hanji lover

he mumbles under his breath about deadlines and “noodle anatomy,” so softly you almost think you imagined it. at other times, he just stares at the ceiling, unmoving, as if some divine inspiration might drip down from the drywall. and every now and then, he groans so dramatically it sounds like he’s dying, only for you to find out he’s just trying to draw a bent knee.

he’s quiet. not shy, and not in a way that makes you feel obligated to fill the silence. just… contained. coiled. the kind of quiet that holds weight— his thoughts are vivid and volatile, too loud to voice, so he seals them between the pages of his sketchbooks. it’s safer that way. nothing escapes. nothing catches fire.

you’ve never seen him bring anyone home.

not once. not even after those late-night figure drawing classes, or the weekend studio exhibitions where people tend to get a little too wine drunk and giggly. you’ve never heard him talk about crushes or hookups or even eye someone on the quad. never even caught him flirting. he barely acknowledges strangers in passing, doesn’t register compliments from the girls who sometimes stop to peek through the dorm windows and whisper about “that one hot art guy.”

he doesn’t go out much either, never really parties, barely shows up to campus events, and treats grocery runs like hostile field missions. most of the time, he’s holed up in his room with the door cracked open, back hunched over his tablet or sketchpad, headphones in, eyes glazed over with focus.

there are moments he doesn’t respond when you speak. you’ll knock, pass his room more than once, and the only hint he’s still breathing is the dim glow of his monitor. you pause, staring in, wondering— not for the first time— how long he’s been cooped up in there. whether he’s eaten. whether he’s slept. whether he’s working on something normal, or… something else entirely.

because you know what he draws.

he told you. casually. one night, when you were both cross-legged on the floor, splitting leftover takeout and surrounded by plastic chopsticks and empty bubble tea cups. you asked what his senior portfolio theme was, expecting something pretentious, or maybe poetic.

“manga,” he said, chewing absently.

“oh, cool,” you replied. “what genre?”

“ecchi.”

you raise a brow, confused. “…what’s that?”

he looked up slowly, eyes wide, expression borderline unreadable. “tasteful porn.”

you immediately choked on your noodles.

and that was that.

you never brought it up again. but the image of him calmly saying “tasteful porn” with the straightest face lives in your head rent free. still makes your ears burn if you think about it too long.

what’s worse is that you shouldn’t even be surprised.

but you were. maybe because hyunjin doesn’t quite fit the mold of some guy who spends most his nights hunched over his tablet, painstakingly rendering the way sheer fabric sticks to flushed skin. the way lips part, the way spines arch. he’s too pretty, ethereal even— too clean to be that filthy in private. soft jawline, delicate wrists, lips always stained pink from strawberry pocky. he uses cherry blossom shampoo. wears fuzzy socks. once, you caught him microwaving hot chocolate at two in the morning while humming the sailor moon theme song under his breath.

by all logic, he should be drowning in girls. flirty art majors, clumsy lit students, curious econ girls who like the idea of a mysterious artist boyfriend. he should have people throwing themselves at him, sliding into his dms, leaving their numbers on napkins.

but he’s not.

and maybe, just maybe, that’s because hyunjin is a total, certified goon.

the type of guy who probably jerks off to his own hentai panels with one hand in his sweats and the other still holding his apple pencil so he can make edits mid-stroke.

the type who’s too obsessed with his imaginary girls to even look at a real one.

and unfortunately for you— you’re one of them.

+

you agreed to model for his senior art portfolio last month.

he’d asked you during one of your late-night kitchen run-ins, voice low and uncertain, sketchpad balanced on one knee while he waited for his ramen to finish spinning in the microwave.

“it’s not explicit explicit,” he said, peeking up at you from under his lashes, his thumb absently smudging the corner of a half-finished eye on the page. “it’s more suggestive. tasteful.” his tone wavered between hopeful and rehearsed, like he’d been planning to ask you for a while but hadn’t quite worked up the nerve until now.

“think… moody lighting,” he added, as if that would somehow soften the blow. “lace. maybe a garter belt.”

you blinked. “a garter belt?” the words came out with an airy laugh, light and teasing, a little incredulous but not entirely opposed.

he didn’t flinch. instead, he perked up with faux earnestness, flipping his pencil between his fingers like a conductor’s baton, brows lifted in dramatic flourish. “it’s for the drama,” he insisted, as if that explained anything at all. as if drama alone justified sketching someone in lingerie.

yet somehow… you ended up agreeing.

you needed the extra cash, your campus job barely covered groceries, and your last textbook rental had drained what little remained in your savings. but part of you was flattered, too. no one had ever asked to draw you before, and definitely not like that.

but if you were really being honest, a small part of you liked the way he looked at you when you posed.

he made you feel like art. something worth preserving, not just for the shape of your body or the softness of your skin, but for the way you existed in stillness. the rhythm of your breath, the curve of your spine, the light pooling into the hollows of your collarbones. he watched with quiet fixation, eyes moving from page to skin, jaw clenched in concentration, and everytime his pencil scratched against the paper, it’d sent a phantom shiver down your spine.

he made you feel beautiful.

you hadn’t realized you were making a mistake.

not until tonight, when he’d left for his night class and you were rummaging behind his desk in search of your charger, the one you always forgot in his room. you’d been reaching behind a pile of books and folders when your elbow bumped something, knocking it to the floor with a dull, soft thud.

a sketchbook.

black, unmarked, a little worn around the edges. it didn’t look important or any different from the others he always left lying around. you bent down without thinking, planning to toss it back where it came from.

but it had fallen open.

you froze. you told yourself you wouldn’t look, that it wasn’t yours to see.

and then you looked anyway.

curiosity, or something worse, pulled you toward the page.

and there you were.

not soft. not modest. not the dimly lit, “tasteful” pose you’d assumed he’d capture.

you were drawn sprawled out, every inch of you on display. legs spread wide, toes curling into fabric you recognized as your own sheets. your back arched off a pillow from your bed. one hand gripping the edge of the blanket. the other buried deep between your thighs. your face was flushed, lips parted, eyes hazy, mouth frozen in a moan that felt way too specific to be imagined.

and it was detailed. painfully so.

you could see the shading where sweat would gather. the tension in your calves. the wrinkle in your brow. your own hair drawn strand by strand, fanned out like a halo.

your stomach flipped. heat bloomed somewhere low and unsteady.

you turned the page, almost on instinct, heart already pounding.

there were more.

you on your knees, spine arched, wrists tucked behind your back. your head tilted at just the right angle to show off your throat, the delicate notch above your collarbone. the lingerie you wore last week— sheer lace cups, dainty silk bows, garters clipped to thigh-highs—recreated in uncanny, microscopic detail. every clasp, dimple in your skin, subtle ripple of imagined pleasure inked in with a hunger that felt… dangerous.

you stared at the pages, transfixed. breath caught somewhere in your chest, hands beginning to tremble. you hadn’t meant to look, hadn’t planned to turn the first page, let alone the second… but once you did, you couldn’t stop. every drawing felt intimate, obsessive, memorized. the way he rendered you with such aching precision—each curve of your body, every fold of lace, every imagined tremble of your thighs, made it nearly impossible to look away.

it was clear he hadn’t just sketched you from reference; he’d studied you, remembered you. poured hours into capturing the parting of your mouth when you sigh, the subtle shift of your hips in that particular set of lingerie, the way your body folds, stretches, and exists on the page, alive and familiar.

you were still staring when you heard the jingle of his keys at the door. your heart clenched instantly, breath stuttering as you snapped upright, hands suddenly clammy and slick with heat. your thighs instinctively pressed together before you could stop yourself. there was panic, yes, caught red-handed with something you were never meant to see— but tangled beneath it, humming in your veins like a low, slow current, was something far darker. not dread or guilt. something warmer. hungrier. the realization bloomed slowly and thickly at the back of your throat, and you swallowed it down like a secret; what you felt wasn’t entirely fear. it was want.

the door clicks open behind you, followed by the soft creak of the hinge, the muted scuff of sneakers hitting hardwood, and some more indistinct shuffling near the entryway as he drops his things. hyunjin steps inside, expression dulled with exhaustion, shoulders loose, hoodie slipping off one side of his frame. he moves like he always does after a long day— quiet, fluid, like he’s still half inside his head.

until he sees what’s in your lap.

his sketchbook.

his secret.

you.

he halts mid-step.

for a second, he doesn’t say anything. no words, no movement, not even a blink. his eyes trace the shape of the moleskin cover, the way your fingers are curled around the edge of a page, your gaze is wide and locked onto his, like you’ve been caught doing something unspeakable. maybe, because you have.

but the reaction you expect never comes. there’s no stammering apology, flustered excuses, desperate attempt at backpedaling or some pathetic plea to forget what you saw.

instead, he smiles.

and it’s not the kind of nervous, sheepish grin you might’ve imagined if this moment had played out in your head. no. it’s something far more sinister. cooler. slow-spreading and deeply smug, as if this was inevitable and he’s known all along.

“you weren’t supposed to see that,” he says, voice low and smooth, like he’s just commenting on the weather.

he walks toward you with the kind of unhurried confidence that makes your throat go instantly dry, his footsteps soft against the floorboards, eyes never leaving yours. he stops just in front you where you’re still frozen, sketchbook heavy in your hands, heart beating loud enough to feel it in your teeth.

“but…”

his head tilts slightly as he crouches in front of you, long fingers curling over the edge of the cushion near your knee. the shift in posture shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does, but it roots you in place. he’s close— close enough that you can see the faint flecks of lead still dusted on his fingertips, the faint ink smudge on the side of his hand, the crescent of dried eraser shavings caught beneath his nail.

“…since you have…”

his voice dips even lower now, almost playful. like he’s testing you and he knows you’re too curious to say no.

“do you wanna see the rest?”

you shouldn’t.

you really, really shouldn’t.

but you nod.

and something in him clicks.

he reaches for the book, knuckles brushing your thigh as he takes it gently from your lap. doesn’t ask again or give you time to second-guess. just shifts his weight to sit beside you, so close your knees bump, and flips to the next page with the ease of someone completely unashamed.

the next drawing makes your breath catch.

you— on your stomach, wrists bound above your head with a ribbon that trails off the page. your thighs are spread wide open, panties pushed to the side, one heel still hooked halfway off your foot. you can see your expression sketched in detail, mouth parted, brows drawn tight, eyes looking up with something caught between desperation and bliss.

he turns another page.

this one’s rougher. messier lines, heavier shading. you’re riding something, someone, but only the vague silhouette of a figure is visible beneath you. the focus is all on your body. the way your tits bounce. the tremble in your thighs. the glint of a tongue drawn wet and flicking out from behind your lips. your head is thrown back, hair wild, and between your legs— slick. so much slick. rendered in obsessive strokes that make you shiver.

you blink. “hyunjin, what the fuck—”

“what?” he says lightly, not even looking at you. “it’s art.”

he’s already on the next page.

you reach for it instinctively, trying to stop him, but he only laughs, quiet and amused, and tilts the book slightly so you can see better.

“thought you wanted to see the rest.”

your stomach twists. “how many are there?”

“depends,” he shrugs. “just the ones of you?”

you freeze.

he turns another page. this one’s so filthy your face burns.

you’re gagging on something thick, your hands gripping at the base, tears drawn in delicate lines down your cheeks. your mascara is smudged. your spit is dripping off your chin. there are notes in the margin, little technical observations. ‘make angle of throat curve more exaggerated,’ ‘adjust hand position,’ ‘redraw drool line thicker.’

you glance at him, stunned, but he’s completely calm. flipping through pages like this is the normal shit ever and he’s showing off a vacation album, not a growing collection of depraved, hyper-detailed hentai of you.

“why..” your voice cracks, and you clear your throat. “why me?”

he finally looks at you then.

really looks.

there’s no hesitation in his face. no shame. just a flicker of something deep and unwavering.

“you said yes,” he says simply. “you stood in front of me in that stupid lace and let me stare. what did you think i was gonna do? draw a fucking fruit bowl?”

“i thought it was for your portfolio—”

“it is,” he says, smiling again. “you’re the whole thing.”

you swallow hard. “you should’ve told me.”

he laughs, dry and low.

“would you have still posed?”

you don’t answer. because you don’t know.

he proceeds to turn another page.

this time, you’re bent over the kitchen counter in this one. there’s cum dripping down your thighs.

“you didn’t tell me to stop,” he says softly.

your pulse jumps. “i didn’t know what you were doing.”

“you never asked.”

the silence stretches.

he flips another page. then another. each sketch more obscene than the last. erotic positions you’ve never even imagined. angles that make your skin burn. and he narrates them all with a kind of detached pride, fingers gliding over each line like he’s showing off fine china.

“this one took me all night,” he murmurs, turning the book slightly so you can see the details. “couldn’t get the way your mouth stretches quite right. ended up using a mirror.”

“jesus,” you whisper, barely able to look away. “hyunjin, you’re insane.”

he grins, leaning closer. “and you let me draw you.”

his voice is low. warm. full of something dangerous.

“so what does that make you?”

you don’t answer.

you literally can’t.

because you’re still staring at the next page, and your thighs are pressing together before you even realize it.

+

it’s hard to say who came onto who first.

whether it was you, him, or the invisible thread between you finally pulled taut and snapped— you aren’t sure. but the sketchbook lands somewhere on the floor long forgotten, and then hyunjin’s hands are suddenly on your thighs, warm and steady. the next thing you know, you’re pressed into the mattress of his bed, his body hovering close, like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

you’re still breathing hard, dizzy from everything you saw. your body’s betraying you, flushed and prickled with heat, and he sees it. god, he sees everything.

his voice is low, right beside your ear. “you’re still looking at me like i’ve done something wrong.” his thumbs press lightly into the soft flesh just above your knees, parting them further until your legs fall open around him. “but you haven’t said stop.”

you should. you could. your lips fall open like you want to say something, but the words never physically come out.

he chuckles.

“that’s what i thought.”

his fingers trail up your bare thigh with an artist’s touch, slow and reverent, tracing invisible lines like he’s mentally drafting his next sketch. his eyes never stray, just stays locked on your face. not your lips, not your chest, but your eyes— studying every twitch and flicker as if he’s trying to memorize how your shame turns into arousal.

and fuck, it’s working…

“do you know,” he says, almost idly, as though it’s just casual conversation. “how many nights i’ve spent drawing you from memory?”

his hand slides higher, dips beneath the hem of your shorts, brushes against the dampened fabric of your panties. his smile sharpens.

“you always wear the cutest little things. i couldn’t help it.”

you choke on your breath when he presses the heel of his palm against your cunt. not enough to relieve anything, but enough to remind you who’s touching you. who’s seen you like this, over and over again, in his head and on paper and in every single fucked-up sketch you were too horrified, and too curious, to stop looking at.

he leans in, mouth grazing the shell of your ear.

“you don’t know what it’s like,” he murmurs, “to spend hours perfecting the way your lips wrap around something thick. or the way your thighs shake when you’re close. i studied that. every twitch. every fold. every drip.”

his tone darkens, the words clinging to you like sweat.

“and it still wasn’t enough.”

he pulls back to look at you, fingers still nestled between your legs, his hand heavy and possessive like he owns what he drew— and maybe he does. he always has.

“you wanna know the real reason i never bring anyone home?”

you blink, mind hazy. “what?”

he slides your panties to the side with maddening precision, but his fingers stay light, barely ghosting over your folds.

“because i didn’t need anyone else.”

you whimper when the pad of his middle finger circles your clit, featherlight and cruel.

“i had you.”

a slow exhale leaves your chest, shaky and broken, and he watches you unravel, patient and quiet, savoring it the way someone might linger on the best part of a page.

then he kisses you without warning.

his mouth is soft at first, almost deceptively gentle. but the moment you lean into it and give in, he deepens it, tongue sliding over yours with the same practiced hunger he puts into his art. he kisses the way he draws: greedy, precise, a little filthy.

your hands fist into his hoodie, and he grins against your lips.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you taste better than i imagined.”

he pushes his fingers deeper between your folds, finally giving you the pressure you need. your hips jolt, a whine slipping from your throat, and that’s when you feel it.

his other hand has moved to your wrist.

he’s guiding it down.

and, fuck, he’s so hard.

you palm him through his sweats, wide-eyed and breathless, and he shudders, grinding into your touch shamelessly.

“you did this,” he says through a clenched jaw. “you and your fucking poses and that look on your face like you didn’t know what you were doing to me.” his hand moves with more purpose now, two fingers pressing inside you slow and deep while his thumb rubs tight, messy circles against your clit. he groans when you clench around him.

“this tight already?” he whispers, nose brushing yours. “and i haven’t even started drawing tonight.”

you try to reply— something, anything— but all that comes out is a pathetic, broken litttle moan.

he smirks, biting your bottom lip.

“so desperate. is this why you went snooping? hoping to find something to get off to?”

you shake your head. “i didn’t- i didn’t mean to—”

he laughs. “no?”

he curls his fingers just right and your whole body jerks, hips stuttering. he hits that gummy spot inside you that already has you seeing stars, mouth falling open around a breathless moan.

“then why’re you dripping all over my hand, sweetheart?”

your face contorts with pleasure, heat rushing to your cheeks as his fingers slowly withdraw, slick and shining. he raises them between you, holding the evidence up for you to see.

“look at that,” he murmurs, softly.

your arousal glistens in the low light, coating his fingers, dripping down his wrist. he slides them into his mouth and moans, eyes fluttering shut for just a second before they snap open again, dark and hungry.

“better than i imagined,” he breathes, already sounding wrecked.

“but we’ll keep going, yeah?”

his hand finds yours again, guiding it back to the bulge straining in his pants— heat pulsing through the fabric, through your palm, through the space between your bodies that’s disappearing by the second.

“you’ve only seen the sketches.”

+

you were half-expecting him to crumble when you climb into his lap.

at least, you wanted him to.

he’d spent the past thirty minutes sounding like the world’s most depraved art school simp, flipping through sketch after sketch like some perverted little museum curator. and now? after everything he’s admitted. you’re wet, twitchy, and riding the high of control. he’s throbbing under you, eyes wide, flushed to the tips of his ears. you think maybe he’ll let you ruin him. maybe he wants that.

but then his fingers dig into your hips. hard.

and the shift is immediate.

his back straightens. his mouth parts, but no breathy little beg ever comes out.

just a low, measured murmur in your ear:

“take your panties off.”

your brain short circuits.

“what—?”

he grips your jaw and tilts your face toward him, gently, never rough, but his touch is firm. decisive.

“you wanna climb into my lap, ride my cock like some spoiled little muse?” he says, tone deceptively calm. “fine. but you’re gonna do it the way i imagined it.”

your breath catches. your heart pounds. your cunt pulses.

fuck.

you strip without thinking. panties discarded somewhere on the floor, shorts shoved down past your knees. he watches, shamelessly, licking his lips once as his eyes drag down your body.

“there,” he says, like you’re finally arranged the way he likes.

he strokes a palm up your inner thigh, fingers ghosting over your folds, smearing slick deliberately. your hips twitch forward, chasing his touch.

he tuts. “so needy. bet you soaked the pages of my sketchbook, didn’t you?”

“hyunjin—”

“don’t act shy now,” he murmurs, voice darker. “you flipped through every page. stared at every filthy little pose i drew you in. legs spread, gagging, dripping.”

his fingers part your folds. dragging through them.

“this wet for me already, and i haven’t even put it in?”

you gasp when he presses the blunt head of his cock against your entrance, not pushing, just teasing, smearing precum over your folds like he’s painting.

“beg,” he says softly.

“hyun—”

“you were bold enough to go through my stuff,” he cuts you off, thumb pressing against your clit in painfully slow circles. “now beg.”

and god, you do.

you don’t even try to hold onto what little pride you had left. not when he’s touching you like that, looking at you like he already owns you, like he’s just recreating a scene he’s drawn a thousand times.

“please,” you whisper. “i want it.”

“say it properly.”

“please, let me ride your cock.”

he grins, smug and breathless, and finally, finally, lets you sink down on him.

and it’s perfect.

so thick you swear it stretches something deeper. you brace against his chest, gasping as he fills you up, each inch a slow, merciless press that has you trembling, mouth agape, nails biting into his skin.

“shiiit,” you whimper. “feels so—”

“tight,” he grits out. “fuck, baby, you’re so fucking tight.”

he lets you sit there for a second, fully seated on him, cunt fluttering as your body adjusts, becoming more attuned to his length. you were expecting him to move, to take over.

but he doesn’t.

“go on then,” he instructs. “ride me. show me what you learned from those drawings.”

you start moving, tentatively at first, slow little rolls of your hips— and his hands were simply there to guide you. firm and assured, shaping the rhythm as if he’s sculpting the moment himself, dragging pleasure from you at the exact pace he wants.

“there,” he hisses. “that’s it, just like that, bounce for me- yeah, baby, just like that.”

you ride him harder, chasing the friction, hips grinding down with more purpose as your moans rise in volume, ragged and desperate. and then his hand wraps around the base of your throat. not enough to block any major airways, just holding you there as an anchor.

“don’t cum yet,” he whispers.

you nearly sob.

“hyunjin- fuck, ’m so close—”

his hips buck up into you and your whole body jerks, another sharp gasp leaving your throat as your cunt clamps down hard, tight, pulsing around him, overwhelmed by the sudden depth and force.

“not yet.”

you clench your fists against his chest, thighs quivering, the ache mounting unbearably.

“please, please, i need—”

he shifts, arm wrapping around your waist, and slams you down onto him as he thrusts up again, harder this time, hitting your walls so deep you couldn’t help but scream.

“you think you get to snoop through my private sketchbook, make me beg, and then cum on my cock whenever you want?”

he flips you before you even get the chance to answer. he moves fast, smooth, overwhelming. now you’re flat on your back, and he’s towering above you, hand gripping your thigh, shoving it up against your chest as he sinks right back into you.

“you’re mine now,” he groans. “gonna fuck you until you forget your own name. gonna redraw you like this- cumming around me, crying for me.”

he thrusts deep and sharp and mean.

“gonna sketch you full of my cum.”

“hyun, fuck, please—”

he leans down, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips, almost sweet even as he rails you into the mattress.

“i got you,” he pants. “fuck, baby, i got you. you can cum now.”

and when you do, practically shaking and crying, cunt gripping him so tightly he’s nearly on the verge of blacking out. he follows immediately, moaning against your neck as he spills his thick, hot seed inside you.

he stays there for a moment, still buried deep, panting hard, chest pressed to yours and rising with each unsteady inhale. then he pulls out slowly, eyes fixed on the way his cum spills from you and drips down your thighs, letting out a satisfied hum.

“don’t move,” he says, already reaching for his sketchbook that was left abandoned on the floor.

“hyunjin—”

“shhh,” he coos, “you’re perfect. let me draw you like this.”

he pauses, glancing down at the creamy mess between your legs.

“maybe from memory again.”

You stood at the bottom of the stairs looking down at your feet. The concrete was chipped and uneven, stained darker in places where water never quite dried. Your shoes rested there, suspended in a moment that didn’t move forward. Then that was all there was. The floor. Your feet. The faint hum of the world around you. Your thoughts drifted. Fragments of lines once spoken. A gesture, the ghost of a smile, the sound of his voice saying your name; out of context, out of time. Everything felt slightly off focus, as if you had arrived a moment too early or too late.

After what felt like a lifetime, you lifted your head slowly, eyes moving from side to side, reassembling the space: the stairs, the doors above, the dim lights along the walls. You inhaled, exhaled, shook the feeling loose like it meant nothing. Then you started up the steps.

The theatre smelled of dust and heat and bodies merged together, thick enough to coat the back of your throat. You noticed it every time you stepped inside, the way the air shifted as soon as the doors closed behind you, swelling, pressing in, charged with the residue of breath and sound. As you passed through, a thought surfaced: it seemed the building had learned how to keep what people left behind.

You told yourself it was just nerves. A lie you pressed into place. Rehearsals always did this to you. They stripped you raw.

The stage lights were already on when you walked in; warm, heavy, pooling amber across the floor and bleeding into the dark. They revealed it all: the dust in the air, a worn edge of the stage, all the places where bodies were meant to stand and be looked at. Rows of red velvet faced you in silence, stretching back farther than felt necessary, seat after seat held open and waiting. In your own little fantasy, you liked to imagine they were watching, even when no one was there, it made the space feet intentional, your presence somehow anticipated. Accounted for.

Exposed.

He was already on stage.

You didn’t look at him right away. You never did… not at first. You dropped your bag near the wings, rolled your shoulders, stretched your neck, gave your body something to do besides reacting. You felt him then, a presence like pressure against your ribs. When you finally lifted your eyes, he stood with his back half-turned to you, adjusting his jacket in the reflection of a tall rehearsal mirror. The mirror caught both of you. You froze. Your reflection stood behind his, slightly blurred by scratches in the glass; the angle made it look like you were closer than you were. Close enough to touch.

You swallowed and looked away.

“Places in five” the director called from the stalls.

You stepped onto the stage, your footsteps swallowed by the old wood. The floorboards dipped and groaned beneath you, responding to your weight the way a body responds to touch. Each step felt acknowledged.

For a moment, you wondered how many lovers had stood where you stood now; how many mouths had leaned close, how many secrets had been pressed down into these planks until the wood learned their shape. The play demanded closeness, it demanded tension held just short of collapse. Or so that was the excuse everyone used. You had been cast opposite him because your bodies moved well together, because your voices aligned… because your silences did too. The director said you had chemistry; said it like it was incidental, like something that had simply happened to you rather than something that kept happening every time you shared the same space.

On stage, your role gave you permission.

Your arms brushed during the first scene: fabric against fabric, then skin where sleeves fell short. It was meant to be incidental, a crossing too tight to avoid; the script called for hesitation, for longing held just short of confession and you played it clean. Too clean. The contact lasted a fraction longer than required, suspended between one line and the next, and you knew he registered it. You felt it in the way his body adjusted, in the minute recalibration of his stance beneath your touch.

When he looked at you his eyes were dark, focused in that way actors were trained to cultivate. Presence, they called it. Commitment. A look meant to read as control, as certainty. You wondered if he practiced that look in the mirror.

“Again,” the director said.

And so you did it again.

And again. And again.

Each time, the space between you shrank. Each time, the line between rehearsal and reality thinned, frayed at the edges. You learned the slope of his shoulders, the heat of him through layers of costume. You learned how close you could stand without touching and still feel him there, pressing in. You learned the sound he made when you stepped into his space. Small, involuntary, unguarded.

You told yourself it was just work.

You told yourself his hand hovering near your waist, never quite landing, was discipline. Control. You told yourself the current under your skin was imagined, amplified by lights, by repetition.

But when you crossed in front of him and caught your reflection in the mirrored panels at the edge of the stage, you saw it differently.

In the reflection, his hand was closer. In the reflection, his eyes still held the shape of where you’d been.

The mirrors around the stage were supposed to be practical: tools for blocking, for alignment, for keeping bodies in place. You  knew because you had relied on them for years. Yet tonight, they refused to stay neutral. They inserted themselves between you and the room, between you and him… like witnesses.

Then you began noticing patterns:

 The way he positioned himself so you would always appear somewhere in reach of his reflection: glass, polished metal, the lacquered black of the piano lid.

The way his gaze lingered there when he thought you weren’t looking.

The way his reflection sometimes followed you a fraction too late, as if learning your movements rather than repeating them.

It unsettled you. It thrilled you.

During the break, you drifted to the side of the stage and leaned your shoulder into the wall. The plaster was cool through your shirt. You tried to focus on that sensation, on grounding yourself in something solid, but your breath came shallow anyway; heat clinging to your spine. Your pulse grew loud, insistent, thudding in your ears. You pressed your fingers into your palms until it hurt.

“You don’t have to disappear like that,” you heard him say. His voice was close, too close to arrive unnoticed.

You opened your eyes and there he was, standing just within your space, not touching but not quite giving you room either. There was something slightly off in his expression, a fracture beneath the concern he wore so well. His gaze traced you with unsettling attention, lingering where you felt least steady.

“I’m fine,” you said. Flat, defensive.

The words landed between you and stayed there. He didn’t take them. His eyes slowly moved from your face to your throat, where your pulse betrayed you, and then lower, following the echo of it through your body. You wondered if he knew.

“You tend to say that when you’re not,” he said gently. Then his voice shifted: dipping, roughening, the last words almost breathed rather than spoken. “But I have to say… you hold it beautifully.”

Something tightened low in your belly. You hated it. Hated how your body reacted before your mind could intervene, how warmth flared where there should have been only refusal.

You straightened then, every muscle bracing. “You don’t know that.” His mouth curved slightly.

“I know what it looks like,” he said, eyes lifting again. “On you.”

The theatre trapped his scent between you: clean soap, sweat, metal. The air felt thick, compressed by proximity. You had the strangest sensation that the walls were closing in, leaning closer, listening.

You shifted your weight. He noticed immediately. His eyes flickered for a second, like he’d been rewarded with confirmation.

“You did so good today,” he went on. “There’s this moment in the second scene, right before the turn.” He paused, watching you.  “You almost lost control.”

Was that meant to be a compliment? You weren’t so sure.

I was just doing what I was told to,” you replied, looking away.

The lie felt thin. He smiled as if he could hear it.

“Were you?”

He waited until you looked back at him. When your eyes met, his gaze locked in, alight with something that felt dangerously close to satisfaction. A smirk tugged at his mouth and for a suspended beat, neither of you moved. The space between your bodies held its breath like something about to snap, and you found yourself oh, so aware of where he was, where you were, how little distance there actually was. Your skin hummed with it.

Shortly after, the director’s voice cut through the air, calling everyone back to places. Something in him sealed shut. The concern smoothed over. Whatever had been burning behind his eyes folded itself away with practiced ease.

“Come on,” he said lightly, already stepping away. “We don’t want to lose that edge.”

You watched him go, your skin still buzzing where he’d never laid a hand.

The next scene demanded even more.

You stood chest to chest, the script calling for an argument that masked desire. Your lines came out sharp, controlled; and his answers matched you beat for beat. When his hand finally touched you, you felt it everywhere.

The audience seats blurred. The lights burned hotter.

In the corner of your vision, a mirror caught the moment.

In the reflection, it looked like an embrace.

You didn’t pull away when the scene ended. Neither did he. The director didn’t stop you. Someone laughed softly from the wings. You had to remind yourself this was fine, this was normal, this was… acting. But when rehearsal finally ended and people began to gather their things, you felt exposed in a way you couldn’t shake, like the theatre had seen too much, like it learned the shape of your wanting.

Suddenly, you needed air.

You told the director you were stepping out for a moment, and he waved you off without looking up. You grabbed your bag and slipped into the corridor behind the stage, the noise of the rehearsal fading behind you. Backstage was dim, lit only by low bulbs and emergency lights. Shadows clung to the walls, props were stacked in careless towers, half-covered with sheets. You walked past them quickly, your footsteps echoing too loud for the narrow space.

Then you saw it. The mirror. It stood at the entrance of the long corridor that led toward the bathrooms and dressing rooms. Tall, old, the kind with a heavy frame and glass that warped the image just slightly. You slowed down. Your reflection looked… wrong, somehow. Not distorted exactly, just delayed. You lifted your hand, but in the mirror it followed a fraction of a second later. A frown formed on your face, and so you stepped closer and tested it again. It worked just fine this time.

Probably the lighting, you told yourself. It had to be.

You moved forward.

The corridor stretched longer than you remembered, narrowing as it went, the ceiling lowering just enough to make you aware of it. Every sound you made seemed to arrive before you did, footsteps ricocheting off concrete and painted brick, announcing you to no one. You walked past the mirror without looking back.

A few steps later, you noticed the tension hadn’t left you. Your shoulders stayed raised, your jaw refused to unlock. You exhaled slowly and tried to shake the feeling loose, but it clung anyway. The corridor bent slightly to the right, opening into a wider stretch lined with doors: storage rooms, dressing rooms, bathrooms at the far end.

And then, mirrors.

They covered the walls in mismatched rows. Tall, narrow, wide, fractured. Some were cracked, some clouded with age, some polished so clean they gleamed like water. Their surfaces caught the emergency lights unevenly, breaking the corridor  into fragments, slivers of hallway, flashes of movement, pieces of you.

You kept walking. Your heels clicked against the floor, the sound bouncing back at you from every direction. Your reflections walked with you, dozens of you moving in unison. Still, you tried not to look too closely, tried hard not to linger on the way your body looked in motion.

Halfway down the corridor, you felt forced to slow down again. A mirror caught you at an angle you didn’t recognize; your body fractured across its surface: too long here, too close there. Movement without intention. You tried your best to look away and just keep going, your heels still clicking against the floor, coming back to you wrong, out of sync. The hallway seemed narrower now, the ceiling even lower. In one mirror, you saw your back retreating from itself. In another, your face appeared too close, eyes darker than you expected.

Your stomach tightened. You stopped walking. Your reflections, though, didn’t stop with you. They staggered: one catching up, another lagging, another holding you in a posture you had already left behind; subtle enough that you could almost miss it if you weren’t already wound too tight.

“This is so stupid,” you murmured. The mirrors gave it back to you in pieces.

You stepped closer to the nearest one. The glass was cold under your fingers, colder than expected. Your reflection watched the movement carefully, then lifted its hand to meet yours a breath too late.

You pulled your hand back.

Your reflection didn’t; it lingered: fingers still raised, still waiting.

Your pulse kicked hard against your throat.

Probably the lighting, you thought. Probably exhaustion. Probably adrenaline that hadn’t burned off yet.

You turned away sharply and started down the corridor, faster now. The mirrors followed you. Each step fractured across their surfaces, misaligned. In one reflection, you moved too fast; in another, too slow. In one, your head was turned, as if listening for something just out of frame.

A few more hurried steps and you felt it.

That sensation again!Pressure, or… attention?

The theatre was quiet now, distant voices muffled by walls. You told yourself you were imagining things, and still you turned, scanning the mirrors.

At first, there was only you. Then, in one mirror…

He stood far behind you, blurred by aged glass, swallowed by shadwo. He wasn’t close enough to be real, you knew that. He was still on stage, he had no reason to be here.

You blinked.  

The reflection was empty.

You let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Get a grip,” you whispered. Your voice too loud in the empty corridor.

You walked on.

Soon enough, while trying not to look, another mirror caught your attention. This one was narrow, its surface scarred with scratches, and in it your reflection looked tense, eyes wide, out of breath.

Behind you! You turned around sharply.

Nothing. Nothing, again. You swallowed hard. Was this what it looked like, finally… your mind misfiring, filling empty corridors with ghosts?

When you looked back at the mirror, his reflection was there; closer now. Clear. Watching.  Your breath caught. You turned again, heart pounding, scanning the corridor behind you. Empty. The silence pressed in on you. When you looked back at the mirror, it showed only you.

You stood there, shaking, trying to convince yourself you hadn’t seen what you’d seen. You thought of the way he’d watched you onstage. Of the way the mirrors had caught him watching. Of the way the theatre held onto things.

A chill ran down your spine.

You resumed walking, almost running now, the click of your steps echoing wildly. The corridor refused to end. Every mirror showed you differently: closer, farther, smaller, distorted. In some, you looked like you were being followed; in other, utterly alone.

In one mirror you saw his hand reach out.

You gasped and stumbled, catching yourself against the wall. Your fingers slid against the glass beside you, leaving marks. You stared at your own fingerprints, undeniably there. “This isn’t real,” you told yourself. “It’s just mirrors.” But when you pushed away from the wall and kept moving, you felt it again. That certainty.

You weren’t alone in the corridor.

And somewhere behind you, he followed.

You started running. Yet again, the hallway answered by stretching. Each step you took felt absorbed by the floor, swallowed before it could fully exist. Your heels no longer echoed the way they should have. The sound dulled, softened, like the theatre itself was closing its hands around you.

The mirrors closed in. They weren’t aligned anymore. Some leaned inward, some outward, their angles wrong in subtle ways that made your stomach twist.  Your reflections no longer agreed with one another.

You stopped.

This time, they did too.

All of them, except for one.

In a tall mirror to your left, your reflection kept walking. Your breath left you in a sharp gasp. You watched as that version of you moved farther down the corridor, shoulders tight, posture familiar in a way that hurt.  Slowly, experimentally, you lifted your hand. It didn’t answer.

“No,” you whispered.

The word barely held.

You stepped closer. The glass bled cold through your sleeve. Only then did the reflection stop and turned just enough for you to see its face, your face. You knew it instantly: the eyes were wrong. They weren’t looking at you, but rather… past you.

You turned.

Just like you expected, there was nothing there, but the sensation struck all the same: that precise, unmistakable awareness of being watched. When you faced the mirror again, it was empty. Your pulse roared in your ears as you backed away and kept moving. The corridor curved now, the lights flickered; dust stirred in the air.

You passed another mirror. This one didn’t blur.

You saw him clearly.

Standing only a few steps behind you; his posture relaxed, his hands at his sides. He wasn’t rushing, nor was he hiding. His gaze was fixed on your back with an intensity that made your knees weaken, shamefully so.

You didn’t turn this time. You simply couldn’t. Your body understood something your mind refused to accept:if you turned, it would become real.

You kept walking.

Your reflection walked too, slowly.

Ahead of you, glass caught your movement. You watched yourself falter, almost like that version of you wanted to stop and face him.. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself forward, dragging your body along despite the pull curling low in your stomach.

It was ridiculous.It was exhaustion.It was the residue of rehearsal clinging to your skin. You repeated it like a mantra, hoping repetition might make it true.

Still, your breathing refused to slow down.

You reached a section of the corridor where the mirrors narrowed, crowding you. Your shoulders brushed the glass on either side. Movement leaving streaks of condensation, the fog of your breath blooming and fading in uneven patches. Fingerprints appeared. Not all of them were yours. You noticed it in passing at first, a smudge too large, a print placed too high. Then another. And another. Each one sharp against the glass, pressed with intent.

You stopped, heart hammering. The fingerprints formed a pattern. They followed you.

You raised your hand, comparing it to one of the marks. The shape didn’t match. The size was wrong: longer fingers, broader palm. A memory surfaced: his hand hovering near your waist onstage, the heat of it without the touch. You pulled away from the mirrors and hurried forward, nearly stumbling. The corridor dipped again, opening into a wider stretch lined with taller glass. Your reflection fractured endlessly, dozens of versions of you moving in frantic, uncoordinated ways. You searched them desperately. Sometimes he stood too close, other times he was so far away he was barely a shadow. In one reflection, his hand rested on your shoulder, fingers splayed possessively. You cried out and turned around.

Empty. Fuck!

You pressed a hand to your chest, feeling your heart slam against your palm. Tears burned behind your eyes, more from overwhelm than fear. You wanted this to stop, you wanted the bathroom, you wanted cold water on your wrists, a mirror that told the truth.

“Get out of your head, for fucks sake!” you whispered, the words breaking on their way out.

The corridor answered with sound. Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Real. They didn’t hurry to catch up. They followed at a distance.

Your mouth went dry.

You started moving again, forcing your legs to cooperate. Every nerve in your body was lit, awareness sharpened to a painful edge. You could feel him now; really feel him. The pull of him. In the mirror ahead, he walked. His eyes met yours through the glass, and something passed between you that made your breath stutter. Recognition. Relief. Want. You hated how much of it lived in you.

You reached the end of the corridor; o r what should have been the end. Instead of the bathroom door, you found a narrow passage branching off to the right, half-hidden behind a velvet curtain. The fabric was old, its color deep and bruised, its surface worn smooth. You stopped, confused. The bathroom should’ve been straight ahead. Your reflection watched you hesitate. Behind you, the footsteps paused. The curtain stirred. A memory flickered through you then, something the director had mentioned onc during an early rehearsal about the theatre’s storage rooms; about the old sculpture hall beneath the west wing, a place where outdated props were kept, waiting to be restored or discarded. A place no one used anymore.

You swallowed.

“This is stupid,” you whispered. Your voice shook. In the mirror to your left, you saw him step closer enough that his presence filled the space behind you.

“You always say that,” he said. His voice wasn’t in the mirror, it was right behind you.

Your breath left you in a sharp exhale. Every muscle in your body locked. Slowly, so slowly you could feel each fraction of movement, you turned. He stood a few steps away, standing exactly where the mirror had shown him. The shadows clung to him, outlining his form without fully revealing it. His expression was calm, almost gentle, but his eyes burned with something darker.

“You shouldn’t be back here,” you said, taking a step back yourself.

He tilted his head. “Neither should you.”

The truth of it settled between you, thick and undeniable.

“You followed me, Seungmin.” Your voice cracked on his name.

He didn’t deny it.

“I watched you leave,” he said instead. “You looked like you weren’t doing well.”

A shiver ran through you, equal parts fear and something you didn’t want to name. “That doesn’t mean-”

“I know,” he replied, softly. “I know what it doesn’t mean.”

He took a step closer. You didn’t move. The mirrors caught the moment, multiplying it endlessly: his approach, your stillness, the space between you collapsing one breath at a time. In every reflection, the story looked the same.

Predator.Prey.

Except you weren’t sure which was which.

“You’re imagining things,” you said, even as your body betrayed you, leaning subtly toward him.

His smile barely shifted. “Am I?”

You remembered the way the stage had sanctioned your closeness. The way the theatre had watched. The way the mirrors had learned your body.

“This isn’t funny!” you exploded, your brow drawn tight, the corners of your mouth pulling down

“I’m not laughing,” he replied.

Another step. Your back brushed  against the velvet curtain. The fabric cold and heavy behind you.

“You could leave,” he said. Quietly.

You knew that was a lie… right? Right?

Your reflection in the nearest mirror showed you frozen in place, eyes dark, lips parted. It showed him close enough now that his shadow touched you. You didn’t step away. Your heart pounded, each beat echoing through you like a countdown. Fear tangled with desire until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

“Why?” you asked.

His gaze dropped to your mouth again. “Because...”

The curtain shifted behind you, responding to the pressure of your body. He reached out to draw the it aside. The passage beyond yawned dark and deep, smelling of marble and dust and old secrets.

“Come on,” he said, voice low. “You already crossed the hallway.”

Your reflection disappeared as the curtain fell closed, and with it, the last illusion of escape. The room beyond swallowed you whole. You stood still, your breath loud in your ears, waiting for your eyes to adjust. Slowly, shapes emerged.Statues. They stood everywhere: lined along the walls, clustered in careful groups, half-hidden beneath sheets yellowed with age. Marble bodies frozen mid-gesture., hands reaching, faces tilted toward unseen lovers. Some were cracked, their features softened by time, others were eerily intact, their expressions intimate enough to make your skin prickle.

You stepped forward. Your foot brushed against something soft and so a sheet slid away, revealing two figures locked in an eternal near-touch, their mouths parted; eyes carved with longing so precise it made your stomach tighten. You looked away quickly, heat flooding your face. You weren’t alone, you were sure of it now.

You felt him behind you, his presence slipping quietly into the room. He didn’t rush nor did he crowd you; he let the space between you do the work for him.

“This place remembers,” he whispered. His voice seemed to carry differently here, lower, fuller, as if the stone absorbed it and fed it back.  

You turned slowly to face him. He stood near the entrance, framed by shadow, his outline sharp against the dim light bleeding in from the corridor. His gaze moved over you deliberately, taking in every detail like he’d been waiting for this moment longer than you had.

“You really shouldn’t be here,” you said again, but the words lacked conviction now. They felt like a part of a script you no longer believed in.

“Neither should you,” he replied.  You swallowed.

Your body felt hypersensitive, every sensation magnified: the cold seeping through your shoes, the faint brush of fabric against your skin, the slow burn low in your abdomen that refused to be ignored. The statues watched. You took another step, drawn deeper into the room. The floor was smooth beneath your feet, worn by decades of careful movement, dust stirred with each breath, each shift of weight rising like a ghost of past encounters.

“Do they ever move?” you asked, gesturing vaguely toward the figures.

He followed your gaze. “Sometimes,” he said.

You tried not to laugh. “Stop playing.”

He smiled, but there was no humor in it. “I’m not.”

A silence settled between you, dense and charged. You became hyper aware of the distance between your bodies, how small it was now, how easily it could be crossed. You wondered if the statues had once stood where you stood, had once felt this same pull, this same inevitability.

“You were watching me,” you said. It wasn’t a question anymore.

“Yes.”

The admission was calm. Honest. It sent a shiver through you. “When?” you asked.

“On stage,” he said. “In the mirrors. In the corridor.”

Your chest tightened. “You followed me.”

“Yes.”

“You let me think I was imagining it.”

“I wanted to see when you’d stop running.”

The words sank into you slowly, spreading heat and dread in equal measure. You hated how they landed, how they resonated with something deep and familiar inside you.

“And if I had?” you asked. “What if I’d run faster?”

He stepped closer.

“You didn’t.”

The statues loomed around you now, their presence unavoidable. You felt small among them, your every movement reflected in stone and shadow. Your pulse pounded.

“You’re scaring me,” you said softl, even as your body leaned subtly toward his.

“I know,” he replied, drawing closer. “Yet you stay.”

His proximity changed the air between you, thickened it. You could feel his heat now, feel the way his attention wrapped around you, tightening with every second. He didn’t touch you; he didn’t have to.

“You enjoy it,” he whispered.

Your breath hitched. “That’s not-”

“The mirrors,” he continued, his voice low and steady. “You kept looking. You slowed down. You stopped pretending you wanted to be alone.”

You looked away, your gaze snagging on a statue nearby: a woman carved mid-turn, her expression caught between surrender and defiance. Her lover’s hand hovered just shy of her skin, the space between them eternal.

Your throat tightened. “I don’t know what I wanted,”

He reached out to the statue, his fingers brushing the cold marble hand with reverent care. The contrast between stone and flesh felt intimate.

“They never do,” he said. “Not until it’s burning inside them.”

The words sent a tremor through you. You stepped back and felt something solid press into the backs of your knees. A sofa? You hadn’t noticed it before, somewhat buried beneath draped cloth and years of neglect. Dust puffed into the air as you brushed against it, catching the dim light in a soft haze. The fabric beneath the dust was dark, rich, worn smooth by bodies long gone. You stared at it; breath shallow.

“This place is scary,” you whispered, barely audible.

“It’s honest,” he corrected.

He closed the distance between you then, stopping just short of touching. You could see the flecks of light in his eyes now, the unmistakable intensity. His gaze dropped to your throat, your collarbone, lingered on the places where your pulse betrayed you.  

“Tell me to leave,” he said.

You opened your mouth. Your throat locked. Nothing came out.

The silence stretched, taut as a wire. In it, you became painfully aware of yourself, of your wanting, your fear, the way both had braided together into something impossible to untangle.

Slowly he raised his hand and held it out, palm up, offering without forcing. The gesture simple. Devastating.

“You crossed the corridor,” he said softly. “You followed the reflections. This is where it led.” He paused, letting the words settle. “Tell me to leave.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You looked at his hand, then at the sofa, then at the statues. Their stone eyes now fixed on you, their frozen desire echoing your own. You thought of the stage, of the mirrors, of the way the theatre had closed around you, guiding you here. You placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours. The contact sent a jolt through you.

He didn’t pull. He didn’t rush. He let you choose.

You stepped closer. Dust stirred at your feet, rising around you as if the room itself exhaled. The statues seemed to lean in, the silence vibrating with anticipation.  Somewhere deep within the theatre, something old and deeply satisfied settled into place.

Your hand was still in his, your fingers curled around his warmth, your pulse loud enough to drown the silence, yet he didn’t rush to close the space. He held you there, as if he wanted to feel the weight of your consent settle fully into your bones. You became aware of how still he was. How deliberate. The way his grip tightened just enough to remind you that you were being held.

“You feel different now,” he said, voice low.

You frowned slightly. “Different how?”

“Open,” he replied.

His thumb traced the inside of your wrist. You shuddered, the touch was intimate, a claim made softly.

“You don’t have to…” you began.

“I know,”

He stepped closer then, close enough that your breath tangled with his. You could feel the heat of his body, the steady presence that had followed you through the corridor now fully realized. His free hand lifted, hovering near your jaw, waiting. You tilted your head up and that was all it took; his fingers curved gently along your jawline, guiding you. The contact sent a ripple through you, heat spreading outward from the point of touch. He studied your face as if committing it to memory, his gaze sharp.

“You always looked like this in the mirrors,” he murmured. “Like you were waiting to be seen.”

His thumb brushed beneath your lower lip, the pad of it warm against skin made too sensitive by waiting. The pressure was barely there, yet your mouth parted instantly, breath slipping free in a soft, involuntary sound that betrayed you before you could stop it. He felt it. His eyes darkened, sharpening with something too close to satisfaction, and he leaned in until you could feel his breath ghost across your mouth, close enough that your nerves sparked, your body already bracing for impact.

Then he pulled back. Not fully. Just enough.

The loss hit you harder than contact would have. Your chest tightened, your body tipped forward a fraction, chasing what had been offered and withdrawn in the same breath. He smiled at that; a curve that carried ownership in it.

“There,” he murmured, almost to himself.

His hand at your jaw firmed, fingers spreading just enough to anchor you, to keep you exactly where he wanted you. You felt the steadiness of him in the way he held you, in the way he didn’t rush, didn’t falter.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t gentle.

He closed the distance decisively, mouth claiming yours with intent that left no room for doubt; the kiss deep and consuming, his lips moving against yours with practiced control, guiding, setting the rhythm before you could find your footing.  He kissed you as if he knew exactly how you’d respond; how your body would soften, how your resistance would dissolve under the weight of being chosen so deliberately, as if every mirror, every pause, every step through the corridor had been a rehearsal leading here.

You leaned into him, the world narrowing to the press of his mouth, the steady hold of his hand, the unbearable clarity of this moment.

Somewhere behind you, the statues watched. You felt surrounded by every breath of desire this room had ever held. The kiss deepened just slightly, his hand sliding from your jaw to your neck, fingers spreading possessively, anchoring you there. You made a sound you didn’t recognize. He pulled back just enough.

“Listen to yourself, doll,” he breathed “… surrendering.”

You nodded eagerly, unable to form words, eyes hazy with lust. His smile was faint, almost tender. Dangerous. He guided you back, step by measured step, until the backs of your knees met the sofa again, pausing briefly to shrug off his jacket and letting it fall carelessly to the floor. Dust bloomed into the air as you sat, the old cushions sighing under your weight. The sound felt obscene in the quiet room.

He didn’t follow you down immediately, instead he stood over you, one hand braced on the back of the sofa, the other resting on your knee. His shadow stretched across you, tracing the outline of his bare arms sculpted in the dim light. Your gaze traveled along the slope of his shoulders, the subtle rise of his chest beneath the fabric, the impossible narrowness of his waist. Darkness pooled along the lines of his body. For a moment, the room spun with the weight of your own desire. Every line of him felt designed to draw the eye and hold it.

“You’re shaking,” he leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed your ear. “You want to believe I pulled you here.” His fingers slid into your hair, tightening enough to make you gasp. “I didn’t.” he whispered, pulling your head back.       “You walked the whole way.”

Your hands slid up his arms, your body moving without thought, drawn toward him, seeking contact. He allowed it for a moment, then he pulled back slightly, just enough to remind you who controlled the pace. The denial sent a sharp pulse of want through you, startling in its intensity.

“You want this,” he said, not as a question.

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Say it.”

You did; this time slower. Your mouth parted slightly as you spoke, lips soft, still tingling with his taste, your gaze lifting to his without shame.

“I want it.” Your lower lip trembled before you caught it between your teeth, surrender written all over your face. “I want you, Seungmin.”

The words echoed steamy off the marble. He kissed you again, deeper this time, his hand sliding from your hair to your shoulder, then down your arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake.  The world narrowed to sensation: to the way his mouth claimed yours with urgency, to the way his body pressed you into the sofa, to the way the statues loomed, their stone faces carved with the same hunger now burning through you. When he finally pulled back, your lips tingled, your breath unsteady. He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed for just a moment, as if savoring the culmination of a long pursuit.

“This is what the theatre does,” he said quietly. “It takes wanting and gives it a place to live.”

His hand settled over your heart, feeling it race beneath his palm. You covered his hand with yours. You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that: breathing, pressed together, surrounded by stone and silence and dust. Time felt irrelevant here, loosened by passion. His mouth traced a slow path from the corner of your lips to your jaw and he lingered there, just beneath your ear; his breath warm enough to make you shiver. The pause was intentional, he wanted you aware of it. When his lips finally reached your throat, it wasn’t a kiss at first, just contact: skin to mouth. A quiet claiming that made your breath catch sharply in your chest. His teeth grazed, like a promise. You tilted your head without thinking, offering more, and he rewarded the movement with a slow press of his mouth.

“Stay with me,” not a request, an instruction.

The room seemed to dim further. You felt smaller here, stripped of the roles you wore on stage, unmoored from the reflection that had guided you this far. There were no mirrors in this room.

Only stone. Only bodies. Only want.

His hands moved with unsettling certainty, and suddenly you became aware of every place you yielded, every place that softened under his attention.

“You’re still trying to control it,” he said quietly.

You didn’t deny it. You couldn’t.  Your fingers curled into his shirt, needing physical proof that this was happening, that you were not slipping back into reflection and illusion. The fabric was warm under your hands, his body solid, real. He caught your wrists gently and guided them down.

“Let it happen,” he muttered.

The words settled over you like a spell. You leaned back into the sofa; he followed you down this time, kneeling in front of you. From this angle, he looked different. Less like the man from the stage, more like the shadow that had followed you through the corridor.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now, almost intimate, “they never freeze them at the moment of touch.”

You frowned faintly. “What?”

“The statues,” he continued, glancing briefly around the room. “They always stop just before. Want preserved. Fulfillment implied.” His gaze returned to you. “That’s where obsession lives.”

A shiver ran through you. Heat pooled low in your belly, a rush of anticipation curling up your spine. Something about the way he admitted it made your pulse spike. Just between the lines, like a confession.

He reached behind his neck, fingers tugging at the collar of his shirt. Slowly, the fabric slipped from his shoulders, falling away until the dim light traced the ridges of his spine, the subtle prominences of bone beneath skin, and the way his muscles shifted as he adjusted.

Your eyes lifted, caught in the movement, as he pressed the side of his face against your knee, brushing lightly, teasing, warm. A low hum rumbled from him as he shifted closer, rubbing his cheek slowly along your knee, his gaze locked on yours the entire time.

You could feel the weight of his attention settle fully now; the pull of his obsession was raw, undeniable, and directed entirely at you. He leaned forward, chest lowered, shoulders angled down in a position of complete surrender, offering himself to you entirely. His hands rested on his own flexed legs planted on the floor, as his spine curved just enough to press closer without force. Every line of his posture spoke of devotion, of a consuming faith, a willingness to be seen from above, vulnerable and yielding. His eyes never left yours, pleading, speaking without words: I am yours, if you take me.

“Tell me to stop,” 

You knew he meant it. That knowledge made it easier to let go.

“Please… don’t,” you breathed.

His hands went searching for you again, caressing the sides of your thighs, tracing slowly as his face followed the line of your leg up toward your heat, never breaking eye contact. You felt him everywhere at once and instinctively leaned back against the sofa, letting the cushions take your weight; your legs parting slightly in a quiet invitation.

Your breath caught in your throat as you felt the firm pressure of his nose against your core. Instinctively, you went looking for his gaze and found it dark, fixed and consuming. Your hand stretched towards the crown of his head, only to be met by the soft embrace of his palm, fingers intertwining with yours, both sets of hands now pressing together against the sofa.

You tried to hardest not to let yourself get lost in the intensity of the desire burning through you, as you wanted nothing but that to keep watching him. And yet, the minute his free hand released the button of your jeans while pressing his wamr, wet tongue against your clothed entrance, your head tilted backwards, eyes closing. A soft, delicate moan escaped from your lips, traveling the distance between your bodies and settling in his throat, transforming into a groan that sent shivers down your spine.

“Stay. Don’t even think about moving-” he inhaled sharply, crawling closer on his knees in pure desperation.  “I need to feel you. All of you, right now.” He paused just a second, lifting his gaze to yours, searching, pleading.                                     “Can I taste you, doll?”

You trembled under his touch and the intensity of his stare, your body humming with every inch of closeness. You nodded in a soft, unsteady movement, inebriated by the current of sensations he unleashed. “Yeah… yes! Please…” you begged, letting yourself move, your hips jolting forward towards him. “Please, Seungmin. Please! I need you…”

He exhaled sharply, a low, rough sound escaping him, caught somewhere between satisfaction and pure need. His lips barely curved, too consumed by desire to form a full smile, and his eyes darkened, fixed on yours with a hunger that made your chest tighten. Every movement pulled him forward, launching like an arrow propelled by nothing but lust.

You gasped as his movement closed the last fraction of space between you, your body pressed instinctively into the sofa, legs trembling under the weight of anticipation. Heat bloomed through you, every nerve ending alight, as if his very presence had electrified the air around you. Your hands clutched at the back of his neck, pulling him closer, needing the confirmation of his nearness.

His hands followed a different journey; traveling along the curve of your thighs, tracing every inch with demanding touch. His fingers lingered at the edge of your jeans, pressing, teasing, testing your reaction; only then, slowly, impossibly slow, he began to ease the fabric down. Your breath hitched, caught in the gravity of his control, every nerve alert to the heat of him. Your legs quivered, hips tilting slightly. The subtle weight of him pressing closer, the way his gaze never left yours, made it impossible to think; especially as he was licking a stripe up the lace that separated him from you, warm and damp with your arousal. Your fingers curled into the cushions, nails digging lightly as a moan threatened to escape. Every inch he traced, every deliberate slide of his hands, pulled you further into the current he had created, leaving your senses spinning, intoxicated by the gravity of him.

“That’s it, doll… you’re doing so good.” He leaned closer, pressing a little more weight against you, fingers tracing slowly along your legs. “Look at you… so eager, so willing.” One hand slid over your thigh, thumb pressing firmly against your heat, moving just enough to push the soaked fabric inside you. “Such a good girl… making it so easy for me.” And just like that, his index finger went searching for the edge of your underwear, teasing it aside without pulling it off.

A shiver shot through you as he pressed his tongue flat against your bare skin, rising from your core and spreading like liquid fire. Your breath caught, shallow and ragged, as waves of heat and tingling sensation rolled through every inch of you with every movement of his knowing mouth. Your knees trembled, your hands pressed harder into the cushions, gripping for something solid to hold onto, even as your mind swam in a haze of desire. Every nerve seemed alight, buzzing, each heartbeat a drum that echoed through your chest and down your limbs. Time blurred, leaving you unable to think straight, collapsing into the pressure, the warmth, the intensity coursing through you, lifting you higher, leaving you suspended on a current you couldn’t resist.

You opened your eyes just before the wave hit, catching sight of your legs draped over his shoulders. His hands gripped them firmly, pressing, leaving faint impressions in your skin, a silent testament to the raw desire that consumed him. Every inch of you thrummed with electricity, heat pooling and spiraling in a way that made your head spin.

“You can let go now, doll,” he murmured, voice low, steady, yet laced with hunger. “I’m right here. I’ve got you- don’t need to hold back any longer.”

His words, the weight of him, the relentless closeness; they unraveled you completely. Your body melted into the cushions, limbs loose, breath ragged, heart racing, utterly surrendered to the storm he had summoned. Everything collapsed with you. The room, the statues, the mirrors, even the echoes of the rehearsal; the only thing that lingered was him. The consuming pull of him.

One day you got worn down by your aunt’s endless praises of Father Kim Jungsu. Even your teenage cousins started nodding along and agreeing with her, saying he’s not like other priests.

So one Sunday you decided to tag along despite being skeptical of him - and Jesus Christ. You decided to slip inside the church out of curiosity; to see who’s the young man who has the entire town so fascinated.

One thing is for certain, you didn’t expect him to look like that… Warm, welcoming gaze, lips that moved patiently and intentionally, dark hair, stylishly done.

There was something quietly commanding about him. He had a powerful presence in the most modest, humble way, filling the room without demanding for attention. Yet, everyone around you was spellbound, clinging onto his words as candlelight shimmered across the church, giving him an almost magical glow.

Truthfully, it pissed you off.

Instead of going home feeling your curiosity met, your questions - answered, you walked out with a knot of irritation twisting in your chest. A sense of injustice almost.

It just didn’t feel fair. He wasn’t supposed to look like that - like the kind of man you’d spot at a party and want to lock lips with… like a face you’d see on a movie poster and imagine what the rest of his body looks like, naked.

Priests were supposed to be old and cold. Detached from the outside world. They have already lived a life and carry way more wisdom, after all. But he wasn’t old nor detached. He wasn’t safe. Surely not from your imagination and greed.

Against every bit of logic, you kept coming back.

You didn’t always understand what he preached and honestly you didn’t try to. What drew you wasn’t his theology, it was him. The way he spoke with such conviction. He was so devoted, it made you wonder if you were capable of devoting yourself and your entire existence to something… anything, really. It sounds kind of limiting and suffocating.

If you ever surrender like that, it wouldn’t be to a god you couldn’t see. It would be someone you can feel with your hands… whose heartbeat you can hear when you lay on his chest.

─── ♱

Next Sunday you stay unti the final blessing.

The congregation stands up, murmuring Amen in unison. Everyone moves slowly down the aisle for communion meanwhile you just wait, pretending indifference as mixture of rustling clothes and whispered prayers fill the air. One by one, they all approach him with open palms, and he greets each of them with the same gentle authority.

The Body of Christ. Amen. The Body of Christ. Amen.

You try not to stare at him as he stands at the front, chalice in one hand,, but you do - every gesture of his looks so calm yet as if it carries weight, it’s captivating. Tempting. Especially as the sunlight creeping in catches the edges of his black hair like a halo, making him seem ethereal and untouchable.

As the line thins, something pulls you forward. You wonder what it would be like to have him look at you that way too.

Your heartbeat quickens as you step closer to the altar, people nod and cross themselves in front of you.

And then, you’re standing before him. He looks up from the ciborium and your eyes meet; his are unreadable yet definitely not indifferent. Yours - restless and jittery. Suddenly the space feels unnaturally quiet… so quiet that you can hear the thud of your own heart, loud and insistent, like you’ve just been caught doing something you shouldn’t - at the wrong place and time - and now, it’s signaling you to run.

And maybe you have been caught red handed. You don’t stand here with any pure intentions.

“The Body of Christ.” He says steady. Automatic.

“Amen,” you whisper.

His hand moves forward, gaze landing on your mouth.

For a second you catch hesitation flashing in his eyes, but all you can do is stand still - you’re unsure what is expected of you to do or how to do it right. Somehow, your lips part anyway and he places the wafer on your tongue, not leaving you out of sight.

The gesture is nothing more than a ritual, but your breath catches like it holds a hidden meaning; your train of thought suddenly stutters as your mind tries to make sense of it… of why his hand movements make your skin hotter like they’re practicing magic.

The wafer dissolves almost instantly and you slowly open your eyes.

“May God bless you.” He says softly.

You step back, crossing yourself and walk away, lightheaded. The faint dryness that the wafer left on your tongue lingers weirdly, but you don’t hate it. There’s something hot rising inside you, distracting you from everything else - something that has no place there.

Not after you just went to church.

─── ♱

One Sunday, when mass ends, you decide to stay for a few minutes, just until the aisle clears, you tell yourself. The crowd spills toward the doors in a tide of polite chatter, your aunt among them, with the kind of smile she wears only on Sundays - when she believes the world is a little softer and more forgiving. She doesn’t even notice you’ve stayed behind. None of them do.

With crossed arms in front of your chest, you remain by the stained glass windows, like there’s something about the colors that has you too intrigued to leave just yet. You pin your eyes on the view, the light spilling across your skin in shades of gold and red, but truthfully you’re still chasing his voice.

You replay in your head the way he spoke earlier - confident, earnest, so alive… inspired, as though he built raw stories with hidden powers that could shift the world. But what you remember most isn’t the sermon, it’s the way he looked at people; like each face mattered. Including yours, and you don’t believe in anything.

“If you keep hanging around after mass,” the familiar voice calls out behind you, light yet enticing… uplifted by your presence, “I might think you’re converting and get excited.”

You turn to find him leaning back in one of the pews, perfectly at ease, with hands folded loosely as if this was the living room of his home and not a church heavy with candle smoke.

You let your eyes rest on him longer than you should. You think your expression is neutral, not sharpened by any emotions, but that’s far from the truth.

Father Jungsu knows what your aunt’s told him - that you don’t believe, that you sit through mass out of politeness, not faith. That you’re still “lost”, as if your doubts are a fever waiting for him to cure. She asked him directly once. “Please, guide her, Father. Make her listen,” she said, “you’re around the same age, after all. She’s going to trust you more than anyone else.”

He didn’t promise anything then, but he remembers her words. He tucked them away and kept you in mind each Sunday, not as a task or a project. He couldn’t stop noticing you anyway.

However, except disbelief, Jungsu recognizes something else in your eyes too. Curiosity? Restlessness? A quiet longing for something you haven’t named yet? Certainly, that’s not the gaze of someone who’s broken.

His lips curl slightly, but there’s no pity nor mockery behind the smile. He wonders what keeps pulling you back into a place you claim not to belong to. Maybe you don’t realise that you’re inching toward admitting your faults, or perhaps you’re simply demonstrating your provocation like a mischievous child.

“Why?” you finally break the silence. “My aunt and half the town already worship the ground you walk on.”

He tilts his head amused. “And what about you?”

The question lands lightly but his stare is so analysing, it holds you still.

“Worship isn’t something I’m interested in,” you reply at once; instead of matching his casual tone, your words come out defensive.

He chuckles, though - a reaction you did not expect. You’re taken aback by his laughter and how warm and unthreatening it sounds.

He shifts to the left, placing one palm beside him. “Sit.”

You blink at him, the weight of his command sinking in. As you settle next to him, suddenly you’re aware of his presence, his closeness… how magnetic it is despite the fact both of you are pretty much from two different worlds. Somehow, it makes you keep talking. It makes you want to push further.

“You just…” the thought slips out, “you don’t look like a priest at all.”

He laughs again, this time the easy sound makes your tummy tighten.

“Thank you.” He says, his eyes flickering discreetly as you adjust on the pew.

“That wasn’t a compliment,” you say flat.

“Honest…” Jungsu leans back, eyes still on you. “I like that.”

A brief pause comes between you and in that moment you realise that you can sense the faint scent of cedar coming from his body. Your neck warms up and you swallow thickly, forcing your eyes away from his collar.

Soon, he speaks, shifting your gaze back to him.

“But you should know… I worked hard to get here. The minimum age to become a priest is twenty-five years old. I was twenty-four when the bishop made an exception for me.”

“Oh…”

“I studied, I trained, I prayed… I made sure I was ready even if I was younger than the usual requirement.”

A faint spark of respect creeps in your chest despite yourself. “I didn’t expect all that,” you murmur.

“Well… it’s easy to underestimate someone because of physical appearance.”

Your lips curl a little bit as you shift to see him better. “So, let me get this straight… you’re younger than most priests, much younger… you’re better looking than all priests, and you’re wiser too?”

Jungsu rests an arm casually on the pew, speaking softer. “Wiser? That’s very generous.”

“Don’t pretend you heard half of what I just said,” you tease.

He suppresses a chuckle, then looks down at his lap. “As I said, I worked hard for it,” he says. “Discipline, study, prayer… and a lot of patience.”

You nod once, smirking with eyes upon his face. ”That’s all it takes to look like a movie star in a collar?”

The question makes him tilt in your direction and the air between you shifts. There’s a glint in his eyes as they hold yours, studying you in a way that makes your breathing slow.

The light mood of your teasing suddenly fades, replaced by something tense and heavy. His attention does that to you every time - when he catches your gaze across the pews, when he nods in greeting as he walks down the aisle… but this feels different now, dangerous. You hate that it scatters your thoughts, erasing every clever word you’ve ever known. You want to impress him, to show him that you’re sharp and confident.

“Looks alone don’t get you anywhere,” he says finally. His voice slips lower than usual, like it took him effort to push the words out.

He doesn’t wait for a response. Instead, he raises on his feet, emitting a small, short sigh.

“Why do you keep coming back?” He asks, narrowing his eyes at you.

You fake a shrug in order to hide the fact you were not prepared for such question. “Curiosity.”

Father Jungsu smiles faintly; it’s a kind of smile that reaches his mouth halfway. “Curiosity,” he repeats, perhaps taking the moment to gather his thoughts. “That’s a dangerous one. It’s… the first spark that lit a fire. It’s what got Eve in all sorts of trouble.”

“And Adam,” you add as yout stand up.

His grin stretches, delighted you’d spar with him. Then, he takes a step forward as his tone dips into that thoughtful almost musical cadence he creates when speaking about faith.

“Still, maybe it isn’t such a bad reason to return.”

For the first time your tone softens slightly cautious. “Do you think God would want people who question Him here?”

“Curiosity means you’re still searching. Don’t look at it like it’s an enemy of faith, but rather like… a doorway to it. After all, curiosity is also what brought Moses to the burning bush.”

You blink, caught off guard by the calm convinction in his voice. “I… don’t know what the burning bush is.”

His lips curve as though he half-expected that answer. “When Moses saw a bush on fire… but it wasn’t burning away. He went closer to see why and that’s when God first spoke to him.”

You nod slowly, obviously not touched by the story. But there’s something about the way he tells it - not preachy or superior. It stirs something uncomfortably warm in your chest. You glance away, back to the stained glass as light crawls across the floor, and you try to gather your thoughts.

Jungsu still watches you, you can feel it. It’s both comfort and intensity all at once.

“Maybe you haven’t found your burning bush yet,” he says carefully, “but that doesn’t mean you’re not welcome here.”

You turn to him, lips parting to say something, but his smile disarms you.

“Go in peace,” he says, then adds almost under his breath: “Even if peace isn’t what you’re looking for yet.”

─── ♱

Father Jungsu feels like a narcotic; one that enters your system slowly and quietly. With every encounter, it becomes harder to break the cycle that you never even considered to start. Now you can’t find a way out.

The thoughts of him linger, multiplying as Sundays draw closer. At night, you find yourself crying into your pillow, wishing he was like every other man you know - careless, cruel, easy to reach and even easier to forget. But he isn’t. He cares deeply; he looks at the world as if it still deserves kindness. When his eyes rest on you, they see you, they understand.

You can’t say the same for the few people around you.

You can’t help but wonder why. You can’t be the only one who believes there’s another unspoken reason for this connection. You can’t be the only one who senses there’s something else… something neither of you dares to name because naming it would break everything he’s built his faith upon, everything he’s fought to protect.

You can’t be imagining this all because you’re too caught up with your loneliness and desperation.

You know it’s love.

─── ♱

Your aunt is out of town for the weekend.

It’s Sunday and you have a text with an invitation to a party from one of your friends still unanswered on your phone; she tells you names of familiar people and popular boys who are going to be there, but you don’t care about any of them. You stare at it for a while before locking the screen.

Nobody would know if you skipped mass. But as the hour draws closer, you find yourself grabbing your coat and stepping out into the gray late morning. You tell yourself you’re only going because the church feels so suspended from the rest of the world, but that’s not the full truth.

You’re going for him.

It’s a strange feeling, but obsessive. During the week everything feels dull. The joy on your friends’ faces around you lately doesn’t settle on yours. Conversations don’t quite reach you and sometimes feel exhausting just like peoples’ laughter that echoes too loud in the cafes you go to.

But when you’re in his presence, something changes.

You stop feeling like an outline of your body and you feel… like you’re slowly coming back to life. You don’t feel entirely at peace or safe, but you feel awake. As if a drug slipped into your veins that reminds you that you can do anything… be something to someone.

It’s dizzying, the rush he brings you. Especially on days when it lingers for longer and you can’t help but touch yourself under the sheets of your bed to calm your mind that swirls with images of him.

Now, sliding into your usual seat near the back with his melodious voice threading through the air as he stands at the front, turning a page in the missal, your pulse revives.

The more you think about it the more you realise this rush, this need opening inside you, is also terrifying. However, maybe exactly that frightening thrill is exactly what keeps you coming back. Not faith. Just the forbidden adrenaline boost he gives you with a single look.

The forbidden want to love him and be loved by him.

After mass, when you rise, ready to head towards the doors, a hand lands on your shoulder.

You turn, startled.

“You! I didn’t know you go here!”

It takes you a second to recognise her - a girl from high school that you haven’t seen nor spoken to in years.

You nod silently, and she doesn’t even wait for you to say something. She starts talking, loud and too quickly. Her nosiness hasn’t changed nor her grin.

“I would’ve never guessed you’re religious,” she blurts, eyes flicking with intrigue. “When did this happen? What brough you here?”

Your mind blanks. You feel cornered, exposed. Like she’s trying to take something out of you without permission.

“Did something dramatic happen that suddenly made you find faith?” She laughs before catching herself. “Sorry, that sounded awful. I’m just surprised. You never seemed like the church type.”

You force a smile. “People change I guess.”

“Apparently,” she says still amused. “I remember you always partying, and…”

“Everyone finds their way here in their own time.”

His familiar voice cuts through the noise, calm and unshakably kind. “Every person in this house is a child of God, whether they come in seeking answers or simply comfort.”

His gaze flickers to you, carrying a kind of reassurance that feels like it’s meant just for you.

Your friend’s smile falters on the instant when she recognises him. “Father Jungsu,” she murmurs, suddenly polite. “I didn’t mean to… I was just surprised to see her here, that’s all. We used to go to the same high school.”

He offers her a patient smile. “That’s nice.”

“I should probably get going,” she says, tucking a strand of her hair nervously.

“Of course,” he nods. “Go in peace.”

She mumbles a quick goodbye, heading toward the exit.

You exhale a breath, glancing away. Now it’s just the two of you standing there in the echoing quiet.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

“You looked like you needed rescuing.” He turns to you, gaze landing steady upon you, but slightly softer than earlier.

“I think I did,” you say, feeling your heartbeat quickening beneath your coat the second you lock eyes.

Everyone has left the church - there’s stillness around you that has you instantly acknowledging the electricity that passes between you.

You remember there are rules and vows to look away, but you don’t.

Then, he clears his throat quietly, glancing to the side briefly. “Your aunt is not here today.” He leads you both toward the doors.

“She’s out of town. She comes back tonight.”

You step outside. He walks beside you, just a step behind, hands clasped loosely in front of him. The church doors close with a dull echo.

“I’m glad you still decided to come.”

You lift your gaze from the ground, meeting his.

For a moment Jungsu feels like he’s seeing you as unguarded as never before; like something in you softens beneath his stare. Your beautiful features shift, gentler as the seconds pass by, and suddenly he’s exploring everything you hide from the world.

In that instant, he knows… that he’s not looking at the version everyone else gets, - but the one who’s been quietly trying to hold herself together. The one you never let anyone else see. The one reserved just for him.

However, your eyes flicker with a light that unsettles him - a reminder of how fragile a human can be when faced with certain temptation. How sometimes the heart can start speaking a language of its own.

He swallows the unwelcomed thoughts, and forces his vision towards the trees, the stone benches… “You’ll catch a cold if you stay out much longer.”

You nod, but you still can’t move. It’s not the cold wind stiffening your bones… it’s you unable to bring yourself to leave his presence.

“Can we stay here for a little while?” You ask, voice quieter than you expected, but laced in hope.

His expression falters. “That wouldn’t be appropriate.” He says carefully.

Your brows furrow as the wind caresses your face. “Why?” The word escapes you, small and childlike. “Why would it be wrong to just sit here for a few minutes? I’m not asking for anything of you.”

Father Jungsu breathes in slowly, eyes lowering. “Because this place asks something of me.” His voice is edged with something you haven’t heard before from him. It seems like he recognises it too; his body begins to betray him. This time he speaks slower and more measured, like he wants you to memorise his words. “People come here to pray… not to confuse what they feel with something else.”

You can’t answer. You just hold onto the eye contact as the wind stirs between you, light but cold.

Confused? You’re not confused, not when it comes to him. That’s the problem.

“If you need to talk about something, you can always come by my office. I hold visiting hours every Wednesday.”

“I don’t need to talk,” you murmur, shaking your head slowly. “I just don’t want to go home… I don’t want to be alone right now.” You hesitate to look at him, so you trace the edge of his sleeve, his calm, straight posture. “You’re the only one whose company I enjoy lately…”

His gaze softens, painfully so, but he keeps the cautious distance between you. “That’s kind of you to say,” he replies quietly. “But you should go home now.” He gives you a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “There’s a cold wind coming,” he adds and his tone slips almost pleading.

You get the urge to argue, to ask why it would matter so much if he stays by your side just for a few minutes… but you nod and turn to go.

As you walk away, his silthouette in the black robe is still standing there, unmoving when all he wanted is to reach for you.

The party is already loud and in full swing when you arrive. You know almost everyone, so you keep nodding and forcing smiles as you drift between small groups. Someone hands you a drink and you accept although you’re not in the mood for it. You take a few sips out of habit.

A familiar voice calls your name across the room, your friend waves you over.

By the time you make your way there, someone gets up from the couch, leaving a space right next to Keeho - the guy you used to work with at the pizza place last summer. You took orders over the phone, he made the deliveries, and the two of you made out behind the building during breaks. It never led to anything serious, not even sex; it was just something to spice up the long summer nights.

He drapes an arm casually along the back of the couch as you sit with your drink still in hand.

“For a second I thought you weren’t coming.” He says.

“Well, I’m here.”

“Thank God,” he flashes his brows at you, a grin tugging at his lips.

As the conversation rolls on, his hand keeps finding its way on your thigh, just resting there long enough to make his intentions clear.

When you’re halfway through your drink, he leans in, alcoholic breath brushing your ear. “This place is getting loud. Wanna see if upstairs is quieter?”

“That’s the best you could do?” You arch a brow.

“I didn’t need pick up lines last summer,” he laughs, unbothered.

That’s true.

He stands up, offering you a hand, and you take it.

Things escalate quickly - Keeho never wastes time; with him everything happens fast.

But as he touches you up and down, eagerly pushing your dress to your waist, something inside your mind switches. Another face flickers in the dark behind your eyelids. It’s not Keeho’s voice whispering at your ear.

Your brain works slower from the alcohol in your system, but it’s awake enough to call for him. The image of him that lately has been perminent in your mind creates some sick illusion in the warmth of this room, making every move, every breath and kiss mismatched.

His enticing eyes. His rousing voice. His collar. The line of his throat. His fingers… the way they trace the sign of the cross with such practiced grace, you could almost feel them on your skin, making their way up your inner thighs. All of these fragments send jolts of pleasure through you as Keeho invades your walls with a steady push.

You imagine Jungsu’s lips curving against your neck, calling you good. Eyebrows scrunched up in pleasure as he praises you like no one has ever done before. Your pussy is heaven, he’d say.

You don’t even try to escape it.

You let yourself sink into this fantasy, imagining it’s his weight pressing against you every time your arms tighten around Keeho’s shoulders.

They’re built similarly, or so you tell yourself. You can easily picture Father Jungsu at the gym, it’s probably one of his few interests as he’s the kind of man who believes discipline of the body keeps the mind healthy. In your imagination, his movements are rhythmic and hypnotic, like the way his knuckles tighten around the chalice, making you hold your breath until they relax again; his lean muscles flex and glisten under sweating slick skin… and he breathes heavy, but steady as he pushes through another rep. And you wish you could devour him. Tongue licking every part of him, every droplet of sweat and arousal. Teeth sinking into warm flesh.

A choked moan slips out of your mouth. That provokes Keeho to move faster, glancing down between your bodies as you pulse harder from the powerful creations of your imagination.

Your fingers rub circles on your clit as if they’re his.

Come for me, he’d say as you get pushed toward the edge. Come… sinful girl.

With his voice echoing in your head, his name between your teeth, you shake through your orgasm, head pressed back into the pillow.

The euphoria lasts a few seconds, and then… you feel hollow, empty. And you want to go home.

That’s when you realise how much has changed.

─── ♱

Jungsu sits at his desk, hands clasped tightly, lips moving in prayer that sounds more like a confession rather than a recitation.

“Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner,” he whispers. “Forgive me if I have failed You… in thought, in word… in silence.”

The rosary slips between his fingers before he catches it again. His palms are sweating. His collar feels too tight, his throat dry.

“Create in me a clean heart, O God.” He runs his thumb over the beads, pressing hard like penance. “Strengthen what is weak in me. Let Your will, not mine, be done.”

He draws in a long breath, but peace doesn’t come.

The stillness of his office feels heavy, pressuring, as though the walls are watching and listening. Like they know.

That sometimes he keeps his sermons short because he wants to talk to you. That sometimes he says things that aren’t meant for the room, but for your ears only.

That he notices the way you fold your hands, the way you bite your lip when you don’t understand the meaning of a word. That he has the exact shade of that red dress you wear beneath your coat memorised, the one that only ever appears when you’re feeling braver. It’s the shade of terror. The color of the need crawling under his skin when he thinks of you. The color staining everything when you visit him in his dreams - completely bare, exposed in all your glory… in his dreams you always smile at him, triumphant and alluring, like you’re a holy fire that he’s about to kneel for.

When he wakes up, it aches. This morning he almost lost control; he’s never felt so desperate and unstable in his life. Fortunately, he managed to endure, then he went for a run to clear his head a little bit.

They know, and they see it - the invisible thread pulling tight each time your eyes meet across the space between you.

Then, comes a knock at the door. Hesitant, and somehow unmistakable.

He doesn’t need to ask - he knows who it is. He can feel you in the air… your presence, your heat, your perfume, your quiet longing.

At first when he met you for the first time, he felt a spark. A small, innocent one, the kind of spark you get when you meet someone intriguing. But he didn’t expect that spark to quickly grow… so rich, so blinding.

He smooths the front of his black shirt, then opens the door.

There you are, standing in the front of the hallway, coat damp from the drizzle outside. Your breath is uneven, your eyes instantly darting past him toward the small crucifix on the wall.

“Hi,” you say quickly. “Sorry, I know it’s late. I just… needed to ask you something if that’s okay.”

He steps aside without hesitation. “Of course. Come in.” His hand silently invites you on the chair across from his desk.

“I wanted to ask about… confession,” you say, twisting fingers together. “As you can probably guess already, I’ve never done it before and… I don’t know how it goes. Are there any… rules? Limits? Things you aren’t supposed to say.”

“There aren’t limits. Confession isn’t about rules, it’s about honesty.”

“Even if it’s about… sex?”

Jungsu’s expression subtly shifts; there’s an unreadable tension darkening his eyes, and the flickering of the lamp only makes it more evident. “Yes,” he answers. “You can tell God anything.”

“And you’re there…” you lower your gaze, voice dipping softer, “listening.”

He nods. “But I’m only a witness. Everything passes between you and Him.”

You wonder if he really believes he could be just a witness to you.

You shift in your seat, taking a few seconds to calm your stirring emotions. Rubbing palms against your thighs, you remind yourself you don’t have to do this. He doesn’t have to know. After all, you don’t feel guilty for your feelings or desires.

But this… this isn’t just lust anymore. You’re in love. And it’s the quiet, terrifying kind of love that’s been building without your permission. You also feel admiration, not just for who he is, but for how he makes you want to be better… for the way he sees you even when you don’t want to be seen.

And now, standing here with your heart trembling in your chest, you know - if you want to be loved back, you’ll have to tell him everything.

“Uhm…” you force a chuckle as nerves cripple at your neck. “This is going to sound silly, but… can we practice here for a minute?” You finally dare to look at him only to see that his expression has changed again. It’s not cold or disapproving, but it’s definitely sharper. “I don’t think I’m ready yet, but I’d like to know what it feels like.”

Just now, you realise he’s not wearing his vestments, only the black clerical shirt and slacks, sleeves neatly buttoned at the wrist. The small square of white at his throat draw your eyes like a magnet, simple yet hard to look away from.

He stands up and carefully moves his chair next to yours. He sits, hearing you take a deep breath. The sound as well as the sudden closeness makes his pulse stutter. His broad shoulders tense.

“Just be honest,” he manages, hands folding slowly as he looks at the crucifix. “What weighs on your heart?”

You lower your gaze to your lap as your lips part, but it takes a moment for the words to find their way out. By the time you speak, your mouth has gone dry. “I feel lost… and lonely most of the time. I have friends, but it’s like I’m there without really… being there. I don’t fit anywhere anymore.”

His lips press into a thoughtful line. The silence is free of any pressure, but it hums with something else. Nonetheless, you go on, as it gives you more courage.

“Ever since I started coming here,” you continue, your voice tighter, but honest. “I’ve been feeling… alive. I haven’t felt like this in such a long time.” The words pull themselves from somewhere deep inside you, and it starts to make breathing easier. “The thing is… It’s not because of God. I don’t know if I believe or not.”

He manages a small nod.

“It’s because of you, Father…”

“You don’t have to call me Father if you don’t…”

“No, I want to,” you’re quick to reassure him, desperate to show your growing devotion to him. “I believe in you, Father.” Then, you risk a glance at him.

He doesn’t look at you back. His eyes flicker away in an opposite direction as he takes a breath; a breath of restraint that hides behind many things including fear.

Soon, he forces a faint smile. “If you see something good here it’s not mine to claim.”

“Can I ask you a question?” you keep your gaze on him.

“Yes, you can.”

“Why is it,” you murmur, sitting straight again, “that if you look close enough, you can find the physical kind of love in almost everything? Art, literature, in myths… even in religion. It’s like it’s everywhere.”

Jungsu stills, eyes unfocused for a moment. He’s always had an answer for everything, but now his silence feels purposeful. The pause between you buzzes, and your pulse falters as you wait for whatever might come next.

Finally, he speaks: “That’s… the oldest language we have for creation.” He swallows, as if steadying himself, chasing the rest of his thought before it slips away. “Before there were words, there was touch. Before prayer, there was longing… to be joined with something greater than yourself.”

“I like the sound of that,” you say softly, resonating with his words.

Jungsu’s throat tightens as he swallows again. He feels heat slowly crawling up his neck and he fixes his gaze back on the wall across from him.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” he nods. “Would you like to continue?”

You agree, drawn to the slow cadence of his careful voice.

“Two nights ago I went to a party where I slept with someone,” you admit, steady and calm. “We had sex and…” your tone stutters at the end and you take a brief pause.

A shadow of concern crosses Jungsu’s face. Anticipation settles in his stomach as he fights something dark threatening to spill where it’s supposed to be nothing.

You draw a breath that barely reaches your lungs. “I’m just going to say it.” You exhale, eyes fluttering shut. “The entire time… all I could think about was you. I was picturing you… because I kept wishing it was you touching me, not him. I’ve been thinking about you, Father… so much it hurts.”

You slowly open your eyes. There’s heavy silence.

Jungsu folds his hands firmly, murmuring a quiet prayer for guidance. God, grant me the words to help without failing in my duty…

“Even now,” you continue, voice unsteady as suddenly your thoughts flicker faster than you can catch them, “I wish you were holding me in your arms, I… I want you. I’ve never felt this way before for anyone.”

The confession hangs between you, spreading heat in the air, melting the edges of reason. Until all that’s left are the suffocating, corrupting feelings.

There are some sentences and prayers hovering on Jungsu’s tongue, but the fire rising in his body makes it hard to think, hard to breathe. When his lips finally part, his brows furrow, like he doubts every word that crosses his mind right now.

“You said you believed in me,” he says slowly, but there’s slight roughness in his voice that gives it away - that he could raise it higher if he was allowed to. “Why didn’t you seek my guidance when you were struggling to find peace in your thoughts?”

“Because I knew thatt if I came to you, I’d want more than just a conversation,” you admit, honest. “I would’ve wanted… everything. Your comfort, your kiss, your touch, all of it.”

It’s the truth, and saying it out loud feels like tearing a wound open, but it’s also satisfying. The hunger that’s taken root inside you has grown so strong it keeps you awake at night, pulsing between your legs at every thought that has to do with him.

“I thought that if I looked for relief somewhere else, the desire might finally leave me alone,” you continue, but then… the thought of him believing you could ever choose someone else over him makes you sick. Before the silence stretches too far, you add almost desperately: “But it didn’t help. It only made me realise how real this is… what we have between us. It can never go away. Father, I—”

“Stop.”

The command lands like a whisper, but your stomach still turns.

Jungsu finally turns to you, his eyes dark in disbelief and something dangerously close to longing. He notices it - the absence of shame. The lack of guilt and regret in your confession. If anything, this lifted something heavy off your chest.

You’re a sinner.

And when it comes to him… he feels like he’s slowly going mad. His mind begins to swirl with thoughts he could never dress in holy language no matter how hard he tries.

“You shouldn’t say things like that.” His words are almost forced, as if he’s trying to convince himself as much as you.

“I thought we are practicing for my confession.” You say, not breaking eye contact. “So I’m confessing.”

His pulse skitters as his temperature increases from your gaze alone. Your yearning, no—your greed, lands warm and provoking, digging a wound straight into his soul.

He utters your name softly, holding onto the last bits of patience he has left. “You know this… whatever this is… can’t happen.”

“But it’s real. I know what I feel.”

Jungsu exhales shakily, his head drops low.

You eyes drift to his lap; his hands are trembling against the rosary beads, betraying everything he’s trying to hold back.

Slowly, you reach for him. Your fingertips graze his knuckles in a quiet attempt to steady him. “You’re shaking.”

The tension in his jaw, the restraint in his shoulders… it’s almost painful to watch. It’s as if every muscle in his body is working against his instincts.

“You’re tempting a man of God.” He says in an agonised voice.

“You make love sound like a sin.”

He finally turns to you; his breath escapes as his lips part. “You have sinned.” The words leave his mouth sharp, like an accusation.

“Maybe,” you reply, tone calm. “But I don’t feel guilt about it.”

The simplicity of your response catches him off guard. There’s uncertainty in his eyes as he searches your face for remorse and finding none.

His fingers twitch beneath yours, caught between wanting to grip your hand and forcing himself not to.

Then, you say: “You can touch me.”

Upon hearing this, Jungsu’s eyes drop to your mouth. And they rest there, observing the appealing color and shape.

“I would love for you to touch me,” you whisper, entrancing him even more with the way your lips move.

In that moment, something stirs in his stomach before settling below his belt. The feeling isn’t entirely unfamiliar, but it’s tied to other emotions - shame, guilt, fear. Nevertheless… a brief touch wouldn’t be so bad, right?

A brief touch, he tells himself. He’ll touch you only for a second. That’s all he needs - just a second to feel your skin, your warmth.

Finally, for the first time, he reaches toward you.

His hand slips from your palm, then slowly lifts to your face, brushing fingertips against your skin. The contact sets every nerve in his body on fire, and that heat pulls him closer.

You’ve never known comfort quite like this - the rough warmth of his palm tracing the side of your face, slowing until your breath matches the rhythm of his touch. Your head tilts, surrendering to it, your whole body easing as if it finally remembers what love feels like.

Your eyes flutter shut and Jungsu swallows thickly; his mouth waters in a way that has little to do with the thirst for salvation he should be feeling.

Before he can resist, his thumb brushes your lips; touch that feels both featherlight and enough to part them slightly open.

When he speaks, his voice is so small and weak, that it doesn’t feel like it’s his own. “This… doesn’t feel right.” Yet, he presses down on your lower lip, cherishing the view of your teeth, your tongue bold enough to flicker out and wet his thumb.

Your gaze lifts up. There’s a new light in his eyes, a quiet steadiness.

“Then… what does it feel like?” You ask softly.

Jungsu takes a moment. Because how do you name something that feels both ruin and relief?

“It feels,” he murmurs, hand shifting below your jawline, “dangerously close to it.”

“Keep going,” you say, pulse skittering as he slowly leans in, “please…” you trail off, getting dizzier in the charged air between you. His touch slides to explore the line of your neck, warming you up further.

Jungsu knows he should turn away.

But his body’s instincts are stronger in this internal battle, and before he can stop himself, his mouth touches your cheek - not for a kiss, but a light touch, so he can gain a little taste.

He lets out a blissfull sigh; the drags of his lips are slow, measured, as desire and reason twist within him. “You’re ruining me,” he mutters against your skin, tone laced in desperation. “You don’t realise the damage you cause me.”

His lips are soft, lingering so tender and warm. They move lower, studying you, caressing you as your breathing picks up excitedly. “You’re here to plague me,” he continues near your ear.

He can smell your perfume, the scent of your lotion creeping through your heat. It makes his body react - his manhood thickens, pressing against the placket of his pants.

As if you can feel the fire looming in him, your hand slides along his thigh - not so much to comfort him, but to encourage him to surrender. “I long for you… every day.”

Jungsu breathes shakily as he presses his forehead against yours. Suddenly, he cups your face with both hands, like he’s about to kiss you, the cold beads brush your skin. “We have to pray,” he says, his voice rising a notch though unstable. There’s some kind of noise buzzing non-stop in his head, as if Satan himself is whispering at his ear.

Your palm rubs against his thigh, drawing light patterns in the direction where you can guess he’s pulsing for your touch.

His large hands stay on you, steady and unyielding, as his breath fans warmly across your face. He keeps you close as if he’s afraid you might slip away, even while every part of him screams to release you.

And then… the space between you disappeares - his lips press against yours, light and unrushed; like a silent confession of everything he can’t say out loud. A kiss so soft and brief it feels like a plea.

When he pulls back, his grip tightens, grounding you where you are. His voice slips, more controlled yet still weak at the edges. “Please take away my guilt and wipe my slate clean with the blood of Jesus Christ…”

It’s hard to focus on everything he’s saying, though. Your thoughts are still tangled somewhere in the lingering warmth he left on your lips. It’s dizzying, the way something so gentle can feel so immense - especially when you’ve been dreaming of it night after night.

Mid-prayer and with no hesitation, you kiss him back. A moment passes as your lips stay on his mouth and Jungsu allows it. He holds your warm face in his hands, drowning in the thrill of your touch.

He doesn’t understand it, but his knees weaken, his chest tightens… and that throbbing ache, the one that woke him up this morning after he saw you in his dream, returns, fluttering in his core. It’s like you shifted the rhythm of his whole body with just a single touch.

“I am a sinner in need of my Savior…” he continues after you detach to breathe in.

“We don’t need to…” you try to tell him, but he doesn’t hear it.

His voice is hushed and quick as if that’s going to help him escape the depraved lust washing over him.

With foreheads resting against one another, you ghost one hand over his slacks, fingers brushing his prominent boner. The on-going prayer falters as a stuttering moan crawls out of his throat. The sound enters your mouth, so sweet, you immediately want to hear it again.

For a moment you’re so focused on the different changes in his voice that you don’t realise when his hand, wrapped in the rosary, shifts to your waist.

Your eyes, glossy with desire, peer into his dark gaze in a frenzy as the beads disappear under your sweater. His fingertips travel up your back, bringing goosebumps across your skin. Your breath comes out in shutters at the way he caresses the curve of your spine, beads sliding down your figure while his lips slow the rhythm.

You can taste the insatiable desire, the need for pleasure and love on his tongue as the phrases unfold slowly, voice barely audible, almost matching the easy pace of his fingers exploring your bare skin.

Your temperature is heightened, a warm slickness seeping through the fabric of your panties when the final word finally comes, soft like an exhale. Amen.

When your eyes meet, it feels like the world suddenly tilts, like everything outside this office feels so far away… and too cold in comparison to the space between you that’s warm and electric.

The echo of his touch burns on your skin when he pulls his hand, glancing away.

The clench of your heart when you see him rise to his feet is unspeakable. The warmth of the moment collapses into the distance now stretching between you.

He speaks with his back to you, because he’s afraid that facing you will undo whatever resolve he somehow managed to finally build. “You don’t need to be perfect to be forgiven. God hears honesty… before anything else.”

For a long breath there’s only silence. Then, his tense shoulders rise and fall as though even the air inside the room is troubling him.

He turns, but his eyes never make it to your face; they hover somewhere near the floor, guilty and hesitant. When he lifts a hand to trace the sign of the cross, you know - you have to leave.

─── ♱

The rain greets you cold and unrelenting as you step out of the restaurant. In your rush to escape the scene that unfolded at the table, the judgemental murmurs you left behind, you forget to grab your coat.

You love the rain; it soothes and clears your mind, but not tonight. You can still see it - your aunt, half-hidden beneath the awning, kissing passionately another man that isn’t your uncle. Twenty minutes later, she returns to your table with a steady smile, explaining it away as an urgent work call.

The woman who preached virtue and family daily.

Your mind barely catches up as you walk fast, dress clinging wet to your body as each step leads you closer to the only person you can think of… the only one worth holding on to.

Father Kim Jungsu.

You don’t how much time passes, but before you know it, you see his window, glowing in the night with a faint yellow light.

You don’t even think about it - you run up the steps, heart pounding, and you ring the bell.

When the door opens, the warm light spills out over your figure - drenched, shivering, breathless. On the other hand, he’s standing there, wearing a soft, dark gray sweater and blue denim jeans - casual, relaxed and so ordinary. It makes him even more… real and present.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe as you glance away from his eyes widened from distress. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Instantly, his expression shifts from many emotions washing over him all at once. Confusion, concern, apprehension… something softer.

“It’s all right,” he says, stepping aside to let you in. “You’re safe here.”

The door clicks shut behind you and the world outside - the rain, the noise, your aunt… all fade into a distant blur. Then, his calm voice speaks, anchoring you.

“Take your time.”

He moves quietly, slipping into the next room and returning with a zip-up hoodie, just a few shades lighter than his sweater.

When you hesitate, caught mid step, he steps close behind you, guiding your arms into the sleeves.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs with a low, soft voice. “Come, sit if you need to.”

You sink into one of the kitchen chairs, your muscles finally relaxing in the comfort of his hoodie.

Jungsu hands you a towel, then proceeds moving around the small space, glancing back at you. “Would you like something to drink?” he asks. Now, his voice is slightly more tense, but still carrying that undertone of care you learned to love.

“Whatever you have,” you reply. “Thank you.”

He nods, pouring a cup of milk from the fridge, then sets it carefully on the table in front of you. The gesture is simple yet it feels intensely personal, and your chest flutters.

Jungsu lingers near the counter, eyes flicking toward you every now and then, silently checking if you’re okay. He watches you slowly lift the cup to your mouth, and it’s like for a moment time itself slows around you. When you take a sip, he swallows, mirroring you without thinking. He watches the small tilt of your head, the soft exhale that follows when you place the cup back to its place. He watches you lick your lips, and his mouth waters as he remembers their softness… how they welcomed his tongue with ease.

He turns his gaze, ashamed of the thoughts he cannot seem to quiet; disgusted with himself for thinking of anything other than the fact that you’re hurting.

“Better?” he asks finally.

You nod, pressing the towel against your chest before running it slowly down your leg. “We went out for dinner, family friends and all,,” you begin; the event already feels like a distant memory, but you can’t tell if that’s a good or a bad thing. “At one point, she excused herself and didn’t come back for… twenty minutes. So I went to check on her, and…” you pause, exhaling shakily, “she was with someone.”

“Your aunt?” he asks, though he already knows the answer. Nothing else could have left you this shaken.

“Yeah,” you let out a soft, unsteady laugh, looking down as you grip the towel. “I’ve never seen her smile like that.”

Jungsu lets out a slow breath, crossing his arms as he moves to the other side of the room. He stops near the darkened window, shoulders tense.

You swallow hard before continuing. “She looked so happy. Living an entirely different life behind my back.” You pause again as the hurt twists deeper. “All this time she preached to me about sin, purity and honesty… and she’s been cheating on my uncle.”

Your voice cracks and the rest of your sentence breaks off.

Jungsu turns immediately at the sound, all of his hesitation gone. The sight of you trying to stop your tears pulls him forward before he can even think; the distance between you closing in an instant.

He’s beside you before you can look up, crouching slightly to meet your eyes. “People fail,” he says softly, as if speaking too loudly might shatter what’s left of you.. “Even the ones who teach us not to.”

You press a hand to your face, trying to stop the shaking. “I don’t care that she’s seeing someone. It’s the lies… everything I believed just—”

The tears come fast, heavy, spilling past your fingers.

Jungsu reaches out, wrapping fingers around your wrist, gently pulling it away from your face. His thumb brushes against your cheek, catching them as they keep coming.

“I don’t understand,” you choke out.

“You don’t have to make sense of it rght now,” he whispers. “Just breathe.”

But you can’t. You gasp with an aching sound, the towel slipping to the floor.

Jungsu pulls you close, your face pressing into his chest. His sweater smells faintly of detergent, and you cry harder - deep, painful; the kind that comes when you’ve been holding too much inside for too long.

Kneeling in front of you, he circles your waist. His arms are steady and patient, holding you together while you fall apart. For a while, there’s only the sound of your sobs, echoing in the small kitchen.

When your breathing finally starts to calm, he tilts his head upon the quiet sound of your voice; it’s hoarse, lower than usual…broken in a way that makes his throat close.

“It’s always the same. I keep hoping, but…” you pause, feeling him tighten his hold on you. “Everyone lies… It hurts.”

This is when it hits him the hardest - the flash of anger, sharp and sinful in his chest. He’s not supposed to feel like this. He’s always been taught that anger is pride in disguise, that judgment isn’t his to hold. But he’s angry.

He’s angry at the people who broke you like this. He hates that you’re sitting here, crying because the ones you trusted most chose deceit. And worst of all, he hates that he’s angry.

His hand moves gently along your back as your tears soak through his sweater. He wants to promise you that he’ll keep all the pain away from you, that he’ll make it right somehow, but he knows he can’t.

And yet… he can’t stop the tought burning inside him. If God won’t protect you, he will.

“You don’t deserve any of this,” he mutters, rough but quiet. “They don’t get to hurt you like that.”

You pull back, your eyes finally meet. His words hang between you like a prayer and a promise at once.

There’s a tremor behind his gaze. He’s fighting the part of him that feels too much, that wants too much, and doesn’t know if that makes him a sinner or simply a human.

For a moment you can’t speak. The man who inspires devotion in a room full of strangers now kneels before you. And there’s flicker of protectiveness in his eyes, of frustration at himself for not being able to shield you from the world.

He lifts a hand toward you, wiping a tear from your cheek with his thumb as your heart keeps thudding against your ribs; the gesture a vast contrast to the evident tension in his jaw.

“If I could take it from you, I would,” he says. “All of it.”

You look at him, really look, and you realise it - despite all his faith and restraint, he’s just as lost right now as you are.

“I know,” you whisper, nodding once. Your eyes are hot and heavy, half-lidded as you take in how beautiful he is.

His eyes flick downward for half a second, like he’s silently asking for strength or forgivness.

However, he drags his fingetips along your leg instead - slowly, from your ankle to your knee.

You’re not wearing tights, and his breath falters at the nice feeling of your bare skin, the edge of your white cotton sock brushing against him. It all sends a shiver down his spine he can’t disguise.

He angles his head and his lips trace a slow, deliberate path upward, making your skin prickle. Parting them just enough, he drags them up your inner thigh, trailing warm, open mouthed kisses.

His hands find your hips, fingers curling around the fabric of your dress as his mouth moves more fluently.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into the softness of your thigh.

You stay silent. You’re not sure who he’s apologising to - you, himself or God who’s supposed to be in the room with you right now.

You swallow hard, feeling your body flush with heat as his tongue grazes your plush flesh.

The way his heavy breathing gets closer and further between your legs sends a tingling sensation to your core, and you bite the corner of your lip, unable to stay still anymore.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice dropping half a note, tender in a way that has your tummy swirling. “You’re so devastatingly beautiful… I don’t want to see you hurt.”

When he lifts his gaze, your heart almost stops beating from the gleam inside it, a mixture between hunger and affliction. For a breathless second you’re certain you’re dreaming, that you’re only imagining his words, his touch, but the warmth spreading through you as he draws you closer says otherwise.

His hands lift up the hem of your dress, revealing the most intimate parts of you. The view of your panties has him swallowing thickly as you spread your legs for his stare. Before you can say anything, he plants an open mouthed kiss just above the waistband, then another one, even more sensual and slow - on your clothed clit.

Then, his tongue dips out slowly, dragging up your folds.

Peering through your lashes, you watch his eyes flutter shut, unfamiliar lust radiating off him like perfume the more he allows his tongue to move. You feel it lick again, then again, flattening, grinding in the center of your folds, tasting, exploring this new and thrilling territory.

A small sound of bliss escapes him before Jungsu can stop it, his throat going dry as he can feel a certain wetness starting to form. His lips suck through the barrier, making every muscle in your body draw tight like a bowstring.

You let out a breathy moan just before he pulls back to see the darkening fabric. He stares at it with heavy eyes, then gently presses his fingertips to feel it, immediately looking up as you whine at the motion.

You’re completely mesmerised by the way he looks at you.

“I want to make you feel better,” he says, applying light pressure as he strokes up and down. When he bumps into your clothed entrance he can almost feel it pulse as he watches how your body responds. “I want to make you feel good.”

Within a minute, your underwear is gone, your fingers tangled in his dark hair as you slouch in the chair. Every drop of arousal that leaks out of your cunt is devoured like a sweet nectar, the sloppy motions sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

“So sweet… you taste unreal.” Jungsu gasps in between your puffy folds, enjoying the way you tremble, legs shaking around him with each roll of his tongue. “I can’t believe how sweet you are.”

In awe, he cannot stop whispering praises directly into your heat. The fan of his excited breath makes your stomach knot tighter while one of his hands removes your socks to massage your feet.

“I’m… so c-close…” you whimper, hips slightly rolling against his face. “Please…”

Your shaky voice has Jungsu detaching his lips, reddish and shiny with your slick. His eyes darken in a way you’ve never seen before as he takes in the sight of your dripping pussy, your small hole fluttering.

“Everything about you is so pretty,” he murmurs, inhaling your scent as he quickly leans in again, capturing your sensitive bud; he sucks and twirls around it, making your spine arch in pleasure.

His hands shift back to your hips to steady you. The tip of his tongue swirls deliberately as he carefully studies your body language, memorising every action that makes you shudder, squirm and moan louder.

Feeling him bring a finger to your entrance, you grip the table with one hand for support. He only traces up and down, too wary to push into it.

“Put it in,” you plead, tugging at his sweater. You’re too drunk on the rush to consider what he might think of you for asking so shamelessly. “Father, please… I need it.”

In an instant, Jungsu slips through your walls to meet your request - patient, slowly stretching the area while giving you what you need to near ultimate pleasure. The grief on your face still lingers in his mind and now every movement he makes carries a quiet promise - that you won’t have to feel that way anymore. He wants to replace every tear you shed with warmth instead.

“Fuck—” your head lulls backwards.

And he can’t quite grasp it… how incredibly rousing he finds you like this - spread wide open, cursing freely, choking on your words like he’s draining the air from your lungs. All for him - a man of the cloth.

But that’s not exactly how you see him, is it? You see past that - past the collar, the discipline and his calm exterior.

He begins moving his digit inside you, back and forth. It feels so hot and tight, he inhales sharply as something in his own core pools. “Like this?” he asks, glancing at you with glazed over eyes.

You nod twice, unable to do any other movement except rock into his touch, urging him deeper and faster. “Yes, just like that…” Then, unknowingly, your other hand reaches out, caressing the side of his face.

Your toes curl in the air the moment he dives back in, tongue moving in a faster rhythm this time. Below, you begin to throb hard, like you have a second heartbeat. Your moans of pleasure echo in the air, growing high pitched by the second.

Captivated by the state of enrapture you’re falling into, Jungsu smoothly pushes one more finger inside you, making you mewl at the wider stretch. His head moves side to side, tongue applying the perfect friction on your sensitive spot as his spit dribbles down your cunt.

“I’m gonna—” your breath hitches, your eyes squeezing shut.

Jungsu keeps his tongue rolling, savoring the taste of your arousal.

The pulsing around his fingers as they rub your walls intensifies when you cry out, going completely rigid for a moment - only to quiver against his mouth once the rush buzzes through you. His free hand roams along your thigh as your legs close around his head - not to stop you, but to silently assure you that he’s got you.

The kitchen is silent for a while; there’s warm thickness that doubles as you both acknowledge what you have just done.

Jungsu straightens his back, face decorated with a tint of pink blush. The same hand that brought you on your orgasm stops to rest on his thigh, unsure what follows next.

That’s when you notice the bulge, trapped by the confines of the denim.

You guide your foot forward, rubbing in light patterns; your mouth waters as you picture how flushed and hard he must be.

Jungsu can only stare down helplessly. So many perverted images flood his mind, all revolving around you; images he shouldn’t be welcoming in his head let alone consider.

But he allows them to unfold. A rush of precum leaks from his cockhead, staining his underwear.

“Thank you for taking care of me.” You murmur softly, moving back your foot.

You catch an uneven breath leave his mouth as he fails to meet your eyes. So you stand up, still in his zip-up hoodie. “I should go,” you hear yourself utter.

However, a firm grip around your arm stops you from taking another step.

In a matter of seconds, Jungsu raises to his feet, pressing you against the edge of the wooden table. His mouth, warm and glistening under the light, captures your lips. His hands cup your face, securing you in place as his thumbs brush your cheeks stained with dried tears.

He’s never felt this kind of hunger before - the kind that burns through reason as you moan between his sensual kisses.

He refuses to loosen his grip when you tug at his belt, unbuckling it with swift movements; the clink of metal rings out in the othewise silent kitchen.

Soon, his cock springs free, bouncing up toward his abdomen. When he pulls back, exhaling deeply from the addictive taste of your lips, he looks down, eyes widening at how close your hand is.

The desire overpowers the feeling of trepidation, and he makes no move to stop you.

The sexual frustration is dizzying as he watches you wrap fingers around his erection, stroking with a confident yet gentle motion. His jaw falls slack, breath hitching as you don’t shy away from repeating the steady movements, magnifying the heat curling inside him.

“It’s my turn to take care of you, now…” you whisper lovingly near his trembling lips. You wish you can memorise every small twitch his face makes for you in this current moment, so handsome and rapturous. “Has another girl ever touched you like this before?” you ask at once.

You bring your fist higher, smearing the collected precum along his length. The uninterrupted action pulls out a long, desperate moan out of him before he shakes his head, exhaling a small no.

Relief blooms in your chest as you realise he’s never had something even close to this with anyone else. It’s you and only you. The thought makes your heart swell with warmth and contentment.

This moment, this connection… it’s entirely yours.

Before he can stop himself, with palms still on your face, Jungsu starts panting your name. His brows knit together, sweat begins to trickle down his temple as he feels himself losing all composure because of your experienced touch.

Your eyes do not leave him out of sight, he looks and sounds absolutely captivating. That same sense of purpose you feel when listening to him during mass floods back; stronger, deeper. Swiftly, you take a second to spit in your palm before proceeding the strokes. “Yeah? Feels nice?”

Overwhelmed, Jungsu lets his head fall on your shoulder, unable to look at you as he’s on the verge of breaking. A brief whine drops from his tongue as a response - one of many irrepressible noises that won't stop escaping his throat the more your grip moves, pleasing and slick; it’s starting to speed up, wet noises erupting from below where he doesn’t dare to look.

Heat rises to his cheeks. He feels like he can’t hold it in much longer, like something inside him is going to be teared apart any second now. “I can’t,” he stutters breathless, but his thought ends there.

His voice shatters weakly, an elongated whine heating your neck as the pressure bursts. For a moment the sensation almost has him lose his footing, his mind going blank.

The warm arousal shoots out of his swollen tip, trickling down your hand, a few white streaks landing messily on your dress. Your fist eases before stopping completely, allowing the relief to settle under his skin, warm, heavenly.

As much as his dick twitching in your palm, and his arousing moans ringing at your ear turned you on, nothing can compare to the thrilling look in his dazed eyes where faith and sin intertwine - like he’d take anything you decide to give him, and nothing can stop him.

With vision fixated upon him, you move on your knees. His hoodie drops to the tiled floor, then your mouth welcomes his still hard length, enveloping him in an imensive warmth. Your lips wrap tightly around the slick head, sucking every bead of arousal lingering.

Jungsu moans shakily at the sharp sensation, not thinking as his hand fists in your hair. You, on the other hand, hum blissfully as you savor his salty taste.

“Ah—” his body trembles as your lips detach with a lewd, wet pop, tongue flicking out to swirl around the swollen tip.

He’s unable to take his eyes off you as you slowly lean forward, trying to fit more of him into your mouth. The stretch of your cheeks looks almost painful as you control your breath, eyes fluttering shut as you focus on relaxing your throat.

Jungsu’s jaw flexes as another inch disappears through your puffy lips, clouding his mind with a fog. Then, feeling sweat across the back of his neck, he grabs the hem of his sweater, pulling it over his head and tossing it on the table behind you.

“Sweetheart…” His touch returns, stroking the top of your head gently. “Is this alright?” The words stumble steadier than he expects.

He tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, suppressing an unstable sound. It’s undeniable - the wave of rapture your mouth provokes. But the thought of that causing you even the smallest discomfort twists something inside him.

Slowly, you drag your lips back to his cockhead. Then, you unwrap them through a light suck.

It takes you a second to realise you’re staring up at him, eyes wide and hazy, heart tripping over itself from the sight of his naked chest. But then… sweetheart. You’ve been called that before, but not like this.

The tension in the air shifts when Jungsu sees the corners of your mouth curve.

“I love it,” you reply softly, making his breath still.

You stand, finally stripping from your dress. The cloth slips from your shoulders, pooling soundlessly at your feet.

Jungsu’s gaze follows every inch revealed, almost hypnotised. He doesn’t move at first, only his throat bobs when he swallows, hands flexing at his sides.

Then, he twitches in the air, blood flowing into his cock again.

You can’t deny the rush that floods your chest when the realisation hits - you’re standing bare before him, completely exposed. A shiver of nervousness runs through you until he steps closer, like a man approaching something sacred. In one effortless motion, he lifts you into his arms, and every flicker of doubt melts away, replaced by the dizzying thrill of his hold.

You hardly get a glimpse of his room - you’re gently tossed on his bed, the mattress dipping beneath you as he follows. He completely steals your focus; toned stomach, muscled arms, warm chest heaving in an excited rhythm as he hovers over you. His dark hair falls over his forehead when he leans in, searching for your lips.

“You drive me crazy,” he breaks the silence before capturing you in another breathtaking kiss.

Lightheaded, you place hands on the sides of his neck. It feels like it’s just the two of you in this world, and you want to stop time, so you can feel like this forever.

When he inserts himself inside you, the first few seconds it feels overwhelming - too much, too big, - but then, it feels perfect, like he’s made for you.

He starts off slow, massaging your gummy walls with precise, sensual slides that allow you to get used to the stretch. However, soon, he begins thrusting like a man who’s losing all composure.

“So… ah! You’re so—t-tight!” he tries to steady his voice, but the effort breaks with every word he manages to say. “It feels amazing… like you were made for me.” He buries his face against your neck, trying to silence his shaky moans that escape with each hit of his hips.

His body is sweating, clinging to you desperately as you hold onto him, nails sinking into his muscular back.

Each time his tip reaches that sweet spot inside you, it feels like the air is being knocked out of your lungs; your pussy walls spasm, sucking him in tighter and tighter.

The sounds of skin against skin intensifies as the heat between you makes everything around you feel like a blur. Soon, the rush will be too much to bare; you can feel it in the way your core scorches.

“Jungsu—”

Jungsu’s brain is hazy, as if all of his thoughts turned into smoke the second he slipped inside you. The only thing reaching him is the filthy sounds your fluids create every time your bodies connect deeply, reminding him over and over again that this is reality. There’s no coming back from this.

But then, the sound of your strained voice whining his name cuts through the haze, grounding him completely.

He hums, searching for your eyes. His body slows, your hands grasp onto him tighter. “Am I…” he says, low and hot. “I’m sorry, am I going too fast? Did I hurt you?”

Swallowing, you slightly shift your hips, already needing him as deep as possible. “Don’t stop, please… it’s perfect.”

He takes a second longer to look at you before confessing: “I like hearing you say my name.” His lips press gently to your forehead, your eyes closing at the comforting gesture.

Almost immediately, he revives the needy rhythm, hips slamming sloppily into you. The sounds are lewd and harsh, clashing with his shaky pants and whimpers. “I’m sorry,” he says again despite your assurance, a tear falling from the corner of his eye.

The need for relief he felt earlier becomes nearly unbearable, washing over the lingering guilt; the pleasure you offer him with your body being only one can dream about is enough to make him want to cry.

Your voice cracks with emotion beneath him as he fastens further, your nails dragging rough lines on the surface of his back.

With the current sensation stirring inside him, with the way he throbs, lost deeper and deeper through every new drag - he won’t be able to stop a second time even he wanted to.

“I’m sorry, my dove.” He whispers in a rush, every breath a tremor. “Just… can’t h-help it—can’t get enough of you.” His lips brush against your cheek, catching another tear; yours or his own, he can’t tell.

He shifts backwards, his muscled back suddenly straight, flexing beneath stinging, red scratches. Both of his hands grasp onto your thighs, keeping them wide open so he can see you take his manhood. The view is wet, noisy, like you’re struggling to keep up with him, yet you don’t want to let him go as you keep leaking all over his sheets.

It’s such an impactful visual experience that not a minute later he shudders mid-thrust, like he’s been short circuited.

His head tips back, jaw going slack as euphoria passes through his whole body. The second his vision turns white, creamy arousal spilling inside you, he wonders if he’s finally reached the gates of heaven.

The thrill is intense, bringing slight overstimulation as he makes the last few pumps the exact moment your own orgasm snaps.

As the fog inside his mind dissipates, though slowly, he realises he cannot escape the staggering sensation of your climaxes clashing at the same time; he cannot recover from the fact he liked bringing you pleasure while a part of him is inside you even better.

When you curl beside him, limbs heavy, skin still humming with warmth, you rest your head against his chest and let your eyes flutter shut.

“I don’t want to stop needing you.” You admit quietly.

Maybe this is what faith is meant to look like, you think. Two people simply holding on to each other when it gets too dark.

copyright © joocomics 2025 all rights reserved. do not repost, copy or translate my works on any platforms.

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But on Wednesdays, Jisung wakes up and feels like the drag from Monday has disappeared; he attends all of his early morning classes with an extra pep in his step that always has a still groggy Jeongin rolling his eyes. His mood can’t even be ruined by his perpetually pissed off professor, as he breezes through his advanced music composition class like it’s a cakewalk. And then at 2 PM, like clockwork, Jisung takes the shuttle bus to your apartment off-campus, buzzing with the mere thought of being able to just relax the rest of the day with his girlfriend. 

But as he lets himself in now, Jisung can sense a strange difference in the mood, all of the excitement draining out of him. The lights are all turned off, and the heavy living room curtains are drawn together, blocking out the afternoon sun. The apartment is dead quiet, and if Jisung didn’t have your location, he’d have thought you were elsewhere; it’s what he loves the most about you, how you always seem to bring life to every room with your bubbly, lovely personality. 

“Baby? You there?” Jisung calls out, as he slips off his shoes and slings his backpack onto the couch, before making his way over to your bedroom door. Usually, you have some nice music going on your speakers to welcome Jisung, curating the perfect playlist for when he fucks you deep into your mattress. Today, however, there’s nothing, not even a muffled greeting when he knocks, before he gingerly opens it, not knowing what to expect. 

But there you are, curled up into a tight ball under your comforter, facing the wall. You’re asleep, and the sight tugs at his chest; you’ve been working so hard these last few months, and he’s rarely seen you take a break. He silently walks over to your bed, not even bothering to take his baseball cap and glasses off before he’s getting on, groaning as his back touches your warm sheets. He rolls over to face your back, throwing his arm over your waist to tug you close. Jisung buries his face into your neck, inhaling slowly like he hasn’t already memorized your scent; he can’t help it, you’re just so precious. 

He hums faintly, kissing the nape of your neck and mumbling into your skin. “Love you.”

It rolls so easily off his tongue, the confession. After all, he makes sure you hear it every single day, whether it’s when you’re snugly tucked in his arms or just a voice on his cellphone. But saying it sends a small jolt through his heart nevertheless, because he’s so irrevocably whipped for you even after the years you’ve had together. 

Maybe it’s not routine, being in bed in the middle of the day instead of immediately jumping each other’s bones as usually done, but it’s still undeniably cozy, so tender, being here with you. He finds himself slipping into the same slumber that has claimed you, eyes growing heavy-lidded as he finally eases up in your presence. But before he can—

A sniffle—so soft and small that Jisung almost misses it. Jisung is instantly wide awake, pushing himself up so he can lean forward to examine your face properly. Your eyes flutter open, tears rolling down your cheeks as Jisung physically feels the concern etch into his features. His heart clenches at the sight, the worry coursing through him so potent that he could mistake it for the pump of blood on his wrist. 

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Jisung tries, automatically swiping his fingers over your face, gathering the salty dampness there. “Did something happen?”

You stir in his hold, sitting upright against your headboard. You’re not dressed how you normally are at home, swathed in a baggy hoodie instead of one of those skimpy pajama sets that always have Jisung going insane. You scrub at your face with your hands, letting out a shaky sigh. “It’s not a big deal, Ji. I’m just being fucking dramatic.”

Jisung makes a skeptical noise, smoothing away the bangs sticking to your forehead. “You’re crying, it’s a big deal to me. Don’t keep it down, talk to me.” He smooths away the bangs sticking to your forehead, before taking your hand in his, pressing it to his heart. “Baby, it’s just me.”

“That’s why I can’t talk to you,” you counter, squeezing your eyes shut. “Because it’s you, Jisung.”

He frowns, a little hurt, a lot confused. “Why? There’s nothing you can’t tell me. I swear.”

“Fuck,” you groan, covering your face with your hands. “I just wanted to try something new.”

“New? Like what?”

You inhale deeply, picking at the edge of your hoodie and avoiding Jisung’s eyes. “So after I started that TA job, I just feel like I’ve been so absorbed with work.”

Jisung nods, doing his best to be encouraging. “Go on.”

“And it’s gotten so bad that I haven’t been able to do anything special for you, you know? We just meet up, we fuck, we order food, and that’s it. I feel like I’ve drained us from doing anything exciting—”

“That’s not true, being with you is special in itself!” Jisung cuts you off indignantly. “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now, and I would never ask anything of you. Except for you to be happy, of course.”

He pinches your cheek lightly, trying to get you to laugh. But you just glumly swat his hand away, shaking your head. “No, Ji. I really wanted to do this. I… I went to the store. I got this stupid fucking set, and I tried it before you came here, and I guess I just felt so insecure… I don’t even know.”

Jisung blinks. “Set? Like—”

“Lingerie.” You let out a bitter laugh that’s so completely uncharacteristic of you that he winces a little. “I just realized how much I really let myself go this semester. Like, I haven’t been working out regularly, and it shows, and I just—I just feel so damn undesirable right now.”

You’re the smartest person Jisung has ever met. He’s seen you solve the toughest problems in Real Analysis (before he personally had to withdraw from it and change his major), witnessed you beat Kim fucking Seungmin for the highest score on the P-Chem final. But at this moment, he genuinely doubts your mental capacity, because how could you ever think yourself to be undesirable, in any context? 

“Undesirable? I’m sorry, but that’s genuinely the craziest shit you’ve ever said,” Jisung can’t help but scoff, rolling your eyes. Undesirable? Laughable. The girl he loves has lost her marbles. “First off, I would be concerned if you were still going to the gym all the time, with your insane schedule. What matters is that you're healthy, nothing else. Second, you’re the sexiest fucking thing I have ever seen.”

“Me. Sexy.” You snort, breaking eye contact and turning to your side to stare at the wall. “Sure.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” There’s an unfamiliar edge to Jisung’s voice that surprises even himself, one that has you snapping your gaze back to his face. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose, squinting at Jisung like he’s slow. “Jisung, can’t we just—”

“Go put it on.” Jisung sits back, crossing his arms. “Show me how it looks.”

“But—”

“Not asking twice.”

Jisung stays still, dangerously placid, observing how your lips part to express your shock. He knows you recognize his tone, that cold, unflinching voice he employs when he’s using you how he likes, thrusting into you harshly as you whimper beneath him from where you’re pinned down. It’s so different from the way he interacts with you, with how you could just sneeze and he’s all over you, adoring the very way you breathe. But this, this is a command that has your mouth forming a cute little “o” that would have him crooning if in any other situation. Now, he’s just not having it. 

After a charged moment, you give up, letting out a petulant huff of acquiescence as you shove the blanket off. He watches you hoist yourself off the bed and trudge towards your bathroom, before you give him a pointed look over your shoulder and pettily slam the door.

Brat, Jisung thinks. Hopelessly endeared, even when he’s mad at you for talking down his favorite person. 

A few minutes pass, and Jisung is just about to come over and get you himself, when the bathroom door creaks open. Jisung holds his breath, waiting as you step out, eyes trained on the carpet. Your hair is a little mussed up, tumbling over your shoulders, and you do your best to cover yourself with your hands, but your efforts are fruitless:

You’re wearing a silky rose-colored babydoll slip that sticks to you like a second skin, with an alluring slit down the side, one that shows off the thin strap of the matching pair of panties you’re wearing underneath. You nervously cross your arms over your chest, trying to conceal the ample cleavage now exposed to Jisung’s eyes by the dainty sweetheart neckline of the piece. 

“There you go. Happy? I look so stupid right now,” you grumble, clenching your fists at your side. 

Jisung doesn’t say anything, simply padding over where you are slumped by the door. He can barely contain his eagerness, greedily tracing his eyes over your body, drinking in your curves like the choicest of wines. You are so intoxicating indeed, as you shiver under the intensity of his gaze. Such a lovely creature, you are, crossing your legs and shyly tipping your head down, hair falling into your eyes. Jisung genuinely has to hold down a groan when he sees how short the slip really is, how it barely covers your ass—fuck, all he wants to do is ruin you. But that has to wait. 

He wordlessly takes your hand, ignoring your protests, leading you to your bed and sitting you down on the edge that directly faces your full-length mirror. The skirt of the slip rides up as you shift uncomfortably, trying to tug it down to cover up how deliciously your thighs are spread. Jisung firmly moves your hand away, locking it in his own as he sits behind you and then lifts you onto his lap. You’re caged in by his legs, gripped by his embrace, and forced to stare at the mirror in front of you. 

“Is this really necessary, Ji?” You say softly, meeting his gaze in the mirror. 

“Yep,” Jisung replies, popping the word as a matter-of-factly. “It really is, baby.”

Jisung pushes his glasses up on his nose, resolving to keep them on even though he always finds them so irritatingly in the way. Right now, he wants to be able to properly take in every inch of you. Every tremble, every twitch— he wants to see. 

He runs his hands down your body, reveling how smooth your skin is, how the fabric of the slip ruches as he moves down. You fidget under his touch, attempting to bat his hands away, but Jisung stays steady, ignoring you. “You know, it pains me that you don’t see yourself the way I do.”

“How do you see me?” you ask, your voice barely above a hushed whisper. 

Jisung kisses your shoulder, pinching at the slip's lacy hem. “I’ve already told you so many times that you’re the most beautiful girl I know. But let me be more specific, hm?”

You can’t conceal your little sigh as Jisung presses his fingers into the warm skin of your throat, gentle but with just enough pressure to feel your pulse pick up.

“First… this face.” A searing kiss to your jawline, sure to leave a bruise, and then he continues. “An angel. So fucking ethereal. Pretty as a petal. Sometimes, I’ll wake up early just to admire how you look in the morning sun. And you know how much I hate waking up early.”

You let out a watery laugh in spite of yourself, turning your head to the side to kiss the corner of Jisung’s mouth. “You do.”

Jisung smiles at you, unable to keep the affection off his face, even as he proceeds to say the nastiest things into your ear. “Personally, my favorite part of you is your eyes. So big, so sultry. Especially when you’re on your knees and looking up at me with them, so innocently, when you’re anything but. My gorgeous little slut. Aren’t you, baby?”

Jisung can tell how you immediately get aroused, your awkward demeanor shifting into something more needy, your pupils dilating in want. He loves getting you like this, riling you up until you finally submit to him. He’s absolutely going to get what he wants out of you today, for you to admit how fucking wrong you are. 

“I think… I think—” You don’t get to finish your thought before your words are trailing off into a lewd moan. Jisung has moved on from teasingly tracing patterns over your clavicles, instead cupping your breasts and silently appreciating how warm and full you feel in his hands. He wastes no time taking your nipples in between his fingers, pinching at them through the flimsy lace. 

“You what?” Jisung bites back a smirk, as he takes in the slightly dumb look on your face, successfully pinning you in place with his gaze. “Use your words, baby.”

“I need you,” you finally plead, grabbing at Jisung’s hands, trying to push them to where you need him the most.

But Jisung resists even though he desires it just as much, instead wrenching his hands away from you, landing a sharp slap to the side of your hip. “No. Bad girls don’t get to cum.”

“But I—”

Jisung shuts you up with another kiss, tangling his fingers into the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling roughly. He relishes in your moans, at the way you arch into him when he bites your bottom lip and sucks it into his mouth. 

“See what I mean? Good girls don’t talk back like that,” he whispers, swiftly sliding the straps of the slip down your arms, pushing the material down until your tits are completely freed. He hungrily grasps them, kneading at them at his own leisure until you’re squirming under his arms. “God, these tits… it’s not a good day if I don’t get to suck on them, you know?”

“Really?” you question, stuttering over the syllables as you watch Jisung swipe his tongue over his index finger, before he brings it back down, trailing circles around your nipples until they’re shining with his spit, rosy from his touch. 

“Mhm. And then we have these thighs,” Jisung announces, letting his hands fall down to where you have your thighs tightly pressed together in a way Jisung now knows to indicate your arousal; you still may not be fully convinced by him, but Jisung has every intention of getting you there, rather pleased with his progress so far. “I wanna be buried in between them, twenty-four seven. Want you to suffocate me with them, if I’m being honest.”

At this point, you’re practically sobbing in need of a release, and Jisung can quite literally feel it, how drenched your cunt is through the lingerie. He’s sure that if he looks down, he’d see you dripping all over him, and the thought itself has his dick hardening in his jeans, but the very last shreds of willpower have him holding his gaze up, keeping you under his control. 

“But nothing compares to this pussy. So pretty,” Jisung says, gliding his hands over the soft flesh of your stomach, tickling the curve of your hips as he moves lower. He notes how your breath hitches when he cups your mound, how you impatiently grind your ass onto his lap to get him to go faster. But he takes his time, toying with you over your panties, indulging in the way you whine when he runs a single finger down your clothed slit. 

He brings his hand up to his mouth, salivating in the anticipation of your arousal that he’s collected on it. He closes his lips over his finger, sucking lightly, and his eyes nearly roll all the way to the back of his head at your taste. “So fucking sweet, too. Like candy.”

Jisung doesn’t give you the chance to react to his filthy musings, before he’s shoving your panties to the side, the rough snap of the material against your skin smarting. Your complaints die before they even manifest, because he finally gives in to you, parting your lips with his fingers, completely baring your glistening cunt to him. His other hand stretches up, wrapping around your throat. 

“Jisung, baby…” you sigh, and the sound goes straight to Jisung’s cock. But he stays unrelenting, slowly rubbing circles onto your clit, building you up just to break you down as soon as he decides you’re ready. You’re so soaked that Jisung almost feels a strange sort of arrogance bloom in his chest, that he’s the one that gets to work up such a fucking goddess like you. You’re his to kiss, his to fuck, his to love—and as is he yours. 

“What’s that? I didn’t quite catch what you said,” Jisung replies, the smug condescension thick in his tone. You shiver at that, closing your eyes as you poorly attempt to gather yourself. “Eyes stay open.”

Jisung grips your chin in emphasis, forcing you to keep your eyes open, to concentrate on how he deftly strums his fingers on your pussy like it’s one of his guitars. Your voice trembles as you try again, brows pulled together in effort. “More, Ji. I want more, please?”

“Fine. Since you asked nicely.” Jisung circles your entrance once, mocking you one last time for the hell of it, before he’s inserting two fingers into you, not even bothering to ease in. A choked moan escapes your lips as he mercilessly thrusts into you, curling his fingers so well inside of you that you dig your nails into his arm, sourcing the sting Jisung savors so much. 

Every time he enters you, Jisung feels his own sense of euphoria, from the sensation of your walls gripping his fingers so well, from how the ache of your pleasure augments his own. He can’t even pretend now, the lovesick expression on his face so painfully apparent when you both lock eyes in the mirror. “So goddamn tight, but you always take me so well, baby. Don’t you?”

“Y-yes,” you whimper, and Jisung increases his pace, pumping his fingers into your cunt so vigorously that your slick has started to drip down past his wrist, coating him in your essence. 

The obscene squelch of his fingers working your pussy fills the air, and you try to cover your face with your hands, attempting to hide your blush, but a sharp look from Jisung has you staying in place. “Hear that? Listen to how your pussy sings for me. Better than anything I could come up with in the studio.”

You can’t even answer him, so lost in his incessant ministrations. Soon, all he can hear are your broken moans, all he can feel being the desperate roll of your hips onto his hand. You’re close, but Jisung refuses to let you finish until you give him exactly what he wants. 

“Jisung, please, need to—”

“You don’t know what you fucking need.” Jisung cruelly cuts you off, running his tongue over the tears that delicately spill down your cheeks; they’re a different kind of tears, the kind he looks forward to whenever he has you like this. “I’m not going to let you cum unless you say it yourself.” 

You groan in frustration when he pulls his fingers out of you, resting them on your inner thigh while he waits for you to respond. “Say what?”

“You know exactly what.”

Jisung watches as you take yourself in, silently observing the rapid rise and fall of your chest, how your slip is now tightly bunched around your waist, leaving most of your body fully exposed for you to see. Your hair cascades down loosely, save for the bangs sticking to your temples with the perspiration your boyfriend has induced. And your face is flushed a pretty pink, kiss-bitten lips parted to let the heavy sighs escape. You look nothing short of perfect, and finally, Jisung lets himself feel satisfaction, noting the realization in your glassy eyes. 

“Beautiful,” you whisper. “I look beautiful.”

That’s all he needs before he’s plunging his fingers back into you, his other hand also occupied now, tracing his passion onto your sensitive nub, confessing to you in the only way that gets you to see stars indoors. It doesn’t take long for him to make you cum, your orgasm hitting so hard that you spasm in his grip, back arching into the hard muscle of Jisung’s chest as you scream his name.

He doesn’t slow his fingers, driving into you until he feels the steady stream of your release around them. Your legs shake uncontrollably as Jisung makes you squirt, and he doesn’t even afford you the opportunity to be embarrassed about it, whispering heated praise into your ears as he helps you ride out the high. 

Finally, he retracts his hand, giving you a fond little smile before kissing you until he’s sure you’re dizzied by it. He pulls back, grin growing wider at how dazed you are, eyes unfocused as you take his arms and circle them around you, pulling him close. The hazy late afternoon rays peak through the cracks in your window blinds, cloaking you both in a warm glow.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your breathing evening out, the heave of your chest slowing. Jisung doesn’t respond, studying you in the mirror as you clasp his hand in yours, brushing your lips over his knuckles. “For proving me wrong.”

“Save it for later.” Jisung’s eyes darken as he suddenly stands up, flipping you face-down onto the bed before he’s landing a harsh slap onto your ass. You gasp at the stinging sensation, at how Jisung’s cock presses into you from behind, at the way he immediately kneads his soothing hands into your skin, like he isn’t about to wreck you all over again. “I’m not done with you yet.”

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AUTHOR'S NOTE i just haddd to indulge my college!bf jisung brainrot, especially bc i'm flying back to campus on saturday and i know i'm about to get cooked this semester so my only method of coping is being delusional romanticizing college (no i have never & will never find a man like jisung at mine) ! anyway, updates will probably get a little slower (as usual) since i'll be back to school & also bc i gotta lock in on studying for my mcat (kill me pls), but i've gotten a lot better at managing my time LMFAO so i'll still be active <3 feel free to hmu to yap !! xx. dreamy.

TAGLIST @ajxreads @chizumiyoshi @jetblackbelle @yeahhspider @army-stay-noel @143hyunes @httphans @ave-221 @Chaotic-world-of-the-j @nyasstars @beautifulmusicaddict-blog @imasimplol @xsw-void @queen-klarissa @hyunjinsamdl @heavenhannie @ultimatestayandminoronce @moasworld @chillseo @boomfrogg @hyunzerolv @browniebearr @hanniemylovelyquokka @ardef38 @anyhow-everything @sweetpickledjins @insertsomethingaboutanimehere @seukijeuxq @jinniedumpling @extrhotjne @firelordtsuki @mnwrld @missseoulite @oddracha @ladylexis @lenkusubitvh @dessianna1

Still in his stage clothes, lungs exhaling with slow, heavy breaths, eyes empty and unfocused like his soul is still back in the arena.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. He just stands frozen in the entryway, duffel bag slung over one shoulder and guitar case in his hand.

You cross the room quietly.

“Hey, baby,” you sing softly, slipping the strap from his shoulder and taking the bag. His fingers are still curled around the handle of his guitar, but when you gently take that too, he releases it without resistance.

“How was the concert?”

“Mm.” That’s all he gives you. Just a tiny, exhausted hum.

“What's wrong?”

“I hurt,” he whines pathetically, face crunching in pain.

You set everything aside, turn back to him, and reach for his hand. “Oh no, come here, baby. Sit down.”

He lets you lead him, completely pliant under your touch. You guide him to the floor in front of the couch. He lowers himself slowly, groaning under his breath as his muscles protest every inch.

“Wait here for a sec.” You quickly retreat to your bedroom and back.

Then you sit behind him on the couch, positioning him between your legs, your knees framing his tired body.

Gently, you reach for the hem of his shirt.

He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t speak. Just lifts his arms as you tug the sweat-soaked fabric up and over his head. His skin is flushed, glitter still clinging to his shoulders from the stage confetti canons. You comb your fingers briefly through his hair to help him relax before grabbing the oil you got from your bedroom.

Vanilla and cedarwood fills the air as you rub it between your palms until it's warm and smooth. Then your hands settle on his shoulders.

“Oh my god,” Jisung immediately chokes out, body tensing in the best way.

"Does that feel okay?"

"It hurts so good."

Your thumbs press into the tight knots between his neck and shoulders, slow, deliberate, soothing strokes. He groans, head tipping slightly to the side to give you more space. His whole body starts to sag back into you, muscles progressively unwinding under your touch.

“You’re so stiff,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss the spot behind his ear. “How are you even standing after that setlist?”

“Barely.” His voice is thick, sleepy. “Everything hurts. My back. My ass. My soul.”

“Well, your back is getting a massage after your shoulders, and your ass can get a heating pad later. As for your soul," you tilt his chin back and place a gentle but deep kiss against his lips, pulling back only to see him looking up at you with stars in his eyes. "Any better?"

“Marry me.”

“Already said yes, remember?”

He hums, drunkenly content now, eyes fluttering shut. Your fingers move lower, tracing the lines of his shoulder blades, and you feel him melt completely between your thighs as his head drops back into your lap.

Jisung likes being taken care of, this is not new. But moments like this are few and far between due to his schedule and him trying to build a "manly" persona for you.

But right now, he just want you to take care of him. Every bit of him.

“You shouldn’t have worked out so hard before a big show. Now your body is worn.” Your voice is soft, not scolding. More concerned than anything. But Jisung still flinches like he’s been caught.

“I know, but I just,” he mutters, hissing sharply when your thumbs find a stubborn knot at the base of his neck. “Ah—! Okay, okay, I get it! That one’s punishment, isn’t it?”

“Maybe a little.” You press your thumbs in again, gentler this time, and feel him sink back into your hands. “You know better, Sungie. You’ve done this long enough to know your limits.”

“I just…” he exhales shakily. “I wanted to feel strong. Wanted to be in shape for Stay. Wanted to look good for you.”

You pause, running your hands down the front of his chest before leaning in to kiss the side of his neck and whisper, “You always look good for me, idiot.”

He chuckles, and his body sways with the sound, instinctively leaning toward your voice.

You nudge his side gently. “Lay down for me.”

He shifts without hesitation, stretching out on his stomach, cheek turned to the side, arms tucked beneath a pillow you place under his head.

You climb over him carefully, straddling his lower back, the curve of your thighs bracketing his hips. His skin is warm under you, slightly sticky with sweat and lingering stage heat. You pour more oil into your palms, rubbing it between your hands until it glides easily across his back.

And then you get to work.

Long, slow strokes. Firm circles into tight muscles. Your fingers trace every inch of him from the tops of his shoulders to the dip of his waist, pausing at every knot, every place you feel resistance, until he starts to melt beneath you like honey.

Jisung breathes deeper with every pass of your hands.

You trail your fingers along his spine, your palms smoothing over the parts of him that once felt too fragile, too thin, too strained. Now, he’s strong. Healthy. And you take your time loving that new strength with your hands, silently thankful for every change he’s made to bring him here.

“God,” he murmurs, voice heavy and deep. “You’re gonna make me cry if you keep doing this.”

“Then cry,” you say, lips kissing between his shoulder blades. “I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t cry out loud, but he does fall suspiciously quiet. You keep massaging him until every knot you can find is gone. Until he’s loose and boneless and his entire body belongs to your touch.

Then he whispers, so softly you almost miss it, “Thank you.”

“Always.”

Eventually, your hands slow, smoothing his back with one final loving pass. “Okay, baby. Shower time.”

He groans in protest and half-turns under you, arms limp. “Don’t wanna move.”

“You’ll feel better after,” you assure him. “Come on, Sungie, you need to wash this oil and sweat off.”

“Only if you come with me.” You try to play stern, but then he tilts his head back and blinks up at you with those irresistible, soft, boba eyes. “Please?”

“Fine. But we're using my scrub this time.”

His lips curve into a sleepy grin when you help him up and guide him to the bathroom, your fingers laced with his as he shuffles behind like a little kid.

You turn the water on, waiting patiently to get the temperature just right, the quiet sound of the shower filling the room like a lullaby. When you turn around, expecting Jisung to already be stepping in, he moves a bit closer to you instead.

His eyes meet yours, warm and tender, before he reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against your waist. With care, he pinches the hem of your top and lifts it over your head, undressing you with the same gentleness you’d shown him, just soft touches and a hush of unspoken affection.

Then he pulls back the shower curtain for you, his gaze never leaving yours. You step in first, heart fluttering, and he follows directly behind you.

Hot steam fills the space as Jisung stands under the water like he’s being reborn, straight up moaning as the heat loosens whatever tension your massage hadn’t fully chased away. You reach for your favorite sugar scrub and rub it gently down his body (taking a moment to appreciate). He leans into every touch, eyes glazed over in euphoric love for every part of you as you scrub him clean from head to toe.

Next, you gently work your fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp and releasing his roots from the ache of carrying so much product. You lather shampoo in slow, deliberate circles. He melts under your hands again, tipping his head back with a quiet, blissful sigh.

“Why don't we do this after every concert?”

“You just like being pampered,” you tease, rinsing the suds away.

“Only because you're so good at taking care of me.”

When you finish, he steps out slowly and sits on the closed toilet lid with a towel around his waist. You stand between his knees, gently rubbing his hair dry, fluffing it up, finger-combing the curls into place.

He just watches you with lidded eyes, letting you do whatever you want while he fidgets with the edge of your towel that hangs at the middle of your thigh, absentmindedly falling for the subtle skin contact and safety that comes with being naked with you.

When you dab moisturizer on his cheeks and smooth it in with careful intentionality, you swear you see a glance of the universe in his eyes.

“You're letting me do all this without a single protest,” you say, booping his nose for good measure.

“You’re spoiling me.” He looks up at you with a cheesy smile. “Because I’m a good boy.”

“Yes, you are.” You turn toward the bedroom, flicking off the bathroom light as you lead him out. “Time to get dressed for bed, good boy.”

But before you take two full steps, restrengthened arms wrap around your waist and suddenly your feet are off the ground.

“Jisung! What are you–?”

He carries you bridal style to the bed, ignoring your protests as he flops both of you down onto the mattress with a dramatic oof.

“You said it's time for bed,” he whispers, pulling the covers over both of you, arms wrapped securely around your waist. “You’re last job is to let me cuddle you, so I can fall asleep."

You roll your eyes. “At least let me get dressed first.” But you’re already curling into him, his bare skin warm and freshly washed, smelling like your scrub and his shampoo.

“Nope,” he mumbles a kiss to your forehead. “You're mine, just like this.”

“Love you,” you whisper back, fingers resting over his heart.

“Love you more.”

::

I feel like a threesome with these two would be the result of game night dares. Like they had already been planning this together and they just needed to somehow get you to agree. There’s always been tension in the group. Your friends are two hot, buff, gym bros that love to compete and they find you just as attractive and alluring.

So naturally there would be some sexual feelings in the air, especially with how bold Nicholas tends to be. With Fuma it’s more subtle glances and a stare that lingers a little too long. With Nicho, you’ll fully catch him staring at your chest or you find yourself staring at his biceps whenever he rolls his sleeves up. Like the best of both worlds.

You and Fuma would lose to Nicholas and he just smiles at you menacingly. You’d look towards Fuma who also has, while not so-menacingly, a huge smirk on his face. And you look between the both of them scared because they kinda look like they want to kill you.

“Of course you can say no, but me and Fuma hyung have been talking about this for a while now.”

You’re nervous as Nicholas looks at Fuma, letting him continue the thought.

“Wanna have a threesome with us?”

Your eyes nearly bug out of your head because did you hear that correctly? A threesome with the two hottest guys you know that just so happen to be your best friends? You bite your lip, having given it some thought before but never really thinking anything would ever happen. You were still nervous, they were your best friends after all, and you were about to tread a line that would blur that completely, even change the entire trajectory of the friendship. But you let your desires get the best of you, nodding your head in complete confidence.

“I would love to.”

The boys looked at each other, smiling victoriously as you stood up from your spot on the floor. You look between them awkwardly, not knowing who to go to first, lucky for you, the boys had this planned out beforehand. Nicholas having come up with the idea initially, decided to make the first move.

"You okay with kissing us?"

You answer his question by pulling him to you, lips moving against one another as Fuma walks over to the both of you, coming up behind you, groping your chest and kissing your neck. Already you're moaning into Nicho's mouth, one hand holding him and the other one holding one of Fuma's hands that were on your chest. Fuma lifts his leg up between your legs, placing his thigh right under your needy pussy. You instinctively grind down on him, needing to feel any form of relief. Nicholas releases your lips, bringing a hand under your chin and lifting it, smirking at the desperate look on your face and the way you're subtly grind your hips, watching as the saliva that was once connecting your lips slowly breaks away.

"Hold on."

Fuma pulls away, letting Nicholas assist you in taking your shirt off, nipples hardening as the cool air hits them. Fuma places one hand back on your right boob, squeezing and pinching your nipple between his fingers as the other hands snakes around your head, pulling you into a kiss with him. Nicholas chuckles, watching as you moan into his hyung's mouth, placing his hands on your bare waist and taking your left nipple into his mouth. He's rougher, biting and sucking your nipple harshly, fingers digging into your waist as he helps you get off of Fuma's thigh. You can feel Fuma's growing bulge on your back, leaning back some more and catching him off guard, not expecting you to brush up against him.

The harder Nicho pushes you down onto Fuma's thigh, the louder you moan, straight into Fuma's mouth, needing to pull away to catch your breath. He continues kissing your neck while you throw your head back, the pleasure building fast. Nicholas moves up to your neck as well, both boys mirroring each other almost perfectly, both kissing one side of your neck as their hands play with your breasts, making quick work of you.

"Fuck, guys... this is... even better than I've ever imagined..."

They almost miss what you say with how labored your breathing is, and the way they were lost in the taste of your skin, the remnants of your vanilla perfume oil sweet and intoxicating.

"I know you want to cum on my thigh, go ahead,"

You don't know if you were explicitly waiting for his permission, but his words have you cumming, panties soaking through your leggings and onto his pants.

"Holy shit that was hot."

Nicho comments, painfully hard against his own jeans.

"Lets go to your room, it'll be more comfortable."

Fuma removes his thigh from under you, Nicho's hold on your waist the only thing keeping you up as your leg tingles, making you lose your balance. He laughs, picking you up and bringing you to your room, Fuma following behind. He places you on the bed gently, removing his pants as you and Fuma do the same. You're sweating, still panting from your orgasm as you watch both men strip naked, Nicholas getting behind you on the bed while Fuma stands in from of you.

"Get comfortable for us, you're gonna need it."

Fuma says, jerking his dick off in front of your face as your mouth salivates, ready to take him in as Nicho all but manhandles you onto your stomach, pulling you onto his mouth.

"You ready baby?"

He hums against your lips, pushing his tongue past your folds as you moan, taking Fuma's length into your mouth. Nicholas laps at your wetness, drinking it in like he needs it to survive, tongue flicking your clit every so often and sending a spark running up your body each time. He lets you ride his face for a bit before closing his lips on your clit, sucking on the bundle of nerves, watching your back concave into the thick sheets as you hollow your mouth on Fuma's length, his hands in your hair, guiding your mouth along his length. Nicholas is rutting against the sheets, unable to still his hips as the sound of your sweet moans falls on his ears. Fuma lets moans and groans fall past his lips.

"You're doing so good for us, darling. You- fuck... you're so good with this little mouth of yours."

He runs a hand through your hair while the other holds your head still, thrusting down your throat now. You're trying your best to suppress your gagging, choking a little as his tip hits the back of your throat and then some, drooling spilling past your lips like a waterfall, finding it difficult to close your mouth as Nicholas keeps thrusting his tongue into your hole causing you to let out multiple whimpers and moans. The younger male pulls away first:

"I think she's ready. Please switch with me,"

He moves off of the bed, Fuma easing his cock out of your mouth slowly, your jaw going slack. He picks your head up, giving you a sensual kiss, dancing his tongue across your mouth. Nicholas, as impatient as he is, jerking himself off as you two take your time, tip red and angry and in desperate need of attention. Fuma finally pulls away, much to Nicholas's joy, taking his position behind you, rubbing the head against your slick folds. Nicholas crouches down to your level,

"You look so sexy baby, all fucked out already and no one's even fucked you yet-" he grabs your jaw sweetly, placing a soft kiss to your lips, one that was unlike the ones you shared before, "-I hope you're ready."

His left eyebrow quirks up as he nods, giving Fuma the go-ahead to start pushing into you. You inhale a sharp breath, nails digging into Nicholas's shoulders, the sting of him stretching you out mouth-watering. Nicholas takes your hands from his shoulders, placing them on his thigh as one hand goes to hold your head, the other on his dick. You open your mouth like its second nature, tongue out and ready to take his length in. He smirks, tapping his dick on your cheek and tongue, teasing you for being "our little fuck toy, ready without having to be told," as he rests his dick on your tongue.

Fuma begins thrusting into you, thrusting in hard, groping your ass as it jiggles with each thrust. Each hard thrust jerks you forward a bit, allowing Nicholas to relax as he places his hands behind his head, letting you set the pace with the aid of Fuma's thrusts. You pull him closer, needing him for stability to help you suck him off, but also to keep yourself from falling limp at the magnitude of Fuma's thrusts. He can't resist the urge, delivering a harsh smack to your ass as you groan, sending vibrations up Nicho's length. All of your moans and groans are jumbled, the air in the room becoming thick with the smell of sex and building orgasms.

You feel like you're suffocating in the best way possible, on the brink of cumming as you feel Fuma start to thrust slower, trying his best to hold on to the feeling of your walls sucking him back in.

"Shit, I'm not gonna last much longer..."

He releases himself inside of you, continuing his thrusts as you cum soon after. You wince as he pulls out of you, watching as a mix of your cum drips out of your wet hole.

"Fuck, Nicholas you gotta check this out."

He taps your cheeks, telling you to release his dick, knowing that you were barely comprehending what was going on right now, too blissed out. He walks over to where Fuma is now sitting back on the bed, admiring the way you hole pulses, watching how it sucks in the cum before pushing it out again.

"I think I need a turn now."

Fuma nods, helping you up. Nicholas sits back, legs open and spread, dick standing tall and erect. He holds you up, cowgirl, aligning you with his dick before easing you down, you throwing your head back at the feeling of being full yet again.

"F-fuck, Nicholas..."

You moan out as Fuma kneels between Nicholas's legs, placing a hand around your chest and the other on your neck, kissing up your back and shoulder blades as he sinks a particularly hard bite into your shoulder. Nicholas's hands are on your waist, helping you ride him as you have very little strength left in your body to do it fully by yourself. He coos,

"Is our little kitty too tired to ride me by herself?"

You nod, barely able to keep up with his pace. He shifts his position, laying flat on his back and planting his feet flat on the bed, drilling into you as he can feel his orgasm approaching quickly. You're screaming curses, Fuma's bites and light pressure on your neck straining your voice as he grinds himself on your back, still hard from before but sensitive enough to where the stimulation from grinding on you was all he needed to feel good, second orgasm steadily building.

"Fuck Y/N, I'm gonna cum. You can take it, right?"

He asks as if he wasn't gonna cum in you anyways, face scrunching up in pleasure as he releases his load, making sure to milk himself of every last drop. His actions, combined with Fuma's is too much for you, reaching a new level of bliss as you squirt, your fluids drenching Nicholas's pelvic and Fuma's thighs.

"FUCK! FUMA, NICHOLAS!!"

You scream their names out, loud enough for the neighbors to hear as your body goes limp, save for Fuma having such a tight grip on you. He continues rocking into you, cumming all over your back, grunting in your ear as he empties himself. You're panting hard, throat dry and jaw slack from all the sucking and screaming, Fuma breathing just as heavily against your neck. Nicholas watches as your squirt fluids slowly displace all three of your cum from your hole, waiting for you to be ready before pulling you off of him, laying you back on your bed.

You squirm, high from the non-stop orgasms but uncomfortably wet and sticky. The boys help clean up, Nicholas picking up all the dirty, discarding clothes and placing them in your hamper while Fuma grabs a cloth to clean you with, making sure to get your back as well. They bring you water as well, helping remove your sheets and throwing them in the wash.

You sigh, finally having recovered (sorta) from the intense orgasms. You watch as they work to clean up, smiling at the sentiment.

"Thank you for helping clean up. I really appreciate it."

"It's the least we can do after almost breaking you."

Fuma says, laughing as he goes through your closet, knowing you have some of his and Nicholas's stolen clothes lying around.

"You call that almost breaking me? Please, that was nothing."

You say, competitive nature taking ahold of you as you gradually sip at your water.

"Oh yeah? Think you could handle more? You could barely say our names by the end of it."

Nicholas's ears perk up, challenging your claim. But you don't back down.

"Try me."

༄ ༄ ༄

Jisung never asked for the proximity. He never asked to know the way your voice rises when you're tipsy or how you only sing when you thinks no one can hear. But he does. He knows. He knows you eat too many frozen waffles and tha tyour microwave beeps twice before you remember to take shit out. He knows the name of your boyfriend, the sound of your laugh when you’re trying too hard, and worse—

The exact pitch of your moans when you’re faking it.

Because you fake it. Every damn time.

And he would know. He’s had the misfortune of being hard at 2AM with your paper-thin walls pressed against his back and that sorry excuse for sex filtering through his second-hand studio monitors like a mockery of porn.

It’s always the same: breathy gasps, your boyfriend’s awkward grunting, the bed springs squeaking like hell, and then—

“Oh my god, yeah, just like that...”

Flat. Perfunctory. The kind of moan that sounds practiced. Rehearsed. Completely unconvincing.

Jisung rolls his eyes and turns the volume up on his mix.

Not because it bothers him. Not because he cares.

It’s just distracting.

He’s got better things to do than think about the pretty girl next door faking orgasms like it’s a part-time job.

Like finish this track. Like land an actual gig. Like figure out how the fuck he’s going to keep affording rent in a city that eats people alive and doesn’t even burp after.

He’s not interested.

He’s not.

Except—

Sometimes he wonders what it would sound like if you meant it.

What you’d sound like if someone took their time. If someone made you come for real, dragged it out of your with fingers in your hair and lips on your neck and the kind of steady, brutal rhythm that doesn’t stop until you’re shaking.

What you’d sound like if it were him.

Jisung curses under his breath and drags his headphones off.

His eyes are dry. His dick’s half-hard. His track’s going nowhere.

Cool.

Maybe he just needs to… do something. Anything. Something mundane. Something that reminds him he’s a functioning adult with a trash bin and a spine and better things to focus on than the soft moans of the girl next door and the way they don’t sound quite right.

He grabs the overstuffed trash bag by the door, ties it with too much force, and makes a beeline for the hallway before he can talk himself out of it.

The fluorescent lights hum. The elevator’s broken again. Everything smells vaguely like burnt toast and someone’s fruity shampoo.

This building is hell.

He loves it.

Jisung drops the bag down the chute, lingers a second too long just to feel the rush of cold air against his face, then heads back.

He’s barely two doors away from home when he sees you.

You’re standing outside your apartment, arms crossed over your chest, loose sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder like it’s been a long night. Your boyfriend—Jason? Jared? Justin?—is leaning in too close, his mouth moving fast. Jisung can’t make out the words, but the tone’s familiar. Sharp. Defensive.

The boyfriend tries to kiss you.

You turn your face away.

Jisung doesn’t mean to stop walking. His feet just… do.

“I said I’m tired,” you mutter.

“Oh, you’re tired?” the guy snaps, way too loud for this dingy little hallway. “You weren’t tired twenty minutes ago when you were riding my dick, were you?”

Jesus.

Jisung should keep walking. Should disappear into his apartment and mind his business like he always does.

But instead, he just—

“Hey.”

His voice comes out cracked around the edges, like it hasn’t been used in a while. Which is accurate. He hasn’t really spoken to anyone in three days. Not unless you count the talking he does into the mic when he’s laying down verses at 3AM.

You both turn to look at him.

Jisung tries to smile.

It’s more of a grimace.

“You, uh…” he clears his throat, glancing at you instead of the walking ego next to you. “You okay?”

You hesitate.

The boyfriend doesn’t.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Jisung shoves his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket. “Neighbor.”

The guy blinks, then laughs. “Oh. So you’re the one blasting that emo SoundCloud shit through the wall every night?”

Jisung winces. A breath stutters out of him like he’s been lightly slapped.

Then he notices it—you wince, too. The tiniest flicker of guilt flashing across your face, so fast he almost misses it.

And yeah. Okay.

That stings more than it should.

“I didn’t say it was shit,”you mumble under your breath, clearly meant only for your own conscience.

“Don’t worry,” Jisung says quickly, forcing a light tone as he scratches the back of his neck. “It’s fine. Totally fair. Some of my stuff is… uh. Kinda dogshit.”

The boyfriend grins like he’s just won something.

“Glad we agree. Thought I was gonna have to explain how sound works to a wannabe DJ.”

Jisung opens his mouth—then closes it again.

Not worth it.

Definitely not worth it.

Except you’re still looking at him. Still standing there with your arms folded tight, sweatshirt slipping down further. And your face—

There’s something in it. Not pity. Not sympathy.

More like… regret.

He hates that it softens him.

The boyfriend, oblivious, barrels on. “Anyway, next time you feel like giving a concert at four in the morning, maybe wait until someone asks.”

“Next time you feel like giving headboard percussion lessons at two,” Jisung mutters, “maybe make sure she actually comes.”

The words leave his mouth before his brain catches up.

Instant silence.

You gasp. Cover it with your hand, like you’re trying not to laugh—or scream.

The boyfriend just stares at him.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Jisung shrugs, already stepping toward his apartment door. His hands are shaking a little, but he keeps his voice light.

“I mean, the moaning’s impressive. Real Oscar-worthy shit. But you’d think a guy who talks that much would at least know when he’s not doing it right.”

“You little—”

“Hey, man.” Jisung turns back for half a second, nodding at him with a crooked, tired smile. “If I can tell through the wall that she’s faking it, that’s not on her. That’s on you.”

He shuts the door behind him before the guy can even finish winding up his insult.

Click.

Deadbolt.

Silence.

Except for the thundering in his chest.

Jisung exhales hard, forehead thunking against the door. “What the fuck did I just do?”

He sinks down to the floor like his legs have given up. Which, to be fair, they kind of have.

This isn’t him. This isn’t what he does.

He doesn't talk back. Doesn’t mouth off. Doesn’t insert himself into other people’s messy lives—especially not yours. He barely speaks to delivery guys. Half his social life happens through a pop filter.

And yet.

“You’d think a guy who talks that much would at least know when he’s not doing it right.”

God. It was kind of funny.

But still—Jesus.

Jisung scrubs both hands over his face, embarrassment curling in his gut like a hangover.

Across the wall, he hears footsteps. Muffled shouting. The boyfriend’s voice, sharp with wounded ego. And then—

The unmistakable slam of a door.

Silence.

No more voices. No more fake moans. No more anything.

Jisung doesn’t move.

Eventually, when the silence stays long enough to feel safe, he hauls himself up off the floor. Brushes dust from his sweats. Tries not to replay what he said out loud like a greatest hits compilation of shit he absolutely should not have said out loud.

____________________________________________________________________________

He sleeps like shit.

Of course he does.

And when morning comes, it hits in a wave of cheap sunlight and neighborly noise.

He hears your usual routine unfold with near-perfect familiarity: fridge door opening, kettle clicking on, cabinet slam (twice—you always forget which one holds the instant coffee). Muffled cursing. Zipper. Then keys jingling against the lock.

He listens as you step out, lets the door fall shut behind you, and walks down the hall toward the stairs.

Everything is the same.

And none of it is.

Because this time, when you leave,your footsteps pause right outside his door.

Just for a second. A breath.

Then gone.

He groans and pulls the blanket over his face.

The rest of the day moves in its usual haze. Jisung does what he always does: noodles with a half-finished beat, eats instant ramen over the sink, ignores three texts from Chan asking for an update on the mix. His headphones stay around his neck most of the day, never quite getting used.

By sunset, the hallway is quiet again.

The beat he’s working on is shit. He knows it’s shit. He keeps tweaking it anyway.

It’s not even music anymore. Just sound. A bunch of clunky, disjointed loops that won’t glue together no matter how many times he messes with the tempo.

He’s just about to scrap the whole thing when—

Knock knock.

He freezes.

It’s soft. Measured. Hesitant.

He doesn't move right away—just sits there in his desk chair like someone just rang the doorbell in a horror movie. Then he leans back slightly, just far enough to peek over the edge of his laptop.

Another knock.

His heart does something stupid.

He stands. Pads barefoot to the door. Checks the peephole.

Of course it’s you.

You’re standing there in leggings and an oversized hoodie, arms cradling a plastic container like its armor. Your hair's pulled back, face bare. You look—

Small.

Unsure.

You lift one hand and knock again, even softer this time.

He hesitates a second longer, then opens the door.

Not all the way. Just a crack.

Your head jerks up. You blink. “Hi.”

He blinks back. “Uh. Hey.”

You shift your weight. “Can I—uh, are you busy?”

He opens the door a little wider, eyes flicking down to the container you’re holding. “No. I mean. Just… failing at music.”

That gets the faintest smile out of you.

“Right. Yeah. I, um…” You hold out the container. “These are for you.”

He stares. “Cookies?”

“Apology cookies.”

There’s a beat.

Then:

“I didn’t bake them,” You admit. “But I did walk two blocks to the overpriced organic place to get them. So. Effort was made.”

He blinks down at the container again, like it might disappear if he stares hard enough.

“Effort noted,” he mumbles.

You shift again, hugging your arms tighter. “You don’t have to eat them. I just—felt weird not saying thank you. Or sorry. You didn’t have to do what you did last night.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. Felt weird not saying something. So.”

You stand there in the doorway for a second, both of you clearly unsure of what to do now that the thing you came to say has been said. He should probably invite you in. Or take the cookies. Or smile, or make a joke, or something.

Instead, he clears his throat.

You jump in to fill the silence. “Also, just so we’re clear—I didn’t actually mean the SoundCloud thing. That was… low-hanging fruit.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So you’ve listened?”

That earns him a flush, bright and instant. “Not on purpose.”

“Wow.” He presses a hand to his chest. “What a glowing endorsement.”

“I’m just saying—I wasn’t trying to be a bitch. That wasn’t fair.” Your gaze softens. “Your stuff is good. Better than good, actually. The one with the—uh—strings and that lo-fi beat underneath?”

His eyebrows raise. “Track twelve?”

She nods.

His stomach flips. It’s ridiculous. But that track had been sitting unfinished for weeks, like something he wasn’t sure anyone but him would ever care about. And now she’s standing here—face bare, voice quiet—quoting it back to him like it meant something.

He doesn’t know what to say.

For someone who spends hours arranging syllables and syncopation for fun, it’s laughable how words immediately bail on him when they might actually matter.

“You, uh…” He shifts the container to one hand. “You’ve got a good ear.”

You smile. It’s small. A little sheepish. “I’ve got shit walls.”

That makes him laugh—quiet and surprised.

“I should let you hear more sometime,” he says, before he can talk himself out of it.

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

“I mean—only if you want to. No pressure. I just thought…”

He trails off, scratching at the seam of his sleeve.

“I’d like that,” You say.

And he doesn’t know what to do with the warmth that blooms in his chest. It’s not huge. It’s not loud. But it’s there—steady and unexpected, curling under his ribs.

“Cool,” he says, voice softer now. “I’ll, uh. Let you know next time I make something new.”

You nod, then shift your weight backward—just enough to start retreating. But not before your eyes flick to his again, briefly, like you want to say something else.

He thinks might.

But all you do is smile—small and real—and take one step back towards your door.

“Goodnight, Han.”

His name on your lips feels like something it shouldn’t. Like a secret.

He nods. “Night.”

And then you turn. Cross the narrow hallway back to your apartment, keys already in hand. you hesitate at the door for half a second—he notices that, because of course he notices that—then slides the key in, disappears inside, and lets the door fall shut behind you with a soft click.

He watches the empty hallway for a beat longer.

He stares at his own door for a moment after he closes it, forehead pressed against the wood like the words you left behind are still floating in the air.

Goodnight, Han.

He hadn’t realized how nice his name could sound until you said it like that.

It echoes in his chest. Warms something that’s been cold for a while.

When he finally moves, it’s slow. He sets the cookies on the kitchen counter, grabs a pen, and flips open the nearest notebook—one he’s barely touched in weeks.

And he writes:

Track idea: starts quiet. Voice sample, maybe hers? Lo-fi beat behind it, soft keys. Let it build. Don’t let it rush. Let it breathe.

He underlines let it breathe three times.

Then he puts his headphones on.

And for the first time in a long time—

The music comes easy.

______________________________________________________________

You never planned on being friends with Han.

The boy next door with the quiet mouth and loud headphones. The recluse who only seemed to exist in studio beats and half-heard melodies through the wall. You knew his name before you knew his face—Han, printed on a mailbox slot too narrow.

Now he nods at you in the hallway. Smiles, even. You’ve learned that they’re rare, his smiles—crooked and shy, like they’re still trying to figure themselves out. You’ve started waiting for them.

Some mornings, you catch him in the elevator, hoodie pulled over messy hair, a takeout coffee in one hand and sleep in his eyes. You say hi. He says hey. He always holds the door for you.

It’s nothing. But it’s not nothing.

And then, one night—it’s something.

It starts with your friend’s voice, high and nervous. “I swear I had your keys. I swear they were just—fuck, okay, check your bag again—”

You’re too drunk to care. Or think. Or stand up straight

Your bag is wide open on the hallway floor, a war zone of receipts, gum wrappers, lip glosses with no caps, and an unopened pack of hot sauce packets you swear you didn’t steal from Taco Bell. Your friend is crouched beside it, frantically digging like she’s searching for buried treasure.

And that’s when the elevator dings.

You don’t even bother turning around. You’re too busy trying to balance one heel on top of a rogue pack of gum like it’s a tightrope.

Your friend, however, freezes. Then straightens sharply, whisper-hissing, “Oh shit—it’s your neighbor.”

You blink. “Which one?”

“The hot one.”

That gets your attention.

You turn—wobble—and there he is: Han. Grocery bag in one hand, hood halfway off, hair a little windblown. His eyes flick from your friend to you, then to the scene at your feet: your life in full chaotic display.

He pauses. Then says, with the softest little blink of disbelief,

“Uh… everything okay?”

You blink right back at him.

Then lean toward your friend—not subtly, not gracefully, and definitely not quietly—and whisper at full volume:

“You’re right, he is hot.”

It echoes.

Down the hall. Into the vents. Probably into the next dimension.

Your friend claps a hand over her mouth.

Han stares at you, frozen mid-step, grocery bag dangling like it no longer belongs to him.

You sway slightly. Flash him a winning, drunken grin. “Hi.”

His ears go pink.

He recovers with a cough and a quiet, “Hey.”

Your friend steps in, trying to salvage the moment. “She, um… lost her keys. And maybe her filter. And maybe also her last three brain cells.”

“I have at least five brain cells,” you argue, eyes still locked on Han like you’ve just spotted the last bottle of tequila on Earth. “Maybe six.”

“Okay,” your friend says sharply, grabbing your arm before you can say anything worse. “She’s drunk. She needs to sleep. You’re right next door. I trust you, I think. Will you—can you—?”

“I’ve got her,” Han says, voice gentle. Too gentle. Like he’s trying not to laugh but also trying not to die of second-hand embaressment.

He steps forward, freeing his hand long enough to steady you when you stumble again. His grip is warm, careful. You immediately lean into it like he’s a weighted blanket.

“Wow,” you murmur. “Strong and polite. A dangerous combo.”

He just smiles—shy and crooked, the way he always does when he doesn’t know where to put his face. “You good to walk?”

“No promises.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘maybe,’” he says, easing your arm over his shoulder.

Your friend sighs, already backing toward the stairs. “If she tries to seduce you, just tell her she cries at Disney movies and once got drunk and tried to fistfight a traffic cone.”

“I won, though,” you shout after her.

Han chuckles.

Your friend throws one last suspicious look over her shoulder, mouthing to Han, text me from her phone if she throws up, before disappearing down the stairwell.

And now it’s just you and Han.

And the heat of your skin pressed to his side.

And the wild, buzzing thought in your brain that you’ve never been this close to him before.

He shifts his weight. Glances down at you.

“You seriously okay?”

You nod. “I feel great.”

“You say that while using me as a crutch.”

“Yeah. But like—a sexy crutch.”

He laughs, head ducking slightly like he’s embarrassed for both of you.

But he doesn’t let go.

And he doesn’t stop smiling.

Han’s arm stays steady around you as he unlocks his door, grocery bag still dangling awkwardly from one wrist. He guides you inside carefully, flicking on the lights with his elbow and nudging the door shut behind you.

You blink, taking it in through a haze: tiny apartment, warm lighting, a bunch of wires and gear by the desk, no couch in sight.

He catches you swaying and steers you toward a plain padded chair by the wall. “Here, sit for a sec.”

You plop down like a ragdoll.

Han crouches in front of you instantly, gently tugging your heels off one at a time like he’s afraid you’ll tip over trying. “You good?” he murmurs, setting your shoes aside neatly. “Anything feel weird? Dizzy?”

You grin at him. “You’re so worried.”

He flushes instantly. “I just—yeah. I mean. You’re really drunk.”

“Yeah, but like, in a fun way.”

“Still,” he mutters, already handing you a bottle of water from the counter. “Drink this. Slowly.”

You take it. “You’re like a… a boyfriend. But like, a really responsible one. Like—tax-paying, call-my-mom-for-me energy.”

Han snorts and gets up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, you’re done talking now.”

“I’m not!” you call after him as he sets the grocery bag down. “I’m very interesting!”

He just shakes his head, trying (and failing) to hide his smile.

When you blink again, he’s in front of you, holding out a hand. “C’mon. Bed’s this way.”

You pause. “You only have one bed.”

His ears go pink. “You can take it.”

You squint. “Where are you gonna sleep?”

He shrugs, awkward. “Floor. I’ve got blankets.”

“That’s tragic.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

You pout but don’t argue as he pulls you gently to your feet again. You’re warm, wobbly, still clutching the water bottle like a security blanket, and when he steers you toward the bed, you barely resist at all.

He helps you sit, then hands you a second pillow and adjusts the blanket like he’s not trying to combust over how soft you look there. He’s halfway to standing up again when you tug the edge of the blanket higher and murmur:

“Thanks, Han.”

He’s still standing near the edge of the bed, half in the dark, blinking at you like you’ve just short-circuited every single brain cell in his head.

His voice is a little uneven when he says, “Y-Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You smile at him, all cozy and soft, limbs draped across his sheets like you belong there.

He doesn’t even know where to put his hands.

“I, uh—” He scratches at the back of his neck. “I still have a bit of work to do. Just mixing something. I’ll, um. Be over here.”

You blink up at him. “What kinda work?”

“Music stuff.” His voice cracks a little, and he clears his throat immediately. “I won’t bother you. You can—yeah, you can just pass out. All good.”

“You don’t mind me on your bed?”

Han stares at you for a second too long.

Then jerks his gaze away. “No. I—I mean. No, definitely not. Like, at all.”

He fumbles over to his desk, nearly knocking over a pair of headphones, and drops into the chair like his legs have forgotten how to bend properly.

You snuggle deeper into the mattress, dragging the blanket over your legs with a dramatic sigh. “This is comfy. You have good taste in sheets.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, clicking around on his laptop even though the track’s already loaded. 

You giggle.

He pretends not to notice.

You don’t see it—but his eyes flick to you constantly. Quick little glances when you shift, or sigh, or tuck your face into the pillow like it’s your new favorite thing. He can’t not look.

You yawn, cheek squished into his pillow. “You smell nice.”

He makes a sound that’s somewhere between a cough and a quiet plea for mercy. “You should, uh. Try to sleep.”

“Mhm.”

You don’t move.

Just keep lying there. All sweet and sleepy and tangled up in his blankets, on his bed, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And even though he should be focusing—he really, really should—

Han can’t stop smiling.

He turns back to his screen and presses play, the familiar beat fills his headphones, looping low and steady.

It’s not done—not even close. The layers are uneven, the bass too soft, the melody still fighting to find its place. But it’s something. And tonight, it’s the only thing keeping his hands busy while his mind refuses to stop thinking about you in his bed.

You’re quiet for a while.

He thinks maybe you’ve finally fallen asleep. You haven’t said anything in minutes, and your breathing’s slow, almost even. He lets himself glance over his shoulder.

You’re still awake.

Eyes open. Watching him.

You shift slightly under the blanket, cheek still pressed into his pillow. Your voice is soft, drowsy. “Can I hear it?”

He blinks. “What?”

“The track you’re working on,” you murmur. “Can I listen?”

Han’s heart does a somersault. Or maybe a backflip. Hard to tell through the static in his chest.

He turns fully in his chair. “Now?”

You nod, slow and lazy. “You promised. You said I could listen next time you made something new.”

Right. He had said that.

But not this one.

Not track twelve.

He fidgets with the headphone wire. “It’s not that one.”

You blink at him, confused.

“The one with the lo-fi strings,” he explains, voice quieter now. “Track twelve. I still haven’t finished it.”

“Oh.”

You don’t sound disappointed. Just curious.

He rubs a hand over his face, then offers a crooked little smile. “But you can hear this one. If you want.”

You nod again, eyes fluttering half-shut like the night is finally catching up to you.

He hesitates.

Then gently unplugs the headphones from the jack, letting the soft sound of the track fill the room.

It’s quiet. Dreamy. Bare bones but beautiful—slow, pulsing synth layered under a simple piano loop. There’s a vocal sample buried under the mix, something wordless and airy, like a breath that never ends.

You close your eyes fully this time, listening.

And Han watches you—watches the way your body relaxes into the sound, how your lips part just slightly, like the music is pulling something from you even in sleep.

He turns back to the screen, fingers hovering over the trackpad.

You speak again, barely above a whisper.

“It’s sad,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer.

“Not in a bad way,” you add quickly. “Just… it sounds like it’s missing something. Like it’s looking for something.”

Han swallows.

Yeah.

That’s exactly what it is.

He stares at the waveform on his screen and says, very softly, “I think it’s trying to say something I don’t know how to say yet.”

You don’t reply. Not right away.

When you do, your voice is already trailing off into sleep. “You don’t have to say it. It’s already in the music.”

And then you're still.

Breathing even. Eyes shut.

Han doesn’t move for a long time.

Just sits in the soft blue glow of his screen, heartbeat slowing down to match yours, wondering how the hell he’s supposed to finish a song when the thing it’s missing is falling asleep five feet away.

______________________________________________________________

It’s been months since that first night.

Since the couchless sleepover, since the drunken key fiasco, since you fell asleep to the sound of his unfinished song.

And in that time, Han has come out of his shell in the slowest, sweetest way possible.

At first, he was shy. Still the hoodie-wearing recluse with his eyes glued to Ableton and his words tucked somewhere behind clenched teeth.

But then he started showing up more. At your door with takeout. With headphones and half-finished demos. With quiet, tentative smiles that stretched wider the more you smiled back.

You got to know him.

He told you about Malaysia—about sticky summers and midnight noodles and the way his parents still call twice a week even though they’re oceans apart. He told you how he moved to Korea for college, studied for a year, and then dropped out when he realized his brain was wired for sound, not textbooks.

You told him about your life, too—your parents and their ever-shifting conditions for love, the apartment they still pay for, the degree you’re grinding out just to prove something. To who, you’re not even sure.

And Han—turns out he’s kind of a chatterbox. Once he’s comfortable, the boy talks. About anything. About everything. With his hands, with his whole face. About samples and synths and the absolute travesty that is powdered parmesan.

Now, it’s like this: casual, constant, inevitable.

You crash at his place sometimes—not because you're locked out, but just because. Sometimes you bring your laptop and do homework on his floor. Sometimes you nap in his bed while he works. You keep a toothbrush there now. A hoodie of his has quietly migrated to your closet.

You even invited him to your graduation this spring. “It’s not like my parents are coming,” you’d shrugged, and Han had just blinked at you, then said okay, like it wasn’t the biggest fucking deal.

He still blushes when you call him hot. Still won’t take the bed when you stay over. Still treats you like you might disappear if he lets himself want too much.

And today, you’re at your place—your couch this time, legs tangled together on either end, killing time the way only two people who are too comfortable with each other can.

Lazy game of truth or dare. No real stakes. Just soft laughter and shared snacks and the kind of questions that teeter between teasing and tender.

Han’s fingers are brushing against your ankle, casual and unthinking. The popcorn bowl is somewhere on the floor, long forgotten. You’re both half-reclined, cozy and loose, a tangle of limbs and friendship that’s been threatening to become something else for weeks now.

You’ve already dared him to do his worst celebrity impression, and he’d made you sing a jingle from one of your old childhood commercials. The kind of dumb, lazy game that only works when you trust someone enough not to twist the blade when things get close.

Now it’s his turn.

“Truth,” you say, yawning, stretching like a cat in the sun. “I’m feeling vulnerable.”

He gives you a look. One brow raised, fingers tapping thoughtfully against his thigh. “Okay. What was your best orgasm?”

You blink.

Then laugh.

He flushes instantly. “Shit—was that too far? I thought we were in the spicy round.”

“No, no,” you say, waving a hand, trying to keep your smile light. “It’s fair.”

But you don’t answer right away.

You sit there for a second, fiddling with the hem of your oversized sleep shirt. His question settles somewhere low in your stomach—not uncomfortable, just… exposed. Like a truth you’ve learned to laugh off before anyone can look too closely.

You glance at him, then say it—half-teasing, like a joke you’ve told a few times before.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Han blinks. “You wouldn’t—?”

You shrug. “Never had one. Not a good one. Not any, actually.”

There’s a pause. His brows lift, lips parting slightly, but you beat him to it with a raised hand and a crooked grin.

“I know, I know. Tragic. I’m either defective or cursed. It’s a toss-up.”

He doesn’t laugh.

You thought he might—just to lighten the mood. Maybe roll with the joke, keep it casual.

But Han’s expression softens instead. Slowly. Like he’s putting something together.

But Han’s expression softens instead. Slowly. Like he’s putting something together.

“That’s not funny,” he says, voice quiet. Barely a wrinkle of sound between you.

You blink. “It’s kind of funny.”

“No, it’s not.” He leans in a little, eyes searching yours. “And it’s definitely not true.”

You hold his gaze for a beat longer than you mean to. “Tell that to every guy I’ve slept with.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. Just says, soft but certain, “They don’t count.”

Something in your chest pulls tight.

You sit back, let out a soft exhale through your nose. Try again, lighter this time. “I mean, at some point, you start to wonder if it’s just you, right? Like maybe I missed a biological memo.”

“You didn’t,” he says, firm now. “You just haven’t been with someone who cared enough to figure you out.”

You snort softly, eyes dropping to his lips before flicking back up. “What, and you do?”

His breath catches, just slightly. But he doesn’t flinch.

“Yeah,” he says. Simple. Sure. “I do.”

You go quiet.

It’s not the answer that surprises you—it’s how steady he is when he says it. Like it’s not even a question in his mind. Like he’s already imagined it, already decided what he’d do if you ever let him.

That steadiness makes your throat go tight.

“Okay,” you say, voice quiet. “Then what would you do?”

Han shifts slightly, eyes locked on yours, his expression unreadable. Focused.

“I’d start slow,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like a line—it sounds like a plan. “Let you get used to being touched in a way that’s not… performative.”

You blink.

He leans in, just a little. Not close enough to touch. Not yet.

“I’d watch your face,” he continues, softer now, “and actually pay attention. I’d figure out what makes you squirm. What makes your breath catch. What makes you ask for more.”

Your pulse thrums at your throat, hot and sharp.

“I’d talk to you,” he murmurs. “Tell you what I’m doing. Tell you how fucking good you look while I’m doing it. Make sure you know every second that it’s about you.”

Your pulse thrums at your throat, hot and sharp.

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

Because Han is looking at you like he already has you spread out in his mind. Like he’s memorizing every microreaction, storing them away like he might need them later. Like he’s already tasting the sound you’ll make when he finally breaks you open.

Your voice comes out low. Barely there.

“That’s a lot of attention for one orgasm.”

Han’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not quite yet.

“I’m not aiming for one.”

You feel it in your chest—in your spine—the way his voice sinks into you. Low. Purposeful. Like he’s already in your skin, like the words themselves are a touch.

You can’t breathe.

He’s so close now, and still—still—not touching you. He could. He should. Your body is already leaning into the heat of him, legs still curled beneath you, the hem of your sleep shirt brushing high on your thighs. But he doesn’t move.

“Have you… done this before?”

He blinks. “Made someone come?”

You nod, quick, almost shy.

“Yeah.” His mouth lifts at one corner. “Why?”

You hesitate, eyes flicking over his face. “I… thought you were a virgin.”

Han blinks. Then he laughs—a soft, breathy thing that curls low in his throat.

“Wow,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck, his cheeks already going red. “That’s, uh… new.”

You’re not teasing anymore. Not really. Not with the way your eyes keep flicking over him—his mouth, his hands, the pink creeping up the slope of his neck. Not with how you’re sitting up straighter, how your thighs squeeze just slightly together without meaning to.

He notices.

And it flusters him, of course it does—he’s Han, after all. All nervous energy and soft-spoken charm. But there’s something else underneath it too. Something steady. Something you didn’t see before.

“You really think I’ve spent this much time listening to you fake it through the walls and didn’t fantasize about doing it better?”

Your breath catches. Hard.

His gaze doesn’t drop. Doesn’t falter.

And suddenly, you’re seeing him for what he is—really seeing him.

The slightly older boy next door. The dropout with big hands and bigger dreams. The quiet music producer who hides behind humor but notices everything. The same Han who always opened his door, always gave you the bed, always walked on the street side of the sidewalk—but now you realize he’s been wanting you the whole time.

And you missed it.

You look at him now—and you feel it.

The shift.

Because he’s still Han. Still hoodie-clad and sweet and overly cautious.

But he’s also a man.

And god, it’s hitting you all at once.

The way his eyes haven’t left your mouth. The way he says things like I’m not aiming for one with such quiet, devastating confidence. The way he can be so careful with you and still make your skin burn like he’s already touched you everywhere.

You swallow hard.

“So,” you murmur, voice dipping low, “you’ve done this before.”

His fingers twitch where they rest against his thigh. “Yeah.”

“How many girls?”

He blushes harder at that. Clears his throat. “I mean, not a lot.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m not—” he fumbles, flustered now, voice high-pitched with embarrassment, “—like, I’m not some sex god, okay?”

You giggle. Can’t help it.

He glares, weakly. “Don’t look at me like that.”

You lean in. Let your voice soften. “Like what?”

He shifts under your gaze, eyes flicking down again before returning to yours. “Like you’re surprised.”

“I am,” you whisper.

And you are.

Surprised by the heat in your belly. Surprised by the tension in his jaw, the way he’s not looking away now. Surprised by the fact that the Han you thought you knew—the one who panicked over burnt rice and once apologized to a houseplant—is sitting in front of you, cheeks flushed, voice low, practically thrumming with restraint.

And the restraint is unraveling. You can see it. You can feel it.

His hand is still resting on his thigh. Tense. Useless.

You want it on you.

He must know, must feel the shift in the air, because he breathes out through his nose—shaky, controlled—and finally moves.

Not to kiss you.

Not yet.

Just slides closer, knees brushing yours. Hands braced on either side of your thighs like he’s holding himself back from climbing into your lap. Like if he gets too close, he won’t be able to stop.

His voice is soft when it comes. Careful.

“I don’t wanna mess this up.”

You blink. “What?”

“This,” he says, eyes darting between yours. “You. Us.”

Your heart kicks.

“I’m serious,” he adds. “If you want me to stop, I will. Even if I’ve already started. Even if you change your mind in the middle. I need you to know that.”

You just look at him.

At his flushed cheeks, his trembling fingers gripping the couch cushion, the way his eyes won’t stay still—darting to your mouth, your thighs, your eyes again.

You don’t know how to say what’s clawing up your throat. Don’t know how to explain that you’ve never felt like this. Like you could fall apart and not have to put yourself back together alone.

So instead, you reach for him.

You thread your fingers through his, bring his hand to your thigh—bare skin under the edge of your sleep shirt—and press it there, warm and waiting.

His breath stutters.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His breath stutters.

That’s all it takes.

His fingers flex against your thigh—just a twitch, nothing urgent. But the heat of them sinks in deep. You can feel how careful he’s being, how tightly he’s holding the leash on himself, like he doesn’t trust what’ll happen if he moves too fast.

You tilt your hips slightly. Just enough.

He moves.

Slides his hand higher, beneath the hem of your sleep shirt. Knuckles grazing soft skin, the inside of your thigh, and you’re already trembling. The anticipation is thick—so much thicker than anything that’s come before it. Your body’s aching and he hasn’t even touched you where you need it yet.

Han breathes out slowly. You can hear the effort it takes not to rush.

His fingers reach your panties.

They’re soaked. Clinging to you. And he makes a sound in the back of his throat when he feels it—somewhere between a sigh and a groan, like it’s hurting him, how wet you already are.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“I’m trying not to.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, and leans in to kiss the corner of your mouth. “You can just let me take care of it.”

And you do.

You sink into the cushions and let his hand keep climbing. Let it trail over skin that’s already too hot, too tight, too aware. The hem of your shirt rides up over your hips as he moves, exposing soft skin and damp fabric.

He touches you through your panties first. Just a single stroke—up and down, slow, deliberate.

You jolt.

Your thighs twitch. Your hips tilt into his hand before you even mean to.

His fingers are steady. Gentle. No fumbling, no testing limits just to say he did. He strokes over the soaked cotton with maddening patience, slow enough that your body’s buzzing before he even slides them aside.

He strokes over the soaked cotton with maddening patience, slow enough that your body’s buzzing before he even slides them aside.

When he does, it’s with a breathless little sound—almost like awe.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice low and tight. “You’re so wet already.”

You shiver.

He doesn’t ask permission again. He doesn’t need to. Your legs fall open on instinct, your body already offering itself up like it’s been waiting for this. For him.

He dips his fingers into you with quiet care—just the first two, slow and unhurried, and it’s so much. Not just the stretch, not just the slick slide of it—it’s the way he groans like he can feel how good you feel around him. Like your body is turning him on just by existing.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “How has no one made you cum?”

You whimper.

“Seriously,” he says, fingers curling slightly inside you, rubbing against that spot that makes your toes curl. “You’ve got the prettiest fucking pussy I’ve ever seen. Wet and warm and just—fuck, baby.”

Your hips jolt when he says it—baby—and he notices. His mouth quirks.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, watching your face like it’s giving him instructions. “You like that. Being talked to while I fuck you with my fingers?”

You moan—helpless, high-pitched—and your hand shoots down to grab his wrist.

He stills immediately. “Too much?”

You shake your head. Or maybe you nod. You don’t even know anymore—your brain’s barely holding on, your body dragging you under, soaking up everything he gives like it’s the first drop of water in a drought.

He watches your reaction like it’s gospel. Like every twitch and gasp is holy.

“Thought so,” he says, and starts to move again—slow, controlled pumps of his fingers, careful not to lose that rhythm now that he’s found what works. The way your walls clench when he curls. The way your hips chase him when he retreats. The way your breath hitches when his palm drags across your clit just a little too hard.

And god, he uses it all.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes glued to where he’s working you open. “If this pussy was mine, I wouldn’t be able to leave you alone.”

You gasp.

“I’d keep you like this every night,” he says, voice thick now. “Stuffed, dripping, begging for it. Just like this.”

You keen, head falling back against the cushions, thighs straining around his wrist. Another twist of his fingers, another filthy curl, and you’re spiraling again—clenching, grinding, chasing something you’ve never actually caught before.

But it’s still not enough.

Close, so close. You can feel it in your gut, in the burn behind your eyes, in the way your whole body draws tight like a wire about to snap. But then it slips, slithers away like it always does, leaving you aching and wrung out and panting like you’ve been running in circles.

Han doesn’t stop.

He slows, sure. Eases off that pressure like he knows—like he felt the way you were peaking and watched it fall apart all over again.

Your breath stutters. Your hands tremble where they’re gripping the couch cushions. Your whole body shakes with the frustration of it.

Han looks fucking thrilled.

“Shit,” he whispers, eyes glued to the slick mess between your legs. “You’re gonna be a fucking problem, huh?

You whimper—shaky, half-desperate—and try to pull your legs closed, but his free hand slides up your thigh and keeps them open. He’s still panting, still hard in his sweats, and yet somehow entirely focused on you.

Your voice comes out broken. “I can’t—fuck, Han, I was so close—”

“I know, baby,” he murmurs, leaning over you. His fingers finally slip free, soaked and shining, and he brings them to his mouth like it’s nothing. Like tasting you is just a thing he does between breaths. “You’re so fucking pretty can’t believe no one’s ever made you come.”

He sucks one finger between his lips, humming low in his throat, and your entire body jerks.

He grins around his knuckle. Blushy. Sweet. Still Han, somehow—except his eyes are dark now, slow-burning, locked onto you with intent.

And when he speaks, it’s not teasing. It’s reverent.

“I knew you’d taste good,” he murmurs, dragging his hand down your thigh again. “Didn’t think you’d ruin me this fast, though.”

You squirm, still reeling from the touch of his fingers, still aching from how close you came—how it slipped just out of reach. Your panties are somewhere around your knees now, tangled and damp, and your thighs are trembling despite the warmth of the room.

But Han doesn’t give you time to settle.

He drops back down between your legs like it’s instinct.

Like he belongs there.

You brace for it—his mouth, his tongue—but nothing prepares you for how intentional it is.

Because when he licks you, it’s not just lust. It’s devotion.

The first press of his tongue is slow, hot, drawn out like he’s tasting something forbidden. It drags through your folds, slick and maddening, before he pulls back just slightly and exhales a shaky breath against your cunt like it’s worship.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You’re so fucking sweet. So wet—dripping for me, baby.”

Your hips jerk. A soft moan tears from your throat, helpless and startled.

He hums at the sound. And then his tongue is on you again—lapping, curling, sliding in lazy circles around your clit, not rushed, not rough. Patient.

But it’s overwhelming.

Too much and somehow still not enough.

You gasp, spine arching. Your thighs twitch against his shoulders again and he presses his hands there—holding you open, keeping you still. His grip is firm, grounding. Gentle only in contrast to the way he eats you.

He groans low when your hips roll, when your slick coats his lips and chin. Like it turns him on more than anything else. Like this is the part he needs.

He devours you like he’s starved for it.

Like he’s been thinking about this—you—for longer than he’s willing to admit. Tongue slow but deliberate, savoring every stroke, every gasp you give him. He doesn’t speak now, doesn’t need to. The sounds alone—your moans, the wet suck of his mouth, the way your breath stutters every time he flattens his tongue against your clit—say enough.

But it’s your reactions that do it. The way your body jumps every time he moves just right. The way your hands scramble for the couch cushions, for him, like you don’t know what else to hold onto. The way your thighs clamp around his head when he groans into your cunt.

That’s when he realizes.

You’ve never been eaten out before.

It hits him all at once—in the way you shiver, in the way your body doesn’t quite know how to take the pleasure he’s giving. There’s something raw about it. Uncharted. Holy.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tease. Just lets the knowledge settle deep in his chest like a vow.

So he slows down. Not to drag it out—to care. To guide you through it.

He pulls back just slightly, presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another one, lower, softer. You can feel his breath against your skin, shaky and uneven, like you are unraveling him just by letting him do this.

He kisses down, worshipful, open-mouthed presses of tongue and lips trailing toward where you’re slick and trembling—until he’s back on you, groaning deep in his chest like he needs this to survive.

He laps at your cunt like a man obsessed. Messy, wet, obscene.

His tongue flicks fast over your clit, sloppy and relentless, and when you whimper—high and panicked—his hands tighten on your thighs, dragging them wider, pushing you open like he can’t get enough. His nose presses into the soft swell of you and his mouth won’t stop.

And god—god, the noises.

The slick suck of his mouth, the soft wet licks between your folds, the broken, wanton moans he keeps letting out like your taste is fucking euphoric.

Your thighs are trembling against his cheeks, toes curling against the cushions, hands fisting in the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this plane of existence. Every time you start to come down, he drags you right back up—tongue flicking, then flattening, then sucking.

You’re soaking him. You know it. Can feel the slick mess coating his lips, his chin, now—but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t even flinch. Just dives in deeper, grinds his mouth against you like it’s the only thing that matters.

And maybe it is.

You’ve never made sounds like this before. Never felt anything like this. It’s a full-body unraveling—pleasure so raw and high-pitched it’s almost unbearable. You can’t even find words anymore. You try—gasp out his name, maybe a plea, maybe a warning—but it’s just breath. Just noise.

He hears it anyway.

Groans in response, and the vibration shoots through you—tightens every nerve, every muscle. You feel it everywhere. In your spine, in your belly, in your fucking teeth.

He licks through your folds like he’s trying to commit the shape of you to memory, tongue dragging over your clit in slow, hard laps now—intentional, devastating. One hand lets go of your thigh to slide underneath you, to lift your hips, tilt you toward his mouth like an offering.

Like you’re his altar and he’s ready to worship.

You don’t even realize you're crying until the tears hit your cheeks—silent and sudden, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it, the depth of it, the relentlessness of him.

Jisung doesn’t notice.

Or maybe he does and just thinks it’s holy.

Because he’s still moaning against your cunt like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Like this is salvation. Like this is his first time, too.

The warmth is unbearable. Sharp and sweet and all-consuming, climbing up your spine in thick, molten waves that won’t stop—won’t let you go. Your muscles are locking up, your breath catching in your throat, your fingers cramping from how tight you're clenching the cushions.

You’re going to break.

You know it.

You want to.

And he just keeps going—tongue pressed flat and firm against your clit now, dragging in slow, filthy circles while his lips suck softly, reverently, like he’s trying to love you apart piece by piece.

You feel it snap somewhere deep inside you.

The heat—the ache—the need—it peaks.

And then it bursts..

Your thighs clamp around his head, your hips jerk off the couch, your moan rips loose from your throat like you’ve been silenced your whole life and this is the only language your body ever needed to speak.

You’re cumming. Hard. Helpless.

Everything pulses—your cunt, your chest, your fingers. Every nerve is alight, every inch of you clenched and shaking, your whole body seized in the grip of something so big you can’t name it.

And Jisung doesn’t stop.

Not when your legs twitch.

Not when your body tries to squirm away.

Not even when you sob his name, high and wrecked, too sensitive to breathe.

He eats it up. Literally.

Groaning low in his throat, nose pressed to your mound, tongue still working your clit like he wants to wring another orgasm out of you before this one’s even ended. You try to stop him, legs trembling, fingers pushing at his hair with barely any strength behind them.

But he just moans again, long and loud and ruined, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“H-Han—” you gasp, voice cracked and teary.

But he can’t stop. He won’t.

You’ve broken open for him—shattered for him—and it’s like something inside him snapped too. His mouth keeps moving, lapping through your folds like he’s addicted, like he needs the taste of you to live, sucking every drop from your body like he’s trying to memorize it.

You try again to push him off. This time with real effort. A desperate shove, your fingers fisting in his hair and yanking—not hard, not mean, but urgent.

“Han, please—”

He finally pulls back.

Gasps.

His chest is heaving. His mouth is slick and swollen, the lower half of his face soaked in your release, and he blinks up at you like he forgot where he is.

“Shit—fuck, I’m sorry, I—” he pants, voice wrecked, dazed.

Then he looks down.

And groans.

Because you’re still dripping.

Slick pooling out of you, slow and obscene, catching the light as it runs in glistening streaks down the curve of your pussy and the swell of your ass, soaking the couch beneath you.

And he can’t help himself.

His hands slide up your thighs again—possessive, reverent—and before you can stop him, he leans back in.

One long, filthy lick—from your entrance to your clit—slurping up everything you spilled. He moans as it hits his tongue, deep and satisfied, and swirls it around like he’s tasting honey.

He pulls back just far enough to look at you.

Face flushed, lips swollen and slick, chin glossy with your release. His eyes are glassy—fucked-out and starving and soft in a way that shouldn’t match the filth of what he just did to you. But somehow it does.

Somehow, it makes it worse.

He’s panting like he just ran miles. Sweat dampens his curls, his hoodie clings to his chest, and his cock is still straining hard against his sweats—visibly aching. But he doesn’t even look at himself. Doesn’t even care.

He’s still looking at you.

At the mess he made.

At your cunt—pink and soaked and fluttering with aftershocks, spread open on the couch like he carved you out just for him.

And he fucking smiles.

“Jesus,” he breathes, dragging his thumb along your inner thigh, slow and lazy, eyes still locked on the slick between your legs. “You’re unreal.”

You’re still trembling—wrung out, flushed, completely silent now except for the shattered sound of your breath.

But he isn’t done.

Not really.

Because then his thumb moves—trails closer, closer, until it’s swiping through the slick seam of you, collecting it, spreading it.

You flinch, hips twitching, breath hitching on a wrecked little gasp.

He freezes.

“Sorry—shit, sorry,” he murmurs, voice gone soft in the edges. “You’re probably so fucking sensitive right now.”

You nod, dazed. Barely. You’re not even sure you meant to.

But his eyes drop back down—and the sight of your cunt twitching under his touch, the way slick is still dripping out of you, slow and shiny, pooling where your thighs meet—

It short-circuits whatever restraint he had left.

“Can I…” he starts, already leaning in again, lips parted, breath ragged. “Just—one more taste, baby. Please.”

And before you can answer, he’s there again.

Licking into you.

Tongue flat and greedy, slow and deep, sliding through the wreckage he left behind like he needs it to breathe. He moans—loud—when it coats his tongue, when it drips down his chin, when he presses another kiss to your clit like he’s thanking it for everything.

You can’t stop shaking.

From how tender he’s being while still devouring you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. From how overwhelmed your body feels—stretched between too much and not enough, oversensitive but still wanting.

He doesn’t rush now. Doesn’t try to make you cum again.

This is different.

It’s reverent. Like he’s cleaning you up with his mouth, dragging his tongue through every slick drop, pressing soft kisses into the mess like he’s trying to soothe the tremble in your thighs.

You whimper, just once—raw and hoarse.

That’s when he stops for real.

You sigh into his mouth, quiet and trembling, the kind of sound that only comes when everything inside you is raw—peeled back, exposed, open. He swallows it like it’s precious. Like it matters.

His hand at your waist shifts, pulling you gently forward until your chest brushes his. You’re still bare from the waist down—thighs sticky, breath uneven—and he’s still clothed, still hard, still aching beneath his sweats.

But he doesn’t grind against you.

Doesn’t ask for anything.

He just holds you.

Your knees fall around his hips, lazy and loose, and his thumb strokes the hinge of your jaw—slow, absent, like he needs the contact to stay calm.

The kiss deepens. Not with hunger. With heat. With reverence. His lips move against yours like he wants to memorize the shape of your mouth, your breath, the taste of your tongue mixed with your own arousal.

You break first—pulling back just a fraction to breathe, eyes fluttering open.

He’s already looking at you.

And there’s something in his gaze that wasn’t there before. Something stunned. Struck. Soft.

He whispers, “You okay?”

You nod. Maybe too fast. You feel stripped down to something small and shaking, something new—but his hand doesn’t leave you. His thumb still brushes your cheek. His chest still rises and falls like he’s feeling everything with you.

You whisper back, “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

Jisung exhales a laugh—wrecked and wrecking.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, leaning forward again to press a kiss to your cheek, then another to your temple. “Then I guess we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

You don’t even realize you’re smiling until he kisses it. Presses his lips right there, at the corner of your mouth, so gentle it makes your eyes sting all over again.

There’s a beat of silence—thick and golden, warm between the ruined rhythm of your breathing.

Then he asks, quieter this time, “Can I hold you for a while?”

And god. You’ve never wanted anything more.

______________________________________________________________

The crowd pours out of the auditorium like a tide—caps slightly askew, diplomas clutched tight, families gathered in little clusters of congratulations and cameras. Laughter. Shouts. The click of heels and the flutter of gowns. You scan the crowd, heart racing, eyes darting.

And then you see him.

Leaning awkwardly against a tree, holding a slightly crumpled bouquet of grocery store flowers and dressed in the nicest outfit you’ve ever seen him wear. Still a hoodie—because he’s him—but it’s black and clean and zipped halfway up over a plain white tee. His hair’s been pushed back, curls tamed, face soft in the sunlight.

Like he wanted to look good.

For you.

You run.

Full sprint, no hesitation. Laughing, radiant, the hem of your gown flying behind you. And Jisung barely has time to react before you crash into his arms—legs wrapping around his waist, face buried in his neck.

He catches you without thinking. Arms locked tight around your back, holding you like the whole world could fall away and he’d still have you.

“Jesus—hi,” he breathes, stunned, grinning into your shoulder. 

“You came,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to look at him, eyes glassy and sunlit.

“Of course I came,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “I wouldn’t miss this.”

You swallow, smile trembling just a little. You’re still holding your cap too tightly. Still searching the crowd behind him, over his shoulder, behind trees and between cars—hoping.

And Jisung sees it.

Sees the flicker in your expression when you realize no one else is coming. No familiar voices calling your name. No parents weaving through the crowd, late and disheveled but here. Nothing.

Just him.

You try to play it off—force a smile, tilt your head.

But Jisung just exhales, jaw tight, eyes warm and sharp.

“Hey,” he says softly, tipping your chin up. “Fuck ‘em.”

Your breath hitches—more from the way he says it than what he says. No apology. No pity. Just truth, blunt and biting and yours.

“Fuck ‘em,” he says again, firmer this time. “They don’t get to take this from you.”

And something in you cracks. Not the kind that breaks—the kind that lets light in.

Your cap slips from your hand to the pavement. You don’t even notice. You just lean forward and let your forehead rest against his, eyes fluttering shut as the noise of the world fades away.

“I thought it wouldn’t matter,” you whisper. “That I didn’t care.”

He nods like he already knew. Lets his hand fall to the small of your back, thumb tracing slow circles through the fabric of your gown.

“But it does,” you admit.

“Of course it does,” he murmurs. “You deserved more than this.”

You pull in a shaky breath. Exhale. Nod against him.

And then you laugh—quiet, almost startled. “God, you look nice.”

He pulls back just enough to give you a crooked smile. “You noticed?”

You sniffle, wiping under your eyes. “You did your hair.”

“I used product and everything,” he says solemnly, and that makes you laugh for real this time. His face lights up at the sound. Then, like he remembers something, his eyes go wide and he fumbles for something in his pocket.

“Wait—here. Got you something.”

You raise a brow as he pulls out a pair of slightly beat-up white AirPods and holds them out like they’re wrapped in silk.

“Your... earwax?” you tease, voice still thick, but lighter now.

Jisung groans, face going red. “Just put them in, smartass.”

You give him a look, lips twitching like you’re holding back another laugh, but you take them. Slip them in with practiced ease, still smirking, still sniffling a little.

And then—

You hear it.

Soft at first. A low, warm hum of synth. That familiar piano progression you’ve heard a hundred times echoing from his bedroom speakers, half-finished and always evolving. A quiet heartbeat of static underneath, the sound of something personal, unfinished—

But not this time.

Now it’s whole.

The bass comes in slow. The melody rises. The rhythm finds its footing like it’s been waiting for you.

Then his voice.

His voice.

Low. Raw. Stripped back and unfiltered, like he recorded it in the middle of the night, barefaced and half asleep. It’s not polished. It’s intimate. Each lyric laid out like a confession, like he’s pressing it directly into your chest.

You freeze.

Your mouth parts, but no words come out. You just stare at him—eyes wide, breath caught, the world suddenly nothing but him and the song in your ears.

Jisung watches you closely, fidgeting, clearly trying to read your face.

“I, uh… I finally finished it,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Track 12. I—kind of stayed up all night working on it. Wanted you to be the first to hear it.”

You swallow hard. “You—wrote this… for me?”

He nods, sheepish. “Well, yeah. Who the fuck else would it be for?”

You blink at him, still stunned, still half-floating somewhere between the melody and his smile.

The music wraps around you like a secret, like sunlight through a window. His voice in your ears. His eyes on your face. His hands fidgeting at his sides, picking at the edge of his hoodie sleeve, suddenly nervous like he didn’t just lay his heart bare in a three-minute track.

And then he says it.

Quiet. Almost like it slips out.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your breath stutters.

He panics a little, eyes going wide, hands gesturing now like he’s trying to physically catch the words and shove them back into his mouth.

“I mean—not in like, a weird, ‘I wrote you a song and now you have to marry me’ way. I just—I’ve been in love with you for a while, and I didn’t know how to say it. And then I kept not saying it, and then you let me eat you out on your couch and I was like, oh cool, guess I’m definitely in love with her—”

You stare at him.

Mouth slightly open. Ears still ringing with his voice from the track. Face flushed from the heat of him and the way he’s unraveling in front of you, hands flailing, words tumbling out too fast, too honest, too him.

“And now I’m saying it,” he rushes on, breath hitching. “And maybe it’s too soon or maybe it’s stupid but—fuck, I don’t care. I love you. And I don’t just mean in the afterglow, post-head, 'wow-she’s-so-pretty-when-she’s-cumming' kind of way—which, like, you are—but I mean in the real way. In the way where I think about you all the time and you’re in my music and my coffee and my fucking laundry detergent because you smell like it now—”

You cut him off with a laugh—soft and stunned, the kind that comes from something blooming too fast in your chest. Your hands reach for him instinctively, palms pressed to his chest like you’re trying to slow his heart down, or maybe match yours to it.

Then lean up and kiss him.

He melts into it—hands landing on your waist like he’s afraid you’ll float off if he doesn’t hold you down. His mouth is soft, a little shaky, like he still can’t believe this is happening. Like he’s kissing you with both hands behind his back, offering up his heart like a truce.

When you pull back, your forehead rests against his.

You’re smiling. He is too, in that breathless, stunned way—like you’ve both finally exhaled.

“I’m in love with you too,” you whisper.

He chokes out a sound. Somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “No shit?”

You nod. “No shit.”

Jisung blinks, then grins—slow and wide and boyish.

He just stands there, still holding you, like his body hasn’t caught up with what just happened.

Like he's trying to memorize this moment—your smile, your closeness, the soft heat of your hands resting over his heart.

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something else. Closes it again.

Then settles for a quiet, breathless, “...Okay.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Okay?”

He nods, dazed. “Yeah. Just… okay. Everything’s okay now.”

You lean into his chest, let your head fall to his shoulder. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months. His arms wrap around your waist again, this time more certain. More steady.

And for a moment, neither of you says anything.

The crowd is still bustling in the background. Cameras flashing. Tassels swinging. Parents calling names that don’t belong to you. The sound of it used to sting—but not now. Not with him holding you like this. Not with the song still echoing in your ears, a private chorus written just for you.

You glance up. “So what now?”

He looks down at you, still smiling like he doesn’t know how to stop.

“We go home,” he says. “Order too much food. Fall asleep on the couch. Pretend we’re not both crying during The Office reruns.”

You snort. “That’s your big plan?”

He leans in, nudges your nose with his. “No,” he murmurs, softer now. “My big plan is to love you for a really, really long time.”

Your heart stutters.

And it’s so simple—so quiet, so uncomplicated—but it wraps around you like warmth, settles deep in your bones like something you forgot you were allowed to want.

You tip forward and kiss him again, just once. Just enough.

“Sounds like a good plan,” you whisper.

He grins. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Eventually, your fingers find his, threading together as the crowd begins to thin. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze, grounding and sure.

You glance down at the flowers, still clutched in your other hand—slightly crushed, petals soft and folding in from the heat. But they’re yours. Someone showed up. Someone stayed.

You’re walking away with his hand in yours, the sun dipping low behind you, the final track still playing softly in your head.

It ends the way all good songs do.

Quiet.

Certain.

It was him, yet again. It was very easy to spot him as he always took the same spot where he was now at the far corner of the classroom where everybody blatantly ignored him.

But not you though. You could have burned a hole in this guy's skull with how hard you stared at him every single time you saw him. How could you not? The way his rigid posture sat straight as he tuned the world out with his earphones and the way his uninterested eyes would scan all over the room definitely caught your eye.

And you knew that everybody in the classroom did, too. But that was the thing, you weren't aloof to all the sneers and snickers they sent towards his direction.

You tapped the person sitting to your left, who just also happened to be one of your best friends, without leaving your sights on the mysterious man that already made your heart beat unknowingly. "Hey, who's that again?"

You've been in this particular class, the only class you share, but for some reason, you never did bother to ask. Until now.

Yunho glances behind him with a small frown, following the direction of where your index finger was pointing. His brows tilt up ever so slightly as you watch his face slowly transform into that of recognition.

"Kang Yeosang," he said more as a surprise rather than a statement. He turns back to look at you inquisitively. "Very smart, like, really damn smart, but that's not what a lot of people notice at first."

He was right. You were guilty as charged, though, because it was also the reason why you were suddenly interested in him. 

Yeosang wore a face mask that covered half of his face from his nose to his chin. Now, that part wasn't odd in itself since everybody wore them once in a while for whatever reason that may be, but Yeosang wore them literally everywhere. He never took them off, at least, from what you know.

But that was definitely the case. Again, you weren't privy to all the whispers that travelled in the air. Kang Yeosang literally never took the mask off of his face. Nobody has ever seen what the guy looked like.

"Don't be judgmental," you murmured, forcing your head to look forward. "Nobody does something different for absolutely no reason at all." 

"I didn't say anything like that," Yunho counters. "I do admit that it is a bit odd, but hey, whatever works. I mean, look..."

He dug something out of his coat pocket. A small, compact mirror. You raised a brow at Yunho, but he shrugs it off. He angled the mirror and then you realized what he was doing. 

"He's already good-looking with that thing on," Yunho muttered under his breath as you both looked at Yeosang. "Imagine if he actually took that mask off? There will be no pussy left for everyone in this building."

You rolled your eyes dramatically, ignoring his crass statement. What Yunho said, though, you couldn't refute. 

Even with the face mask covering almost the majority of his face, there was no denying that Yeosang was simply gorgeous. There was an itch for you to do something about the mask, but you willed them to go away. It was none of your business.

A pang hits your chest. You suddenly felt bad for him, people were just mean for no definitive reason. It shouldn't have mattered that Yeosang wanted to wear a mask, hell, even if he wore a chicken mascot costume it was still none of everybody's business.

But alas. Such is human nature.

Your class had started, and as usual, it was a bore. Still, you had to endure it for your grades. You couldn't concentrate, however, as your mind kept drifting to the mysterious man who sat at the far corner of the classroom away from prying eyes.

Against your better judgment, you swiveled your head once more to take a good look at him, but your heart leapt to your throat when you made eye contact with him. That meant he was already looking in your direction before you turned.

Your jaw slackened, your heart beating faster and faster you were afraid it would jump out of your ribcage, as you stared into his eyes. They were captivating. It was the understatement of the century. His eyes were a home for a tempest that raged without end.

In short, they were dead. At some point, you were sure that his eyes were once alive because despite the horrors that hid them, you could tell he had a beautiful soul.

A soul that you didn't have anymore, for the moment that your eyes had met his, it was over. He stole it from you just as fast as the light from his eyes was stolen, as well.

Dryness covered your entire mouth when his brow raised in question, challenging you to say something to him since you were staring at him so intently.

You were rendered frozen in your seat. Not for nothing, but he must be doing something to hypnotize you. Yeah, that was probably it, why else would you stay unmoving for the favour of staring at him?

Yeosang tilted his head in curiosity, leaning back on his seat to get comfortable. He crossed his arms, eyes not breaking their contact with yours. You gulped, even his gestures were so fascinating.

There was a world within this classroom, and the only inhabitants in it were you and Yeosang. Forget your class, it was too late for that because you'd already lost yourself in this. Nobody paid attention to the both of you, and nobody had noticed what was going on.

Not even when everybody had started standing up since class was over had distracted you. The one that did, however, was Yunho's hand wrapping around your arm to catch your attention.

You jumped at the touch, your head snapping quickly in his direction, eyes widened, clearly startled. Yunho chuckled in amusement at your expression. "You okay? You seemed pretty lost there," he asked.

You robotically turned back to answer Yunho. "Yeah, I'm good," you cleared your throat. "Just a bit distracted, boring class, you know?"

"Right," Yunho drawled, eyes squinting in suspicion. He stood up, his sling bag on his shoulder already, and smoothly picked up your tote that contained all your notes. "Anyhow. Jongho's already ordered us some brunch, we have to go."

You nodded, hesitantly standing up, watching as Yunho went ahead to the exit and started talking to another friend of his. 

When you looked back at that particular spot, you were disheartened to see that Yeosang was already gone. 

Your eyes tried to find the masked brunette, but no such luck. He must have rushed out the moment you looked away.

What a shame, you thought with an internal pout. You followed Yunho with an aimless gait through the halls, you trusted him to get you to where you needed to go because you didn't even trust yourself right now.

You've always been a sucker for the eccentric. While you didn't think Yeosang was one per se, you were just so sick of normalcy. It wasn't entirely for you.

"Right on time, lazy bums," Jongho smirked, standing up as you and Yunho both approached him. "I already paid for everything---don't even fucking think about it."

Yunho paused, mouth agape, the hand that held his wallet frozen in the air. "C'mon, dude. You can't do this every time. We just want to hang out."

Jongho sat back down, gesturing for the both of you to sit down. "Yeah, well, I asked for it, so it's a no-brainer, yes?"

Yunho rolled his eyes, temporarily accepting defeat, because you all knew none of you would win. Choi Jongho was born into a family that had conglomerates everywhere. He had the money, which you and Yunho had made clear that you didn't need, but he did it, anyway.

You inched a bit closer to Jongho and gave him a small peck on his cheeks. "Thanks, baby bear. But Yunho's right. We can pay for our stuff."

Jongho jokingly pushed you away, making you giggle softly. He hastily rubbed the spot you pecked. "Don't ever do that again," he groaned. "And stop being an ungrateful brat. I swear I need new friends."

You smiled a bit, your lips pursed with the action. It didn't reach your eyes, Jongho noticed. He raised a brow to stare at Yunho, who only shrugged.

You realized that the three of you were in a cafe near the college grounds. The ambience was nice, but you couldn't remember the last time where you just sat like this, enjoying the moment with your friends, and simply just passing time.

Your appetite had long gone, but you couldn't tell Jongho that since he'd paid for the food. You had to at least pretend you were enjoying it. At least, they were. Yunho chuckled at something Jongho said, but you didn't even hear it.'

A certain brunette flashed in your mind again. You paused, suddenly wondering what he was doing. You knew it was ridiculous, Yeosang probably thought you were ridiculous. 

You wanted to dig a hole and bury yourself in it, cringing at the fact that Yeosang probably thought that you were staring at him just to make fun of him, just like the rest. You weren't, though, but he possibly can't know that.

You were pulled out of your thoughts when the distinct clatter of utensils hit your ears. It was Jongho's doing, you frowned in confusion. 

"Alright, what the hell is wrong with you?" Jongho demanded, leaning his elbow on the table, twisting his body so he'd face you. "You've been so distracted the entire time and it's getting on my nerves."

You glanced up at him and stared at him for a good couple of seconds. He wasn't going to yield, so you couldn't keep the eye contact you started. It suddenly got difficult to swallow with how dry your throat was getting. 

"I'm just tired," you mumbled, sounding unconvincing even to yourself. "Don't worry about it."

"Oh, cut the crap," Yunho interjected, cluttering his utensils in a comical way that you couldn't help but let out a real smile. "I know why you're like this. It's Kang Yeosang, isn't it?"

You blushed beet red. You supposed to weren't discreet. The intensity in which your scalp tingles at the mention of his name was electrifying, the sensation akin to when you met eyes with each other prior to this.

Jongho's brows reached his hairline, his expression turning from curious to one of complete surprise. "Yeosang? Flower-looking dude, pale skin, about 'ye height?" Jongho gestured to his own height. "How do you know him?"

You and Yunho looked at each other before turning to Jongho in suspicion. "I have one class with him," you admitted.

"How do you know him?" Yunho questioned with scrutiny. 

Jongho hesitated. He looked between you and Yunho repeatedly for what seemed like a while, before he sighed deeply, looking around him cautiously. When he saw that the coast was clear, he leaned closer. You and Yunho did the same.

"You didn't hear this from me," he said, eyes hard. "Yeosang is, was, my childhood friend. Remember my friend that I always spoke about that always had my back?"

It clicked, and you nodded. "That's him? But you said he's very funny and talkative," you blurted out without thinking. You were genuinely flabbergasted. 

Jongho drummed his fingers on the table, a faraway look in his eyes present before he spoke again. "Something happened that made him the way he is now," he cryptically explained. "It's not my story to tell. All I ask is to not judge him."

You elbowed Yunho and sassed at him with your eyes, signaling with the 'I-told-you-so' look. He smirked, pushing your elbow away.

"Little Miss Y/N here," Yunho sarcastically gestured to you, then ruffled your hair messily. "Has a bit of a crush with your childhood friend---"

"Shut up, I definitely do not," you hissed, though it didn't have any bite to it. You didn't know it was possible for your face to be redder than it already was, but here you were.

Just then, Jongho started laughing, his voice bellowing loudly in the small confines of the cafe, earning your table stares, but you couldn't care less. His gummy smile had always been contagious, so it was no surprise when you started laughing along with him.

"It's such a shame, though," Jongho chuckled away the remnants of his laughter with a small shake of his head. "I know Yeosang even though we fell apart. You're definitely his type, down to a T."

Yunho started to laugh but nodded his head in agreement anyway. "I could see that, honestly. Mingi has a thing or two for you."

"No, he doesn't," you rolled your eyes. Song Mingi was the campus crush, and you did have a crush on him before, but that ship had long sailed and it was fleeting anyway. "What makes you say that, though, Jongie?"

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know?" Jongho smirked, playfully teasing you, much to your chagrin. 

You groaned. "Seriously!"

Of course, you weren't going to tell him that you were definitely curious now. You also weren't going to tell him that you were going to use this information to your advantage.

Jongho flicked your forehead lightheartedly. "He likes cute things, plain and simple," he shrugged, side-eyeing you. "That includes potential girlfriends, too."

The mischief in that Cheshire-like smile that was bigger than anything you've ever seen. You were glad he crossed his arms and leaned back on his seat, you didn’t want him in your face.

That didn't mean you weren't going to think about what he said for days, though.

Unfortunately, you hadn't really seen Yeosang anymore after that. 

He didn't attend the once-a-week class the next week, and you couldn't attend the one the following week. You had an unlucky bout of allergy due to the pollen going around campus. All Yunho did that whole day he visited was roll his eyes at your antics.

You were hoping to cross paths with him again, even though you knew you weren't going to talk to him anyway. You just wanted to take one more peek at him before you continued on with your life.

Yeah, totally not creepy. 

"Good morning, Y/N."

You were forced out of your thoughts when a voice from behind you sounded. You were currently in front of the professors' lounge early in the morning.

"Oh! Good morning, Mr. Park, I'm so sorry to disturb you so early in the morning," you bowed deeply in the presence of  your professor. 

"It's quite alright, dear," Park Seonghwa, your professor in that one class you missed, chuckled. You couldn't help but loosen up, he really was your favourite professor and you respected him a lot. 

He opened his briefcase to get out a stack of papers. "I hope everything is fine on your end? Here, take them," he handed them to you.

You nodded, explaining that it was pollen and that it was fine now. "Wonderful," he said. "Regardless, I expect my star student in my class next week. Good day."

"Thank you, Professor," you bowed one more time before you completely walked away.

There were more notes than expected, you realized that as you riffled through them, skimming just to get a general gist from where you stopped and where you should begin to catch up.

You weren't one of those students that studied a lot, but you also weren't careless about your grades. You just wanted to get by, and you were just lucky that all your professors remember and like you well enough to give you some notes when you miss some classes.

You sighed, contemplating what to do. With all these notes, you had to concentrate on them for a day or two. Final was coming and you didn't have enough time to study the following days. 

To the library it is, you decided. Your feet were already taking you to that sacred place that you love so much. And when you entered, your mood instantly lifted.

You loved how empty the space was, yet it was extensive in nature. It was the perfect labyrinth to get trapped in; once you get inside the minds of great authors or whatnot and relive the adventures, the sorrow, and the laughter imprinted and immortalized by the writings in the pages of their books, you can never leave.

It was perfect. You approached the front desk so you could greet your friend who was working part-time to sustain his scholarship. He didn't notice you at first, but when he did, he was all smiles. 

"Well, look who we have here," he smirked, closing the book he, himself, held in his hand. "Good to see you, Y/N."

You chuckled softly so as to not break the peace. "Likewise, Kim Hongjoong," you nodded. "I need a couple of books about these for my finals..."

Hongjoong gently took the notes Professor Park gave you and scanned them quickly before doing whatever it was he needed to do on his computer. He wrote a series of numbers on the paper before handing them back to you.

"I put the aisles and shelf numbers on every book you need," he murmured, pointing them out. "Shouldn't be too difficult to find."

"Got it. I appreciate the help, Joong," you thanked him. He nodded and waved you off, dismissing you. You couldn't help but laugh under your breath.

Just like he said, the books weren't too difficult to find, and soon, you found yourself with a stack of them. You were pleased when you found that your favourite spot was free, and so, you studied away.

You lost yourself in the process, like you always did when you started, but along the way, there was an itch in your neck that was begging to be noticed.

Subconsciously, you looked up, and your world stopped along with your heart.

Yeosang, too, was busying himself with a stack of his own books. Of course, he still wore that mask on his face, but there was something different about him from the last time you had seen him.

His hair was styled up in a way that looked effortlessly good, his forehead was a bit exposed and you were able to see his eyes clearly this time even though his nose was deep in the book he held. 

He was a couple of tables away from you, isolated from everybody at the very end of the library where you knew not a lot of people went. It reminded you of the way he sat down in your class.

His presence just engulfed you, and you didn't know why. The grip you had on your book would've been suffocating had it been alive, you couldn't stop staring at Yeosang.

His brown cashmere coat perfectly complemented his physique; it made him look very masculine. His cropped out hair fitted him well, and the way he carried himself interested you so much.

The way his fingers moved to turn the pages of his book mesmerized you, brought you into a world where you wondered what it would feel like if that hand was holding yours. He wasn't even doing anything but sit down like someone would in a library, yet he simply exuded grace and elegance.

You knew then and there, that this wasn't just a fleeting crush on a man that doesn't even know your name.

Ever since then, you made an effort to go the library every single day just to peek a glance on Yeosang. Whether it was hours or minutes to an end, you didn't mind. Of course, you didn't want to be borderline creepy, there were times where you actually needed to study and so many times where you didn't realize that he had left because you were so engrossed with your work.

His schedule was simple, you learned that he'd go to the library every other day either to just read or actually study. You took note of the books he read, they were way too advanced for you. Yunho wasn't lying - this man was intelligent.

Your little crush soon turned into genuine admiration. If one would look hard enough, it was easy to say that Yeosang was one of the most hardworking people you've had the pleasure to go to university with.

And just like you, he'd get lost in his world once he got too deep, and it was when you'd take the time to study him just a bit more.

You had memorized the notes that you were given from front to back, word per word, punctuation per punctuation, but you still went to the library anyway.

There were times where Yeosang would subconsciously look forward, he would take a break from reading and stretch his neck, and you'd panic and look down, but you were sure he didn't notice you. You sure hoped he didn't, the blush on your cheeks could be seen miles away.

Hongjoong raised his brow one day when you handed him the book that you wanted to check out for a week, and you couldn't look him straight in the eye.

"The Art Of War?" Hongjoong blurted out incredulously. He sheepishly looked down when a couple of people turned to our direction with a small glare. You bit your lip when he kept staring at the book.

He leaned forward, his voice hushed, his eyes glowing with mirth, but with suspicion nonetheless. "I didn't know you were interested in Machiavellian beliefs and principles."

You weren't. In fact, you didn't give a crap or two about it. Yunho snatched the book from Hongjoong and flipped a couple of pages. "Damn, I can't even understand this," he chortled, giving the book back. "You're really gonna read this?"

You rolled your eyes in half-annoyance to cover up how red the tips of your ears were. You saw Yeosang reading the book for days before he returned it, and you just wanted to see what kind of books he read.

You wanted to know what ran in Yeosang's head as he sat there and read it and maybe, just maybe, you were absolutely insane in the head because you liked him a bit too much.

"Is it so hard to believe that I'm interested in it? Geez," you murmured, grabbing the book and hastily chucking in your purse as if doing so would make Hongjoong and Yunho forget that it existed.

"Yes," they both answered in unison.

You scoffed, offended that they actually thought so, but you couldn't really get mad at them, because it was truly unbecoming of you. You weren't really interested in how the world worked, you were a hopeless romantic, and you wanted to stay that way for a while.

"Maybe it's in the air, someone just returned that book yesterday after a week," Hongjoong scoffed, grabbing a book that you just logged into to check out anything. "Yeah, that guy, Kang Yeosang. Cool guy, a bit withdrawn, kinda weird, but cool regardless."

Yunho's eyes almost popped out of its sockets and he turned to you with the most shit-eating grin on his face. He was about to open his mouth, but before he could, you quickly reached up and covered it. It was a challenge since Yunho was a giant, but you didn't want him tattling. You wouldn't hear the end of it.

"Ah, we have classes in a couple of minutes," you laughed nervously, stomping on Yunho's foot, making him groan in pain that was muffled by your hand. "Bye, Joong!"

You left, dragging the big Jeong Yunho comically while Hongjoong watched with his mouth opening and closing repeatedly like a wee little fish.

Yunho forcefully removed your hand from his face the moment you got outside, but it didn't stop him from giving you that mouth-splitting grin that you wanted to wipe off of his face. "I can expla---"

"Oh, no need," he playfully teased in a sing-songy voice. "You're already head over heels for the guy, it's remarkable---"

"Jeong Yunho, I swear to God---"

"I cannot wait to actually tell Jongho, man, I thought you'd give Mingi a chance---"

You turned around to run away from his relentless teasing, you could hear him laughing behind you. You giggled under your breath and usually you'd entertain his teasing, but you were so confused on what you felt for Yeosang lately.

The entire night was spent on you reading the book and as expected, you abhorred it. You crumpled your face in genuine skepticism, did Yeosang truly enjoy this? 

The more you turned the pages, the more pissed you got, suddenly realizing that you were doing this for a man who doesn't even give two shits about you. It was deplorable. 

After a day or two, you decided to return the book. There was no point in keeping it if you weren't interested in it anyway, but you decided to do it later. You'd sit down on your usual spot first.

To your surprise and dismay, Yeosang wasn't sitting in his usual spot. It wasn't really odd, sometimes his schedule did become sporadic, but still, your heart slowed its beating. You already felt a bit down.

But there would have been no need. Suddenly, you felt a presence behind you as you sat down at your usual spot. Before you could turn around and inspect, they leaned down, and you felt hands on your shoulders. They were firm and sure.

Shivers travelled down your spine when a deep, rich voice hit your ear as they whispered. "Machiavelli, huh?"

The voice was muffled with something, like a mask. Heat soaked up your entire face and the tips of your ears. You had forgotten to put the book away and thought it was a great idea to have it out in the open.

Or maybe, you did it on purpose hoping that Yeosang would see and pique his interest.

"Meet me at the blind spot to the left behind the staircase. If you're not there within three minutes, I will sabotage all of your projects until you graduate," he ordered gruffly, his tone gravelly and unpleasant, to be quite frank. "All of them."

A cold bucket of water could have been poured directly on your head without warning and it still wouldn't be able to bring you any type of dread like those words would ever do. It was insane.

You didn't hesitate, haphazardly throwing all your belongings hastily without any sort of order in your purse before sprinting out of the library. Today was not the day to test the validity of the whispered threat.

A record should've been awarded to you with how quick your feet had taken you were Yeosang told you to. At first, you didn't see him, but when you noticed a shadow fleeting in and out at the very corner of the staircase, you knew it was him. It was indeed a blind spot - no one would be able to see him unless they were looking for him.

The moment you stepped in that hidden area, you were roughly slammed against the adjacent wall. To say you were shocked would be an understatement.

Right away, you tried to cradle your head to halt the oncoming nausea from the sheer force, but your hands were also pinned above your head.

"What," you said rather than questioned. "W-What are you doing?"

When your eyes finally focused on what's in front of you, you couldn't help but let out a small gasp. His black mask covered his face well, but never his eyes. God, you hoped not.

You were right all along, his eyes were beautiful, especially this close. You could smell his cologne, too. Heat started to travel from your neck all the way to your cheeks as you tried not to focus on his scent.

"Cut the shit," Yeosang spat, venom coated in every syllable. His hold on your hands tightens to the point of pain. "Stop following me."

Time stopped at that very second. His voice was a lot deeper than you thought. You swallowed, Yeosang's eyes subconsciously trailing down your throat at the motion. "I-I'm not following you," you squeaked out.

"Oh?" Yeosang tilted his head. The movement would have been cute, if he didn't look angry and menacing right now. One of his hands let go to dig into your purse. He grabbed the book you were supposed to return, but couldn't. 

"You don't look like the type to read Machiavellian beliefs, princess," he gritted out. "And I mean that with full offense."

You frowned, thoroughly confused as to why Yeosang was, frankly, acting like an ass towards you. "You're a judgmental one, aren't you? What if I was?"

"Then what's his name?"

You blanched, mouth getting dry from the sudden question. Yeosang's unimpressed glare catches you off guard. You felt your heart cracking a bit.

"I'm not sure," you admitted, voice small, embarrassed to be caught red-handed in a lie. You bit your lip, looking down towards the floor to avoid his indifferent eyes.

For a moment, you both stayed like that - Yeosang pinning you, and you just staying still just to see what he was going to do. And then, he lets go, and puts his hands on either side of you on the wall with a loud thud.

"It's Niccolo," he murmured, bitterness seeping towards his voice. It made your frown grow deeper.

"N-Niccolo?"

Yeosang scoffed, rolling his eyes sarcastically at you. "Yes. Your brain stutters, too?"

That definitely stung. You didn't know what to say but, "W-What?"

"W-What?" Yeosang repeated, voice higher in pitch in an effort to mimic and mock you as if you were a degenerate. It was honestly offensive, but you were too frozen to do anything. 

"No wonder why you're so obvious, this here," he continued, his index finger tapping your temple once. "Doesn't work quite well, doesn't it?"

It was an eloquent way of saying that you were, indeed, stupid. Your manner completely transforms, it becomes rigid against him. You wanted to scoff, who knew that his angelic eyes held this much contempt in them?

Your mouth opens to defend your honour against his insults, but the same index finger touches your lips, effectively shushing you. Warmth automatically spreads through them.

"Ah, ah, ah, you have absolutely no right to talk right now," he interrupted rather rudely, his voice dropping an octave. You forced yourself not to shiver. "I mean it, Y/N. Stop fucking following me. I don't like my privacy invaded."

You couldn't stop the sigh that bubbled up your chest. "I apologize if I made you uncomfortable, but we could have talked this out."

He chuckled, the sound of it dark and devoid of anything that resembled emotions. "You forfeited that right since the first day. You're not as subtle as you think you are, princess."

"Don't call me that," you frowned, your hand sticking out to push his chest away, albeit weakly. "What is your damn problem?" 

"What's my problem?" Yeosang reiterates, his tone taking an angrier and more aggravated tone to it. "My problem is that you are literally tailing me at the library like I'm some sort of circus zoo animal."

He sarcastically chuckled, more to himself than towards you. "But then again, that's what everyone thinks."

You felt your heart breaking a little when he adjusted the mask he was wearing as if doing so would protect him right now when in reality, you were the one in need of protection. Behind the malice in his voice was a hurt so deep, it was impossible to ignore.

His eyes met yours again, and this time, they were ablaze. "Who put you up to this?" Yeosang snarled. "Who fucking told you to watch me? And why? So you and your stupid little friends would have a laugh and go?"

"No, that's not it, I swear," you immediately denied, shaking your head repeatedly to make a point. "I didn't mean for it to look like that, I-I promise you---"

"So why the hell are you following me? Tell me," he demanded. You yelped when he roughly lifted your chin up. "At least give me the decency of looking at me straight in the eye while you tell me why you've been watching me."

"Ow, you're hurting me," you pried his hand off of your face successfully, slightly glaring at him in the process. "It's not like that," you hesitated, gulping once more before continuing. "Is it so hard to believe that someone actually admires you, or something?"

He raised a brow in irritation. "God, you're so full of shit."

He pulls away, jutting one arm out and shoves your shoulder hard - hard enough for it to collide with the wall behind you. You were stunned at his aggression. 

"Stay the hell away from me," he growled, bending down to pick up the backpack he had that you didn't even notice. He started to emerge from the staircase towards the hallways where, surprisingly, no one was. 

He gave you one last glare, a scathing one. "If I catch you again, I won't go easy on you next time. Save your judgment for somebody else."

You scoffed, emerging from the same spot. You inevitably ended up in front of him; the hallways were narrow, unfortunately. You looked up at him, not knowing exactly what to say. It wasn't like you didn't know where he came from, he was probably creeped out by your behaviour.

But you weren't going to tell him that it was because of your crush with him, especially not now that you know he clearly doesn't like you.

"I'm dead serious, Y/N. Stay away from me," he glared. "Now, if you'll kindly fuck off..."

He moves past you, his shoulders deliberately hitting yours, causing you to stagger back a little bit. The only thing you could do from then was to look behind you as you watched him walk away.

You couldn't help but notice how confident his gait was - how sure he was of himself. You shook your head in disbelief, utterly and thoroughly confused, not knowing what to believe at this point.

Tears started to form in the corner of your eyes. The resonating voice of realization in your head made you numb, the mortification slowly trickling down your chest slowly. It tightens as the shame presents itself at the discomfort written on your face.

It wasn’t like he was wrong, because definitely had a valid point. Still, you couldn’t help the cascade of tears that started to fall from your eyes from the direct confrontation.

A thought had suddenly struck your head as you watched him walk away and disappear when he rounded the corner of the hallway - how did he even know your name?

It wouldn’t be the last time you and Yeosang encountered each other. One way or another, you were especially hyper aware of his presence.

You stopped going to the library. You weren’t an idiot, you weren’t going to frequent a place where you know you weren’t wanted. Yeosang, however, made it a point to glare at you every single time your eyes would meet.

That in itself would have been fine, but when he started to purposely bump into your shoulders hard enough to send you reeling backwards, it became a little personal. You certainly didn’t miss his little smirk when he saw you riled up.

You actively avoided him for good. Curse you for being attracted to the eccentric. 

Today was one of those - you sat in your usual seat along with Yunho while Yeosang was in that same isolated spot he liked taking since nobody wanted to be associated with him. It was fine, it wasn’t difficult to ignore him given his little attitude towards you.

”Hey,” Yunho called softly. You raised a brow in question. “You and Yeosang got beef, or something?”

“No, not that I know of,” you frowned. “Why?”

”Because he’s been staring, or rather, shooting daggers at you the moment you sat down. He figured out your weird little habit of watching him, huh?” Yunho smirked, crossing his arms.

You grumbled a little curse in his direction, making him chuckle at your antics. You didn’t doubt what he said, though. Yeosang definitely didn’t like you and you gave him the ammunition to do so.

The commotion died down gradually when the professor entered the classroom and hushed everybody. Soon enough, you were able to tune out the prickling sensation towards the back of your neck you knew came from Yeosang’s stares.

You bunched your brows up, though, when you noticed that your professor wasn’t carrying his usual lecture materials and, instead, had a small box in his hands. It didn’t happen often with college students, but he definitely had everybody’s attention hanging in a thread successfully.

”Good day, everybody,” Professor Choi San greeted with a soft smile, his dimples deepening at the gesture, along with his eyes that laid subdued behind a pair of glasses that made him look undeniably attractive. He shakes the box that he held in one hand while he gestured to the class with the other. “Before the year ends, I’d like everybody to do a project instead of the usual examinations. It’ll be a two-person team effort.”

You automatically turned to your side and bumped your elbows at Yunho, who was already looking at you with a gleeful smile. However, that bubble soon burst when Professor Choi cleared his throat, effectively silencing the room once again. “Your partners will be randomized,” he shook the box once more to prove his point. “I’ve already picked half of the class, random as well, to pick out names inside this box.”

What the hell kind of concept is this? You couldn’t help but grimace on the inside, you knew barely anybody in this class, let alone work with somebody for a project that would determine if you will pass this class or not.

”It’s better than a written exam, yes?” Professor Choi smirked.

It was a bore. You had no interest in doing the project, but you have no choice. Surely, you didn’t want to pick a random name either. When Yunho was called, the little hope you had in partnering with him got shattered when he picked a name that wasn’t yours.

He still technically won the lottery though, because he was partnered up with Mingi. When he got back to the seat, you couldn’t help but chuckle at his excitement and relief when he showed you the paper that held Mingi’s name.

He, too, was worried he’d pick a random name even though he was a bit more extroverted than you were. “You’ll get lucky, too, I’m sure of it,” he patted your shoulders in faux comfort. “My luck extends to friends, you know?”

You rolled your eyes at him. “I can already see this project being a disaster with the two of you being together like this.”

He laughed out loud at your statement, and as if he had jinxed it, your name was suddenly called. Somebody had already picked your name. When you looked towards the front, it was by this girl you recalled seeing in multiple of your classes.

You offered her a small smile, one she returned awkwardly. She seemed nice enough to you and that’s all that mattered to you. Yunho and Jongho had told you before that you had an uncanny way of making someone like you eventually. 

“Kang Yeosang.”

Your breath hitched, deliberately straining your neck to not turn around and look at him as he walked towards the centre of the room with the Professor. 

It wasn’t just you - everybody turned silent as they all stared at the man with that confident shadow behind him. He knew everybody stared and he didn’t care, and you genuinely admired that mentality. If only you could turn back time and actually tell him that instead of watching him like a creep.

But you were pretty sure that you were the only one who stared at him with admiration. Everyone else judged him for hiding his face, and you could have sworn you felt your break a little more at that.

Finally, he puts his head inside the box and quickly pulls it out, the piece of paper in his hand crumpling with how hard he gripped it. You suddenly wished you could see his entire face to know exactly what he’s feeling.

You could hear the snickers behind you, people relieved that they had already picked a partner, or people laughing at him. They were just plain nasty, and you couldn’t take hearing them anymore.

You held your fists tights, they were almost white with how tight you were holding them. You tried tuning them out, focusing on the sight of Yeosang with Professor Choi.

You frowned, something wasn’t right. The way Yeosang’s brows furrowed. Suddenly, he looked up, eyes meeting yours. You froze, not knowing exactly why he was looking at you.

He took one more look at the paper before pocketing it. “I got L/N Y/N,” he said, clear as day, his deep voice resonating all over the vast classroom.

Your brain definitely short-circuited that day and you can’t read the future, but you were sure that this was the exact moment where you were sure that your life would turn upside down and change.

”Are you sure?” Professor Choi asked, confused, amidst all the hushed whispers that resounded all over the room. 

Redness spreads through your cheeks at all the unwanted attention. You turned to Yunho and tapped his arms cautiously “There goes my chance of being normal in school,” you murmured.

He patted your shoulders in comfort. “Professor Choi must’ve accidentally put your name twice without noticing.”

It was a legitimate cause, you’ve thought the very same thing. You couldn’t help but glance at Yeosang once more, and unbelievably, your cheeks became even hotter to the touch. You definitely wouldn’t mind partnering with him for this project.

And that’s exactly what happened. As it turns out, there was only one person left that didn’t have a partner yet. The girl who was partnered with you insisted that they be partnered, instead, and Professor Choi agreed, leaving you and Yeosang together.

You wanted to give him a piece of your mind for how he was treating you for the last few weeks, but that resolve faltered when you noticed Yeosang’s eyes from a distance. He looked hurt, and you knew why. 

He could hide under that glare or pretend that he was indifferent, but it definitely hurt him to be tossed around as if he wasn’t even in the room in the first place.

To add salt to the wound, Professor Choi instructed all partners to be seated together for the rest of the class. Yunho gave you a small peck on the cheek - platonically - before getting up and making his way towards Mingi.

”Can you guys keep that PDA bullshit somewhere else? So disrespectful to the public,” Yeosang murmured, his voice muffled by the mask, plopping down the seat where Yunho once was. “Does your boyfriend know you were stalking me?”

You scoffed, appalled at what he was trying to insinuate. “First of all, Yunho is my best friend—-”

”Yeah, that’s what they all say,” he smirked dirtily, his head swiveling towards you in a mocking move. “Then you find out they’re screwing. Tell me, are you the type of bitch who’ll give it in some random back alleyway? ”

The ringing in your ears became louder and louder, and it took you everything in your soul to not lash out in the middle of class and just grab your purse so you could smack the living daylights out of this guy.

”And what if I am? You sound bitter to me,” you challenged him, keeping your voice to a minimum, just to rile him up. You’d like to think of yourself as kind, but you are definitely not a pushover.

His brow shots up in mild surprise at your statement, clearly not expecting for you to stand up for yourself. His eyes had this unmistakable fire that contained fiery rage, and instead of standing down, you rolled your eyes at him. His eyes squint in response.

He did start this, but you wouldn’t let him finish. He was about to open his mouth and say something but you beat him to it.

”I feel bad for you,” you chuckled without any humour in it. “Nobody has shown you enough love in your life, it seems, and you don’t look like anybody who has ever given any ounce of love towards somebody else.”

Even if you meant what you had said, you immediately regretted saying it to his face directly. You bit your lip to stop the yelp that wanted to escape your throat when he gripped your arm fast.

”You don’t know a thing or two about me, princess,” he hissed, his grip on your arm tightening to a point of constriction. “You think you do, but you don’t.”

He pulled you harshly towards him. “What the hell are you doing?” You hissed back at him.

You tried to pry your arms away, but all that did was make his grip tighter. You looked around you and was displeased when nobody had noticed what was going on. Even Yunho was busy discussing with Mingi from where he was.

”Watch your damn mouth around me,” he warned you, his face dangerously close to your own. “You have no idea what I'm capable of.”

”Oh, sure. Says the guy who has a freaking face mask around his face like a little coward,” you sarcastically rebutted.

A deep chuckle hits your ears before he lets go. Nothing in particular happened after that, except for the contents of the project.

“Whoever does the best will be exempted for the rest of the year on exams and will automatically get an A,” Professor Choi bargained, much to everybody’s surprise. “You better do well.”

Damn it, you cursed internally. This project would be the challenge of a lifetime. Soon enough, class was dismissed, and you were determined to set things with Yeosang.

But apparently, he was, too. As usual, the moment class ended, Yeosang was nowhere to be seen. You were about to march off in annoyance when a hand from seemingly out of nowhere materialized and pulled you back in the now-empty classroom.

”I’ll cut this short,” he cleared his throat, as if that would do anything for you since he sounded muffled anyway. “I’ll do all the work, all you have to do is—-”

”And why would you do that?” You raised a brow in irritation, feeling what little left of your patience ebb away. “I’d have you know that I’m not half-bad in things like these.”

He grimaced, his fingers pinching his nose bridge like you were the one stuck-up one and not him. “That’s not what I’m trying to allude to here,” he sighed exasperatedly, eyes closed in deep thought. 

“Really, Yeosang? You want me to believe that?”

He went rigid, one eye opening to stare at you. You were caught off-guard by how heavy and lidded they were as he stared straight at you, unblinking. Was it something you said?

”Fine,” he muttered after what felt like an eternity. “We could do a solo performance and stuff.”

”Are you kidding me? That’s not how this works, and you know it,” you sarcastically remarked, throwing your hands up in frustration. You never thought you’d meet anybody that could make you lose your mind like this after Jongho, it was incredible. “Do you live alone?”

He squinted his eyes immediately. “Yes,” he dragged out slowly. “Why?”

”Perfect,” you murmured. You quickly dug into your pocket for your phone and handed it to him. ”Here.”

He frowned, staring at your phone as if you were offering him some sort of alien symbiote and was planning to annihilate him. You jutted your phone towards him again even firmer when he didn’t move. “Well?”

“Hold on a minute,” he blurted out, breaking character for just a second. “Why my house? This is your idea, your house should be the available one, not mine.”

“You think I want to get inside the house of somebody that clearly has distaste for me? I think the hell not,” you counteracted. “I don’t live alone. I have two roommates, one of which you accused me of screwing. I would never live it down if they saw you with me.”

”So please,” you continued, pressing the phone on his chest this time. “Take the phone, put your number in, and your house address, please.”

Yeosang snatched your phone rather rudely, glaring at you scathingly before doing as he was told anyway. You internally rolled your eyes at how ridiculous this all was. But at the same time, you were trying not to explode. Despite the circumstance, you couldn’t believe you were getting your crush’s phone number.

“If you show up randomly at my house one day, I will end you,“ he snarled menacingly, tossing your phone callously for you to catch in the air. “I mean it, you better not.”

“You’re not all that,” you scoffed, annoyed that he would just throw your phone like that. “I might turn into an asshole like you if I absorb all the bad juju you seem to be getting from somewhere.”

You didn’t mean to say it like that, and truth be told, you weren’t one to fight fire with fire - stone with boulder. But the things he’s been saying has been setting you off on your rocker, a taste of it wouldn’t hurt him.

Right?

“I wouldn’t say that just yet,” he sneered. “Famous last words, princess. Nobody knows what the future holds, do they?”

You rolled your eyes dramatically at him, opting not to question him when he led you out of the classroom, opening the door for you to go through. “Anyway, we do this my way, or I’m dropping you,” he mustered up, adjusting his mask a bit as we walked.

“I don’t care, honestly, I just want to pass,” you truthfully said. You heard him sigh irritatingly under his breath.”How do you propose we do this, then?”

“Do you have more classes today?” Yeosang asked, brows furrowed from above that mask. You shook your head in denial. He nodded in acknowledgement. “Great. Let’s head to that cafe near here. The sooner we get this over with, the better.”

He began walking faster. You could barely keep up with him, Yeosang was of average height, however, his legs were long, you noticed, while yours were a poor excuse for a pair. 

“Wow,” you whistled. “I’m not even going to question why you hate me this much, but okay.”

He laughed, the baritone timbre of his voice enhancing the quality of that beautiful sound. “I don’t hate you. Hate is quite the word,” he scoffed. “It’s strong. You don’t matter enough to me for me to spend strong emotions on.”

Your steps faltered a bit. It felt like a physical blow to your chest and tendrils started to wrap around your heart, squeezing it bit by bit until it was fully constricting against your ribcage. What he said stung more than you’d like to admit.

You couldn’t concentrate when you got in the cafe and sat down. You realized that it was the same cafe you had brunch in with Jongho and Yunho. What he said was all you could think about was all you could think about, were you really that bad? 

Yeosang sat in front of you, tinkering on his phone and not paying attention to you for the time being. Not that you wanted him to, anyway, because if he did, he’d see the tears that were starting to form in your eyes.

Yeosang stood up, pocketing his phone, and walked away without even telling you, even out of courtesy and respect, and without looking in your direction. Another blow hit your chest then and there.

You took that opportunity to wipe your tears away, lifting your arm so you could use your sleeves to do so. There was no finesse in it, but you didn’t care. You felt ridiculous, but you felt bad for yourself.

Your head sprung up when something was suddenly placed on the table within your line of vision. Your brows shot up ever so slightly when you registered that it was a cup of hot, steaming, delicious chocolate. Your head snapped towards Yeosang, who just tilted his head at you.

“No ‘thank you’? Damn,” he said sarcastically, pulling on his chair and taking his place back in front of you. He leans forward, his eyes piercing straight onto yours. “Drink. I don’t want people thinking I’m abusing you or something, I’m already stigmatized as is.”

”What in the hell are you talking about?” You blurted out, tentatively reaching out, wrapping your hands around the mug. Warmth immediately spreads through them, seeping deep inside you and reaching the deepest creases of your heart. “T-thank you.”

You went rigid, your muscles tightening against your body, when Yeosang’s finger wipes a lone tear on the side of your right eye. When he pulled away, you immediately started to sip on your chocolate, cursing internally when it started to burn on your tongue, but you didn’t relent. It was a sign that you were truly alive and not dreaming at all.

”Good?” Yeosang raised his brow tentatively.

You nodded a little more enthusiastically than you’d expect yourself to do so. “What about you? I-I can get you one, if you’d like.”

“If I really wanted one, I would’ve gotten one, myself,” he scoffed. This time, you ignored how rude he was, but only for today. He lazily pointed at his face. “Plus, I have this stupid mask.”

You bit your lip, pausing before continuing. “Just take it off.”

Your heart started to pound uncontrollably at that aspect You were already infatuated with this brute with that thing on, what more if he actually took it off?

”Don’t push it, princess,” he snorted, a hint of amusement tinged in his voice. You watched as he took out his laptop from his sling bag, setting it down the table before he looked at you once more. “Shall we start?”

You and Yeosang quickly learned a routine that worked for both of your schedules. You you had to up your meetings from once a week to four times a week just so everything was perfect. You both wanted that exception next semester.

Unfortunately for you, your crush with Yeosang worsened the more time you spent with him. He was everything you liked in somebody, and as rude as his attitude and insensitive his mouth was, you could tell that deep down, you knew that he wasn’t a bad person.

And of course, you still don’t know what he looked like; not entirely, anyway. He never slipped and took it off, not once. Whenever he’d drink something, all he had to do was slip the straw from underneath the mask and drink away, or when he ate, he would lift the mask a bit underneath as well.

It bummed you out, but you respected his choice. Besides, it’s just, well, a face. It wasn’t a deal breaker or anything. Call it an added bonus to the enigma that was Kang Yeosang.

You yelped when something hit the top of your head. Your hands immediately found their place on your scalp, frowning and giving Yeosang a small glare for having the audacity to hit you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped, setting down the book he used to bonk your head on his lap before he crossed his arms and glared at you. “Were you even paying attention to what I was saying?”

”O-Of course I was,” you said without thinking.

“Oh? What did I say, then?”

”That I’m the bestest partner ever and that you were going to treat me for some ice cream after this?” You peered at him, exaggerating your actions because you knew that would agitate him.

“Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought,” he sneered, moving to grab the book again but stopping midway to take a breathe to prevent himself from potentially committing a crime.

You giggled, covering your mouth with your palms to stop the loud snorts that made you look unlady-like. “Did I hear that right? Goody two-shoes, Kang Yeosang, cursing like a sailor?”

“Yes, because you are the most irritating person I’ve had the displeasure of ever meeting,” he declared dryly. “What are you going to fucking do about it?”

This time, you didn’t even bother to cover your mouth at all and just let loose. Your laugh made your belly hurt, but it made your heart soar. You forgot the last time you just laughed and didn’t care.

”Keep it down, you’re attracting unwanted attention,” he hissed, but it didn’t have that usual intensity in it, as he looked around cautiously before he stared down the floor like he always did.

The both of you were in the campus cafeteria. You weren’t in the mood to go back to that cafe, and Yeosang wasn’t feeling it either, so the cafeteria was the only option left to go.

You weren’t privy to all the stares that were being sent in your direction, not entirely oblivious of what they’re all thinking. But mostly, they were wondering what was funny, especially because it was Yeosang with you.

”Hey,” you softly called out. He didn't meet your eye, but he nodded slightly to signify that he was listening to you. 

You tapped on his hand with your finger once before pulling away. That got his attention and he finally looked at you. “Don’t mind them, they’re idiots,” you reassured. “I think you’re really cool.”

He smirked, tilting his head in curiosity. “You don’t know squat about me, that’s some high-praise for someone who’s practically a stranger to you, little princess.”

Little princess. You swallowed the blush that threatened to warm your cheeks. “I already know what I need the most,” you shrugged, sincerity coating your voice. “You’re literally the smartest person I know, seriously, how do you do it? And I like your mentality, fuck all these people, you know?”

He stayed silent. Usually, you’d hear an insult or two from him by now, but all he did was stare at you intently, his eyes getting shrouded by an emotion you couldn’t exactly pinpoint. It wasn’t malice, and it definitely wasn’t acknowledgement, but you found that you didn’t mind this look on Yeosang. He looked freer this way.

“You remind me of someone,” he suddenly spoke up. Your curiosity peaked with how far away he suddenly looked. “He was the only one who was more annoying than you, and that’s saying a lot, if you could believe it.”

He sounded so nostalgic, and you were savouring this. If he wasn’t being an asshole, he’d have a point most of the time, because he was right, you knew virtually nothing about him. It wasn’t always where Yeosang would divulge in his personal life with you or in general.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you remarked, making him roll his eyes so far back in his head, you were surprised they didn’t get stuck in there. “Anyway, is he your friend?”

“The bestest,”  he immediately answered, sighing afterwads. You pursed your lips,  you knew that he didn’t mean to do so.

You hesitated for a bit in fear of saying something you knew he wouldn’t like. Yeosang was what you would describe as a ticking time-bomb - you just never knew what would set him off. “Did something happen between you and him?”

He seemed to realize that he was oversharing. Much to your dismay, his eyes immediately hardened, his eyes brewing a storm that permanently seemed to cause his mind turbulence.

“Anyway,” he cleared his throat, changing the topic like a tidal wave that knew no consistency. It matched that of his personality so well. “I don’t have any classes for the next few days. I got exempted from all of them.”

You scoffed in awe and disbelief before you could stop yourself. It certainly earned you a nasty glare from him. Of course, you thought. This man was literally a genius. Something tells you that boredom is the biggest reason why he hasn’t gotten himself exempted from the rest of his classes.

“What are you trying to tell me? Are you perhaps,” you smirked as nasty as he was glaring at you. “Are you perhaps telling me that you’re going to miss me?”

You were kidding - well, mostly, anyway. As expected, he growled and pushed your shoulder roughly in an attempt to wake you up from your delusional thoughts.

”I’ll miss my peace of mind, that’s what,” he rolled his eyes. “Can you be for damn real for once in your miserable life? I really want to get this stupid project done.”

For some reason, that response brought you relief more than the usual sting you’d feel in your chest. You’ve spent enough time with Yeosang to know that he didn’t mean what he said eight out of ten times. The bar was that low. But the truth was, you knew you’d malfunction if he said that he would miss you.

“Do you still have the address that I gave you?” Yeosang questioned gruffly. He was in the process of putting away all his class notes in that stylish sling bag he always had on him. 

You nodded. “I do. But wait, where are you going?”

He raised a brow. “You’re not my keeper,” he clicked his tongue, standing up and adjusting the bag on his shoulder across his chest. “I’m going home, if you must know. I need to meditate and ask the Lord for some patience for when you go to my house this week.”

You blinked, eyes widened owlishly, repeating the action over and over again just so you were sure you heard him right. Yeah, you were definitely malfunctioning as is.

”I’ll text you the details,” he turned around and began to walk away, leaving you to your seat alone - nobody wanted to sit with you and Yeosang - for your thoughts to wander and go haywire.

Sputtering, you stood up and called to him, ignoring the odd looks you received from the students around. “A-Are you sure?“

He paused from walking, not bothering to turn around. He raised his hand and waved from behind. “Bye, Y/N.”

You were dazed the entire day, not being able to concentrate on the rest of your class, your heart doing somersaults in your chest that felt too giddy for you to relax. Excitement rolled off of you in waves and all you could do was imagine what Yeosang would be like in the comfort of his own house.

But the first thing you thought of was his face. Would he remove the mask? Surely, it gets stuffy and musty wearing it the entire day, and plus, you knew how uncomfortable it could get the longer you wore it, not to mention how it could clog your skin.

Of course, the thought did cross your mind once or twice - was he wearing it because he has something to hide? You always mentally slapped yourself whenever this would cross your mind, everybody was judgmental to a certain extent, but you tried your damned hardest to not consciously do it and make an effort to always remind yourself that it isn’t good to judge people because they all have their own stories.

However, the longer you thought of this, you knew for a fact that you wouldn’t care what was under that mask. Over the month and a couple of weeks, you have come to truly enjoy Yeosang’s company a lot, regardless if he felt the same or not.

You received the awaited text the following night. A laugh bubbled up from your chest when you opened the message like a child opening up presents during Christmas. You found it adorable that his personality also seeped in through his texts. 

‘Tomorrow. Three in the afternoon. Bring your laptop, but no food since I will provide it. Be on your best behaviour, I have a dog I will not hesitate to sic on you.’

“Wow,” Yunho whistled the next day, tossing the phone back at you after reading the text message with a small chuckle. “What a douchebag.”

You replied with a dry chuckle of your own, lifting a dress you snatched from your dresser, hanger still attached and all, and laid it across the bed, beside the area where Yunho was currently sitting down. He stared at the black dress with a scoff.

”Girl, this is a study session, not a funeral,” he chortled. “Then again, if he actually has a dog, it might as well be.”

A shiver passed through you, but you gave him a stern look, anyway. “Quiet, you,” you hissed. “I don’t fucking know what to wear, I don’t want to look like a bum, but I don’t want to try too hard, either!”

“Are you trying to do that project, stupid, by the way, or are you trying to get laid?” Jongho blurted out bluntly from across Yunho, lifting the dress and inspecting it. “If you’re going for the latter, this isn’t the way to go.”

You blushed furiously, slapping your cheeks to conceal the fact, but it was already too late. You loved these two to death, but sometimes, you were just ready to not be roommates with them anymore when they both made fun of you.

“Choi Jongho, I will end you,” you seethed.

He raised his hands defensively in surrender. “Relax, tiger. Just go for a white shirt and some jeans, it’s comfortable and effective. I can tell you right now, he literally wouldn’t give a shit.”

He made it a point to raid your closet himself. “In fact,” he continued, yelping a bit when he suddenly lifted your bra and tossed it like it was bacterial. “He definitely won’t notice, trust me.”

You were mortified, but so was Yunho when said bra landed on his lap. He shrugged it off like it, too, was infectious. “Goddamn it, Y/N, clean your fucking closet,” he groaned. “But I agree. He has that thing literally on his face 24/7, I highly doubt he’ll notice anything else.”

“Here. I got this for you on your birthday, it’s high time you wear it now,” Jongho haphazardly tossed some clothes directly on your face callously. “Hurry up, it’s almost three. He won’t let you in if you’re late.”

”That’s comforting,” you remarked sarcastically. 

Luckily, in your apartment, there was a walk-in closet - perks of living with an affluent roommate like Jongho - and so, you walked in there to change in your own privacy, but you didn’t shut the door so you could still talk to the both of them as you changed. 

You noticed that Jongho had, indeed, given you a simple white shirt and some jeans, but he also handed you the hoodie he had given you. With that, you began to undress and change.

”How’s your project coming along, Yun?” You asked to fill in the silence.

”Good, actually. Mingi is really good at these things,” Yunho answered cheerfully. “We’ve decided to just do a short dance number, he’ll do a remix and I’ll choreograph for us.”

“Mingi dances?” Jongho asked in surprise. 

“Oh, I didn’t tell you guys? Mingi and I used to go to the same dance school before he moved away during high school,” he explained. “This isn’t the first time we’ve worked together, so it helps, you know?”

You were happy for Yunho, and if you were honest, even though Yeosang and you haven’t decided on what to do yet, you were pretty content in being his partner. You paused, however, a line of thought suddenly crossed your mind.

“Hey, Jjong?”

“Here,” the latter answered.

You bit your bottom lip, not really sure how to articulate the thoughts plaguing your mind into coherent words. “Do you have any idea if Yeosang is also inclined in the arts?”

The arts, meaning dancing and singing. There was a fat pause on the other side of the room. You heard Jongho sigh, the springs of your bed sinking down as he sat on it. “Yeah, he is,” he confirmed. “You’re going to find out the rest by yourself, I’m not willing to divulge the rest.”

“No, that’s all I wanted to know. He literally wouldn’t touch me with a ten-feet poll, let alone tell me the juicy details of his life,” you snorted. “Hell, I don’t even know what the guy looks like.”

Yunho made a sound, likely thinking the same thing as you were at the same time as you heard movement on the bed once more. And he asked the same question you had in your head, “Do you know what he looks like?” 

“Of course, I do,” Jongho said incredulously as if he was offended that he was even asked in the first place, until he realized the reason. “Well—“

”Wait,” you interrupted abruptly. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know, I will not disrespect his privacy unless he tells me himself.”

You were tempted, who wouldn’t be? Your big, beaming crush on the guy, alone, was enough for you to be curious to know what’s underneath, but it just felt wrong. 

They both laughed out loud the moment you opened the door to go back in the room. “Damn, you’re down bad,” Yunho slapped his thighs in amusement as he laughed even more. 

“Haha,” your voice dripped with sarcasm. You went past them to grab your things and headed towards the door. “I’ll let you know what happens.”

“Ew, I don’t want to know if you guys end up fucking or something,” Jongho gagged exaggeratingly, making Yunho laugh even harder, his entire body contorting with how hard he was laughing.

When you started driving, your brows shot up in mild surprise when you realized that Yeosang’s place was a lot closer than you thought it was. In fact, if you jacked on the gas, you could get there within ten minutes. 

Your hands gripped on the wheel the more your mind worked on itself - there was a huge possibility that you and Yeosang crossed each other’s path at one point and you just never knew. Heat pools in your tummy, he could have been one of the people you encountered everyday and you would be none the wiser because of the mask.

You arrived in no time, and you parked in an even lesser time. An impressive whistle slipped past your lips, this meant that you were on the better side of the city with how easy the accommodation was. When you looked around, every single building looked more modern and sleeker, too.

And you were right. Your mouth hung open ever so slightly when you realized that you were in the affluent area of the city. By all means, you were fortunate to grow up comfortably, but you could still never afford to live in one of the units where Yeosang apparently resided. What’s more, is that he said he lived alone.

You quickly sent a text to him that you were here and put your phone back in your pockets after that quick text. Shame crept in your bones when you looked at your outfit. Had you known that this was where you’d end up going, you would have worn that black dress because as drab as it was, it was elegant enough to fit the opulent vibe of the place. Soon enough, your phone vibrated.

‘Walk in and go straight to the receptionist. Give them my name and press ‘50’ when she leads you to the elevators. It’ll take you directly inside my unit. Don’t forget to take your filthy shoes off.'

You ignored the last statement, your jaw slacking further when you read the message over and over again. Who the hell does that? Geez, you thought incredulously, who the hell has a unit literally connected to the elevators?

But you followed his instructions, anyway. And in no time, the receptionist was leading towards said elevators. She gave you a kind smile as the doors opened and you bowed back politely. The moment you pressed the number, you leaned your back against the walls of the metal box.

It was the last floor on the very top, it made sense that it led directly in his unit. That also meant he had the penthouse. You felt your body ascend slowly, and the best thing you could do was fix your clothes and your hair to make yourself a bit more presentable.

You started to imagine what Yeosang’s space would look like, but more so, you were just curious on what a penthouse would look like since you’ve never been to one before. You scoffed under your breath, Yeosang did seem the type to live in penthouses.

You weren’t expecting anything in general, but however, the last thing you expected was a small presence waiting for you the moment the elevator dinged and the doors parted. 

There it was, with its head tilted, looking at you curiously as you cautiously stepped in Yeosang’s space. This must be the dog, but it wasn’t just a dog. 

You gulped, knees threatening to buckle under your weight, when the dog started to walk forward and sniff your feet, your legs, back to your feet. It definitely intimidated you as you tried to stay absolutely still. 

Yeosang conveniently forgot to tell you that he had a Great Dane. It was so big that if it stood on two paws, it would tower over you.

But all those worries faded away when it yelped a happy yelp and laid down on its back. Her, you found out soon enough, tail wagged back and forth in glee and excitement as her eyes looked up at you, pleading for you to lean down and give her the belly rubs she so wanted.

Who were you to say no to that? 

“Who’s the good girl?! You are, yes, you are,” you giggled incessantly, your hand rubbing on her sweet tummy while your other hand found its way behind her ear. Her happy barks reached your ears and it prompted you to rub faster.

You completely sat down on the floor and patted your thighs. ”Aww, c’mere, you sweet pup, come…”

Your landlord has strict rules against pets, which was such a shame because Jongho wouldn’t have to leave his Persian to his parents and Yunho wouldn’t be going out every so often to spend time with his Golden Retriever at his brother’s place.

”I see you met Nabi.”

You jumped out, startled at the deep, muffled voice that intruded your well-needed little pup therapy. It also startled the dog, whose head rested on your lap, and you couldn't help but feel bad. You were about to give Yeosang a piece of your mind, but when you turned around, you wanted to whine just like her, maybe a bit worse.

He still wore that mask, but that wasn’t what caught your attention. Yeosang leaned casually against the wall behind you, his hair was completely unstyled, a stark contrast to the prim and proper hair he sported on campus. 

But what really got you was his even more casual outfit, it was dangerous. He wore a body-fitting tank top, and you tried not to drool at his exposed arms and the way they absolutely flexed whenever he moved even a single inch. Your eyes traced the veins that were deliciously spread all throughout his hands all the way to his forearms.

And by God, the way his sweatpants hung alarmingly low against his hip bones. And then, his brow slowly lifted, his eyes shining in mischief. It was your cue to look away in shame, because you knew that he knew.

You didn’t say anything when he leaned down, lifting the mid-ends of his pants as he squatted down. He looked you in the eye as his hands slowly started to rub the back of Nabi’s other ear.

”That’s a good girl,” he whispered.

You didn’t even know what to say, you can’t just assume that he was doing what you thought he was actually doing. You stayed silent, not breaking eye contact with him until he stood back up and walked inside. 

“Go sit on the couch so you can settle down. You can leave your things on the coffee table,” he murmured, Nabi hot on his tail as he walked away.

If it wasn’t even more possible, your jaw dropped when you finally took in the interior of the penthouse. It was the epitome of opulence and luxury. The theme was the classic marbled black-and-white overalls, the space was neat, and if it wasn’t for the crystal chandelier hanging from above you, you would have spent more time just looking around. Not to mention, the grand staircase towards the corner that leads to the second floor. 

Yeosang stood by the kitchenette, tinkering at whatever. It was state-of-the-art, but what really made you fall in love was the huge glass window behind him that overlooked the entire city. You bet it would look stunning during nighttime.

Despite your awe, you couldn’t help but blurt out, ”Who are you?”

”Uh, Kang Yeosang,” he replied absentmindedly. Your lips quivered in an effort to not chuckle, “Anything to drink?”

“Just water,” you replied.

He scoffed, crossing his arms. “I should have specified for you to also bring your brain when you come. You didn’t come all the way here for just water.”

“Fine,” you rolled your eyes in offense. “Coffee, then?”

You expected him to say ‘no’ and tell you to, frankly, to fuck off and be serious, but your heart thumped in your chest when he immediately went to work without saying anything.

You watched him move as he grabbed a cup and set it down. It made sense now, he’s always had this elegance to him when he moved and talked, even though he was rude most of the time, and he had this air of grandeur to him that you couldn’t explain.

Your heart was close to flatlining when he wordlessly gave you the freshly made cup of coffee, and it tasted exactly like the one you always order at the cafe you and him always meet up for the project. 

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He hummed in response, setting himself down on the couch across you and relaxing into it. You took great effort to ignore his arms once more. “I think I have an idea on what to do for the project,” he said, directly to the point. “If you’re okay with it.”

You breath hitched, He’s never wanted your approval before. You stared at him expectantly and waited for him to continue. “Don’t make fun of me,” he blurted out. The way he wrung his hands together gave out his nervousness. “Maybe we could just sing a song together.”

You almost dropped the cup on the table that probably cost more than your life. You were expecting a lot of things, but you weren’t expecting that. But then again, Jongho did say Yeosang was inclined in the arts.

“Why would I make fun of that?” You asked truthfully with genuine confusion. “That sounds like a lovely idea. I was in choir until middle school, it’s good on my end.”

Yeosang didn’t say anything. He stared at you deeply, intently. His eyes held something you’ve never seen before - vulnerability. You gave him a soft, reassuring smile, one you knew he wouldn’t reciprocate, but you did it, anyway.

But he did. Even though you couldn’t see his lips, his eyes squinted at the gesture. Just about when your heart was about to give out, you just had to find out that Yeosang’s eyes smiled with him.

“Can I tell you something?” Yeosang asked, softness coating his voice, his body visibly relaxing even more from where he sat. 

“You can tell me anything,” you chirped up. “What friends are for, right?”

His eyes drooped, hooding ever so slightly before he shook his head, a deep chuckle escaping from his lips. You bit your lip to stop yourself from screaming, you believed this was the first time that he actually produced such a sound without being sarcastic or pretentious.

“You are definitely something, Y/N,” he whispered, more to himself, but you heard it. “Anyway, I know how to sing. Uhm, I was training to be an idol. I did it for years before stopping entirely.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, heat coursing through your veins at the newfound information that you also realized that Yeosang divulged by his own accord. You cleared your throat to cover the blush that spread through your cheeks and ears. You would literally kill anyone and anything to be able to witness Yeosang as an idol.

”Was? Is there a reason why you stopped?” You asked softly, trying to be as respectful as you possibly can so you wouldn’t turn him off. The last thing you wanted was to make him feel like you were trying to intrude.

He paused, sighing deeply and exhaling slowly as he closed his eyes and leaned his back down the couch, almost slouching. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he mumbled.

“Okay,” you conceded, nodding towards him.

He opened one eye, staring at you from his peripheral vision. You tried to ignore how long his lashes were even from where you were. “Just like that? You’re not going to ask me why?”

You were taken aback, beyond confused at what he was insinuating. Your heart bled for this man, just what has he gone through?

”Uhm, no, why should I? It’s disrespectful,” you supplied truthfully. “You’re not obligated to tell me, or anyone in general, anything. You don’t owe me, but I’ll lend you an ear whenever you are ready.”

He stared at you with clouded eyes. The thing with Yeosang that you liked was that he wasn’t a liar - what you see with him is what you get - but this time, you couldn’t decipher what lay beneath those enthralling eyes. The closest would be soul-searching but you’d have to be a fool to actually believe that. 

The longer he stared, the more it morphed, transforming into something you finally understood. They were full of hope, those bright eyes shining and reflecting your faltering gaze. Yeosang was the hope that whispered of the sun. 

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing vertically at the motion. “Would you like to start over with me?” Yeosang scoots closer and juts his hand out for you to take. “Hi, I’m Kang Yeosang.”

You tilted your head, smiling through your teeth as you took his hand, squeezing it lightly as you shook it. “L/N Y/N.”

Things were never truly the same after that. Yeosang’s mouth, as kissable as it looked, was still brutish and blunt, and you were still that blubbering mess around him whenever he’d get a bit too close for comfort, but everything has changed.

You’d keep coming back to his place and Yeosang would always invite you under the pretense of practicing for the performance, but the two of you always ended up doing something else, instead; something more fun.

There was nothing set in stone, the other day, he showed you his drone collection and even let you fly one of them since you mentioned offhandedly that you’ve never tried to before.

Needless to say, you had no talent for this. You had a heavy hand with no coordination.

”Hey, hey, if you break that, I’ll break you,” he hissed when you accidentally manoeuvered the flying robot by mistake and almost crashed it onto the nearby concrete wall.

”I-I’m sorry,” you blurted out, trying hard to set it down before you damaged it. You knew it cost a pretty penny. The both of you were currently on his balcony, fifty stories high. One wrong move could make it crash all the way down.

He sighed exasperatedly, gesturing for you to come closer. “Come here, I’ll help you.”

You were expecting him to just take the remote control away from you, but you were rendered speechless when he pulled your arm and guided you in front of him. He positioned himself comfortably behind you, his hand grabbing onto yours as he did, indeed, help you with the drone.

”The trick is to be gentle with this button,” he murmured, breath tickling the shell of your ear, his fingers guiding yours on said button.

You were surprised you didn’t disintegrate on the spot. What could have, however, was when you tried to teach Yeosang how to cook the next time. 

You didn’t start out being a good cook, but living with Jongho and Yunho taught you over the years. Yunho could burn water and Jongho always spent an exorbitant amount of money on take-outs that didn’t even offer an ounce of health in them.

“You’re literally doing well,” you cheered him on as he tried to toss the ingredients for the pasta dish you were guiding him to make for lunch. “It’s easy, isn’t it?”

”Sure,” he sneered, startling himself when the oil in the pan began to crackle. “If you’re trying to get food poisoning, it is.”

”Stop setting yourself up for failure,” you rolled your eyes. You nudged a bottle towards him, sliding it against the counter for him to take. “Here, wine. Take it.”

You snorted at the wild and confused look on his face as he tried to sauté some shrimp. “I don’t drink,” he sputtered out.

It was moments like these that prevent you from regretting how bad you two started from before. If you knew you’d always end up here, you would do it all over again without any hesitation. You laughed, grabbing onto his shoulders for support. That was another thing, skinship wasn’t lost on the both of you now.

”No, dummy,” you laughed. “It’s for the pasta. Pour a little to deglaze the pan, it’s good for flavour.”

He still looked confused, but ,nonetheless, still grabbed the bottle. It shouldn’t be difficult, right?

“W-Wait, Yeosang, do it slowly, wait—-“

But it was too late. He had managed to pour half of its content straight onto the pan, causing blue fire to rise up and almost hit both of you in the face. 

“The fuck was that? Was that normal?” Yeosang hissed, tentatively stepping back from the flames.

”Well, no, you were supposed to do it slowly—-”

”Then why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

”Because it was common sense!”

It became a routine, minus the drones - you were definitely going to break them one way or another. It was so easy to fall for this man, but it was also so easy to get your heart broken by the same man.

He even lets you take Nabi out for a walk when he’d get too tired to do so. You took that task proudly and quite seriously.

”Wouldn’t want your dad laying it out on me now,” you’d giggle while giving Nabi the ear rubs you knew she loved.

You get it, though. Nabi was one energetic pup, and on one particular day where she wore you out, you didn’t realize that you’d fallen asleep on the couch, not that Yeosang minded. You knew that he didn’t mind.

Your eyes started to flutter awake, still dazed from that afternoon nap that you took, but then you realized what actually woke you up.

Everything came to you bit by bit. They say that the first thing to come and leave both in life and death was the sense of touch. It was soft, you noticed. And warm. You were laying on soft, pillowy thighs. Dazed as you were, you weren’t an all-rounder idiot; you knew it was Yeosang’s. You smile to yourself, you knew you didn’t fall asleep on his lap earlier.

But you were completely done for when you felt a hand, fingers to be specific, run slowly through your hair over and over again. You wanted to groan in contentment, no wonder Nabi likes rubs.

What truly woke you up, however, was his voice. Shivers traveled your arms all the way to your neck, you didn’t even need to strain your ears; Yeosang was singing. It was the song you’d both decided to perform, but you’d actually never heard him try and sing it before. 

It waa supposed to be a jolly tune, something awe-inspiring, but when it came from him, it sounded almost melancholic akin to a lullaby meant to reminisce rather than fill your heart with merry and joy.

He stopped, so did his fingers. “I know you’re awake,” he mumbled.

You pouted, wanting to hear more. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” you rose up from his lap, your body protesting from the lack of his warmth, voice hoarse from the prolonged unuse. “How long have I been sleeping on your lap?”

He stared at you like he always did, and you wanted to know why because its intensity was strong, but it was impossible to know without asking, because in truth, you were scared to find out.

“You should just stay for the night,” he mumbled, sitting straight up, his form rigid. “I have a guest room upstairs, and frankly, I feel uncomfortable letting you drive out this late.”

Looking around, it wasn’t difficult to deduce that it was well late into the night even though your mind wasn’t all there yet. You gulped, the offer was too tempting to not consider, but you had to go. You just knew that you weren’t going to sleep properly if you stayed.

Yeosang sighed deeply, standing up straight to face you. “Let me walk you to your car, then.”

You blushed in embarrassment. He must’ve seen the hesitation on your face. “O-Oh, there’s really no need—-”

”Let me walk you to your car, at least,” he repeated, one brow arched, his voice firmer and more resolute. It left you no room for any arguments. “Here.”

A startled ‘oof’ leaves your lips when the hoodie that he threw at you hits you square in the face. He rolled his eyes dramatically when you stared at it as if it were an abomination. He snatched it back harshly.

”God, it’s like taking care of a fucking child with you. Raise your arms,” he clicked his tongue, putting his hoodie on for you, looping your arms carefully in. 

If asking to stay the night wasn’t intimate enough for you, this definitely was. When he was done, he held your hand and started guiding you outside. It would have been funny, since it looked like a parent leading their unruly child, if you didn’t feel like you were going to combust on the spot.

It felt like you were on autopilot. Even when you sat in your car, your muscles felt so rigid and robotic. When he leaned down from the outside, his head peeking at you by the window, his toned arms hanging and leaning on the roof. “Drive safe, yeah?”

”W-what about this?”

You bunched up the hoodie in an attempt to take it off, but he stopped you. “Return it next time,” he mumbled.

You nodded, and he returned it with a curt one, patting the roof of your car before he turned around and jogged back inside. You felt slightly bad, he did give you his hoodie, after all, and he only had a tank top on.

You were completely out of it when you drove home, to the point that you reached your apartment without even realizing it. A silent scream threatens to escape your mouth as you bumped your forehead on the steering wheel, there was a faint blush on your cheeks at everything that happened.

You slept on your crush’s lap, and you even got to wear his hoodie. 

You carefully closed your bedroom door so as not to disturb Jongho and Yunho, who you knew were both sleeping since it was late, and as if it was timed, your phone vibrated in your pockets. You didn’t need to look at the ID to know who it was.

“Did you get home safely?” Yeosang’s comforting voice floods your ears, effectively soothing you and making you smile.

“Mhhm,” you hummed exhaustedly, taking your pants off, but not the hoodie, and plopping down unceremoniously on your bed. “You’re worried about me, the world must be ending soon.”

He mumbled a curse so crass, it made you giggle under your breath. “If you die on the way back, who would be my source of entertainment?” Yeosang deadpanned. A shuffling sound on his end tells you that he’s also laying down on his bed. “I’ll be bored.”

“Wow. Good to know I’m nothing but your source of fun,” you scoffed.

“What can I say? Your misery feeds my fun,” he flatly said. There was a pause on the line before a small sigh sounded. “Princess?”

That nickname will always make your heart sing no matter how much time passes. You hummed in response. “Hmm?”

“Would you like to come over again tomorrow? Forget about the project for a while, I just want to watch a movie with you,” he murmured.

Your heart warmed, you’ve never heard him sound like this before. You’ve made up your mind before he even finished talking. “Only if you let me choose the movie,” you grinned.

”Deal,” he laughed. “I’ll pick you up in the afternoon, sounds good?”

“Sounds good,” you affirmed, kicking your feet up in the air repeatedly. You reckon you resembled a flopping fish out of water right now, but you could care less. You had to bite onto your fist to stop yourself from screaming at the top of your lungs.

He said goodnight and was about to hang up, when you stopped him. “Yeosang.”

He hummed, clearly off guard at the sound of his name. “You have a beautiful voice,” you whispered, referring to his singing when you woke up from your nap. “You would have been a fantastic idol.”

He chuckled. “Good night, princess.”

You hugged your phone close to your chest, a grin stretching out from your lips so wide, your mouth was starting to ache a bit, but the high and ecstasy wasn’t going to go down easily. 

Tonight, sleep came easily to you. Yeosang’s hoodie comforted you, wrapped you in the solace you didn’t know you were missing. His scent gave you the calm that you didn’t mind getting off of.

And tomorrow couldn’t have come any faster. You didn’t tell Jongho and Yunho what you were going to do - the teasing would only get worse from then on - but they did give you odd looks here and there.

“Nice hoodie,” Jongho commented out of the blue while you were waiting for Yeosang. He squints his eyes. “It looks familiar, though. Where’d you buy it?”

“I didn’t buy it,” you replied cryptically, earning you a side-glance from Yunho this time.

He was about to say something when you heard a car engine pull up directly in front  of your apartment. The three of you lived on the first floor, so that perk was there. You jumped up excitedly, hastily picking up your purse before dashing out.

”I’ll see you guys later—-” you tried to say before you got pulled back, a hand tugging your arm backwards.

”Hold the hell on, you have a date?” Yunho blurted out, a flabbergasted look on his face present. “Why am I finding this out just now?”

He gives Jongho a look, and the latter’s eyes narrow even further. Jongho’s brow raises before he stalks towards the door. “Let me size up this fucker,” he sneers, cracking his knuckles loudly.

You wiggled your arm free from Yunho to pull Jongho away from the door so you could get out. Your best friends were protective like that. 

“Get back here,” Jongho called out, opening the door wide so he could chase you down. “You can’t just—-wait.”

You were confused, Jongho’s intimidating aura slowly slips out and gives way to confusion all the way to realization. He blanched, face slightly pale as he stared at the car parked just a couple of metres away from where we stood. 

The car window was already open, and Yeosang was already staring at Jongho. He nods once before closing it once again.

“I should have known,” he mumbled, voice dejected before giving you a tight smile. “Call when you need anything.”

He quickly went inside, followed by Yunho who whispered to you the same thing. “Have fun,” he waved before he closed the door.

Yeosang didn't say anything as you both drove away. It wasn’t an awkward type of silence, but you didn’t have the need to fill it. You wanted to give him some space, the way he gripped the steering wheel repeatedly told you everything you needed to know.

Instead, you spent the entire time chastising yourself because your eyes kept traveling at his hands and his face from your peripheral vision. You chose to look out the window, his veiny arms were distracting you a little too much.

He still had the mask on his face but honestly, you didn’t care less anymore. You couldn’t help but also stare at the way he was dressed. He was in casual wear, nothing special, but the way it emphasized his toned chest yet tiny waist got you sweating even though it was quite cool inside the luxurious car he was driving.

“There’s a drive through nearby. I want to get coffee,” he finally spoke. The softness in his voice made your heart pound, it boosted the already intimate setting of being in a car with him.

”Are you going to let me pay for us?” You asked rhetorically.

”Of course,” he shrugged, and you were about to celebrate until he continued. “Of course not.”

You rolled your eyes, an exasperated groan of frustration leaving your lips. The sound makes Yeosang laugh out loud, and he was still laughing even when the drive through speaker crackled on. Cute. 

This was dangerous. You stared at him as he spoke, his deep voice rumbling. It wasn’t fair that his side profile looked this ethereal, but it also wasn’t fair that your heart was slowly giving in to its demands little by little. He didn’t even need to ask what you wanted, he just knew what you needed.

 “Thank you,” you murmured in gratitude when he handed you your iced latte. You grit your teeth when your hands brushed with his as you tried to grab the cup.

The same hand lands gently on your thigh. You thought it was just him being him and he was absentmindedly doing it, but when the searing heat from his palms didn’t relinquish any relief, you couldn’t help but smirk to hide the growing tingle in between your thighs.

”Getting comfortable there,” you said, trying very, very hard not to look at his veiny, masculine hands. It turned you on to no end.

”Does it bother you?” Yeosang asked, not bothering to look at you since he was actually driving. You gulped, the sight of him driving with one hand increased the tingling sensation down there.

“No,” you lied. “Not at all.”

He hummed, giving your thigh a soft squeeze before he resorted to just drawing random lines on it. He made a small sound of surprise. “You work out?”

You blinked repeatedly, not really understanding what he was saying at first. “What? O-Oh, I used to do gymnastics in high school,” you revealed. The activity has made your thighs and legs toned even though you haven’t done heavy routines in a while.

”Used to? How come?”

“Had a nasty concussion. Plus, college was keeping me busy, anyway.”

“Ah,” he acknowledged with a small smirk. “I knew you hit your head somewhere along the line—-”

You playfully pushed his hand away from your thigh. “You ass.”

He laughed, his deep voice rumbling through the small space of the car, and knocking into your heart, as he pulled in in the familiar section of his apartment that led to the parking lot. 

The appreciation you had for this man knew no bounds. During the walk back to his penthouse, no words needed to be said. This was how it was with him, and you didn’t mind at all. The silence was already telling enough.

“Do you like the hoodie?” Yeosang asked the moment he closed the door behind him. 

“I do,” you admitted, grinning as you rubbed Nabi’s beautiful fur, your fingers trailing to the spot behind her ears you knew brought her joy. “Hey, girl.”

”I see,” he murmured, passing you, but not before patting Nabi’s head, and walked towards the staircase. “Follow me,” he beckoned you over with a small wave of his hand.

”Where to?” You asked, following him anyway, albeit reluctantly. 

As you climbed the stairs, something you’ve never done before, let alone go near since you didn’t want to just invade Yeosang’s privacy, especially since you knew that his personal bedroom was located on the second floor of the penthouse.

You will never get used to how simply gorgeous his space was. If you thought that the first floor where his living room was located was jaw-dropping, the second floor was something out-of-this-world. You were able to see the grand chandelier even closer in this section of the penthouse.

Multiple paintings you knew weren’t just ordinary art hung around the walls, which were made out of opulent marble, the swirls of black and white giving the space an elegance you knew cannot just be replicated and duplicated just because.

”Wow,” you whispered, not able to stop yourself in awe.

”Like what you see?” Yeosang asked, his hand absentmindedly trailing over the walls as you both still walked on, you just followed him wherever he took you.

It didn’t take long, and once again, you were in for a wild ride. Soon, the overall theme of the second floor had changed from something bright, to something just a bit darker. The swirled marble of the walls gave way to something pure black, and that included all the paintings, vase, and furniture that surrounded the area. 

“Is this your room? Wow,” you remarked like a little kid in a candy store.

”No,” he shook his head, opening the door to one of the rooms. “This is just a spare bedroom, really. Nobody’s ever used it, so I just store all my old stuff in here.”

You frowned at him. “Nobody? Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

You weren’t lying when you said that. You truly found it hard to believe that he has never brought anybody in, whether it be just a couple of close friends, or even a past fling or some hookups. The last sting of thoughts brought on a horrible churning that started deep in your gut area.

”Well, considering that you were the first one I’ve ever willingly brought here, I’d say it’s not really difficult to comprehend,” he shrugged. “My, uhm, father used to own this before he bought another unit. He would use it for his business.”

You stayed silent, following him inside the bedroom, not anymore surprised to find a large theater setup occupying most of the space. This was another instance of him slowly giving you bits and pieces of his life willingly, and you wanted so badly to ask more about what his family business was, but you didn’t. You didn’t miss the way his eyes faltered when he mentioned it.

“You’re telling me you’ve never had, I don’t know,” you bit your lip. “Flings, perhaps?”

”Of course I did,” he raised an offended brow. “I’m not a eunuch, and not to brag, but I’m not that bad looking.”

You blushed. Yeosang’s part down there was the last thing you’d ever want to think about.

“But I’ve never brought them here,” he continued cryptically, his voice not leaving you any thoughts of questioning him, so you decided to let it slide. “Anyway, I’m going to get the snacks downstairs, why don’t you pick a movie?”

You nodded, getting to your feet and caught the remote that he had thrown your way with surprising reflexes. “What movies are you into?”

“I don’t give a shit, really,” he mumbled, walking away to your devices, and for once, you were glad he was walking away. The blush on your cheeks would just never leave. 

You took this opportunity to try and calm yourself as much as you possibly could. Your corrupted brain was pushing this as a possible date between you and Yeosang, and luckily, the sentient part of it kept pushing that thought back, but it was getting more and more difficult to do so. How could you not? You were in the comfort of his home, in one of his rooms, and in a place where he’s never brought anyone before. Or so he says.

You weren't surprised to find a sizable selection for the movies. He had a state-of-the-art setup, you’d be pretty surprised if he didn’t. He told you to pick whatever you liked, but you weren’t the insensitive type, you wanted him to have a say in it, too.

You were about to sit down and just wait for him to come back when your foot had accidentally gotten caught on something when you tried to sit on the bed. You tried to see what it was and your brows lifted in surprise when you realized that you had tripped on a small box.

It was conspicuously tucked away underneath the bed, but the edge of it was slightly jutted out. You didn’t think much of it, you figured that Yeosang had stored other things in here. Maybe there were other movie selections that he’d kept in here.

So when you grabbed the box and opened it, you just simply weren’t expecting what you’d find. You were gravely mistaken, there were no movies in there. You wanted to hit yourself, of course there wouldn’t be, DVDs were a thing of the past!

There was a piece of paper on top of everything. You inspected it carefully, and you realized that there was a name in it. A girl’s name. You frowned, that was the name of the girl who was picked last for the project.

You gasped, dropping the piece of paper in realization. Professor Choi did not accidentally put your name twice in that box.

You rummaged more to see what was in the box. Instead, there were photos - multiple of them. Your eyes weren’t completely taking everything in, but there were a myriad of photographs that ranged from professionally printed ones all the way to the wallet-sized polaroid prints. 

You bit your lip. You really shouldn’t be doing this, you were invading Yeosang’s privacy, and whether he said it or not, you knew that he appreciated that you didn’t pry on the things he wasn’t ready to tell you. 

You wanted badly to know more about Yeosang, but you knew this wasn’t the way to go about it. The box needed to go, and it was about to, but then, you spotted a particular photo that got your attention. You glanced at the door, and with a shaky hand, you took that photo to stare at it closer.

The lump in your throat was making it difficult for you to breathe, you were nervous, but there was no going back from this.  That wasn’t all, however, it was mostly the photo in your hand.

There were two people in the photo you were holding, one of which you’ve never seen before. He was quite handsome, you noted. He had the biggest grin on his face that made him look so young, you could barely see his face, that’s how wide he was smiling. Had the situation been different, you would have been fascinated by how much he resembled a fox.

And then, there was Yeosang. In an unfortunate coincidence, you picked up a photo where he was still covering half of his face, but this time, it wasn’t by a mask, it was his hands. This photo must have been taken mid-laughter by somebody else.

You’ve never seen him this happy before. His eyes were also smiling, but one thing that absolutely got you was that when you looked closer, you were pleasantly surprised to find a small birthmark on the side of his face. You realized that he must’ve been covering it lately with makeup.

When you turned the photo around, there was a name in there. Jung Wooyoung. And there was a note in there too, one that you knew to be Yeosang’s handwriting.

There were only four words written on it - I am so sorry.

You swallowed, clearly, you weren’t supposed to see this. You suddenly remembered Jongho’s words from before - something had happened that made him the way he was now.

Shame crept in from the bottom of your heart, you had to pretend that you didn’t see any of this, you had to put the box back the way you found it and forget that you ever saw that picture. But it was too late.

”What the fuck are you doing?”

You gasped, jumping up from where you were seated down, causing the box to fall from your lap, exposing what you were doing, which was basically snooping in on his privacy against his will and without his permission.

The snacks he was carrying was long forgotten on the floor, for he must’ve dropped it after seeing you look through the photos. 

You were devastated, but he looked even more devastated as he stood from where he was standing, staring at you with the most disappointed eyes. That was the worst part - he didn’t seem angry, not at all. He looked absolutely broken, and it was your fault.

“Y-Yeosang,” you called out, voice wavering as you felt your tears slowly forming in your eyes. “I c-can explain, please—-”

He looked down at the floor, completely avoiding eye contact with you. Only his fists were moving, they were actively shaking. He had a lump in his throat that he gulped in, albeit with difficulty.

”How could you do this to me?” Yeosang questioned, his voice laced with an unmistakable hint of pain and hurt. He lifted his head, and  heart felt like it was getting pulled out of your chest. “How could you?”

You tried walking towards, the photos on the floor long forgotten, but he raised a palm to stop you. “Yeosang,” you called out once more, your desperation seeping out from you.

”I thought you were different,” he chuckled bitterly. He pressed the heel of his palms on his eyes as if he was trying to soothe an oncoming migraine. “But it turns out, you were the worst of them all.”

Your lips quivered, of all the things he had said to you, the things he had insulted you with, this one statement stung the most, mainly because you knew it to be true. You shook your head desperately. “You know it’s not like that,” you cried, ashamed because you didn’t want to lose him, not like this. “I am so, so sorry, Yeosang, please forgive me, I know I was wrong, please.”

“Get the fuck out of my house, Y/N,” he commanded venomously, pointing a shaking finger on the direction away from the room. He exhaled a shaky breath. “I never want to see you again.”

That was when your tears started to fall from your eyes. “Don’t say that,” you sobbed. “P-Please don’t say that—“

”Y/N, you know what hurts the most right now?” Yeosang spat out, running a hand on his hair in frustration. “I could handle the daily insults I hear at campus every single day. That’s fine, I don’t owe anyone an explanation, they can say whatever they want.”

”But you,” he gritted his teeth. “I trusted you, more than I’ve ever come to trust myself,” he took a shaky breath in. “I let you in. The thing that hurts me the most is that I’ve come to care for you. I care about you, Y/N. Do you have any idea how much I want to slap myself right now?”

“You’re right, I am so sorry,” your entire body was shaking, your legs almost threatening to give out. “I’m so sorry, Yeosang, please—-”

“You made me look like an idiot,” he declared. “Get out. Please. I won’t tell you again.”

He turned around to walk away, but your impulses took action by suddenly running forward to give Yeosang a hug from behind. He freezes from the action, but all that did was make you hug him tighter.

”Please, don’t push me away, not like this,” your tears were free-falling, soaking his shirt. “I’m begging you, please.”

“Goddamn it, you have no right to do this right now,” he snapped, grabbing your hand to pry it away from himself before grabbing you by the arm and callously dragging you downstairs.

”Yeosang, stop it, stop—-”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he hissed, grabbing onto your arm tighter, so tight you were sure he’d leave marks on it hours from now, dragging you roughly, not caring if you stumbled and tripped along the way.

He pulls on his door, giving you one last look before completely pushing you out so harshly, you fell on the floor of the elevator that will lead you out. You looked up at him, fat tears still rolling down your eyes, and he looked straight at you without any emotion as he pressed down the button.

It still didn’t hit you, not until the elevator doors opened again and you realized that you were back in the parking lot. You walked out with your wobbly legs as far as it could take you before completely breaking down on the nearby wall, slumping down and hugging your legs together as you wailed your heart out.

You shouldn’t have done it. He had every right to be furious with you right now, and there was no repairing this, you had broken his trust and that’s not something that would ever be the same again even if you gained it back. 

The rain from above had begun to mix with your tears and soon enough, you were completely soaked from head to toe. You were so deep in your despair that you didn’t even realize that it had begun raining.

Yeosang’s hoodie did nothing to shield you from the bitter cold. There was only so much your body could take until you had begun shivering, and stupidly, you waited a little thinking that maybe, just maybe, Yeosang would change his mind, especially since you didn’t drive here yourself.

But you knew it was never going to happen. Shaking, you got your phone out and dialed the first number that you saw first. You were sniffling hard, your teeth chattering, sobs broken with hiccups here and there.

“Hello?” Yunho’s sweet and comforting voice came through the line.

“Y-Yunho,” you uttered in broken sobs. “C-Can you please pick me up? I need help.”

“Y/N? Are you okay? Hang on,” his frantic voice asked. “Tell me the address, do not go anywhere. I’m on my way.”

You tried your best to describe the location to him before hanging up. You were glad it was Yunho, his name was eerily close to Yeosang’s in your contact list.

You didn’t notice that car that pulled up directly in front of you, startling yourself when an arm started to help you up, handling you with such care you wanted to cry all over again.

“I got you, I got you,” he reassured, not caring if he got wet by the rain, let alone get his car soaked when you sat inside.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Yunho tried to ask, driving out of the parking lot as soon as he possibly could.

You could only shake your head, the words you wanted to tell him caught in your throat. A hoarse and grating sound from your mouth escaped, instead, your lungs wheezing for air the moment your tears started to fall again. The only thing Yunho could do was be patient, even though the sight of you sobbing your heart out squeezed his own.

It had to be bad, he thought. You were never one to cry, you and Jongho were similar in that aspect while he was the odd one out since he was very easily touched. His grip on the steering wheel tightened, his foot unconsciously stepping on the gas in an attempt to get back to the apartment faster.

He got out of the car in record speed to pound on the apartment door. An annoyed, but confused, Jongho answered. “Go to my car,” he panted. Jongho was about to ask when Yunho cut him off. “It’s Y/N, it’s really bad, Jjong.”

No words need to be said. Jongho moved past him, not even bothering to put on any shoes, as he ran to his car and practically flung the door open. You felt yourself getting carried, but you didn’t bother to look up, your tears blurring your vision, anyway.

“Bathroom,” Yunho said, sighing in concern as he watched Jongho carry you in his arms. “Do it quickly, she was shivering really bad when I picked her up…”

Jongho laid you down on the tub and began filling it with water so you wouldn’t get sick from the rain while Yunho did his best to tuck your hair out of your face as much as possible and helped you out of the hoodie that was weighing your body down. Deep in your heart, you knew that you owe these two forever.

“What the hell happened?” Jongho questioned, the anger in his voice straining his own throat. “I’m going to strangle him. Did he hurt you?”

You didn’t respond, Jongho had to hold you by the shoulders and shake you a bit. “Did he fucking hurt you?”

“Jongho, cut it out, you’re scaring her,” Yunho hissed, prying the latter’s hands off of you in a rare show of his own anger. He kneeled down, gently holding your eyes with his own. “Y/N? I need you to tell us what happened.”

And so you did. It was difficult on your part because you had to retell everything that happened. The longer you talked, the more pitiful you looked - your voice was almost gone, your cheeks sullen and pale, and your eyes rimmed with reddish and purplish hues due to crying. You could see it in their faces that they agreed with the one thing you told them after - that it was, indeed, your fault. 

“You didn’t know, okay?” Jongho held your head firmly. “You didn’t know. I should’ve emphasized how fucked up he is before you approached him. ”

“Do you know what’s in the box?” Yunho asked curiously.

You hesitated before answering. “A name. Jung Wooyoung.”

Jongho froze, his hands on his head automatically pulling away as if you had burned him. It pretty much confirmed what you already had in mind - the name had something to do with why Yeosang was the way he was.

All the anger he had simmered down faster than you realized. “I see,” Jongho sighed. “That makes a lot of sense now. Wooyoung is very, very important to Yeosang.”

“Still,” Yunho murmured. “How important has this guy gotta be for him to kick her out like an asshole?”

“Very important,” Jongho deadpanned. He heaved a weighted sigh, completely slumping down on the floor beside the tub. “Wooyoung is Yeosang’s half-brother.“

That night, you already knew that you weren’t feeling the best. There was so much information in your head that you wanted to completely forget for now, but how would you do that when even your own body was reminding you about what had happened today?

If Yeosang forgave you one day, you knew you’d still live with the guilt as long as you’re alive.

You had to skip your classes the next day. As you suspected - more like expected - you had raging fever and there was no way you would be able to go anyway, Yunho guarded your door like a hound.

There was a lot of berating on his end, and admittedly, while it was fascinating to see, the sweet Jeong Yunho had disappeared for a bit when you heard an earful from him when you wouldn’t drink your medicine or eat the soup he bought.

But you had to go the day after that. There was only so much leeway Professor Park could give you without you having to take more extracurricular activities after. The project alone was daunting enough.

That was another thing. You had to tell him that this project with Yeosang might be over and that there was a huge possibility that you were opting out now before it even started.

Your phone kept vibrating in between your classes. You knew it was Yunho reminding you to take it easy. Or perhaps, it was Jongho looking for you. You were actively avoiding him because you knew you’d receive an earful too. Between the two, he was definitely more overprotective.

It was pointless, you couldn’t concentrate on anything. The pounding in your head just wasn’t going to go away in a day or two, even though you hoped it did, and your entire body just felt hot to the touch, sweat kept leaking out of your pores at an alarming rate.

You missed Yeosang already. You were so used to hanging out with him the moment you set foot on campus, and you could already hear the whispers of why you were alone while Yeosang was nowhere to be seen.

It certainly made you mad. The assumption was that you finally got sick of Yeosang and had finally opened your eyes to how weird he was. It wasn’t true at all, you wanted to scream at everyone to stop being judgmental, but you couldn’t even stand straight without toppling over.

It was getting difficult to not give in to your fever. You were walking through the hallways of the campus to get to your next class, not to actually go, but to tell your next professor that you couldn’t attend and needed to go home. You were at your limit, especially when you accidentally bumped into a girl in your class. Luckily, she wasn’t salty about it and asked you if you were okay, instead.

You wouldn’t get the opportunity to answer her. It all happened so fast, black spots were covering your vision and you felt your muscles going weak. Soon enough,  your body just gave out on you, and you came tumbling over, passing out in this girl’s arms.

Yeosang saw everything. He hadn’t meant to, he usually took a different hallway to go to his classes since this one was very crowded, but something in his mind just kept telling him to pass through this one just once. 

Nothing mattered to him at that moment. He dropped everything - his books, his coffee, his inhibitions, his anger - and ran towards you, not caring at all the stares he was getting. He didn’t care, not anymore, especially not when it came towards you.

He didn’t even realize that Jongho had gotten to you first. His childhood friend was kneeling on the floor, cradling your head to his chest, his hands tapping your cheeks in an attempt to wake you up. He didn’t care about that either.

”Wait, what in God’s name are you doing?” Jongho was thoroughly surprised when Yeosang pushed him away and grabbed your limp body towards himself. He didn’t even have time to register anything when Yeosang began to carry you in one go as if you didn’t weigh anything.

“What does it look like?” Yeosang snapped. “I’m taking her—-”

“Hell no, you are not,” Jongho gritted his teeth, grabbing onto his arm to try and stop him. His explosion had already caught on to the other students, it was embarrassing.

Yeosang tried to shrug off Jongho’s hand, but he didn’t budge and held tighter. “You are the reason she is sick, bastard,” he hissed under his breath. He was about to say more, but he was caught off guard at the way Yeosang glared at him.

There was an intense, burning rage of fire in those eyes. He’s known Yeosang all his life, yet he has never seen this much emotion in his friend’s eyes. He was a no-nonsense type of man, and the magnitude of his feelings written in those eyes, the possessiveness, he had no choice but to let go and let Yeosang carry you away.

White lights penetrated through your eyelids even when they weren’t open. It was odd, you woke up with your eyes completely closed, but that flashing light was completely blinding you. It was unbearable.

You sat up with a groan, your hands clutching your head to soothe the pounding headache that made you want to split your head in half. The last thing you remembered was falling completely into that void, blackness swallowing you into its chasm, and then, nothing.

There was a small moment of panic that set in when you looked around and realized that you had absolutely no idea where you were. The only reason why you knew that you were back in Yeosang’s apartment was that the bed you were lying on smelled exactly like him; that sweet, musky, earthy scent that invaded your olfactory senses always brought heaven down to you.

A sudden ache clustered behind your eyes, the worst kind. It rendered you weak all over again, like your body was suddenly remembering that it was supposed to be sick. And just like that, you fell back asleep. 

But not for long. You felt something on your forehead, something wet and cold, and it was disrupting your well-needed rest. Your lips were getting parted a bit, an unconscious groan slipped past them.

“Yunho,” you mumbled, voice scratchy, throat itchy with how sore it was becoming.

Yeosang scoffed softly, his grip on the thermometre tightens ever so slightly, his other hand holding the cold towel on your forehead in place, hoping your fever would lessen, if not completely go away. 

You kept mumbling your roommates’ names, specifically Yunho’s. He knew of Yunho, he didn’t mind him, but he’d rather not hear it right now. He’ll let it pass for now, you were quite delirious, after all. It wasn’t something he couldn’t fully blame you for, it was him who was to blame for what happened to you.

His brow raised when your hand suddenly held his, the one holding the towel on your forehead. “Yuyu, cold,” you mumbled.

”Think again, princess,” his left eye twitched in annoyance, but he kept his voice as gentle as possible. 

You opened one eye so as to not overwhelm yourself with the light. Ah, how could you forget? You squeezed his hand slightly. “Yeo,” you smiled a little. “Are you still mad at me?”

“I don’t know, you tell me,” he muttered, trying hard not to squeeze your hand back with the small nickname you gave him this time. “You are in my house, in my bed, calling another man’s name. You tell me.”

You frowned when he leaned away. “Keep that thing on,” he pointed at the cloth on your forehead. “I’ll be back to get some soup.”

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you weren’t in the mood for soup and that you just wanted to go to sleep, so just watched him walk out of the room. You had no right to complain, your heart was getting warmer in your chest at the thought of Yeosang still taking care of you even when he was mad at you.

People don’t know how pure-hearted this man was, but you knew. You knew.

When sleep was about to come knocking towards you once more, Yeosang had to tap your cheeks a bit to wake you up. He wouldn’t admit it, but it did make him feel bad, but you had to eat to replenish your energy.

“Open up,” he lifted the spoon to feed you, himself. “Don’t soil my bed.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle a little, the sound of it a bit grating in your ears. His rough-around-the-edges made you feel reassured, like he was never angry at you in the first place. You’d take this over anything any other day.

With his help, you were able to finish the soup very quickly. Here came the hard part, though - you needed to drink some medicine. Your stomach refused to take anything anymore, you didn’t want to throw up.

”Open your mouth,” Yeosang tried to push the pill in your mouth. “I don't want you dying on me.” 

Your fever is taking over your senses now, delirium setting in, and your vision is doubling. “Can I take it later? I really can’t, it’s too bitter,” you whined.

He frowned. “No. I don’t give a damn, take it before I shove it down your throat.”

He sighed exasperatedly when you weren’t letting up. He wasn’t a complete ass, he would never force you to do something you didn’t want to. 

An idea crosses his head. He bit his bottom lip apprehensively, there was one thing he could do, but was it going to be worth it? 

He took a look at your pitiful state. Drops of sweat trickled down your forehead, yet you were still shivering terribly. Your eyes opened and shut themselves repeatedly, yet they remained unfocused on anything.

One thing was for sure - you were still beautiful. The answer wasn’t lost on him.

He takes his mask off, the one that covered the majority of his face, the one he detested yet swore would never take off. He puts the pill on his tongue, grabs your face, then puts his lips against yours.

You mewled, caught off-guard by the suddenness of it, but you were far too gone to notice and care. This was a dream, it had to be. It was the only way to not lose your mind over this. You were too delirious to see his face, and you didn’t realize that you had already swallowed the pill in the heat of the moment.

He pulled away, giving you a small peck on the nose. He walked towards the door to leave, putting his mask back on in the process, but not before looking back at you one more time. It wasn’t the way he would’ve normally done things, but it helped, didn’t it?

”Yeosang, wait,” you mumbled. It came out as a weak call, but at least he heard you when he turned around. You actually didn’t know if he did, but you just hoped he did.

”What?”

“Whatever it is that’s trapping you in your own mind,” you began. You had no idea what compelled you to say it, your delirium was getting to you, but you just had to say it. “Whatever has happened to you, just know that it wasn’t your fault.”

Yeosang froze, his entire body going rigid. “Go back to sleep,” he muttered, teeth gritted. It wasn’t out of anger, it was out of concern.

”Forgive yourself, please,” you coughed one last time before your head hit the pillow to rest. “And forgive me too…”

He wouldn’t go back to that room until the next day. He clearly had a lot to think about.

He was never truly mad at you, not entirely anyway. Rather, he was terrified. He was utterly scared of you finding out the skeletons in his closet before he told you, and he was close, he was so damn close, but when you found out first, he just couldn’t help the anger that filled his veins at that moment.

You slept for another day straight with Yeosang checking in on you once in a while. He didn’t wake you up, you definitely needed that rest to recuperate your energy

Your phone would ring once in a while but Yeosang was quick to assure Yunho, if he called, that you were fine. And if Jongho called, he wouldn’t even bother picking up. He wanted to be petty, what could he say?

By the third day, you were feeling completely fine. You were able to get up on your own and finally shower after staying on the same bed with the same clothes for a couple of days. You were able to deduce that Yeosang had taken you to his other guest room, the one that didn’t have the theater system.

When you got in the bathroom, you were pleasantly surprised to find clothes already provided in there for you. You couldn’t help the beating of your heart, both in adoration with this man and in the hurt you feel for him.

You hugged your knees, huddling in the corner of the shower as your tears mixed with the cascading water from above you. You hoped that it would wash away all the wrongs you’ve done, but you knew it never worked like that. If only things were that easy.

The shower definitely made you feel better, your body was so sore from laying down for days. You needed to stretch, and so when you looked at the time, you realized that it was only seven o’clock in the morning, so you could make breakfast for you and Yeosang.

Your body was on autopilot, years of making breakfast for Jongho and Yunho has trained you for this very moment. You just hoped Yeosang liked what you made, but you would understand if he didn’t.

“Smells good.”

You screeched, jumping a couple of feet away from where you were standing, throwing the spatula you were holding in the air. There he was, standing at the foot of the stairs just watching you.

He sighed, walking and picking up the spatual to hand it over to you. You avoided eye contact with him when he got so close, you could smell him. It makes your head grow weary with dizziness.

“I’m glad the clothes fit you,” he mumbled, clearing his throat. “Do you feel better?”

“I-I think so,” you replied, tucking a strand of your hair at the back of your ears, not knowing what to do now that he was directly in front of you like this.  

When you closed your eyes, you envisioned his face. Not in its entirety, however. You could perfectly see his features one by one when he removed the mask that night, but it was difficult to imagine them all together. Redness coloured your cheeks at the very thought of it. 

It wasn’t lost on him what you were thinking. The nervous ticks of your hands and the slightest shift of your body told him everything you needed to know, that you were nervous. 

You were expecting him to reply with something snide, something sarcastic, like he has always done with you. But instead, he heaved a sigh so heavy, it sounded like he was completely giving up and surrendering. “What am I going to do with you?” Yeosang said.

You frowned, looking up at him in apprehension. “W-What do you mean?”

“First, you invade my privacy by snooping around,” he said bluntly. You winced. “And then, you have the audacity to get sick. And now you’re here, making me breakfast you know I wouldn’t eat in front of you.”

You bit your lip, chewing on it nervously. You let out a small gasp when his thumb gently presses on your chin, pulling it down a little to stop you from doing so. “And then do you shit like this,” he whispered.

”I’m sorry,” you blurted out. “I’m so sorry for everything, I didn’t mean to be sick, but I’m very grateful that you took care of me.”

He smirked, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, did you really think I’d just leave you hanging like that? Did you honestly think that you weren’t important to me enough?”

You blinked at him owlishly, your mouth opened a little as you stared comically at him. “But, you weren’t wrong,” you gulped, your vulnerability overpowering how nervous you were actually feeling right now. ”I did snoop around but I promise you I didn’t do it on purpose, I promise you—-“

”Shh,” he hushes you, pressing his thumb on your lips this time. “I know, princess, I know,“ he swallowed before continuing. “None of it was your fault, i-it’s all mine. I am so, so sorry, Y/N.”

It hurt you to see him like this, the Yeosang you knew was headstrong, upfront, and outspoken. The Yeosang in front of you right now was vulnerable, just like you, nervous, and hesitant to say what was on his mind. His eyes bore into you, they shone with endearment towards you.

His hand makes way to your cheeks, his hand cupping your face tenderly. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispered, a tone I’ve never heard from him before. “I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

You sniffled, forcing a smile on your face. “Nah, you can’t get rid of me that easily,“ you chuckled. “I’m strong, aren’t I? Cheer up, Yeo.”

His hand itched to pull your head closer. “I’ve always liked it when you call my name like that,” he confessed, testing the waters by taking one step closer towards you. “When all you hear everywhere is ‘freak’, it sounds like a treat, you know?”

“I’m the only one who should matter,” you blurted out without thinking. “Those people don’t deserve you, they don’t deserve the smart, kind, empathetic person that you are, they just don’t.”

You saw Yeosang close his eyes slowly, his entire body trembling as he held you. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he muttered, both of his hands holding your face this time. “I don’t deserve you.”

“What? Don’t say that—-”

“I told myself to not cross this line before,” he said, walking forward, his hand pushing you backwards until you hit the countertop with your behind. “So I pushed you down a million times, but the truth was, I’d love it if you knew that you were on my mind.”

Your heart was constricting, shrinking on itself, that it hurt to even breathe. The vulnerability in his eyes was making you tear up. You purse your lips to stop yourself from tearing up then and there. “Do you remember what you told me the other night?” Yeosang asked you, his hand going behind your neck. 

You shook your head, not because you didn’t truly remember, but because you can’t even describe what you’re truly feeling right now. “You told me to forgive myself,” he murmured. “But how am I supposed to do that when I was this close to losing you because of some misunderstanding from my insecurities?”

You could feel the weight of what he was saying as something tangible. You gulped, opening your mouth those three little words you’ve always wanted to tell him, but he quickly shook his head. 

“Don’t say it,” he pleaded. “Not yet, Y/N. Not yet.”

This was it for Yeosang, it was now or never. With what he’s going to tell you, it’s either you stay or you don’t. There is no in between. He ran his hand through his hair, something you noticed he did a lot when he was frustrated, as if doing so would lessen his unraveling thoughts and feelings. 

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. He can’t do it, where did he even want to start?

It was a constant push and pull between you and Yeosang - he was good at being there without suffocating, you were good at offering your support without asking for anything in return. It infuriated him, yet intoxicated him. All he wanted was to run away when all you wanted to do was lean on him. 

But not anymore, he wasn’t going to run anymore.

“For the lack of a better word, I’m fucked up, Y/N,” he chuckled bitterly, breaking your heart into small pieces. “It wasn’t always like this, you know? I have my reasons, and I was fine being alone, but you.”

He held your hands and warmth spread all throughout your fingertips. It sent sparks down your spine. “The first time I looked at you, you didn’t even notice it. You were the only one who didn’t pay attention to me or said anything remotely stupid about this.”

He was referring to the mask. You stared at him in sadness, was the bar really that low? It wasn’t difficult to not talk about it, it wasn’t your place, and you believed everyone does what they do for a reason regardless or how unreasonable it could be. 

His eyes started to search yours. He wanted to stop breathing. It was those eyes of yours. He swallowed a lump on his throat because you always looked at him like the only thing you saw was him. It was too much for him at times, yet it was never enough at the same time.

“There are a lot of things I want to tell you, but I don’t know where to start,” he admitted. He hated how small he sounded. “I want to tell you everything, I’m just stuck in my head lately, that’s all.”

You didn’t respond immediately, what were you supposed to say to something like that? You weren’t good with things like this, and your heart twisted with hurt as you took a good look at him, he looked hopeful yet sad. Yeosang thought you looked so understanding right now, and he wanted to scream.

“You saw it when you opened the box, didn’t you?”

You tilted your head, confused at first, but you knew exactly what he was talking about. You wanted to hear it from him. “What about it?”

“I’m so stupid,” he chuckled bitterly. “I guess I was embarrassed when you found out that you weren’t going to be my original partner for the project.”

Your heart thudded in your chest. I knew it, you thought. You did have an inkling, but you didn’t want to assume anything. “I don’t know why I did it, but I don’t regret it. Deep down, I think Professor Choi knew,” he continued.

You noticed that he was slowly pulling away, you can read it in his eyes that he’s said enough. You weren’t going to let him do that.

”Yeosang,” you uttered his name with gentle care; with such grace. “You can tell me anything, alright? No matter what it is, I’m here. You have no reason to carry your burdens by yourself anymore.”

You could tell that your words hit him like a hurricane. You stared at him, the conflict in his eyes, oh, how you want to take that all away from him. You definitely wanted to tell him how you felt about him, and you just might. 

Yeosang stepped closer to you, your face almost brushing against his chest. His hand tightened their hold on your and the contact sent jolts of shivers against your scalp. He was having an internal conflict, his resolve slowly breaking down in front of you as his eyes met with yours once again. You almost couldn’t handle the softness in his eyes, it was too much, yet it was everything.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he choked out, eyes reddening. He was pulling away.

But you weren’t going to let him. “You can,” you encouraged, voice gentle yet firm. You brought his hands to your lips and gave them a small peck. “I’m not leaving, even if you push me away. I am not leaving you.”

"No, you don't understand," he counteracted. "I don't want you to lean on me, because I'm falling, and I don't want that for you."

His hands were trembling. "And don't even count on me, because I'm drowning," he gazed at you with despair. "Please don't drown with me."

That hurt more than you thought possible for your heart to take. The emotions behind it were so rough, and for the first time, you didn't know what to do. "What do you want, then?"

"To hold you in my arms," he admitted. "Because I'd let the ocean take me if I can't."

The pounding of Yeosang’s heart slowed down, and finally, he finally felt like he could breathe again. He’d always felt like he was standing on the edge of the cliff, but this time, he could see himself finally jumping towards that liberation he’d always dreamt of chasing.

”Do you trust me?” You suddenly asked him.

It didn’t even take him a second to answer. “With all my heart.”

You suddenly lifted your fingers, eyes never leaving his. The fabric of the mask he wore on his face felt smooth and heavy against your fingertips as you slowly pulled it down and pulled it away from his face. It was the symbolization of it - you were going to set him free. 

To say you were starstruck was the least of your concerns. You’ve never seen someone so astoundingly beautiful that it took your breath away. It was like being hit by lightning - so sudden and intense that you felt like you were being blown away. You took all of his features one by one - his perfect nose, his kissable lips, that adorable birthmark that was now in full view.

It certainly brought tears to your eyes. You cupped Yeosang’s face as your tears fell. “You’re beautiful,” you sobbed, more tears filling your lips as you smiled at him. “So beautiful, Yeo. So, so beautiful.”

“I love you,” he whispered, his eyes filling up with his own tears. Finally saying them felt like something broke inside him yet healed at the same time. “I wanted to tell you in a better setting, in a more graceful way, but I don’t think I can keep it all in anymore.”

It was true. The words just slipped out before he could stop himself. It hung in the air, it felt unreal, and it was suffocating because his chest tightened with a mix of fear and anxiety as he waited for your response.

Your eyes widened and for a moment, you thought your knees were going to buckle underneath you. Before you even understood it, yourself, your hands left his face to snake behind his neck and then you were leaning towards him, your lips finally meeting with his.

It was everything and more. He was surprised at first, but then his lips started to move in sync with yours. It was months of pining with one another, feelings that were left unsaid for most of the time. And now you were here, breathing each other in as if today was going to be your last.

You felt so soft and warm against him. You were everything he ever wanted and now that he had you, there was no way he was letting you go. Not again.

”I love you too,” you pulled away slightly, your faces still inches away from each other. 

He couldn’t help but chuckle, not in amusement, but in relief. For the first time, he just let himself fall. He felt a deep yearning for you, it was far more than the desire to have you for himself. It was the unadulterated love he had for you.

You bit your lips at the sound of his voice, deep and unfiltered without the mask covering it. Yeosang tentatively held your face, his head tilting, the ghost of his lips fleeting against yours. He hesitated. While he wanted nothing more than to capture your lips one more time, he wanted to ask you one last thing.

“If I kiss you again right now, that will mean you will be mine,” he whispered. 

His impatient side was taking over, but no, it was up to you. If you want him, you’ll have him.

You blushed at the implication, but you already knew what you wanted. This was why you fell for him - it wasn’t for what he looked like or what he could and could have offered you, it was his warm and considerate attitude.

Your lips brushed against his. It was meant to be sweet, a confirmation of what your answer was without even needing to spell the words out to him. 

Yeosang’s resolve broke when you parted your lips. You let out a breathy, startled cry when he plunged his tongue straight onto your mouth, and your hold on his shoulders did nothing to calm down the wild beating of your heart. He pulled you close to him as if he was scared that you were going to leave him and all you did was kiss him even deeper to prove that you wouldn’t.

He needed to hear that sweet sound again. It was supposed to be a chaste kiss,  but when he sucked on your tongue after you had teasingly bitten his bottom lip, sweetness be damned. He swallowed your quiet, whiny moans as he held you closer against him, his hand just holding your cheeks as if you were the most precious of treasures.

The both of you were startled out of the kiss when the loud beeping of the fire alarm sounded from somewhere above you.

You paled, quickly pushing Yeosang away to put the fire away from the burning pan of breakfast that you had totally both forgotten in the heat of the moment. You pouted, disheartened at the blackened eggs, or what was left of it.

Yeosang started to laugh, not believing that an egg cockblocked him. It wasn’t the sarcastic laugh you were used to nor was it that passing laugh he’d make when he was restraining himself. No, this was the tummy-tickling type. His entire face was scrunched up, his lips spread throughout his face, his eyes squinting with that unmistakable happiness, and his demeanor light and free. You loved this look on him.

“Stop making fun of me,” you pouted, laughing in between. You never realized how contagious his laughter was, and that realization led you to another thought - you are loving the new things you were learning about him.

“Just leave them,” he said, taking the pan from you to put it down the sink and pulling you plush against his toned chest. 

“Yeosang,” you whined, blushing profusely at his affectionate gestures. It was a total change from who he was just hours prior to this. “Stop, I’m embarrassed…”

When he planted a quick peck on your lips, he couldn’t help but laugh again at your even more reddened face. You were so cute in his eyes, and had he known that he would feel this happy just by being with you like this, he would’ve gotten his head out of his ass a while back.

”I’ll take you out for lunch, princess,” he bargained, holding on to your hand. It wasn’t the first time he said the pet name, but it felt entirely different this time on your ears. “There’s this place I have to take you after.”

You didn’t miss the melancholy in his eyes when he said it, but you tried your best to cheer him up. “Oh? Is this a date, Kang Yeosang?”

”What if it is?” Yeosang scoffed playfully, hugging you from the waist tighter. “Can’t I take my girl out?”

“Who said I was your girl?”

You slightly felt bad at his shocked, widened eyes. You laughed out loud, leaning towards him once more to give him a sweet peck on his cheeks. “Relax, hot stuff,” you smirked when pink tinted his cheeks. “Thank you for loving me.”

A genuine smile crossed his lips, the adoration in his eyes tripling from the words you just uttered. He leaned his forehead against yours, content and happy. “No, thank you for loving me.”

Lunch was better than you could have ever imagined. Yeosang took you to this place that was an hour away from his apartment. Unsurprisingly, it was a high-end place, somewhere you would never have imagined you’d ever dine in.

“Yeo, I feel underdressed,” you frowned in concern, tugging at your dress that you both shopped for on a whim to suit the ambience of the fine dining spot.

”You’re beautiful,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “The most beautiful princess.”

When you finally sat down, he kept looking around, fiddling with his suit uncomfortably. You took his hand in yours in reassurance, it was the first time he went out without his mask and you could tell that he wasn’t used to it.

If only he knew. You ate lunch slowly, not because you were trying to be posh, but because you kept stealing glances at your boyfriend. Your boyfriend. The thought almost made you choke on your food so many times.

He really was the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen, heck, he was even prettier than you ever will be. His features were so refined, like God took his time with him. And now, he was yours.

However, the old Yeosang you knew was still there. He glared nastily at you when you tried to split the bill when you were done eating. You sheepishly smiled at him, putting your card back in your wallet to let him pay for everything. You would make it up to him by kissing him in front of everybody in the restaurant when you were leaving.

Public display of affection wasn’t your thing, but it was so worth it to see his flustered smirk.

”Do you know why I brought you here?” Yeosang questioned, buckling your seatbelt for you like a true gentleman, curiously. 

You frowned, looking around from inside the car. You’ve never been here before and to be fair, when you told him to surprise you, he did deliver. “You’re not going to kill me and dump my body out here, aren’t you?” You teased him.

He rolled his eyes dramatically. “I should,” he murmured. He laid his arm at your headrest, looking behind as he reversed the car. You gulped, he looked hot. “Seriously, Y/N? God, you’re so fucking weird.”

You chortled, the snorting sound coming from you was so embarrassing but you didn’t care. “True, but you love me,” you smirked triumphantly. 

He sniffled, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. “I know,” he fake cried. “Is it too late for me to find the receipt so I can still return you to the store?”

You gasped, your mouth dropping in mock offense. “Yeosang!”

He wasn’t going to change from that apathetic friend that you had first before this, except that you had the benefit of having his love now. 

The drive was smooth-sailing. You felt like you were in cloud nine the entire time, giggling when he would smirk at you knowingly, his hand on yours the entire time while the other was on the steering wheel. You couldn’t help but notice how smooth his hands were.

Soon enough, you were driving in an area where the houses had great views and were situated in prime locations. You didn’t notice it at first, but the more you drove, the bigger the houses got. You weren’t naive, you had an idea just how wealthy Yeosang’s family was, but you were about to find out just how wealthy they actually were.

”Let’s go,” he murmured, unbuckling his seatbelt after parking directly in front of this gated house - mansion, rather. It was intimidating, the driveway, alone, was long and winding, surrounded by pretty lights and vast greenery. 

He opened your door for you, holding your hand and gently ushering you out. You gulped, if you felt underdressed earlier when you went to a fine dining restaurant, you definitely felt out of place and you haven’t even gone inside yet.

“You could’ve told me we were going here,” you frowned, your mind already getting poisoned by your own insecurities. You gestured to yourself. “I would’ve dressed better.”

Outside the gates was a small hut-looking station, presumably where the security guards were whose jobs were to filter out who entered the property and kick out whoever isn't welcome. Yeosang knocked twice on the window with his knuckles. You were fascinated when the sliding window opened quickly, seemingly like whoever was there wasn’t expecting to be disturbed when they opened their mouth to speak.

But when they saw who was knocking, they immediately shut up. “Young Master,” the guard said in surprise rather than contempt. 

Your boyfriend smiled. “Hello, Juyeon,” he waved slightly. He gestured to me. “I’m with my girl. Open the gates, do not announce my arrival. Wooyo?”

You didn’t pay attention to their conversation, your insecurities getting the best of you. You generally weren’t someone to get intimidated by opulence and the material luxury that this world could offer, but now that it was right in front of you staring you in the face, you didn’t know what to do.

You didn’t realize that the gates had opened and Yeosang was holding your hand again and leading you inside. You smiled politely at the guard, bowing slightly to each other before you turned your attention back to Yeosang.

“You’re beautiful, I told you,” he shook his head, walking forward and leading you in. “If anything, you look perfect.”

He chuckled at your confused face. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet, someone important to me,” he explained, his voice taking on a sadder tone even though he tried to hide it from you. “This is my family home. I want everyone to see you for you and they will accept that because I’d hate for you to change just to fit in.”

You didn’t know squat about construction, but even to the inexperienced eye, it was easy to tell that the way the entire property was built was made up of high-quality and premium materials. You were still on the lawn and it was already boasting a large amount of space. 

“It’s called common courtesy,” you reasoned out, trying hard not to gawk at your surroundings. “I don’t want to look like I didn’t make an effort or anything.”

You faced the front door with him, pausing when he hesitated to push it open. “You’re literally fine, though I understand where you’re coming from,” he reassured me. “My parents are very kind people, trust me.”

You blanched. “Your parents?”

Now you felt totally out of place, you were about to meet his parents! “Yeo, a-are you sure about this? We’ve only been together for a day, are you sure—-”

“Princess,” he stopped you, worry in his eyes at your panicked state. It significantly calmed you down, but it didn’t stop the wild beating of your heart. “You were my friend first,” he smiled tightly at you. “I think my parents would be pleased to meet the person that helped me and was there for me whenever I needed comfort.”

Your chest warmed, his words hitting you directly in your heart. To say you were touched would be an understatement. “I did that for you?”

“In more ways than one, yeah,” he chuckled, ruffling your hair affectionately before fixing it, tucking the stray ones behind your ears gently and tenderly. “Ready?”

If the driveway and the lawn weren’t enough to impress you and make your jaw hit the floor, the interior of the house definitely did. Everything from the living room down the smallest corners of the walls screamed luxury and money, the attention to detail was impressive, especially since you grew up in a humble home.

”Holy shit, Yeosang,” you blurted out as he gave you a tour. “I knew you had money, but this is crazy.”

“Old money,” he shrugged. “Didn’t Jongho tell you we were childhood friends? My little princess can think about that for a second, hmm?”

You rolled your eyes at him, but he was right. It also didn’t stop the blush from rising up your cheeks. You would just never get used to his affectionate nature being out in the open now. 

Besides the few house workers that were delighted at the sight of Yeosang, you didn’t encounter anybody significant yet. You weren’t sure if that was a relief or not, but so far you were enjoying the tour. He showed the pool, the built-in sauna with the promise of using it with you next time, and the outdoor kitchen.

There was also a home theater, but he didn’t stay long. You figured it had something to do with how you two had a falling out a week prior. Instead, he took you to his favourite place - the wine cellar. Apparently, his father loved collecting wine from all over the world. You gulped at the mere thought of the price tag attached to them.

He smirked when he brought you to the main kitchen. Your eyes shone at the granite countertops, the marbled floors, and the custom cabinetry that held every spice and herb known to mankind. There, a kind looking woman approached you with a wide smile. Yeosang introduced her as the head chef.

”I see you got yourself a little girlfriend, Sangie,” she teased mischievously. 

Yeosang cleared his throat, rolling his eyes affectionately as he gave the head a tight hug. “It’s been a while,” he whispered with an emotion you haven’t recognized before. “Uhm, this is Y/N,“ he gestures to you after he’s pulled away. 

“Nice to meet you,” you smiled as the head chef gave you a tight hug of your own. It certainly touched you, it was such a warm gesture and you’ve never met them before, too.

”Hopefully, Yeosang has been treating you well,” she said with a knowing smile. “My, you are very pretty, dear.”

“Who’s very pretty?”

You turned to a new voice from the entrance of the grand kitchen. Judging from what you were seeing, you knew exactly who this woman was. She looked just like Yeosang, except she was much, much older. She had this elegance and grace that one couldn’t get from anywhere else except for age and the wisdom that came along with it.

You bowed in a ninety-degree angle as politely and as respectfully as you possibly can. “G-Good afternoon, Mrs. Kang, I am so sorry to intrude into your house like this!” 

You heard her amused laughter, and when you rose back up, you held back in your own laughter when you saw her hold the shell of her son’s ear and pulled it towards her cheekily. 

“You unfilial son of mine,” she started off, ignoring Yeosang’s groans of pain as she tightened her hold. “You haven’t set foot in here for a while and you dare just show up unannounced? Oh, your father will have a field day with you!”

“But it’s okay,” she giggled, your eyes widening when she held you by the arm. “Finally, you bring a beautiful girl home, oh, I thought my son was going to die a virgin forever!”

“Mum! What the hell?”

Yeosang’s mom was a chatterbox, and she was the sweetest. It made you breathe out a sigh of relief because you were slightly terrified that she’d reject your humble background compared to theirs and her son’s lifestyle growing up.

The only way Yeosang was able to drag you away was when you made a promise to her that you’d come back for tea time.

“Princess, I hope this doesn’t deter you from coming back,” he remarked sarcastically, leading you outside with his hand on your lower back. “I swear everybody here is sane.”

As if on cue, the house staff that would either pass the two of you or you would pass bowed and giggled to themselves in amusement and surprise when they saw Yeosang. You smiled awkwardly at everybody, breathing a sigh of relief when you reached the back part of the property once more, except Yeosang led you to an entirely different place.

“I think everybody is sweet and it’s quite endearing to see them like you,” you chuckled. “I get it though. It’s like they haven’t seen you in months.”

“That’s because they actually haven’t seen me in months,” he deadpanned.

You chuckled a bit, thinking that he was joking just to uplift the mood, but when you saw his facial expression remaining unchanged, your smile dropped. “W-Wait, you’re serious?”

“We’ve been technically together for a while now without the label, have you ever seen my family visit or heard a phone call?” Yeosang scoffed, pulling on your hand to stop you from walking. “We’re here.”

Your mouth parted in awe. Flowers littered your vision, they were a dancing rainbow of pretty blossoms. You’ve always dreamt of getting a house one day with a huge garden like this, you could almost detect the insatiable fragrance this garden offered, and the way the beautiful petals curled from the summer heat made you want to touch them. You could stay here and make this your sanctuary.

”But why? Was there any reason you cut contact with them? They love you, Yeo, I could see that,” you said softly, curiosity dancing in your eyes.

He lifted a finger to point at something. “That’s why,” he said. His eyes were swimming with a mixture of anxiety and longing, but when he blinked, it was gone. He offered you his hand once more. “Come along, princess. There’s someone I would like you to meet.”

You didn’t notice it at first, but there was a person on the far end of the garden. The closer you got, the more you realized that it was a man. He was obscured by all the pretty flowers, but he was there clear as day.

Your heart dropped to your feet, for the man was in a wheelchair, his entire right leg in a cast along with his right arm. Was this the reason why Yeosang chose to leave his family? You were nervous to know the answer.

He didn’t notice you at first, too busy basking underneath the sun that was beaming down on him. He had a soft, serene smile painted on his face that signified that he was truly at peace at the moment. Your brows shot up when you got closer, he was handsome. 

Finally, he looked up, and then his eyes widened. Between Yeosang’s trembling hands and the man’s widened, unsure eyes, you didn’t know what to do, exactly. The three of you were frozen in time.

“Yeosang,” he whispered, eyes hooded with emotions you couldn’t stand looking at, not because you had something against this man, but because you might end up crying if you stare too long. He tried to get up hurriedly, struggling against his restrictions, and it was when Yeosang finally broke out of his trance and rushed forward.

“Damn it, Wooyoung, what the hell is wrong with you?” Yeosang hissed, his harsh voice a contrast to the gentle way he helped the latter sit back properly on his wheelchair. “Have you lost your mind?”

You purse your lips. Ah, you thought, so this was Wooyoung. The genes in this family continue to astound you. You didn’t recognize him at first - in the photo you saw, Wooyoung had shorter hair, and right now, his hair was long enough to reach his shoulders. And he has a thorny rose tattoo that he didn’t have in the photo.

Wooyoung stared at Yeosang when he lifted his pants a little before squatting down to his level, using his hands to lean on the wheelchair for support. The fox-looking man stared at his brother with no particular expression on his face except for his teary eyes. You felt like you were intruding.

Yeosang smirked lightly, without any malice or ill-intent. “How are you, Woo?”

You weren’t expecting much, in fact, you weren’t expecting anything at all, but you sure as hell weren’t expecting your boyfriend’s face to be, for the lack of a better word, bitch-slapped so hard, it sent his head reeling to the side. The loud, cracking sound of skin hitting skin surprised you, to say the least.

“That’s for disappearing on me for months,” Wooyoung hissed, his hand still in the air.

Yeosang’s mouth was parted in shock. He slowly turned his head back to Wooyoung, his eyes widened, but he didn’t say a word. His cheek was slowly growing red and if it wasn’t for the situation, you would’ve laughed at the handprint forming on the area.

After a while, Wooyoung burst out crying, leaning forward to grab Yeosang by his shirt so he could wrap his arms tightly around him. Yeosang relaxes into the hug, patting Wooyoung’s shaking body whilst rubbing onto his back soothingly like a father comforting a son. The only sound in the garden right now was Wooyoung’s silent wails and sniffles.

“How did you even know I was here?” Wooyoung wondered, sniffling, as he pulled away and took a good look at Yeosang by holding onto his face. “You look…happier.”

You blushed when he side-eyes you mischievously, winking at you subtly before turning his attention back at Yeosang. “You’re a jerk, you know that?” Wooyoung further chided, scoffing loudly at Yeosang, who rolled his eyes. “Dad is pretty pissed at you and mum was running around like a chicken without a head. You left me high and dry, bastard.”

“And you?” Yeosang raised a brow, rubbing his cheek, offended.  “What about you?”

“You tell me,”  Wooyoung pushed Yeosang’s shoulder. You wanted to giggle at how different the two brothers were. “You were having so much fun at dad’s penthouse.”

Yeosang was genuinely surprised. “How—”

“Anyway,” he grinned, turning his wheelchair manually to face you. He stretches his arm towards you and waves it to gesture to you to come closer to him. “Come, come,” he said. “I need to know the girl who removed my brother’s stick from his ass.”

“Bold of you to assume we’re together,” Yeosang scoffed, motioning for you to sit down on the nearby bench.

“Keep telling yourself that. Move along,” he turned his wheelchair once more, the wheels going over Yeosang’s foot like a bump on the road. He mumbled a small ‘oops,’ not really caring about the latter’s groan of pain as he clutched on his foot while glaring behind the former’s back intensely.

He grinned again, bringing his hand out for you to shake. “Jung Wooyoung, the better looking brother.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Yeosang rebutted. “She’s my girlfriend, dimwit.”

“L/N Y/N, the stick holder,” you smirked, bringing your own hand out to shake his. You tried hard not to stare at his cast and his injuries, though you were extra curious about them especially since Yeosang kept looking at them when he thought Wooyoung didn’t notice, and his eyes held pain.

Wooyoung laughed, surprising you with his high-pitched cackle. “Oh my God, I like her, I like her!” He repeatedly said, slapping his own thigh as he laughed. He batted his eyelashes at you. “So, what did you do to bring my brother out of his shell?”

It was when the atmosphere turned tense. Yeosang’s shoulders stiffened, his back muscles turning rigid. “I don’t think we should talk about that right now,” he murmured, sitting beside you and draping an arm across your shoulders.  “There’s so much time, Woo–”

“What, so much time for you to leave again? I won’t see you for months, hell, I might not see you again, knowing you,” Wooyoung scoffed, sighing heavily. He looked up at the sky again for minutes before setting his eyes towards Yeosang once more. “You need to let go, Sangie,” he paused, tilting his chin at me. “Does she know?”

Your curiosity was definitely piqued this time. Yeosang shook his head. “That’s why I’m here,” he sighed. He looked at you, giving you a tight smile. “I figured if you’re going to be with me, you have to know soon, anyway.”

“Is this related to why you covered your face the entire time during this semester?” You wondered absentmindedly, not expecting that it would set off another set of questions.

“Wait, what the hell does that mean?” Wooyoung blurted out in surprise. “Cover your face, how? Yeosang?”

Both of you proceeded to tell in your own experiences on how Yeosang would wear a mask to cover the bottom half of his face on campus and even around you until recently. Wooyoung’s jaw dropped lower and lower down to the floor the more you recounted your experiences, especially how Yeosang was being treated by the other students.

Wooyoung had this forlorn look on his face that got sadder and sadder the more you talked to the point that you regretted talking in the first place. He rubbed his face with his hands frustratedly. “Damn it, Sangie, I told you, I’m fine.”

Yeosang raised a brow, giving his injuries a pointed look, making Wooyoung roll his eyes. “It will heal,” he tried to console, but it wasn’t working. He turned to you, eyes laced with pain, before he sighed and spoke. “There was a car accident a couple of months ago. I was in the passenger’s seat, and Yeosang was driving.”

Hearing that felt like a dream, the sudden shock of it not fully sinking into you until Yeosang tightened his hold on your shoulder. “I like you, and you seem like a nice girl,” Wooyoung continued. “But I have to ask you this - what do you think about Yeosang?”

It definitely sparked something in you, it was an easy answer. “Everything,” you grabbed Yeosang’s hands in yours. “He’s very sweet, a bit of a jackass sometimes, but it’s a part of his personality I’m willing to work around because I’m in love with him. Anybody who doesn’t like him is lost on them, and I feel bad for them.”

Wooyoung seemed satisfied with this answer. His hand patted your free hand before he looked down. “There was this girl,” he began, voice hardening. “Long story short, she was obsessed with him. She followed him everywhere, she even broke into our house one night, I mean, this girl was crazy.”

You gasped, turning your head abruptly at Yeosang, who was avoiding eye contact. You had an idea where this was going, you didn’t want to hear the repeated heartbreak for both of them, but you had to because it will help Yeosang move on. You tightened your hold on his hand.

It made sense. It all made sense. The attitude, the melancholy, and the mask. It just made sense. His face was his downfall.