over your naked body, enjoying every dip and curve, hand somehow never separating from your thighs and hips. You get sheepish, despite it all, giving a quiet groan when he admires you shamelessly. “Stop staring,”

He can only smile, his hand reaching for yours in which you give. His thumb moving slowly over your knuckles, then he lifts it to his mouth and presses a quiet kiss to your fingers before leaning over to kiss your forehead. He kisses near your temple after, voice low when he speaks again. “I’m gonna go to the store.”

Your brows draw slightly, “Now?”

“Yeah,” he gives you a sly smile, “For Plan B.”

You give him a look, but it barely has any strength behind it. Then you laugh, shaking your head at how ridiculous it sounds. Jake gives you a look back, brows lifting slightly. “What?”

Before you can give a proper answer, you sit up and place your palms against his shoulders, pushing him down the bed. He follows obediently, eyes on yours as you find yourself climbing on top of him, legs bracketing either side of his hips once he’s laid down. His cock twitches against your pussy, slowly growing again.

“I’m trying to be a good boyfriend,” he says under his breath, uneven and clearly strained.

Your lips twitch before you can stop them. “Boyfriend, hm?” you hum as your hands feel his abs underneath your palms, taut at your touch.

Jake throws his head back, Adam's apple bobbing before he mutters a quiet curse. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, almost laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Your face heats, not being able to stop the smile that creeps to you. Your hands slide to his chest, and your ass rubs against his hardened length, a soft moan coming out of you when it slides against your wet folds. 

“Later, okay?” is all you say before you manage to slide his cock back inside you, stealing a startled gasp from his throat. 

The next few days have been… a turn.

Not an immediate one, because you are not the kind of person who wakes up one morning and becomes soft just because a boy fucked you to make your thoughts trip over themselves. It starts with stupid things, like letting Jake carry the heavier paper bag when you leave the convenience store instead of wrestling it back from him on principle, or handing him your empty cup before you can think too hard about why your fingers already moved toward him, or looking up from your phone in a parking lot and realizing he has already stepped to the side closest to the road.

The first few times, you still fight it, naturally, and there are moments when you hear your own voice sharpen before you can stop it, asking him whether he thinks you are incapable of holding a bag, opening a door, ordering your own drink, or to even function as a person, but Jake never flinches when your tone gets mean. He never waits for you to become easier. He only looks at you with that patience of his, and says, “I know you can,” like your competence was never in question, and the entire point is not that you cannot do it yourself, but that someone else can do it for you too.

You are used to being needed, to people looking at you when something breaks, when Riki disappears, when your father needs something handled, and you are used to stepping in so quickly. Needing someone has always felt too close to failing, and depending on someone has always felt like handing them a knife and hoping they do not use it on you, but Jake does not treat your reliance like victory, does not look smug when you finally stop arguing, does not make a monument out of every time you let him help. He just helps, and it gives you nothing to push against.

The hot stuff hasn’t ended either. At first, you both did try to be normal for the sake of your upheld pride of refusing to be easy, even to your own boyfriend, and his respect for your decision. It does come to an end right after 4 days it happened, when he comes over again and your father’s never home and Riki’s somewhere you don’t know, having a hot boyfriend in your room would always mean he’d end up pounding into you. Or that you graciously ride him so well that he has to run to the store for Plan B again.

Jake never ever made you feel like you have to do things for him, nor did he ever urge you to have sex with him. There were a few occasions though, when you two might have went against your own moral code when he fucked you in his car in the school parking lot — did you regret it? No. Would it happen again? You hope not.

You might have had a hidden trait that’s been opened after a few nights together. There were a lot of moments when Jake had to take a pause because he genuinely gets scared at how you look at his cock, all excited and famished (sorry for the lack of better term). And his nose, just before he lies down on your bed and lets you sit his face.

You never have prioritized sex, nor did you think there was anything good about having a wet pussy 24/7 other than it was pure lust. You did, however, also find out that you really liked being pushed against Jake’s desk and fucked at the back.

After that, things get a little more cliche, of course. You start expecting his hand at the small of your back when a hallway gets crowded, start assuming he will keep track of where you left your phone, when you start sending him photos of readings with a single question mark and receive back highlighted screenshots, voice notes, and brief explanations. You start asking him to pick you up without building a whole argument on why it’s practical. You start trusting him with the ugly middle parts of your day, not only the polished version you usually hand people.

Then, because you are still princess-y, petty you, you also start getting annoyed when he does not anticipate things fast enough. 

One evening he sits beside you at a café and does not immediately take the extra books from your arms because he is answering Sunghoon’s text, and you feel offended — makes no sense, of course. Now you stand there with your books pressing into your chest, glaring at the side of his head until he finally looks up and pauses. “What?”

“Nothing.”

His gaze drops to the books, then returns to your face, and the slow realization that crosses his expression is so unbearable. Jake reaches for them anyway, careful enough to give you time to refuse, smug enough that you want to kick him, and when you let him take the stack from your arms, he murmurs, “My bad, baby. I’ll be faster next time.”

With Riki, the change makes him jump quietly (of course) in glee. You do not stop worrying, because that would require medical intervention, but you stop overthinking every hour. Sometimes you don’t ask where he is until he tells you first. Riki starts texting more because the texts no longer feel like constant interrogation, and you start responding less as you remember that seventeen is not the same as helpless.

Then one day passes without you talking to him at all. You do not realize it until you are brushing your teeth and your phone lights up with a message from Riki that only says, alive btw. You stare at it for a long second, toothpaste foaming at your mouth, and the first thing you feel is panic because how did you go an entire day without checking — someone will kill you, for sure, right? Then the panic fades into the shape of relief. He is fine, he told you, comfortably at that too.

When you tell Jake later, expecting him to make some joke, he only nods and says, “That’s good.” then reaches for your hand like it is the easiest thing in the world. “You did good.”

You don’t have to be soft all at once, nor do you have to surrender your sharpness just to wake up as some easier version of yourself because someone decided to stay. Embarrassingly, it makes your brain turn off when your boyfriend takes the problem from your hands and solves it before you can turn it into another reason to hate yourself. You can still be competent, still be difficult, still be the girl who knows what to do in a crisis, while also being the girl who lets Jake highlight her readings, carry her books, order her coffee, pull her away, and hold her against his chest when she finally remembers it’s okay to be tired.

He does not make you less capable, he just makes you less alone with it. Most importantly, he does not act like the softer version of you is the only one worth liking.

Jake and Riki manage to convince you to go to a house party on a Friday night, which doesn’t take much, weirdly enough.

Riki starts first, of course, he says you never do anything fun, which makes you refuse again. Jake, unfairly, does not argue the same way, who only leans against your kitchen counter with one hand curled around a glass of water, watching you over the rim with that calm expression he gets when he knows you are already halfway annoyed. He tells you “it does not have to be a big thing, we can leave whenever you want. I’ll stay with you the whole time if you want me to”, and if you hate how kind he is. Which makes you say yes.

The house is already full by the time you get there, music pressing through the walls before Jake even parks. Cars line both sides of the street, voices spilling through the open windows, laughter breaking over the bass in uneven bursts — you’re not exactly uncomfortable, only uneasy in a way that this is not something you’re used to, not like how Riki and Jake soothes right in. 

Then Jake’s hand settles at the small of your back. “You okay?” he asks, voice low enough when he leans down to you.

You look at the room in front of you, then at Riki, who is already greeting someone. “This is loud.”

“Because that’s how parties usually work,” Jake’s mouth curves when you give him a look, before his hand rubs the small of your back up and down. “But we can leave.”

That is annoying, mostly because it is thoughtful, and you have learned there is very little to do with Jake’s thoughtfulness except either accept it or be a bitch about it and watch him keep being thoughtful anyway. You glance away before he can catch whatever your face is doing and mutter, “We’ll stay.”

He gets you a drink from the kitchen, not from one of the abandoned cups on the counter but from an unopened bottle in the cooler, twisting the cap and you take it without arguing. 

His friends find you almost immediately. Jungwon lifts his brows when he sees you beside Jake, then smiles. Sunoo says your name with delighted surprise, Jay gives you an exaggeratedly respectful nod that makes you narrow your eyes, and Sunghoon and Heeseung offers you a small, careful smile. They are nicer than you expected them to be, or maybe they have always been nice and you were too busy seeing them as Riki’s friends (with connotation, at that).

Jake does not leave your side at first, and tries to make sure not to make you feel tense. He notices when the kitchen gets too crowded and nudges you toward the living room without making you feel like he is moving you. He notices when someone you barely know tries to pull you into a conversation you clearly do not want and cuts in so smoothly that they don’t even realize. 

For a while, you stay like that, your back against his front, his mouth near your ear every now and then as he leans down to murmur things meant only for you. His eyes flick toward Jay guarding the snack table like a personal estate, toward some boy near the speakers dancing with more confidence than rhythm. You laugh quietly at first, then more openly later on, your head tipping back slightly against his shoulder for half a second as you both judge people’s tipsy decisions.

Someone nearby starts setting up beer pong on a long table, cups arranged into triangles, people crowding around with immediate excitement. You take one look at the cups, the ball bouncing once against the floor, the wet ring marks on the table, and the enthusiasm dies on your face so visibly that Jake folds forward against your shoulder with silent laughter. 

You stop paying attention to the shape of the night, and your guard lowers enough for the party to become just a party, not a list of potential disasters. With his hand on your hip, even when Riki’s off your field of view, you’re less anxious.

He brushes his fingers lightly against your wrist, making you turn to him slightly. “I’ll be quick,” he says. “I’ll just get another drink.”

For a minute, you stand alone near the edge of the living room, watching him disappear through the crowd. You decide to find his friends, partly because they are people you know now, partly because you are not yet the kind of girl who can stand alone in a house full of strangers. 

The hallway is too crowded, so you head for the front door instead, slipping past two people arguing over someone’s car keys and stepping out into the night air. The music dulls behind the walls as you walk down the porch steps and follow the narrow side path around the house. You only remember seeing Jungwon and the others near the backyard earlier, and going through the side seems easier than forcing yourself through the crowd. The side of the house is dim except for the spill of light coming from the backyard, and voices grow clearer the closer you get.

A voice says something you do not catch, followed by a louder laugh, and you stop before fully turning the corner, half-hidden behind the hedge lining the side yard. You do not mean to listen, but you hear Riki first. “Dude, I’m just saying,” he says, laughing carelessly. “I should’ve done this months ago.”

Someone snorts, Jay, probably. “You mean hiring Jake?”

Your steps slow before you fully reach them, deciding to still behind a stupid bush.

Riki laughs again. “I mean, clearly the money worked.”

“He really put those hundreds to use, huh?”

There is laughter, easy, stupid, and thoughtless laughter from boys who have no idea that the joke is standing right there, turning rigid again.

“Taming the lion,” someone says.

Your throat goes dry as the laughter grows again, freezing completely when someone says your name next.

The scary sister, the impossible girl, the controlling bitch with a curfew and a brother who apparently thought your entire life could be negotiated down to a payment and one patient boy you thought saw you differently — yet each memory with him reaches backward for a new shape, forming into one joke shared by teenage schemes.

Someone inside says, “Nah, but seriously, Jake deserves a raise. She actually smiles now.”

Riki says something you cannot fully make out, but it does not matter because your mind has already started blurring.

Then Jake’s voice cuts through, appearing through the patio door. “Hey, have you guys seen her?”

“There he is,” Jay says, too loud, too cheerful. “Man of the hour.”

“What?” Jake asks, distracted.

Then there is the sound of palms meeting, boys greeting him the way boys do, easy and stupid and physical. Someone daps him up, someone else claps his shoulder, someone mentions how great he did for convincing you to go to a party.

“Congrats, bro,” one of them says, laughing. “Hundreds well spent.”

Jake does not speak. Maybe he is processing, maybe his face has changed in some way you cannot see yet. Maybe, he would push the hand off his shoulder and tell them to shut up. But you do not get that far, because you turn a little to see him, and his eyes finally lift past them and land on you.

He sees you standing there, one hand around the bottle he opened for you, your face completely still. For one impossible second, you look at him and he looks back.

And it is awful, how quickly his expression breaks, because it isn’t confusion nor innocence, just the face of someone who knows. His eyes widen, his mouth parts slightly, and panic moves across his face so plainly that it feels like another admission you’re not supposed to hear.

Behind him, Riki turns and the color drains from his face when he sees you. Your name leaves Jake’s mouth once, low and ruined but you’re already stepping away.

You turn and walk.

Someone laughs from the inside, someone trying to go to the back bumps your shoulder and apologizes, but you do not answer. It’s a little shitty how your whole body feels strangely calm now, the way it does in emergencies, when adrenaline doesn’t need you moving your feet to handle something first.

You can hear Jake behind you, cursing under his breath, sharp and panicked, nothing like the careful voice he used when he told you to let him take care of you.

“Wait,” he calls, closer now. “Please, just wait.”

The front yard is crowded, so you shove through them and into the night air with your lungs burning and your hands cold around the bottle you forgot to leave behind. The street outside is quieter, only then do you realize how badly you needed it, how trapped you had been inside that house with all those walls and all that laughter and every memory of Jake rearranging itself into something ugly.

You make it halfway down the front path before his hand catches your wrist, not hard but you pull away like it burns.

He stops in front of you, breathing unevenly, hair messier than before, eyes wide in a way you used to love, but now it only makes something sharp twist in your chest. Behind him, Riki stumbles out onto the porch, face pale, panic written all over him like a child finally realizing the stove is hot after touching it, even after you told him no.

Jake takes half a step forward, then thinks better of it. “I can explain.” His jaw tightens. “It’s not what they made it sound like.”

“Really?” Your voice stays calm. “Because it sounded like my brother paid you to distract me, and your friends think you deserve congratulations for doing it well.”

Jake’s face goes white. Riki moves down one step. “It was my idea.”

You look at him then, not with the sharp little look you usually give him when he says something stupid, but actually look at him. For one strange second, he looks like the nine-year-old boy who used to stand in your doorway, the one who would deny crying even while his eyes were swollen, the one you learned how to comfort while you comforted yourself because mom is gone and dad is never home.

That is what does it, your eyes water before you can stop them. “You paid someone to get me out of the way?”

He shakes his head too quickly. “No. I just wanted you to have something else,” he says, and the words come out in a rush now, messy and panicked. “I thought if you were busy, if you were happy, maybe you’d stop worrying about me all the time. I didn’t know how else to get you to stop. You never listen to me. You never believe me.”

Your eyes return to Jake, and the worst thing is that part of you still wants him to fix it. Some pathetic, exhausted, newly softened part of you wants him to say the exact right thing, wants him to reach for the memory of every night you trusted him and pull it back from the edge. 

You hate that part of yourself instantly. You hate that it exists because of him.

“Is that true?” you ask.

His eyes flick down, then back to your face, desperate now. “At first,” he says, voice rough. “At first, yes, but it stopped being that.”

You stare at him.

“But I gave the money back,” he continues, voice rough. “I told him I was done. I told him I didn’t want any part of it anymore.”

Your throat tightens. “After I slept with you?”

He goes still.

That is the answer.

You stare at him, waiting for him to save it anyway, because some stupid part of you still wants him to. You wait for him to say no, to say you got it wrong, to say there was some other version of the story where he did not let you give him that much of yourself before telling you the truth. But Jake only looks at you with his mouth parted slightly, eyes wide and ruined, and every second he does not speak feels like another hand closing around your throat.

You shake your head once. “You let me think,” your voice is low and calm, “that for once, someone just wanted to be there. You let me trust you with the parts of myself I don’t even like,” you say. “And you knew. You knew what they didn’t.”

The gala. You see the memory land in him, the garden lights, the fountain, your stupid dress, the way you sat on the far end of a bench and told him things you barely knew how to tell yourself. Your mother being gone, your father being absent, Riki being more yours than he should have been. You remember how carefully he listened, how he stayed far enough not to scare you off, how safe his silence felt then, how you laughed with him because he saw you and didn’t think you were cruel at all.

He takes a step toward you. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking around it. “I should have told you that night. I know I should have.”

“I thought you chose me,” you say.

“I did.” His eyes go red. “I did choose you.”

Your mouth trembles once, then stills. “For a hundred bucks?”

He looks like the words hit him somewhere physical.

“No,” he says, too quickly, too desperately. “No, not like that.”

You nod once, not because you believe him, but because your body needs to do something other than fall apart in front of them. “I want to go home.”

Jake straightens immediately. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”

You turn away from him and reach for your phone with shaking fingers. “No.”

His breath catches. “Please.”

You unlock your screen and open the app, feeling stupid because you can’t see through the blur as you type it in. 

“I can drive you,” he says, voice quieter now.

You keep your eyes on the street until the headlights appear at the end of the road, the car pulling toward the curb. You get inside and do not look back.

You hate men. Enough that you can prepare a presentation on the subject with credible sources, historical examples, and a conclusion about betrayal as a gendered epidemic. Evidence would be your absent father, your fraudulent ex-boyfriend, your seventeen year old brother, and his demonic friends.

Hating your brother is inconvenient because he lives in your house, eats your food, leaves his stuff everywhere, and now lives without you telling him what to do. For the first time in years, you do not ask what the hell he’s up to anymore. You simply sit at the kitchen island with your laptop open, spoon in hand, eating directly out of a tub of ice cream at seven in the morning. 

Historically, you have always cracked first when it comes to him. Historically, you cannot help yourself. Historically, your entire body starts to prepare for anything if it concerns Riki.

But history is dead. Men killed it.

Jake is hard to ignore only because he is not physically in the house, which means he tries to get creative. He texts first, of course, just once in the morning, once at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day — because he knows exactly how to overwhelm you. Then he leaves an iced latte with your name on top of your desk in one of your classes. You stare at it on your desk for a full minute, before you give it to your seatmate.

By the fourth day, you have finished the second tub of ice cream — not your proudest moment, but it is also not your worst, which says more about your week than your character. You have attended classes with perfect notes, no late submission, reorganized your planner, ignored messages from Jake, and pretended not to notice that Riki has started texting you when he arrives places without being asked.

On Friday night, Riki finds you on the couch in your oldest pajamas, hair tied messily back, third tub of ice cream open on the coffee table, watching a documentary about deep-sea creatures with the blank focus. 

“Jake’s been driving me from and to school,” he says carefully.

Your spoon pauses in the ice cream, before you resume. Onscreen, a glowing fish drifts through the dark, hideous and peaceful, which feels aspirational. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then sets his bag down properly.

“I’m sorry,” he says but does not step closer. “I know sorry doesn’t fix it. I just wanted to say it.”

You keep staring at the television, where the ugly little fish continues glowing alone in the dark, refusing to pay him any mind. 

By Saturday morning, Riki had started acting like a ghost. He moves quietly around the house, closes cabinets softly, and pe picks up his shoes before you can even see them. At one point, you find him wiping the kitchen counter after making toast, which is very disturbing. 

At school, Jake looks worse than he ever did. He waits by your classroom once, but you walk past him without slowing down, your expression polished into something calm. He says your name but you keep walking, because you refuse to give pieces of yourself to men, more than you already have.

Riki has also learned that you are not going to pack his lunch, remind him about assignments, ask whether he has practice, or save him from his own time management. This would be liberating for him if freedom did not apparently require the ability to know where his own socks are.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and your eyes slide toward the screen, just long enough to see Jake’s name there before the notification fades and the room goes dim again. A few seconds later, there is a knock on your door. It does not open but Riki’s voice breaks through. “Jake’s here,” he says. “He has food. He said he’ll wait ten minutes, and if you don’t come down, he’ll leave.”

Riki stays there for another second, clearly wanting to say something else, but maybe he has learned enough to know that pushing right now would only make you worse. For a while, you do not move and only tell yourself you are not thinking about it, that you do not care what food Jake brought, whether it is something you like, whether it’s because he’s making sure you ate.

At eight minutes, you sit up. At nine, your feet touch the floor. At ten, you stay where you are.

Then outside, his car starts. You sit at the edge of your bed with your hands curled into the blanket, listening until the sound disappears completely down the street.

The week passes, and you remain committed to silence. You do not speak to Jake. You do not speak to Riki unless it is absolutely necessary. 

That night, Riki knocks on your door. You do not answer, but unfortunately, he opens the door anyway and stops at the sight of you buried in bed, laptop balanced near your knees, looking at him like you have been for the past weeks: exasperated.

“What?”

He stays by the doorway, one hand still on the knob. “I’m hungry.”

You stare at him for a second, then look back at your screen. “Then order something.”

“I don’t want delivery.”

“Then make something.”

“I want to go out.”

You pause, because that is exactly the kind of sentence he used to say before you started the lectures about curfew, rides, locations, and whether he had enough sense to come home alive. This time, you only shrug against your pillows. “Then go out.”

Riki shifts his weight. “No,” he says, quieter. “With you.”

You keep your eyes on your laptop, even though the movie has become impossible to follow, because looking at him would mean seeing guilt, probably; hope, maybe. Both would be extremely inconvenient because you learned to soften when he used it.

“It’s late,” you say.

“I know.”

“And you have Jake, apparently.”

He flinches a little, and the guilt on his face finally becomes too obvious to ignore. You hate that it still gets to you, how young he looks when he is sorry, like some part of him has folded back into the boy who used to stand outside your room when he was scared and he had no one else but his older sister.

He swallows. “I don’t want Jake.”

You hate men. You hate your brother. You hate that the sentence works.

With a long, irritated sigh, you close your laptop. “Get your shoes.”

The drive is quiet, Riki sits in the passenger seat with his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, looking out the window instead of at you. You keep both hands on the wheel and do not ask if he has eaten lunch, even though the question sits on your tongue the entire way there. The diner is still open when you pull up, its neon sign glowing red against the dark. 

When the food comes, the table fills with baskets and paper-lined plates, greasy burgers, fries, and mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce in a plastic cup between you. Riki burns his fingers because he has never once believed in waiting, and you call him an idiot before you can stop yourself. The two of you eat in silence after that — not the awful one from the house, but not comfortable either. It sits between you, filling the space while both of you act invested in fries and melted cheese.

Then Riki clears his throat. “I have a girlfriend.” Your hand freezes halfway to the basket.

For a second, the entire diner seems to mute itself around that one sentence. You look up slowly, genuinely caught off guard, and Riki looks terrified in the way only someone who has been hiding something huge.

“What?”

He shifts in his seat. “I have a girlfriend.”

You lean back against the red vinyl booth, trying to process this new piece of information without immediately becoming the girl who asks for her full name, address, grades, family background, and emergency contact. The questions rise anyway: Who is she? How long? Does she treat you well? Does she know you are stupid? Does she have standards? Does she encourage you to drink blue things at parties? Does she know about dad?

Riki looks down at his plate. “When Jake started taking you out, I was also taking her out.” His fingers pick at the edge of the paper liner. “That’s why I wanted more time and freedom. I know that doesn’t make what I did okay.”

You look at him, face unreadable.

“It was bad,” he says, before you can say it for him. “I know it was bad. But something good came out of it too. You were happier. I know you hate hearing that, but you were. You weren’t always watching me like something bad was about to happen. You went out and laughed and you had someone.”

You look down at the untouched mozzarella stick in front of you. “Right,” you say quietly. “So much for a hundred bucks.”

Riki’s face falls. “No,” he says, then stops himself because even he knows he cannot deny the beginning. “I know I can’t decide which parts hurt for you, but I thought I was helping both of us. That doesn’t make me right, I know that. But please don’t think that I wasn’t considering you along the way — because I did, I really did.”

The answer is too ready, too practiced, and for a moment you think that maybe he’s being foolish again. But now that you’re looking at him, you realize that he’s old enough to make cruel decisions, young enough to look shattered when he finally understands.

“I know you wanted me to stop controlling you,” you say. “I know I was too much.”

He exhales, miserable. “Okay. Sometimes. But not because you were bad. You raised me,” he says, quieter now. “And I hated it because I wanted you to just be my sister, but I also knew you were the only one checking. That’s why it felt so messed up all the time.” He wipes his palms on his hoodie. “I’m sorry I made you feel like something I had to escape.”

The waitress passes by with a coffee pot, and both of you sit there pretending you can steal breathe without feeling hot wax at the back of your throat. You reach for a mozzarella stick because your hands need something to do, and Riki pushes the marinara closer without thinking.

You dip the mozzarella stick and take a bite. “I’m still mad,” you say. “But I’d like to meet your girlfriend.”

For a second, he just stares at you, like he is not sure he heard you correctly. Then his face shifts, slowly, carefully, into the smallest smile. “Okay.”

For the first time all week, your mouth almost curves. The rest of dinner is still quiet, but not as sharp. He tells you her name eventually, softly, and you do not ask for details yet, only nodding. Outside, the air is colder than when you arrived. You make it three steps toward the car before Riki stops behind you.

“I really am sorry,” he says.

When you turn around, his eyes are red, standing there with his shoulders tight and his face crumpling despite how hard he is trying to hold it together. The sight pulls at something old and exhausted inside you, the same place that has always answered him before pride can interrupt.

“Riki,” you say, but it comes out cracking.

He shakes his head, wiping his face too fast. “I’m sorry. I know I ruined it. I know. I’m sorry.”

You cross the space before either of you can think too hard about it and pull him into a hug.

For a second, he is taller than you and somehow still the little boy from your doorway, the one who had no one else, the one you loved badly because nobody taught you how to do it gently. His arms come around you tight, and the first sob he lets out breaks something open in your chest.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

“Fuck you too,” he says, crying harder.

“You’re so stupid.”

“A dumbass, I know.”

You hold him tighter anyway. Eventually, he pulls back first, wiping his face with his sleeve. His nose is running slightly, and he looks so devastated that you almost call him gross just to make the moment easier.

“I don’t get to tell you what to do,” he says.

You look at him, already tired. “Great start.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Especially not about Jake.”

Your face changes before you can stop it. He sees it and immediately raises both hands a little, like he is approaching an animal with a history of biting. “I’m not defending what happened. I’m not. But,” he continues carefully, “he did give the money back.”

Your eyes narrow at him.

“I know that doesn’t fix it,” he says quickly. “I know it doesn’t make the beginning less awful. I just… I was there, and I saw when it changed.”

The words sit there, too quiet and too heavy for the sidewalk outside a diner. You do not answer, only staring past him toward the parking lot, where your car waits under the lamppost.

He swallows. “At first, he was doing it because I asked him to. Then he started asking me things about you. What books you liked, where you went after school, if you were always that tired.” His voice gets smaller. “And then he stopped asking me altogether.”

Your throat tightens, which is infuriating.

“He didn’t need me anymore,” he says. “Not for you.”

“Riki.”

“I know. I’ll stop.” He wipes his face again, then nods like he is trying to obey before you even say anything mean. “I just wanted you to know that part.”

You stare at him for a long second.

“And what am I supposed to do with that?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Get mad — at me, at him, at dad too. Do nothing. Eat more ice cream. I just don’t want you to think every good part was fake. Because I know I messed it up, and he messed it up, but you were happy. And I don’t think that was fake.”

You hate him a little for saying it.

You hate him more because it makes you think.

The worst part has never been that Jake lied and everything after became nothing. The worst part is that it still feels real and they happened, regardless the truths and the lies, the half-truths and wrong intentions. All of it still sits somewhere inside you, refusing to rot properly no matter how badly the beginning wronged it. 

You wipe under your eye with your knuckle. “You’re very annoying.”

“I know.”

You sniff, looking away before your face can crumple again. “I’m not forgiving him just because you feel guilty.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“I’m not forgiving you either. Not yet.”

“I know.”

You look at him.

He looks back, eyes still wet, but this time he does not look like he expects you to fix it for him. He only stands there, accepting it, which feels new enough to hurt.

Then he says, quietly, “But can I still ride home with you?”

Your mouth almost curves.

“Unfortunately,” you say, walking toward the car.

That night, you cannot sleep.

It is annoying, because you are exhausted enough to sleep. Your body is tired, your eyes hurt, and your head has been heavy since you drove home from the diner. Still, you lie there staring at the ceiling, turning one thought over and over until it stops feeling like a thought and starts feeling like a pulse breathing beneath your weight — your brother’s words alive there.

You hate that Riki said it and that he might be right. You hate that all week, even through the anger, you still kept thinking about Jake when you made coffee, when you passed the hallway where he used to wait.

You are still in your sleep shorts, an old shirt, and house slippers when you grab your car keys. You do not bother changing, which should have been your first sign that you are not making a dignified decision at all. You only go downstairs without turning on too many lights, and leave before you can talk yourself into being a sensible woman.

The drive to Jake’s house feels longer than it should.

When you pull up near the curb, you keep your hands on the wheel for a second, staring at the front of his house like it might tell you what the hell you are doing here. Yet it only sits there, quiet and expensive and familiar.

The front door opens when you’re about to reverse. Jake steps out with his keys in one hand, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, his hair messy and soft around the mouth in the way you used to love. Still the boy who made you feel, for the first time in years. He locks the door behind him and turns toward his car, already halfway down the path when he sees you.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then, because apparently you have already abandoned all pride tonight, you get out of your car. The cold hits your legs immediately, so you hug your arms around yourself and stand there on the sidewalk in slippers, trying to look like a person who’ll stand on this and not someone whose feelings drove her here.

“Where are you going?” you ask.

His hand tightens slightly around his keys. “Store.”

You nod once. “Right.”

“I was just going to buy something,” he adds, quieter, like even he knows that does not matter.

You nod again, because now that you are here, you have no idea what comes after arriving — which is excessively dumb. The whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous; you in your sleep clothes and him standing by his car. 

“Okay,” you say, then you turn back toward your car.

You barely make it one step before he says your name, not loud nor desperate, just in that Jake way that makes your knees buck and feet stop.

He takes one careful step forward. “What are you doing here?”

You keep your eyes on your car door. “I don’t know.” The answer is embarrassing because it is true, and you’re glad you can’t see his reaction.

“Okay.”

You almost laugh, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat. You look back at him with enough courage. “Riki talked to me.”

He goes still.

“I’m not here because of that,” you say quickly.

“Okay.”

“I’m still mad.”

“I know.”

“And you still hurt me.”

His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I know.”

You look away, because his face is making this harder. “I don’t even know why I drove here.”

He’s quiet for a long second, still careful as to not step on a mine. Then he says, “I was hoping you would.” He looks almost embarrassed by the honesty, but he does not take it back, not even when you look back at him. “I just kept thinking maybe one day you’d show up, or text, or yell at me, or anything.” His mouth pulls faintly, but it is not really a smile. 

“That’s pathetic,” you say, but your voice has no bite.

He lets out a breath. “Yeah. I know.”

You hate how gentle the night feels around the two of you, how gentle he still is, how easier it is to stand here than it was to stay in your room while your throbbing heart gnaws on your ribcage. You hate that even now, after everything, being near him makes some part of you calm.

Your fingers curl against your own arms, holding yourself tighter, because if you don’t, you might do something worse. Like forgive too fast or maybe even slap him or admit the thing sitting in your chest that looks a lot like a picture of you two.

Jake moves slowly, just before he stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the tiredness beneath his eyes, the way his mouth parts slightly like he wants to say something and knows better than to crowd you with it.

“I tried,” you say, barely above a whisper. You blink hard, still looking down. “Not thinking about you.”

He does not answer.

“I tried being angry enough that it would cancel everything else out,” you continue, and the words start coming before you can stop them. “I tried making all of it ugly. I tried telling myself that every good thing only happened because of a bad reason.”

Your voice shakes, and you hate it, but you keep going. “But it didn’t work.” You finally look up at him, and his eyes are already on you, wide and quiet and so full of hope because that’s just who he is. Your own mouth trembles once before you still it.

“I can’t not be in love with you, Jake.”

For one terrifying second, he says nothing, and your face burns so badly that you almost step back. But then his expression breaks, not with panic this time, not like the party after you find out — just something like relief and careful in one.

He says your name so quietly it barely reaches you. He lifts his hand slightly, then stops.

“Can I?” he asks.

You know what he means and you should say no — but instead, you nod once. His hand closes around your elbow softly, barely a grip at first, before he pulls you toward him.

You step forward before you can decide not to, and then you are close enough to feel the warmth of him through the cold night air. His hand slides from your elbow to your arm, then pauses there, carefully first. His eyes search your face, and you hate that he still looks at you like that, like all that matters to him is not to hurt you.

“You can still be mad,” he says quietly. He swallows, his thumb moving once against your sleeve. “I don’t want you to think I’m asking you to stop being hurt just because you still love me.”

You look down, because that is the exact kind of thing that makes your chest go weak in a way you cannot afford. “Then what are you asking?”

He is quiet for a second, and when he answers, his voice is lower, rougher. “For whatever part of you drove here.”

Your eyes lift to his, just to see he’s nervous after saying it, knowing it’s too honest and too close to wanting too much. But he does not take it back, his hand still on your arm, gentle enough that you could pull away, firm enough that you know he does not want you to.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

His mouth barely moves, not quite a smile. “Good.”

“You’re unfair because you hurt me, and then you still know how to hold me like this.” Your voice turns softer, more frustrated than sharp. 

His face changes. “I don’t know how to hold you any other way.”

For a second, you just stare at him, feeling your anger and your want and your stupid, impossible love all sitting inside your chest together, refusing to separate into anything clean and correct. You reach for him first, your fingers curling into the front of his hoodie, but he goes still and his breath hitches.

Your fingers tighten. “I hate the way I don’t hate you.”

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but it sounds too shaky to be amused. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I’ll take that.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks down at your hand, then back at you, and his mouth does this stupid little almost-smile that makes your chest hurt. “I mean, it’s not ideal,” he says carefully. “But it’s better than you hating me normally.”

You glare at him, but it barely has any strength. “You’re not funny.”

“I know.” His eyes stay on you. “I’m nervous.”

He swallows, his hand hovering near your arm like he wants to touch you and is trying very hard to behave. The silence after that is small, not empty. You can hear the faint sound of a car passing somewhere down the street, the soft buzz of the porch light, the uneven way he breathes when you still do not let go of his hoodie.

Then Jake says, quieter, “I kept thinking about what I’d say if you ever looked at me again.”

The smallest, most traitorous shift at the corner of your mouth. His eyes drop to your mouth, lasting half a second before he looks back up, but it is enough to make your face warm. You swallow, “And what did you come up with?”

He stares at you like the answer should be easy, but now that you are standing in front of him, hand still curled in his hoodie, it looks like every version he practiced has abandoned him. His mouth parts once, then he lets out a quiet breath. He tilts his head down, close enough that his nose brushes yours first, and your breath catches anyway.

“I want you,” he says.

He swallows, eyes still on yours, voice lower now. “No deal, no money, no Riki asking me to.” His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but he looks too nervous to fully let it happen.

For a second, you forget how to be angry properly.

Even after everything, he says things too simply, too honestly, like he does not know that a few words can walk straight past every wall you spent weeks rebuilding. You stare at him, close enough to see the way his lashes lower when his eyes flick to your mouth againe

“You’re very annoying,” you whisper, because anything softer would ruin you completely.

His mouth twitches, but his eyes do not leave yours. “Then be annoyed at me,” he says quietly.

His hand finally settles against your arm. “Be mad at me. Yell at me if you want. Look at me like you hate me.” His voice drops a little, and something in it turns almost helpless. His face is close enough now that you can see how badly he is trying not to look at your mouth again. “To my face,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “So at least I know you’re still there.”

You forget your slippers, your car parked badly by the curb, the fact that you drove here with no plan and no dignity. All you can focus on is the boy in front of you, looking at you as he says your anger is better than your absence, and even the worst version of you would be easier to survive than no version at all.

For a second, you only stare at him, and then, because your body has apparently lost all sense of loyalty to your anger, you laugh. Just something that slips out because Jake Sim is standing in front of you looking genuinely wrecked over the possibility of you never glaring at him again, and somehow that is the stupidest, most unfairly sweet thing he could have said.

His eyes flicker, like the sound surprises him. “What?”

“You’re very stupid,” you whisper.

His mouth softens. “Yeah.”

You shake your head, but your fingers are still curled in his hoodie. You hate that your whole body seems to understand him before your brain can decide what to do, because all week you have been telling yourself to stay angry, stay away, stay untouched, and then he says one stupid honest thing and you are standing here in slippers, holding onto him like you were always going to come back.

His hand shifts at your arm, careful still. “I won’t ask for more than you want to give me.”

You tug him down and then your mouth is on his.

The kiss is soft at first because he makes it soft, because even now, even with your fingers pulling at his hoodie and your face tilted up to his, he still kisses you like he is waiting for you to change your mind. Then his hand slips from your arm to your waist, warm and steady, and he kisses you back like he has been trying not to think about doing this for weeks and failing every single day. He does not rush, does not take too much, but the relief in him is obvious in the way his breath leaves against your mouth, in the way his fingers tighten just slightly at your side like he cannot believe you are letting him hold you again.

Then he takes one step forward without thinking, and you take one back because he is close and warm and kissing him is already making your brain fuzzy. Your slipper catches the edge of the curb before either of you notices and you stumble. A small gasp slips into the kiss, immediately followed by a laugh you try and fail to swallow. His arm tightens around your waist at once, pulling you back against him before you can lose your balance properly, and he breaks the kiss only enough to look down between you.

“Careful,” he breathes, like he has any right to sound concerned when he is the entire reason you forgot how sidewalks work.

He kisses you again before you can complain further, and this time it is less careful, tugging at his hoodie until he has to bend closer. The cold air slips around your legs, and your car is still parked badly by the curb.

When you pull away, barely, Jake follows for half a second before stopping himself. His eyes open slowly, and the look on his face is so dazed and soft that your own face heats.

“Do you want to go somewhere?”

You blink. “Right now?”

“Yeah.” His thumb moves once at your waist. “I mean, not as a date if you don’t want it to be a date. Or it can be. Or it can be something else. I don’t know.” He winces slightly. “I’m doing badly again.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile. “Very badly.”

For a second, he only looks at you, still smiling a little, then he tilts his head like he has decided to be brave in the worst possible way. “I’m buying. I have cash.” he says. “Got it from some dumb seventeen-year-old who asked me to take his sister out.”

Your jaw drops. He starts laughing before you can even form a sentence, and that makes it worse. “Oh my God.” You immediately turn away from him, deeply offended, and manage half a step before his hand catches your wrist, enough to stop you before you can escape with what little dignity you have left.

“Okay, sorry,” he says, but he is still laughing.

Your back meets his chest, his arm slips around your waist again, and his laugh drops into something softer near your ear.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “Bad joke.”

His hand slides down from your wrist to your fingers, and before you can say anything else, he lifts your hand. His lips press softly against your knuckles, and every insult waiting on your tongue disappears like it never had a chance.

You hate him. You hate him a lot.

You sigh, like this is a great sacrifice and not exactly what you want. “Fine.” His smile grows. “But if you mention the money again, I’m breaking up with you. Again.”

He nods seriously. “Okay. No more money jokes. I can’t afford to lose my girlfriend twice.”

“Jake.”

“Sorry. Done. No more.”

˙⋆✮Changbin

˙⋆✮Hyunjin

˙⋆✮Felix

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"where is it?"

you take a step back, looking over the shelves until you found the jar that you were looking for. once you found it, you grabbed it, reading the back to make sure it was what you were looking for because you may have bought the wrong thing once or twice, and the last thing you needed was to spend more money when you needed it.

it was perhaps a little frowned open what you did, selling potions while you were still in college. there weren't any rules against it, so no one really said anything. you weren't making nearly as much as you would've if you were out of school, but it was plenty enough for you and your familiar to get by.

"you finding everything okay, doll?"

your gaze snaps up from the jar, glancing at the sketchy shop owner who was staring at you from down the aisle. his name was kevin, and he was the bane of your existence. he wouldn't be a problem if the place didn't have a magic ban on it. at least you never came in here weaponless.

you open your mouth to answer but stop when you feel a black tail wrap around your waist. you look back to see your familiar, nicholas, staring at kevin with a sharp glare. his eyes turn feline before he lets out a loud hiss, successfully scaring away kevin who you can hear mumble that he'll be at the register when you were ready.

nicholas' eyes return to normal before it meets yours. "why can't we find another ingredient shop again?"

"because the closest one besides this one is an hour away." you answer, putting the jar in the basket he was holding. "besides, you know he's all talk."

"don't ever come here without me."

you roll your eyes, already quite familiar with his demands. you bite back your retort about how you were technically the one in charge, but you know that never goes anywhere, making it easier to just agree with him.

it was very rare for familiars to be hybrids. none of the people at your school had one, and none of your teachers believed you when you said your familiar was a hybrid. it wasn't until he showed up one day with a shit eating grin and proving all of them wrong that they believed you.

you didn't care if they believed you or not, but you also don't blame them for not believing you. you didn't even believe it yourself at first. all you knew was that you were supposed to perform the spell that gives you your familiar on your 16th birthday. you followed everything perfectly, having studied the spell for months, but instead of getting an animal like everyone else, you got a sassy 5'10" black cat hybrid with ears that almost blended in with his black hair.

you didn't mind though. it was nice going through life with an actual person instead of an animal. especially since your parents all but abandoned you as soon as you turned 18. nicholas was there, helping you pick up all of your broken pieces and then some. he was a good familiar and a good friend. a friend that loved to blur the lines of friendship and make you confused about your feelings for him, but a friend nonetheless.

"yes sir." you salute before moving to grab your last herb. you didn't make it very far because of his tail that was still wrapped around your waist, forcing you to look back at him.

"i mean it, kitten."

"i know you do." you tell him, frowning when it looked like he didn't believe you. it led you to grabbing his hand, linking his pinky with yours. "i promise i will not come into this store alone."

"good girl." he smiled, leaning down to kiss your temple before pulling away. "now where is the last thing, so we can get out of here."

you duck your head, feeling your face flush as you turn away from him. he follows you, keeping your tail around your wrist like he normally did. he's always been like this- touchy with you. you used to could be able to brush it off, but it started getting harder and harder to do. you didn't understand it, so you brought it up with your close friend and classmate, harua.

"oh that's easy. you like him."

you remember scoffing at his answer. "of course i like him. he's my familiar."

"no you idiot. i mean you like him more than that."

you originally refused the answer that harua gave you. it wasn't until you thought about it that you finally agreed with him. he gloated, but it didn't last long with you said you weren't going to do anything about it. you couldn't be with him.

nicholas was your familiar. you two were bound for life. what if you two got together and broke up? that would make things unnecessarily awkward. that's if he returned those feelings- which you didn't think he did. you would rather just suck it up and ignore them. harua didn't agree with any of what you said, and to this day is still trying to convince you to try.

nicholas let out a satisfied sigh once you gave him your last ingredient. he then held out his hand making you roll your eyes. his tail lets go of you when you start digging in your bag before pulling out your wallet. you hand it to him before following him to the register. his broad shoulders block you completely as he checks out. you notice him give kevin one last glare before he leads you out of the store.

"i would still prefer it if we found another shop." nicholas mention as you walked down the street to where your car was parked.

"i know. next time, we'll go to a different one. deal?" he smiled at your words, happy he was finally getting his way.

"deal, kitten."

the next time you had to go to grab some ingredients for a potion was two weeks after your deal with nicholas. unfortunately for you, you didn't have time to go to the one outside of town, leaving you to go to your usual one. you knew he was going to kill you when he found out, but at least you weren't technically breaking your promise because you weren't going alone.

"i feel like this is going to end bad." harua said as he got out of the car. you shrug your shoulders before starting to walk towards the shop.

"you're overthinking. this is the last time i'll step foot in here. i just need these ingredients today."

you had someone offer you double your original price if you could get this potion to them tomorrow, and you would be stupid if you didn't accept that. only issue is that nicholas wasn't around to accompany you.

"and why can't nicholas come?"

"i told you. an arcade opened up downtown, and him and maki have been waiting months for it to open. i'm not going to ruin that for him." you answer.

maki was a fellow golden retriever hybrid that belonged to a mutual friend of yours, euijoo. the two of them have been close since you two introduced them a little over a year ago.

"you know he wouldn't mind rescheduling." he told you as he opened the shop door for you.

"i know that." you sigh walking into the store, feeling relieved when you didn't see kevin. "but he deserves this. he shouldn't have to sacrifice the things he wants to do just because one asshole can't take a hint."

harua nodded in understanding before looking around. "you know that this is the only place in town that inhibits our powers? maybe you should listen to nicholas and go to the one i go to. i know the owner, fuma. he's pretty cool."

"nicholas and i were talking about it, but i just didn't have enough time to drive that far for this order." you tell him as the two of you start grabbing the jars you need. you were thankful he knew exactly what you needed for this potion, so the two of you could hurry and get out of there.

"i still don't know if you're going to have enough time. why did you accept this job anyway?"

"i need the money." you answer as you look to harua who raised his brows, knowing that you weren't telling him everything. "you know nicholas' birthday is coming up, and i wanted to get him something special."

"what are you going to get him?"

"he's been wanting a gaming set up, so he can play with maki and euijoo instead of having me drive him over there all the time. i didn't realize how expensive the idea was before coming up with it." you answer, looking back when you didn't get a response to see harua smiling. "what?"

"are you going to tell him you're in love with him while you're at it?" you open your mouth to scold him, but you heard someone clear their throat from behind you, stopping you before you could say anything.

"good afternoon, doll. how are you today?"

you met harua's gaze for a moment before turning to see kevin standing at the counter. "fine. you?"

"better since you're here." you roll your eyes at his answer before going back to getting the things you need.

"oh my god." harua whispered, sticking to your side. "you didn't say he was that creepy."

"yes i did." you couldn't help but laugh as harua wraps his arm around yours, gripping your wrist.

"he's glaring daggers at me. can we hurry?"

you nod your head, grabbing the last thing you need before you and harua walk over to the counter where kevin was. you handed him the basket, and he started ringing everything up. you were always behind nicholas for this part, so it felt weird watching him. especially when he couldn't even take his eyes off of you for more than two seconds.

"who's your friend?" the two of you look over at kevin when he motions to harua. you look over to harua with an apologetic expression- which he brushes off before smiling at him.

"i'm harua. yn's boyfriend." you eyes widened at his answer for a second before you recover. kevin pauses ringing you up as he looks at you.

"what happened to the cat?"

you finally meet his eyes- this time with a glare. "his name is nicholas, and he is none of you business."

kevin got the message, continuing to ring you up. you feel harua grab your hand, squeezing reassuringly which you return. once kevin had everything checked out, he handed you back your basket while he printed out the receipt. once it was printed, he held it up to you with what you thought was a disgusted look.

"so you're little cat doesn't mind you whoring yourself around?" you hear harua let out a gasp as you gawk at him. it took you a few seconds to respond to his insult, but once you did, you let out a scoff.

"so because i'm not interested you, i'm a whore?" you question, snatching the receipt out of his hand. "if that's the case, harua i guess you're dating a whore."

you quickly turn, not allowing him to respond before you storm out of the store. you hear harua running to catch up with you as you make your way back to your car. "are you okay?"

"peachy." you answer as the two of you got inside of the car. once you start the car, you let out a groan of frustration as you lay your head on the steering wheel. "we should've went to the other place."

"you're telling nicholas about that right?"

"no." you hear harua groan at your answer. "you know exactly what he's going to do, and i don't have bail money."

"you need to tell him. he has no right to say those things to you." you look over at him, knowing that he's right, but not having any clue on how to tell him. you knew he was going to be mad at you, and you hated when he was.

"i know." you sigh, running your hand over your face. "i will. just let me finish this order, and i will tell him."

"okay."

the next day, you had somehow successfully managed to complete the order when it was needed. you don't know how you did it. you had to stay up all night to complete it. thankfully nicholas decided to stay over at euijoo's, so he didn't wonder why you were staying up so late.

you still didn't know how you were going to tell him about yesterday. you thought of every possible way to tell him while you worked on the potion, but none of them seemed good enough. maybe it was just the lack of sleep keeping you from thinking properly.

you had just fallen asleep on the couch when the front door slammed shut. you nearly jump out of your skin at the sound, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes when you saw nicholas storm into the living room. in your half asleep state, you couldn't see the angry expression on his face as you greet him.

"hey nicho. how was-"

"don't hey nicho me." he interrupted, confusing you. "why did i just get a call from harua telling me the two of you went to kevin's shop yesterday?"

that question woke you up real quick. "look, i was going to tell you, but i fell asleep."

"you shouldn't have to tell me anything. you shouldn't have gone at all. you promised me you would go in there without me." you shrink under nicholas' glare.

"i said i wouldn't go alone, and i didn't."

"you know damn well that's not what i meant." you jump as nicholas snaps at you. "what if he tried something? you and harua are practically useless without your magic."

your face falls as his words hit you. "nicho-"

"do you have any idea how irresponsible and dangerous that was?" he questioned. "what was so important that you just had to go back there?"

at least harua didn't give that away- not like it mattered. you couldn't bring yourself to even look at him, too ashamed at yourself. your answer wouldn't matter anyway.

you hear nicholas scoff in anger. "of course you don't have an answer. i'm going to stay with euijoo and maki until you can answer me."

you wait until you hear the front door slam shut before the tears start to fall. you didn't know how you were going to get him to forgive you for this.

you spent the weekend in bed, completely distraught over your and nicholas' argument. you understood what you did was against your promise, so his anger was warranted. but that didn't stop his words from hurting you, bringing tears to your eyes every time you replayed the moment in your head.

you had tried to call him a couple times, but he never answered you. at first you thought it was because he was trying to calm himself down, so he wouldn't snap again. but then the doubts started to creep in. maybe he finally got tired of you just like your parents did. maybe he realized that he didn't need you as much as you needed him.

these thoughts kept plaguing your mind, even when you were in class. you couldn't even focus on what your teachers were saying, so you left class early and skipped your last class, finding it pointless when you weren't learning anything.

you found yourself tucked into the back of the library at an empty table, staring at your computer while you tried to catch up from your classes. you were in the middle of reading something when someone pulled out the chair in front of you. you glance up to see a guilty looking harua sit down in front of you.

you look away from him and back to your screen. you weren't mad at him because you knew the argument wasn't his fault- it was yours. you just wanted to be the one to tell nicholas. you didn't know if it would make a difference, or if he would be just as mad either way. it didn't matter though because what was done was done.

you look back over to harua when he slides something towards you. you glance at your favorite drink, a wave of nausea hitting you at the thought of eating or drinking anything. "i'm sorry. when i brought that up to nicholas, i thought you had already told him. i wouldn't have said anything if i knew."

"i know you wouldn't. i have no one to blame but myself."

"how did he react?" he asked. "he sounded upset over the phone."

you don't answer him for a moment, trying to compose yourself so you didn't cry in the middle of the library. "about as bad as you'd expect. he yelled at me before leaving. i haven't seen him in three days."

"he left?" he asked shocked.

"he asked me what was so important that i went there for. when i couldn't tell him, he said he was staying with euijoo and maki until i gave him an answer. he won't answer any of my calls or texts. thankfully euijoo has been keeping me updated on him."

"now i feel even worse." you shake your head at harua's words.

"don't. it's my fault."

"i still feel bad. no wonder you haven't drank this." sunoo motioned to the untouched drink in front of him that would be at least half empty by now. "are you eating? drinking?"

"yes." you lie.

all witches knew that once they found their familiar, they weren't supposed to be away from them for extended periods. the longer they were apart, the worse the witch felt. you haven't been able to eat or drink anything since nicholas left, throwing everything up every time you tried.

it felt like a piece of you was missing. you were doing everything in your power to not go marching over to euijoo's and seeing him. the only reason you weren't was you were still upset with him. that and you really didn't think he wanted to see you.

"you need to go and see him. i'll come with you." you shake your head, mumbling about how you didn't want to see him. "yn, you know it's only going to get worse."

"i deserve it." you tell him. "you didn't hear what he said, harua. i know he only said them because he was mad, but they still hurt. the last thing i want to do is see him, and i'm sure he feels the same."

"what are you going to do?"

you shrug, not knowing the answer yourself. "i'll figure something out, but for now, help me catch up from what i missed."

the two of you stayed in the library for a few hours before you went your separate ways, silently dreading going back to your empty apartment. you rubbed at your tired eyes as you stepped into your place, taking off your shoes when you noticed something- nicholas' shoes in his usual spot.

it was then you could feel his presence like you always could, making you nervous that he was here. you didn't want another argument between the two of you.

you throw your bag onto the floor before walking into the living room, and sure enough, nicholas was there sitting on the couch scrolling on his phone. you saw his black ear twitch at the sound of your footsteps before looking up at you.

"are you back?" you ask, fully expecting him to say no. instead he put his phone back in his pocket before motioning to the spot next to him. you walk over and sit on the opposite end of the couch, not know how close you should sit to him.

"you really hurt me." you find your eyes starting to sting as you listen to him. "i asked you not to do something, and you agreed not to just to turn around and do it."

your eyes trail down to your lap where your fingers were playing with your jewelry- a habit you did when you were nervous. "i'm really sorry. i never wanted to hurt you. i thought if harua came with me, it would've been okay."

"why didn't you just come to me?" you feel his eyes on you after he asks the question, but you didn't make any move to look at him.

"you had plans with maki and i-" you try to explain, but nicholas stops you.

"that's not an excuse."

"it is for me." you finally look up and meet his gaze. you could tell he was trying hard not to get angry, so you tried to pick your words carefully. "you had been looking forward to those plans for weeks. you had already done so much for me, and i just wanted you to be able to go out and have fun."

"i would've rescheduled." he told you. "you know i would have. we could've went to the other one, and none of this would have happened."

"i know you would've, but i didn't want you to." you pull away from his gaze, not wanting to look at him for your next admission. it was better for him to know everything, even if it upset him even more. "i also didn't have time to go to the other one."

"what do you mean?"

"i took an express order." you told him. the two of you talked about it a couple of times, and you both agreed that you wouldn't do it unless you both thought it necessary. "they wanted it by the next morning, so i didn't have time to drive all the way there and back."

you hear nicholas let out a sigh, and you already had a feeling you knew what his next question would be. "are you going to tell me what was so important that you did all of this for?"

"i'm shocked you haven't figured it out yet." you admit as you look over at him, watching as his brows furrow in confusion. "what's coming up next week, nicho?"

it takes him a second, but he finally figures it out. "kitten, i told you i didn't want anything for my birthday. you already spent enough with euijoo for the party next week."

"do you really think i'm not going to get the most important person to me a gift for their birthday? who do you think i am?"

"you're making it really hard to be upset with you." nicholas told you, still trying to keep his composure, but all it took was one smile from you to lose it. you felt yourself relax as he laughed. "why didn't you just say that two days ago?"

"you kind of didn't give me a chance to."

it was then he noticed how far away you were actually sitting from him. normally you would be sitting right next to him, legs thrown over his lap. he could see you biting your lip, trying not to cry again as you looked away from him.

you were about to excuse yourself, but as soon as you stood up, nicholas grabbed your waist, pulling you onto his lap. your legs straddled his as you wrap your arms around his neck, and you heard nicholas let out a small curse when you started crying.

"i'm sorry for what i said, kitten. i didn't mean any of it." he told you, rubbing his hand down your back as he comforted you. "i was just mad. you're not useless or irresponsible."

"i thought you were going to leave me."

nicholas pulled away from you, brushing away your tears before cupping your cheeks, giving you no other option but to look at him. "i wouldn't be able to function without you by my side. you're stuck with me for the rest of our lives."

"you promise?"

he nodded, kissing your temple before pulling you back into his arms. "i promise."

after you and nicholas made up, things between the two of you went back to normal. well, almost. you couldn't understand what felt different, but there was something you couldn't put your finger on.

you tried to explain it to harua, but for once he didn't have an answer either, just as stumped as you were. you chose to brush it off since it wasn't causing any harm. besides, today was nicholas' birthday, and you weren't going to do anything to mess it up.

maki has kept nicholas busy all day while you, euijoo, and harua set up everything. it took most of the day for you three to set everything up, and you were pretty sure your hands were going to be sore tomorrow from tying so many balloons. but it was worth it. euijoo's place looked great.

people had already started to show up when you and harua were finishing up setting up the food. euijoo turned on the music and dimmed the lights while you did one last look around to make sure everything was perfect.

you pulled out your phone to text nicholas to see when he would be here when something wrapped around your waist. you glance down, seeing the black tail that you know belonged to your familiar before turning around. he laughs, catching you when you jump into his arms.

"happy birthday, nicho!"

"thank you, kitten." he kissed your cheek before setting you down. "this place looks great. you did a good job."

"i helped too, you know." you turn when you hear harua's voice, pulling away from nicholas, so he could greet him.

the three of you stand there for a minute, talking about setting up when some other friends of his came to greet nicholas. you and harua shared a look before you both moved away, so he could hang out with his friends, though you stopped when nicholas' tail wrapped around your wrist.

"where are you going?"

"i'm going to get a drink." you answer. "i'll catch up with you. go have fun with your friends."

though you kind of regret that now. the party's been in swing for a few hours, and you all have just sang happy birthday to him. people were starting to get tipsy from alcohol. you learned quickly to never let euijoo mix drinks again when you couldn't even finish your first one it was so strong.

you were talking with two witches from your class, glancing back occasionally to check on nicholas. he was sitting on the couch on the other side of the room from you. you haven't been able to talk to him since earlier, and it seemed like every time you tried, he would get swamped with friends.

this time when you glanced back, you noticed that there was a new girl sitting next to him- another cat hybrid. you didn't recognize her as you looked her over. her brown hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and her dress was very short. you shrugged her off at first, thinking she was just a friend. but then she placed her hand on his thigh with a flirty smile, and nicholas didn't push her away. you felt your heart sink when he smiled back at her.

you look away from them, staring down at your drink while you tried to hide your jealousy. of course he wouldn't want a witch. why would he when he could have a pretty hybrid like the one right next to him? you felt yourself become sick at the thought of him being someone else's. you turn back around to look again when someone wrapped their arm around your shoulder.

"what's cooking, good looking?" you smile before looking up and meeting the eyes of maki.

"hey maki." you greet, turning to him fully. "you having fun?"

he pulled you closer to him, leaning down so you could hear him. "you and juju really know how to throw a party. you need to do mine next. i'm thinking a costume party where everyone dresses up like halloween."

"halloween in february. i dig it." you answer.

"i knew you'd get it. you should dress up as tinkerbell, and i'll be peter pan."

"only if nicholas could be your wendy." you joked, laughing when maki doubled over in laughter. clearly, he had a little too much to drink. once he recovered, he pulled you back underneath his arm, which wasn't anything new. "speaking of nicholas. who's that girl next to him?"

maki turned and looked, letting out a scoff before turning back to you. "that's sarah. she's been trying to get with nicholas for i don't know how long."

"he's never mentioned her to me." you hum, taking a sip of your drink and nearly spitting it out when maki gets close to your face again.

"probably because he hates her."

it was your turn to let out a scoff. you turned to see if they were still in the same position as before, and they were. "where do you see that? the two are currently cuddled up on the couch together."

"are you jealous?" you roll your eyes at his question. thankfully the lights were dim enough to hide your blush.

"no. they're just painting a different picture than what you're saying."

"don't worry, babe. you're secret's safe with me." maki smiles at you when you shove him. "not like it's much of a secret anyway. you two are so obvious about it."

"shut up." you glare. you didn't miss the fact that he said the two of you instead of just you. you just didn't want to believe him. especially not with the scene that was playing out behind you.

"wanna make him jealous?" he asks, confusing you.

"how would we do that?"

"do you trust me?" you shrug at his question.

"i probably shouldn't."

you look away for a moment, greeting a friend as they passed by you two. as soon as you turn your attention back to maki, you jump in shock when his lips meet yours. you don't even kiss him back. you just stand there when he's ripped away from you. your view of maki is blocked by nicholas.

"what the fuck maki?"

"come on man." you hear maki's whine. "we were having fun. weren't we yn?"

nicholas turned around, looking down at still very confused you. you could see his eyes flickering between his normal ones and his cat like ones- a clear sign he was mad. his hand suddenly grabbed your wrist before pulling you away.

"nicho? what are you doing?" you question as he pulls you towards the stairs. apparently, you weren't going fast enough because nicholas turned to you again. you let out a yell when he threw you over his shoulder before making his way upstairs. "nicholas, what the hell? put me down!"

he ignored you and kept walking until he reached the guest bedroom where he stays when he's here. you let out another yell when he throws you onto the bed. you bounce at the movement before you hear the door slam shut. you look over at nicholas like he had lost his mind.

"what the hell is wrong with you?"

"i should be asking you that." nicholas responded. "why the hell were you kissing maki?"

you let out a groan before standing up. "i didn't do anything, asshole. blame your best friend."

when he didn't respond causing you to look over at him. he still had the glare on his face as he walked towards you. "you shouldn't have kissed him. you're not his."

his words left you confused. you knew you weren't maki's, but did he mean that you were his? you couldn't tell how he had meant it. "i didn't kiss maki. he asked me if i trusted him, and when i stupidly said yes, he kissed me. i didn't kiss him back. i didn't even have a chance to push him away before you showed up."

nicholas looks at you for a moment, making sure you were telling the trutch before turning to leave. "where are you going?"

"to kill maki." you flicked your wrist when nicholas opened the door causing the door to slam shut. you didn't only shock nicholas, but also yourself with that move. you never used magic on him. he tried to open the door, but he knew it wouldn't budge until you opened it yourself. he turned to you with a look you haven't seen from him before. "open the door, kitten."

"no. you can't just throw me over your shoulder, tell me i'm not maki's, and then leave. what are you even going to do when you go back out there? yell at him before going back to sarah?" you let the words flow out of your mouth without even thinking about them. you weren't sure where this confidence was coming from. "maybe i should go back out there too. i could find maki, and we can finish what we started."

a low growl comes out of him as he storms back to you. his hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back to look into his now feline eyes. "you are mine. do you understand me? mine."

"words mean nothing if you don't prove them."

his hand tightens around your hair at your words before his lips slam into yours. the hand that isn't tangled in your hair grips your waist and pulls you closer to him. your hands move to grip his shirt as you kiss him back. his tongue slides past your lips before brushing against yours, causing a soft moan to escape. his grip on your waist tightens around your waist before he pulls away from you.

when he pulled back, he rested his head on yours. his eyes weren't feline anymore. the reality of what just happened hit you. your familiar kissed you. you kissed him back. and now that you have, you never wanted him to stop. his hand fell from your hair before brushing against your cheek.

"kitten. if you don't want this, you need to tell me to stop. we'll forget this ever happened." you blink at his words, thinking that maybe he was the one who wanted to stop until you saw how much he was holding back.

instead of answering him, you pull him back down to you, kissing him once again. nicholas got the message, pulling you flush against him as his hands slid down your body and under your shirt. you melt into him when you feel his warm hands tracing your body, slowly trailing towards your chest.

he pulled away from you for a second before his lips attached to your neck. you could feel his sharp teeth graze your skin, leaving red marks decorating your skin before he left a dark bruise on your neck. he kissed the now sensitive skin before pulling away from you.

"are you sure you want this, kitten?"

you instantly nodded your head. "i do. please, nicho."

whatever hesitation nicholas had disappeared the moment you begged for him. you could see the shift in him, and it turned you on even more. "then get on your knees, kitten."

you did as he said, sitting on your knees before looking up at him. he let out a groan before his hand brushed your cheek. "always my perfect girl. listening to everything i say. isn't that right?" you nod your head at his question. "here's what gonna happen kitten. you're going to be a good girl and suck my cock before i have fun with that pretty pussy okay?"

you let out a whine at his words, not used to your familiar talking to you so crude. he could tell you loved it though by the subtle shift in your thighs. once you nodded your head, you watched as his hands went to his jeans. he unbuttons his jeans before sliding them and his boxers down his hips. you eyes widen as he springs out, hard and flushed, begging for attention. you didn't make any move towards him, waiting until he motioned you forward did you move.

one had rested on his thigh while the other one wrapped around his length. you pump his length a few times, earning a groan from nicholas before you leaned forward. you licked the underside of his length before placing his head in your mouth and sucking. you watched as nicholas threw his head back as you started to move your head, using your hand for what you couldn't fit in your mouth.

"my sweet kitten- fuck." you nearly gagged when he thrusted into your mouth. his hand moved around to grip your hair again as he continued to move his hips. you blink back tears as hold onto his hips for stability. "i always wondered what this pretty mouth felt like."

you flush at his words, hollowing your cheeks as your tongue swirls around him. his grip tighten in your hair, a low groan falling from his lips. "you're doing so good for me, kitten."

you moan at his words, the vibration making nicholas' hips jerk. you could feel him twitching under your touch, and when you look up at him, you could tell he was barely haning on, his dark eyes meeting yours. "are you going to let me cum in this pretty mouth, kitten?"

all it takes was a nod of your head for him to finish with a loud groan causing you to gag when you felt his release hit the back of your throat. you pull away from him, coughing after you had swallowed. you were catching your breath when he bent down in front of you.

"open." you do as he says, sticking out your tongue to show him. "good kitten."

your arms wrap around his neck as his lips press against yours. you try to get up, but you feel yourself being lifted by nicholas before you could. your legs wrap around his waist as he carries you over to bed. you felt your back hit the bed as helaid you down, teeth biting your bottom lip before he pulls away.

his hands grip the bottom of your shirt, and you sit up enough for him to pull it over your head. his lips attach to your neck, biting and marking every place his lips touch. you arch into his touch when his hands squeeze your breasts.

"so responsive, kitten."

his hands squeeze your breast again before he moves to unhook your bra. he slides it down your arms, throwing it before moving down your body. you let out a moan when his lips attach to your nipple, sucking harshly.

"fuck, nicho."

he smirks against your breast, clearly loving the sounds that are coming out of you. he continues to bite and suck, leaving bruises all over your chest and stomach. he stops at the hem of your jeans and chuckles when you shift your hips.

"does my girl need some relief?"

"yes." you answer, jumping when he bits your thigh. "please nicho."

he kneels down between your legs, quickly unbuttoning your pants before pulling them down your legs. his lips ghost up your thigh as he makes his way to your heat. "god, kitten. you're never wearing clothes around me again."

nicholas lifts your legs, placing them over his shoulder as he lines his face with your heat. he tests the waters, sticking his tongue out, tasting you and groaning as he does so. after a small whine from you, he finally gives you the relief you want. his tongue darts out again, licking a long strip up your folds. you back arches when his tongue flicks your clit before attaching his lips to it.

"fuck." you roll your hips against his face causing a groan to come out of nicholas.

"i can't believe i waited so long to do this." he mumbles against you. "you taste so good, kitten."

he trails his fingers around your entrance, teasing you until you let out a begging whimper. you feel him smile as he slowly pushes his index finger inside of you, feeling you tighten around his finger as you adjust to him. your hands grip the sheets, a moan coming out of your mouth when he curls his finger.

"nicho." you cry out when he eases a second finger inside of you. his speed increased while his tongue continued to move in patterns on your clit. you were a moaning mess beneath him, gripping his hair in your hand while he brought you closer to your climax. "nicho, i- fuck."

you couldn't even fully warn him before you climaxed. nicholas tightened his grip on your waist, continuing his movements and not showing any signs of slowing down. you felt overly sensitive as you came down from your high, trying to pull away from him. he open his eyes before looking up at you.

"you can handle one more, right kitten?" you found yourself nodding at his question before you could even think. "one more before i fill you with my cock."

you whine at his words. you feel nicholas smirk against you before his lips reattaches to your clit. you moan out his name again, completely losing yourself in his touch. it didn't take long at all for your second climax to build back up.

"nicho, i'm-"

"i know, kitten." you hear him say. "you're going to be my perfect girl and cum all over my fingers again, aren't you?"

"yes." you moan out.

all it took was one more curl of his fingers before you climaxed again. he helped you through your high before pulling away from you. his lips ghost up your body before pressing against you lips. his tongue pushes through your lips, brushing against yours. he pulled away, giving you one last kiss before leaning up.

"roll over kitten." you do as he says and rolling over onto your stomach. nicholas grabs your waist, positioning you to where you were on your knees with your ass in the air. you look over your shoulder when you hear rustling. he discarded the rest of his clothes before looking at you. his hands run over your ass before kneading the flesh. "who does this ass belong to yn? does it belong to maki?"

you jump slightly when his hand lands on your cheek. "no."

"then who does it belong to?"

"you." he slaps your ass again at your answer.

"i didn't quite catch that kitten."

"you, nicho." you whine. he groans in satisfaction, running his hands over the spot he spanked.

"that's right. so what aren't we going to let maki do again?"

"kiss me." you answer, jumping when he spanked you. you look in confusion to see him clearly waiting for the right answer. "touch me?" he spanked you again. you let out a whine of frustration as he slid his dick through your folds. "what other answer is there?"

he leaned forward, sliding his dick through your folds slowly, chuckling when you let out a whine. you then felt another slap as he stilled. "still waiting on that answer kitten."

at this point, you were willing to never see maki again if it meant that he would stop teasing you. "anything. i won't even let him near me. just please fuck me."

you were reward when nicholas eased inside of you in one smooth thrust making your breath catch in your throat. you cry out at the feeling of him fully inside of you, not realizing how bad you wanted this. he lets out a small sound, leaning forward to kiss along your spine as you adjust to him.

"do you feel how well your pussy takes me, kitten? like she knew she is mine.

you whimper at his words, shifting your hips- silently begging him to move. he gets the message, tightly gripping your waist before he pulls almost completely out of you. he slams back into you full force, a choked moan coming out of you at his speed. if he didn't have such a good grip on you, you don't think you would be able to hold yourself up- even if you were pretty sure there were going to be bruises tomorrow.

"fuck nicho."

"does that feel good, kitten?"

you nod, face pressing into the bed as you moan his name. "s-so good."

"so fucking tight for me." he mumbles, moving to where he was hitting even deeper with every thrust. you gasp, squeezing around him when his fingers brush your clit. "so perfect, my little kitten, and all mine. isn't that right?"

"y-yes, nicho. yours."

"good girl." his fingers press harder on your clit, hips stuttering against yours. "now let me feel you come all over my, kitten."

you didn't even realize you were close until he say that- your orgasm shredding right through you at his words. your breath caught in your throat, body going tense at your third orgasm. he lets out a hiss as you squeeze around him, keeping you close to him as you feel him release inside of you. you let out a groan as he pulls out of you, helping you out of your position and laying you down.

"you did so good, kitten." his lips brush against your skin as he kisses your face, ending on your lips. "i didn't hurt you, did i?"

you shook your head, a small smile gracing your lips as you looked at him. "no, nicho. you didn't hurt me."

a yawn came out of your mouth, the exhaustion of your guys activities finally hitting you. nicholas leaned down, kissing your forehead.

"rest kitten. i'll take care of you."

you let out a soft groan, wiping the sleep from your eyes before blinking them open. you freeze, not recognizing the room you were in until it hit you.

you were in nicholas' room.

you never come in here. he's very particular about scents, so he doesn't let anyone else in here- not even you. but here you were, in his bed wearing his shirt.

you remember faintly nicholas cleaning you up after last night before the two of you left euijoo's house. you don't remember why though since the two of you were supposed to stay the night there, but you do remember nicholas hissing at maki as you left. apparently you fell asleep in the car, and he carried you up to his room.

you shift slightly, stopping when you feel an arm tighten around your waist. you turn to see nicholas tucked into your back- his breathing shallow as he sleeps next to you. he frowned when you shifted again causing his tail to wrap around your bare thigh.

you know neither maki or harua would let you live this down if they were right, but you feel like they were. there was no way he would've taken care of you while you were asleep. he would put you in his clothes which he's never done before and let you sleep in his bed. he wouldn't be wrapped around you like he didn't want you to leave. last night wasn't just about the sex.

but what if it was?

before you could go down that road, your bladder stopped you. you struggled, gently unwrapping his tail before sliding out from under his arm. you shifted to the end of the bed before sitting up, but before you could sit up, an arm wraps back around you, pulling you back to bed. you land back on the bed with a gasp before looking at nicholas who was now on top of you.

"where do you think you're going, kitten?"

you swallow, breath hitching when his nose brushes against yours. "i- um... bathroom."

"you sure about that?" he asks with a teasing smile at your stuttering. you say nothing but nod your head, watching as he moves to lay back on the bed. "use mine."

your eyes widen in shock, but you had to use the bathroom too bad to ask why. similar to his room, you never went into his bathroom. the first and last time you were in here was when you first moved in here. after you picked which room you wanted, nicholas picked the other one and asked you to not come in his room.

after you were done, you glance in the mirror as you wash your hands, expecting that you would look like a mess after last night. the smudged makeup you expected wasn't there, and your hair was freshly brushed and tangle free.

did nicholas do this?

you leave the bathroom somehow more confused that when you went in there. you look at the bed to see nicholas laying in bed with his back facing you. you thought he went back to sleep, so you went to leave the room when you heard him shift, rolling over before lifting up the blanket- silently calling you back to bed.

"did you take off my makeup?"

"yes. you hate sleeping in your makeup." he answered as you slipped back into bed. you lay on your back, looking up at the ceiling for a moment when you heard nicholas laugh. you look over to see him resting on his arm, looking down at you with an amused look. "what's wrong, kitten? you look nervous."

"i'm not nervous." you argue.

"then what are you?"

"confused." you answer, motioning around the room. "you've told me a hundred times to never come in your room, but here i am, in your room. in your bed after using your bathroom. not to mention i'm wearing your shirt."

nicholas shifts closer to you, fingers wrapping around your hand. "as my why i asked you to not come in here."

"why?" you ask, unsure if you wanted to hear the answer.

"i couldn't deal with your scent in here." he answered, watching as your brows furrow- sort of offended by that sentence. "i'm already tortured by your sweet scent everywhere else in this apartment. i needed somewhere safe, or i was going to do something crazy."

"crazy like?"

"last night." he said, looking up when you snatch your hand away from him. you look away but not quick enough for him to see you blink back tears as you try to get out of the bed.

"i knew it was just sex for you."

"hey." he grabbed your waist, stopping you from getting up. you struggled against him, trying to get his arm off you, but it was useless. you kept your back to him as he pulled you back to him. "it was not just sex for me."

"you just said it was crazy."

"i meant the part where i threw you over my should in the middle of a party. not the part where we had sex." he clarified making you look over at him. his hand left your waist when he knew you were going to try to leave and cup your cheek, wiping a few tears that had fallen away.

"so you don't regret it?"

"i would never regret that, kitten." he answered. "i wish our first time wouldn't have been in the middle of a party, but i don't regret it. nor would i change a thing. i meant everything that happened last night."

you nod your head, believing him. he smiled at you before leaning down and catching your lips with his. unlike last night, the kiss was soft and unrushed. you lift up your hand, brushing it along his fluffy cat ear. he pulls you closer to him before settling in between your legs. his tongue tangles with yours as his hands explored your body.

"you belong to me." nicholas whispers as he pulls away. his fingers grip your thigh, running over an old scar. "all your scars? mine." his hand trails further up your leg, a gasp coming out of your mouth when he cups your heat. "this pussy? mine." his hand continued to travel towards your chest, resting his hand in the center of your chest. "this heart? mine. just like mine belongs to you."

your eyes widened at his confession. "nicho-"

"i knew i was yours from the moment we met." he told you, brushing your hair behind your ears. "i'll never forget it. the way you looked at me with those wide eyes. i knew that i would do anything you asked me to just so i could stay by your side."

you felt like you were at a loss of words, hearing him say those things that you had always wanted him to say. your lips part to try to say something, but you stop when nicholas closes the distance between you. your hands wrap around his neck, pulling him closer to you. he pulled away, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips before the corner of your mouth and continuing down your jaw.

"the first thing i felt when i conjured you was fear." you mumble, smiling when he chuckles against your neck. "it wasn't because i was scared of you. i was scared of how you made me feel. i mean, what 16 year old girl falls in love with her hybrid familiar?"

you feel his lips stop kissing your neck when his words hit him. he pulls back, looking down at you. "please tell me you meant to say that."

"say what, nicho?" you ask, a teasing hint to your voice. a low whine slips past his lips at the teasing. "i wouldn't have said it if i didn't mean it."

"say it again."

"i love you, nicholas." as soon as the words leave your mouth, his lips pressed to yours.

"i love you." he mumbled against your lips as he pulled away. you let out a relieved breath that he felt the same. "i love you so much, kitten. seeing you with maki last night nearly killed me."

"so did me seeing you with sarah." you told him. you watched as his features turned to confusion.

"who's sarah?"

"the bitch you were with last night." you answered. "she was all over you."

you watch as nicholas smiled at you. you then realized the mistake of your words. "jealous, kitten?"

"i hate you." you grumble, upset you fell into his trap.

"no you don't." he smiled before kissing you. "you love me."

"i change my mind." you laugh as he gasps at you.

"take it back." you shake your head. you scream when his hands attack your sides. you try to move away from him, but his legs were trapping you.

"stop!"

"tell me you love me."

"i love you." his hands froze when the words left your lips. you gasp for air as he smiles down at you.

"sarah means nothing to me. i can't stand her." nicholas told you. "maki told me to let her flirt with me to see if you would get jealous, so i did. hated every second of it. then to top it off, when i looked at you, maki was kissing you."

"he asked me if i wanted to make you jealous." you tell him. "that's why he asked me to trust him. i really didn't think he would kiss me."

"idiot." nichiolas grumbled. you laugh at his pout, reaching up and kissing his pouting lips. he responded instantly, slightly groaning against your lips.

nicholas' hands traveled down your sides before slipping under your shirt. you sigh into the kiss as his hands explore your stomach before traveling to your chest. he squeezes your chest causing a moan to slip past your lips. you lift your hips, brushing your core against his already hard erection.

"you're not too sore, are you?" nicholas asked as he pulled away.

"no." you answered with a shake of your head. "please. i need you."

"fuck kitten." he groans before kissing you. his hands play with your nipples until you're moaning into his mouth. his lips leave yours before pulling up your shirt and attaching his lips to your breasts.

"nicho." you moan at the contact

his hand squeezes your other breast while his other travels to your underwear. he runs his finger along the lace of your underwear, smirking when you moan at the contact. "you're already soaked, kitten."

"please nicho."

his hand slips inside your underwear, smirking against your skin when he hears you beg him to keep going. you jerk in his arms when his fingers tease you before he eases one inside of you. he takes his time, allowing you to adjust before adding a second finger. you arch your chest into his mouth when he curls his fingers.

he speeds up, loving the moans that are coming out of your mouth for him. he looks up, seeing your eyes sealed shut as you lose yourself to the pleasure. he lifts away from your breast before moving back up your body. his lips press against yours, swallowing all of your sounds.

"god, you sound so pretty, kitten. i love how responsive you are for me." he praises. you squeeze around his fingers at the compliment. "does my girl like being praised?"

"nicho." you whine. "i- i'm close."

"i know, kitten." he curls his fingers again and again until you saw stars. you gripped onto his bare shoulder as he brought you to your climax. he kissed all over your face as you recovered. "you look so beautiful when you come, kitten."

you blush as you push him away. he laughs at your embarrassment before removing his fingers from your underwear. you watch him as he moves his hand to his mouth, sucking on his fingers that were just inside of you. he groans at the taste of you before pulling his fingers out of his mouth and replacing it with yours.

you kiss him back while your hands slip into his sweats. he jerks into your hand, moaning into your mouth when your hand wraps around him. you stroke him gently, feeling him relax at the feeling. soon, he pulls your hand away before stripping you out of your underwear. he slips his sweats down enough to get his dick out before looking at you.

"are you sure you're not too sore?" you shake your head at his question.

"i'm not." his hips roll against yours, rubbing his length through your folds. you moan as he does it again until you felt like you were going to explode. "nicho, please fuck me."

you heard him chuckle before easing into you. unlike last night, he takes his time, pausing when he feels you tighten around him. you grip onto his broad shoulders, loving the way that he fills you up. he fit against you perfectly when he was fully inside of you, forehead pressing against yours.

"i'm never going to get enough of you, kitten." nicholas says with a shallow roll of his hips, watching as you cling onto him. "not with the way this pretty pussy grips me. i can barely move."

he starts to move when you begged him too, slowly gaining speed until his hips snapped against yours. "fuck nicho... you feel so good."

he groans at your words, lips pressing to yours. you felt him shift above you before moving to wrap your legs around him. his hands were tight on your thighs, sure enough to leave even more bruising that you knew was already on your skin.

"my perfect little kitten." he let out a short grunt when he felt you squeeze around him- sounds escaping you with each thrust of his hips. "mine. only mine."

you yelp when his hand finds your clit, bringing you so close to the edge. "y-yours nicho."

"then let me feel you come all over me."

he felt you tremble beneath you as your orgasm hit you, legs tightening around him as you clenched around him. you could hear nicholas groan loudly, unable to hold himself back. his lips were on yours as he buried himself deep inside of you, hips jerking as he released inside of you.

his lips stay on yours as he collapses on top of you as the both of you recover from your highs. "you always do so good for me kitten. i'm never going to get tired of you."

"you promise?"

"i promise." you kiss him again at his promise. he kisses you back before slipping out of you. you groan into his mouth as he pulls away. "i'll be right back."

he gets off of you, fixing his sweats before disappearing into the bathroom. after a minute, he returns with a warm rag, cleaning you up before tucking you back in bed. he slides in beside you. you lift up your arm when he cuddles into you, resting his head on your chest as his legs tangle with yours. you stroke his hair. he relaxes into you, as you do him, but there was something missing.

"do the thing." you speak up.

"kitten-" nicholas groans, but you stop him.

"if you love me, you'll do it." you hear him let out a sigh of defeat. you smile when you hear the soft purring coming from him. you kiss his head. "i love you nicho."

but the sick feeling you have deep in your gut from when you read those incriminating texts and watched those disgusting amateur sex tapes they filmed still kept you up at night.

you weren't mad because you wished to get back together with him—god, no. you were mad because who does he think he is to be cheating on you of all people?

you're hot. that's the reputation you've unintentionally created for yourself.

you're popular, easy on the eyes, and so charming that you're universally wanted but still unattainable to most people who tried.

your looks or level of sex appeal couldn't shield you from the fucked up way a person can decide to betray you out of nowhere. you knew that. but you'd least expected it to come from your ex because... he was seojun.

and it's an open secret within the student body that he's the guy who pursued you with the stubbornness of a crack addict hammering at the doorstep of his plug just for a single gram.

he kept pushing his luck—waiting for you outside classes, getting you treats you never asked for, and pathetically following on your tail no matter where you went.

you turned him down every single time.

you have a reputation to uphold: the popular girl who wouldn't be caught dead getting tied down to one person's bed, man or woman.

you're too young, too hot, and the confines of a committed relationship was something you couldn't ever see yourself being put into.

still, he convinced you that your time and energy wouldn't be wasted if you just gave him one chance. just a single one.

so when you gave him your sweet yes, seojun was nothing less than elated.

because who wouldn't be?what mentally sane person wouldn't be over the moon if they were be able strut into university grounds with you in their arms like a shiny, lip-gloss wearing badge of honor?

and you don't mean to be transactional. in your most vulnerable, a large part of you can admit that you felt genuine adoration for the guy — but if he was staining your reputation and boosting his own for being able to bag someone as untameable as you, then he should be somehow capable of keeping you satiated, right?

wrong.

night after night, you sat with the misery of your previously thrilling and colorful sex life turning more bland by the second.

little to no foreplay, unending doggy positions, and the act of pulling out your ol' reliable rose toy to fulfill your own needs once seojun finished became an unwanted habit.

as if that wasn't enough consequence to your stupid choices, you also had to deal with your inner circle of friends trying to placate you with the cursed phrase: "as long as he makes you happy."

but that was the issue, wasn't it? you weren't happy. not with his lackluster efforts in the romance department, and certainly not in his subpar performance in bed.

him having the audaciousness to fuck another woman was just the cherry on top.

that's why you decided to call for back up in the form of kim sunoo.

sunoo has been a constant in your life. though your friendship was forged by coincidence, it was strengthened by the passage of time.

growing up with his house beside yours, you figured the only reason he stuck around was because he didn't really have a choice but to associate himself with the chaotic ball of evil next-door.

you clearly remember him hiding behind his father's legs when your parents greeted each other the day you moved in to the house beside theirs. he was elusive during shared dinners and neighborhood barbecues, too. but your eagerness and consistency was able to slowly melt him down until he eventually stopped dodging your attempts to be closer.

he's been by your side since then.

he was there with you through the horrendous bowl cut you had at 6, the awkward growing-into-your-body puberty phase at 13, the college acceptance letters at 18, and several of your post-break up bitch fits like the one you had just a day ago.

he's helpful, always gave solid advice that sometimes feels a little too pointed, but you know it's all said out of love. the kind of friend who'd question you, but ride along anyway.

sunoo's perched on your bed, back rested against the headboard. tiktok audios blast from his phone, serving as a backdrop while you spend the next fifteen minutes scrolling through pinterest.

you needed inspiration for the hottest, steamiest picture to post — something so saliva-inducing that it would have your ex knocking frantically at your door and falling down on his knees and earnestly begging for you to take him back. and seojun, none the wiser, would be rejected with a few less-than-savory insults and a door slammed to his face.

oh, you could already taste how sweet that revenge would be.

"babe… you're seriously creeping me out. i know you're mad at your ex, but don't tell me he's driven you that crazy." sunoo mumbled with eyes still glued to his phone.

he doesn't need to see you pacing around your room. he just knows you are. and if his intuition served him right, he'd also guess that you also had your freshly-done nail between your teeth, biting on it to keep your temper at bay.

between the cringe-inducing motivational quotes and the ever inescapable clickbaity ads scattered across the pins, you were beginning to lose patience and had half a mind to reply something snarky back at him when you come across the photo.

a below the neck shot of a woman with splotches of hickeys scattered all over her neck and chest, fingers pulling down the fabric of her shirt until it revealed more marks that disappear behind her hands.

it's everything you envisioned and more.

it's perfect. it's sexy. it's tastefully raunchy. it existed in the gray space of being suggestive, but not quite reaching the line of desperate. (because god forbid your ex gets that impression.)

all of a sudden, your morale is charged back up to a hundred.

sunoo's doomscrolling is interrupted once again when you slip your phone in between his face and his own phone, smile so bright and jolly it's almost unbelievable that just got broken up with.

"sunoo! is this the photo or what?"

he takes a glance at the photo, gives your covered decolletage a quick scan, and returns his eyes to the next video his algorithm serves him.

"looks good, babe." he mutters, disinterested. "i'm soooo sure he'll come running back if he sees you pull your shirt down when he's already fucked another girl behind your back for a month."

the sarcasm in his voice goes straight over your head. "right? he'll be soooooo pissed!"

you run to the full body mirror in the corner of your room, tugging at the neckline of your shirt. "so about the hickeys. i'm gonna need you to make one here, a few by my jaw and neck, and then… hmmm, maybe a couple of dark ones on my left tit? like right about here—"

sunoo pauses his scrolling again, one of his well-groomed eyebrows rising. he was convinced he misheard you. weren't you only after the pose in that darned photo?

"a couple of what?"

"hickeys! i just knooooow he's going to be pissed if he sees i fucked around this quick after i broke up with his sorry ass. he doesn't have to know it's you, though. or maybe he can—remember he was so pressed about us being friends? yeah, that'll piss him off even more. but about the hickeys, i was thinking you could—"

"i'm not going to do that." he says flatly.

you slowly turn your head, eyes already throwing daggers his way. "well i can't fucking reach my own neck, can i? so you're going to have to do it."

"actually, i don't have to do anything."

"but sunoo!" you whine, moving on the spot beside him with pouted lips. "you said you'd help me."

"i said i'd help because i thought all i had to do was take a few photos of you in a sexy pose, not because i wanted to cosplay a vampire. i mean—sucking hickeys on your neck? that's ridiculous!"

"babe, come onnnnn," you plead, tugging on his hand. "it doesn't have to be weird! it'll be just like that one night during freshman year."

sunoo immediately cringes, expression contorting at the fresh wave of memories that your words bring.

that night was certainly... something.

two years ago, back before you moved to your fancy, off-campus flat, you snuck sunoo over to your dorm room after hours with a bottle of bottom shelf vodka in hand. you threw back one full shot glass after the other until you both end up tipsy and snuggled on your twin bed.

you stared at the bottle that was still halfway full sitting in the corner of your dorm room, the alcohol running through your veins pushing you to confess that you've never had the opportunity to give (or get) a hickey.

sunoo, careless and giggly from intoxication, admitted he had no experience in the matter either.

all of a sudden, you moved from being in his arms to being on top of him, straddling his lying body with eyes burning in determination as you convinced him that you could do it to one another.

you marketed it as something to aid your inexperience — it would boost your sexual knowledge so you wouldn't look like losers going into hook-ups and situationships and whatever messy relationships the first year of college offered.

he choked out a flustered "okay," not knowing the same experiment would be used against him years after by the same girl.

he pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a quiet sigh. "do i really have to do it?"

you pause, shoulders slumped down at his defeated tone. dread washes over sunoo when you poke your tongue to your cheek because he knew what this meant.

a brand new wave of your bitch fit is rolling in.

"you know what? i'm not going to force you if you don't want to help a friend in need." you grab your phone, grumbling more complaints under your breath.

"doll, you know i didn't mean it that way.."

your nails make loud clicking noises as you aggressively tap on the screen, scoffing through your nose while you scroll through the familiar names on your roster. "guess i'll just call jungwon, then. or jake. or winter, or sohyun—fuck!—whoever fucking answers first! 'm sure they'd be more of a willing participant anyway."

sunoo's jaw tightens at your fuck buddies' names. something difficult and unnameable clawed at his throat, begging to be vocalized but he swallows all of it down and reaches for your wrist instead.

"don't do that, doll."

"so are you going to do it instead?"

his hold tightens as the scowl on your face curl into a giddy smile.

"i knew you'd give in."

"hurry up and change into a different shirt before i change my mind."

you slip out of your bathroom wearing a velvet top just like the photo you found: classy crimson red color, off the shoulder neckline, form fitting at the waist, but loose enough around your chest for you to tug it down and expose the marks.

you walk over to sunoo with an extra pep to your step, giving him a single twirl. "how does this one look?"

sunoo's eyes travel to your face, to the clean, unmarred skin of your neck, and then lower down to where his eyes usually end up getting stuck on: your tits.

the shirt did wonders for your figure, and it's not his fault that the fabric had a special way of catching the light and emphasizing your breasts' perkiness so well — it's all normal and involuntary, really.

but the heat rising up to his cheeks and the guilt slamming at his conscience are proof that he couldn't convince himself it normal.

he knows he shouldn't be getting half-hard just from your pretty pair's silhouette and he knows he shouldn't be ogling at them so carelessly, but at the end of the day, sunoo was only a man—the kind who would fail the gentleman's challenge of looking away from temptation.

thankfully, you're too focused on yourself to catch him in the act.

"it looks good on you." sunoo swings his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting in his usual manspread before patting his thigh. "c'mere, babe."

you'd been in this position more times than you can count, so you sit down atop of him without hesitation, knees sinking into the soft mattress as you make yourself comfortable on his lap.

one of your hands rest on his shoulder and the other pushes your hair to one side. "you ready?"

"only if you are."

"alright. let's see how much you've improved since freshman year." you jab, grinning with that familiar glint of evil in your eyes.

confidence pours out of him as he leans in until the tip of his nose brushes along the column of your neck. "you don't know what you're asking for, doll."

the sudden closeness makes you shiver, goosebumps rising on your skin when you grow aware of how warm he is pressed against you. has he always been this broad? this firm?

you swear you didn't mean to gulp so loudly, but you did. and you knew he heard it because you could feel his shit-eating grin against your neck.

his lips brush against your pulse as he spoke. "nervous? don't tell me you're backing out now."

"what're you trying to imply? shut up and get to work." you bite back, further bratty remarks silenced by the press of his soft lips against your skin.

sunoo takes his time trying to find a spot that would deliver equal pleasure to you and insult to your ex. he presses open mouthed kisses along the side of your neck, and once he found a spot he liked, he didn't hold back.

he licks and nips into a patch of skin, muffling a groan against you as the whisper of soap and vanilla from your body mist hits his tongue. it's so sweet, familiar, and undeniably you.

you let out soft sighs, one of your hands scraping upwards until his jet black strands were tangled in your fingers.

he leans back on occasion to assess whether it was colored deeply enough for his liking. if it was, he'd move on to the next spot and if it wasn't, he'd go back in harder, hungrier.

"a–ah… sunoo," you whimper after an especially harsh bite. "can't you be more gentle?"

"do you want me to do my job properly or not?" he huffs and lets his teeth scrape against your jugular, almost as if to teach you a lesson.

you don't understand why he's suddenly so eager to be a participant in your vengeful side-quest, but sunoo knew damn well that the silence was doing. it was giving him the perfect opportunity to settle with the annoyance he's been trying to set aside for so long.

a deep-seated irritation, both from the fact that you were willing to go this far to prove your worth to your ex—who had already left you broken hearted and done it with another woman—and the fact that you essentially fooled him into being a tool to achieve that goal.

he quietly redirected that anger through increased roughness of his bites, disregarding if it brought you discomfort. you wanted to get your revenge on your ex, so in his own little way, he was getting his revenge on you too.

but the more marks he left, the more irate he got.

he pulls back, gracefully wiping the shine off of his plump lips. "you want me to put a few on your tits too, right?"

despite the ugly emotions brewing inside him, sunoo looked like composure incarnate.

you, in stark comparison, were a mess: lower lip caught between your teeth, face all flushed and reddish, eyes unable to meet his.

"y–yeah.. just a couple on the left one."

"well i'm not gonna be able to do that with your shirt in the way."

"shirt… ha, right," you force out a chuckle. "can you, like, look away for a quick second?"

he's confused but he follows your strange request anyway. you take that chance to pull your shirt over your head, and the belated regret of not wearing a bra hits you.

you fight through it, slipping your hands back up until you're cupping your bare chest, swallowing down a whimper when your palm presses flat against your pebbled nipples.

"you can look now..." you mutter, feeling blood rush to your cheeks.

it's odd to suddenly feel shy when sunoo has seen you in more awful situations.

he's once picked you up from a bar, wasted and sniffling like a madwoman with mascara-stained undereyes after one margarita too many. he was a witness to your swollen eyes and tissue-stuffed nostrils when you got sick.

hell, he even hung out with you when you were clad in just panties and a flimsy sports bra, nipples poking through the thin fabric, all sweaty and lethargic because your landlord took too long to fix your broken ac in the middle of an intense heatwave.

you've been more naked with sunoo.

and yet you've never felt more exposed until now.

it's not a matter of the amount of clothing. it's likely the way he's behaving—the dark tinge of hunger in his eyes triggering your prey tendencies to hide, to run, even when he isn't actually doing anything yet.

he doesn't speak, doesn't move. he just looks at the flesh spilling behind your hands and the pretty crimson marks blooming above it like his personal artwork.

"stop squirming." he commands in that low, raspy voice. the way your body quickly follows his orders is an embarrassment in itself.

he anchors you on top of him again and presses his lips on the spot just above the dip of your cleavage. slow and gentle, almost reverential in the way he lets his lips sink into the softness of your chest.

compared to your neck, the softness of his mouth feels even more devastating here. senses heightened by the pressure of his mouth sucking into the upper curve of your tits, warm and wet tongue licking the bruises he made like an apology.

each graze of his teeth sends warmth pooling between your spread thighs where your sorry excuse of cotton panties are most likely drenched and ruined already.

he shifts a little beneath you, spending a few seconds kissing around the mark he just made before he grunts in dissatisfaction at his inability to find the next suitable spot.

"take your hands off and let me hold them."

your heart drops. "w–what?"

"you heard me." he says, slowly lifts your fingers off to reveal more skin. there's almost a nonchalance in his tone, like he was only suggesting it to be more efficient. "i can hold 'em up, doll. i'd make better hickeys without your hands in the way."

you stare at sunoo, and he stares back at you.

you don't know what the simple act of revealing yourself topless to your best friend could entail. he has seen you almost naked, but this... it could completely change the way he viewed you. it could possibly ruin your friendship in it's entirety.

in hindsight, these were possibilities you should've considered before you persuaded him to help recreate that photo. but with several marks already tainting your skin, you deem it useless to fight his suggestion.

you begrudgingly let go and look to the side in shame.

you feel the hands on your hips slowly travel upwards, tracing the curve of your hips, up to the dip of your waist before he fully cups your tits. the warmth of his palms pressed against your ribs is too hard to ignore.

even with your eyes glued to the swaying curtains of your room, you could feel the intensity of sunoo's dark gaze piercing through your fully exposed torso. you could feel his breathing turn heavy as he inhales slow like he's dragging out the moment.

your tits are... perfect. they're smooth, perky, and feels the right amount of heavy in his hands—just as beautiful as sunoo imagined.

"didn't know how pretty these are, baby." he leans back in to brush his lips along your jaw, voice having that signature teasing lilt. "are they as sensitive as i think?"

the question is followed with a gentle squeeze, to which you respond with a high pitched whimper.

"huh.. guess they are. didn't realize there were still new things i can discover about you, baby." he gives you a cocksure grin, unable to resist jiggling them in his hold.

the bravery in your tone as you snap at him is fueled by a mix of impatience and humiliation. "j–just shut your trap, sunoo. are you going to mark me or are you going to keep yapping my ear off?"

"now, now, sweet girl. that's no way to talk to someone when they're cupping your tits—not when you're this reactive to it." he clicks his tongue, hands closing in around your breasts in a rough grope.

he runs his thumbs over your stiff nipples and the friction of his fingers going back and forth against the peaks has you stammering and squeaking at the same time.

"shit, sunoo..o—oh my god, wait, don't!"

your protest falls on deaf ears. in usual sunoo fashion, he does simply as he pleases. he stares at your chest, almost hypnotized, while he tweaks and pulls and pinches, uncaring for the pathetic little noises you made.

then, seemingly remembering the task at hand, he resumes his full hold, pushing your pretty pair up and together. he lets his lips brush against the drip between your breast, the lack of obstruction giving him the freedom to carelessly press kisses all over the smooth skin.

"so pretty... and so fucking soft. god, they're perfect."

his warm breath fans over your pebbled nipples and you have to purse your lips to hold back the mewls threatening to rush out. he's shamelessly kneading and squeezing, obsessed with how tender they feel in his hands while his mouth persists on leaving more marks, making the obscene sounds of slurping and lip smacking bounce against the walls.

you try to endure but you're too flustered to keep being this close to him when your body feels like it's wrecked and burning a thousand degrees.

"sun, that's more than enough for the photo—nngh… stop!"

sunoo leans away with an unamused expression. he stares at the purple and red splotches littered from your neck down to your soft mounds with his jaw clenched tight.

were they not proof that you allowed him to touch you? taste you? were your moans not evidence that he made you feel good? so why do you keep telling him to stop?

and above all else, why do keep insisting that this is still for that stupid fucking photo?

"stop? are you really telling me to stop?"

"y–yes!"

the chuckle he lets out sounds hollow. just as you believed he was granting you mercy by pulling away, he only did it put your desperation on display.

his hand leaves one of your tits unattended in pursuit of holding on the back of your head, slender fingers finding enough grip against your hair to guide you to look down.

there, on the very big and very obvious bulge he sported, was a dark patch of wetness that stained his grey sweats. a mark that you've left behind.

"shouldn't i be the one telling you that?"

oh, god.

you've been humping him.

you've been humping your best friend and you weren't even aware you were doing it.

your eyes widen. "i— i wasn't… i didn't—"

"didn't what? didn't mean to say stop, or didn't mean to slut yourself out on top of me like a needy whore?" he laughs meanly, tightening his hold on your hair.

the mean insults make you choke on your words and the pain on scalp is adding to it, spiraling you further into a humiliation-fueled arousal.

"n–no! i swear i—"

"what is it, doll? you were basically showing how much you wanted my cock, and you only want us to stop now?" he throws one rhetorical question after another, emphasizing his last word with a thumb cruelly pressed down on your stiff, aching nipple.

you let out a shattered sob, body instinctively arching towards him and causing even more pressure on where you were already feeling the most sensitive.

"f–fuck—nnh—sun, please. p–please!"

"please what, doll?"

please let go. please squeeze me harder. please fuck me. please stop. please keep touching me.

you don't know what you're begging for anymore.

the low timbre of sunoo's voice and the unbearable stickiness between your thighs and the sensation of his groomed fingernail scraping against the tip of your nipple was driving you into a lustful craze and further fogging up your mind.

"tell me, pretty. c'mon. use your big girl words and tell me what you want."

his thumb rests on your lower lip and presses on the dampness of it. not pushing in, just resting while he admired how ruined you look—skin glistening in sweat, cheeks deeply tinted, teary waterline making glitters as they reflect the dull warm light of your bedside lamp.

you look beautiful.

if he knew this was all it took to get a view of you like this, he would have probably risked your friendship a long long time ago.

"oh, my pretty doll. you can't even talk, can you? so desperate for cock you'd resort to humping me while i make your poor nipples swell up..." he's relentless with his taunts, knowing it was riling you up even more.

you could physically feel the gush of wetness leak from your hole simultaneous to sunoo pushing his thumb inside your mouth. it presses on the dip of your tongue and he's mesmerized at the sight of you accepting it wholly with eyes fluttered shut.

you suck on it with hollowed cheeks, tongue rubbing on the pad of his finger and it gets his painfully hard cock twitching inside his sweats. he wants nothing more than to push your head down and get your warm mouth sucking on something better.

"you're lucky i know you so well, baby. it's all you've been thinking about, right? me filling up that pretty little pussy of yours."

"mmmm–mhm..." you nod desperately with his finger still in your mouth and your pretty tits bounce along, almost putting sunoo in a trance again.

he pulls out his thumb with a wet pop, the same saliva-slick finger rolling around your nipple. the cool air of the room to bites on the sensitive buds but sunoo replaces it with his own mouth, desperate to give himself a proper taste.

he pulls gratification from how full your tits feel, from the noticeable tenseness in your muscle each time he purposefully pinches your stiff bud between his teeth, and how easily his tongue disappears into their softness.

most of all, he's proud of the sounds you make as he plays with your plush tits as much as he desired. the sighs of relief, your hitched breaths and moans, no matter how hard you tried to bite them back, were all laid out in the open and they made it impossible for sunoo to keep holding onto his patience.

"fuck, can't keep blue balling myself like this," he effortlessly flips you on your back until you're trapped between him and the bed, growling. "i need everything off. now."

you don't need to be told more. you make quick work of your shorts and panties, kicking it down your legs until your warm, sticky center is fully exposed while sunoo rids himself of his shirt.

you're eager to help him too. guided by the warning look in his eyes, you hook your fingers and tug down, not knowing you'd get a jaw-dropping surprise.

you already suspected sunoo had the cock to match his big-dick-energy.

the softness of his features made him an easy target for less than playful jabs—the size of his cock being the punchline of a joke more often than not. yet sunoo would just shrug and agree with that self-reassured smirk that told you he was more than pleased with the amount he was blessed with.

and it was a given that he knew how to put it to good use because he's narrated several horror stories of hook-ups desperately running back to him, begging to get another taste of the seemingly endless pleasure he could offer.

and maybe you've also let your mind trail off, wondering just how big your best friend's cock really is on nights when you were especially deprived of an orgasm. but you'd smack yourself out of that dangerous train of thought before ever reaching a conclusion.

yet no amount of speculation could have prepared you for what you're seeing.

sunoo is… big. hell, maybe big isn't even the correct term.

hung. your best friend is fucking hung.

not only was it long, but now that it's free from the confines of his pants, it's clearly visible how thick and girthy he was, too. it's neatly shaven, smooth, had bulging veins that lead your eyes down to his tip that was flushed a deep pink color and glistening with pre-cum.

and his cock's so pretty—probably the prettiest one you've encountered amongst the ones you've seen online and the ones you've personally handled in real life.

your mouth waters and your pussy gushes both in worry and excitement.

"eyes up here, sweets." he teases, tipping your chin up so you'd look at his face. "you're staring so hard. if your jaw drops a little more, i'd assume you're inviting me to stick it inside that pretty mouth."

"n–no… you're too…" you trail off, unable to continue your sentence. "it's not going to fit..."

"don't worry your pretty little head about that, doll. we'll find a way. with how wet you are—" he slips his hand between your thighs, a corner of his lip tugging up at the dampness pressing against his palm. "—i don't think it's going to be much of a problem.. but i'd gladly prep my girl."

you're putty in his hands as he positions you to lay down in the middle of the bed, legs spread wide enough for him to settle in between.

he's back to being gentle, plump lips pressing frustrating featherlight kisses along your inner thighs when you're already there, already bare, and ready to be taken.

"you said that you wouldn't blue ball yourself... so why are you fucking teasing?" you grunt breathlessly in frustration, tugging on his hair.

sunoo looks at you through his lashes and his fox-like eyes look even more hypnotizing from this angle. the way he maintains eye contact as he drags his tongue to lick along the sides of your puffy lips is downright nasty.

he lets out a sigh that sounded more like it was made out of pity for you. "because you're sopping wet, baby. so messy and eager. i wanted to savor the moment a little more, but if you're so eager…"

a menacing smirk graces his lips as he braces his arms underneath your thighs. and without any more words, he buries his face right in.

the hunger he's been staving off crashes down all at once, leaving what little doubt you had for sunoo's sexual prowess to dissolve into thin air.

his mouth lays flat against your folds, lapping stripes up and down your pussy with deathly coordination. he alternates between prodding his tongue into your hole, and stroking it upwards to rub the tip against your swollen clit, eagerly flicking at the pudgy bundle of nerves.

he muffles moans against your cunt and the subtle vibrations of his mouth feel like shockwaves with how pent up and sex-deprived you are, making you whimper even louder.

"oh, fuckfuckfuck—nnngh, sunoo!"

he tightens his grip to keep you from squirming, your unashamed noises encouraging him to continue exploring the cunt he'd spent a mortifying amount of time fantasizing about. (again, you may be his best friend, but he was also just a man.)

his warm tongue pushes in and out of your hole, wanting more of the nectar only you could offer. and once his greed was satisfied half-way, he pushes two fingers inside to keep it occupied.

"shit, you're so tight… 'nd so fucking sweet. could get fucking addicted to how you taste, doll." he whispers, voice fraying at the ends.

he could spend hours between your legs just devouring you, that's how far gone he is.

his plump lips find your clit again and his fingers pump in such quick rhythm that your juices splatter, staining his chin and knuckles.

you already felt like you were on cloud nine, body floating in the air, and the obscene, slurping noises that bounced off the walls from everything that he was doing only added to that delirium.

"sunoo… fuck, your mouth's so good!" you hiccup with eyes fluttered shut from bliss, the overwhelming sensation making your back bow high while your hips roll against his mouth.

his cock jumps at the soft noises you make. you're so hot, so desperate that it was making him rut against the mattress for a semblance of friction.

"pretty fucking girl. can't believe you've been hiding this sweet little thing from me. and you're being so noisy, too.. can you hear that? hear how desperate you are, just sucking my fingers right in?"

sunoo wasn't really asking to get an answer. he was so intoxicated from the way you taste that he was just slurring compliments against your sopping pussy.

he pulls away with the lower half of his face covered and glistening with your arousal, hooded eyes zoned in on your fucked out expression. his thumb rubs your clit in tight circles before adding another finger inside, curling them inwards until each push and pull rubs on your sweet spot.

"fuck, sunoo... i—hnnnghh—sunoo!"

you're so dizzy that you couldn't muster announcing your incoming orgasm. you're just bucking your hips against his hands to meet his fingers halfway, profanities and his name leaving your swollen lips again and again.

sunoo brushes his arousal-covered lips against your inner thigh, humming proudly at the way your walls pulse and tighten around his fingers because he already knows.

"it's okay, doll. cum for me. show me how good you feel fucking yourself on my fingers."

"fuck... s–sun!"

you're gasping for air, throwing your head back against the silken pillows—then your jaw goes slack while the rest of your muscles grow taut as the euphoric feeling takes over your entire body.

sunoo continues to whisper soft reassurances against your skin as he slows down his speed and presses gentle kisses on your pulsing clit to slowly guide you down from the height of your mind-blowing orgasm.

then, he braces an arm beside your head, one hand on your jaw to get you to look at him through the hazy filter of your blissful tears.

he kisses the corner of your mouth, an act that feels far too intimate despite his mouth being glued to your pussy just mere moments ago.

"shhhh, you did so well, baby. 'm so proud of my girl. did that feel good, mm?"

you can't reply anything comprehensible. just soft sounds that resemble a vague agreement which was somehow an even better answer.

he starts kissing lower and lower down your skin, following the purple-colored trail marks he left until his lips encase your nipple again. his tongue swirls around, flicking against the sensitive and swollen buds while cum stained fingers roll the other in between them, pulling more breathy noises of protest out of you.

"sunoo, wait—i.. i just came. i can't go again—nngh, s–stop."

sunoo reaches to get a hold of his cock, running the thick head of it up and down your slit until the mix of your arousals are leaking down to the bedsheet before presses his shaft down with a thumb until the underside of it is flat against your core.

"you say you want me to stop," a mixture between a sigh and a laugh escapes his lips at the filthy sight of your pussy lips struggling to wrap around his thickness. "yet here you are... staying still and leaking all over my cock while i use you to give myself a pussy job."

he's purely relying on your bare cunt for friction. sharp jolts of overstimulation shoots through your spine each time the long, veiny shaft drags on your swollen bud as sunoo continues thrusting into the air.

you don't spit it out verbally, but desperation is oozing out of you. you're gazing at him with pleading eyes, lower lip trembling with any coherent thought slipping from your mind the harder he presses his tip to your sensitive clit.

sunoo coos, reveling at the overwhelmed tears pooling at your waterline. "my poor little girl's such a cry baby. there's nothing to be shy about. i know you want it, so just say it. say yes and i'll give you your fill."

"yes. y–yes!"

he doesn't wait for you to question yourself why you answered him so quickly nor does he allow you to process what its consequences would be. he just whispers a satisfied "good girl," before angling his hips lower to push into you.

even after spreading you open with his fingers, your walls were still clamping down, unfamiliar to the feeling of wrapping around something this big.

"you're so fucking tight, shit." he hisses, expression crumpling.

"mmh.. b–big.. 's so big," the words come out as both a compliment and a complaint.

you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer, face grimaced in discomfort while tears roll from your eyes as sunoo pushes even more of himself inside you.

he pauses after seeing your sewn brows, kissing in between it. then his lips move to your cheeks, your ear, the side of your head.

he isn't really aiming, isn't really thinking.

he's just focused on distracting himself from the tight grip of your walls because he knows if he lets his body take over, it would want to take more and that would definitely hurt you.

"mmm, i know it is, baby. take deep breaths for me, okay? you're being such a good girl, taking my cock so so well.. just a few more and you'll feel so much better, baby. i'll make sure of it. can you let me make you feel good, hmm?"

you nod fervently at his promise and sunoo kisses the corner of your mouth as a reply. barely a brush of actual lip-to-lip contact.

in your daze, your eyes end up getting drawn to his lips. how plump and dewy they look.

sunoo's face is so close to yours now. barely an inch away. it would be so easy to kiss him. just a tilt of your head would close that short distance. you feel your lips already jutting out at the thought.

but a kiss—despite everything else you're doing, and have done so far—would be the most sacrilegious thing to want right now. like an act that would cross the line.

the conflict in your mind is interrupted, unable to be dwelled upon because he's pushing himself inside again and the sting shooting throughout your lower half grounds you back to the situation at hand.

"sunoo… you're—hnn, i don't.. i c–can't take more.." you drawl out, shaking your head.

"sshhh. you can, baby. i know you can. we're already so close, just.. ah—" his own brows furrowed as he looks down at where your bodies are almost connected. "—just hold on for a bit, mmkay?"

he offsets the pain by giving your tits gentle squeezes and showering you with sincere praises. "you're being so good f'me. my prettiest. 'm so proud of my favorite fucking girl.. taking so much of me already."

the amount of self-control it's taking him to be gentle with you is reflected in the tightness of his jaw as he slowly pushes the rest of his length inside, now fully nested within your snug walls.

"doll, f–fuck—you feel so good around me.. shit, you're suffocating my cock."

sunoo is damn near about to lose his mind.

you're so warm and so incredibly tight and you look so beautiful with tears in yours eyes.

he has prided himself, not only on his huge cock, but also on his impressive stamina—but right now he's spiraling, trying to think of his roommate's dirty socks, report deadlines, a sad k-drama, things that would keep him from cumming on the spot and they're barely doing the job.

"too much... 's too much, too full—!!" you cry out, walls spasming around him because they're unused to being stretched to this extent.

the reasonable part in your head is screaming "too much! too much!" and yet the deeply insatiable part of it is whispering poison in your ear, telling you want more—need more.

"shhh, 'ts okay. stay with me, baby." he whispers, tip of his nose nudging your cheek to pull you out of your short reverie. you make a broken sound to acknowledge him to which he smiles, kissing the corner of your lips again like a newly-developed habit.

the hand on your chest moves down to rub your clit in circles, lips travelling upwards to your ear to nibble at the shell of it until your soft sobs are replaced with needy mewls.

"that's right. let me take control, baby. i'll fuck all that pain away, make you feel good until you cream around my cock. you'd love that, wouldn't you?"

"y–yes, sun... wanna feel good, wan' more, please." you move your hips as best you can in blind search of more friction, cheeks flaring up when you hear the faint sound of his chuckle.

sunoo began thrusting shallowly, only pulling out a couple inches at most and gently pushing in again, considerate enough to ease you into it. when you're truly lax enough, whispering breathy pleads for more he finds a steady rhythm and starts to rock his hips.

"you're so tight, baby. s–so warm. don't go quiet on me now, mm? let me know how good i'm making you feel."

"yes, sunoo—hnnn!—it's so so good. please don't stop, baby," you give his arms encouraging squeezes and sunoo pretends his hips didn't stutter from the sudden pet name.

"i know, needy thing.. it's okay. i won't stop," his mouth trails lower once more because he seemingly can't stop himself from gravitating towards your chest.

he groans from deep within his throat and you could feel him start to move more recklessly the more he let himself slip further into his tit-drunken honest ramblings.

"mmh, i couldn't stop fucking you even if i wanted to. you're so beautiful. especially these tits—god, i love your tits s'much, baby. you don't know how insane they drive me. been wanting to see 'em so bad, you know that? you wore that top i bought you to the function last week and—ah, f–fuck—you know what i did the moment i got home?"

"mmm.. what—?"

"i fucking jerked off to the picture we took. your tits just looked so pretty," he confesses. the bluntness of his words, the way he bares out his desire and neediness for you, combined with the speed at which he's driving his throbbing cock inside is making your body tremble.

"you make me fucking pathetic, doll. got me cumming on my phone screen within minutes like a fucking teenager. shit, you piss me the fuck off."

like a switch, the anger sunoo has been holding onto comes back the moment he remembers why he's even fucking you. it's evident in the way he bites down on your nipple and in the cruel way his cock presses in so deep you swear you feel the head of it is prodding your cervix.

sunoo fixes his posture, tightens his grips on your hips until his knuckles turn white from the way he digs down your skin. now with leverage, he vents out all harbored irritation he has for you and your ex in quick, harsh thrusts.

"putting your body on display for my eyes like that and asking me of all people to help you in your evil little scheme few days after—but now... look at you. moaning like a slut under me, getting dumb for my cock. you're just as pathetic as i am."

it's supposed to be punishment, but it doesn't really feel like one when all it does is push you closer to the brink of another orgasm, your mind so hazy that your words come out slurred and almost incoherent.

"no—hnngh—n–no, 'm not!"

"really?" he's cocky now, a dangerous glint in his eyes when he pulls hips back far enough and slams it inside in one smooth push.

your eyelids screw shut, brows sewn together, mouth forming into a small o as his cock literally knocks air out of you. "oh my god—!!"

"all that effort for revenge just to end up like this... you are pathetic, baby," he chuckles, driving into your harder. "and all your facade of being the girl on top? the girl in power? down the fucking drain, because you do like being used—you love getting used by me. no toys, no ex, no lame fuck buddy could compare to your best friend's cock."

he threw that title to shame you for wanting him so obviously. from getting wet from his words, his mouth, his touch, his cock. not your ex's or your lame fuck buddies'—his.

and it's working.

he knows the shame is eating at you, turning you needier and hungrier. and he knows you're drunk on his cock so uses this newfound weapon against you—abruptly stopping with it still deeply inside.

"go ahead… admit it, doll." he gives you a condescending nod. a movement that says he isn't going to move until you could swallow down your pride.

you couldn't hold back a frustrated cry. your nails dig at his back in frustration, acrylic clawing into his smooth and fair skin as you pull him down until his face is barely meeting yours.

"don't you dare do this now, sunoo. stop teasing me and just fucking put it back in!"

the seriousness in your glared eyes causes a humorless chuckle to leave his lips.

"ah, you were so good for me just a while ago. what happened to my sweet girl? you know being a demanding brat doesn't work on me—it may have worked on the little fucktoys you have on your roster, but not on me."

a slow and filthy shlick sound echoes from between your bodies as he deliberately pulls himself out.

he watches with predatory hunger as you squirm and hopelessly grind your hips against the air, unused to the absence of his thick cock spreading you open.

"you either say it properly, or you don't get it at all."

"w–wait, no.." you squeeze his shoulders, looking up at him with pleading eyes. heat and shame and need flares up all over your body while he looks at you with a cruel smirk. "i want to... fuck, what do you want me to say?"

sunoo's free hand reaches up to hold your jaw. his eyes stare into yours and you know by the firmness of his grip that he has enough patience to keep dragging out this torturous game.

"you already know what you want, doll. you just have to say it. say you love being used. say you love my cock. matter of fact, if you want it so bad... then fucking beg for it."

you nibble down on your lower lip, heart sinking at his command before finally echoing out his words with a defeated tone.

"i love… being used by you. and i want your cock to fill me up again…"

"mmm, i couldn't hear you, baby. there's not much begging from what i heard either." he prods with a fake sigh, pushing his cock back inside your gummy walls again but not fucking you with more than the tip just to see how much you'd break.

your jaw is clenched, hips moving in desperate rolls and yet it wasn't enough to satisfy you—not after feeling him entirely. pride and reputation fully compromised, you finally sob out.

"please, sunoo!" you cry, pleading. "i want your cock.. i love it and i love being used by you so please use me however you want! just—just need you to make me cum. need you to make me take it, please!"

sunoo's heart swells at the desperation in your voice, ego boosted far beyond what he could've believed.

"would you look at that? my best friend, the university's resident vixen, actually begging like a good girl." he coos with faux-sympathy before ramming inside you in a single thrust.

he doesn't let you adjust to it anymore—if you were begging for it so loudly, he'd let you take every single merciless slam he gives.

his long cock drags against your slippery walls, getting you empty only to fill you whole again, the strength of his hips snapping into you making your body rock forward each time.

"oh my gosh, sunoo—yes! you're so deep inside me, fuck, please don't stop!" you chant his name in dragged out mewls, loud and unashamed.

the blacks of his eyes drown out the amber, pupils dilated at the sight of your restless hands pushing and kneading your bouncing tits together while your fingers roll the stiff buds around in quick circles—something he's only ever fantasized in the privacy of his own mind, now made true right before him.

"that's right, baby… keep playing with your tits f'me. give me a show." he rasps, voice thick with satisfaction.

like a reward, he hooks your legs to his shoulders and leans forward to where each slam of his cock would brush against the special spot that had you seeing pure white.

"sunoo—nngh, please... there! just like that... more! h–harder, please!"

he clicks his tongue against his teeth in pretend disdain, but he's beyond pleased at how vocal you are. "greedy girl, already taking a lot and still wanting more... maybe this is what you should send him, hmm? i bet he'd get the message loud and clear when he sees how good you're being for me, all pliant and dumb and needy for my cock."

the memory of your ex doesn't even sting, doesn't make you feel anything. there's no room for it when you feel so good, and so overwhelmingly full.

all you could focus on is sunoo, how handsome and sharp he looks when he's this possessive. sweat rolling down his toned torso, faint line of his abs showing each time he bottoms out, the dull shine on his lips that's making it look much more delectable than it ever has.

you're intoxicated from the pure bliss of his length hitting all the right spots that you let go of all inhibitions. you don't care anymore. you grab sunoo's shoulders and slur out, "k–kiss.. i wan' kiss, baby..."

his expression softens, thrusts faltering briefly as your breaths mingle in that narrow space between your lips. you look into his eyes, catching lust and something deeper you can't pinpoint before he finally seals your lips together.

you hold on his nape, keeping him close while he bites on your lower lip gently to make you part your lips, giving his tongue the opportunity to lick and swirl around your wet cavern.

it feels so easy to melt into it, having achieved what you've been fantasizing about since feeling his mouth on your skin.

the intimacy of the position, the feeling of his fingers brushing up your forearm so he could take your hands and pin it beside your head, the sound of skin slapping mixed with the intermittent gasps for air both of you take before going back to the messy kiss—it's all adding to the tight coil deep down your abdomen.

sunoo's fingers laces through yours and he pulls back slowly. "fuck, doll, y–you—" his words are interrupted by a hiss, eyes moving to look at the way his cock disappears into you. "feel so fucking good, shit—you're taking my cock like a good girl."

you feel so fuzzy, so lightheaded and sunoo's voice is the only thing keeping you from floating out of your body.

"y–your good girl," you nod your head, squeezing on your interlocked palms to gain his attention back, lips already pouted. "i'm yours, 'm yours! so keep making me take it and keep kissing me, please.."

you're begging so prettily, pushing all the right buttons to get his heart fluttering that sunoo has no other choice but to give in even if he knows it'll be the end of him to taste your lips like that again.

you let him muffle your noises, swallowing down all the high pitched whines and moans. he moves his hips faster, harder, despite the tender way his lips move against yours.

"my good girl's so pretty.. tight pussy's so good at taking me like it wants me to mold it to the shape of my cock." his voice is gravel-like when he whispers praises after pulling away.

your legs subconsciously wrap around his hips in fear that he'd pull the rug under you again. you tighten you legs around him, keeping him as close as possible when the pressure in your tummy begins burning too hot.

"sunoo, i'm gonna... please.. please! 's too much.. i'm—i'm going to cum!"

the whispers of his name turn into cries, only smothered when you bite down into his shoulder. sunoo lets out a pained groan, yet does nothing to move from you. instead, he drives into your faster, ruthlessly pushing you towards your peak.

he whispers sweetly, "i know, baby. fuck, i'm close too—let go and cum again f'me, pretty. make a mess on this cock, yeah?"

his voice unravels you, your second orgasm of the night coming down on your helpless body in a violent crash.

your muscles lock up as you coat his cock in your cum, eyes rolling to the back of your head, plump lips that were still shiny from the spit you shared parting to take heavy breaths.

the sight of you looking so fucked out snips at whatever thread of restraint he has left.

sunoo couldn't think, couldn't control himself from pushing into you again. he kept grunting under his breath, hips pistoning in and out of your pulsing hole, determined to chase after his own release.

"so pretty… so fucking beautiful.."

he hurriedly pulls himself out, scooting closer to you with fingers tightly coiled around his length in a pathetic attempt to imitate the warmth and tightness of your walls.

"fuck... shit—you look so fucking pretty, baby. i'm gonna mark you up, cum on your tits and make you all fucking mine."

the way he fucks his fist makes a filthy fapfapfap sound echo out. his thighs are clenching from the delicious burn of friction and his hips lose their pace.

your name finally comes out of his lips in a shaky growl as his cum spurts out in thick, translucent ropes across your heaving chest.

sunoo takes a mental image of that obscene view, keeping an eternal copy in the back of his mind before blindly reaching for his shirt so he could wipe off the mess he made.

after a while, you feel him slump down beside you, taking heavy breaths, completely and utterly spent.

you make your move to scoot closer to him, back pressed to his chest, curling into the open arms he's prepared for you.

his arms coil around your waist like a habit, sharp nose pressed on your nape with a palm splayed on your tummy. warm, familiar, and homey.

a smile graces his lips as he gets a waft of your hair's scent—citrus and berry.

"you're using the shampoo."

"what?"

"the shampoo i got you from the farmer's market last month. you said it's gross because you don't want to walk around smelling like pastry, but you're using it."

"it grew on me, i guess."

"it grew back on you." sunoo clarifies, hooking his chin over your shoulder with a gentle smile. "remember when we were fourteen and you asked my sister the recipe for her lemon blueberry cupcakes?"

heat rushes to your cheeks at the memory but you brush it off, turning around to face him. "that's such an obscure memory pull, sunoo."

he keeps his hold on you, fingers pressing on the small of your back. he shrugged, leaning forward to press his nose on your hairline, making a dramatic sniff to tease.

"it's what i remembered when i bought it for you—all i'm saying is i'm glad you're using it."

the action causes his lips to brush against your forehead and it reminds you of the kiss—that kiss. the way you begged for it, and the way he indulged your fantasy without hesitation.

the loud, insistent thought to kiss him again fills your mind. and like telepathy, he's pressing a kiss on your forehead, another to your cheek, then another to the corner of your mouth.

but just before you think he's about to kiss your lips... he pauses.

your breath hitches and you look so small, so confused. a part of his heart cramps up when you stare at him with such soft, hopeful eyes.

anticipation and fear both come as a single force, pushing him to press his lips on yours.

this isn't messy like the ones you did ago—no tongue, no moaning, no whispers of filth in between.

there's something much more innocent and clean in the way he's kissing you this time.

your heart flutters, warmth thrumming under your skin as your mind and body comes to an unshakeable conclusion: in comparison to the kisses you've shared with every fleeting hook-up and every romantic figure in your life, only this kiss—the one you're sharing with your best friend—feels right.

you part from each other, breathless and equally pink in the face.

he looks into your eyes with same, charged intensity like before. except this time, it makes him look unreadable. all of a sudden, dread settles in your stomach. heavy and suffocating.

what does this mean?

the fucking, the making out, and the possessive words sprinkled in between his body claiming yours—you believe it could all be somehow excused as things done in the heat of the moment.

but when all of it is said and done, and you're both naked under your blanket, limbs tangled together, looking at each other after sharing something that feels much more pure and intimate than anything either of you had ever done before...

fuck.

what does this mean?

what does all of this mean?

sunoo breaks through your overthinking with a confession.

"i want you. i think... i've wanted you, this, a long long while ago."

you stare at him, wide eyed, heart slamming against your chest. in utter disbelief, you ask him, "w–what? sunoo, what do you mean—"

he pauses, his eyes widening like he's also surprised of the truth that just left his his lips. he persists, nonetheless.

"i mean sometimes i look at you and don't know what to do with myself. sometimes... you walk around me in tiny shorts and the tightest fucking tops and i can't function because all i can think about is bending you over and making you scream my name, but above all that ape-brain bullshit of wanting to fuck you silly—i get pissed,"

his eyes screw shut and he pulls you in with a hand gently cradling the back of your head. he guides you to press your face to his chest so you wouldn't be a witness to the pain of his suppressed feelings violently getting torn out of him, one confession after the next.

"i get pissed and offended on your behalf.. when other people don't treat you right. even at their best, you deserve more than what they could do. and i've gaslit myself into thinking i only feel so strongly about your feelings and your well-being because i'm your friend. your best friend. and we've been at each others side since god knows when—"

he takes a deep breath in and hugs you tighter, sighing softly.

"but marking you up... and kissing you and making you feel good and calling you mine... it all felt too good. too right. i can't deny it anymore, doll. i.. i've wanted you all to myself for so long and now that i got a taste of it, i don't think i can keep lying to myself anymore. or to you."

the air that still reeked of sex turns heavy while you stare at one another.

there's a long pause, the previous noise now thinned out into an almost ear-splitting silence.

sunoo sobers up from his own confession, pulls back, and cradles your cheeks, stroking the skin gently with his thumb with worry written all over his face.

"talk to me, baby. i can't do this... you know i don't like it when you get in your head. let me in there, mm?"

instead of answering him, your first instinct is to press your palm over his chest, right where you feel the almost violent drumming of his heart.

"would.." you purse your lips, murmuring softly. "would things between us change if i admit i want you too?"

sunoo shakes his head, unable to fight the soft, genuine smile tugging on his lips. "not if you don't want it to."

"can i still watch movies sitting your lap?"

"mhm."

"and it won't be weird if i ask for kisses every now and then?"

"nope." he answers, making a popping sound with his lips. "i'd prefer it if you asked for more, actually."

your blush deepens, but you pry further. "and i could still go to you for a hundred and one percent honest advice if i'm not sure about my outfit?"

"only if you'll let me fuck you in it when it looks too good."

you gasp, smacking his chest with a giggle. "sunoo!"

he laughs heartily, forcing your violent hands to wrap around him instead. "i'm only half-joking, baby. you know you always get what you want anyway."

"damn right i do." you slump in his hold, snuggling closer against him when the whole revenge plan pops up in your mind. "oh.. um..."

"yes, doll?"

"should i still take a photo? you know, for the.. thing."

a devious smirk tugs on sunoo's lips but he hides it by burying his face in your hair. "you don't need to worry about that right now, baby. i'll take care of it like i always do. go to sleep, mm?"

"mmkay.."

"i love you, doll." he tenderly whispered against your forehead.

you bite back a smile, pulling him closer. "i love you too, baby."

sunoo was a different animal now that he's been promoted from being a best friend to a not-quite-boyfriend-yet lover.

you were tended to, treated like a princess and treated you like something a little less than one in bed when he figured out you loved getting humiliated quite a bit more than you led on.

he fed you, made you laugh, took pictures of you, and made you take pictures together.

for memories, he said.

you nodded, not suspecting anything at all.

he was cuter, more clingy and needy and so eager to get you focused on him that he didn't allow you to look at your phone, not even once.

so just spent the entire day together as usual.

and now, sunoo's already snoring behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, nose pressed into your shoulder after yet another stellar performance between your thighs.

your phone rang like it's reminded you of its existence. you reach for it slowly as to not disturb your lover, confused at the texts from your friends, all congratulating you for finally settling with the guy who's been there all along.

you realized it was due to sunoo and the instagram story he mentioned you in—the same picture he made you take. it was a cute and possessive photo, far better than what you had planned to show off your ex.

the reminder of him startles you.

you're so in love, so strung on the high of breaking free from the friend zone that in pursuit of making more space for memories with sunoo, your brain had pushed any vicious feeling you had towards seojun and the plot you brewed against him out of your mind.

but now that you've reminded yourself of him, you oddly feel... nothing.

you tap on your screen to go to your conversation with seojun.

you weren't going to do anything malicious. you just wanted to read through your final conversation again and confirm that you didn't have any leftover anger or desire to prove your worth.

you expected to see your hate-filled texts, but instead, you got the messages sunoo sent to him on your behalf.

seojun still wanted you, still cared enough to barrage you with questions and clear it out with a talk. you thought you'd feel something because he got mad.

instead, you felt nothing at all.

the only reason for the wicked smile on your lips was because you adored how cruel sunoo gets when he's possessive, going as far as giving your ex proof of your relationship in the form of your breathless moans while sunoo fucked your brain numb for the second time.

filthy, hot, possessive, and completely yours.

getting back at your ex was what you initially planned for, but getting fucked (and confessed to) by your best friend was what you got instead—and that's probably most fulfilling outcome you could have ever imagined.

because, yeah.

happiness really is sweeter than revenge.

FROM YAN 🐰 ➤ this birthday fic is for my favorite boy, my husband, and the absolute love of my life kim sunoo. happy birthday, my love. ♡ + peep the angel number word count? yeah, that's sunoo sending me his love n approval !! >< and um.. i kinda went insane on this, if u can't tell by the tags.. i also had to revise a few scenes but i'm pretty happy with how it turned out hehe. this is also for the kim sunoo luvbots nation WE ON THE UP UPPPSSSS !!! + my special sunshine, my sunoo-loving twin, bini sol: if ur out there reeding this, this is also for you. imy and ily. < 3

PERMANENT TAGLIST  ➤  @mariegibeau @kristynaaah @ikeukiss @zerocoded @alex-is-sleeping @ntxs1 @angelhyuka @tsukheeshima @clxssy1997 @cripplinghooman @xoxo-seraphine @jakeycakeys @neozon3nha @jakeycakeys @vmpiricou @ja4hyvn @luv4dani @nightcat101 @wonkiipiilled @boundlesselixirflux @cokewithcameron @taesungx @aerrdeicall @meikstv @justpassingdontworry @firstclassjaylee

The ride home is quiet in the best way.

Soobin’s hand never leaves you once you’re in the backseat. Even half-asleep, he keeps you tucked into his side like instinct, fingers warm over your thigh while the city lights smear across the windows. His head tips against yours every few minutes whenever the car slows down, sleepy little apologies falling from his lips each time.

“Sorry,” he murmurs after bumping your shoulder again.

“You’re literally fine.”

“M’heavy.”

“You are enormous, actually.”

His tired laugh rumbles low in his chest, warm through the quiet interior of the car. For a second he just looks at you with those heavy-lidded drunk eyes, dimples appearing slowly like his face is too sleepy to fully smile.

Then his eyebrows lift. “That’s what sh—”

“Babe,” you cut him off immediately, already laughing in disbelief as you shove lightly at his chest. “Stop. You’ve been watching way too many episodes of The Office.”

Soobin’s grin spreads wider instantly, all pleased with himself for getting a reaction out of you. It looks especially ridiculous on him right now—slumped bonelessly against the seat, cheeks pink from alcohol, hair falling over his forehead while he fights to keep his eyes open.

“I’m practicing my English, jagiya,” he says with exaggerated seriousness, words slightly slurred around the edges.

His laugh comes softer this time, quieter, until it dissolves into a sleepy sigh when he drops his head onto your shoulder again. One of his large hands slides lazily over your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth absentmindedly beneath the fabric of your jeans while the city lights flicker across his flushed face.

By the time you finally make it home, he’s visibly running on fumes.

The second the apartment door shuts behind you, the silence wraps around both of you instantly—warm, familiar, private. Shoes abandoned by the entrance, your bag dropped onto the console table, the faint scent of laundry detergent and vanilla from the candle you forgot to blow out earlier lingering in the air.

Soobin exhales deeply like he’s been holding himself together all night. Then the man just… melts. His forehead drops onto your shoulder dramatically, arms sliding around your waist from behind.

“Home,” he mumbles into your neck, voice rough with exhaustion.

You laugh softly, prying his hands loose enough to turn around. His cheeks are still pink from the alcohol, fluffy hair falling into his eyes, lips slightly swollen from unconsciously biting at them all night. He looks unfairly good standing there all sleepy and oversized in his wrinkled button-up.

“You need water.”

“M’kay.” He says it immediately, obedient and soft, eyes already drifting shut again like agreeing to the task was enough to complete it.

He does not move an inch.

You stare at him for a second from where you’re standing while he remains exactly where he is—tall body slumped against the wall, shoes half-kicked off, blinking slowly at absolutely nothing.

“Soobin baby.”

“Hm?” His head lifts just enough to acknowledge you, sleepy gaze finally finding yours.

“The water?”

“Right.”

Still doesn’t move.

You snort, stepping around him toward the kitchen, immediately hearing his socked feet dragging after you. The kitchen light spills soft gold across the countertops while you fill two glasses. Behind you, Soobin leans heavily against the island watching you with hooded eyes, completely silent.

You slide his water toward him. He takes two obedient sips before abandoning the glass entirely the second you step between his legs to put yours down beside the sink.

Immediately, his hands settle on your hips. Warm, heavy, like they belong there.

“You know,” he says slowly after a moment, voice warm with sleep and alcohol, “I think Beomgyu was trying to hit on that staff tonight.”

You glance up at him. “What?”

“Mhm.” His thumbs drag lazily against your sides. “That funny one. Soram-ssi.” He squints slightly like he’s replaying the memory in real time. “He kept filling her drink everytime she was finishing.”

You laugh instantly. “Poor Gyu.”

Soobin hums in agreement, cheek pressing briefly against your head before he looks at your eyes again. “He's the worst at flirting.”

“He’s still trying to recover from his trainee-days heartbreak,” you tease softly, reaching up to smooth his messy fringe away from his forehead. “That boy sees one cute girl and immediately starts planning the wedding.”

A sleepy grin spreads across Soobin’s face. “He really does.”

“He’s probably writing sad lyrics about her already.”

His laughter comes out quieter this time, dissolved into a tired sigh as his arms tighten around your waist instinctively, pulling you a little closer between his knees. The kitchen falls comfortably silent again for a few seconds except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic outside your apartment windows.

Then, completely unprompted, Soobin murmurs against your shirt:

“I’m glad I don’t have to flirt anymore.”

Your expression softens immediately. “Oh?”

“Mmm.” His eyes drift shut for a second. “Too much work.” A pause. “You already like me.”

The smugness in his sleepy voice makes you laugh again, but the sound catches somewhere in your chest when he continues. “Still can’t believe it sometimes,” he admits quietly. His smile turns soft at that. Really soft. The kind that always catches you off guard after all these years together.

He pulls you a little closer until your knees press between his, face getting closer for a second before he looks at you again. His expression shifts slightly then—slower, warmer. Charged.

“You wore that perfume on purpose tonight,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches a little. “What perfume?”

“That one.” His nose brushes your jaw when he leans closer. “The one that I told you I really really really really liked last time.”

“So dramatic.”

“M’serious.” His voice drops lower on the last word, making the room suddenly feels smaller.

You try to look away first, but his hand slides up your side, fingertips disappearing beneath the hem of your shirt just enough to touch warm skin. Lazy, absentminded, possessive.

“Soob,” you whisper, mostly because he keeps staring at your mouth.

“Hm?” His answer comes automatically, eyes half-lidded and fixed on your lips while his thumbs continue their slow lazy circles against your waist beneath your shirt.

“You were literally falling asleep five minutes ago.” You try to sound unimpressed, but it’s difficult when he’s looking at you like that. “Are you trying to get in my pants because this is the first time you’ve been able to sleep in since promotions started?”

The corner of his mouth twitches immediately. You narrow your eyes slightly when he leans forward again like he’s about to kiss you instead of answer properly.

“Don’t you have a schedule tomorrow morning?” you ask, pressing a hand lightly against his chest before he can fully close the distance. “Something about getting drunk on live broadcast all over again?”

That finally makes him laugh, a soft, sleepy sound that vibrates warm against your palm.

“That’s next week,” he mumbles, words brushing against your skin because he’s still trying to sneak closer between every sentence. “Tomorrow we’re off.”

“Convenient, right?” You side eye him.

“It’s true.” His nose nudges your jaw affectionately. “Stop pretending I didn’t send you my whole schedule last night, jagi.”

You blink and then narrow your eyes harder. “You sent me seventeen screenshots and a voice note where you forgot what day it was halfway through.”

“I was tired.”

“You said—and I quote—‘Thursday is either dance practice or dentist.’”

Soobin immediately starts laughing again, shoulders shaking this time.

“That could’ve been accurate.” His dimples deepen when you try—and fail—not to smile back at him. The expression on his face softens instantly at the sight of it, drunk affection settling over his features so openly it nearly melts you on the spot.

Then, quieter this time, his hands sliding a little lower against your waist:

“So can I focus on you now?”

The way he says it—low, sleepy, sincere—sends heat straight down your spine. You laugh under your breath, but it dies quickly when he pulls you flush against him between his knees, burying his face briefly against your chest with a tired groan.

“Missed you all night,” he mumbles.

You run your fingers through his hair slowly, feeling Soobin practically melt beneath your touch. His nose brushes lazily against the warm skin just above your collarbone, lips following a second later in slow absentminded kisses that feel more affectionate than intentional at first. Like he’s kissing you because he missed the feeling of it.

You feel his breathing change before he speaks again. “Hate sleeping alone,” he murmurs softly against your skin, confessing. “Couldn’t sleep properly last week,” he admits after a moment, words slower now, almost drowsy. “Kept waking up.”

You tilt his face up gently until his eyes meet yours again. They look glassy with exhaustion, pink-cheeked and soft under the kitchen lights, all the bravado from dinner gone now that it’s just the two of you.

“You should’ve called me,” you whisper.

“Mmm.” His thumb strokes beneath your shirt absentmindedly. “Didn’t wanna wake you.”

You feel the exact moment his attention shifts from sleepy affection into something slower and deeper. His hand slides further beneath your shirt, broad palm flattening against your side while he leans in again, mouth brushing your neck with more intention this time. Not teasing anymore. Not distracted.

His lips press slowly beneath your jaw, warm and slightly parted, and the quiet sound he makes against your skin nearly melts your knees on the spot.

“Soob…” you breathe.

He hums softly in response, still kissing your neck like he’s half-asleep and addicted to the feeling of you under his mouth. His other hand tightens on your hip when you shift closer between his legs instinctively.

He murmurs quietly against your skin, voice rougher now. “Missed this.”

His mouth drifts lower while he speaks, kisses getting slower and wetter now, lingering long enough to leave warmth blooming across your skin. One of his hands slips around your back, fingertips spreading against the base of your spine before pulling you fully flush against him.

You can feel how deeply he exhales at that.

The second you kiss him back properly, something in him changes, his grip tightens sharply at your waist. A low sound catches in his throat before he kisses you again, deeper this time. The kiss turns deep instantly — slow, wet, filthy in that way only years of knowing each other can make it.

“Missed your mouth,” he breathes against your lips, voice gravelly and thick with soju and need. He kisses you again before you can answer, tilting his head to get the perfect angle. He’s so tall that even when bending his torso he still towers over you, shoulders curved forward like he wants to wrap his entire frame around you.

The sound that leaves him when your fingers tug lightly at his hair nearly makes your knees give out.

“Bin…” you breathe against his mouth, already a little dizzy from the way he keeps pulling you closer every few seconds like he’s unconsciously trying to climb inside your space.

“Hm?”

You laugh softly despite yourself, chest rising unevenly while he keeps kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, anywhere he can reach without letting you go for more than a second.

“I didn’t shave today,” you murmur between breaths, trying and failing to sound serious. “Tone it down a little, Choi.”

Soobin pauses.

“Be fucking serious.”

You burst into laughter immediately, but it gets swallowed halfway when he crowds back into your space again, huge hands gripping your waist tighter.

“Do you genuinely think I give a fuck right now?” he mutters against your lips before kissing you again, slower this time but somehow even filthier. “I’m trying to get into my girlfriend’s pants because it’s been, like, a whole week since I saw her.”

“Whole week,” you repeat weakly.

“A tragic week.”

His voice drops lower at the last part, words vibrating against your skin while his mouth drifts back down your neck again. You can feel him smiling faintly against you when your fingers tighten instinctively in his hair.

“Do you know how hard it was sleeping alone after FaceTiming you every night?” he murmurs. “You’d answer looking all comfy in bed on purpose.”

“I literally wear pajamas.”

“Tiny pajamas.”

“They’re shorts.”

“They’re evil.”

You laugh breathlessly again, but it dissolves into a shaky exhale when his hands slide beneath your shirt more fully this time, palms warm against your bare skin while he kisses slowly beneath your jaw. Then his grip tightens suddenly.

“Jump,” he murmurs.

You blink, breathless. “What?”

“C’mon.” His hands slide down beneath your thighs already, sleepy impatience slipping into his voice. “Jump, baby.”

You laugh softly, but wrap your arms around his shoulders anyway. The second you hop up, Soobin catches you effortlessly with a quiet grunt, hands locking beneath your thighs while your legs instinctively wrap around his waist.

And immediately—

“Oh my God,” you choke out, laughing against his shoulder. Because now you can fully feel him. Hard. Very hard.

Pressed directly against you beneath his jeans.

Soobin freezes for half a second as your laughter gets worse.

“Binnie,” you gasp, trying to breathe through your cackling. “You're so hard, baby.”

“Shut up,” he mutters instantly, voice deep and embarrassed against your neck while he starts walking anyway. That only makes you laugh harder.

“You were acting all sleepy five minutes ago and now this!”

“Baby,” he groans warningly, squeezing the back of your thigh hard enough to make you jolt a little. “Please.”

You’re still giggling when he carries you out of the kitchen, one large hand supporting you easily while the other keeps sliding up and down your thigh absentmindedly. His face stays buried against your neck the entire walk down the hallway like he’s trying to hide both his expression and his dignity.

“You think this is funny?” he mutters.

“Yes. You literally told me to jump.”

“Because I missed my girlfriend.”

“You missed having sex.”

“That too.”

You laugh again under your breath, arms still looped loosely around his shoulders while he carries you down the hallway. The apartment is quiet except for your giggling and the soft sound of his socked feet against the floor, his hands warm beneath your thighs as he holds you effortlessly against him.

Soobin nodges your bedroom door open with his shoulder.

The room is dim except for the soft amber glow from the lamp near the bed, your half-folded laundry still abandoned on the chair from two days ago and one of Soobin’s hoodies draped over the edge exactly where he left it two weeks ago.

The second he reaches the bed, he lets himself fall forward with you still attached to him.

You squeal, laughing as the mattress dips beneath both your weights, but before you can fully collapse backward, Soobin catches himself with one arm and carefully lowers you onto the middle of the bed instead.

Then he finally straightens up between your legs, hands still resting on your thighs for a second like he doesn’t quite want to let go yet.

Then his eyes drift downward. “Fuck,” he mutters quietly to himself. You follow his gaze instantly and burst into laughter again because his jeans look genuinely painful now.

“Oh, you are suffering.”

“Jagi,” he groans, dragging both hands down his face. “Please have mercy on me.”

Still muttering under his breath, Soobin reaches for the button of his jeans, fingers slightly clumsy from the alcohol while he starts undoing them with a tired sigh. You push yourself upright against the pillows to watch him, entirely too entertained by the situation.

And shameless.

Your eyes drag slowly over him while he struggles with the button for a second, broad shoulders still stretching that button up distractingly well, hair messy from your hands, cheeks flushed pink all the way to the tips of his ears.

God.

The second his eyes flick back up toward you, you pull your shirt over your head in one smooth motion.

Soobin freezes.

Actually freezes.

His half-open jeans suddenly seem completely forgotten while his gaze drops instantly to your chest, the expression on his face shifting from sleepy amusement into something visibly heavier.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes.

The words come out rough, almost reverent. Soobin’s hands drop away from his half-undone jeans like he’s completely forgotten they exist.

He’s on you in a second.

Big hands slide under your thighs, gripping hard as he pulls you down the bed so you’re flat on your back. You yelp at the sudden shift, a surprised little sound that melts into a laugh — which he immediately swallows with his mouth.

The kiss is messy and desperate from the start.

Soobin groans low in his throat the moment your lips meet, tilting his head to slot your mouths together deeper. His tongue pushes past your lips without hesitation, hot and slick, sliding against yours in slow, filthy strokes. He kisses like he’s starving — wet, open-mouthed, a little clumsy from the alcohol but so familiar he still knows exactly how to wreck you. His tongue curls around yours, sucking lightly before he licks deeper, exploring like he’s trying to map every inch of your mouth.

You moan into him and he answers with a wrecked sound of his own, one large hand cupping the back of your neck to keep you right where he wants you while the other palms the buttons of your jeans.

He manhandles you again — suddenly flipping you so you’re straddling his lap, your knees sinking into the bed on either side of his hips. You yelp against his mouth at the easy strength, the way his big hands grip your behind and yank you flush against him. The sound only makes him kiss you harder.

Soobin’s breath is hot and ragged between kisses. While his mouth devours you, his hands are busy — shrugging off his button-up in one impatient motion, shoulders rolling as the fabric slides down his arms and drops somewhere behind him.

You feel the heat of his bare chest instantly, flushed pink and burning against your skin. His broad shoulders flex under your hands as he reaches between your bodies, fingers working open the button of your pants with surprising focus for how drunk he is. The zipper comes down next. He doesn’t even break the kiss while he does it — just keeps licking into your mouth, tongue slow and teasing now, like he’s savoring every little whimper he pulls from you.

“Lift,” he rasps against your lips, voice so deep and hoarse it vibrates through you.

You obey without thinking. The second you lift your hips, Soobin’s hands slide beneath the waistband of your pants, dragging them down your legs with impatient roughness. He groans quietly into your mouth the moment your skin brushes his bare chest again.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping briefly against yours like he needs a second to collect himself. “Missed this so bad.”

Your hands slide instinctively over his shoulders while he finishes pulling your pants off completely, tossing them somewhere onto the floor without looking. The movement shifts him closer between your legs, enough that you can feel the heat of him again through the thin fabric still separating you both.

You reach down between both your bodies this time, fingers hooking into the waistband of his jeans where they’re still hanging half-open around his hips. You end up brushing your fingers on him.

His entire body reacts instantly.

A sharp inhale. Shoulders tightening beneath your palms. His head dropping briefly onto your shoulder with a low groan that sounds almost pained.

You push his jeans down properly this time, slow enough to make him visibly suffer through it. His forehead stays buried against your neck while he shifts just enough to kick them off the rest of the way along with his socks, one of his large hands gripping your thigh hard the entire time like grounding himself.

The second they’re finally gone, he exhales deeply against your skin.

“Better?” you whisper, unable to stop smiling.

“No,” he says immediately, lifting his head just enough to look at you with drunk ruined eyes. “Worse, actually.”

You laugh softly against his mouth, but the sound dissolves quickly when he flips your bodies and kisses you again.

Your fingers slip through his hair while he goes back to kissing you, mouths parting and meeting again in soft wet presses that grow deeper every few seconds. Somewhere between one kiss and the next, he shifts higher onto the mattress, nudging you backward against the pillows while his broad body settles naturally between your legs like muscle memory.

Years together. Years of this. You can feel it in every touch.

His hand drifts down your side slowly, fingertips grazing your thigh before disappearing briefly off the edge of the mattress. At first you barely notice what he’s doing because he never stops kissing you, but then you hear the soft sound of your left nightstand drawer sliding open.

You break into a breathless laugh against his lips immediately. “Seriously?”

“Mhm,” he hums without shame, still kissing you between words while blindly reaching into the drawer beside the bed. “Know this room better than my own.”

You snort softly, but the laugh catches when his hand finally finds what he’s looking for and he pulls back just enough to glance at the condom in his fingers with sleepy satisfaction.

“There we go,” he murmurs.

Soobin tosses the condom onto the pillow beside your head, then finally lets the drawer click shut. His eyes drag down your body like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again — black lace bra, tiny matching panties, skin already flushed from his hands and mouth. A low, appreciative groan rumbles out of his chest.

“Look at you…” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

Before you can tease him for his corniness, he moves.

Big hands slide under your thighs and he yanks you down the bed in one smooth, powerful motion. You yelp as your back slides against the sheets, but the sound cuts off into a gasp when Soobin settles fully on top of you. He’s so tall and broad he blocks out the low lamplight, caging you in completely. His flushed chest presses against your lace-covered breasts, hot skin against delicate fabric.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust.

With a low grunt, he hooks one of your legs over his hip, then the other, spreading you open beneath him. The manhandling is effortless — years of experience and that quiet strength letting him move you exactly how he wants. He rolls his hips forward and presses right against your core.

The thick, heavy outline of his member in his black boxers slides perfectly against your lace-covered heat, pulsing hot and hard. You moan loudly at the contact, back arching off the bed.

“Goddamn—”

He laughs a little at that and you realize he didn't do it on purpose, which makes everything worse.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue sliding hot and wet against yours while his hips keep rolling in these devastating, lazy circles. Every thrust makes his clothed dick drag right over your most sensitive part, the thin layers between you doing almost nothing to dull the sensation. He’s so big between your legs, the weight of him, the heat, the way he pulses and twitches against your warmth — it makes your already tipsy brain spin.

Soobin groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating through both of you. One of his hands grips your behind, squeezing the soft flesh as he grinds harder, fitting himself even more perfectly against you. The other hand slides up your back instead, fingers finding the clasp of your bra with practiced ease. Even half-drunk and hazy, he undoes it one-handed in a single smooth motion — years of knowing your curves making it effortless.

He pulls the lace away slowly, letting it fall somewhere off the side of the bed, and immediately palms your bare breast, warm and heavy, thumb brushing over your hardened nipple as he keeps grinding against you.

“My pretty girlfriend,” he murmurs hotly against your neck between kisses, voice raspy and full of affection. “So fucking perfect.”

"Bin—"

“So lucky to have you,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours, breath warm and uneven. “Love you so bad, baby… you have no idea.”

His words are slurred at the edges from the alcohol, but they’re so sincere they make your chest ache.

His shoulders shake slightly while he drops his face into your neck again, one large hand spreading across your waist like he needs something to hold onto.

Then, muffled against your skin:

“I’m so fucking hard, Jesus Christ,” he groans. “Feelin' like in our first time again.”

You burst into laughter instantly.

“I’m serious,” he mutters, lifting his head just enough for you to see the genuinely offended look on his flushed face.

Still laughing softly under your breath, your hand slides between both your bodies before he can stop you, palming him through his boxers deliberately this time.

The reaction is immediate, Soobin’s entire body jerks.

“Fuck—”

The curse tears out of him rough and low while his forehead drops heavily onto your shoulder again, fingers digging into your waist hard enough to leave crescents. You can physically feel the way his breathing stutters when your palm strokes over him once more.

“Oh, you weren’t exaggerating,” you tease breathlessly.

“Baby,” he groans warningly, voice wrecked already.

But you keep touching him anyway. Slow. Curious. Mean.

The second you shift your hips experimentally against him too, Soobin completely loses whatever remained of his drunken patience. A broken sound leaves him instantly.

His hands fly to your hips, holding you still for half a second like he physically can’t process the sensation before another shaky exhale punches out of him against your neck.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters again, sounding genuinely tortured now. “Do not start that unless you wanna kill me.” You laugh softly into his hair, but the sound catches when he suddenly looks up at you again. Completely gone.

All of him focused entirely on you now.

Soobin’s eyes are dark, glassy, and completely locked on your face. His breathing is heavy, chest rising and falling against yours as one of his big hands slides slowly down your body. He cups your breast for a second, then keeps going, fingertips tracing over your stomach until they hook gently under the waistband of your lace panties.

His voice comes out low and raspy, almost shy despite how hard he is against your thigh.

“Can I?” he whispers, eyes flicking up to yours.

You nod, biting your lip.

Soobin doesn’t waste time. He sits back on his knees just enough to peel your panties down your legs, lifting your hips with one hand like it’s nothing. The cool air hits your soaked core and you shiver. He groans softly at the sight of you, completely bare now, then quickly shoves his own boxers down and kicks them off.

The second his cock springs free — thick, flushed dark pink, and painfully hard — it slaps against his stomach. He’s so big it still makes your stomach tighten even after years together. The moment his bare skin presses against yours again, both of you shiver hard.

“Fuck…” Soobin breathes, lowering himself back on top of you. The heat of his cock slides right against you, hot and heavy, pulsing against your wetness. He groans at the same time you do, forehead dropping to yours.

“It’s been a while, baby,” he murmurs, almost apologetic, voice rough. “Can it be my fingers?”

Even drunk and desperate, he’s careful.

"Fuck, yes." You nod.

One large hand slips between your bodies, warm and sure. Soobin doesn’t rush. His fingers glide slowly through your folds, parting them gently, spreading the slickness that’s already accumulated there. The first touch is feather-light — just the pad of his thumb brushing over your clit in a slow, lazy circle.

You inhale sharply.

He gathers a little more of your wetness with two fingers, then brings it back up, using it to properly moisturize your clit, making the glide smoother, slicker. It’s so familiar, so practiced — the way he knows exactly how you like it after years together. His thumb stays there, rubbing slow, steady circles while the rest of his hand just rests warmly against your pussy, not pushing yet.

Soobin watches your face the entire time, that lazy, dimpled grin tugging at his lips even though his eyes are dark and heavy with lust.

“Fuck…” you breathe, biting down hard on your lower lip as a shiver runs through you.

His grin widens, dimples deepening. “You like this, right baby?” he murmurs, voice low and raspy, sweet in that devastating way only he can manage when he’s drunk and turned on. “Feel good?”

You nod quickly, unable to speak at first. Your hand flies up to grip his shoulder, nails digging into the flushed skin as your hips twitch. He keeps the rhythm slow and consistent — perfect little circles that make heat pool low in your stomach. Every time his thumb passes over the sensitive bundle of nerves, your thighs tremble around his waist.

Soobin leans down and kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, still grinning against your skin.

Another soft circle, then he gathers more of your wetness again, making everything even slicker, warmer. Only then does he finally slide two knuckles down to your entrance. He teases the tip of the finger just inside, barely breaching you, before pulling back and rubbing your clit again — keeping you on edge, making everything wetter, hotter.

You whimper, gripping his shoulder harder. “Soob—”

“I know, baby,” he coos sweetly, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Just prepping a bit, 'most done.”

He finally pushes one finger in slowly, all the way to the last knuckle, curling it gently while his thumb never stops its lazy circles on your clit. The intrusion is perfect, familiar, and so fucking good. A broken “fuck” slips out of you again as your back arches slightly off the bed.

Soobin chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond. His flushed chest presses closer to yours as he watches every little expression on your face — the way your brows furrow, the way your teeth sink into your lip, the way your eyes flutter.

Your boyfriend praises you quietly, adding a second finger on the next stroke, stretching you open so easily.

His fingers move in and out in long, slow pumps, curling just right against that spot inside you while his thumb keeps working your clit in those steady, mind-melting circles. He’s completely focused on you — grinning, flushed, whispering sweet little things between soft kisses to your neck and mouth, completely lost in the way you fall apart under his hand.

Soobin curls his fingers inside you one last time, pressing firmly against that spot that makes your toes curl, before he slowly slides them out. The sudden emptiness makes you whine in protest.

He watches your face with a soft, apologetic smile, his own breathing ragged. His cock is throbbing visibly against your thigh, flushed dark and leaking steadily.

“Sorry, jagi, I'm just…” he murmurs, voice thick and raspy. “Really in a rush right now—” He glances down between your bodies, brows slightly furrowed even through the haze of alcohol.

He leans down and kisses your forehead, then your lips, sweet and slow.

“In the morning I’ll take my time with you properly, eat you out for as long as you want, make you come on my tongue first… but right now—” His hips twitch involuntarily, cock sliding against your slick folds. “I feel like I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind.”

You let out a breathless laugh that turns into a curse when his cock lightly drags through your warmth. While he’s still chuckling softly, he reaches down and wraps his long fingers around him, using your wetness to stroke himself slowly. The wet sound is filthy in the quiet room. He groans deep in his chest, eyes fluttering for a second as he pumps himself a few times, spreading your slick all over his length.

The sight makes heat flare through you. The ache between your legs is suddenly unbearable, making you needy for something inside you right now.

Your hand fumbles blindly on the pillow beside your head where you remember him tossing the condom. Fingers brush the foil packet and you snatch it up immediately.

Soobin’s eyes widen slightly when he sees it in your hand, but he doesn’t stop stroking himself, thumb brushing over the leaking tip.

You tear the wrapper open with your teeth — a practiced, familiar motion after years together — and pull out the condom. He shifts back just enough to give you room, still hovering over you, flushed chest rising and falling fast.

You sit up a little, reaching for him. He helps guide your hands, one of his big palms covering yours as you roll the condom down his thick length together. It’s smooth, natural, the same little dance you’ve done countless times. He lets out a shaky breath when you reach the base, giving him one firm stroke for good measure.

“Fuck,” he breathes, half-laughing, half-groaning as he presses you back down into the mattress.

Soobin hovers over you, breathing heavy, the tip of his cock nudging against your entrance. Even in his drunk, urgent state, the careful boyfriend in him wins.

He reaches over to the side of the bed and grabs one of the extra pillows. As he leans, his heavy cock bobs forward and drags right over your swollen clit.

Both of you freeze for half a second, then burst into soft, breathless giggles.

“Shit—” he laughs quietly, shoulders shaking. “Sorry.”

He tucks the pillow under your hips with practiced ease, lifting you gently like he’s done a hundred times before. The new angle immediately makes you feel more open for him.

Soobin settles back between your thighs, one hand on your waist, the other wrapping around his cock again. You reach down at the same time, your fingers overlapping his as you both line him up together. The head of his cock presses against your slick entrance, hot and thick.

He leans down and kisses your bare shoulder softly, lips lingering there.

“You sure you don’t want prone tonight?” he asks gently against your skin, voice raspy but sweet. “I know it’s your favorite, I can fuck you deep like that if you want.”

You shake your head, a breathy whine slipping out as you spread your legs wider for him. “No… want you like this,” you murmur, guiding the tip of him just inside you. “Want to see you, Binnie— fuck...”

You try to pull him in with one impatient roll of your hips. A sharp, needy whine escapes you instantly. He’s so big, and it’s been two whole weeks — the stretch is intense, almost too much even though you’re basically soaked right now.

Soobin freezes right away, concern flashing across his flushed face.

“Breathe, baby,” he says softly, voice steady and comforting. One big hand strokes your side. “I already told you to not do that. It can hurt you, jagi.”

He gently takes your left leg and hooks your ankle over his broad shoulder as he's talking, opening you up even more. The new position makes you both moan quietly. He leans forward, folding you nicely under him, and lines himself up again with your help.

“That’s it,” he whispers, pressing a slow kiss to your knee. His eyes stay locked on yours the whole time — drunk, adoring, and a little worried even as his cock throbs against your entrance. He waits, patient, until you relax and nod.

Only then does he start pushing in — slow, careful, and so fucking thick. Soobin’s breath catches as the head of his cock slowly sinks into you, stretching you open inch by inch. He’s so thick that even after the improvised prep, your mouth falls open in a silent moan. The pillow under your hips and your leg hooked over his shoulder make the angle devastatingly deep.

“Shit,” he groans, voice raspy and strained. His eyes flutter shut for a second before he forces them open again, watching your face carefully. “Squeezing me too tight... Just breathe, honey.”

You nod shakily, fingers digging into his broad shoulders as he keeps pressing forward, slow and steady. Halfway in, you let out a broken whimper. The stretch burns in the best way, that perfect mix of too much and not enough.

He gives you another moment, then rocks forward again, sinking the rest of the way in until his hips are flush against yours. A deep, relieved groan rumbles out of his chest when he bottoms out. You can feel him throbbing inside you, so full and heavy it makes your head spin.

“Oh my god, baby…” you moan, back arching off the bed.

He stays there for a few seconds, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours while both of you just breathe through it. His flushed chest is pressed against your breasts, skin burning hot. One of his big hands strokes your hips soothingly, the other holding your thigh against his shoulder.

Soobin’s breath hitches. His grip on your thigh tightens almost possessively as he slowly folds you further underneath him — pushing your leg higher, pressing your knee closer to your chest. The new angle forces him even deeper, and a broken moan slips out of you.

Before you can catch your breath, his other hand slides up your back, fingers threading firmly into your hair. He grips the strands near your nape with surprising strength, tugging just hard enough to tilt your head back against the pillow. His long fingers curl tight at the base of your skull, holding you right where he wants you.

Your eyes roll back instantly.

“S— fuck—” The word comes out shaky, almost slurred. The alcohol in your system basically all gone now.

He lets out a low, satisfied groan at your reaction, lips brushing your jaw.

“You like that?” he rasps, voice deep and rough.

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

He starts moving.

A deep, deliberate roll of his hips that makes you feel every thick inch dragging inside you. With your leg folded high and his strong grip on your nape and hair, you’re completely pinned under him, helpless in the best way. Soobin pulls out almost all the way, then sinks back in with a wet slap, setting a steady, filthy rhythm.

Your hands fly around desperately, not knowing where to hold on. You fist the sheets first, twisting them hard as he bottoms out again, a broken moan tearing from your throat. On the next thrust you reach for the pillow above your head, gripping it tight, but nothing feels steady enough.

Soobin notices. His grip in your hair tightens just a fraction as he leans closer, chest pressed flush to yours, lips against your ear.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice wrecked.

On the next deep thrust you finally settle — one hand flying up to wrap around the thick bicep of the arm that’s gripping your nape. Your fingers dig into the firm muscle there, nails biting into his flushed skin as he drives into you again and again. Your other hand slides across his broad back, scratching down the length of it hard enough to leave marks.

Soobin hisses through his teeth, a shaky groan following right after.

He keeps that steady, punishing rhythm — pulling out slow, then slamming back in deep, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet room. Every thrust forces a helpless sound out of you. Your nails rake down his back again as he grinds against your walls, and his grip on your hair tightens in response, keeping you right there with him.

Soobin keeps that deep, steady rhythm for a few more thrusts, then suddenly slows. He reaches up, grabs your hand that’s clawing at his bicep, and guides it to the back of his head.

You know exactly what that means.

Your fingers thread through the fluffy strands at the back of his neck and grip tight. The second you tug, you feel your boyfriend's hips stuttering.

He starts giving you shallow, experimental thrusts — little rolls of his hips that let him search for that perfect angle. Not pulling out much, just grinding and adjusting, like he was trying to find momentum or something else your drunken fucked out brain couldn't wrap around it yet. His brows were furrowed in concentration, flushed cheeks glowing under the low light, drunk eyes locked on your face like he’s studying every reaction.

You tug his hair again and his breath catches.

“Fuck—” he murmurs, voice raspy.

He then angles his hips a little higher and gives another shallow thrust.

Your whole body jolts.

A sharp, broken moan rips out of you as he finally hits it — that sweet spot deep inside that makes your toes curl and your vision blur. Soobin’s face lights up instantly, a bright, satisfied grin breaking across his flushed face, dimples deep.

“Fucking finally” he whispers triumphantly, almost giddy even while buried inside you. “Found it.” You want to laugh at his ridiculousness but you're too busy moaning his name out loud.

Soobin doesn’t waste a second. He shifts his weight, one big hand reaching down to fix the pillow under your hips, pushing it a little higher so the angle is even better. Then he hooks your leg more securely over his shoulder, folding you open wider for him.

Now that he’s locked onto your sweet spot, the man turns into a beast so he can focus completely.

His thrusts stay deep but become more targeted — slow, powerful drags that grind right against that patch of warmth on every stroke. The hand that was before gripping your hair, now grips the bed behind your head. The wet, filthy sound of him moving inside you fills the room as he keeps that perfect rhythm, never losing it once he’s found it.

You can only nod and moan, fingers tightening desperately in his skin and back. Every precise thrust makes your eyes roll back again. Soobin groans at the feeling of you pulling his hair, hips snapping a little harder as he chases your pleasure.

He adjusts the angle of your leg one more time, pressing your thigh closer to your chest, and the new depth makes you cry out. Soobin smiles against your neck — proud, drunk, and completely lost in you — while he keeps fucking you with those devastating, focused strokes.

Soobin keeps that perfect rhythm for a few more deep strokes, then suddenly slows again. You're about to curse him out when he gently lowers your leg from his shoulder, letting it wrap around his waist instead. You whine at the loss of the stretch, but the sound turns into a gasp when he slides his long arm underneath your lower back.

“Come here, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough.

With one smooth, powerful motion he pulls your hips up and glues your bodies completely together. Your chests press flush, sweat-slick skin sliding against skin. His arm stays locked around your waist like a steel band, holding you so tightly there’s almost no space left between you. Every breath you take, he feels.

The new angle makes him sink even deeper.

You both moan loudly at the first thrust.

“Fuck— Soobin,” you whimper, legs instinctively circling his narrow hips, heels digging into the back of his thighs to pull him closer. Your arms wrap around his neck, fingers threading back into his hair at the nape like you knew he loved. "This is new, baby—"

“Better, right?” he rasps against your ear, voice wrecked. “Dreamt of this last night and wanted to try with you so bad.”

Soobin groans, deep and broken, burying his face in the crook of your neck for a second. One of his arms is still banded tightly around your waist, holding your entire body glued to his. The other arm is braced beside your head, forearm flexing hard as his hand grips the sheets in a white-knuckled fist.

"Woke up so hard and leaking all over my bed, jagi, just thinking about you like this."

Soobin looks devastating like this.

Broad shoulders curled over you, flushed chest pressed to yours, the muscles in his arm standing out as he holds himself up just enough not to crush you. His messy hair falls over his forehead, cheeks and neck still that pretty, deep pink from the alcohol and exertion. Every time he rolls his hips, the flex of his back and shoulders is mesmerizing.

He starts moving again — slower, but heavier, grinding strokes that press him right against your sweet spot with almost no space to pull out. Because he’s holding you so tightly, every thrust makes your bodies slide together, your clit rubbing against his pelvis on every roll. The wet, intimate sound of him moving inside you is filthy and constant.

You cling to him harder, legs locked around his hips, arms tight around his neck like you’re afraid he’ll disappear. Your nails scratch lightly at his scalp and the back of his shoulders.

Soobin lets out a shaky breath right against your neck.

Your moans mix together, breathy and desperate. He keeps that tight, glued-together rhythm — hips rolling in deep, filthy circles, barely pulling out before pressing back in, keeping you full and pressed against him the whole time.

His flexed arm beside your head tightens, knuckles white on the sheets as he fights to keep control.

He turns his head just enough to kiss you — messy, open-mouthed, and needy — while still holding your entire body flush against his, fucking you deep and slow in that perfect, intimate grind.

You’re getting closer.

Every deep, grinding roll of his hips pushes you higher, that tight coil in your stomach winding impossibly tighter. You can’t stop the needy sounds spilling from your lips. Your legs tighten around his waist, heels digging into his back as you pull him even deeper.

Soobin feels it — the way you start clenching around him, the way your breathing turns into short, desperate whimpers.

He grins.

That devastating, dimpled smile spreads across his flushed face, eyes half-lidded and sparkling with drunk affection even as he keeps fucking you slow and deep.

Your lips press messily against his mouth first, then trail across his jaw, sucking lightly at the sharp line there. Soobin’s grin widens, dimples carving deep into his cheeks as he tilts his head to give you more access. You kiss down the flushed column of his neck, open-mouthed and wet, tasting the salt on his skin and the faint scent of his cologne still clinging to him.

Every time your lips or tongue touch him, he lets out a soft, pleased hum, hips never losing their rhythm.

“Fuck… keep doing that,” he breathes, dimples still on full display. His arm around your waist squeezes you tighter, pressing your bodies impossibly closer as he grinds into you. “Love when you kiss me like you can’t get enough.”

You whimper against his neck and bite down gently right below his ear. Soobin’s breath stutters, the arm braced beside your head flexing hard, knuckles white on the sheets.

His arm around your waist holds you even closer, almost lifting your hips off the bed as he drives into you with those perfect, deep grinds. Your arms stay locked around his neck, fingers tugging at his hair while the heat inside you starts to blow up.

“Soobin—” you whimper against his flushed neck, voice shaking.

“I know, baby. I can feel it,” he murmurs, that dimpled grin still tugging at his lips even as his own breathing turns ragged. “You’re getting tighter.”

You bury your face in his neck, kissing and panting against his skin, desperate little moans spilling out with every roll of his hips. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling hard, and Soobin groans deeply, the sound vibrating against your lips.

“That’s it… let go for me,” he whispers hotly, voice raspy and sweet. “I’ve got it.”

The coil snaps without warning.

Your orgasm crashes over you hard. A broken cry tears from your throat as your whole body seizes up, thighs clamping tight around your boyfriend's waist. You clench around him in pulsing waves, so intensely that your vision whites out for a second. Your back arches hard against him, pressing your chest even tighter to his as pleasure floods every nerve.

Soobin’s dimples disappear as his mouth falls open in a wrecked moan, but he doesn’t stop moving. He keeps grinding deep and steady through your orgasm, drawing it out, letting you ride every wave.

Your nails dig into his back and scalp as you shake in his arms, whimpering and moaning his name like a prayer. The arm around your waist holds you impossibly closer, almost lifting you completely off the bed while he keeps fucking you through it, slow and deep, making sure you feel every single second.

You’re still trembling, thighs shaking around his waist, when Soobin’s thrusts start getting a little more desperate, his breathing turning ragged against your neck.

“Baby… I’m so close,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Fuck, I’m gonna come—”

Still overstimulated and sensitive, you push at his shoulder and then gently but firmly shove his face away from your neck. Soobin blinks, confused for half a second, dimples still faintly visible as he tries to understand.

Before he can ask, you push him harder, rolling him onto his back.

He gets it instantly.

A surprised, breathy laugh escapes him as he wraps both big arms around you and pulls you with him, never once letting you disconnect. In one smooth motion he flips you so you’re straddling his lap, him still buried deep inside you.

“Shit— okay, like this?” he rasps, eyes wide and dark with lust.

You don’t answer with words. You brace your hands on his flushed chest and start riding him.

Soobin’s head falls back against the pillow with a broken moan, eyes rolling for a second as you sink down on him again and again. The new position lets you take him even deeper, and the way your walls flutter around his oversensitive cock makes him look like he’s about to lose his mind.

“Good fuck, jagi—” His voice cracks. His hands fly to your hips, gripping hard, fingers digging into your skin as you roll your hips in deep, filthy circles.

Soobin looks completely gone underneath you.

Cheeks burning red, neck and chest flushed dark pink, messy hair sticking to his forehead, mouth open in a constant stream of shaky moans. His abs flex every time you sink down on him, and those pretty dimples keep flashing whenever he tries (and fails) to smile through the overwhelming pleasure.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whines, voice raspy and high. “So fucking tight— slow down a little, Y/N, I’m— shit—”

But you don’t slow down. You ride him harder, bouncing on his cock with wet, obscene sounds filling the room. Soobin’s grip on your hips tightens almost painfully as his thighs start trembling underneath you.

His head presses back into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut for a moment before they fly open again, locked on where you two are connected.

“Look at you… riding me so good,” he pants, half-lost in it. “My pretty girl using me after she came all over my cock… fuck, I love you. I love you so much—”

You slap your hand over his mouth, fingers pressing firmly against his lips.

Soobin’s eyes widen instantly, a muffled, surprised sound vibrating against your palm. You don’t let him recover — you grind down harder, faster, rolling your hips in tight, filthy circles that make his cock drag perfectly against your walls.

His breath hitches sharply through his nose. You can feel the hot, desperate puffs of air against your skin as he’s forced to breathe only through his nose, eyes rolling back slightly.

“Mmm—!” The sound is choked behind your hand, needy and broken. His eyebrows furrow, that pretty flushed face looking completely wrecked as you ride him without mercy.

You lean forward, putting more weight on your hand, keeping his mouth covered while you bounce and grind faster. The wet sounds between your bodies get louder, messier. Soobin’s hands fly to your hips, gripping so hard you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow, but he doesn’t stop you. He can’t.

He starts thrusting up desperately to meet you, hips snapping off the bed in short, frantic strokes. His thighs tremble underneath you. Every time you slam down, he drives up, burying himself as deep as possible.

You feel him throbbing violently inside you.

His eyes squeeze shut, then fly open again — glassy, drunk, and completely gone. Harsh breaths keep punching through his nose against your palm as he fucks up into you with everything he has left, muffled whimpers and groans vibrating against your fingers.

A few more hard, sloppy movements and he breaks.

Soobin’s whole body seizes up beneath you. His back arches sharply off the bed, a loud, broken moan tearing through your hand as he comes hard. You feel every thick pulse of his cock as he spills into the condom, hips jerking uncontrollably while he keeps thrusting up into you through his orgasm, chasing every last second of pleasure.

His eyes stay locked on where you're both connected the entire time — wide, desperate, and so full of lust and love it makes your stomach flip.

When the last powerful spasm finally fades, his body collapses back onto the mattress, chest heaving. You slowly lift your hand from his mouth. He immediately sucks in a deep, shaky breath, lips parted and shiny.

“Jesus” he rasps, voice completely shot. His hands slide up your back, pulling you down onto his chest as he pants against your neck. "You're so fucking hot."

His hands slide up your back immediately, pulling you down onto his chest while both of you try to catch your breath. His heartbeat is still hammering wildly beneath your cheek, skin damp and burning hot against yours. You can barely move without feeling the aftershocks still rolling through both your bodies.

For a long moment neither of you says anything.

The room is filled only with uneven breathing and the occasional twitch of Soobin’s thighs underneath you whenever you shift slightly.

Then:

A weak little laugh escapes him.

You lift your head just enough to look at him. His hair is sticking everywhere now, cheeks completely flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy and half-closed from exhaustion and alcohol.

You whisper. "Are you still drunk?"

“Debatable.”

You snort softly.

Soobin groans when you move to sit up properly, arms immediately tightening around your waist to keep you exactly where you are.

“No,” he mumbles.

“I can feel you in my lungs, baby. Is getting uncomfy for me.”

“Stay there.”

“Soobin, we need to breathe.”

“We are breathing.”

Barely.

You laugh quietly again, fingers brushing damp hair away from his forehead while his eyes drift shut under your touch almost instantly.

Drunk Soobin after sex is always devastatingly soft. Especially tonight.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs sleepily against your shoulder. “Feels nice.” A lazy smile tugs at his lips before he suddenly starts laughing under his breath again.

“What?” You look up at him.

“I can’t believe you did that again.”

Your face heats immediately because you know exactly what he means. “You liked it last time.”

“Liked it?” He looks genuinely offended, eyes finally opening properly to stare up at you. “Baby, I begged you to do it again for like three months straight.”

You burst into laughter.

“I’m serious!” he insists, dimples appearing despite how exhausted he looks. “You can’t just do stuff like that and expect me to be normal afterward.”

The memory alone visibly affects him again because his hands squeeze your hips instinctively while he groans dramatically into the pillow.

“Oh my God,” you laugh. “You’re still hard?”

“A little,” he mutters with zero shame. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m drunk and in love with you.”

The honesty in his voice makes your chest ache a little. He notices immediately, because of course he does after all these years. His expression softens. Then quieter now, thumb rubbing slowly along your waist beneath the sheets.

“I hate your idol stamina sometimes,” you mumble, voice muffled against his chest while your fingers lazily trace over the warm skin of his stomach. “I’m really sleepy, Soob. Can't go another round.”

His entire expression melts instantly.

“Aww,” he coos quietly, drunk affection taking over his face so fast it makes you laugh weakly. “My baby’s tired.”

“You literally ruined me.”

“Mhm.” His hand slides slowly up and down your back beneath the sheets, soothing and absentminded. “You did kinda start fighting for your life there at the end.”

You groan immediately and shove weakly at his chest.

“Shut up.”

His laugh rumbles warmly underneath your cheek. The room feels smaller and warmer, filled only with your shared breathing and quiet giggles. Soobin’s arms stay wrapped around you like he has no intention of ever letting go, his big hand still rubbing slow circles on your back.

After a minute, he sighs deeply, the sound content and sleepy.

“Okay… I should probably deal with this,” he mumbles, glancing down between your bodies where he’s still buried inside you, the condom now full.

You hum in agreement but don’t move. Neither does he for a few seconds. He just holds you tighter, pressing one last lazy kiss to your forehead.

With a soft groan, Soobin gently starts to pull out. You both hiss at the sensitivity — you from being overstimulated, him from how raw he feels. The moment he slips free, you immediately miss the fullness, letting out a tiny whine.

Soobin chuckles softly at the sound.

“'Can't go another round',” he mocks you, voice hoarse.

He carefully rolls you onto your side beside him, then sits up with visible effort. His tall frame sways a little as he swings his long legs off the bed. The lamplight catches on his flushed skin, the red still blooming beautifully across his neck and chest, sweat making his broad shoulders glisten.

You watch him lazily from the pillows as he peels the condom off with a tired grimace, ties it, and pads across the room on slightly unsteady legs. Even drunk and fucked-out, he’s graceful in that quiet, giant-boy way — tall, broad back flexing as he tosses the condom into the small trash bin near your desk.

He comes back immediately, crawling onto the bed like a big, clingy cat and collapsing half on top of you again. His head lands on your chest with a dramatic sigh, one arm slung heavily over your waist, leg tangled between yours.

“Done,” he mumbles against your skin, already sounding half-asleep. “Can we stay like this forever now?”

You thread your fingers through his messy hair, smiling.

“Yeah, Soob. Forever sounds good.”

He nuzzles closer, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss right over your heart. His voice is barely a whisper now, warm and sleepy.

“Love you… so much. Thank you for letting me have you.”

You kiss the top of his head, heart full.

“Always, baby. Now sleep.”

Soobin hums happily, already drifting off with his flushed cheek squished against you, dimples still faintly visible even in sleep.

author's note — had so much fun writing this mwahahahah

even during times like these, where you feel you might just rip someone's head off from the sheer frustration you feel, taehyun still manages to make your heart skip a beat; of course, you shouldn't ruin your fresh set, much less the one he paid for— he's holding your hand so gently, running his thumb across your knuckles as he examines your face marred with stress.

"what's wrong love?" his eyes flicker to the phone you're holding with an iron-clad grip, "did someone send you a weird message?"

at the reminder of your problem, your eyes flicker down to the comments section you've yet to click away from— and your eyes catch onto a certain comment that reads "guys… i found his @ >_<", unable to stop yourself from checking the replies that all beg and scream for taehyun's handle to be revealed— you think you feel your eye twitching as your gaze snaps back to your boyfriend.

you knew he looked incredible when you were filming those videos. it's why you posted them in the first place! his honey skin positively glowed under the sun, his eyes shining cutely and his dimple popping out when you had him follow along with your silly transitions— the tight tee he wore all day that outlined his body perfectly and revealed a bit of his stomach when he raised his arms was definitely eye catching, not to mention the small portion you included of you two jumping into the water, with him shirtless; muscles on display, his long necklace hanging behind his back as the picked you up before dumping the two of you in, turning around and flashing the camera a perfect shot of his broad back— fuck, your teeth are grinding together at the mere realization that there are other's who are drooling over him, even going as far as searching for his personal account…

taehyun is beginning to feel more concerned the longer you stare at him like you might just kill someone; what was meant to be a quiet unwinding before bed has turned into trying to defuse the ticking bomb you've become, your jaw clenching as your eyes begin to trail along taehyun's body— he gulps, watching the way your eyes trace over every last detail, your gaze darkening at what you see.

it all changes in the blink of an eye; you're tossing your phone on the bedside table, crossing your arms against your chest and slumping back into the pillows with a deep pout; though you pretend to watch the documentary taehyun put on, he can tell you're not taking in a single thing.

"baby," he's scooting close to you, sitting up on his forearm as he hovers over you, "what's wrong?"

you frown. "how's your instagram doing?"

"huh? it's fine," you glance at him from the corner of your eyes, and he raises a brow, "i had to private it. i was getting a bunch of random followers."

you slap your hands on your face, letting out a deep groan— fuck. you knew it!

"people are so fucking weird," you grit out, your mood worsening by the second— taehyun merely looms over you, his bright eyes clouding with worry, lips jutting out into a pout— he looks so cute, it's pissing you off. "drooling all over you as if your girlfriend isn't right fucking there."

taehyun tries hard to suppress the small smile that pulls at his lips— he really does— but it's impossible when he watches the way you melt deeper into the bed like a kicked puppy.

"is that what this is all about?" there's a teasing lilt in his voice that make you send him a sharp glare, "you gettin' jealous, baby?"

your frown deepens, and you sit up, "is this funny to you?"

"no, it's cute," he smiles up at you, "'cause now you know how i feel."

"no, no this— this is different," taehyun has failed to defuse you, but he doesn't seem to care much as he watches you rant with a fond glint in his eyes. "when people approach me, i tell them about you— i only think about you, tyun. but online, it's like— i can't control what these freaks are saying about you!"

you sneer, biting at your thumb nail again, "they know you're mine, but they don't care. they actually think they have a chance."

you're off in a world of your own— jealousy is rampant in your gaze that falls onto taehyun, shifting to straddle him while he lays back in bed, his hands coming to rest on your hips.

"you're all mine, right?"

"of course my love," he purrs out.

"it's just not fair," you pout, your hips gaining a mind of your own— you just can't help yourself. not when taehyun is staring up at you with those soft, hopeless eyes, shining with admiration as he presses his hips against yours. not when you can feel his thick length getting harder the more you rub your cunt against him, wearing nothing but his shirt and thin panties that begin to stick to your folds, "i can't stand the way they talk about you."

leaning down, you put your hands against taehyun's chest for support— a particularly firm press against his cock has his brows furrowing, groaning softly as he watches the way your hips more. "yeah? like— like what?"

"like they wanna eat you up," he's fully hard against you, and you're shifting so you can grind your clit against the tip of his cock, "like they see what i see."

"as if they could ever get your hands on you," scoffing, you're haste to pull your boyfriend's cock out, pushing your panties to the side and teasing his leaking tip along your entrance— his fingers dig into your hips, teeth gritting together at the way you leak onto him— your walls flutter at the sudden stretch as you sink down onto him, your sharp eyes taking in the way he falls apart beneath you.

pushing his shirt up, you're raking your nails down his chest just to watch the way a blushed trail of lines appear on his skin— his stomach clenches, flinching when you grip his waist and begin to move on his cock, bouncing your hips and picking up a harsh rhythm that fills the room with sounds of skin slapping against skin; the more you watch your boyfriend struggle to keep up with you, mouth falling open and pretty moans falling from his lips, the more you can feel yourself get worked up.

"y-y'know, i get so many comments on our posts together— saying we're not gonna last," you grit out, angling your hips so his cock can brush perfectly against your walls, clenching down on his thick length, "they act as if you'd actually— f..fucking leave me for them."

"i'd never," taehyun pants out, his eyes rolling back as you slam down on him, "i… only have eyes for you, baby."

"yeah?" you whine, thighs burning as you continue to bounce on your boyfriend's cock, your hips stuttering as he rubs circles on your clit, "i just— i want everyone to know you're n-not… not going anywhere…"

"want them to know i'm all yours?" he's sitting up, adjusting your position so he can meet you halfway, thrusting up into you— he's leaving haste kisses all along your neck, pushing up your shirt until he can kiss along your chest, sucking your nipples and swirling his tongue along the sensitive buds; you're nodding frantically, weaving your fingers into his hair to pull him closer, until your bodies are flush together.

he's trailing back up along your neck, sucking softly at the sensitive spots on your neck before leaving a gentle kiss on your jawline, his lips lingering there, "maybe i should just be your husband then?"

it feels like someone has sent an electric current up your spine— the word husband has you shivering, clenching down on taehyun as your fingers pull tighter at his hair; he moans at your reaction, nipping at your skin and thrusting up into you harder.

"f-fuck, please," you cry out, his lips continuing to suck and kiss at your neck, wandering back down to your breasts— you can feel the pleasure building up, threatening to crash at any moment, "want you to be— fuck!— mine, just mine!"

"i've always been yours," he murmurs against your skin, "and i can be yours forever."

"yes, yes, please—" your heart pounds at the mere thought: taehyun, yours. forever. "i'm gonna cum, fuck, tyunie, oh my god—"

you've lost control of your body, and taehyun is more than happy to step in, his grip on your waist bruising as he guides your body up and down his cock, slamming your hips all the way down to the base. when he feels your walls fluttering around him and your body tense, he reaches to rub tight circles on your clit, placing a soft kiss just under your ear.

"my cute little wife just feels so good, hmm?" the words roll off his tongue and are sweet like honey, your brain short circuiting as you nod, "cum on my cock, pretty."

your body is tuned to his every command, your climax hitting you full force— your cunt flutters around his length, the overwhelming pleasure making you scramble to hold onto something— instead, you drag your nails down taehyun's back, the points of your acrylics digging into his skin and drawing out a long groan from taehyun, setting off his own orgasm; he holds you down against him, rolling his hips up into you as the two of you ride it out, the room silent save for your pants and soft whimpers from the sensitivity.

his body is firm, warm against yours; you can feel his lips tracing along your skin, peppering gentle kisses along your jawline, his hands smoothing up and down your waist; you pull back to get a good look at him, his eyes fluttering up to meet your gaze and a small smile tugging at his lips.

"hey," you say softly, brushing back his bangs; he hums, leaning into your touch, "did you really mean what you said?"

"of course i did," his voice quiets, seemingly flustered— he avoids your gaze as he continues. "you're someone i want to spend the rest of my life with."

"i've thought of this before," he confesses, looking back up to find your dumbfounded expression, "have you?"

"i— i have," you breathe out, your pulse racing— there's this charged feeling the rest of the night as you begin to talk about it more seriously, in thorough details; you settle into taehyun's arms with a restless heart, the only thing racing in your mind being the prospect of truly having taehyun be all yours.

♡♡♡

the day after, you sulk when you check taehyun's account, finding his follower count has quadrupled— no, you tell yourself, it's fine, you shouldn't be so worked up over this. when you go to tap on his story upload by instinct, any insecurity and worry washes away instantly— lo and behold, taehyun has posted a picture of him on duty— but… when you take a closer look, you find the pendant of his chain hanging low on his back, brushing against familiar red lines that span along his honey skin, highlighted just enough by the setting sun. you feel like someone has knocked the air out from your lungs, texting your boyfriend— soon to be fiance— with frantic fingers.

get home now.

i need you.

your response comes back instantly.