Then I haven't really changed, yeah, I'm just confident

No, hell, in your experience, smelled like salt in the air and expensive sunscreen. Like sun-warmed pavement and blooming jasmine climbing over white-painted fences. Like the ocean sitting just close enough to hear from your bedroom window, taunting you with the promise of peace you were never actually going to get.

Hell smelled like summer in Jeju Island. And unfortunately, you had just arrived.

You stood in the driveway of your family’s beach house with your sunglasses sliding down your nose and your patience already clinically deceased, staring at the towering white house like it had personally offended you. Which, honestly, it had. The place looked like every rich family’s Pinterest board had thrown up on it, ivy curling around stone walls, floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the blinding afternoon sun, hydrangeas blooming obnoxiously blue along the front walk.

Beautiful. Expensive. Full of memories you preferred not to examine too closely. Your mother stepped out of the car behind you with the kind of energy only women with fresh manicures and vacation plans possessed.

“Don’t just stand there,” she said, already fishing her oversized sunhat from her tote bag. “Help your father with the luggage.” 

You adjusted your sunglasses and gave the house one last deeply unimpressed look. “I’m considering simply walking into the ocean instead.”

From somewhere near the trunk, your father sighed. “And every year, you make the same joke.”

“Because every year, the ocean remains an option.”

Your mother clicked her tongue, the universal sound of maternal disappointment, and handed you two bags anyway. “Be dramatic later. We’re already late for dinner at the club tonight.”

Of course you were. Summer in Jeju Island wasn’t really summer. It was a social performance with a beachfront view. Three months of yacht parties, country club dinners, charity galas disguised as drinking events, and the same old-money families pretending they didn’t all know each other’s scandals already. Everyone here had grown up together, gone to the same private schools, kissed the same people, ruined each other’s lives in aesthetically pleasing ways. It was beautiful. It was exhausting.

It was home, in the most unfortunate sense of the word.

You hauled your bag up the front steps, pushing the door open with your shoulder. The familiar coolness of the house greeted you immediately, air conditioning and polished wood and lemon-scented cleaning products. Somewhere upstairs, your childhood room waited exactly as you’d left it last August, probably still holding the ghosts of every bad decision you’d made between seventeen and twenty-two. A charming thought. 

You dropped your bags by the staircase and wandered toward the kitchen, where your mother was already directing the opening of windows and the placement of flowers like she was staging a home magazine shoot.

She looked over her shoulder at you. “And before I forget,” she said, in the dangerously casual tone mothers used right before ruining your day, “be nice to the Lees this summer.”

You stopped mid-reach for the lemonade pitcher. Slowly, you turned. “Excuse me?”

“The Lees,” she repeated, as if she hadn’t just spoken your personal curse into existence. “We’re having them over next weekend, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t start any unnecessary arguments.”

You stared at her. There was a long, silent moment in which your soul quietly left your body and floated somewhere over the Atlantic. Then, “I’d like it officially noted,” you said, setting the pitcher down with great dignity, “that I never start the arguments.”

Your mother gave you a look. You gave her one back. She won. “You absolutely do.”

“I finish them beautifully,” you corrected. “That’s different.”

She sighed, turning back to her flowers. “Just behave. Especially with Heeseung.” And there it was. The name. The final nail in the coffin. Lee Heeseung. Your lifelong enemy. Your annual migraine. The human embodiment of every smug text message left on read.

Next door. Living, unfortunately.

You leaned against the kitchen counter and closed your eyes for one brief moment, like maybe if you didn’t move, the universe would take pity on you and reverse time. It did not. Because of course he was here. He was always here.

Every summer since childhood had come with three guarantees: humidity, your mother’s obsession with hosting dinners, and Lee Heeseung existing entirely too close to your personal space. Your families had been friends forever, which meant your lives had been annoyingly, inescapably intertwined since before either of you had enough common sense to avoid each other.

There were photos somewhere, horrifying evidence, of the two of you as children on the same beach, him with scraped knees and you with a missing front tooth, already looking like you were one wrong comment away from attempted murder.

Some things, apparently, were timeless. As teenagers, it had only gotten worse. He’d grown into his face in the kind of unfair way that should’ve required government intervention, too handsome, too charming, too aware of both. The kind of boy adults loved and girls wrote bad poetry about. Golden boy energy in expensive linen. Meanwhile, you had perfected the art of making eye contact while verbally destroying someone. Naturally, you got along terribly.

Every summer had become its own tradition of verbal warfare, stolen drinks at parties, arguments on docks at midnight, insults dressed up as flirting and flirting disguised as threats. There had been one almost-kiss when you were nineteen, drunk and angry and standing far too close on his parents’ balcony.

Neither of you had ever mentioned it again. Civilization had survived. Barely. Your mother was still talking. “His mother mentioned he got back last week.”

Wonderful. Fantastic. Thrilling.“Did she also mention if he’s developed the ability to shut up?” you asked.

“She mentioned he’s doing very well.” Of course he was. Lee Heeseung was always doing very well. He probably woke up looking expensive and emotionally unavailable. You poured yourself a glass of lemonade with the gravity of someone preparing for battle.

“Great. I can’t wait to not care.”

Your mother pointed a flower stem at you. “I mean it. No fighting.”

You took a sip. “With all due respect, mother, if Lee Heeseung and I stop fighting, one of us has probably died.”

From the front yard came the low sound of a car door shutting. Then another. Your father’s voice drifted in from outside, greeting someone. Your mother brightened instantly. “Oh! Perfect timing.”

No. Absolutely not. You set the glass down very, very slowly. “No,” you said. She smiled the smile of a woman who had already decided your fate.

“Yes. Go say hello.” You looked toward the window like it might offer an emergency exit. Sunlight poured across the garden. Beyond the hydrangeas and white fencing sat the neighboring house, just as grand, just as obnoxiously perfect. And somewhere in that orbit of privilege and poor decision-making was Heeseung. Back for another summer. Meaning your peace, your dignity, and probably your better judgment had all officially expired.

You inhaled once. Exhaled. Straightened your sunglasses like armor. “Well,” you muttered, heading for the door, “welcome back to hell.”

The universe, unfortunately, had a sense of humor. Because the second you stepped out onto the front porch, armed with sunglasses, a bad attitude, and the vague hope that maybe your father had been greeting the mailman instead of your greatest seasonal inconvenience, you saw him.

Leaning against the hood of his car like he’d been placed there by an overly confident romance novelist. Of course. Of course Lee Heeseung would make an entrance by simply existing in expensive sunlight.

His car was obnoxious. Sleek, black, expensive enough to probably have its own trust fund. It sat in the driveway of the house next door like a personal insult, gleaming under the late afternoon sun while he leaned against it with all the irritating ease of a man who had never once struggled to be liked. White linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Dark sunglasses pushed back into his hair. Skin already carrying the kind of summer tan people paid money to fake.

And that smirk. That stupid, smug, entirely too familiar smirk. Your father was by the front gate, already deep in conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Lee, who were as lovely as ever, warm, elegant, and somehow still producing that man without demanding an apology from the universe.

Mrs. Lee spotted you first. “Oh, there she is!” There was genuine affection in her voice, which made this all worse. You pasted on your best socially acceptable smile and walked down the steps with the slow, resigned grace of someone approaching their own execution.

Mrs. Lee kissed your cheek, your mother appeared from somewhere behind you like she’d been waiting for this exact moment, and within seconds both sets of parents were exchanging the usual summer pleasantries.

How was the drive?How long are you staying?You’ve gotten so grown up.We must have dinner together soon.

The rich-people mating dance. You answered where necessary, smiled where required, and tried very hard not to look to your left. Naturally, you failed. Because Heeseung was looking directly at you. Still leaning there. Still smirking. Like he’d been waiting for this. You crossed your arms instinctively. He pushed himself off the car. Slowly. Like a villain with excellent posture. Then, with the audacity of a man untouched by divine punishment, he looked you over once, head to toe, unhurried, deeply annoying, and said, “Missed me?”

You stared at him. There were many possible responses. Most of them involved violence. Your mother, standing three feet away, would probably object to murder in broad daylight, so you settled for a look sharp enough to qualify as attempted manslaughter. “I was actually having a wonderful day,” you said, “but thanks for asking.”

His mouth twitched. Your father laughed because traitors lived everywhere. Heeseung slid his hands into his pockets, infuriatingly calm. “Good. I’d hate to ruin your summer that quickly.”

“Please,” you said sweetly. “You ruin my summer just by continuing to exist.”

Mrs. Lee sighed in the fond, exhausted way of a woman who had witnessed this dance for over a decade. “See? Exactly the same.”

“Worse, actually,” you said.

“At least she admits she thinks about me,” Heeseung replied.

You inhaled. Exhaled. Decided prison orange would not flatter you. Your mother gave you a warning glance over the rim of her sunglasses, the universal signal for ‘do not embarrass me in front of the neighbors’. You smiled tightly. Heeseung smiled back like he was enjoying this far too much. He was. He always did. That was the problem.

From the outside, the two of you probably looked like some kind of old-Hollywood screwball romance, beautiful people exchanging insults in linen by the sea. From the inside, it felt more like mutual destruction with excellent lighting. Mr. Lee was discussing the yacht club renovation with your father now, and the adults had drifted slightly toward the garden, leaving just enough space for danger.

You turned toward him, lowering your voice. “If you’re planning to spend this summer being extra unbearable, I’d appreciate a warning so I can emotionally prepare.”

He leaned slightly closer, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the amusement written all over his face. “Emotionally prepare?” he repeated. “You? I thought your whole thing was pretending not to have emotions.”

You scoffed. “My whole thing is surviving despite your presence.”

“Cute.”

“Don’t call me cute.”

“I didn’t. I said your delusion was cute.” There it was. The familiar rhythm. Effortless. Annoying. Dangerous in the way old habits always were.

You hated how easy it was to fall back into it, like no time had passed at all. Like last summer hadn’t ended with the two of you arguing on the marina docks at two in the morning, both too stubborn to say whatever actually needed saying. Like the almost-kiss years ago had never happened. Like your pulse didn’t do something deeply embarrassing every time he stepped too close.

You adjusted your sunglasses and took one deliberate step back. “Try not to get hit by a yacht this summer, Heeseung. It would create paperwork.”

He grinned. “There she is. I was worried college made you soft.” You smiled back, bright and false and weaponized. “And I was hoping maturity had found you. Shame we’re both disappointed.”

Mrs. Lee called his name from the garden before he could answer, and for one brief, shining moment, you experienced peace. He glanced toward his parents, then back at you. That smirk again. Like he knew something you didn’t. Which was unacceptable. “See you around, neighbor.”

You folded your arms tighter. “Threatening me already?”

“Just making promises.” God, you hated him. Truly. Deeply. Artistically. He turned then, walking back toward his parents with the lazy confidence of someone who had never once doubted the world would make room for him. Mrs. Lee adjusted his collar as he passed, and he let her, smiling in that easy, golden-boy way that made adults adore him and should have been scientifically illegal.

Spawn of the devil. Your father was still laughing at something Mr. Lee had said. Betrayal, everywhere. A few more polite goodbyes later, the Lees disappeared back into their perfectly landscaped kingdom next door, and you stood in the driveway watching Heeseung disappear behind the white fence like a storm cloud in designer sunglasses.

Your mother touched your arm. “You could at least pretend to be nicer.”

“I was radiant with charm.”

“You looked like you were planning arson.”

“That was charm.” She sighed, already turning back toward the house. Inside, the air was cool again, but your mood had fully committed to violence. You followed her to the kitchen, where she resumed unpacking with suspicious calm, the calm of someone about to ruin your evening.

You should have known. “By the way,” she said casually, arranging lemons in a bowl like a woman with no regard for her daughter’s suffering, “we’re having dinner with the Lees on Saturday.”

You stopped. “No.”

She didn’t even look up. “Yes.”

“Cancel.”

“No.”

“Fake your death.”

She placed the final lemon down and finally turned to face you. “Be serious.”

“I am serious. I’m willing to help stage it.” Your mother smiled in the dangerous way mothers did when they’d already won. “Saturday. Seven o’clock. Try not to start a war before dessert.”

You stared at her. At the lemons. At the kitchen. At the universe. Somewhere next door, Lee Heeseung was probably alive and smug. And now there would be dinner. Shared wine. Forced politeness. His knee probably brushing yours under the table just to ruin your life.

Your villain origin story, apparently, came with a seafood course. You picked up your abandoned lemonade and took a long sip like it contained stronger coping mechanisms. Summer had officially begun.

Tuesday arrived the way summer days in Jeju Island always did, slowly, lazily, like the sun itself had nowhere better to be.

By ten in the morning, the entire town had already settled into its usual rhythm. Tennis whites at the country club. Mothers with iced coffees and expensive sunglasses pretending not to gossip. Men in linen shirts discussing boats like they were discussing national policy. Teenagers and college kids spilling toward the beach in swimsuits and bad intentions. Everything here moved with the polished ease of old money and old habits. You hated how easy it was to slip back into it. There was something dangerous about returning to a place that remembered every version of you.

The boardwalk still creaked in the same places. The little café near the marina still sold iced vanilla lattes overpriced enough to count as emotional damage. The beach still stretched golden and endless, all warm sand and glittering water and sun-drunk afternoons that made bad decisions feel like destiny instead of stupidity.

Summer here had a way of convincing people they were invincible. It was probably responsible for at least seventy percent of your mistakes. By afternoon, you’d decided your mother’s constant rearranging of flowers and reminders about Saturday dinner were enough to qualify as psychological warfare, so you escaped. You packed a beach tote with the seriousness of a military operation, sunscreen, sunglasses, a bottle of water, your newest hardcover, lip gloss, and the kind of bikini your mother would call unnecessary and your best friend would call revenge.

Then you walked the familiar path down to the shore. The beach behind the summer houses was quieter than the public side near the clubs and restaurants. Less crowded. More private. A stretch of pale sand bordered by dunes and sea grass, where the houses sat like silent judges overlooking the ocean. This part belonged to families like yours and the Lees, generational wealth and carefully curated summer traditions.

It also meant escape was limited. Still, the ocean was worth it. The salt-heavy breeze hit first, warm and familiar against your skin. Then the sound, the endless hush and crash of waves folding into shore, gulls overhead, distant laughter carried by the wind. You slipped your sandals off and let the sand burn briefly against your feet before finding your usual spot. Far enough from the water to keep your book safe. Close enough to hear the tide.

Perfect.

You spread your towel out, dropped your bag beside it, and stretched out on your back like a woman personally committed to becoming one with summer. Sunlight soaked into your skin almost instantly, warm and golden and heavy in that way only coastal afternoons could be. Your bikini was barely enough fabric to qualify as clothing, but that was the point. Tiny black straps against sun-kissed skin, sunglasses shielding your eyes, a paperback novel open against your stomach.

Peace. Actual peace. No dinner invitations. No passive-aggressive mothers. No Lee Heeseung. Just heat and salt and the kind of silence that felt earned. You read for a while, though read was a generous term for occasionally turning a page while mostly listening to the ocean and contemplating whether adulthood could be legally postponed forever. The book was good. The sun was better.

A few familiar faces passed along the shore, neighbors, old classmates, people you’d known your whole life in the vague, privileged way beach towns operated. There were waves, smiles, the occasional “welcome back,” but no one lingered. Exactly how you liked it. At some point, you must have drifted halfway to sleep, caught in that hazy summer state where time stopped mattering. The sun had shifted warmer against your shoulders. The edges of your book blurred. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed.

Then a shadow fell across you. Immediately, your soul knew. Without even opening your eyes, you sighed. Deeply. Spiritually. Like a woman who had seen the face of God and found it disappointing. “No.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, “That’s not very neighborly.” Of course. You opened one eye. And there he was. Lee Heeseung, standing over your towel like some sort of beautifully dressed natural disaster. Shirtless, because apparently humility was not part of his summer wardrobe. Swim trunks slung low on his hips, sunglasses on, skin bronzed by the sun like he’d been handcrafted by someone with a personal vendetta against your patience.

Water still clung to his shoulders, droplets sliding slowly down his chest like the universe itself was trying to make your life harder. Annoying. Extremely annoying. You closed your eye again. “If I ignore you long enough,” you said, “will you evaporate?”

“I think that only works on your personality.” You considered throwing your book at him. It was hardcover. Tempting. Instead, you shifted onto one elbow and looked up at him over your sunglasses. “Don’t you have a yacht to crash or someone else to emotionally inconvenience?”

He grinned, infuriatingly pleased with himself, and sat down uninvited at the edge of your towel like personal boundaries were a concept he’d heard of once and rejected on principle. “I was swimming.”

“I can see that. Congratulations on your ability to enter water.”

“Thank you. I worked very hard.”

You stared at him. He stared back. There was something uniquely exhausting about Heeseung’s presence, like he moved through the world assuming everything, and everyone, would make room for him. And worse, they usually did. He looked out toward the ocean, arms resting loosely over his knees. For a second, with the sunlight catching against his skin and the sea stretching endlessly behind him, he looked less like your lifelong enemy and more like one of those postcard summers people spent the rest of their lives trying to recreate.

Which was dangerous. You hated when he looked cinematic. It made being annoyed significantly less efficient. “You’re ruining my peaceful beach solitude,” you informed him.

“I noticed. You seemed too happy.”

“I wasn’t happy. I was tolerating existence.”

“Even worse.”

You let your book fall shut against your lap. “This is exactly why people warn me about you.” He tilted his head.

“No, they warn people about you. I’m universally beloved.”

You scoffed. “By mothers and women with no standards.”

“And yet here you are, talking to me in a bikini.”

You sat up fully. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was here first.”

“Mm. Territorial.”

“Get off my towel.”

He laughed then, low and easy, carried by the wind and the waves, and it did something profoundly irritating to your bloodstream. That laugh had been the soundtrack to half your summers. Bonfires at sixteen. Pool parties at eighteen. Drunken arguments on docks at twenty. Memory was a cruel thing. You stood abruptly.

Enough. Absolutely enough. If you stayed any longer, you’d either drown him or make eye contact for too long, and both options felt equally dangerous. With the sharp efficiency of someone preserving her dignity by force, you started packing your things. Your book went into your tote. Sunscreen. Water bottle. Sunglasses pushed into your hair.

Heeseung leaned back on his hands, watching the whole performance with zero remorse. “Leaving already?”

“Yes.”

“Because of me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

A pause. Then, truthfully: “Yes.” His smile widened. You hated how much he enjoyed winning tiny wars. You shoved your sandals on and slung your bag over your shoulder, glaring down at him with all the righteous fury of a woman denied a peaceful tanning session. “You are genuinely the most irritating person I have ever met.”

He looked up at you, sunlight in his hair, smirk already waiting. “And yet you keep coming back every summer.” You opened your mouth. Closed it. Because unfortunately, he had a point, and you refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing that aloud. Instead, you gave him one last glare sharp enough to qualify as a formal threat and turned toward home.

The walk back felt warmer somehow, the sun heavier against your skin, sand clinging to your ankles. Behind you, his laughter followed, soft at first, then clearer as the wind carried it over the shoreline. Infuriating. Familiar. Summer itself, if summer had a god complex and perfect teeth. You didn’t look back. But you could still hear him. And somehow, that felt worse.

Saturday arrived wrapped in sunlight and bad intentions. By six in the evening, the entire house smelled like citrus candles, your mother’s perfume, and the kind of expensive stress that came with hosting, or in this case, being hosted by, the Lees. The sun was beginning its slow descent over the water, pouring honey-colored light through the bedroom windows and turning everything soft and golden in a way that made even impending social torture look romantic.

Outside, Jeju Island was in full performance mode. The streets near the coast glowed with polished summer wealth, convertibles pulling into curved driveways, tennis bracelets catching the light, champagne already being chilled somewhere on a yacht that absolutely did not need to exist. The ocean breeze drifted in through the cracked windows carrying salt, jasmine, and the faint sounds of someone laughing too loudly three houses down.

Everything looked beautiful. Which was unfortunate, because beauty made suffering feel theatrical. You stood in the middle of your bedroom surrounded by what looked like the aftermath of a small fashion war. Dresses across the bed. Shoes abandoned like casualties. A hairbrush on the floor. Three rejected outfit options hanging from your closet door like public executions.

And in your hands, your salvation. An oversized gray hoodie. Soft. Reliable. Emotionally supportive. The kind of hoodie that said I do not wish to be perceived. Perfect. You pulled it over your head with the solemnity of a woman entering battle. It swallowed you immediately, sleeves too long, hem brushing your thighs, the entire look somewhere between off-duty model and suspicious raccoon. You stared at yourself in the mirror.

Excellent. If all went according to plan, the Lees would assume you were a drifter who had wandered in from the beach and politely ask you to leave before appetizers. Peace at last. Your mother entered without knocking, because privacy was apparently a concept reserved for only the elites. She stopped in the doorway.

Looked at you. Looked at the hoodie. Looked back at you. Silence. Long enough to be considered legally threatening. “No,” she said.

You folded your arms. “Counterpoint: yes.”

“No.”

“This is fashion.”

“This is a cry for help.”

You turned back to the mirror, adjusting the hood with dramatic precision. “I’m cultivating mystery. They’ll be intrigued.”

“They’ll think I forgot to raise you.”

“Honestly, that might buy me sympathy.”

Your mother crossed the room with the terrifying calm of a woman who had already made her decision three minutes ago. From behind her back, like a magician revealing the final trick, she produced a dress. Yellow. Of course it was yellow, why? Because, summer, darling. Not soft yellow. Not subtle yellow. The kind of rich, golden, sunlight yellow that looked like it belonged in a movie where everyone had unresolved feelings and excellent cheekbones.

A sleek sundress. Fitted enough to be dangerous, effortless enough to pretend it wasn’t. You narrowed your eyes. “No.”

“Yes.”

“It looks like optimism.”

“It looks like summer.”

“It looks like a setup.”

She held it up against you with complete disregard for your emotional well-being. “It looks like you clean up beautifully.” There it was. The betrayal. Because that was exactly the problem. You knew the dress looked good. That made it worse. Wearing the dress meant effort. Effort meant possibility. Possibility meant Lee Heeseung seeing you in a dress that suggested maybe, potentially, under the right atmospheric conditions, you had once been nice to someone.

Unacceptable. You stepped back. “I would rather be hit by a jet ski.”

“Wonderful. You can wear this to the hospital afterward.”

“Mother.”

She sighed, setting the dress on the bed like a final verdict. “You are not wearing that hoodie to dinner with the Lees. Mrs. Lee adores you, your father is already pretending this evening will be civilized, and I refuse to let my daughter look like she escaped from a beach bonfire.” You looked at the hoodie. The hoodie looked back. A fallen soldier. Somewhere in the distance, a gull cried out over the ocean like it, too, understood your suffering.

You flopped backward onto the bed with all the grace of a dying Victorian heroine. “This is oppression.”

“This is dinner.”

“There’s seafood involved. That makes it worse.”

Your mother sat beside you, smoothing a wrinkle from the yellow dress. For a moment, the teasing slipped into something softer. “You’ve been doing this with him for years,” she said.

You stared at the ceiling. “Doing what?” She gave you a look, not sharp, not smug, just the tired wisdom of a woman who had watched two stubborn people circle each other for too long.

“This one. The fighting. The pretending.” You groaned dramatically and threw an arm over your face. “If this conversation ends with you calling him charming, I’m moving to another country.”

She laughed then, quiet and warm. “I’m just saying… maybe try not to make tonight a battlefield.” Too late. The battlefield had excellent landscaping and probably a wine pairing. Still, after she left, the room felt quieter. The golden light had shifted lower now, stretching long shadows across the floorboards. From your window, you could see the neighboring house through the trees, white walls glowing in the sunset, lights beginning to flicker on, elegant and smug and entirely too close.

Somewhere over there was Heeseung. Probably looking expensive. Probably being annoying. Probably existing with that stupid face. You hated that your first instinct was to wonder what he’d be wearing. Probably linen. Men like him were always in linen, like they were personally sponsored by summer. With a sigh heavy enough to qualify as literature, you sat up and stared at the yellow dress again. It stared back, victorious.

Fine. Fine. You changed. And, because the universe enjoyed humiliation as a hobby, your mother was right. The dress fit like it had been designed specifically to ruin your peace. Thin straps, bare shoulders, the kind of silhouette that looked effortless and absolutely was not. Against sun-kissed skin, the yellow made you look like you belonged in this town, like expensive mistakes and beautiful bad decisions.

You hated it immediately. Mostly because you looked good. You stood in front of the mirror, turning once, suspicious. Like maybe if you stared hard enough, you’d find a flaw large enough to justify changing back into the hoodie. There wasn’t one. Traitorous fabric. You added gold hoops, minimal makeup, lip gloss sharp enough to count as a weapon, and tried very hard not to think about why any of this mattered.

It didn’t. Obviously. You were dressing for yourself. And if Lee Heeseung happened to see you and suffer emotionally, that was simply community service. Downstairs, your father was already waiting by the door with car keys and the resigned expression of a man who knew he was escorting two women into battle and had chosen survival over commentary. He looked up when you descended the stairs. Paused. Smiled. “Well,” he said, “you look expensive.”

You picked up your clutch. “I plan to act accordingly.” Your mother beamed like she’d personally invented beauty. You refused to acknowledge this. Outside, the evening had turned warm and velvet-soft, the sky streaked pink and gold over the ocean. The walk next door was barely two minutes, just enough time for dread to fully settle in.

The Lee house stood glowing at the end of the path, every window lit, laughter already drifting from inside. Dinner. Wine. Politeness. Heeseung. You inhaled slowly as your father reached for the front gate. Summer, apparently, had decided subtle suffering wasn’t enough. It wanted dinner and a show. The Lee house always looked like it belonged in a magazine spread titled People With Better Lives Than You.

White stone, warm lights spilling from enormous windows, ivy climbing tastefully up the walls like even the plants here had trust funds. The front garden smelled like jasmine and sea air and whatever expensive candle Mrs. Lee probably had burning somewhere inside. Everything about it radiated polished wealth and the kind of family dinners where people said things like summering abroad.

You hated how nice it was. You hated even more that you’d spent half your childhood here. Birthday dinners. Pool parties. Christmases once, before everyone got too busy and too grown up for normal traditions. There were memories tucked into every corner of this place, most of them involving some version of you losing an argument to Lee Heeseung and plotting revenge by dessert.

Tonight, unfortunately, promised tradition. Mrs. Lee opened the door before you could even knock, all elegance and warmth in a silk dress the color of champagne. “There you are!” She kissed your cheek before you had time to prepare emotionally. “Look at you,” she said, holding you at arm’s length. “Absolutely gorgeous.” From behind you, your mother made the smug little sound of victory.

You chose to ignore it. “You say that now,” you said, stepping inside, “but let’s revisit after I inevitably insult someone over seafood.”

Mrs. Lee laughed like she always did, like your bad attitude was somehow charming instead of hereditary. “Nonsense. We’re all family here.” That was the problem. The foyer opened into soft golden light and polished wood floors, the low hum of conversation drifting in from the dining room. Somewhere, glasses clinked. Somewhere else, your father and Mr. Lee were already discussing something expensive and unnecessary, probably boats.

You slipped off your sandals and stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the house wrapping around you. And then, of course, there he was. Lee Heeseung, leaning against the archway to the living room like he’d been strategically placed there for maximum irritation.

Black button-down this time, sleeves rolled, top buttons undone just enough to be a public health concern. Dark slacks. Watch glinting at his wrist. Hair slightly messy in that suspiciously intentional way attractive men got away with. He looked like summer trouble dressed in designer clothing. Annoying. Extremely annoying.

His gaze found you immediately. Paused. And for one dangerous second, he said nothing. Just looked. Slowly. Unhurriedly. Like the room had gone quiet around it. It started at your feet, moved upward, and landed finally on your face with something unreadable flickering behind his expression. Not smug. Worse. Appreciative. You wanted to throw yourself directly into the ocean. Instead, you smiled sweetly, the kind of smile that had ruined lesser men.

“Try not to look too shocked. I know basic hygiene is a surprise.”

His mouth twitched. “There she is,” he said, voice low and easy. “I was worried the dress had made you nice.”

Your mother, traitor that she was, immediately linked arms with Mrs. Lee. “Oh, perfect,” she said. “You two can catch up while we finish setting the table.”

No. Absolutely not. You opened your mouth. “No—” Too late. The parents had already vanished with the terrifying efficiency of adults who believed proximity solved everything. Your father gave you a look on the way out, the kind that said ‘behave’, and disappeared toward the kitchen like a man abandoning a sinking ship.

And suddenly, it was just the two of you. Silence. Not awkward. Worse. Familiar. The kind of silence built over years of unfinished conversations and too much history. You crossed your arms. He mirrored nothing, which somehow made it more annoying. In your deeply correct and entirely unbiased opinion, “catching up” with Lee Heeseung translated loosely to trying to have a normal conversation without committing a felony.

A challenge, certainly. You managed three words. “Well. You’re alive.” He nodded thoughtfully.

“Still devastatingly handsome too, thanks for noticing.”

You sighed. “This is why people drink before family dinners.”

“And yet you came sober. Brave.”

You were preparing a truly excellent insult, something elegant, devastating, probably Pulitzer-worthy, when Mrs. Lee’s voice floated in from the dining room. “Dinner!” Saved by seafood. You gave him one final look. “Don’t make me regret this.”

He stepped aside, one hand gesturing toward the dining room like some smug Regency villain. “No promises.”

The dining room looked exactly like every old-money summer dinner should. Long table, linen napkins, candles despite it still being warm outside. Too many wine glasses for any morally responsible evening. French doors stood open to the back patio where the ocean breeze drifted in soft and salted, carrying the sound of waves somewhere beyond the dunes. Sunset had bled fully into evening now, the sky darkening violet over the water.

Everything felt cinematic. Which was rude, considering your mood. Seats were assigned by parental conspiracy, obviously. You discovered yours and stopped. Heeseung. Right next to you. Naturally. Mrs. Lee smiled far too innocently. “I thought it would be nice.” It would not. It absolutely would not. But protesting would only make it worse, so you sat with the grace of a woman choosing violence internally. Heeseung took the seat beside you, looking entirely too pleased with the universe.

Across the table, your mother was already discussing someone’s daughter getting engaged. Your father had wine. Mr. Lee had opinions about coastal property values. Everyone settled into conversation with the practiced ease of people who had done this for decades. And somehow, despite all of it, your entire awareness kept narrowing to the person sitting six inches to your right.

His knee brushed yours under the table. Lightly. Accidental. Probably. You froze for exactly half a second. Then refused to acknowledge it because dignity still mattered. You reached for your water. His hand reached for the bread basket. Fingers brushed. Again. This time, definitely not accidental. You turned your head. He was already looking at you. Calm. Composed. Infuriating.

Like he hadn’t just weaponized table manners. You smiled without showing teeth. “If you’re trying to start something over dinner rolls, I’d like you to know that’s a deeply embarrassing way to die.”

His expression remained perfectly neutral as he handed you the basket. “I’m just being polite.”

“Suspicious already.” 

Across from you, Mrs. Lee sighed fondly. “You two are exactly the same.”

You and Heeseung answered at the same time. “Absolutely not.” Everyone laughed. You considered faking your death. Dinner continued in that dangerous, glittering way summer dinners did, wine poured generously, stories repeated beautifully, everyone glowing a little softer in candlelight. Your parents kept bringing up old memories.

That camping trip when you were thirteen. The sailing lessons disaster. The time Heeseung pushed you into the pool and you threw his phone into the ocean. Mrs. Lee was still mad about that one. You maintained it had been justified. Everyone treated the two of you like old friends. Like there had always been affection under the arguments.

Like this was charming instead of mutually assured destruction. It was infuriating. Because they weren’t wrong. That was the worse part. Every now and then, while someone else talked, you’d catch him looking at you. Not casually. Not the usual teasing glance. Longer. Quieter. Like he was trying to remember something. Or decide something. Too much. Entirely too much.

You focused on your wine. On your fork. Your plate. Literally anything else. But awareness sat there anyway, warm and sharp and impossible to ignore. The yellow dress suddenly felt like a mistake. The ocean breeze moved through the open doors. Candles flickered. Someone laughed at the far end of the table. And beside you, Lee Heeseung leaned back in his chair, looking unfairly good in soft light and expensive black clothing, like every bad decision summer had ever offered.

You hated him. Probably. Mostly. Which was becoming, very inconveniently, less convincing by the second. 

By the time dinner ended, the sky had softened into that strange in-between hour where everything looked prettier than it had any right to. The table was abandoned in stages, wine glasses left half-full, dessert plates forgotten, your father and Mr. Lee still arguing about boats like it was a blood sport. Mrs. Lee and your mother disappeared into the kitchen with the kind of determined energy that suggested they were about to wash dishes neither of them had touched all evening.

Which left the younger generation exactly where summer always did. Outside. Near water. With alcohol. And poor judgment. Someone, probably Jay, because it always felt like a Jay decision, had suggested a beach fire, and within twenty minutes everyone had drifted down toward the private stretch of shoreline behind the houses like it was instinct.

It kind of was. This was what summers here were made of. Bonfires and old friends. Salt in your hair. Music from someone’s phone speaker. Drinks passed around without anyone asking whose they were. The beach at night felt different than it did during the day. Softer somehow. Less polished. The tide rolled in slow and silver under the moonlight, waves folding quietly against the shore while the bonfire crackled warm against the cooling night air. Sand clung to bare ankles, the fire throwing gold over familiar faces.

It made everyone look younger. Closer to the versions of yourselves that had first started all this. Sunoo arrived first, carrying drinks and looking like downtown Cove had personally appointed him its stylish representative. Sharp grin, prettier than most women, and already prepared to be everyone’s problem. “Look who survived dinner,” he said dramatically when he spotted you. “I was taking bets.”

“You should’ve bet against me,” you said, taking the drink he offered. “I nearly drowned in polite conversation.”

“Tragic. And in that dress too. What a loss.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Jay called from where he and Sunghoon were attempting to set up folding chairs in the sand with all the competence of men raised by money.

Jay looked exactly the same as always: clean-cut, expensive taste, and permanently carrying himself like he was five minutes away from judging someone’s life choices. Which, to be fair, he usually was. Sunghoon stood beside him, all cool quiet and expensive silence, somehow managing to look elegant while losing a fight against a beach chair.

Some people were simply born unfair. From farther down the shore came the sound of laughter, bright and familiar, and then Eunchae appeared with Yunjin and Yoonchae trailing behind her, all of them carrying the kind of chaotic energy that guaranteed tonight would end with at least one regrettable decision. Eunchae saw you first and immediately pointed.

“There she is! The woman of the hour.” You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It is,” Yunjin said cheerfully, pulling you into a quick hug. “We’ve heard about dinner. We’re here for details.”

“There are no details.”

“There are always details,” Yoonchae said.

And then, because the universe had apparently decided your suffering needed an audience, Lee Heeseung arrived. Late, naturally. Walking down the path from the houses with his sleeves rolled and his hands in his pockets like he was entering a film scene instead of a beach fire. The ocean breeze moved through his hair, and for one deeply annoying second, every girl within a ten-foot radius visibly remembered he was attractive.

Including you. Unfortunately. Sunoo, traitor that he was, smirked immediately. “And there’s the other half of our favorite summer divorce.”

“Please,” you said. “I’d need to marry him first, and I do have standards.” Heeseung dropped into the sand beside the fire like he belonged there, which, annoyingly, he did, and looked at you over the rim of the beer Jay handed him. “She says that now. Give it ten years.”

“In ten years, I’ll still be filing restraining orders.”

“Romantic,” Yunjin sighed. Everyone laughed. That was the problem with old friends, they remembered too much. This group had grown up together in fragments. Family dinners, yacht parties, beach bonfires at sixteen, too many summers collapsing into one long memory of sunburns and terrible choices. They’d all witnessed the evolution of whatever it was between you and Heeseung. Which meant they were insufferable about it. Sunoo stretched out dramatically in the sand.

“I still think you two should just get married and save us all time.”

Sunghoon, staring into the fire like a philosopher trapped in a luxury campaign, added, “At this point, it would actually be less dramatic.”

Jay nodded once. “Financially, it makes sense.”

You looked around the circle. “I need better friends.”

“No,” Eunchae said, grinning, “you need to admit you’ve been flirting through mutual destruction for like eight years.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “That is an incredibly rude accusation.”

Heeseung took a sip of his drink, far too calm. “She’s right.” 

You turned toward him so fast it nearly counted as whiplash. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged. “You’re meaner when you like someone.”

Sunoo made the loudest, most disrespectful sound of delight known to man. “Oh my god, we’re finally saying it.”

“We are saying nothing,” you snapped.

Yunjin leaned forward, eyes glittering. “Should we bring up the balcony incident?”

Absolutely not. You pointed at her. “If you value our friendship, you’ll choose silence.” Too late.

Eunchae gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, the almost-kiss.” And there it was. Like a match dropped into gasoline. The balcony incident. Nineteen years old. One of Jay’s stupid summer parties. Too much champagne. Too much moonlight. Too much unresolved tension and a stupidly beautiful balcony overlooking the ocean. You and Heeseung had been alone for exactly seven minutes before an argument turned into standing too close, then silence, then that terrible suspended second where both people know exactly what’s about to happen.

You’d almost kissed. Almost. Then someone had opened the balcony door, reality had returned, and both of you had spent the next three years pretending it never happened. Civilization had survived. Barely. Around the fire, everyone looked delighted. You wanted the ocean to take you.

“It was not an almost-kiss,” you said with dignity.

“It absolutely was,” Sunoo replied.

“There was tension,” Yoonchae added.

“There was eye contact,” Eunchae said.

“There was champagne,” Yunjin said solemnly.

Jay, like a judge delivering sentence, finished: “That counts.”

You looked to Heeseung for support. A mistake. Because he’d gone strangely quiet. Not smug. Not teasing. Quiet. His gaze stayed on the fire, beer loose in his hand, jaw set just enough for you to notice because unfortunately, after years of knowing someone, you learned the small things. Interesting. Very interesting. You tilted your head slightly. He wasn’t embarrassed.

If anything, he looked… annoyed. Or thoughtful. Like the memory had landed somewhere deeper than expected. That was new. Usually, Heeseung met chaos with amusement. He was good at pretending nothing mattered. But now, under the firelight, with everyone laughing around him and the ocean dark behind you, he looked still. You watched him for a second too long. Then he glanced up. Caught you.

And just like that, the moment snapped. His expression shifted back into something easier. Familiar. Dangerous. He smirked. You rolled your eyes so hard it should’ve caused medical concern and took another drink. The conversation moved on, someone brought up an old yacht party disaster involving Sunghoon and a very expensive pair of loafers, Sunoo started a dramatic retelling of his brief and toxic relationship with a bartender from last summer, Eunchae laughed so hard she nearly fell backward into the sand.

The night folded around you, warm and nostalgic and too easy. This was the trap of summer. It made everything feel survivable. Even him. By the time the fire burned lower and people started drifting home, the moon sat high over the water and the beach had gone quiet again. You walked back alone, sandals in one hand, the other curled around your phone.

The sand was cool now under your feet. Waves whispered against the shore. Somewhere behind you, someone was still laughing. Your dress smelled like smoke. Your hair smelled like salt. And despite yourself, your mind kept circling back to one thing. That silence. The balcony. The firelight. The way Heeseung had gone quiet.

Interesting. You were still thinking about it when your phone buzzed in your hand. A text. You stopped walking. Looked down. Of course.

Heeseung

A single message.

Heeseung: still thinking about that balcony, or are you finally admitting i almost won?

You stared at the screen. There it was. The beginning of every bad idea. You should ignore it. You absolutely should. Instead, standing barefoot under the moonlight with the ocean at your back and your better judgment somewhere drowning offshore, you smiled. And typed back.

You: won what? you almost passed out from cheap champagne. history remembers the truth.

Three dots appeared almost instantly. Danger, apparently, texted first. 

The following week was suspicious. Not in any dramatic, life-altering way. No scandals. No yacht crashes. No accidental engagements announced over brunch. Just… suspicious. Because you were happy. Unreasonably, offensively happy. The kind of happy that made people around you uncomfortable, like spotting a shark in shallow water and realizing it was smiling.

It started subtly. You slept better. You stopped glaring at sunlight like it had personally betrayed you. You let your mother drag you to the farmer’s market on Wednesday morning and only complained twice, which she later described to your father in the same tone people used for religious miracles. By Thursday, you had laughed, genuinely laughed, at something Mrs. Lee said over iced coffee, and your mother had nearly dropped a peach. “Are you ill?” she asked immediately.

You looked up from your sunglasses. “Deeply, but unrelated.”

She narrowed her eyes. “No, seriously. You’ve been… cheerful.” The accusation hung between you. Cheerful. As if she’d caught you committing tax fraud. You leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping your coffee with all the dignity of a woman being unfairly persecuted.

“I’m always cheerful.”

She gave you a look so flat it could’ve ironed shirts. “Last week you called a seagull a personal enemy.”

“It knew what it did.”

Your father, reading the paper at the table, lowered it just enough to contribute, “You also threatened the blender.”

“It started first.” He nodded thoughtfully and returned to the business section. Traitor. The truth was harder to explain. There was no grand reason for it. No cinematic revelation. No dramatic confession under moonlight. Just summer. The beach. The sun. Late-night fires. Salt in your hair. And texts. That was the real problem. Because after the bonfire, Heeseung had texted again. And then again. Nothing serious. Nothing dangerous enough to name. Just stupid things.

A picture of the terrible coffee from the marina café with the caption: thought of you and your bad taste

A midnight text that only said: are you still pretending you didn’t almost kiss me first

A blurry photo of Sunoo asleep on a yacht chair: proof he can be quiet

And every single time, against your better judgment and your carefully cultivated reputation for emotional self-preservation, you replied. Sometimes immediately. Sometimes after twenty strategic minutes. Because dignity mattered. Still, the effect had been catastrophic. You were smiling at your phone now. In public. Like a woman with no survival instincts.

On Friday afternoon, your mother found you standing in the garden staring at the hydrangeas like you were in a coming-of-age film. You were holding one bloom gently between your fingers, sunlight warm on your shoulders, genuinely appreciating how ridiculous and beautiful summer looked here.

She stopped on the patio, and squinted, then called into the house, “Honey, come outside. I think our daughter has been replaced.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please. If I were replaced, the imposter would be nicer.”

“Exactly my concern.” Unfortunately, your brief and scandalous flirtation with floral appreciation ended there. The hydrangea wilted two days later. Probably out of sheer terror. Even worse, people noticed. Everyone noticed. Sunoo, after seeing you smile at your phone during lunch, gasped like a Victorian widow and clutched his chest. “Oh my god. She’s in love.”

You nearly threw your drink at him. “I’m blocking you.”

“Denial. Classic.”

“It’s called boundaries.”

“It’s called a crush.” Across the table, Heeseung said absolutely nothing. Which, somehow, was worse, because lately, he’d been watching you. Not constantly, not obviously, just enough, across dinner tables, from the beach, leaning against his car while pretending not to. Curious. Like he’d noticed the shift and hadn’t decided what to do with it yet, like he was waiting.

On Sunday, you passed him outside while coming back from the beach, still warm from the sun, tote bag over your shoulder, skin glowing with the kind of happiness you were trying very hard not to examine too closely. And for reasons still unknown to science, you smiled at him. Not your usual sharp smile, not sarcastic, not weaponized. Bright, easy, and real.

It happened before you could stop it. For one glorious second, Lee Heeseung looked genuinely startled. Actually startled. He stopped mid-step, eyebrows lifting like his brain had temporarily lost signal. He didn’t smile back, just looked at you with that unreadable expression and one slightly raised brow, like he was trying to solve a puzzle and deeply suspicious of the answer.

You kept walking, because stopping would imply weakness. But halfway up your front steps, you could still feel it, that look, and somewhere behind you, you just knew he was still standing there, watching. Interesting. Very, very dangerous.

By Friday night, the entire town had collectively decided to be beautiful. You could feel it in the air. Summer in Jeju Island had a rhythm to it, and bonfire nights sat somewhere near the top of the food chain, just beneath yacht parties and just above making terrible decisions in someone else’s kitchen at two in the morning. The beach changed on nights like this.

During the day, it belonged to families and sunscreen and children building sandcastles with inherited wealth. But at night, especially on Fridays, it belonged to people your age. To music drifting over the dunes. To bottles hidden badly in tote bags. To girls in tiny dresses and boys pretending they weren’t trying too hard. Bonfire nights were for performance. And if there was one thing you respected, it was committing to a bit. You stood in your bedroom with your closet doors thrown open and the kind of focus usually reserved for military strategy.

Your bed was covered in options. Black satin. White linen. Something red Yoonchae once described as “emotionally irresponsible.” You were considering that one. Because tonight wasn’t just any bonfire. Tonight, everyone would be there. Which meant he would be there. And while you were a mature, evolved woman who absolutely did not make outfit decisions based on Lee Heeseung’s potential suffering, you were also not a liar. You pulled the red dress off its hanger. Short, silk, and worst of all, backless. The kind of dress that looked like bad decisions and expensive apologies. Perfect. 

You slipped it on slowly, watching yourself in the mirror as the fabric settled against your skin like it had been waiting for this exact moment. It clung where it should, skimmed where it mattered, and left just enough to imagination to make imagination work overtime. Dangerous. Excellent. You added gold jewelry because subtlety was for people with less interesting lives. Glossed lips. Soft waves in your hair. Perfume that smelled like jasmine and poor choices.

Then heels. Not practical for the beach. That was beside the point. When you walked downstairs, your father was on the couch pretending to read and your mother was rearranging flowers for sport. Both looked up. Your father blinked once. Then lowered his book. “Should I be concerned?”

“Always,” you said.

Your mother smiled like she was watching an expensive revenge plot unfold in real time. “Where exactly are you going dressed like that?”

You picked up your clutch. “To remind people to mind their business.”

Your father muttered something about raising a supervillain. Your mother kissed your cheek on the way out and whispered, “Be safe.” Which, translated from mother-language, meant: Don’t get arrested. Don’t set anything on fire. Try not to ruin anyone’s son permanently. No promises.

The walk to the beach felt cinematic. Warm night air against bare skin. The sound of waves pulling at the shore. Music already carrying from farther down the sand, bass soft and distant beneath the ocean. The moon hung low and bright over the water, silver against black waves. Firelight flickered somewhere ahead. And by the time you stepped over the dunes and onto the shore, every head turned. Good. Let them. There was power in being seen and knowing exactly what they were seeing. Sunoo, standing near the cooler with a drink in one hand and judgment in the other, spotted you first.

He froze dramatically. Then placed a hand over his heart. “Oh,” he said. “She came to kill.” “Someone has to keep standards alive.”

He looked you up and down with the solemn respect of a man appreciating art. “That dress should come with legal paperwork.”

“Excellent. I’m hoping for emotional damages.” Eunchae appeared next, immediately grabbing your arm. “No, seriously, turn around. I need to hate you properly.” You did, because generosity mattered. She groaned. “I’m ending our friendship.”

“Understandable.” Yunjin, from beside the fire, raised her drink toward you. “Whatever crime you commit tonight, I support you.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.” The bonfire itself was already in full swing. Someone had dragged out chairs no one was using. Music played low from a speaker half-buried in someone’s beach bag. Jay and Sunghoon were debating something useless near the waterline with the seriousness of men discussing world peace instead of tequila brands. People moved in loose circles, laughing, drinking, pretending not to stare at each other. Summer. Beautiful and a little stupid.

And then, like a sixth sense specifically designed to inconvenience you, you felt it. That look, across the fire, Heeseung. He stood with Jay near the cooler, beer in hand, black shirt rolled at the sleeves, looking like he’d walked straight out of an ad for poor decisions. The firelight caught against the sharp line of his jaw, the glint of his watch, the expression on his face, which, for one deeply satisfying second, was surprise. Real surprise.

His eyes landed on you and stayed there. Paused. Moved once, slow and deliberate, like he was trying very hard not to react and failing in private. He noticed, immediately, of course he did. You smiled, not at him, but in his direction, which was somehow worse, and turned your attention elsewhere. Because if you were going to weaponize beauty tonight, subtlety would only dilute the effect.

His name was Minjae, which you remembered mostly because he’d tried to kiss Yunjin two summers ago and gotten publicly roasted for it. Harmless. Pretty enough. From one of the families near the marina. More importantly, available. He approached with exactly the kind of confidence men borrowed from expensive watches. “Well,” he said, smiling as he stepped closer, “you’re either trying to ruin someone’s life tonight or start a small war.”

You took the drink he offered. “Can’t it be both?” He laughed, leaning in just enough to suggest intention. And from the corner of your eye, there, heeseung watching, not openly, but enough. His posture had changed, slightly stiffer, beer untouched, expression neutral in the way men got when they were trying very hard not to look like they wanted to commit a felony. Interesting. Very interesting.

You smiled brighter. Poor Minjae. A perfectly nice civilian about to become collateral damage. “You clean up well,” he said. “I usually do.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Have you?” The conversation was easy, almost too easy. Light touches. Leaning closer. The practiced dance of summer flirting where no one meant too much and everyone pretended otherwise, and the entire time, you could feel it.

That awareness from across the fire. Sharp, and steady. Heeseung. You laughed a little louder than necessary. Touched Minjae’s arm. Tilted your head just enough. Purely for scientific purposes. Across the beach, Sunoo noticed first, because gossip was basically his cardio.

He looked from you to Heeseung and nearly ascended. “Oh,” he whispered to no one and everyone. “Oh, this is delicious.”

Jay followed his line of sight and physically winced. “Someone should probably stop this.”

Sunghoon, wise as ever, took a sip of his drink and said, “No.” Correct. Absolutely no one should stop this. Because now Heeseung was walking over. Slowly. Calmly. Which was infinitely more dangerous than if he’d looked angry. He moved like someone with a purpose. Like the ocean itself had personally requested violence. Minjae was still talking. Something about boats. You had no idea. Because Heeseung stopped beside you, close enough for the smell of expensive cologne and sea air to ruin your peace.

And said, casually, too casually, “Didn’t know you liked boring men.” Silence. Beautiful. Terrible. Immediate. Minjae blinked. You took a slow sip of your drink. Turned your head. Looked directly at him. And smiled.

Oh. This was going to be fun. Minjae, to his credit, had enough self-preservation instincts to realize when he’d accidentally wandered into someone else’s war. He looked between you and Heeseung, your too-sweet smile, Heeseung’s dangerously calm expression, and gave the kind of laugh people used when backing away from wild animals.

“Well,” he said, lifting his drink slightly, “I’m suddenly remembering I promised Sunoo I’d help him with… something.” Sunoo, across the fire, yelled, “I did not—” Too late. Minjae was already retreating into the night, leaving you alone with the problem. Which was standing far too close and looking far too pleased with himself. You turned slowly, crossing your arms.

“Did you just scare off my entertainment?”

Heeseung took a sip of his beer like he hadn’t committed a social crime. “If your entertainment starts explaining boat engines, I’m doing you a favor.”

“I was having a lovely time.”

“No, you were being annoying on purpose.” You placed a hand dramatically over your heart. “And here I thought I was subtle.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and the amusement thinned just enough to let something sharper through. “That’s the problem.” The fire crackled behind you. Somewhere farther down the beach, someone shouted over the music. Laughter carried on the wind.

But here, in the small space between you and him, everything had gone quieter. You tilted your head. “What exactly is the problem, Lee?” His jaw shifted. That tiny thing he did when he was trying not to say too much. Dangerous.

“You always do this.” You blinked once, deliberately. “Do what?” He stepped closer. Not enough for touching. Enough for trouble. “Act like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.” There it was. Not a joke. Not banter. Something real enough to make your pulse trip over itself. You should’ve backed up. You didn’t. Instead, you smiled, that slow, sharp smile you used when you were either about to win or about to ruin your own life.

“And what exactly am I doing?” He let out one quiet laugh, humorless. “Seriously?”

“Very.” His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Mistake. Terrible, catastrophic mistake. Because suddenly the entire night rearranged itself around that single glance. The firelight. The ocean. The red dress. His voice lower now, rougher around the edges.

“You flirt with people you don’t care about,” he said. “You get that look on your face when you’re trying to prove something. And then you wait to see who notices.” Your heartbeat was officially embarrassing. You folded your arms tighter, mostly so he wouldn’t notice.

“And you noticed.” He didn’t answer immediately. Which was answer enough. The moonlight silvered the edges of everything, the shoreline, the glass in his hand, the expression he was trying and failing to keep neutral. You swallowed. Slowly. “Sounds like a you problem.” His mouth twitched.

“Probably.” There it was again, that unbearable thing between you, stretched tight as wire. Years of almosts. Arguments that had never really been about arguments. Every summer version of yourselves layered on top of each other until neither of you knew where the joke ended and the truth began. You could still remember the balcony. Nineteen. Champagne. His hand on the railing beside yours. That second where everything had almost changed.

You wondered if he was thinking about it too. You suspected he was. Because now he was closer. And now you could smell the ocean on his skin, something expensive underneath it, and the very specific danger of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. You should absolutely leave. Instead, because self-destruction was apparently hereditary, you said softly, “You’re jealous.”

His expression sharpened. “Don’t flatter yourself.” “Too late.” “You think this is funny.”

“No,” you said. “I think you’re jealous, and I think you hate that I noticed.” He stepped in once more. Enough that your breath caught. Enough that the entire world narrowed. “Careful.”

“Or what?” Your voice came out quieter than intended. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His gaze dropped again, slower this time, and when he spoke, it was barely above the sound of the waves. “Or you’ll say something you can’t take back.” Silence. The dangerous kind. You could hear your own breathing. The ocean behind him. Someone laughing far away, in another universe where people made good choices. Here, there was only this. His hand brushing your bare arm as he shifted. Your pulse in your throat. The ridiculous certainty that if either of you moved half an inch, the entire summer would split open.

You thought, this is it. Finally. At last. And then, “OH MY GOD, THERE YOU TWO ARE.” Eunchae. Of course. She appeared like divine punishment in platform sandals, carrying two drinks and absolutely no sense of timing. You jumped back so fast it should’ve counted as cardio. Heeseung looked like he might walk directly into the ocean. Eunchae stopped. Looked between you. The space. The tension. The crime scene. And grinned like the devil herself.

“Wow,” she said. “I almost feel bad interrupting whatever deeply repressed thing was happening here.” “Don’t,” you said immediately.

“Never,” Heeseung muttered at the exact same time. She handed you a drink with the smugness of a woman collecting evidence. “Cute. Anyway, Sunoo is taking bets on whether you two make out before August.”

You took the drink because murder was illegal. “Tell Sunoo I hope he loses money.”

“Oh, he definitely won’t.” She skipped away before either of you could respond, leaving behind chaos and the lingering smell of coconut perfume. Silence again. But ruined now. Worse, somehow. Because now both of you knew. Not the joke. Not the performance. The actual thing underneath it. And once you knew that, pretending got harder. You stared out at the water. He stared at the fire. Neither of you said anything. Eventually, as the night thinned and people started leaving in groups of laughter and half-finished conversations, it became painfully obvious that your usual ride home had abandoned you in favor of some post-party food run.

Which left, “Get in.” You stood beside Heeseung’s car, clutching your shoes in one hand and your pride in the other. “No.” He unlocked the passenger door without looking at you. “Yes.” “I’d rather walk.”

“It’s two miles.”

“I’m resilient.”

“You’re dramatic.”

You narrowed your eyes. He opened the door wider. “Get in.” And because the universe hated you, you did. The drive home was quiet. Not awkward. Worse. The kind of silence that knew too much. The windows were down, warm night air rushing through the car, carrying salt and smoke and the last traces of summer bonfire on your skin. Your heels sat abandoned on the floor. Your red dress still smelled like fire.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console, expression unreadable in the passing streetlights. You looked out the window because looking at him felt like volunteering for emotional damage. Neither of you mentioned the almost-kiss. Neither of you mentioned anything. When he pulled into your driveway, the house was dark, your parents already asleep.

For one second, neither of you moved. Then you reached for the door. At the same time, his hand shifted. Your fingers brushed. Just barely. Warm. Accidental. Or maybe not. You froze. So did he. And for one stupid, suspended second, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath again. Then you pulled your hand back. Too fast. “Goodnight,” you said. Too quiet. He nodded once.

“Night.” You got out. Walked to the front door. Did not look back. But you could feel him there, still sitting in the driveway, engine running, watching until you got inside. And later, long after the house had gone still and the ocean whispered somewhere beyond your window, you lay awake staring at the ceiling. Wide awake. Heart traitorous. Mind worse. Because now you knew. And so did he. Nobody slept.

The next few days were a masterclass in mutual psychological damage. Not dramatic damage. Worse. Polite damage. The kind where nothing happened and somehow everything did. You didn’t fight. That was the first sign something had gone horribly wrong. No sarcastic remarks over morning coffee. No pointed comments when passing each other near the beach path. No weaponized flirting in front of your parents. No smug little “morning, neighbor” from across the driveway.

Nothing. Just awkward, terrible silence. You’d see him and immediately become fascinated by literally anything else. The mailbox. A cloud. The concept of sand. Anything but eye contact. Because eye contact implied remembering. And remembering implied the bonfire. The almost-kiss. The car ride. His hand brushing yours like the universe personally wanted you to suffer. No, thank you. You were suddenly the busiest woman alive. If he was at the beach, you were tragically needed elsewhere.

If he was by the marina, you had urgent business in the opposite direction. If he was leaning against his stupid car looking like a rich-boy problem in linen, you turned around. Dignity first. Unfortunately, subtlety had never survived around your families. By Wednesday morning, Mrs. Lee noticed. Of course she did. That woman could detect emotional tension like a bloodhound. You were outside watering your mother’s increasingly judgmental hydrangeas, a task you’d been assigned after the tragic and suspicious death of the previous one, when it happened.

The sun was already warm, the kind of bright coastal morning that made everything look too innocent. Birds chirping. Ocean breeze drifting through the hedges. A peaceful suburban scene. Lies. Across the white fence separating your houses, Mrs. Lee stood on her patio with a basket of laundry and the sharp, narrowed gaze of a woman putting pieces together. You should’ve run. Instead, you smiled weakly.

Mistake. Because at that exact moment, Heeseung stepped outside. Coffee in one hand. Sunglasses. Half-awake and offensively attractive. He looked toward you automatically. You looked anywhere else so fast it nearly caused whiplash. Silence. A beat. Then, Mrs. Lee gasped.

Not a small gasp. A full-body gasp. The kind that meant family history was about to be rewritten. She turned toward her son so fast the laundry basket nearly died for it. “Lee Heeseung!” He stopped mid-sip. Already tired. “Mom, what.”

Her hand flew dramatically toward your side of the fence like she was presenting evidence in court. “What did you do to Y/N?” From your yard, you froze. The watering can continued pouring directly onto your foot. Fantastic. Heeseung blinked. “Mom, what do you mean?” “She isn’t looking you in the eyes!”

Across two properties and approximately three decades of neighborhood gossip, your soul left your body. “Mrs. Lee—” you tried weakly. She was unstoppable. “Do not Mrs. Lee me. I raised you both. I know things.”

Heeseung rubbed a hand down his face. “Mom—” Her eyes widened. Her voice rose. “Did you finally have sex?” Silence. Birds stopped singing. The ocean itself paused. From somewhere inside your house, your father definitely dropped something. And then, Mrs. Lee, with the volume of a woman chosen by God for this exact purpose: “DON’T TELL ME SHE CAN’T LOOK AT YOU BECAUSE SHE KNOWS WHAT YOUR DICK LOOKS LIKE—”

“MOM!”

“Mrs. Lee!” You. Heeseung. Probably the entire coastline. At that point, survival instincts kicked in. You dropped the watering can. Actually dropped it. Water everywhere. Dignity nowhere. And then you ran. Not walked. Not gracefully retreated. Ran. Straight through the back door, up the kitchen steps, past your mother, who was holding coffee and looked far too entertained, and directly into the sanctuary of your bedroom like a Victorian woman fleeing scandal.

Your heart was trying to leave your chest. Your cheeks were on fire. You pressed both hands to your face and groaned into the universe. This was it. This was how you died. Not dramatically. Not beautifully. Killed by secondhand embarrassment and one very loud mother. Worse, far, far worse, you were blushing. Blushing. For a man currently being publicly lectured about sex on a Wednesday morning.

Humiliating. Absolutely unforgivable. Your mother knocked once on your door and entered anyway, because privacy remained a myth. She took one look at you face-down on the bed and smiled like a woman watching reality television. “Well,” she said, setting her coffee down, “that clears some things up.”

“Please leave me here to decompose.”

“I’d love to, but dinner is in two hours.”

Cruelty. Pure cruelty. Later that afternoon, once the heat of your humiliation had cooled from catastrophic to survivable, you made the dangerous mistake of leaving the house. Just a quick walk, you told yourself. Fresh air. Emotional recovery. Absolutely no Heeseung. The universe laughed. Because halfway down the lane near the beach path, there he was. Of course. Standing beneath the shade of the jacaranda trees like some handsome curse. You stopped. He stopped.

For one horrible second, neither of you moved. Then you made the deeply strategic decision to simply walk faster. Ignore. Evade. Survive. Unfortunately, Lee Heeseung had longer legs and audacity. “Y/N.” His voice behind you made your spine straighten. You kept walking. Badly. “Y/N.” Closer now. You stopped because running twice in one day felt like poor character development. Slowly, with all the grace of someone approaching public execution, you turned.

He stood there looking… weirdly nervous. Interesting. Suspicious. Your cheeks immediately remembered this morning and attempted betrayal. No. Absolutely not. You stared at a point somewhere near his left shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you blurted. Fast. Too fast. Like the words had tripped over each other trying to escape.

“For the thing. Earlier. Your mom. I mean—not your mom, obviously she’s lovely, but the yelling and the—” you gestured vaguely at existence “—everything. Sorry.” Excellent. Elegant. A true masterclass in social recovery. You were already preparing to evaporate when he stepped forward and stopped you. Not dramatically. Just enough. A hand lightly catching your wrist. Warm. Immediate regret. “Y/N.” You looked up instinctively. And there it was. Eye contact. Actual, dangerous eye contact. For one second, all the confidence he usually wore like expensive cologne just… vanished. Gone. He blinked once. Twice. And then— “I—uh.”

You stared. Heeseung Lee. Golden boy. Professional menace. Smooth-talking devil of Jeju Island. Stuttering. You would treasure this forever. He cleared his throat. “Sunoo wanted me to give you this.” He shoved a folded paper into your hand like it had personally offended him. “An invite. For Friday. He’s doing some thing—well, not some thing, it’s a party, obviously, and he said if I forgot, he’d kill me, so—” He kept talking. Rambling, actually.

Words continuing in increasingly unnecessary detail while you stood there holding the paper, blinking. Because now he was nervous. Actually nervous. And somehow that was worse. Far worse. You grabbed the invitation. Nodded once. And, choosing self-preservation above all else, turned and walked away at a speed just barely pretending not to be fleeing. Fast. Very fast.

Behind you, his voice stopped. Silence. Then, a soft scoff. Followed by a quiet chuckle, carried lightly by the ocean breeze. You didn’t turn around. Absolutely not. But you could feel it anyway. Him standing there. Watching you speed-walk your dignity down the lane. And annoyingly, your heart was still beating too fast. Friday night arrived heavy with heat.

The kind of heat that sat low against your skin and made the entire town feel slower, softer, dangerous in ways daylight never was. By nine, the sky over Jeju Island had gone ink-dark, the moon hanging pale over the water, and the beach had transformed again into its usual summer ritual, music spilling over the dunes, bonfires burning low and golden, laughter rising and dissolving into the sound of the tide. Sunoo’s parties were never really parties. They were events. Carefully chaotic, full of beautiful people pretending they were not looking at one another too closely. Someone always brought expensive liquor. Someone always made a bad decision. Someone always kissed the wrong person under the excuse of summer.

Tonight, the air felt like it had already decided who that would be. You had tried not to think about it while getting ready. Failed, of course. Because the truth was, the last few days had left something unsettled between you and Heeseung. No more easy arguments. No more familiar rhythm to hide behind. Just glances held too long and silences that felt louder than fights ever had. And the memory of his hand on your wrist.

The way he had looked at you. The way he had lost words. It had followed you all week. So when you dressed tonight, it wasn’t for attention. It was armor. A black dress this time, simpler than the red one, but worse somehow. Thin straps, soft fabric, bare skin at your back, the kind of dress that didn’t ask to be noticed because it already knew it would be. Your hair loose, your mouth glossed, gold at your throat catching the light. You looked like someone about to make a mistake.

And maybe that was the point. By the time you arrived, the party had already spilled toward the shoreline. Music low, drinks in warm hands, familiar faces blurred by firelight and moonlight and too much history. You let yourself be folded into it. Yoonchae pressed a drink into your hand. Yunjin laughed at something dramatic Sunoo was saying near the fire. Jay stood half in the water, arguing with Sunghoon over something neither of them would remember tomorrow. Everything looked normal.

It almost felt normal. Until you saw him. Heeseung stood near the edge of the beach, farther from the fire than everyone else, a drink untouched in his hand, dark shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms. He wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t talking much. Just watching. And when his eyes found yours, the rest of the beach seemed to pull backward.

There it was again. That terrible, quiet thing. You looked away first. Coward. The night stretched. Another drink. Then another. Enough to soften the edges but not enough to blur them. Enough to make your body warm and your thoughts reckless. Enough to make him impossible to ignore. You felt him before he reached you. That shift in the air. That awareness. You turned, and there he was. Close. Too close.

“Having fun?” he asked, voice low enough that no one else could hear. You tilted your glass against your lips. “Immensely. I’ve only considered fleeing twice.” His mouth almost smiled. “Only twice?” “I’m pacing myself.” Silence settled between you, but not the easy kind. The kind that waited. The kind that knew.

The ocean stretched black behind him, waves breaking silver under moonlight. Firelight moved over his face in pieces, catching the sharpness of him, the tension in his jaw. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said. Not accusing. Worse. Certain. You looked at him then.

“Have I?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you’re just easier to avoid lately.”

His expression shifted. Something quieter. Sharper. “That morning embarrassed you.” Mrs. Lee’s voice echoed in your memory and heat climbed your neck instantly. You looked away toward the water. “Your mother nearly announced your sex life to the entire coastline.”

“She likes you.”

“I nearly died.”

A brief silence. Then, softer, “You ran.” You let out a dry laugh. “Wouldn’t you?”

“No.”

“No,” you agreed. “You’d stand there and make it worse.”

“That does sound like me.” For a second, it almost eased. Almost. Then he said, quieter this time, “That’s not why you’ve been avoiding me.” The wind moved between you, carrying salt and the faint smoke of the fire. No. It wasn’t. Because the truth sat uglier than that. You had been avoiding him because once something shifted, you couldn’t shift it back. Because pretending was harder now. Because every look felt like standing too close to the edge of something.

Because if you let yourself think too hard about him, you would ruin everything. And maybe you already had. You set your drink down in the sand. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Do this.” His gaze didn’t move from yours. “Do what?” You laughed once, breathless and frustrated. “This. This thing where you look at me like I’m supposed to know what you’re thinking.”

He stepped closer. Moonlight and firelight and trouble. “Maybe you do.” Your pulse stumbled. “You’re impossible.” His voice dropped. “So are you.”

And there it was. Years of it. Every argument. Every summer. Every almost. The balcony. The beach. The car ride. Every second spent pretending there wasn’t something here because admitting it would mean letting it matter. You could hear your own breathing. His too. Close enough now that it blurred. You should walk away.

You should say something cruel, something sharp enough to put distance back between you. Instead, you stayed. Because the truth was simpler than pride. You wanted him. Maybe you always had. And he looked at you like he knew it. Like he had been waiting for you to stop lying. His hand brushed your bare arm, slow enough to feel like a question. You should have answered no. Instead, your voice came out quieter than you intended. “Tell me to stop.” He didn’t. For one suspended second, neither of you moved.

Then he kissed you. It felt like anger, like relief, like something starved, messy and immediate and years too late. Your hands found him without permission, his shirt, the line of his jaw, the back of his neck. His mouth was warm and rough against yours, like he’d thought about this too many times and was done pretending otherwise. There was nothing careful about it. No softness. No hesitation.

Just all the tension finally breaking open. He kissed you like he was trying to win something, and you kissed him like losing had never sounded better. The sound that left him was low, wrecked, against your mouth. His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left to pretend inside. When he finally pulled back, it was barely, forehead against yours, breath uneven, your lips still brushing when he spoke.

“Fuck.” The word sounded like confession. Then his mouth found yours again, harder this time, and the world narrowed to heat and salt and the way his hands made thinking impossible. He kissed down the corner of your mouth, breath warm against your skin, voice rough and half-lost. “Mm. Fuck, inside. Now.” You should have laughed. Should have reminded him he was arrogant, impossible, and absolutely not carrying you anywhere. Instead, when he lifted you, your legs finding his instinctively, your mouth was still on his.

Still kissing him as he walked. Across the sand. Up the path. Toward his house lit quiet against the night. The world beyond it disappeared. There was only this. His hands. Your heartbeat. The sound of the ocean somewhere behind you like witness. The back door. The hallway. Darkness and breath and mouths and hands and years of wanting collapsing all at once.

He barely got his bedroom door shut before you were against it, the sound of it closing sharp in the dark. Heeseung didn’t waste a second. His mouth was back on yours before the echo faded, hotter, deeper, more desperate than on the beach. One large hand cupped the back of your head, the other already sliding down the curve of your waist, gripping the soft fabric of your black dress like he’d waited years to tear it off.

You gasped into the kiss as your back hit the door again, the wood cool against your bare shoulders. His body pressed flush against yours, hard and burning, the evidence of how much he wanted you unmistakable against your stomach. “Fuck, this dress,” he muttered against your lips, voice gravel-rough. His fingers found the thin straps first, tugging them down your shoulders with impatient hands. The fabric whispered as it slid down your body, pooling at your waist before he pushed it lower, letting it fall completely to the floor in a dark heap around your ankles.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, bare except for the delicate black bra and panties, skin flushed, chest rising fast. His eyes darkened, jaw tight. “Beautiful,” he breathed, almost angry about it. “So fucking beautiful it pisses me off.”

Then his head dipped. His lips found the swell of your breast above the bra, hot and open-mouthed, tongue dragging over the lace. You arched into him with a shaky moan as he mouthed at your nipple through the thin fabric, sucking lightly, then harder, the wet heat of his mouth making your knees weak. His teeth grazed just enough to make you whimper.

Your hands trembled as you reached for his belt, fumbling with the buckle in the dark. The metallic clink sounded loud in the quiet room. You shoved his shirt up and off his shoulders, desperate to feel skin, and he helped you, ripping it the rest of the way off and tossing it somewhere behind him.

The moment his belt came undone, your hand slipped inside, palming him over his boxers. He groaned low against your chest, hips twitching forward into your touch. But Heeseung wasn’t letting you set the pace. His hand slid down your stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and pushing them aside without ceremony. Two long fingers dragged through your folds, finding you already slick and aching for him.

“Shit,” he hissed against your nipple, voice vibrating through your skin. “You’re soaked.” You couldn’t even answer properly, only a broken sound escaped as his fingers circled your clit once, twice, before sliding lower and pushing inside you without warning. The stretch was sudden, perfect, and your head fell back against the door with a soft thud.

Heeseung’s mouth switched to your other breast, sucking harder now, tongue flicking over the hardened peak while his fingers curled inside you, slow and deep, stroking that spot that made your thighs shake. His thumb pressed firm circles against your clit in time with every thrust of his fingers.

Your hand tightened around his cock, stroking him through the fabric as best you could while your other hand clutched at his shoulder, nails digging in. “Heeseung—” His name came out wrecked, half-moan, half-plea. He lifted his head from your chest, lips shiny, eyes nearly black with want. His fingers didn’t stop moving inside you, steady and relentless.

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice low and rough. “My name. Like that.” You did, moaning it louder this time as he added a third finger, stretching you open, preparing you for what was coming next. His mouth crashed back onto yours, swallowing every sound you made while his fingers fucked you against the door, wet sounds mixing with your ragged breathing.

Your dress was long forgotten on the floor. His pants hung low on his hips. The only thing that mattered now was the burning friction between you, the years of tension finally snapping apart in the dark of his bedroom. And neither of you was nearly done yet. Heeseung’s fingers were still buried deep inside you when he suddenly pulled them out, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. You barely had time to protest before his hands gripped the back of your thighs.

In one smooth motion, he lifted you, wrapping your legs high around his waist. Your arms instinctively looped around his neck as he carried you away from the door. The movement pressed his body flush against yours, and the second your weight settled, his pants, already tugged low on his hips, slid further down.

His cock, hot and heavy, shoved straight against your soaked folds. Your panties had been dragged aside earlier and stayed that way. There was nothing between you now except bare, slick skin. The thick length of him slid right between your folds, the head nudging insistently against your entrance with every step he took. You gasped sharply at the sudden, intimate contact.

Heeseung groaned deep in his chest, the sound raw and broken. “Fuck—feel that?” he rasped, hips twitching involuntarily as he walked you across the room. Every movement made his cock drag slowly through your wetness, the head rubbing right over your swollen clit.

The friction was maddening. Skin to skin. Hot. Wet. Overwhelming. You moaned into his neck, legs tightening around him as another wave of arousal slicked between you. Heeseung’s grip on your thighs turned bruising, his breathing ragged against your ear. By the time he reached the bed, both of you were trembling. He laid you down carefully, never fully breaking contact. The moment your back hit the mattress, he followed, settling between your spread thighs. His pants were shoved just low enough. His shirt was long gone. And his cock, thick, flushed, and glistening with your arousal, rested heavy against your pussy.

Heeseung braced himself on one forearm, the other hand guiding his length. He rubbed the head slowly up and down your folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit with every pass. His eyes found yours in the dim light filtering through the window. Dark, hungry, and strangely vulnerable. You could feel him throbbing against you. Could see the tension in his jaw as he held himself back, waiting. You nodded, barely a breath. “Yes.”

That was all he needed. Heeseung didn’t hesitate. With one smooth, powerful thrust, he pushed inside you, burying himself to the hilt in one go. The stretch was intense, perfect, overwhelming. A broken moan tore from your throat as your walls clenched tight around his cock. Heeseung let out a low, guttural sound, forehead dropping to yours as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours.

“Shit— so tight,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You feel… fuck.”

For a few heartbeats, he stayed still, letting you adjust, letting himself feel every pulse and flutter around him. Then he started moving. Slow at first, long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. Each thrust pushed a soft cry from your lips. Heeseung’s rhythm quickly grew harder, more desperate, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the dark room. His mouth found yours again in a messy kiss as he fucked you deeper, hips snapping forward with increasing force. One hand slid under your ass, tilting your hips up so he could hit even deeper, grinding against your clit with every thrust.

You were lost in it, lost in him. The way he filled you. The way he moaned your name against your mouth like a prayer and a curse at the same time. The way years of tension finally shattered between you with every brutal, perfect stroke. Heeseung’s pace turned punishing, relentless, like he was trying to make up for every summer you’d spent pretending this didn’t exist.

And you took every single thrust, legs wrapped tight around his waist, nails raking down his back as the pleasure built sharp and fast inside you. Heeseung’s thrusts grew erratic, deeper, harder, his hips slamming against yours with a desperation that bordered on violent. You were so close it hurt, every stroke pushing you right to the edge.

“Fuck— I’m gonna cum,” he groaned against your mouth, voice strained and raw. “Come with me. Now.” You could only nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders as the pressure inside you finally snapped. Your orgasm crashed over you hard, walls clenching violently around his cock as you came with a broken cry of his name. The intensity made your vision blur, thighs shaking around his waist.

Heeseung followed right after, burying himself to the hilt with one final, deep thrust. A low, guttural moan tore from his throat as he came inside you, hips stuttering, pulsing hot and deep while he rode it out, filling you with every twitch of his cock. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your ragged breathing. He collapsed on top of you, chest heaving, sweat-slick skin pressed against yours. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, breath hot and uneven against your throat. You could feel his heart hammering wildly against your chest.

Silence. No soft kisses. No gentle words. No confessions whispered in the dark. Just heavy breathing and the slow realization of what you’d just done. After what felt like forever, Heeseung finally pulled out of you with a quiet hiss. He rolled off to the side, staring up at the ceiling, one arm thrown over his forehead. You both lay there, naked and still catching your breath. Then, quietly, “This was a mistake.”

Your voice came out steadier than you expected. “Yeah,” he answered, just as flat. Liars. Neither of you believed it. Not even for a second. But neither of you said anything more.

Morning came like regret. Too bright. Too warm. Too aware. Sunlight spilled through the curtains in long golden strips, cruel in the way only summer mornings could be, soft and beautiful and entirely uninterested in your emotional devastation. Somewhere outside, the ocean moved lazily against the shore. A gull screamed like it had a personal vendetta. Your head hurt. Not from alcohol. Worse. Memory.

Every second of last night returned in fragments the moment you opened your eyes, his mouth on yours, your back against his door, the way he had said your name like it meant trouble, the heat of it, the impossibility of pretending it hadn’t happened. You stared at the ceiling for a full minute. Then another. Then sat up with the slow dread of a woman remembering she had, in fact, made every bad decision available to her.

Excellent. Fantastic. Character development. Heeseung’s room looked unfairly like him, clean without trying, expensive without showing off, sunlight falling over dark wood and linen sheets and the kind of quiet luxury that made you want to rob him on principle. He was standing by the window, already dressed. Of course he was. Dark T-shirt. Messy hair. Coffee in hand. Looking like the human embodiment of consequences. He turned when he heard you move. And for a second, neither of you said anything.

No teasing. No smugness. Just that strange stillness people had after crossing a line they couldn’t uncross. You pulled the sheet tighter around yourself for dignity. It did nothing. He leaned against the window frame, studying you with an unreadable expression. “Well,” he said finally, voice rough from sleep and something else, “this feels healthy.”

You let out one dry laugh. “Absolutely thriving.” His mouth twitched. Dangerous. Because if he smiled right now, if either of you made this softer than it was, the whole thing would collapse into something harder to survive. You got out of bed, collecting your clothes from the floor like evidence. “This was a mistake.” The words landed between you. Again. Too quick. Too sharp. You regretted them immediately. Something in his expression shifted, not hurt, exactly, but enough to make your chest tighten.

He set his coffee down. “Was it?” You pulled your dress on with more focus than necessary. “That depends. Are we pretending this was a one-time lapse in judgment, or are we being honest?” He watched you for a long moment. Then, quietly, “Pretending clearly hasn’t worked for us so far.”

No. It hadn’t. Not for years. You sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted by the weight of it. The almosts. The history. The fact that wanting him had somehow become the least surprising part of all this. Outside, the day kept moving. Waves. Sunlight. People living normal lives. Inside, it felt like standing at the edge of something. You looked at him.

“So what now?” He crossed his arms, considering. And because the universe had a sense of humor, the answer came with the terrifying logic of two people who were entirely too good at making bad ideas sound reasonable. “We don’t do relationships.”

You snorted. “Understatement of the century.” “You said it yourself. No settling down this summer. No complications.” “No emotional disasters.”

“Preferably.” Silence. Then, you said it first. “Friends with benefits.” The words hung there. Ridiculous. Obvious. Inevitable. Heeseung looked at you like he hated how much sense it made. “Very mature.”

“Extremely.”

“Probably a terrible idea.”

“The worst one we’ve had so far.”

Another silence. Then both of you, at the same time, “Okay.” You stared at each other. And somehow, that was the funniest part. Because of course this was how it happened. Not with romance. Not with confessions. With negotiations. You stood, stepping closer now, the air between you still carrying the remains of last night. “Fine,” you said. “But if we’re doing this, there are rules.”

His brow lifted. “Of course there are.”

“Obviously. I’m not running an emotional free-for-all.” He leaned back against the desk, arms crossed, watching you like he already knew this would be entertaining. “Go on, then.”

You started counting on your fingers. “No dates.” “Agreed.”

“No jealousy.” A pause. Small. Noticeable. Then: “Agreed.”

You narrowed your eyes but kept going. “No emotional attachment.” “That sounds healthy.” “It sounds necessary.” He nodded once. “Fine.”

“No sleepovers.” His expression shifted slightly. You ignored it. “No public affection. I’m not becoming beach gossip.”

“Sunoo will be devastated.” “He survives on disappointment.”

A ghost of a smile. You continued. “No calling unless it’s late.”

“That sounds suspiciously specific.”

“It sounds like boundaries.”

“And?”

You took a breath. The final one. The one that mattered. “This ends with summer.” That one stayed in the room longer. Because suddenly it wasn’t just about tonight or last night or whatever this was becoming. It was a deadline. An expiration date. A promise to keep it temporary. Necessary. Smart. A lie, probably. But necessary. Heeseung looked at you for a long moment before nodding once. “Ends with summer.”

You hated how that felt. Still, you extended your hand like a business deal, because if you were going to ruin your life, professionalism mattered. “Deal?” He looked down at your hand. Then back at you. Slowly, he took it. Warm. Steady. His fingers closed around yours and something about it felt far less casual than either of you intended. “Deal.”

Too intimate. Too dangerous. You pulled your hand back first. Because someone had to be responsible here, and apparently it was going to be you. You grabbed your bag from the chair and moved toward the door before common sense could return and save either of you. At the threshold, you paused. Didn’t turn around. “Just so we’re clear,” you said, hand on the door, “if this ruins my life, I’m blaming you.”

Behind you, his voice came low and familiar again. “If this ruins your life, it’ll be because you let it.” You smiled despite yourself. Didn’t let him see it. Then opened the door. And walked out into the sunlight like a woman with a plan. Very mature. Very stupid. Exactly the kind of thing summer was made for. It started quietly, almost politely. As if whatever existed between you and Heeseung had agreed to disguise itself as something manageable.

A bad decision with boundaries. A summer arrangement. A temporary indulgence. Nothing more. That was the lie you told yourself the first time he texted you after midnight and you slipped out of your house barefoot, cardigan thrown over bare shoulders, the path between your homes lit only by moonlight and terrible judgment.

That was the lie you told yourself when he opened the back door before you even knocked, like he had been waiting there, like he knew the exact second your resolve would break. That was the lie you told yourself when his hands found your waist before either of you said hello. This is fine. It was not fine. At first, it felt almost easy.

There was a thrill to it, sharp and bright and addictive in the way summer secrets always were. The private satisfaction of sitting through family dinners knowing exactly how his mouth had looked against your skin the night before. The way his knee brushed yours under the table and neither of you reacted, though both of you remembered. It lived in stolen things. In late-night visits when the whole neighborhood had gone quiet, and the only sound was the ocean somewhere beyond the trees and your own heartbeat betraying you on the walk next door.

In the pool house one humid Thursday afternoon, when everyone else had gone sailing and the house sat warm and empty under the sun. Chlorine in the air, sunlight breaking over the water in fractured gold, your bikini still damp against your skin while Heeseung stood too close and said your name like it meant trouble. His hand sliding underneath the strap to touch you then quietly adjusting it back into place as if he hadn’t branded your entire neck in marks.

In parties where you crossed crowded rooms without touching, where his hand at the small of your back lasted only a second but ruined the rest of your night. Where you’d disappear separately and meet somewhere quieter, on balconies, behind the marina, near the dunes where the music couldn’t quite reach and the summer air felt heavier.

Every moment carried that same dangerous illusion: that because no one knew, it somehow meant nothing. You learned each other in fragments. The sound of his laugh when it was real, not performed for a room full of people. The way he got quieter when he was tired. How he always reached for your wrist first, like stopping you there somehow felt more honest than pretending he wasn’t pulling you closer.

How you started recognizing the sound of his car before it even turned into the driveway. You hated that one. Because it meant anticipation. And anticipation implied care. Care was not part of the agreement. So you became very good at pretending. You rolled your eyes when Sunoo accused you of being suspiciously unavailable lately. You blamed “family obligations” when Eunchae asked why you kept vanishing halfway through parties.

You told your mother you were staying in because the heat was unbearable, and then spent the entire afternoon in Heeseung’s room with the windows open, listening to the sea and trying not to think too hard about the intimacy of daylight. That was the dangerous part. Not the sneaking around. Not the kissing. Not even the wanting. Daylight. Because night made everything easier to dismiss. Midnight had always been built for mistakes. But sunlight was honest. It stripped things down. Left no shadows to hide inside.

And lately, you were both finding reasons to stay. A cancelled beach day because it was “too hot.” Skipping a yacht party because neither of you were “in the mood.” Sunday brunch abandoned halfway through because one look across the table had made patience impossible. Your parents thought you were finally becoming mature. Choosing rest. Prioritizing peace. If only they knew. On Tuesday, your mother found you in the kitchen at noon, wearing one of Heeseung’s old shirts thrown hastily over your swimsuit because you had forgotten your own cover-up and panic had terrible fashion sense.

She looked at you. Looked at the shirt. Looked back at you. And simply said, “Interesting.” You nearly died on the spot. “Laundry accident,” you replied immediately.

She sipped her iced tea. “Of course.” You fled before she could smile. It was becoming ridiculous. The kind of ridiculous that should have frightened you more than it did. Because somewhere between the late-night texts and the locked doors and the way he said your name when no one else was around, the rules had started feeling less like boundaries and more like decorations.

No sleepovers, and yet you had woken up in his bed twice this week. No emotional attachment, and yet you knew when he was in a bad mood before he said a word. No jealousy, and yet when a girl from the marina laughed too long at something he said, your entire evening soured without permission. This is fine. It was not fine. And the worst part was how natural it all felt. Like maybe this had been waiting for years. Like every summer before this had only been rehearsal.

One evening, stretched beside him on the pool house couch while golden light slipped slowly across the floorboards, you listened to the distant sounds of your families having dinner on separate patios, laughter drifting across the hedges, glasses clinking, the whole world carrying on politely while the two of you existed here in the quiet center of your own disaster. His hand rested lazily over your waist. Your head against his shoulder. Too comfortable.

Far too comfortable. You should have left an hour ago. Instead, you stayed. Because leaving meant acknowledging it. Because staying meant pretending this was still simple. You traced absent patterns against his arm and stared at the ceiling fan turning slowly overhead. Summer had always felt like this, beautiful enough to make bad ideas look romantic. Temporary enough to make them feel safe. You told yourself that was all this was.

A season. A secret. Something that would end when the weather changed. But even then, with the evening light soft around you and his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, some quieter part of you already knew the truth. This was never going to end cleanly. But the thought vanished as quickly as it came when you felt his hand sliding between your legs.  Later, neither of you said much.

The room was quiet in that intimate, ruined way it only became after too much honesty, sheets tangled at your legs, the windows cracked open to let in the salt-heavy night air, the ceiling fan turning lazily overhead like time had slowed just for this. Outside, summer kept moving. Waves somewhere beyond the trees. A car passing faintly down the road. Someone laughing in the distance, far enough away to belong to another world entirely.

Here, everything felt still. You lay on your back staring at the ceiling, your body heavy with exhaustion, skin still warm, his sheets twisted around your legs like evidence. Your hair was a mess. Your thoughts were worse. This had become dangerous. Not because of the sex. That part had been inevitable the second either of you admitted wanting it. No, the dangerous part was afterward. This. The silence that didn’t feel awkward. The way neither of you rushed to leave. The softness that slipped in when no one was paying attention.

You hated softness. Softness made people stupid. Beside you, Heeseung was quieter than usual, one arm thrown behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, his breathing finally even after the storm of the last hour. In the low light, he looked younger somehow. Less polished. Less like the version of him the rest of the world got.

Just him. That was somehow worse. You turned your head slightly, watching him. His eyes were closed. For once, he wasn’t performing anything. No teasing, no arrogance, no carefully placed smirk like armor. Just tired. Real. You wondered if he knew how dangerous that was too. As if sensing it, he spoke without opening his eyes. “If you’re staring because you’ve finally admitted I’m right about everything, I’d like it formally documented.”

Your mouth twitched despite yourself. “I was actually wondering how someone can be this annoying while unconscious.” He opened one eye. “Talent.”

“Curse.”

“Chemistry.” You rolled your eyes and turned back to the ceiling, but the smile betrayed you anyway. Silence returned. Softer this time. The kind that settled around people who had stopped trying so hard to fill it. You should leave. That thought came and went three separate times. You should absolutely get up, find your dress, reclaim your dignity, and walk back to your own house like a woman with standards and emotional boundaries.

Instead, you stayed exactly where you were. Because moving felt like too much effort. Because his room was warm and the ocean breeze through the window made everything drowsy. Because your body had given up on principles sometime around midnight. Because leaving would make this feel real. And staying let you pretend it was still just summer.

Your eyes grew heavier. The last thing you really registered was the lamp on his bedside table casting soft amber light across the room, and the faint smell of salt and clean linen and him. Then sleep came quietly. No dramatic realization. No final declaration. Just exhaustion winning where common sense had failed. Sometime later, minutes, maybe an hour, you felt movement.

Half-asleep, caught somewhere between dreaming and waking, you registered the mattress shifting, the lamp clicking off, the room falling deeper into darkness. Then warmth. A blanket pulled over you. Careful. Quiet. His hand brushing lightly against your shoulder for just a second longer than necessary.

You should have opened your eyes. Should have made a joke. Broken the moment before it could become one. You didn’t. You stayed still, breathing slow, pretending sleep because somehow that felt safer than acknowledging tenderness. In the dark, his voice came low and almost amused. “Rule number four,” he murmured.

No sleepovers. You felt him settle beside you. The mattress dipped. The silence deepened. And then, after a beat, “Terrible at following instructions.” You smiled into the pillow where he couldn’t see it. Outside, the ocean moved patiently against the shore, summer stretching endlessly into the night. And there, in Lee Heeseung’s bed, beneath his sheets and your own very bad decisions, you fell asleep. Oops. 

Something shifted after the sleepover. Not dramatically. No confessions, no declarations, no grand cinematic moment where either of you admitted the obvious and ruined everything properly. Worse. It changed quietly. In the spaces between things. And somehow, that made it far more dangerous. Because sex was easy to dismiss. Sex could be blamed on summer, on heat, on proximity, on years of unresolved tension finally finding somewhere to go. Sex was physical. Temporary. Conveniently stupid.

But softness, softness was treason. It started with coffee. You were standing in his kitchen one morning, barefoot, wearing one of his hoodies because your own clothes were somewhere upstairs and dignity had long since packed its bags. The house was still half-asleep, sunlight slipping pale and warm through the windows, the kind of slow summer morning that made everything feel deceptively gentle.

You were reaching for the coffee tin when he slid a mug across the counter toward you without looking. Iced. Too much milk. One sugar. Exactly right. You stared at it. Then at him. He was leaning against the opposite counter, scrolling through something on his phone with the dangerous calm of a man who had no idea he’d just committed emotional violence. “You remembered.”

He looked up. At the mug. At you. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You complain about bad coffee like it’s a moral issue.” You narrowed your eyes. “It is a moral issue.” He smiled into his own cup. That was the problem. Not remembering. How natural it felt. As if of course he knew. As if of course you noticed. As if this was normal. It wasn’t. Nothing about this was normal. And yet the days kept folding around it anyway.

He started bringing you food without asking. Not in some dramatic, romantic gesture way. Nothing obvious enough to name. Just showing up at the beach with the exact sandwich you liked because he “happened to be near the deli.” Leaving fries on the passenger seat when he picked you up because you’d skipped lunch and he could always tell when you did. A bottle of water handed to you silently after too much sun and too much pretending at some yacht party, his hand brushing yours for only a second before he walked away.

Little things. The kind people noticed. The kind people definitely noticed. By the second week of July, your friends had reached collective suspicion. It happened on a Wednesday afternoon at the beach club, where everyone had collapsed under umbrellas with overpriced drinks and varying levels of sunburn. Sunoo was the first to say it, because of course he was. He lowered his sunglasses dramatically and pointed between you and Heeseung like a detective solving a murder. “You two are weird.”

You didn’t even look up from your book. “That is the least shocking thing anyone has ever said.”

“No,” Yunjin cut in, leaning forward, “like weird weird. You’re not fighting.”

That got your attention. You looked up. Across from you, Heeseung was stretched lazily in a chair, sunglasses on, looking entirely too comfortable for someone under investigation.

Yoonchae nodded. “It’s unsettling. I miss the hostility. It was romantic.” Jay, who treated gossip like a legal proceeding, added, “The last thing you said to him that even resembled an insult was, and I quote—” He lifted a hand, reciting with criminal accuracy: ‘Don’t stay in the ocean too long, your wig might fall off.’ Silence. You blinked.

Sunghoon, traitor, added quietly, “That wasn’t even an insult. That was concern wrapped in a taunt.” You hated all of them.

“It was a warning,” you said.

“Because you care,” Sunoo sang.

“Because baldness is a public issue.” Across the table, Heeseung laughed. Actually laughed. Low and easy and far too pleased with himself. And you, idiot that you were, smiled back before you could stop it. The entire group gasped like Victorian women witnessing an exposed ankle. Eunchae clutched her chest. “Oh my god. They’re smiling at each other. We’ve lost them.”

You buried your face in your drink. This was unbearable. But the truth sat heavier than embarrassment. Because they were right. You weren’t fighting anymore. Not really. The sharpness had softened at the edges, and in its place had come something quieter. More dangerous.

You knew when he was lying. It was always in his shoulders first, too relaxed, too deliberate. Like if he made himself look calm enough, no one would notice. And he knew when you were upset before you said a word. Sometimes before you did. Like the night you came back from dinner with your parents, frustrated and restless and not wanting to explain why, only to find him sitting on the hood of his car outside your house.

He took one look at you and said, simply, “What happened?” No performance. No jokes. Just knowing. You sat beside him without answering, and he handed you fries in silence. That was worse than comfort. That was intimacy. And intimacy was not part of the agreement. Neither was the fact that you kept ending up in his clothes.

His hoodie mostly. Dark gray, too big, sleeves falling over your hands, smelling faintly like him and expensive detergent and whatever impossible thing made you feel too warm when you wore it home at sunrise. The first time, you’d told yourself it was practical. The second time, convenient. By the fifth, even you had stopped pretending. One evening, walking back from his house with that hoodie wrapped around you and the sun barely rising over the water, you caught your reflection in a neighbor’s window and had the deeply humiliating realization that you looked happy.

Not smug. Not victorious. Happy. You nearly turned around and walked directly into the sea. And then there was jealousy. The rule neither of you talked about because talking about it would make it real. No jealousy. Very simple. A lie, obviously. It surfaced one night at another party on Jay’s yacht. Some guy, tall, forgettable, rich in the boring way, spent too long talking to you by the bar. Leaning in too close. Laughing too easily.

You were polite. Mostly. But from across the room, you felt it before you saw it. Heeseung, watching. Still. Cold. Not dramatic, that would’ve been easier, just quiet. His expression shuttered in that way he did when he was trying very hard not to let something show, and suddenly the rest of the night tasted wrong. Later, when you found him outside near the dock, the air heavy with salt and dark water below, you said it before you could stop yourself.

“You’re being weird.” He leaned against the railing, gaze on the ocean. “I’m always weird.”

“Not like this.”

A long pause, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, “Nothing’s wrong.” You laughed softly. There it was, the lie. You stepped closer, “You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?”

Finally, he looked at you. Moonlight catching the edges of him. That familiar unreadable expression. “No,” he said. “You just like thinking you can.” You folded your arms. “And you like pretending I’m wrong.”

His jaw shifted. A tell. You noticed. Of course you noticed. For a second, it almost cracked. Whatever this was. Whatever sat under all the rules and pretending and carefully chosen silence. But then he straightened. Looked away. And the wall went back up. “It means nothing,” he said. The words landed heavier than they should have. Because both of you knew he wasn’t talking about the guy. He was talking about all of it. This. You. Him.

The arrangement. The softness. The way neither of you were following your own rules anymore. Nothing. You stared at him for a long moment, the ocean loud in the silence between you. Then you nodded once. “Right.” A lie, both his and yours, both of you standing there in the warm dark of summer, pretending not to bleed where it hurt.

It means nothing, and somehow, that hurt worse than if he’d said everything, the silence between you lingered for a second too long. Warm night air moved around you, carrying the salt of the ocean and the distant hum of music from the party still going on behind the marina. The dock swayed faintly beneath your feet, water dark and endless below, moonlight breaking silver across the surface.

You stood there with his words still sitting heavy in your chest. It means nothing. Such a simple sentence. Such a stupid, transparent lie, but you hated that it hurt. More than that, you hated that he knew it hurt. That somewhere beneath all the arrogance and all the careful pretending, he knew exactly where to place the knife. And still, somehow, neither of you left. Because leaving would mean ending the conversation. Because staying meant there was still something unfinished here.

You folded your arms tighter, more for protection than attitude. “Right,” you said again, quieter this time. Heeseung looked at you like he wanted to say something else, something better, or worse. You could see it in the hesitation. In the way his mouth opened slightly, then closed again. In the tension sitting sharp in his shoulders, like even he was tired of performing indifference.

But he didn’t, of course he didn’t. Instead, after a long moment, he stepped closer. Not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to be familiar. And maybe that was the problem. The familiarity of it. The way your body recognized him before your mind had time to argue. His hand brushed your arm lightly. A thoughtless gesture. Comforting. Soft. Dangerous. You should have stepped back. Instead, you stayed still.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like his body had made the decision before his brain could stop it, he leaned down and pressed a quick, absent kiss to your forehead. Gentle. Careless. Tender. The kind of kiss that belonged to something entirely different than whatever this was supposed to be. And the second it happened, you both froze. Completely, the world stopped, the ocean, the music, your heartbeat, everything. Because that, that was not in the rules. Not even close. No public affection. No emotional attachment. No softness.

And forehead kisses? Forehead kisses were practically emotional terrorism. You stared at him. He stared at you. His hand was still lightly on your arm. Your lips parted, but no sound came out because honestly, what exactly was the appropriate response to being emotionally assassinated on a dock? Apparently, the answer was, a dramatic choking noise.

You both turned. Too late. Because standing ten feet away, carrying drinks and what looked like the absolute time of their lives, were your friends. All of them. Sunoo. Sunghoon. Jay. Eunchae. Yunjin. Yoonchae. Witnesses. To your death. For one beat, nobody moved. Then Yunjin made a sound like a Victorian woman seeing a man’s ankle and clutched her chest.

“No,” she whispered. Then louder, “No. No, I refuse.”

And with all the theatrical commitment of a woman born for performance, she dramatically dropped backward onto Eunchae. “I’ve fainted,” she announced to the night. “I’m dead. Tell my family I died right.” Eunchae, instead of helping, was already doubled over laughing. Actually laughing. Tears in her eyes. Full-body betrayal. Jay turned away entirely, hand over his mouth like he was trying and failing to remain dignified. Sunghoon stood there in complete silence, which for him was basically screaming.

Sunoo looked like he had ascended to another spiritual plane. And Yoonchae, traitor, elegant, terrifying, just slowly raised one eyebrow and said, “Well.” You wanted the dock to collapse. Immediately. Preferably with you on it. Beside you, Heeseung cleared his throat with the deeply haunted expression of a man realizing public humiliation was hereditary.

“It was nothing.” Silence. Then six people spoke at once. “Nothing?” Sunoo repeated, scandalized. “You kissed her forehead!” Eunchae shouted.

“That’s husband behavior,” Yunjin yelled from her fake death position. Jay pointed accusingly. “That is not casual. Casual men do not forehead kiss.”

Sunghoon, finally contributing, said simply, “That was intimate.” Which, somehow, was worse. You covered your face with both hands. This was how legends ended. Not with dignity. Not with grace. But with your friends conducting a public trial over a forehead kiss. Heeseung rubbed the back of his neck, visibly regretting every life choice that had led him here. “It was automatic.”

“A Freudian slip,” Sunoo said immediately.

“A cry for help,” Yunjin added.

“A confession,” Eunchae gasped.

“A legal declaration,” Jay said.

“A marriage proposal,” Yoonchae finished.

You made a strangled noise. “Please stop talking.”

“No,” everyone replied. Across the chaos, you finally looked at Heeseung. Really looked. And annoyingly, he looked just as wrecked as you felt. His composure cracked at the edges. His usual confidence gone. His ears, very slightly, red. Interesting. Very interesting. For one brief second, despite the humiliation, despite the six idiots currently planning your wedding in real time, you almost smiled. Because he was embarrassed. Actually embarrassed. And somehow, that made the whole thing worse. Or better. Definitely worse.

He looked back at you. Something unspoken passing there. Something quiet and dangerous. Then, because the universe refused to let either of you have peace, Sunoo threw an arm dramatically into the air and declared to the ocean, “THEY’RE IN LOVE AND THEY’RE MAKING IT EVERYONE’S PROBLEM.” You and Heeseung, at the exact same time: “Shut up, Sunoo.” Which only made everyone laugh harder. 

—

The yacht looked like something built for people who had never been told no. White and gleaming and impossibly large, anchored just far enough from shore to feel exclusive, close enough for everyone to pretend it was casual. Music spilled across the water in low, expensive waves. Champagne sweated in silver buckets. Someone was laughing too loudly near the upper deck, and somewhere below, the ocean moved dark and patient against the hull, like it had seen this all before. Summer in Jeju Island had always been performative, but yacht parties were theater. Everyone arrived looking like they had something to prove. Girls in silk and gold, boys in linen and old money and inherited arrogance. Sunglasses even after sunset. Bare shoulders catching the last of the light. Beautiful people pretending they weren’t waiting for someone specific to notice them.

You hated how much you fit into it. Tonight, the dress was white. Soft and dangerous. The kind of dress that looked innocent until someone stood too close. Thin straps, bare back, fabric skimming your skin like seawater. Your hair loose from the salt air, gold at your throat, your mouth glossed and unhelpful. You looked like a mistake dressed as a good idea. Maybe that was the point. By the time you stepped onto the deck, the sun was already beginning to sink, everything dipped in amber, the ocean turning molten and gold around you. The air smelled like sunscreen, champagne, and money.

Sunoo spotted you first, of course. He stood near the bar, already three drinks deep into being everyone’s problem, and his eyes widened slowly as you approached. “Oh,” he said softly, like someone witnessing divine intervention. “Someone is about to ruin a life.” You took the champagne he handed you. “Only one? I’m aiming higher.”

He smiled, but it faded quickly when his gaze shifted past your shoulder. There. At the far end of the deck. Heeseung. Talking to Jay, drink in hand, sleeves rolled, dark shirt open at the throat in that infuriating way he never seemed aware of. The wind moved through his hair. The sunset caught against the sharp line of his profile. And then he looked up. Found you. Paused. There was always that moment. That small, suspended second where everything else fell away and it was just this, the recognition, the tension, the memory of every version of yourselves that had led here. His gaze moved slowly.

Not rushed. Not subtle. Like being touched without contact. And even from across the deck, you felt it. Something in your chest pulling too tight. It would have been easier if he looked away first. He didn’t. Neither did you. Until Yunjin bumped your shoulder lightly and saved you from your own poor decisions. “Don’t do that,” she murmured. You blinked. “Do what?” She took a sip of her drink, watching the sunset like she wasn’t dismantling your life. “Look at him like that. It makes the rest of us feel like unwilling participants.”

You laughed, but it sounded thinner than you meant it to. Because tonight, something already felt wrong. Not wrong. Fragile. Like standing barefoot on glass and pretending it was only sand. Maybe it was the accumulated weight of it. The weeks of pretending. The rules bent past recognition. The softness neither of you spoke about. The forehead kiss that still sat in your chest like a bruise. Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe you were tired. Tired of pretending this was casual. Tired of pretending you didn’t care. Tired of him saying it meant nothing when it had started to feel like everything.

So tonight, you decided to be reckless. Not because you wanted someone else. Because you wanted him to react. Which, in hindsight, was the kind of decision people wrote warnings about. Minjae found you first. Again. Pretty enough. Easy enough. Familiar enough to be useful. He leaned against the rail beside you while the yacht drifted slow under the dying sun, talking about some party in Seoul, some mutual friend, something forgettable. His hand brushed your arm when he laughed.

You let it. You smiled. You leaned closer. You let the dress do half the work and the silence do the rest. And all the while, you could feel it. Heeseung. Across the deck. Watching. It wasn’t dramatic. He wasn’t storming across the yacht like some jealous cliché. Worse. He was quiet. Still. The kind of stillness that meant all the dangerous things were happening underneath. You knew him well enough now to recognize it.

The way his shoulders went too rigid. The way his mouth flattened when he was holding something back. The way he stopped pretending to enjoy the party. You kept flirting. Because cruelty, apparently, was a love language. By the time the sky had gone violet and the city lights glittered faintly across the water, the tension had become its own living thing. Heavy.

Everyone noticed. Sunoo kept looking between you and Heeseung like he was watching a live sports event. Eunchae physically winced every time Minjae touched your arm. Jay had the expression of a man reviewing poor investment choices. And Heeseung, he stopped speaking entirely. You should have stopped. You didn’t. Because part of you wanted him angry. Wanted proof. Wanted something undeniable.

You found it when you excused yourself to the lower deck for air. The music faded there, softer beneath the sound of the water. The yacht rocked gently beneath your feet. Moonlight stretched silver over the sea, and the world felt quieter, suspended between one decision and the next. You barely had time to breathe before he was there.

“Seriously?” His voice behind you was low. Controlled. Too controlled. You turned slowly. He stood in the narrow corridor of moonlight and shadow, jaw tight, eyes dark enough to make the night feel thinner around you. There it was. Finally. You leaned back against the railing, crossing your arms like your pulse wasn’t trying to leave your body. “Are we opening with accusations? Very romantic.” His laugh was short. Humorless. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re late. I thought jealousy would get you here faster.” That landed. You saw it. The flicker in his expression. The anger sharpened by something much worse. He stepped closer. “You think this is funny?”

“No,” you said quietly. “I think you don’t get to care.” The ocean moved below you. Dark and endless. He stopped. For one second, the entire world seemed to hold its breath. “And why not?” The question came softer than you expected. Not angry, not sharp, honest, and that was worse, because there was an answer. A real one. Because caring meant naming this. Because naming this meant breaking it. Because if he said it first, if either of you said it first, there would be no way back to pretending.

You looked at him and saw all of it at once, the boy you had spent every summer fighting, the man standing in front of you now, the terrible inevitability of wanting someone you were never supposed to want this much. Your throat felt tight. “Because,” you said, and even your own voice sounded unfamiliar, “you were the one who said it meant nothing.” Something in him shifted. Like regret. Like anger turned inward. He moved closer again, and this time you didn’t step back. There was nowhere to go.

Moonlight on the water. Champagne still bitter on your tongue. His hand braced against the railing beside you, trapping you there without touching. His voice dropped, rough around the edges. “And you believed me?” Your heart stuttered. Because no. No, you hadn’t. That had been the problem. You had heard the lie and let him keep it because the truth was too dangerous.

You looked up at him, and the space between you felt like standing in the ocean during a storm, like drowning and floating and drowning and floating, never knowing which one would win. “Tell me I’m wrong,” you whispered.

He stared at you like he was trying to decide whether honesty would ruin him. Maybe it would. Maybe it already had. His hand lifted, slow enough to stop, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a tenderness that felt far too intimate for a yacht full of people and all the lies between you. His mouth was only inches from yours. And when he spoke, it was barely sound at all. “I think,” he said, “I stopped being careful with you a long time ago.”

Not quite a confession. Worse. Because it was true. And truth, between the two of you, had always been the most dangerous thing of all. He stood there for one suspended second after saying it, like even he was startled by the sound of his own honesty. The yacht rocked gently beneath you, the ocean below black and endless, moonlight breaking itself into silver shards across the water. Somewhere above, the music still played, muffled now, distant, belonging to another life entirely. Laughter drifted from the upper deck like something from far away, from people who had not just stepped to the edge of something irreversible.

You could still feel the words between you. I stopped being careful with you a long time ago. It settled into your chest like saltwater, slow, stinging, impossible to separate from your own blood. For weeks, maybe years, the two of you had been circling this. Pretending desire was just annoyance sharpened into habit. Pretending every almost was accidental. Pretending the way he looked at you meant less than it did. And now here it was. Not clean. Not graceful. Just true. You should have said something. Something intelligent. Something devastating. Something that would let you keep whatever remained of your pride. Instead, your body betrayed you first.

Your hand found the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like instinct, like gravity. You didn’t even realize you’d done it until he looked down at your hand and something dark and quiet moved across his face. His restraint snapped so softly you almost missed it. Then he took your wrist.  And before you could think, before either of you could retreat back into irony and self-preservation, he pulled you with him. Up the narrow staircase. Past the low spill of music and careless laughter. Through the blur of warm bodies and champagne and summer pretending to be harmless.

You barely registered the startled glance Sunoo gave you as Heeseung walked past him without a word, your hand still in his like a confession neither of you were ready to speak aloud. The hallway inside the yacht was cooler, quieter. White walls. Dim lights. The hum of the engine beneath your feet. Somewhere, a door shut. Somewhere else, the sea kept breathing against the hull.

He kept walking. You followed because there was no version of this where you didn’t. Because at some point, resisting him had become another kind of surrender. At the end of the corridor, he stopped. A private deck. Smaller. Hidden from the party. Open to the night. Only the ocean. Only the moon. Only the two of you and everything you were pretending not to destroy.

The door shut behind you with a soft click. Silence. He turned. For a moment, neither of you moved. The wind came off the water cool against your overheated skin, lifting your hair, carrying salt into the space between you. You could hear your own breathing. His too. He looked at you like a man standing too close to fire and knowing he was about to step in anyway.

And suddenly, it felt like standing at the edge of land. Like the last piece of solid ground beneath your feet. Like one more step would mean surrendering to something larger than either of you, something tidal and reckless and impossible to survive unchanged. You crossed that distance first. Or maybe he did. Later, you wouldn’t know. Only that one second there was space, and the next there was none. His mouth found yours like gravity.

Not gentle. Not hesitant. Like being pulled under. The kiss hit you like cold water and summer lightning, sharp, immediate, consuming. Every part of you lit at once, every defense dissolving so quickly it felt humiliating. His hands were at your waist, your neck, your jaw, like he couldn’t decide where to hold you, only that he needed to. You kissed him back like drowning. Like if you let go, you’d wash out to sea. His mouth tasted like champagne and salt and every bad decision you’d ever wanted to make. It was anger and relief and hunger all tangled together, all the years between you collapsing into something hot and breathless and overdue.

The world tilted. Or maybe it was just the boat. Or maybe it was him. You had the absurd thought that this was what slipping away from land felt like, that moment your feet stopped touching the ocean floor and suddenly there was nothing holding you up but instinct and want. Floating. Falling. The same thing, sometimes. His hands slid to your back, pulling you closer, and the sound that left him against your mouth was low, wrecked, like even he was surprised by the force of this.

You understood. Because kissing Heeseung felt like melting. Like sun-warmed skin slipping beneath water. Like losing the shape of yourself. Like becoming something softer, stranger, more dangerous. He kissed you like he was angry at how much he wanted to. You kissed him like you were tired of pretending you didn’t. And somewhere in the middle of it, all your carefully built walls, your rules, your boundaries, your clever little exits, went under like they had never been there at all.

His forehead rested against yours for one brief second, both of you breathing like you’d been running, like maybe you had. His thumb brushed your cheek. A tenderness so small it almost hurt more than the kiss. When he spoke, his voice was rough enough to sound like truth. “You make this impossible.” You smiled, breathless, your lips still close enough to steal.

“So do you.” Then his mouth was on yours again, and whatever was left of reason disappeared with the tide.

—

The rain started sometime after midnight. By morning, Jeju Island had turned silver. The sky hung low and heavy over the coastline, clouds blurring the horizon until the ocean and the storm became one endless sheet of grey-blue. Rain slid steadily down the windows in soft crooked lines, tapping against rooftops and palm leaves and the quiet little streets of the neighborhood with the kind of patience only summer storms possessed.

Everything felt slower in the rain. Softer. The beach emptied. Yacht plans were cancelled. The marina sat abandoned except for boats rocking gently against their docks like sleeping animals. For the first time all summer, the town stopped performing. And somehow, that felt dangerous too. You woke late to the sound of thunder somewhere far away, curled beneath your sheets with damp air drifting through the cracked window. Your phone rested beside your pillow, screen lighting softly against the grey room.

A text.

power’s out at our house.

Then, a second later:

mom says yours still has electricity

And finally:

tragic. devastating. i’ll survive somehow.

You stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary. Then sighed. Because despite everything, despite all your promises to yourself about boundaries and self-preservation and not becoming the kind of girl who let boys ruin her summer, you were already smiling. An hour later, Heeseung arrived at your front door soaked from the rain.

Not drenched dramatically. Just enough that dark strands of hair clung messily to his forehead, rainwater catching along the line of his jaw and disappearing beneath the collar of his sweatshirt. The storm had turned the whole world softer around the edges, and standing there beneath the muted grey sky, he looked less like the polished golden boy everyone knew and more like something real. Your mother let him in with entirely too much enthusiasm. “Oh good,” she said brightly, already walking back toward the kitchen. “Now you can both stop pretending you don’t miss each other.”

“Mom,” you warned. Heeseung coughed into his sleeve to hide a smile. Rain followed him inside in traces, the smell of wet pavement and ocean wind clinging faintly to him as he stepped into the warmth of the house. For a moment, neither of you moved. No parties. No music. No late-night tension sharp enough to cut through.

Just quiet. The kind that made you suddenly aware of ordinary things. The soft ticking of rain against the windows. The oversized sweatshirt hanging off his shoulders. The fact that he looked at home here. That realization unsettled you more than it should have. The day unfolded slowly after that. Not exciting. Not dramatic. And maybe that was why it mattered.

You spent most of the afternoon in the living room while the storm darkened outside, half-watching terrible movies neither of you cared about. Your legs stretched across the couch beneath a blanket, his shoulder brushing yours every so often in that absent, thoughtless way intimacy sometimes arrived. At some point, your mother disappeared upstairs with a suspicious smile and the kind of timing that deserved investigation.

The rain deepened. Hours passed unnoticed. You learned strange things about each other in the quiet. Not the big things. Not the carefully curated versions people offered at parties. Small things. Real things. Heeseung hated peaches because he got sick eating too many as a kid one summer. You used to fake injuries during tennis lessons because you hated losing more than you liked sports.

He still remembered the time you punched a boy at thirteen for making Eunchae cry near the marina. “You broke his nose,” he recalled from the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand.

“He deserved worse.” “You were terrifying.” “I still am.” A smile touched his mouth then. Soft. Unthinking. Rainlight filled the room pale and blue around him, and suddenly the years between childhood and now felt strangely thin. Like maybe you had always been circling each other. Like maybe every version of yourselves had led here eventually. Later, thunder rolled low across the coastline while you sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch, flipping through an old photo album your mother had abandoned on the shelf years ago. 

Bad idea. There were photographs everywhere. Sunburnt summers. Beach days. Bonfires. All of you impossibly young. You paused on one picture, eight years old, missing front teeth, shoving Heeseung into the sand while he laughed hard enough to blur in the frame. Your chest tightened unexpectedly. “We look awful.”

“We look happy,” he corrected quietly. The room fell still after that. Outside, rainwater slid endlessly down the glass. Inside, something shifted. Not loudly, just enough to feel it. He sat down beside you on the floor, close enough that warmth gathered between you naturally. The photo album rested forgotten between your knees. And for the first time since this began, it didn’t feel like war. No tension sharpened into cruelty. No sarcasm waiting like a weapon.

Just this strange, aching softness neither of you knew how to hold. You turned another page slowly. Another photograph. Older this time. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. A summer party. You standing near the water laughing at something outside the frame while Heeseung looked at you instead. Not the camera. You. Your breath caught slightly. “You kept this?” He glanced down at the picture. Then away. Your pulse stumbled. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

His jaw shifted faintly. For a second, you thought he might dodge the question. Turn it into a joke. Deflect the way he always did whenever things came too close to honesty. Instead, his voice came quieter than you expected. “I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve spent a long time trying not to.”

The rain outside seemed to hush around the words. You looked at him carefully. Something vulnerable flickered there beneath all the practiced ease. Something raw enough to make your own chest ache in response. And suddenly you understood something terrifying, this was no longer just desire. Desire was simpler.

This, whatever this was becoming, had roots. Deep ones. You looked back down at the photograph because meeting his eyes felt too dangerous. “I used to hate summers here,” you admitted softly. The confession surprised even you. He looked at you then. “Why?” You traced your thumb along the edge of the page.

“Because everything always ended.” The words settled heavily between you, summer romances, bonfires, fireworks, warm nights, every beautiful thing in Jeju Island came with an expiration date stitched into it from the beginning, and suddenly, without meaning to, you had said something true. Something too true. You felt him shift closer beside you. Not touching. Almost worse.

For one suspended moment, it felt like standing at the edge of another confession, like both of you could ruin yourselves completely if you kept talking, so neither of you did. Cowards.

By evening, the storm had softened into a quiet drizzle. The whole house glowed warm against the rain-dark world outside, lamps casting amber light across the living room while distant thunder faded somewhere beyond the ocean. You’d lost track of time entirely. Dinner had happened somewhere in between conversation and silence and accidental touches that lasted too long. And now he stood near the front door pulling his sweatshirt back on while you lingered barefoot by the hallway, neither of you acknowledging how reluctant this felt. The rain tapped softly against the windows.

He looked tired. You probably did too. For one dangerous second, you almost asked him to stay. You could feel the question there, hovering at the back of your throat. Stay, not because of sex, not because of loneliness. Just, stay, and somehow that made it infinitely more frightening, across from you, he hesitated too, his hand resting on the doorknob, eyes on yours. Like he almost wanted to ask, but neither of you moved.

Because asking would mean admitting this had already crossed into something neither of you knew how to survive. So instead, he opened the door. Cool rain air slipped inside. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said quietly. Not later. Tomorrow. Something about that felt dangerously permanent. You nodded once.

“Yeah.” He left. And somehow the house felt emptier after. You stood there for a long moment listening to the rain before your mother appeared behind you carrying two mugs of tea. She looked toward the door knowingly, then back at you. “You know,” she said lightly, “summer’s ending soon.”

The words hit like cold water. Suddenly, the room felt too small. Too warm. Your heartbeat stumbled somewhere beneath your ribs. Because for the first time all summer, the ending no longer felt theoretical. It felt real. And terrifyingly close.

Summer began leaving in pieces. Not all at once. That would have been kinder. Instead, Jeju Island unraveled slowly, quietly, like a tide pulling back from shore before anyone realized the water was disappearing. The marina grew emptier first. Boats vanished from their slips one by one, carried back toward cities and obligations and real lives waiting elsewhere. Beach houses that had glowed warm every night for months slowly darkened at the windows. Suitcases appeared in entryways. Goodbyes drifted through the neighborhood in soft, temporary promises.

See you next summer.

As if next summer was guaranteed. As if people stayed the same long enough for promises like that to survive. The air changed too, still warm, but thinner somehow, the evenings arriving earlier, sunsets softer, touched already by the melancholy of something ending, even the ocean looked different, darker blue, quieter, less forgiving. You hated noticing it, because noticing meant acknowledging the clock, and the clock meant him, everything suddenly seemed measured in remaining time, three more Friday nights, two more yacht parties, a handful of mornings left before the entire town dissolved back into memory. 

Your arrangement had always come with an expiration date stitched into it. Ends with summer. At the beginning, the rule had felt safe, now it felt like standing beneath a blade waiting to fall. You started sleeping badly after that, not because of him, because of the way he had started looking at you. More carefully, more openly, like somewhere along the way, he had grown tired of pretending.

It happened in small moments at first, his hand lingering too long at your waist before letting go, the way his gaze searched for you automatically in crowded rooms now, no hesitation, no embarrassment about it, how he no longer acted surprised by tenderness, as though caring had become instinctive, dangerous, dangerous things. And worst of all, he had stopped treating this like it was temporary.

You noticed it one evening at the beach. The sky had gone pale gold with approaching sunset, the shoreline nearly empty except for scattered locals and gulls drifting low over the water. You sat wrapped in one of his hoodies, knees pulled loosely to your chest while the tide crept closer across the sand. Heeseung sat beside you quietly, one arm draped over his bent knee, watching the horizon.

Comfortable silence stretched between you. The kind that should have felt peaceful. Instead, it terrified you, because this wasn’t supposed to become comfortable. Comfort implied permanence. Permanence implied loss. “You’re thinking too loudly,” he murmured eventually.

You glanced at him. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you get this look on your face when you’re spiraling.” You looked away too quickly. The ocean breathed in and out before you answered. “I’m not spiraling.”

“You started reorganizing the snacks in my kitchen alphabetically yesterday.”

“That was stress cleaning.”

“That was psychotic.” A faint smile touched your mouth despite yourself. His gaze softened when he saw it. There it was again, that look, something gentler, something infinitely more frightening. Your chest tightened.

You stood abruptly before the feeling could settle properly. “I should go.” The shift was immediate. You saw him notice it in real time, the distance, the retreat, his expression changed carefully, like someone stepping onto unstable ground. “You just got here.”

“I know.” Rain clouds gathered faintly over the horizon, turning the water darker beneath the evening light. You avoided his eyes while brushing sand from your legs, because lately every time you looked at him too long, something inside you started giving way, and you couldn’t afford that, not now, not with endings everywhere. The drive home was quiet. not tense, worse, careful, as though both of you could feel something fraying between your hands and neither knew how to stop pulling. After that, it became impossible not to notice. How often he reached for you now. How naturally your lives had begun folding together. How every goodbye felt heavier than the last.

And the more real he became, the more frightened you grew. So you started pulling away, subtly at first, taking longer to answer texts, leaving earlier, skipping late-night visits with excuses thin enough that even you didn’t believe them, too tired, family dinner, headache, lies, all of them, because the truth sounded too ugly to admit aloud: You were beginning to love him, and loving someone with an end date felt like volunteering for heartbreak in advance. He noticed immediately, of course he did, he had always known you too well.

One night at Sunoo’s house, while music drifted softly through crowded rooms and everyone else played cards half-drunk around the kitchen island, you felt his eyes on you from across the room almost constantly, not possessive, not angry, trying to understand, which somehow hurt worse. You laughed too brightly at things that weren’t funny. Let conversations distract you. Pretended not to see the way his jaw tightened every time you slipped further away from him. By midnight, the tension between you had become unbearable.

You found him eventually outside on the balcony overlooking the ocean, moonlight silvering the sharp edges of his profile. The wind moved softly through the dark. Neither of you spoke immediately. There was too much sitting between you now. Finally, he turned. “You’ve been avoiding me.” Not accusatory. Just tired. You crossed your arms tightly against yourself. “I’ve been busy.”

A pause. Then quietly, “That’s not true.” Something sharp moved through your chest. Because no matter how carefully you built distance, Heeseung always walked straight through it. You looked out toward the water instead, far easier than looking at him. The ocean below looked endless tonight, cold, restless. “I just think maybe we forgot what this was supposed to be.” The silence after that felt dangerous. When he spoke again, his voice had gone lower. “And what exactly was it supposed to be?” You swallowed, temporary, easy, nothing, but none of those words fit anymore. Not after rainy afternoons and forehead kisses and sleeping beside each other until sunrise, not after the way he looked at you now. 

You could feel him watching you carefully, waiting, and suddenly the pressure of it became unbearable, the ending hanging over everything, the fear curling tighter around your ribs every day this became more real, because if you admitted what this was becoming, then losing it would destroy you. So instead, you stepped backward emotionally the way frightened people always do. “You said it yourself,” you murmured. “This ends with summer.”

His expression shifted, hurt, this time, barely hidden, “And that’s all you want?” You opened your mouth, nothing came out, because the answer existed, because it terrified you. The wind moved cold against your skin, below you, waves crashed endlessly against the shore, over and over, like something trying desperately to return to land. He stared at you for a long moment. Then finally asked, softly enough to hurt, “What are we doing?”

The question hung there between you, not angry, not dramatic, honest, and honesty had become the most dangerous thing between the two of you. You looked at him, really looked, at the exhaustion in his eyes, the hope he was trying not to show, the terrifying possibility of being loved back. Your throat tightened painfully. But fear arrived faster, fear always did.

So instead of answering, you stayed silent, and in that silence, something began to break.

—

The storm rolled in after midnight, it didn't rain at first, just pressure, heavy clouds swallowing the sky whole, the air turning electric and difficult to breathe. Wind moved through Jeju Island in restless waves, rattling windows and palm trees and the fragile remains of your composure. You hadn’t slept. Couldn’t.

His question kept replaying in your head like something unfinished. What are we doing? You had no answer that didn’t terrify you. So instead, you spent hours pacing your room while lightning flickered faintly beyond the ocean horizon, illuminating the walls in brief silver flashes. Coward.

The word followed you everywhere now, by one in the morning, your thoughts had become unbearable, by one-thirty, you were walking toward his house through the storm, barefoot, sweatshirt pulled tight around yourself, heart beating too hard.

The neighborhood lay silent beneath the dark sky, every house asleep except his. Light still glowed beneath his bedroom door upstairs. Something inside your chest twisted painfully at that. Like some foolish part of you had hoped he’d be sleeping peacefully. Unaffected. But of course he wasn’t.

You knocked once before opening the door. He looked up immediately from the couch. And the moment your eyes met, you understood this was going to hurt. The room was dim except for one lamp near the window. Thunder murmured low outside, rain finally beginning against the glass in soft scattered drops. Heeseung stood slowly. Neither of you spoke at first.

The distance between you felt enormous. You hated it. You hated that you were the one who created it. “You came,” he said eventually. His voice sounded exhausted. You wrapped your arms around yourself tighter. “I couldn’t sleep.” Something unreadable moved across his face. For one dangerous second, it almost softened. Then he remembered. “What do you want me to say?”

There it was. No avoiding it now. Your pulse stumbled painfully. “I don’t know.” “That’s the problem.” The words landed harder than they should have. Thunder rolled somewhere closer now. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through the calm he’d been holding together for days. “I feel like I’m standing outside a locked door with you lately.”

You looked away immediately. Because if you looked at him too long, you would fold. “You’re making this more serious than it is.” Even saying it felt wrong. You could hear the lie rotting underneath the sentence. So could he, his laugh this time sounded hollow.

“Seriously?” You swallowed hard. “This was supposed to be simple.” “Simple?” His voice sharpened suddenly. “You think any of this has felt simple?” Rain hit harder against the windows. The room felt smaller now. Too warm. Too full of things neither of you knew how to survive. You took a step backward instinctively, he noticed, of course he noticed, and something inside him finally snapped.

“I’m tired,” he said quietly, “of pretending I don’t care.” Silence, the words settled into the room like lightning striking water, there it was, the thing both of you had spent all summer running from, not hidden anymore, not softened into implication, real. You stared at him, your heart hurt so badly it almost felt physical, because part of you had wanted this, wanted him to say it, and another part, the larger, more frightened part, wanted to run until your lungs gave out.

Loving someone meant they could leave. Summer always left. You knew that better than anyone. So fear reached for cruelty the way drowning people reached for air. You laughed softly. Wrong move. His expression changed immediately. You felt your own panic rising now, wild and sharp and impossible to control. “This was never supposed to mean anything.”

The second the words left your mouth, you wanted them back. Too late. Silence. Not dramatic. Worse. Stillness. You watched the hurt move across his face slowly, like something extinguishing. His eyes lost warmth first, then softness, then hope, and suddenly the room felt freezing. He nodded once, a small movement.

“Right,” he said quietly. “Got it.” You opened your mouth instantly. Nothing came out. Because the truth was trapped somewhere beneath all your fear, clawing at your ribs too late. He grabbed his keys from the counter. Didn’t look at you again. Thunder cracked outside just as he reached the door. “Heeseung—”

He stopped. For one second, hope flared painfully inside you again. Then he spoke without turning around. “I think,” he said softly, “I deserved better than that.” And left. The door shut behind him with terrifying finality. You stood there frozen while rain hammered against the windows and the storm swallowed the coastline whole. For the first time all summer, he didn’t come back, and afterward came silence. 

No texts. No late-night knocks at your window. No headlights outside your house. Nothing. Just absence. Cold and endless as the sea. After Heeseung left, summer collapsed in on itself. Not dramatically. No thunder. No shattered glasses. No cinematic unraveling loud enough for the world to notice. Just absence. Quiet and creeping and everywhere.

It settled over Jeju Island like fog rolling in from the ocean, slipping beneath doors and into lungs and through the spaces between ordinary things until everything familiar felt wrong. The beach became unbearable first. You still went sometimes out of habit, carrying books you never opened, towels that stayed folded beside you untouched. The shoreline stretched wide and glittering beneath the August sun, beautiful in the same indifferent way it had always been, but now it felt hollow somehow.

Like a photograph of somewhere you used to belong. Everywhere you looked, there were ghosts of him. Near the dunes where he had first kissed you like he was starving. At the marina docks where moonlight had turned his honesty into something dangerous. On the stretch of sand where he’d once laughed at you for trying to fight the tide after too much tequila and too little dignity. You kept expecting to see him.

Leaning against the lifeguard tower. Walking toward you through the surf. Looking at you the way he always did lately, like he had already memorized every version of your face. But the spaces stayed empty, and somehow emptiness had weight.

The parties weren’t any better. Without him, they felt exposed somehow. Too loud. Too artificial. Music thumping against hollow spaces where your heartbeat used to live. Champagne too sweet. Laughter arriving half a second too late to feel real. You drifted through them like someone haunting her own life.

People noticed, of course they did. Sunoo stopped cornering you with gossip and instead watched you carefully whenever you thought nobody was looking. Eunchae started hugging you too tightly before leaving parties. Even Yunjin, who usually treated emotional devastation like a spectator sport, went strangely quiet around you. One evening near the bonfire, while everyone else sat tangled in conversation and salt air and late-summer exhaustion, Sunghoon settled beside you silently with two drinks. You accepted one without looking at him.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked softly before him. The ocean breathed dark beyond the shoreline. Then finally, “You look miserable.” No judgment. Just fact. You let out a quiet laugh that sounded closer to breaking. “I’m fine.”

“Right.” The word carried enough disbelief to hurt. You stared down at the bottle in your hands. “You know,” he said after a moment, “you’re the first thing he’s ever taken seriously.” Your chest tightened immediately. You looked at him then. Sunghoon kept his gaze fixed on the fire. “He acts like nothing matters most of the time,” he continued quietly. “But you did.”

Past tense. The word sliced through you before you could stop it. You swallowed hard. The fire blurred faintly. “He won’t even come out with us anymore,” Sunghoon admitted. “Jay says he’s been packing.” Packing. Something cold moved through your ribs.

You looked away quickly toward the ocean because suddenly breathing felt difficult. Summer had always ended. You knew that. You had built your entire heart around that truth years ago. Nothing beautiful stayed. Not beach towns. Not warm nights. Not people. Especially not people.

But somehow, somewhere between the rainstorm and the yacht and the way he remembered your coffee order, you had forgotten. Or maybe you had simply hoped he would become the exception. That realization arrived slowly over the following days. Not all at once. In fragments. You missed him in stupid ways first. Reaching automatically for your phone after something funny happened.

Turning toward the empty seat beside you at dinner before remembering. Still wearing one of his hoodies to sleep because taking it off felt too much like admitting he was gone. You found traces of him everywhere. In your routines. In your silences. In yourself.

And the worst part was understanding that this grief did not feel temporary. It rooted itself deeper every day. One afternoon, rain threatened faintly over the coastline while you wandered through town half-distracted, passing storefronts already packing away summer displays. Towels disappearing from racks, souvenir stands closing early, seasonal flowers wilting slowly in the heat. August ending in real time. You paused outside the small café near the marina where you and Heeseung had once hidden from the heat for nearly two hours, sharing iced coffees and childhood stories neither of you had meant to tell.

You remembered the way he’d looked at you across the table that day, soft, unarmed. Like loving you had happened quietly when he wasn’t paying attention. The realization hit then, simple, terrible. Oh. This is love. Not infatuation, not summer lust, not convenience sharpened into attachment. Love.

Real enough to hollow you out. Real enough to ruin everything else afterward. You leaned against the storefront window, eyes burning suddenly. Horrible, absolutely horrible, because now you understood why everything felt wrong without him. He had become stitched into the shape of your summer so completely that removing him tore pieces out alongside it.

And worse, you had done this. Fear had done this. You replayed the fight endlessly afterward, every cruel sentence tasting more poisonous each time you remembered it. This was never supposed to mean anything. You had watched those words break him in real time, and still you’d said them. Coward.

By the final week of August, panic settled fully into your bloodstream. You started looking for him without meaning to. Driving past the Lee house too slowly. Watching the beach at sunset. Checking your phone at two in the morning like your body still expected him to return eventually. He never did. The silence between you became its own kind of violence. Finally, the worst part.

It happened accidentally. Your mother stood in the kitchen arranging flowers while late afternoon sunlight spilled gold across the countertops. Outside, cicadas buzzed lazily in the heat, summer sounding exhausted now. You barely listened until she said, “I saw Mrs. Lee earlier.” Something inside you immediately sharpened.

“Oh?” “She said Heeseung’s leaving tomorrow morning.” The world stopped. Your hand froze halfway around your coffee mug. “What?” Your mother glanced up, surprised by the sudden rawness in your voice. “He’s heading back early. Something about work starting sooner in Seoul this year.” Tomorrow. The word crashed through you like cold seawater. Tomorrow meant this was real. Tomorrow meant endings.

Tomorrow meant there was suddenly almost no time left to fix the thing you had destroyed with your own hands. Your pulse turned violent beneath your skin. Outside the window, the ocean stretched blue and endless beyond the cliffs, glittering beneath the fading August light. Beautiful. Temporary. Already slipping away.

—

The next morning arrived too bright. Cruel sunlight flooded Jeju Island in sheets of gold, the ocean glittering innocently beneath the sky like yesterday had not split your heart open. Everything looked painfully beautiful in the way endings often did.

You barely slept. Every hour had passed tangled in panic and memory and the unbearable realization that if you let him leave now, this would become one of those tragedies people carried forever.  The kind stitched permanently beneath your ribs. By nine in the morning, your hands were shaking. By nine-fifteen, you were in your car.

You drove too fast down the coastline road, sunlight flashing violently through the trees, your heartbeat louder than the music still playing faintly through the speakers. Wind rushed through the open windows carrying salt and heat and the last dying breath of summer. Your mind replayed him endlessly. The rainstorm. The yacht. The forehead kiss. The way he had looked at you like you were something worth staying soft for.

The moment his face went cold after your cruelty. You gripped the steering wheel harder. Not this. Please not this. The marina came into view suddenly beyond the cliffs, boats swaying gently beneath the sunlight. People moved lazily along the docks carrying luggage and coffees and ordinary lives. Heeseung. Standing near the end of the dock beside one of the ferries heading toward the mainland.

White T-shirt. Dark sunglasses. One duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Leaving. The sight hit you so hard you nearly forgot to breathe. For one terrible second, fear almost won again. Turn around. Protect yourself. Pretend this never mattered. Then he glanced up. Saw you. And everything stopped. You barely remembered getting out of the car. Only the sound of your footsteps against the dock, the ocean below, your pulse roaring loud enough to drown the gulls overhead.

He straightened slowly as you approached, no smile, no anger either, just exhaustion, like he had finally become tired of hoping, that hurt most. You stopped a few feet away from him, sunlight breaking across the water between you both. Neither of you spoke at first.

Words suddenly felt impossibly small compared to everything sitting between your ribs. Finally, he exhaled quietly, “You came.” The simplicity of it nearly broke you, no accusation, no bitterness, just surprise, your throat tightened painfully. “I had to.” The wind moved softly around you, carrying warmth off the ocean.

He looked at you carefully then, like he was trying not to expect too much, and suddenly you realized something devastating, if you stayed silent now, you would lose him forever, no more pride, no more running, just truth, your eyes burned. “I was scared,” you admitted first. The words came rough, fragile around the edges. Heeseung stayed perfectly still. So you kept going before courage disappeared again.

“I think…” You swallowed hard. “I think I knew what this was becoming before you did. And it terrified me because everything here ends eventually and I didn’t know how to love someone without already grieving them.” His expression shifted slightly. You stepped closer. “I said those things because I thought if I ruined this first, it would hurt less when summer ended.”

Your voice cracked embarrassingly on the last word. The ocean blurred faintly behind him. “But it already hurts,” you whispered. “It hurts all the time.” Silence. Not empty. Listening. You looked at him fully then, no defenses left anywhere inside you. “I was stupid.” A breath. “And cruel.” Another. “And completely in love with you.”

Just love. Messy and terrifying and real enough to destroy you if he rejected it. Your chest ached violently waiting for him to say something. Anything. Heeseung stared at you for a long moment that felt endless beneath the August sun. Then finally, he laughed softly, not mockingly, disbelieving, like he had spent the entire summer waiting for a miracle and couldn’t quite believe it had arrived, you frowned immediately through the tears threatening your eyes. “That’s your reaction?”

He stepped closer. Close enough now that you could see the exhaustion beneath his eyes, the relief slowly undoing it. “I’ve been waiting all summer for you to admit that,” he said quietly. Idiot. You made a broken sound halfway between a laugh and a sob before grabbing the front of his shirt and kissing him, hard, desperate enough to make up for every moment you wasted being afraid. His hands found your waist instantly, pulling you against him with something almost painful in its urgency, and suddenly the entire world dissolved into sunlight and saltwater and relief.

The kiss felt different now, not drowning, not war, like finally reaching shore after spending months lost at sea, his forehead rested against yours when you finally pulled apart, both of you breathing unevenly beneath the burning light. “You are unbelievably difficult,” he murmured.

You laughed wetly. “You stayed anyway.” “Yeah,” he admitted softly. “I did.” Around you, the marina continued moving, boats departing, gulls crying overhead, summer ending one irreversible second at a time. But for the first time since this began, nothing about this felt temporary anymore.

—

The late afternoon light filtered through the curtains of Heeseung’s bedroom, casting a golden haze over tangled sheets and bare skin. Months had passed since that messy night, since the angry kisses and the “this was a mistake” lies. What started as stolen moments and stubborn denial had slowly, stubbornly, become something real.

Now, you were exactly where you belonged, underneath him, legs locked around his waist as he moved inside you with deep, unhurried strokes. Every thrust pulled a fresh sound from your throat. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, back arching as pleasure coiled tight in your core. “Heeseung— mmph!” Your cry was muffled as he leaned down and kissed you, slow and filthy, his tongue sliding against yours while his hips kept that devastating rhythm. Heeseung chuckled warmly against your mouth, the vibration sending sparks through your body. He kissed you once more, softer this time, then pressed his lips gently to your forehead, lingering there as he stayed buried deep inside you.

Still teasing. Still chaos. Still both completely insufferable. But now it was real. He pulled back just enough to look at you, sweat-damp hair falling over his eyes, that signature smirk playing on his lips even while he was still pulsing inside you. “Thought I told you not to fall in love with me,” he murmured, voice low and rough with affection.

You smiled up at him, glowing and utterly wrecked, your hand coming up to brush his hair back.

“Thought I told you not to call.” Heeseung let out a genuine laugh, the kind that made your chest feel too full. He rolled his hips once more, slow and deep, drawing a soft gasp from you before stilling again. “Yeah, well… I never was good at listening,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “That night after the party, when I texted you to come over… I told myself it was just one more mistake. One more time and we’d get it out of our systems.”

You raised an eyebrow, tracing your fingers down his spine. “And how’s that working out for you?” “Terribly,” he admitted, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Because every time you walked away, I kept thinking about you. Every summer. Every fight. Every time you looked at me like you wanted to kill me and kiss me at the same time.”

He shifted slightly, still deep inside you, and rested his forehead against yours. “I kept telling myself not to fall. And then you showed up at my door the next morning anyway. Stubborn as hell. Beautiful as ever.” You laughed softly, tightening your legs around him. “You’re the one who kept calling. Kept texting. Kept pulling me back in.”

Heeseung’s eyes softened, that rare vulnerable look breaking through the cocky exterior. “Because I couldn’t stop. Even when I tried.” His thumb stroked your cheek. “Guess I’m the idiot who fell first.” The room felt smaller, warmer, wrapped in golden light and years of history finally settling into place. All the almosts, the what-ifs, the angry almost-kisses on balconies and beaches, they had led here. To this. You pulled him down into another kiss, slow and sweet this time, savoring the way he melted against you.

When you broke apart, Heeseung froze for half a second, then broke into the brightest, most boyish grin you’d ever seen on him.“That’s what this whole thing has been, hasn’t it? One long, messy ‘maybe’ that turned into forever.” You nodded, eyes shining. “No more mistakes. No more running. Just us.”

“Just us,” he echoed. He kissed you again, deeper, hungrier, and started moving inside you once more, slow and intentional, like he was sealing the words into your skin. The laughter faded into soft moans and whispered names, the two of you losing yourselves in each other one more time.

Later, as the sun dipped lower and you lay tangled together under the sheets, Heeseung’s fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare back, he pressed one last kiss to your shoulder.

“So… Call Me Maybe?” he asked, smirking.

You grinned. “Only if you promise to always pick up.”

“Deal.”

No, hell, in your experience, smelled like salt in the air and expensive sunscreen. Like sun-warmed pavement and blooming jasmine climbing over white-painted fences. Like the ocean sitting just close enough to hear from your bedroom window, taunting you with the promise of peace you were never actually going to get.

Hell smelled like summer in Jeju Island. And unfortunately, you had just arrived.

You stood in the driveway of your family’s beach house with your sunglasses sliding down your nose and your patience already clinically deceased, staring at the towering white house like it had personally offended you. Which, honestly, it had. The place looked like every rich family’s Pinterest board had thrown up on it, ivy curling around stone walls, floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the blinding afternoon sun, hydrangeas blooming obnoxiously blue along the front walk.

Beautiful. Expensive. Full of memories you preferred not to examine too closely. Your mother stepped out of the car behind you with the kind of energy only women with fresh manicures and vacation plans possessed.

“Don’t just stand there,” she said, already fishing her oversized sunhat from her tote bag. “Help your father with the luggage.” 

You adjusted your sunglasses and gave the house one last deeply unimpressed look. “I’m considering simply walking into the ocean instead.”

From somewhere near the trunk, your father sighed. “And every year, you make the same joke.”

“Because every year, the ocean remains an option.”

Your mother clicked her tongue, the universal sound of maternal disappointment, and handed you two bags anyway. “Be dramatic later. We’re already late for dinner at the club tonight.”

Of course you were. Summer in Jeju Island wasn’t really summer. It was a social performance with a beachfront view. Three months of yacht parties, country club dinners, charity galas disguised as drinking events, and the same old-money families pretending they didn’t all know each other’s scandals already. Everyone here had grown up together, gone to the same private schools, kissed the same people, ruined each other’s lives in aesthetically pleasing ways. It was beautiful. It was exhausting.

It was home, in the most unfortunate sense of the word.

You hauled your bag up the front steps, pushing the door open with your shoulder. The familiar coolness of the house greeted you immediately, air conditioning and polished wood and lemon-scented cleaning products. Somewhere upstairs, your childhood room waited exactly as you’d left it last August, probably still holding the ghosts of every bad decision you’d made between seventeen and twenty-two. A charming thought. 

You dropped your bags by the staircase and wandered toward the kitchen, where your mother was already directing the opening of windows and the placement of flowers like she was staging a home magazine shoot.

She looked over her shoulder at you. “And before I forget,” she said, in the dangerously casual tone mothers used right before ruining your day, “be nice to the Lees this summer.”

You stopped mid-reach for the lemonade pitcher. Slowly, you turned. “Excuse me?”

“The Lees,” she repeated, as if she hadn’t just spoken your personal curse into existence. “We’re having them over next weekend, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t start any unnecessary arguments.”

You stared at her. There was a long, silent moment in which your soul quietly left your body and floated somewhere over the Atlantic. Then, “I’d like it officially noted,” you said, setting the pitcher down with great dignity, “that I never start the arguments.”

Your mother gave you a look. You gave her one back. She won. “You absolutely do.”

“I finish them beautifully,” you corrected. “That’s different.”

She sighed, turning back to her flowers. “Just behave. Especially with Heeseung.” And there it was. The name. The final nail in the coffin. Lee Heeseung. Your lifelong enemy. Your annual migraine. The human embodiment of every smug text message left on read.

Next door. Living, unfortunately.

You leaned against the kitchen counter and closed your eyes for one brief moment, like maybe if you didn’t move, the universe would take pity on you and reverse time. It did not. Because of course he was here. He was always here.

Every summer since childhood had come with three guarantees: humidity, your mother’s obsession with hosting dinners, and Lee Heeseung existing entirely too close to your personal space. Your families had been friends forever, which meant your lives had been annoyingly, inescapably intertwined since before either of you had enough common sense to avoid each other.

There were photos somewhere, horrifying evidence, of the two of you as children on the same beach, him with scraped knees and you with a missing front tooth, already looking like you were one wrong comment away from attempted murder.

Some things, apparently, were timeless. As teenagers, it had only gotten worse. He’d grown into his face in the kind of unfair way that should’ve required government intervention, too handsome, too charming, too aware of both. The kind of boy adults loved and girls wrote bad poetry about. Golden boy energy in expensive linen. Meanwhile, you had perfected the art of making eye contact while verbally destroying someone. Naturally, you got along terribly.

Every summer had become its own tradition of verbal warfare, stolen drinks at parties, arguments on docks at midnight, insults dressed up as flirting and flirting disguised as threats. There had been one almost-kiss when you were nineteen, drunk and angry and standing far too close on his parents’ balcony.

Neither of you had ever mentioned it again. Civilization had survived. Barely. Your mother was still talking. “His mother mentioned he got back last week.”

Wonderful. Fantastic. Thrilling.“Did she also mention if he’s developed the ability to shut up?” you asked.

“She mentioned he’s doing very well.” Of course he was. Lee Heeseung was always doing very well. He probably woke up looking expensive and emotionally unavailable. You poured yourself a glass of lemonade with the gravity of someone preparing for battle.

“Great. I can’t wait to not care.”

Your mother pointed a flower stem at you. “I mean it. No fighting.”

You took a sip. “With all due respect, mother, if Lee Heeseung and I stop fighting, one of us has probably died.”

From the front yard came the low sound of a car door shutting. Then another. Your father’s voice drifted in from outside, greeting someone. Your mother brightened instantly. “Oh! Perfect timing.”

No. Absolutely not. You set the glass down very, very slowly. “No,” you said. She smiled the smile of a woman who had already decided your fate.

“Yes. Go say hello.” You looked toward the window like it might offer an emergency exit. Sunlight poured across the garden. Beyond the hydrangeas and white fencing sat the neighboring house, just as grand, just as obnoxiously perfect. And somewhere in that orbit of privilege and poor decision-making was Heeseung. Back for another summer. Meaning your peace, your dignity, and probably your better judgment had all officially expired.

You inhaled once. Exhaled. Straightened your sunglasses like armor. “Well,” you muttered, heading for the door, “welcome back to hell.”

The universe, unfortunately, had a sense of humor. Because the second you stepped out onto the front porch, armed with sunglasses, a bad attitude, and the vague hope that maybe your father had been greeting the mailman instead of your greatest seasonal inconvenience, you saw him.

Leaning against the hood of his car like he’d been placed there by an overly confident romance novelist. Of course. Of course Lee Heeseung would make an entrance by simply existing in expensive sunlight.

His car was obnoxious. Sleek, black, expensive enough to probably have its own trust fund. It sat in the driveway of the house next door like a personal insult, gleaming under the late afternoon sun while he leaned against it with all the irritating ease of a man who had never once struggled to be liked. White linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Dark sunglasses pushed back into his hair. Skin already carrying the kind of summer tan people paid money to fake.

And that smirk. That stupid, smug, entirely too familiar smirk. Your father was by the front gate, already deep in conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Lee, who were as lovely as ever, warm, elegant, and somehow still producing that man without demanding an apology from the universe.

Mrs. Lee spotted you first. “Oh, there she is!” There was genuine affection in her voice, which made this all worse. You pasted on your best socially acceptable smile and walked down the steps with the slow, resigned grace of someone approaching their own execution.

Mrs. Lee kissed your cheek, your mother appeared from somewhere behind you like she’d been waiting for this exact moment, and within seconds both sets of parents were exchanging the usual summer pleasantries.

How was the drive?How long are you staying?You’ve gotten so grown up.We must have dinner together soon.

The rich-people mating dance. You answered where necessary, smiled where required, and tried very hard not to look to your left. Naturally, you failed. Because Heeseung was looking directly at you. Still leaning there. Still smirking. Like he’d been waiting for this. You crossed your arms instinctively. He pushed himself off the car. Slowly. Like a villain with excellent posture. Then, with the audacity of a man untouched by divine punishment, he looked you over once, head to toe, unhurried, deeply annoying, and said, “Missed me?”

You stared at him. There were many possible responses. Most of them involved violence. Your mother, standing three feet away, would probably object to murder in broad daylight, so you settled for a look sharp enough to qualify as attempted manslaughter. “I was actually having a wonderful day,” you said, “but thanks for asking.”

His mouth twitched. Your father laughed because traitors lived everywhere. Heeseung slid his hands into his pockets, infuriatingly calm. “Good. I’d hate to ruin your summer that quickly.”

“Please,” you said sweetly. “You ruin my summer just by continuing to exist.”

Mrs. Lee sighed in the fond, exhausted way of a woman who had witnessed this dance for over a decade. “See? Exactly the same.”

“Worse, actually,” you said.

“At least she admits she thinks about me,” Heeseung replied.

You inhaled. Exhaled. Decided prison orange would not flatter you. Your mother gave you a warning glance over the rim of her sunglasses, the universal signal for ‘do not embarrass me in front of the neighbors’. You smiled tightly. Heeseung smiled back like he was enjoying this far too much. He was. He always did. That was the problem.

From the outside, the two of you probably looked like some kind of old-Hollywood screwball romance, beautiful people exchanging insults in linen by the sea. From the inside, it felt more like mutual destruction with excellent lighting. Mr. Lee was discussing the yacht club renovation with your father now, and the adults had drifted slightly toward the garden, leaving just enough space for danger.

You turned toward him, lowering your voice. “If you’re planning to spend this summer being extra unbearable, I’d appreciate a warning so I can emotionally prepare.”

He leaned slightly closer, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the amusement written all over his face. “Emotionally prepare?” he repeated. “You? I thought your whole thing was pretending not to have emotions.”

You scoffed. “My whole thing is surviving despite your presence.”

“Cute.”

“Don’t call me cute.”

“I didn’t. I said your delusion was cute.” There it was. The familiar rhythm. Effortless. Annoying. Dangerous in the way old habits always were.

You hated how easy it was to fall back into it, like no time had passed at all. Like last summer hadn’t ended with the two of you arguing on the marina docks at two in the morning, both too stubborn to say whatever actually needed saying. Like the almost-kiss years ago had never happened. Like your pulse didn’t do something deeply embarrassing every time he stepped too close.

You adjusted your sunglasses and took one deliberate step back. “Try not to get hit by a yacht this summer, Heeseung. It would create paperwork.”

He grinned. “There she is. I was worried college made you soft.” You smiled back, bright and false and weaponized. “And I was hoping maturity had found you. Shame we’re both disappointed.”

Mrs. Lee called his name from the garden before he could answer, and for one brief, shining moment, you experienced peace. He glanced toward his parents, then back at you. That smirk again. Like he knew something you didn’t. Which was unacceptable. “See you around, neighbor.”

You folded your arms tighter. “Threatening me already?”

“Just making promises.” God, you hated him. Truly. Deeply. Artistically. He turned then, walking back toward his parents with the lazy confidence of someone who had never once doubted the world would make room for him. Mrs. Lee adjusted his collar as he passed, and he let her, smiling in that easy, golden-boy way that made adults adore him and should have been scientifically illegal.

Spawn of the devil. Your father was still laughing at something Mr. Lee had said. Betrayal, everywhere. A few more polite goodbyes later, the Lees disappeared back into their perfectly landscaped kingdom next door, and you stood in the driveway watching Heeseung disappear behind the white fence like a storm cloud in designer sunglasses.

Your mother touched your arm. “You could at least pretend to be nicer.”

“I was radiant with charm.”

“You looked like you were planning arson.”

“That was charm.” She sighed, already turning back toward the house. Inside, the air was cool again, but your mood had fully committed to violence. You followed her to the kitchen, where she resumed unpacking with suspicious calm, the calm of someone about to ruin your evening.

You should have known. “By the way,” she said casually, arranging lemons in a bowl like a woman with no regard for her daughter’s suffering, “we’re having dinner with the Lees on Saturday.”

You stopped. “No.”

She didn’t even look up. “Yes.”

“Cancel.”

“No.”

“Fake your death.”

She placed the final lemon down and finally turned to face you. “Be serious.”

“I am serious. I’m willing to help stage it.” Your mother smiled in the dangerous way mothers did when they’d already won. “Saturday. Seven o’clock. Try not to start a war before dessert.”

You stared at her. At the lemons. At the kitchen. At the universe. Somewhere next door, Lee Heeseung was probably alive and smug. And now there would be dinner. Shared wine. Forced politeness. His knee probably brushing yours under the table just to ruin your life.

Your villain origin story, apparently, came with a seafood course. You picked up your abandoned lemonade and took a long sip like it contained stronger coping mechanisms. Summer had officially begun.

Tuesday arrived the way summer days in Jeju Island always did, slowly, lazily, like the sun itself had nowhere better to be.

By ten in the morning, the entire town had already settled into its usual rhythm. Tennis whites at the country club. Mothers with iced coffees and expensive sunglasses pretending not to gossip. Men in linen shirts discussing boats like they were discussing national policy. Teenagers and college kids spilling toward the beach in swimsuits and bad intentions. Everything here moved with the polished ease of old money and old habits. You hated how easy it was to slip back into it. There was something dangerous about returning to a place that remembered every version of you.

The boardwalk still creaked in the same places. The little café near the marina still sold iced vanilla lattes overpriced enough to count as emotional damage. The beach still stretched golden and endless, all warm sand and glittering water and sun-drunk afternoons that made bad decisions feel like destiny instead of stupidity.

Summer here had a way of convincing people they were invincible. It was probably responsible for at least seventy percent of your mistakes. By afternoon, you’d decided your mother’s constant rearranging of flowers and reminders about Saturday dinner were enough to qualify as psychological warfare, so you escaped. You packed a beach tote with the seriousness of a military operation, sunscreen, sunglasses, a bottle of water, your newest hardcover, lip gloss, and the kind of bikini your mother would call unnecessary and your best friend would call revenge.

Then you walked the familiar path down to the shore. The beach behind the summer houses was quieter than the public side near the clubs and restaurants. Less crowded. More private. A stretch of pale sand bordered by dunes and sea grass, where the houses sat like silent judges overlooking the ocean. This part belonged to families like yours and the Lees, generational wealth and carefully curated summer traditions.

It also meant escape was limited. Still, the ocean was worth it. The salt-heavy breeze hit first, warm and familiar against your skin. Then the sound, the endless hush and crash of waves folding into shore, gulls overhead, distant laughter carried by the wind. You slipped your sandals off and let the sand burn briefly against your feet before finding your usual spot. Far enough from the water to keep your book safe. Close enough to hear the tide.

Perfect.

You spread your towel out, dropped your bag beside it, and stretched out on your back like a woman personally committed to becoming one with summer. Sunlight soaked into your skin almost instantly, warm and golden and heavy in that way only coastal afternoons could be. Your bikini was barely enough fabric to qualify as clothing, but that was the point. Tiny black straps against sun-kissed skin, sunglasses shielding your eyes, a paperback novel open against your stomach.

Peace. Actual peace. No dinner invitations. No passive-aggressive mothers. No Lee Heeseung. Just heat and salt and the kind of silence that felt earned. You read for a while, though read was a generous term for occasionally turning a page while mostly listening to the ocean and contemplating whether adulthood could be legally postponed forever. The book was good. The sun was better.

A few familiar faces passed along the shore, neighbors, old classmates, people you’d known your whole life in the vague, privileged way beach towns operated. There were waves, smiles, the occasional “welcome back,” but no one lingered. Exactly how you liked it. At some point, you must have drifted halfway to sleep, caught in that hazy summer state where time stopped mattering. The sun had shifted warmer against your shoulders. The edges of your book blurred. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed.

Then a shadow fell across you. Immediately, your soul knew. Without even opening your eyes, you sighed. Deeply. Spiritually. Like a woman who had seen the face of God and found it disappointing. “No.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, “That’s not very neighborly.” Of course. You opened one eye. And there he was. Lee Heeseung, standing over your towel like some sort of beautifully dressed natural disaster. Shirtless, because apparently humility was not part of his summer wardrobe. Swim trunks slung low on his hips, sunglasses on, skin bronzed by the sun like he’d been handcrafted by someone with a personal vendetta against your patience.

Water still clung to his shoulders, droplets sliding slowly down his chest like the universe itself was trying to make your life harder. Annoying. Extremely annoying. You closed your eye again. “If I ignore you long enough,” you said, “will you evaporate?”

“I think that only works on your personality.” You considered throwing your book at him. It was hardcover. Tempting. Instead, you shifted onto one elbow and looked up at him over your sunglasses. “Don’t you have a yacht to crash or someone else to emotionally inconvenience?”

He grinned, infuriatingly pleased with himself, and sat down uninvited at the edge of your towel like personal boundaries were a concept he’d heard of once and rejected on principle. “I was swimming.”

“I can see that. Congratulations on your ability to enter water.”

“Thank you. I worked very hard.”

You stared at him. He stared back. There was something uniquely exhausting about Heeseung’s presence, like he moved through the world assuming everything, and everyone, would make room for him. And worse, they usually did. He looked out toward the ocean, arms resting loosely over his knees. For a second, with the sunlight catching against his skin and the sea stretching endlessly behind him, he looked less like your lifelong enemy and more like one of those postcard summers people spent the rest of their lives trying to recreate.

Which was dangerous. You hated when he looked cinematic. It made being annoyed significantly less efficient. “You’re ruining my peaceful beach solitude,” you informed him.

“I noticed. You seemed too happy.”

“I wasn’t happy. I was tolerating existence.”

“Even worse.”

You let your book fall shut against your lap. “This is exactly why people warn me about you.” He tilted his head.

“No, they warn people about you. I’m universally beloved.”

You scoffed. “By mothers and women with no standards.”

“And yet here you are, talking to me in a bikini.”

You sat up fully. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was here first.”

“Mm. Territorial.”

“Get off my towel.”

He laughed then, low and easy, carried by the wind and the waves, and it did something profoundly irritating to your bloodstream. That laugh had been the soundtrack to half your summers. Bonfires at sixteen. Pool parties at eighteen. Drunken arguments on docks at twenty. Memory was a cruel thing. You stood abruptly.

Enough. Absolutely enough. If you stayed any longer, you’d either drown him or make eye contact for too long, and both options felt equally dangerous. With the sharp efficiency of someone preserving her dignity by force, you started packing your things. Your book went into your tote. Sunscreen. Water bottle. Sunglasses pushed into your hair.

Heeseung leaned back on his hands, watching the whole performance with zero remorse. “Leaving already?”

“Yes.”

“Because of me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

A pause. Then, truthfully: “Yes.” His smile widened. You hated how much he enjoyed winning tiny wars. You shoved your sandals on and slung your bag over your shoulder, glaring down at him with all the righteous fury of a woman denied a peaceful tanning session. “You are genuinely the most irritating person I have ever met.”

He looked up at you, sunlight in his hair, smirk already waiting. “And yet you keep coming back every summer.” You opened your mouth. Closed it. Because unfortunately, he had a point, and you refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing that aloud. Instead, you gave him one last glare sharp enough to qualify as a formal threat and turned toward home.

The walk back felt warmer somehow, the sun heavier against your skin, sand clinging to your ankles. Behind you, his laughter followed, soft at first, then clearer as the wind carried it over the shoreline. Infuriating. Familiar. Summer itself, if summer had a god complex and perfect teeth. You didn’t look back. But you could still hear him. And somehow, that felt worse.

Saturday arrived wrapped in sunlight and bad intentions. By six in the evening, the entire house smelled like citrus candles, your mother’s perfume, and the kind of expensive stress that came with hosting, or in this case, being hosted by, the Lees. The sun was beginning its slow descent over the water, pouring honey-colored light through the bedroom windows and turning everything soft and golden in a way that made even impending social torture look romantic.

Outside, Jeju Island was in full performance mode. The streets near the coast glowed with polished summer wealth, convertibles pulling into curved driveways, tennis bracelets catching the light, champagne already being chilled somewhere on a yacht that absolutely did not need to exist. The ocean breeze drifted in through the cracked windows carrying salt, jasmine, and the faint sounds of someone laughing too loudly three houses down.

Everything looked beautiful. Which was unfortunate, because beauty made suffering feel theatrical. You stood in the middle of your bedroom surrounded by what looked like the aftermath of a small fashion war. Dresses across the bed. Shoes abandoned like casualties. A hairbrush on the floor. Three rejected outfit options hanging from your closet door like public executions.

And in your hands, your salvation. An oversized gray hoodie. Soft. Reliable. Emotionally supportive. The kind of hoodie that said I do not wish to be perceived. Perfect. You pulled it over your head with the solemnity of a woman entering battle. It swallowed you immediately, sleeves too long, hem brushing your thighs, the entire look somewhere between off-duty model and suspicious raccoon. You stared at yourself in the mirror.

Excellent. If all went according to plan, the Lees would assume you were a drifter who had wandered in from the beach and politely ask you to leave before appetizers. Peace at last. Your mother entered without knocking, because privacy was apparently a concept reserved for only the elites. She stopped in the doorway.

Looked at you. Looked at the hoodie. Looked back at you. Silence. Long enough to be considered legally threatening. “No,” she said.

You folded your arms. “Counterpoint: yes.”

“No.”

“This is fashion.”

“This is a cry for help.”

You turned back to the mirror, adjusting the hood with dramatic precision. “I’m cultivating mystery. They’ll be intrigued.”

“They’ll think I forgot to raise you.”

“Honestly, that might buy me sympathy.”

Your mother crossed the room with the terrifying calm of a woman who had already made her decision three minutes ago. From behind her back, like a magician revealing the final trick, she produced a dress. Yellow. Of course it was yellow, why? Because, summer, darling. Not soft yellow. Not subtle yellow. The kind of rich, golden, sunlight yellow that looked like it belonged in a movie where everyone had unresolved feelings and excellent cheekbones.

A sleek sundress. Fitted enough to be dangerous, effortless enough to pretend it wasn’t. You narrowed your eyes. “No.”

“Yes.”

“It looks like optimism.”

“It looks like summer.”

“It looks like a setup.”

She held it up against you with complete disregard for your emotional well-being. “It looks like you clean up beautifully.” There it was. The betrayal. Because that was exactly the problem. You knew the dress looked good. That made it worse. Wearing the dress meant effort. Effort meant possibility. Possibility meant Lee Heeseung seeing you in a dress that suggested maybe, potentially, under the right atmospheric conditions, you had once been nice to someone.

Unacceptable. You stepped back. “I would rather be hit by a jet ski.”

“Wonderful. You can wear this to the hospital afterward.”

“Mother.”

She sighed, setting the dress on the bed like a final verdict. “You are not wearing that hoodie to dinner with the Lees. Mrs. Lee adores you, your father is already pretending this evening will be civilized, and I refuse to let my daughter look like she escaped from a beach bonfire.” You looked at the hoodie. The hoodie looked back. A fallen soldier. Somewhere in the distance, a gull cried out over the ocean like it, too, understood your suffering.

You flopped backward onto the bed with all the grace of a dying Victorian heroine. “This is oppression.”

“This is dinner.”

“There’s seafood involved. That makes it worse.”

Your mother sat beside you, smoothing a wrinkle from the yellow dress. For a moment, the teasing slipped into something softer. “You’ve been doing this with him for years,” she said.

You stared at the ceiling. “Doing what?” She gave you a look, not sharp, not smug, just the tired wisdom of a woman who had watched two stubborn people circle each other for too long.

“This one. The fighting. The pretending.” You groaned dramatically and threw an arm over your face. “If this conversation ends with you calling him charming, I’m moving to another country.”

She laughed then, quiet and warm. “I’m just saying… maybe try not to make tonight a battlefield.” Too late. The battlefield had excellent landscaping and probably a wine pairing. Still, after she left, the room felt quieter. The golden light had shifted lower now, stretching long shadows across the floorboards. From your window, you could see the neighboring house through the trees, white walls glowing in the sunset, lights beginning to flicker on, elegant and smug and entirely too close.

Somewhere over there was Heeseung. Probably looking expensive. Probably being annoying. Probably existing with that stupid face. You hated that your first instinct was to wonder what he’d be wearing. Probably linen. Men like him were always in linen, like they were personally sponsored by summer. With a sigh heavy enough to qualify as literature, you sat up and stared at the yellow dress again. It stared back, victorious.

Fine. Fine. You changed. And, because the universe enjoyed humiliation as a hobby, your mother was right. The dress fit like it had been designed specifically to ruin your peace. Thin straps, bare shoulders, the kind of silhouette that looked effortless and absolutely was not. Against sun-kissed skin, the yellow made you look like you belonged in this town, like expensive mistakes and beautiful bad decisions.

You hated it immediately. Mostly because you looked good. You stood in front of the mirror, turning once, suspicious. Like maybe if you stared hard enough, you’d find a flaw large enough to justify changing back into the hoodie. There wasn’t one. Traitorous fabric. You added gold hoops, minimal makeup, lip gloss sharp enough to count as a weapon, and tried very hard not to think about why any of this mattered.

It didn’t. Obviously. You were dressing for yourself. And if Lee Heeseung happened to see you and suffer emotionally, that was simply community service. Downstairs, your father was already waiting by the door with car keys and the resigned expression of a man who knew he was escorting two women into battle and had chosen survival over commentary. He looked up when you descended the stairs. Paused. Smiled. “Well,” he said, “you look expensive.”

You picked up your clutch. “I plan to act accordingly.” Your mother beamed like she’d personally invented beauty. You refused to acknowledge this. Outside, the evening had turned warm and velvet-soft, the sky streaked pink and gold over the ocean. The walk next door was barely two minutes, just enough time for dread to fully settle in.

The Lee house stood glowing at the end of the path, every window lit, laughter already drifting from inside. Dinner. Wine. Politeness. Heeseung. You inhaled slowly as your father reached for the front gate. Summer, apparently, had decided subtle suffering wasn’t enough. It wanted dinner and a show. The Lee house always looked like it belonged in a magazine spread titled People With Better Lives Than You.

White stone, warm lights spilling from enormous windows, ivy climbing tastefully up the walls like even the plants here had trust funds. The front garden smelled like jasmine and sea air and whatever expensive candle Mrs. Lee probably had burning somewhere inside. Everything about it radiated polished wealth and the kind of family dinners where people said things like summering abroad.

You hated how nice it was. You hated even more that you’d spent half your childhood here. Birthday dinners. Pool parties. Christmases once, before everyone got too busy and too grown up for normal traditions. There were memories tucked into every corner of this place, most of them involving some version of you losing an argument to Lee Heeseung and plotting revenge by dessert.

Tonight, unfortunately, promised tradition. Mrs. Lee opened the door before you could even knock, all elegance and warmth in a silk dress the color of champagne. “There you are!” She kissed your cheek before you had time to prepare emotionally. “Look at you,” she said, holding you at arm’s length. “Absolutely gorgeous.” From behind you, your mother made the smug little sound of victory.

You chose to ignore it. “You say that now,” you said, stepping inside, “but let’s revisit after I inevitably insult someone over seafood.”

Mrs. Lee laughed like she always did, like your bad attitude was somehow charming instead of hereditary. “Nonsense. We’re all family here.” That was the problem. The foyer opened into soft golden light and polished wood floors, the low hum of conversation drifting in from the dining room. Somewhere, glasses clinked. Somewhere else, your father and Mr. Lee were already discussing something expensive and unnecessary, probably boats.

You slipped off your sandals and stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the house wrapping around you. And then, of course, there he was. Lee Heeseung, leaning against the archway to the living room like he’d been strategically placed there for maximum irritation.

Black button-down this time, sleeves rolled, top buttons undone just enough to be a public health concern. Dark slacks. Watch glinting at his wrist. Hair slightly messy in that suspiciously intentional way attractive men got away with. He looked like summer trouble dressed in designer clothing. Annoying. Extremely annoying.

His gaze found you immediately. Paused. And for one dangerous second, he said nothing. Just looked. Slowly. Unhurriedly. Like the room had gone quiet around it. It started at your feet, moved upward, and landed finally on your face with something unreadable flickering behind his expression. Not smug. Worse. Appreciative. You wanted to throw yourself directly into the ocean. Instead, you smiled sweetly, the kind of smile that had ruined lesser men.

“Try not to look too shocked. I know basic hygiene is a surprise.”

His mouth twitched. “There she is,” he said, voice low and easy. “I was worried the dress had made you nice.”

Your mother, traitor that she was, immediately linked arms with Mrs. Lee. “Oh, perfect,” she said. “You two can catch up while we finish setting the table.”

No. Absolutely not. You opened your mouth. “No—” Too late. The parents had already vanished with the terrifying efficiency of adults who believed proximity solved everything. Your father gave you a look on the way out, the kind that said ‘behave’, and disappeared toward the kitchen like a man abandoning a sinking ship.

And suddenly, it was just the two of you. Silence. Not awkward. Worse. Familiar. The kind of silence built over years of unfinished conversations and too much history. You crossed your arms. He mirrored nothing, which somehow made it more annoying. In your deeply correct and entirely unbiased opinion, “catching up” with Lee Heeseung translated loosely to trying to have a normal conversation without committing a felony.

A challenge, certainly. You managed three words. “Well. You’re alive.” He nodded thoughtfully.

“Still devastatingly handsome too, thanks for noticing.”

You sighed. “This is why people drink before family dinners.”

“And yet you came sober. Brave.”

You were preparing a truly excellent insult, something elegant, devastating, probably Pulitzer-worthy, when Mrs. Lee’s voice floated in from the dining room. “Dinner!” Saved by seafood. You gave him one final look. “Don’t make me regret this.”

He stepped aside, one hand gesturing toward the dining room like some smug Regency villain. “No promises.”

The dining room looked exactly like every old-money summer dinner should. Long table, linen napkins, candles despite it still being warm outside. Too many wine glasses for any morally responsible evening. French doors stood open to the back patio where the ocean breeze drifted in soft and salted, carrying the sound of waves somewhere beyond the dunes. Sunset had bled fully into evening now, the sky darkening violet over the water.

Everything felt cinematic. Which was rude, considering your mood. Seats were assigned by parental conspiracy, obviously. You discovered yours and stopped. Heeseung. Right next to you. Naturally. Mrs. Lee smiled far too innocently. “I thought it would be nice.” It would not. It absolutely would not. But protesting would only make it worse, so you sat with the grace of a woman choosing violence internally. Heeseung took the seat beside you, looking entirely too pleased with the universe.

Across the table, your mother was already discussing someone’s daughter getting engaged. Your father had wine. Mr. Lee had opinions about coastal property values. Everyone settled into conversation with the practiced ease of people who had done this for decades. And somehow, despite all of it, your entire awareness kept narrowing to the person sitting six inches to your right.

His knee brushed yours under the table. Lightly. Accidental. Probably. You froze for exactly half a second. Then refused to acknowledge it because dignity still mattered. You reached for your water. His hand reached for the bread basket. Fingers brushed. Again. This time, definitely not accidental. You turned your head. He was already looking at you. Calm. Composed. Infuriating.

Like he hadn’t just weaponized table manners. You smiled without showing teeth. “If you’re trying to start something over dinner rolls, I’d like you to know that’s a deeply embarrassing way to die.”

His expression remained perfectly neutral as he handed you the basket. “I’m just being polite.”

“Suspicious already.” 

Across from you, Mrs. Lee sighed fondly. “You two are exactly the same.”

You and Heeseung answered at the same time. “Absolutely not.” Everyone laughed. You considered faking your death. Dinner continued in that dangerous, glittering way summer dinners did, wine poured generously, stories repeated beautifully, everyone glowing a little softer in candlelight. Your parents kept bringing up old memories.

That camping trip when you were thirteen. The sailing lessons disaster. The time Heeseung pushed you into the pool and you threw his phone into the ocean. Mrs. Lee was still mad about that one. You maintained it had been justified. Everyone treated the two of you like old friends. Like there had always been affection under the arguments.

Like this was charming instead of mutually assured destruction. It was infuriating. Because they weren’t wrong. That was the worse part. Every now and then, while someone else talked, you’d catch him looking at you. Not casually. Not the usual teasing glance. Longer. Quieter. Like he was trying to remember something. Or decide something. Too much. Entirely too much.

You focused on your wine. On your fork. Your plate. Literally anything else. But awareness sat there anyway, warm and sharp and impossible to ignore. The yellow dress suddenly felt like a mistake. The ocean breeze moved through the open doors. Candles flickered. Someone laughed at the far end of the table. And beside you, Lee Heeseung leaned back in his chair, looking unfairly good in soft light and expensive black clothing, like every bad decision summer had ever offered.

You hated him. Probably. Mostly. Which was becoming, very inconveniently, less convincing by the second. 

By the time dinner ended, the sky had softened into that strange in-between hour where everything looked prettier than it had any right to. The table was abandoned in stages, wine glasses left half-full, dessert plates forgotten, your father and Mr. Lee still arguing about boats like it was a blood sport. Mrs. Lee and your mother disappeared into the kitchen with the kind of determined energy that suggested they were about to wash dishes neither of them had touched all evening.

Which left the younger generation exactly where summer always did. Outside. Near water. With alcohol. And poor judgment. Someone, probably Jay, because it always felt like a Jay decision, had suggested a beach fire, and within twenty minutes everyone had drifted down toward the private stretch of shoreline behind the houses like it was instinct.

It kind of was. This was what summers here were made of. Bonfires and old friends. Salt in your hair. Music from someone’s phone speaker. Drinks passed around without anyone asking whose they were. The beach at night felt different than it did during the day. Softer somehow. Less polished. The tide rolled in slow and silver under the moonlight, waves folding quietly against the shore while the bonfire crackled warm against the cooling night air. Sand clung to bare ankles, the fire throwing gold over familiar faces.

It made everyone look younger. Closer to the versions of yourselves that had first started all this. Sunoo arrived first, carrying drinks and looking like downtown Cove had personally appointed him its stylish representative. Sharp grin, prettier than most women, and already prepared to be everyone’s problem. “Look who survived dinner,” he said dramatically when he spotted you. “I was taking bets.”

“You should’ve bet against me,” you said, taking the drink he offered. “I nearly drowned in polite conversation.”

“Tragic. And in that dress too. What a loss.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Jay called from where he and Sunghoon were attempting to set up folding chairs in the sand with all the competence of men raised by money.

Jay looked exactly the same as always: clean-cut, expensive taste, and permanently carrying himself like he was five minutes away from judging someone’s life choices. Which, to be fair, he usually was. Sunghoon stood beside him, all cool quiet and expensive silence, somehow managing to look elegant while losing a fight against a beach chair.

Some people were simply born unfair. From farther down the shore came the sound of laughter, bright and familiar, and then Eunchae appeared with Yunjin and Yoonchae trailing behind her, all of them carrying the kind of chaotic energy that guaranteed tonight would end with at least one regrettable decision. Eunchae saw you first and immediately pointed.

“There she is! The woman of the hour.” You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It is,” Yunjin said cheerfully, pulling you into a quick hug. “We’ve heard about dinner. We’re here for details.”

“There are no details.”

“There are always details,” Yoonchae said.

And then, because the universe had apparently decided your suffering needed an audience, Lee Heeseung arrived. Late, naturally. Walking down the path from the houses with his sleeves rolled and his hands in his pockets like he was entering a film scene instead of a beach fire. The ocean breeze moved through his hair, and for one deeply annoying second, every girl within a ten-foot radius visibly remembered he was attractive.

Including you. Unfortunately. Sunoo, traitor that he was, smirked immediately. “And there’s the other half of our favorite summer divorce.”

“Please,” you said. “I’d need to marry him first, and I do have standards.” Heeseung dropped into the sand beside the fire like he belonged there, which, annoyingly, he did, and looked at you over the rim of the beer Jay handed him. “She says that now. Give it ten years.”

“In ten years, I’ll still be filing restraining orders.”

“Romantic,” Yunjin sighed. Everyone laughed. That was the problem with old friends, they remembered too much. This group had grown up together in fragments. Family dinners, yacht parties, beach bonfires at sixteen, too many summers collapsing into one long memory of sunburns and terrible choices. They’d all witnessed the evolution of whatever it was between you and Heeseung. Which meant they were insufferable about it. Sunoo stretched out dramatically in the sand.

“I still think you two should just get married and save us all time.”

Sunghoon, staring into the fire like a philosopher trapped in a luxury campaign, added, “At this point, it would actually be less dramatic.”

Jay nodded once. “Financially, it makes sense.”

You looked around the circle. “I need better friends.”

“No,” Eunchae said, grinning, “you need to admit you’ve been flirting through mutual destruction for like eight years.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “That is an incredibly rude accusation.”

Heeseung took a sip of his drink, far too calm. “She’s right.” 

You turned toward him so fast it nearly counted as whiplash. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged. “You’re meaner when you like someone.”

Sunoo made the loudest, most disrespectful sound of delight known to man. “Oh my god, we’re finally saying it.”

“We are saying nothing,” you snapped.

Yunjin leaned forward, eyes glittering. “Should we bring up the balcony incident?”

Absolutely not. You pointed at her. “If you value our friendship, you’ll choose silence.” Too late.

Eunchae gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, the almost-kiss.” And there it was. Like a match dropped into gasoline. The balcony incident. Nineteen years old. One of Jay’s stupid summer parties. Too much champagne. Too much moonlight. Too much unresolved tension and a stupidly beautiful balcony overlooking the ocean. You and Heeseung had been alone for exactly seven minutes before an argument turned into standing too close, then silence, then that terrible suspended second where both people know exactly what’s about to happen.

You’d almost kissed. Almost. Then someone had opened the balcony door, reality had returned, and both of you had spent the next three years pretending it never happened. Civilization had survived. Barely. Around the fire, everyone looked delighted. You wanted the ocean to take you.

“It was not an almost-kiss,” you said with dignity.

“It absolutely was,” Sunoo replied.

“There was tension,” Yoonchae added.

“There was eye contact,” Eunchae said.

“There was champagne,” Yunjin said solemnly.

Jay, like a judge delivering sentence, finished: “That counts.”

You looked to Heeseung for support. A mistake. Because he’d gone strangely quiet. Not smug. Not teasing. Quiet. His gaze stayed on the fire, beer loose in his hand, jaw set just enough for you to notice because unfortunately, after years of knowing someone, you learned the small things. Interesting. Very interesting. You tilted your head slightly. He wasn’t embarrassed.

If anything, he looked… annoyed. Or thoughtful. Like the memory had landed somewhere deeper than expected. That was new. Usually, Heeseung met chaos with amusement. He was good at pretending nothing mattered. But now, under the firelight, with everyone laughing around him and the ocean dark behind you, he looked still. You watched him for a second too long. Then he glanced up. Caught you.

And just like that, the moment snapped. His expression shifted back into something easier. Familiar. Dangerous. He smirked. You rolled your eyes so hard it should’ve caused medical concern and took another drink. The conversation moved on, someone brought up an old yacht party disaster involving Sunghoon and a very expensive pair of loafers, Sunoo started a dramatic retelling of his brief and toxic relationship with a bartender from last summer, Eunchae laughed so hard she nearly fell backward into the sand.

The night folded around you, warm and nostalgic and too easy. This was the trap of summer. It made everything feel survivable. Even him. By the time the fire burned lower and people started drifting home, the moon sat high over the water and the beach had gone quiet again. You walked back alone, sandals in one hand, the other curled around your phone.

The sand was cool now under your feet. Waves whispered against the shore. Somewhere behind you, someone was still laughing. Your dress smelled like smoke. Your hair smelled like salt. And despite yourself, your mind kept circling back to one thing. That silence. The balcony. The firelight. The way Heeseung had gone quiet.

Interesting. You were still thinking about it when your phone buzzed in your hand. A text. You stopped walking. Looked down. Of course.

Heeseung

A single message.

Heeseung: still thinking about that balcony, or are you finally admitting i almost won?

You stared at the screen. There it was. The beginning of every bad idea. You should ignore it. You absolutely should. Instead, standing barefoot under the moonlight with the ocean at your back and your better judgment somewhere drowning offshore, you smiled. And typed back.

You: won what? you almost passed out from cheap champagne. history remembers the truth.

Three dots appeared almost instantly. Danger, apparently, texted first. 

The following week was suspicious. Not in any dramatic, life-altering way. No scandals. No yacht crashes. No accidental engagements announced over brunch. Just… suspicious. Because you were happy. Unreasonably, offensively happy. The kind of happy that made people around you uncomfortable, like spotting a shark in shallow water and realizing it was smiling.

It started subtly. You slept better. You stopped glaring at sunlight like it had personally betrayed you. You let your mother drag you to the farmer’s market on Wednesday morning and only complained twice, which she later described to your father in the same tone people used for religious miracles. By Thursday, you had laughed, genuinely laughed, at something Mrs. Lee said over iced coffee, and your mother had nearly dropped a peach. “Are you ill?” she asked immediately.

You looked up from your sunglasses. “Deeply, but unrelated.”

She narrowed her eyes. “No, seriously. You’ve been… cheerful.” The accusation hung between you. Cheerful. As if she’d caught you committing tax fraud. You leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping your coffee with all the dignity of a woman being unfairly persecuted.

“I’m always cheerful.”

She gave you a look so flat it could’ve ironed shirts. “Last week you called a seagull a personal enemy.”

“It knew what it did.”

Your father, reading the paper at the table, lowered it just enough to contribute, “You also threatened the blender.”

“It started first.” He nodded thoughtfully and returned to the business section. Traitor. The truth was harder to explain. There was no grand reason for it. No cinematic revelation. No dramatic confession under moonlight. Just summer. The beach. The sun. Late-night fires. Salt in your hair. And texts. That was the real problem. Because after the bonfire, Heeseung had texted again. And then again. Nothing serious. Nothing dangerous enough to name. Just stupid things.

A picture of the terrible coffee from the marina café with the caption: thought of you and your bad taste

A midnight text that only said: are you still pretending you didn’t almost kiss me first

A blurry photo of Sunoo asleep on a yacht chair: proof he can be quiet

And every single time, against your better judgment and your carefully cultivated reputation for emotional self-preservation, you replied. Sometimes immediately. Sometimes after twenty strategic minutes. Because dignity mattered. Still, the effect had been catastrophic. You were smiling at your phone now. In public. Like a woman with no survival instincts.

On Friday afternoon, your mother found you standing in the garden staring at the hydrangeas like you were in a coming-of-age film. You were holding one bloom gently between your fingers, sunlight warm on your shoulders, genuinely appreciating how ridiculous and beautiful summer looked here.

She stopped on the patio, and squinted, then called into the house, “Honey, come outside. I think our daughter has been replaced.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please. If I were replaced, the imposter would be nicer.”

“Exactly my concern.” Unfortunately, your brief and scandalous flirtation with floral appreciation ended there. The hydrangea wilted two days later. Probably out of sheer terror. Even worse, people noticed. Everyone noticed. Sunoo, after seeing you smile at your phone during lunch, gasped like a Victorian widow and clutched his chest. “Oh my god. She’s in love.”

You nearly threw your drink at him. “I’m blocking you.”

“Denial. Classic.”

“It’s called boundaries.”

“It’s called a crush.” Across the table, Heeseung said absolutely nothing. Which, somehow, was worse, because lately, he’d been watching you. Not constantly, not obviously, just enough, across dinner tables, from the beach, leaning against his car while pretending not to. Curious. Like he’d noticed the shift and hadn’t decided what to do with it yet, like he was waiting.

On Sunday, you passed him outside while coming back from the beach, still warm from the sun, tote bag over your shoulder, skin glowing with the kind of happiness you were trying very hard not to examine too closely. And for reasons still unknown to science, you smiled at him. Not your usual sharp smile, not sarcastic, not weaponized. Bright, easy, and real.

It happened before you could stop it. For one glorious second, Lee Heeseung looked genuinely startled. Actually startled. He stopped mid-step, eyebrows lifting like his brain had temporarily lost signal. He didn’t smile back, just looked at you with that unreadable expression and one slightly raised brow, like he was trying to solve a puzzle and deeply suspicious of the answer.

You kept walking, because stopping would imply weakness. But halfway up your front steps, you could still feel it, that look, and somewhere behind you, you just knew he was still standing there, watching. Interesting. Very, very dangerous.

By Friday night, the entire town had collectively decided to be beautiful. You could feel it in the air. Summer in Jeju Island had a rhythm to it, and bonfire nights sat somewhere near the top of the food chain, just beneath yacht parties and just above making terrible decisions in someone else’s kitchen at two in the morning. The beach changed on nights like this.

During the day, it belonged to families and sunscreen and children building sandcastles with inherited wealth. But at night, especially on Fridays, it belonged to people your age. To music drifting over the dunes. To bottles hidden badly in tote bags. To girls in tiny dresses and boys pretending they weren’t trying too hard. Bonfire nights were for performance. And if there was one thing you respected, it was committing to a bit. You stood in your bedroom with your closet doors thrown open and the kind of focus usually reserved for military strategy.

Your bed was covered in options. Black satin. White linen. Something red Yoonchae once described as “emotionally irresponsible.” You were considering that one. Because tonight wasn’t just any bonfire. Tonight, everyone would be there. Which meant he would be there. And while you were a mature, evolved woman who absolutely did not make outfit decisions based on Lee Heeseung’s potential suffering, you were also not a liar. You pulled the red dress off its hanger. Short, silk, and worst of all, backless. The kind of dress that looked like bad decisions and expensive apologies. Perfect. 

You slipped it on slowly, watching yourself in the mirror as the fabric settled against your skin like it had been waiting for this exact moment. It clung where it should, skimmed where it mattered, and left just enough to imagination to make imagination work overtime. Dangerous. Excellent. You added gold jewelry because subtlety was for people with less interesting lives. Glossed lips. Soft waves in your hair. Perfume that smelled like jasmine and poor choices.

Then heels. Not practical for the beach. That was beside the point. When you walked downstairs, your father was on the couch pretending to read and your mother was rearranging flowers for sport. Both looked up. Your father blinked once. Then lowered his book. “Should I be concerned?”

“Always,” you said.

Your mother smiled like she was watching an expensive revenge plot unfold in real time. “Where exactly are you going dressed like that?”

You picked up your clutch. “To remind people to mind their business.”

Your father muttered something about raising a supervillain. Your mother kissed your cheek on the way out and whispered, “Be safe.” Which, translated from mother-language, meant: Don’t get arrested. Don’t set anything on fire. Try not to ruin anyone’s son permanently. No promises.

The walk to the beach felt cinematic. Warm night air against bare skin. The sound of waves pulling at the shore. Music already carrying from farther down the sand, bass soft and distant beneath the ocean. The moon hung low and bright over the water, silver against black waves. Firelight flickered somewhere ahead. And by the time you stepped over the dunes and onto the shore, every head turned. Good. Let them. There was power in being seen and knowing exactly what they were seeing. Sunoo, standing near the cooler with a drink in one hand and judgment in the other, spotted you first.

He froze dramatically. Then placed a hand over his heart. “Oh,” he said. “She came to kill.” “Someone has to keep standards alive.”

He looked you up and down with the solemn respect of a man appreciating art. “That dress should come with legal paperwork.”

“Excellent. I’m hoping for emotional damages.” Eunchae appeared next, immediately grabbing your arm. “No, seriously, turn around. I need to hate you properly.” You did, because generosity mattered. She groaned. “I’m ending our friendship.”

“Understandable.” Yunjin, from beside the fire, raised her drink toward you. “Whatever crime you commit tonight, I support you.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.” The bonfire itself was already in full swing. Someone had dragged out chairs no one was using. Music played low from a speaker half-buried in someone’s beach bag. Jay and Sunghoon were debating something useless near the waterline with the seriousness of men discussing world peace instead of tequila brands. People moved in loose circles, laughing, drinking, pretending not to stare at each other. Summer. Beautiful and a little stupid.

And then, like a sixth sense specifically designed to inconvenience you, you felt it. That look, across the fire, Heeseung. He stood with Jay near the cooler, beer in hand, black shirt rolled at the sleeves, looking like he’d walked straight out of an ad for poor decisions. The firelight caught against the sharp line of his jaw, the glint of his watch, the expression on his face, which, for one deeply satisfying second, was surprise. Real surprise.

His eyes landed on you and stayed there. Paused. Moved once, slow and deliberate, like he was trying very hard not to react and failing in private. He noticed, immediately, of course he did. You smiled, not at him, but in his direction, which was somehow worse, and turned your attention elsewhere. Because if you were going to weaponize beauty tonight, subtlety would only dilute the effect.

His name was Minjae, which you remembered mostly because he’d tried to kiss Yunjin two summers ago and gotten publicly roasted for it. Harmless. Pretty enough. From one of the families near the marina. More importantly, available. He approached with exactly the kind of confidence men borrowed from expensive watches. “Well,” he said, smiling as he stepped closer, “you’re either trying to ruin someone’s life tonight or start a small war.”

You took the drink he offered. “Can’t it be both?” He laughed, leaning in just enough to suggest intention. And from the corner of your eye, there, heeseung watching, not openly, but enough. His posture had changed, slightly stiffer, beer untouched, expression neutral in the way men got when they were trying very hard not to look like they wanted to commit a felony. Interesting. Very interesting.

You smiled brighter. Poor Minjae. A perfectly nice civilian about to become collateral damage. “You clean up well,” he said. “I usually do.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Have you?” The conversation was easy, almost too easy. Light touches. Leaning closer. The practiced dance of summer flirting where no one meant too much and everyone pretended otherwise, and the entire time, you could feel it.

That awareness from across the fire. Sharp, and steady. Heeseung. You laughed a little louder than necessary. Touched Minjae’s arm. Tilted your head just enough. Purely for scientific purposes. Across the beach, Sunoo noticed first, because gossip was basically his cardio.

He looked from you to Heeseung and nearly ascended. “Oh,” he whispered to no one and everyone. “Oh, this is delicious.”

Jay followed his line of sight and physically winced. “Someone should probably stop this.”

Sunghoon, wise as ever, took a sip of his drink and said, “No.” Correct. Absolutely no one should stop this. Because now Heeseung was walking over. Slowly. Calmly. Which was infinitely more dangerous than if he’d looked angry. He moved like someone with a purpose. Like the ocean itself had personally requested violence. Minjae was still talking. Something about boats. You had no idea. Because Heeseung stopped beside you, close enough for the smell of expensive cologne and sea air to ruin your peace.

And said, casually, too casually, “Didn’t know you liked boring men.” Silence. Beautiful. Terrible. Immediate. Minjae blinked. You took a slow sip of your drink. Turned your head. Looked directly at him. And smiled.

Oh. This was going to be fun. Minjae, to his credit, had enough self-preservation instincts to realize when he’d accidentally wandered into someone else’s war. He looked between you and Heeseung, your too-sweet smile, Heeseung’s dangerously calm expression, and gave the kind of laugh people used when backing away from wild animals.

“Well,” he said, lifting his drink slightly, “I’m suddenly remembering I promised Sunoo I’d help him with… something.” Sunoo, across the fire, yelled, “I did not—” Too late. Minjae was already retreating into the night, leaving you alone with the problem. Which was standing far too close and looking far too pleased with himself. You turned slowly, crossing your arms.

“Did you just scare off my entertainment?”

Heeseung took a sip of his beer like he hadn’t committed a social crime. “If your entertainment starts explaining boat engines, I’m doing you a favor.”

“I was having a lovely time.”

“No, you were being annoying on purpose.” You placed a hand dramatically over your heart. “And here I thought I was subtle.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and the amusement thinned just enough to let something sharper through. “That’s the problem.” The fire crackled behind you. Somewhere farther down the beach, someone shouted over the music. Laughter carried on the wind.

But here, in the small space between you and him, everything had gone quieter. You tilted your head. “What exactly is the problem, Lee?” His jaw shifted. That tiny thing he did when he was trying not to say too much. Dangerous.

“You always do this.” You blinked once, deliberately. “Do what?” He stepped closer. Not enough for touching. Enough for trouble. “Act like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.” There it was. Not a joke. Not banter. Something real enough to make your pulse trip over itself. You should’ve backed up. You didn’t. Instead, you smiled, that slow, sharp smile you used when you were either about to win or about to ruin your own life.

“And what exactly am I doing?” He let out one quiet laugh, humorless. “Seriously?”

“Very.” His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Mistake. Terrible, catastrophic mistake. Because suddenly the entire night rearranged itself around that single glance. The firelight. The ocean. The red dress. His voice lower now, rougher around the edges.

“You flirt with people you don’t care about,” he said. “You get that look on your face when you’re trying to prove something. And then you wait to see who notices.” Your heartbeat was officially embarrassing. You folded your arms tighter, mostly so he wouldn’t notice.

“And you noticed.” He didn’t answer immediately. Which was answer enough. The moonlight silvered the edges of everything, the shoreline, the glass in his hand, the expression he was trying and failing to keep neutral. You swallowed. Slowly. “Sounds like a you problem.” His mouth twitched.

“Probably.” There it was again, that unbearable thing between you, stretched tight as wire. Years of almosts. Arguments that had never really been about arguments. Every summer version of yourselves layered on top of each other until neither of you knew where the joke ended and the truth began. You could still remember the balcony. Nineteen. Champagne. His hand on the railing beside yours. That second where everything had almost changed.

You wondered if he was thinking about it too. You suspected he was. Because now he was closer. And now you could smell the ocean on his skin, something expensive underneath it, and the very specific danger of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. You should absolutely leave. Instead, because self-destruction was apparently hereditary, you said softly, “You’re jealous.”

His expression sharpened. “Don’t flatter yourself.” “Too late.” “You think this is funny.”

“No,” you said. “I think you’re jealous, and I think you hate that I noticed.” He stepped in once more. Enough that your breath caught. Enough that the entire world narrowed. “Careful.”

“Or what?” Your voice came out quieter than intended. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His gaze dropped again, slower this time, and when he spoke, it was barely above the sound of the waves. “Or you’ll say something you can’t take back.” Silence. The dangerous kind. You could hear your own breathing. The ocean behind him. Someone laughing far away, in another universe where people made good choices. Here, there was only this. His hand brushing your bare arm as he shifted. Your pulse in your throat. The ridiculous certainty that if either of you moved half an inch, the entire summer would split open.

You thought, this is it. Finally. At last. And then, “OH MY GOD, THERE YOU TWO ARE.” Eunchae. Of course. She appeared like divine punishment in platform sandals, carrying two drinks and absolutely no sense of timing. You jumped back so fast it should’ve counted as cardio. Heeseung looked like he might walk directly into the ocean. Eunchae stopped. Looked between you. The space. The tension. The crime scene. And grinned like the devil herself.

“Wow,” she said. “I almost feel bad interrupting whatever deeply repressed thing was happening here.” “Don’t,” you said immediately.

“Never,” Heeseung muttered at the exact same time. She handed you a drink with the smugness of a woman collecting evidence. “Cute. Anyway, Sunoo is taking bets on whether you two make out before August.”

You took the drink because murder was illegal. “Tell Sunoo I hope he loses money.”

“Oh, he definitely won’t.” She skipped away before either of you could respond, leaving behind chaos and the lingering smell of coconut perfume. Silence again. But ruined now. Worse, somehow. Because now both of you knew. Not the joke. Not the performance. The actual thing underneath it. And once you knew that, pretending got harder. You stared out at the water. He stared at the fire. Neither of you said anything. Eventually, as the night thinned and people started leaving in groups of laughter and half-finished conversations, it became painfully obvious that your usual ride home had abandoned you in favor of some post-party food run.

Which left, “Get in.” You stood beside Heeseung’s car, clutching your shoes in one hand and your pride in the other. “No.” He unlocked the passenger door without looking at you. “Yes.” “I’d rather walk.”

“It’s two miles.”

“I’m resilient.”

“You’re dramatic.”

You narrowed your eyes. He opened the door wider. “Get in.” And because the universe hated you, you did. The drive home was quiet. Not awkward. Worse. The kind of silence that knew too much. The windows were down, warm night air rushing through the car, carrying salt and smoke and the last traces of summer bonfire on your skin. Your heels sat abandoned on the floor. Your red dress still smelled like fire.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console, expression unreadable in the passing streetlights. You looked out the window because looking at him felt like volunteering for emotional damage. Neither of you mentioned the almost-kiss. Neither of you mentioned anything. When he pulled into your driveway, the house was dark, your parents already asleep.

For one second, neither of you moved. Then you reached for the door. At the same time, his hand shifted. Your fingers brushed. Just barely. Warm. Accidental. Or maybe not. You froze. So did he. And for one stupid, suspended second, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath again. Then you pulled your hand back. Too fast. “Goodnight,” you said. Too quiet. He nodded once.

“Night.” You got out. Walked to the front door. Did not look back. But you could feel him there, still sitting in the driveway, engine running, watching until you got inside. And later, long after the house had gone still and the ocean whispered somewhere beyond your window, you lay awake staring at the ceiling. Wide awake. Heart traitorous. Mind worse. Because now you knew. And so did he. Nobody slept.

The next few days were a masterclass in mutual psychological damage. Not dramatic damage. Worse. Polite damage. The kind where nothing happened and somehow everything did. You didn’t fight. That was the first sign something had gone horribly wrong. No sarcastic remarks over morning coffee. No pointed comments when passing each other near the beach path. No weaponized flirting in front of your parents. No smug little “morning, neighbor” from across the driveway.

Nothing. Just awkward, terrible silence. You’d see him and immediately become fascinated by literally anything else. The mailbox. A cloud. The concept of sand. Anything but eye contact. Because eye contact implied remembering. And remembering implied the bonfire. The almost-kiss. The car ride. His hand brushing yours like the universe personally wanted you to suffer. No, thank you. You were suddenly the busiest woman alive. If he was at the beach, you were tragically needed elsewhere.

If he was by the marina, you had urgent business in the opposite direction. If he was leaning against his stupid car looking like a rich-boy problem in linen, you turned around. Dignity first. Unfortunately, subtlety had never survived around your families. By Wednesday morning, Mrs. Lee noticed. Of course she did. That woman could detect emotional tension like a bloodhound. You were outside watering your mother’s increasingly judgmental hydrangeas, a task you’d been assigned after the tragic and suspicious death of the previous one, when it happened.

The sun was already warm, the kind of bright coastal morning that made everything look too innocent. Birds chirping. Ocean breeze drifting through the hedges. A peaceful suburban scene. Lies. Across the white fence separating your houses, Mrs. Lee stood on her patio with a basket of laundry and the sharp, narrowed gaze of a woman putting pieces together. You should’ve run. Instead, you smiled weakly.

Mistake. Because at that exact moment, Heeseung stepped outside. Coffee in one hand. Sunglasses. Half-awake and offensively attractive. He looked toward you automatically. You looked anywhere else so fast it nearly caused whiplash. Silence. A beat. Then, Mrs. Lee gasped.

Not a small gasp. A full-body gasp. The kind that meant family history was about to be rewritten. She turned toward her son so fast the laundry basket nearly died for it. “Lee Heeseung!” He stopped mid-sip. Already tired. “Mom, what.”

Her hand flew dramatically toward your side of the fence like she was presenting evidence in court. “What did you do to Y/N?” From your yard, you froze. The watering can continued pouring directly onto your foot. Fantastic. Heeseung blinked. “Mom, what do you mean?” “She isn’t looking you in the eyes!”

Across two properties and approximately three decades of neighborhood gossip, your soul left your body. “Mrs. Lee—” you tried weakly. She was unstoppable. “Do not Mrs. Lee me. I raised you both. I know things.”

Heeseung rubbed a hand down his face. “Mom—” Her eyes widened. Her voice rose. “Did you finally have sex?” Silence. Birds stopped singing. The ocean itself paused. From somewhere inside your house, your father definitely dropped something. And then, Mrs. Lee, with the volume of a woman chosen by God for this exact purpose: “DON’T TELL ME SHE CAN’T LOOK AT YOU BECAUSE SHE KNOWS WHAT YOUR DICK LOOKS LIKE—”

“MOM!”

“Mrs. Lee!” You. Heeseung. Probably the entire coastline. At that point, survival instincts kicked in. You dropped the watering can. Actually dropped it. Water everywhere. Dignity nowhere. And then you ran. Not walked. Not gracefully retreated. Ran. Straight through the back door, up the kitchen steps, past your mother, who was holding coffee and looked far too entertained, and directly into the sanctuary of your bedroom like a Victorian woman fleeing scandal.

Your heart was trying to leave your chest. Your cheeks were on fire. You pressed both hands to your face and groaned into the universe. This was it. This was how you died. Not dramatically. Not beautifully. Killed by secondhand embarrassment and one very loud mother. Worse, far, far worse, you were blushing. Blushing. For a man currently being publicly lectured about sex on a Wednesday morning.

Humiliating. Absolutely unforgivable. Your mother knocked once on your door and entered anyway, because privacy remained a myth. She took one look at you face-down on the bed and smiled like a woman watching reality television. “Well,” she said, setting her coffee down, “that clears some things up.”

“Please leave me here to decompose.”

“I’d love to, but dinner is in two hours.”

Cruelty. Pure cruelty. Later that afternoon, once the heat of your humiliation had cooled from catastrophic to survivable, you made the dangerous mistake of leaving the house. Just a quick walk, you told yourself. Fresh air. Emotional recovery. Absolutely no Heeseung. The universe laughed. Because halfway down the lane near the beach path, there he was. Of course. Standing beneath the shade of the jacaranda trees like some handsome curse. You stopped. He stopped.

For one horrible second, neither of you moved. Then you made the deeply strategic decision to simply walk faster. Ignore. Evade. Survive. Unfortunately, Lee Heeseung had longer legs and audacity. “Y/N.” His voice behind you made your spine straighten. You kept walking. Badly. “Y/N.” Closer now. You stopped because running twice in one day felt like poor character development. Slowly, with all the grace of someone approaching public execution, you turned.

He stood there looking… weirdly nervous. Interesting. Suspicious. Your cheeks immediately remembered this morning and attempted betrayal. No. Absolutely not. You stared at a point somewhere near his left shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you blurted. Fast. Too fast. Like the words had tripped over each other trying to escape.

“For the thing. Earlier. Your mom. I mean—not your mom, obviously she’s lovely, but the yelling and the—” you gestured vaguely at existence “—everything. Sorry.” Excellent. Elegant. A true masterclass in social recovery. You were already preparing to evaporate when he stepped forward and stopped you. Not dramatically. Just enough. A hand lightly catching your wrist. Warm. Immediate regret. “Y/N.” You looked up instinctively. And there it was. Eye contact. Actual, dangerous eye contact. For one second, all the confidence he usually wore like expensive cologne just… vanished. Gone. He blinked once. Twice. And then— “I—uh.”

You stared. Heeseung Lee. Golden boy. Professional menace. Smooth-talking devil of Jeju Island. Stuttering. You would treasure this forever. He cleared his throat. “Sunoo wanted me to give you this.” He shoved a folded paper into your hand like it had personally offended him. “An invite. For Friday. He’s doing some thing—well, not some thing, it’s a party, obviously, and he said if I forgot, he’d kill me, so—” He kept talking. Rambling, actually.

Words continuing in increasingly unnecessary detail while you stood there holding the paper, blinking. Because now he was nervous. Actually nervous. And somehow that was worse. Far worse. You grabbed the invitation. Nodded once. And, choosing self-preservation above all else, turned and walked away at a speed just barely pretending not to be fleeing. Fast. Very fast.

Behind you, his voice stopped. Silence. Then, a soft scoff. Followed by a quiet chuckle, carried lightly by the ocean breeze. You didn’t turn around. Absolutely not. But you could feel it anyway. Him standing there. Watching you speed-walk your dignity down the lane. And annoyingly, your heart was still beating too fast. Friday night arrived heavy with heat.

The kind of heat that sat low against your skin and made the entire town feel slower, softer, dangerous in ways daylight never was. By nine, the sky over Jeju Island had gone ink-dark, the moon hanging pale over the water, and the beach had transformed again into its usual summer ritual, music spilling over the dunes, bonfires burning low and golden, laughter rising and dissolving into the sound of the tide. Sunoo’s parties were never really parties. They were events. Carefully chaotic, full of beautiful people pretending they were not looking at one another too closely. Someone always brought expensive liquor. Someone always made a bad decision. Someone always kissed the wrong person under the excuse of summer.

Tonight, the air felt like it had already decided who that would be. You had tried not to think about it while getting ready. Failed, of course. Because the truth was, the last few days had left something unsettled between you and Heeseung. No more easy arguments. No more familiar rhythm to hide behind. Just glances held too long and silences that felt louder than fights ever had. And the memory of his hand on your wrist.

The way he had looked at you. The way he had lost words. It had followed you all week. So when you dressed tonight, it wasn’t for attention. It was armor. A black dress this time, simpler than the red one, but worse somehow. Thin straps, soft fabric, bare skin at your back, the kind of dress that didn’t ask to be noticed because it already knew it would be. Your hair loose, your mouth glossed, gold at your throat catching the light. You looked like someone about to make a mistake.

And maybe that was the point. By the time you arrived, the party had already spilled toward the shoreline. Music low, drinks in warm hands, familiar faces blurred by firelight and moonlight and too much history. You let yourself be folded into it. Yoonchae pressed a drink into your hand. Yunjin laughed at something dramatic Sunoo was saying near the fire. Jay stood half in the water, arguing with Sunghoon over something neither of them would remember tomorrow. Everything looked normal.

It almost felt normal. Until you saw him. Heeseung stood near the edge of the beach, farther from the fire than everyone else, a drink untouched in his hand, dark shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms. He wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t talking much. Just watching. And when his eyes found yours, the rest of the beach seemed to pull backward.

There it was again. That terrible, quiet thing. You looked away first. Coward. The night stretched. Another drink. Then another. Enough to soften the edges but not enough to blur them. Enough to make your body warm and your thoughts reckless. Enough to make him impossible to ignore. You felt him before he reached you. That shift in the air. That awareness. You turned, and there he was. Close. Too close.

“Having fun?” he asked, voice low enough that no one else could hear. You tilted your glass against your lips. “Immensely. I’ve only considered fleeing twice.” His mouth almost smiled. “Only twice?” “I’m pacing myself.” Silence settled between you, but not the easy kind. The kind that waited. The kind that knew.

The ocean stretched black behind him, waves breaking silver under moonlight. Firelight moved over his face in pieces, catching the sharpness of him, the tension in his jaw. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said. Not accusing. Worse. Certain. You looked at him then.

“Have I?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you’re just easier to avoid lately.”

His expression shifted. Something quieter. Sharper. “That morning embarrassed you.” Mrs. Lee’s voice echoed in your memory and heat climbed your neck instantly. You looked away toward the water. “Your mother nearly announced your sex life to the entire coastline.”

“She likes you.”

“I nearly died.”

A brief silence. Then, softer, “You ran.” You let out a dry laugh. “Wouldn’t you?”

“No.”

“No,” you agreed. “You’d stand there and make it worse.”

“That does sound like me.” For a second, it almost eased. Almost. Then he said, quieter this time, “That’s not why you’ve been avoiding me.” The wind moved between you, carrying salt and the faint smoke of the fire. No. It wasn’t. Because the truth sat uglier than that. You had been avoiding him because once something shifted, you couldn’t shift it back. Because pretending was harder now. Because every look felt like standing too close to the edge of something.

Because if you let yourself think too hard about him, you would ruin everything. And maybe you already had. You set your drink down in the sand. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Do this.” His gaze didn’t move from yours. “Do what?” You laughed once, breathless and frustrated. “This. This thing where you look at me like I’m supposed to know what you’re thinking.”

He stepped closer. Moonlight and firelight and trouble. “Maybe you do.” Your pulse stumbled. “You’re impossible.” His voice dropped. “So are you.”

And there it was. Years of it. Every argument. Every summer. Every almost. The balcony. The beach. The car ride. Every second spent pretending there wasn’t something here because admitting it would mean letting it matter. You could hear your own breathing. His too. Close enough now that it blurred. You should walk away.

You should say something cruel, something sharp enough to put distance back between you. Instead, you stayed. Because the truth was simpler than pride. You wanted him. Maybe you always had. And he looked at you like he knew it. Like he had been waiting for you to stop lying. His hand brushed your bare arm, slow enough to feel like a question. You should have answered no. Instead, your voice came out quieter than you intended. “Tell me to stop.” He didn’t. For one suspended second, neither of you moved.

Then he kissed you. It felt like anger, like relief, like something starved, messy and immediate and years too late. Your hands found him without permission, his shirt, the line of his jaw, the back of his neck. His mouth was warm and rough against yours, like he’d thought about this too many times and was done pretending otherwise. There was nothing careful about it. No softness. No hesitation.

Just all the tension finally breaking open. He kissed you like he was trying to win something, and you kissed him like losing had never sounded better. The sound that left him was low, wrecked, against your mouth. His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left to pretend inside. When he finally pulled back, it was barely, forehead against yours, breath uneven, your lips still brushing when he spoke.

“Fuck.” The word sounded like confession. Then his mouth found yours again, harder this time, and the world narrowed to heat and salt and the way his hands made thinking impossible. He kissed down the corner of your mouth, breath warm against your skin, voice rough and half-lost. “Mm. Fuck, inside. Now.” You should have laughed. Should have reminded him he was arrogant, impossible, and absolutely not carrying you anywhere. Instead, when he lifted you, your legs finding his instinctively, your mouth was still on his.

Still kissing him as he walked. Across the sand. Up the path. Toward his house lit quiet against the night. The world beyond it disappeared. There was only this. His hands. Your heartbeat. The sound of the ocean somewhere behind you like witness. The back door. The hallway. Darkness and breath and mouths and hands and years of wanting collapsing all at once.

He barely got his bedroom door shut before you were against it, the sound of it closing sharp in the dark. Heeseung didn’t waste a second. His mouth was back on yours before the echo faded, hotter, deeper, more desperate than on the beach. One large hand cupped the back of your head, the other already sliding down the curve of your waist, gripping the soft fabric of your black dress like he’d waited years to tear it off.

You gasped into the kiss as your back hit the door again, the wood cool against your bare shoulders. His body pressed flush against yours, hard and burning, the evidence of how much he wanted you unmistakable against your stomach. “Fuck, this dress,” he muttered against your lips, voice gravel-rough. His fingers found the thin straps first, tugging them down your shoulders with impatient hands. The fabric whispered as it slid down your body, pooling at your waist before he pushed it lower, letting it fall completely to the floor in a dark heap around your ankles.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, bare except for the delicate black bra and panties, skin flushed, chest rising fast. His eyes darkened, jaw tight. “Beautiful,” he breathed, almost angry about it. “So fucking beautiful it pisses me off.”

Then his head dipped. His lips found the swell of your breast above the bra, hot and open-mouthed, tongue dragging over the lace. You arched into him with a shaky moan as he mouthed at your nipple through the thin fabric, sucking lightly, then harder, the wet heat of his mouth making your knees weak. His teeth grazed just enough to make you whimper.

Your hands trembled as you reached for his belt, fumbling with the buckle in the dark. The metallic clink sounded loud in the quiet room. You shoved his shirt up and off his shoulders, desperate to feel skin, and he helped you, ripping it the rest of the way off and tossing it somewhere behind him.

The moment his belt came undone, your hand slipped inside, palming him over his boxers. He groaned low against your chest, hips twitching forward into your touch. But Heeseung wasn’t letting you set the pace. His hand slid down your stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and pushing them aside without ceremony. Two long fingers dragged through your folds, finding you already slick and aching for him.

“Shit,” he hissed against your nipple, voice vibrating through your skin. “You’re soaked.” You couldn’t even answer properly, only a broken sound escaped as his fingers circled your clit once, twice, before sliding lower and pushing inside you without warning. The stretch was sudden, perfect, and your head fell back against the door with a soft thud.

Heeseung’s mouth switched to your other breast, sucking harder now, tongue flicking over the hardened peak while his fingers curled inside you, slow and deep, stroking that spot that made your thighs shake. His thumb pressed firm circles against your clit in time with every thrust of his fingers.

Your hand tightened around his cock, stroking him through the fabric as best you could while your other hand clutched at his shoulder, nails digging in. “Heeseung—” His name came out wrecked, half-moan, half-plea. He lifted his head from your chest, lips shiny, eyes nearly black with want. His fingers didn’t stop moving inside you, steady and relentless.

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice low and rough. “My name. Like that.” You did, moaning it louder this time as he added a third finger, stretching you open, preparing you for what was coming next. His mouth crashed back onto yours, swallowing every sound you made while his fingers fucked you against the door, wet sounds mixing with your ragged breathing.

Your dress was long forgotten on the floor. His pants hung low on his hips. The only thing that mattered now was the burning friction between you, the years of tension finally snapping apart in the dark of his bedroom. And neither of you was nearly done yet. Heeseung’s fingers were still buried deep inside you when he suddenly pulled them out, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. You barely had time to protest before his hands gripped the back of your thighs.

In one smooth motion, he lifted you, wrapping your legs high around his waist. Your arms instinctively looped around his neck as he carried you away from the door. The movement pressed his body flush against yours, and the second your weight settled, his pants, already tugged low on his hips, slid further down.

His cock, hot and heavy, shoved straight against your soaked folds. Your panties had been dragged aside earlier and stayed that way. There was nothing between you now except bare, slick skin. The thick length of him slid right between your folds, the head nudging insistently against your entrance with every step he took. You gasped sharply at the sudden, intimate contact.

Heeseung groaned deep in his chest, the sound raw and broken. “Fuck—feel that?” he rasped, hips twitching involuntarily as he walked you across the room. Every movement made his cock drag slowly through your wetness, the head rubbing right over your swollen clit.

The friction was maddening. Skin to skin. Hot. Wet. Overwhelming. You moaned into his neck, legs tightening around him as another wave of arousal slicked between you. Heeseung’s grip on your thighs turned bruising, his breathing ragged against your ear. By the time he reached the bed, both of you were trembling. He laid you down carefully, never fully breaking contact. The moment your back hit the mattress, he followed, settling between your spread thighs. His pants were shoved just low enough. His shirt was long gone. And his cock, thick, flushed, and glistening with your arousal, rested heavy against your pussy.

Heeseung braced himself on one forearm, the other hand guiding his length. He rubbed the head slowly up and down your folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit with every pass. His eyes found yours in the dim light filtering through the window. Dark, hungry, and strangely vulnerable. You could feel him throbbing against you. Could see the tension in his jaw as he held himself back, waiting. You nodded, barely a breath. “Yes.”

That was all he needed. Heeseung didn’t hesitate. With one smooth, powerful thrust, he pushed inside you, burying himself to the hilt in one go. The stretch was intense, perfect, overwhelming. A broken moan tore from your throat as your walls clenched tight around his cock. Heeseung let out a low, guttural sound, forehead dropping to yours as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours.

“Shit— so tight,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You feel… fuck.”

For a few heartbeats, he stayed still, letting you adjust, letting himself feel every pulse and flutter around him. Then he started moving. Slow at first, long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. Each thrust pushed a soft cry from your lips. Heeseung’s rhythm quickly grew harder, more desperate, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the dark room. His mouth found yours again in a messy kiss as he fucked you deeper, hips snapping forward with increasing force. One hand slid under your ass, tilting your hips up so he could hit even deeper, grinding against your clit with every thrust.

You were lost in it, lost in him. The way he filled you. The way he moaned your name against your mouth like a prayer and a curse at the same time. The way years of tension finally shattered between you with every brutal, perfect stroke. Heeseung’s pace turned punishing, relentless, like he was trying to make up for every summer you’d spent pretending this didn’t exist.

And you took every single thrust, legs wrapped tight around his waist, nails raking down his back as the pleasure built sharp and fast inside you. Heeseung’s thrusts grew erratic, deeper, harder, his hips slamming against yours with a desperation that bordered on violent. You were so close it hurt, every stroke pushing you right to the edge.

“Fuck— I’m gonna cum,” he groaned against your mouth, voice strained and raw. “Come with me. Now.” You could only nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders as the pressure inside you finally snapped. Your orgasm crashed over you hard, walls clenching violently around his cock as you came with a broken cry of his name. The intensity made your vision blur, thighs shaking around his waist.

Heeseung followed right after, burying himself to the hilt with one final, deep thrust. A low, guttural moan tore from his throat as he came inside you, hips stuttering, pulsing hot and deep while he rode it out, filling you with every twitch of his cock. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your ragged breathing. He collapsed on top of you, chest heaving, sweat-slick skin pressed against yours. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, breath hot and uneven against your throat. You could feel his heart hammering wildly against your chest.

Silence. No soft kisses. No gentle words. No confessions whispered in the dark. Just heavy breathing and the slow realization of what you’d just done. After what felt like forever, Heeseung finally pulled out of you with a quiet hiss. He rolled off to the side, staring up at the ceiling, one arm thrown over his forehead. You both lay there, naked and still catching your breath. Then, quietly, “This was a mistake.”

Your voice came out steadier than you expected. “Yeah,” he answered, just as flat. Liars. Neither of you believed it. Not even for a second. But neither of you said anything more.

Morning came like regret. Too bright. Too warm. Too aware. Sunlight spilled through the curtains in long golden strips, cruel in the way only summer mornings could be, soft and beautiful and entirely uninterested in your emotional devastation. Somewhere outside, the ocean moved lazily against the shore. A gull screamed like it had a personal vendetta. Your head hurt. Not from alcohol. Worse. Memory.

Every second of last night returned in fragments the moment you opened your eyes, his mouth on yours, your back against his door, the way he had said your name like it meant trouble, the heat of it, the impossibility of pretending it hadn’t happened. You stared at the ceiling for a full minute. Then another. Then sat up with the slow dread of a woman remembering she had, in fact, made every bad decision available to her.

Excellent. Fantastic. Character development. Heeseung’s room looked unfairly like him, clean without trying, expensive without showing off, sunlight falling over dark wood and linen sheets and the kind of quiet luxury that made you want to rob him on principle. He was standing by the window, already dressed. Of course he was. Dark T-shirt. Messy hair. Coffee in hand. Looking like the human embodiment of consequences. He turned when he heard you move. And for a second, neither of you said anything.

No teasing. No smugness. Just that strange stillness people had after crossing a line they couldn’t uncross. You pulled the sheet tighter around yourself for dignity. It did nothing. He leaned against the window frame, studying you with an unreadable expression. “Well,” he said finally, voice rough from sleep and something else, “this feels healthy.”

You let out one dry laugh. “Absolutely thriving.” His mouth twitched. Dangerous. Because if he smiled right now, if either of you made this softer than it was, the whole thing would collapse into something harder to survive. You got out of bed, collecting your clothes from the floor like evidence. “This was a mistake.” The words landed between you. Again. Too quick. Too sharp. You regretted them immediately. Something in his expression shifted, not hurt, exactly, but enough to make your chest tighten.

He set his coffee down. “Was it?” You pulled your dress on with more focus than necessary. “That depends. Are we pretending this was a one-time lapse in judgment, or are we being honest?” He watched you for a long moment. Then, quietly, “Pretending clearly hasn’t worked for us so far.”

No. It hadn’t. Not for years. You sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted by the weight of it. The almosts. The history. The fact that wanting him had somehow become the least surprising part of all this. Outside, the day kept moving. Waves. Sunlight. People living normal lives. Inside, it felt like standing at the edge of something. You looked at him.

“So what now?” He crossed his arms, considering. And because the universe had a sense of humor, the answer came with the terrifying logic of two people who were entirely too good at making bad ideas sound reasonable. “We don’t do relationships.”

You snorted. “Understatement of the century.” “You said it yourself. No settling down this summer. No complications.” “No emotional disasters.”

“Preferably.” Silence. Then, you said it first. “Friends with benefits.” The words hung there. Ridiculous. Obvious. Inevitable. Heeseung looked at you like he hated how much sense it made. “Very mature.”

“Extremely.”

“Probably a terrible idea.”

“The worst one we’ve had so far.”

Another silence. Then both of you, at the same time, “Okay.” You stared at each other. And somehow, that was the funniest part. Because of course this was how it happened. Not with romance. Not with confessions. With negotiations. You stood, stepping closer now, the air between you still carrying the remains of last night. “Fine,” you said. “But if we’re doing this, there are rules.”

His brow lifted. “Of course there are.”

“Obviously. I’m not running an emotional free-for-all.” He leaned back against the desk, arms crossed, watching you like he already knew this would be entertaining. “Go on, then.”

You started counting on your fingers. “No dates.” “Agreed.”

“No jealousy.” A pause. Small. Noticeable. Then: “Agreed.”

You narrowed your eyes but kept going. “No emotional attachment.” “That sounds healthy.” “It sounds necessary.” He nodded once. “Fine.”

“No sleepovers.” His expression shifted slightly. You ignored it. “No public affection. I’m not becoming beach gossip.”

“Sunoo will be devastated.” “He survives on disappointment.”

A ghost of a smile. You continued. “No calling unless it’s late.”

“That sounds suspiciously specific.”

“It sounds like boundaries.”

“And?”

You took a breath. The final one. The one that mattered. “This ends with summer.” That one stayed in the room longer. Because suddenly it wasn’t just about tonight or last night or whatever this was becoming. It was a deadline. An expiration date. A promise to keep it temporary. Necessary. Smart. A lie, probably. But necessary. Heeseung looked at you for a long moment before nodding once. “Ends with summer.”

You hated how that felt. Still, you extended your hand like a business deal, because if you were going to ruin your life, professionalism mattered. “Deal?” He looked down at your hand. Then back at you. Slowly, he took it. Warm. Steady. His fingers closed around yours and something about it felt far less casual than either of you intended. “Deal.”

Too intimate. Too dangerous. You pulled your hand back first. Because someone had to be responsible here, and apparently it was going to be you. You grabbed your bag from the chair and moved toward the door before common sense could return and save either of you. At the threshold, you paused. Didn’t turn around. “Just so we’re clear,” you said, hand on the door, “if this ruins my life, I’m blaming you.”

Behind you, his voice came low and familiar again. “If this ruins your life, it’ll be because you let it.” You smiled despite yourself. Didn’t let him see it. Then opened the door. And walked out into the sunlight like a woman with a plan. Very mature. Very stupid. Exactly the kind of thing summer was made for. It started quietly, almost politely. As if whatever existed between you and Heeseung had agreed to disguise itself as something manageable.

A bad decision with boundaries. A summer arrangement. A temporary indulgence. Nothing more. That was the lie you told yourself the first time he texted you after midnight and you slipped out of your house barefoot, cardigan thrown over bare shoulders, the path between your homes lit only by moonlight and terrible judgment.

That was the lie you told yourself when he opened the back door before you even knocked, like he had been waiting there, like he knew the exact second your resolve would break. That was the lie you told yourself when his hands found your waist before either of you said hello. This is fine. It was not fine. At first, it felt almost easy.

There was a thrill to it, sharp and bright and addictive in the way summer secrets always were. The private satisfaction of sitting through family dinners knowing exactly how his mouth had looked against your skin the night before. The way his knee brushed yours under the table and neither of you reacted, though both of you remembered. It lived in stolen things. In late-night visits when the whole neighborhood had gone quiet, and the only sound was the ocean somewhere beyond the trees and your own heartbeat betraying you on the walk next door.

In the pool house one humid Thursday afternoon, when everyone else had gone sailing and the house sat warm and empty under the sun. Chlorine in the air, sunlight breaking over the water in fractured gold, your bikini still damp against your skin while Heeseung stood too close and said your name like it meant trouble. His hand sliding underneath the strap to touch you then quietly adjusting it back into place as if he hadn’t branded your entire neck in marks.

In parties where you crossed crowded rooms without touching, where his hand at the small of your back lasted only a second but ruined the rest of your night. Where you’d disappear separately and meet somewhere quieter, on balconies, behind the marina, near the dunes where the music couldn’t quite reach and the summer air felt heavier.

Every moment carried that same dangerous illusion: that because no one knew, it somehow meant nothing. You learned each other in fragments. The sound of his laugh when it was real, not performed for a room full of people. The way he got quieter when he was tired. How he always reached for your wrist first, like stopping you there somehow felt more honest than pretending he wasn’t pulling you closer.

How you started recognizing the sound of his car before it even turned into the driveway. You hated that one. Because it meant anticipation. And anticipation implied care. Care was not part of the agreement. So you became very good at pretending. You rolled your eyes when Sunoo accused you of being suspiciously unavailable lately. You blamed “family obligations” when Eunchae asked why you kept vanishing halfway through parties.

You told your mother you were staying in because the heat was unbearable, and then spent the entire afternoon in Heeseung’s room with the windows open, listening to the sea and trying not to think too hard about the intimacy of daylight. That was the dangerous part. Not the sneaking around. Not the kissing. Not even the wanting. Daylight. Because night made everything easier to dismiss. Midnight had always been built for mistakes. But sunlight was honest. It stripped things down. Left no shadows to hide inside.

And lately, you were both finding reasons to stay. A cancelled beach day because it was “too hot.” Skipping a yacht party because neither of you were “in the mood.” Sunday brunch abandoned halfway through because one look across the table had made patience impossible. Your parents thought you were finally becoming mature. Choosing rest. Prioritizing peace. If only they knew. On Tuesday, your mother found you in the kitchen at noon, wearing one of Heeseung’s old shirts thrown hastily over your swimsuit because you had forgotten your own cover-up and panic had terrible fashion sense.

She looked at you. Looked at the shirt. Looked back at you. And simply said, “Interesting.” You nearly died on the spot. “Laundry accident,” you replied immediately.

She sipped her iced tea. “Of course.” You fled before she could smile. It was becoming ridiculous. The kind of ridiculous that should have frightened you more than it did. Because somewhere between the late-night texts and the locked doors and the way he said your name when no one else was around, the rules had started feeling less like boundaries and more like decorations.

No sleepovers, and yet you had woken up in his bed twice this week. No emotional attachment, and yet you knew when he was in a bad mood before he said a word. No jealousy, and yet when a girl from the marina laughed too long at something he said, your entire evening soured without permission. This is fine. It was not fine. And the worst part was how natural it all felt. Like maybe this had been waiting for years. Like every summer before this had only been rehearsal.

One evening, stretched beside him on the pool house couch while golden light slipped slowly across the floorboards, you listened to the distant sounds of your families having dinner on separate patios, laughter drifting across the hedges, glasses clinking, the whole world carrying on politely while the two of you existed here in the quiet center of your own disaster. His hand rested lazily over your waist. Your head against his shoulder. Too comfortable.

Far too comfortable. You should have left an hour ago. Instead, you stayed. Because leaving meant acknowledging it. Because staying meant pretending this was still simple. You traced absent patterns against his arm and stared at the ceiling fan turning slowly overhead. Summer had always felt like this, beautiful enough to make bad ideas look romantic. Temporary enough to make them feel safe. You told yourself that was all this was.

A season. A secret. Something that would end when the weather changed. But even then, with the evening light soft around you and his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, some quieter part of you already knew the truth. This was never going to end cleanly. But the thought vanished as quickly as it came when you felt his hand sliding between your legs.  Later, neither of you said much.

The room was quiet in that intimate, ruined way it only became after too much honesty, sheets tangled at your legs, the windows cracked open to let in the salt-heavy night air, the ceiling fan turning lazily overhead like time had slowed just for this. Outside, summer kept moving. Waves somewhere beyond the trees. A car passing faintly down the road. Someone laughing in the distance, far enough away to belong to another world entirely.

Here, everything felt still. You lay on your back staring at the ceiling, your body heavy with exhaustion, skin still warm, his sheets twisted around your legs like evidence. Your hair was a mess. Your thoughts were worse. This had become dangerous. Not because of the sex. That part had been inevitable the second either of you admitted wanting it. No, the dangerous part was afterward. This. The silence that didn’t feel awkward. The way neither of you rushed to leave. The softness that slipped in when no one was paying attention.

You hated softness. Softness made people stupid. Beside you, Heeseung was quieter than usual, one arm thrown behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, his breathing finally even after the storm of the last hour. In the low light, he looked younger somehow. Less polished. Less like the version of him the rest of the world got.

Just him. That was somehow worse. You turned your head slightly, watching him. His eyes were closed. For once, he wasn’t performing anything. No teasing, no arrogance, no carefully placed smirk like armor. Just tired. Real. You wondered if he knew how dangerous that was too. As if sensing it, he spoke without opening his eyes. “If you’re staring because you’ve finally admitted I’m right about everything, I’d like it formally documented.”

Your mouth twitched despite yourself. “I was actually wondering how someone can be this annoying while unconscious.” He opened one eye. “Talent.”

“Curse.”

“Chemistry.” You rolled your eyes and turned back to the ceiling, but the smile betrayed you anyway. Silence returned. Softer this time. The kind that settled around people who had stopped trying so hard to fill it. You should leave. That thought came and went three separate times. You should absolutely get up, find your dress, reclaim your dignity, and walk back to your own house like a woman with standards and emotional boundaries.

Instead, you stayed exactly where you were. Because moving felt like too much effort. Because his room was warm and the ocean breeze through the window made everything drowsy. Because your body had given up on principles sometime around midnight. Because leaving would make this feel real. And staying let you pretend it was still just summer.

Your eyes grew heavier. The last thing you really registered was the lamp on his bedside table casting soft amber light across the room, and the faint smell of salt and clean linen and him. Then sleep came quietly. No dramatic realization. No final declaration. Just exhaustion winning where common sense had failed. Sometime later, minutes, maybe an hour, you felt movement.

Half-asleep, caught somewhere between dreaming and waking, you registered the mattress shifting, the lamp clicking off, the room falling deeper into darkness. Then warmth. A blanket pulled over you. Careful. Quiet. His hand brushing lightly against your shoulder for just a second longer than necessary.

You should have opened your eyes. Should have made a joke. Broken the moment before it could become one. You didn’t. You stayed still, breathing slow, pretending sleep because somehow that felt safer than acknowledging tenderness. In the dark, his voice came low and almost amused. “Rule number four,” he murmured.

No sleepovers. You felt him settle beside you. The mattress dipped. The silence deepened. And then, after a beat, “Terrible at following instructions.” You smiled into the pillow where he couldn’t see it. Outside, the ocean moved patiently against the shore, summer stretching endlessly into the night. And there, in Lee Heeseung’s bed, beneath his sheets and your own very bad decisions, you fell asleep. Oops. 

Something shifted after the sleepover. Not dramatically. No confessions, no declarations, no grand cinematic moment where either of you admitted the obvious and ruined everything properly. Worse. It changed quietly. In the spaces between things. And somehow, that made it far more dangerous. Because sex was easy to dismiss. Sex could be blamed on summer, on heat, on proximity, on years of unresolved tension finally finding somewhere to go. Sex was physical. Temporary. Conveniently stupid.

But softness, softness was treason. It started with coffee. You were standing in his kitchen one morning, barefoot, wearing one of his hoodies because your own clothes were somewhere upstairs and dignity had long since packed its bags. The house was still half-asleep, sunlight slipping pale and warm through the windows, the kind of slow summer morning that made everything feel deceptively gentle.

You were reaching for the coffee tin when he slid a mug across the counter toward you without looking. Iced. Too much milk. One sugar. Exactly right. You stared at it. Then at him. He was leaning against the opposite counter, scrolling through something on his phone with the dangerous calm of a man who had no idea he’d just committed emotional violence. “You remembered.”

He looked up. At the mug. At you. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You complain about bad coffee like it’s a moral issue.” You narrowed your eyes. “It is a moral issue.” He smiled into his own cup. That was the problem. Not remembering. How natural it felt. As if of course he knew. As if of course you noticed. As if this was normal. It wasn’t. Nothing about this was normal. And yet the days kept folding around it anyway.

He started bringing you food without asking. Not in some dramatic, romantic gesture way. Nothing obvious enough to name. Just showing up at the beach with the exact sandwich you liked because he “happened to be near the deli.” Leaving fries on the passenger seat when he picked you up because you’d skipped lunch and he could always tell when you did. A bottle of water handed to you silently after too much sun and too much pretending at some yacht party, his hand brushing yours for only a second before he walked away.

Little things. The kind people noticed. The kind people definitely noticed. By the second week of July, your friends had reached collective suspicion. It happened on a Wednesday afternoon at the beach club, where everyone had collapsed under umbrellas with overpriced drinks and varying levels of sunburn. Sunoo was the first to say it, because of course he was. He lowered his sunglasses dramatically and pointed between you and Heeseung like a detective solving a murder. “You two are weird.”

You didn’t even look up from your book. “That is the least shocking thing anyone has ever said.”

“No,” Yunjin cut in, leaning forward, “like weird weird. You’re not fighting.”

That got your attention. You looked up. Across from you, Heeseung was stretched lazily in a chair, sunglasses on, looking entirely too comfortable for someone under investigation.

Yoonchae nodded. “It’s unsettling. I miss the hostility. It was romantic.” Jay, who treated gossip like a legal proceeding, added, “The last thing you said to him that even resembled an insult was, and I quote—” He lifted a hand, reciting with criminal accuracy: ‘Don’t stay in the ocean too long, your wig might fall off.’ Silence. You blinked.

Sunghoon, traitor, added quietly, “That wasn’t even an insult. That was concern wrapped in a taunt.” You hated all of them.

“It was a warning,” you said.

“Because you care,” Sunoo sang.

“Because baldness is a public issue.” Across the table, Heeseung laughed. Actually laughed. Low and easy and far too pleased with himself. And you, idiot that you were, smiled back before you could stop it. The entire group gasped like Victorian women witnessing an exposed ankle. Eunchae clutched her chest. “Oh my god. They’re smiling at each other. We’ve lost them.”

You buried your face in your drink. This was unbearable. But the truth sat heavier than embarrassment. Because they were right. You weren’t fighting anymore. Not really. The sharpness had softened at the edges, and in its place had come something quieter. More dangerous.

You knew when he was lying. It was always in his shoulders first, too relaxed, too deliberate. Like if he made himself look calm enough, no one would notice. And he knew when you were upset before you said a word. Sometimes before you did. Like the night you came back from dinner with your parents, frustrated and restless and not wanting to explain why, only to find him sitting on the hood of his car outside your house.

He took one look at you and said, simply, “What happened?” No performance. No jokes. Just knowing. You sat beside him without answering, and he handed you fries in silence. That was worse than comfort. That was intimacy. And intimacy was not part of the agreement. Neither was the fact that you kept ending up in his clothes.

His hoodie mostly. Dark gray, too big, sleeves falling over your hands, smelling faintly like him and expensive detergent and whatever impossible thing made you feel too warm when you wore it home at sunrise. The first time, you’d told yourself it was practical. The second time, convenient. By the fifth, even you had stopped pretending. One evening, walking back from his house with that hoodie wrapped around you and the sun barely rising over the water, you caught your reflection in a neighbor’s window and had the deeply humiliating realization that you looked happy.

Not smug. Not victorious. Happy. You nearly turned around and walked directly into the sea. And then there was jealousy. The rule neither of you talked about because talking about it would make it real. No jealousy. Very simple. A lie, obviously. It surfaced one night at another party on Jay’s yacht. Some guy, tall, forgettable, rich in the boring way, spent too long talking to you by the bar. Leaning in too close. Laughing too easily.

You were polite. Mostly. But from across the room, you felt it before you saw it. Heeseung, watching. Still. Cold. Not dramatic, that would’ve been easier, just quiet. His expression shuttered in that way he did when he was trying very hard not to let something show, and suddenly the rest of the night tasted wrong. Later, when you found him outside near the dock, the air heavy with salt and dark water below, you said it before you could stop yourself.

“You’re being weird.” He leaned against the railing, gaze on the ocean. “I’m always weird.”

“Not like this.”

A long pause, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, “Nothing’s wrong.” You laughed softly. There it was, the lie. You stepped closer, “You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?”

Finally, he looked at you. Moonlight catching the edges of him. That familiar unreadable expression. “No,” he said. “You just like thinking you can.” You folded your arms. “And you like pretending I’m wrong.”

His jaw shifted. A tell. You noticed. Of course you noticed. For a second, it almost cracked. Whatever this was. Whatever sat under all the rules and pretending and carefully chosen silence. But then he straightened. Looked away. And the wall went back up. “It means nothing,” he said. The words landed heavier than they should have. Because both of you knew he wasn’t talking about the guy. He was talking about all of it. This. You. Him.

The arrangement. The softness. The way neither of you were following your own rules anymore. Nothing. You stared at him for a long moment, the ocean loud in the silence between you. Then you nodded once. “Right.” A lie, both his and yours, both of you standing there in the warm dark of summer, pretending not to bleed where it hurt.

It means nothing, and somehow, that hurt worse than if he’d said everything, the silence between you lingered for a second too long. Warm night air moved around you, carrying the salt of the ocean and the distant hum of music from the party still going on behind the marina. The dock swayed faintly beneath your feet, water dark and endless below, moonlight breaking silver across the surface.

You stood there with his words still sitting heavy in your chest. It means nothing. Such a simple sentence. Such a stupid, transparent lie, but you hated that it hurt. More than that, you hated that he knew it hurt. That somewhere beneath all the arrogance and all the careful pretending, he knew exactly where to place the knife. And still, somehow, neither of you left. Because leaving would mean ending the conversation. Because staying meant there was still something unfinished here.

You folded your arms tighter, more for protection than attitude. “Right,” you said again, quieter this time. Heeseung looked at you like he wanted to say something else, something better, or worse. You could see it in the hesitation. In the way his mouth opened slightly, then closed again. In the tension sitting sharp in his shoulders, like even he was tired of performing indifference.

But he didn’t, of course he didn’t. Instead, after a long moment, he stepped closer. Not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to be familiar. And maybe that was the problem. The familiarity of it. The way your body recognized him before your mind had time to argue. His hand brushed your arm lightly. A thoughtless gesture. Comforting. Soft. Dangerous. You should have stepped back. Instead, you stayed still.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like his body had made the decision before his brain could stop it, he leaned down and pressed a quick, absent kiss to your forehead. Gentle. Careless. Tender. The kind of kiss that belonged to something entirely different than whatever this was supposed to be. And the second it happened, you both froze. Completely, the world stopped, the ocean, the music, your heartbeat, everything. Because that, that was not in the rules. Not even close. No public affection. No emotional attachment. No softness.

And forehead kisses? Forehead kisses were practically emotional terrorism. You stared at him. He stared at you. His hand was still lightly on your arm. Your lips parted, but no sound came out because honestly, what exactly was the appropriate response to being emotionally assassinated on a dock? Apparently, the answer was, a dramatic choking noise.

You both turned. Too late. Because standing ten feet away, carrying drinks and what looked like the absolute time of their lives, were your friends. All of them. Sunoo. Sunghoon. Jay. Eunchae. Yunjin. Yoonchae. Witnesses. To your death. For one beat, nobody moved. Then Yunjin made a sound like a Victorian woman seeing a man’s ankle and clutched her chest.

“No,” she whispered. Then louder, “No. No, I refuse.”

And with all the theatrical commitment of a woman born for performance, she dramatically dropped backward onto Eunchae. “I’ve fainted,” she announced to the night. “I’m dead. Tell my family I died right.” Eunchae, instead of helping, was already doubled over laughing. Actually laughing. Tears in her eyes. Full-body betrayal. Jay turned away entirely, hand over his mouth like he was trying and failing to remain dignified. Sunghoon stood there in complete silence, which for him was basically screaming.

Sunoo looked like he had ascended to another spiritual plane. And Yoonchae, traitor, elegant, terrifying, just slowly raised one eyebrow and said, “Well.” You wanted the dock to collapse. Immediately. Preferably with you on it. Beside you, Heeseung cleared his throat with the deeply haunted expression of a man realizing public humiliation was hereditary.

“It was nothing.” Silence. Then six people spoke at once. “Nothing?” Sunoo repeated, scandalized. “You kissed her forehead!” Eunchae shouted.

“That’s husband behavior,” Yunjin yelled from her fake death position. Jay pointed accusingly. “That is not casual. Casual men do not forehead kiss.”

Sunghoon, finally contributing, said simply, “That was intimate.” Which, somehow, was worse. You covered your face with both hands. This was how legends ended. Not with dignity. Not with grace. But with your friends conducting a public trial over a forehead kiss. Heeseung rubbed the back of his neck, visibly regretting every life choice that had led him here. “It was automatic.”

“A Freudian slip,” Sunoo said immediately.

“A cry for help,” Yunjin added.

“A confession,” Eunchae gasped.

“A legal declaration,” Jay said.

“A marriage proposal,” Yoonchae finished.

You made a strangled noise. “Please stop talking.”

“No,” everyone replied. Across the chaos, you finally looked at Heeseung. Really looked. And annoyingly, he looked just as wrecked as you felt. His composure cracked at the edges. His usual confidence gone. His ears, very slightly, red. Interesting. Very interesting. For one brief second, despite the humiliation, despite the six idiots currently planning your wedding in real time, you almost smiled. Because he was embarrassed. Actually embarrassed. And somehow, that made the whole thing worse. Or better. Definitely worse.

He looked back at you. Something unspoken passing there. Something quiet and dangerous. Then, because the universe refused to let either of you have peace, Sunoo threw an arm dramatically into the air and declared to the ocean, “THEY’RE IN LOVE AND THEY’RE MAKING IT EVERYONE’S PROBLEM.” You and Heeseung, at the exact same time: “Shut up, Sunoo.” Which only made everyone laugh harder. 

—

The yacht looked like something built for people who had never been told no. White and gleaming and impossibly large, anchored just far enough from shore to feel exclusive, close enough for everyone to pretend it was casual. Music spilled across the water in low, expensive waves. Champagne sweated in silver buckets. Someone was laughing too loudly near the upper deck, and somewhere below, the ocean moved dark and patient against the hull, like it had seen this all before. Summer in Jeju Island had always been performative, but yacht parties were theater. Everyone arrived looking like they had something to prove. Girls in silk and gold, boys in linen and old money and inherited arrogance. Sunglasses even after sunset. Bare shoulders catching the last of the light. Beautiful people pretending they weren’t waiting for someone specific to notice them.

You hated how much you fit into it. Tonight, the dress was white. Soft and dangerous. The kind of dress that looked innocent until someone stood too close. Thin straps, bare back, fabric skimming your skin like seawater. Your hair loose from the salt air, gold at your throat, your mouth glossed and unhelpful. You looked like a mistake dressed as a good idea. Maybe that was the point. By the time you stepped onto the deck, the sun was already beginning to sink, everything dipped in amber, the ocean turning molten and gold around you. The air smelled like sunscreen, champagne, and money.

Sunoo spotted you first, of course. He stood near the bar, already three drinks deep into being everyone’s problem, and his eyes widened slowly as you approached. “Oh,” he said softly, like someone witnessing divine intervention. “Someone is about to ruin a life.” You took the champagne he handed you. “Only one? I’m aiming higher.”

He smiled, but it faded quickly when his gaze shifted past your shoulder. There. At the far end of the deck. Heeseung. Talking to Jay, drink in hand, sleeves rolled, dark shirt open at the throat in that infuriating way he never seemed aware of. The wind moved through his hair. The sunset caught against the sharp line of his profile. And then he looked up. Found you. Paused. There was always that moment. That small, suspended second where everything else fell away and it was just this, the recognition, the tension, the memory of every version of yourselves that had led here. His gaze moved slowly.

Not rushed. Not subtle. Like being touched without contact. And even from across the deck, you felt it. Something in your chest pulling too tight. It would have been easier if he looked away first. He didn’t. Neither did you. Until Yunjin bumped your shoulder lightly and saved you from your own poor decisions. “Don’t do that,” she murmured. You blinked. “Do what?” She took a sip of her drink, watching the sunset like she wasn’t dismantling your life. “Look at him like that. It makes the rest of us feel like unwilling participants.”

You laughed, but it sounded thinner than you meant it to. Because tonight, something already felt wrong. Not wrong. Fragile. Like standing barefoot on glass and pretending it was only sand. Maybe it was the accumulated weight of it. The weeks of pretending. The rules bent past recognition. The softness neither of you spoke about. The forehead kiss that still sat in your chest like a bruise. Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe you were tired. Tired of pretending this was casual. Tired of pretending you didn’t care. Tired of him saying it meant nothing when it had started to feel like everything.

So tonight, you decided to be reckless. Not because you wanted someone else. Because you wanted him to react. Which, in hindsight, was the kind of decision people wrote warnings about. Minjae found you first. Again. Pretty enough. Easy enough. Familiar enough to be useful. He leaned against the rail beside you while the yacht drifted slow under the dying sun, talking about some party in Seoul, some mutual friend, something forgettable. His hand brushed your arm when he laughed.

You let it. You smiled. You leaned closer. You let the dress do half the work and the silence do the rest. And all the while, you could feel it. Heeseung. Across the deck. Watching. It wasn’t dramatic. He wasn’t storming across the yacht like some jealous cliché. Worse. He was quiet. Still. The kind of stillness that meant all the dangerous things were happening underneath. You knew him well enough now to recognize it.

The way his shoulders went too rigid. The way his mouth flattened when he was holding something back. The way he stopped pretending to enjoy the party. You kept flirting. Because cruelty, apparently, was a love language. By the time the sky had gone violet and the city lights glittered faintly across the water, the tension had become its own living thing. Heavy.

Everyone noticed. Sunoo kept looking between you and Heeseung like he was watching a live sports event. Eunchae physically winced every time Minjae touched your arm. Jay had the expression of a man reviewing poor investment choices. And Heeseung, he stopped speaking entirely. You should have stopped. You didn’t. Because part of you wanted him angry. Wanted proof. Wanted something undeniable.

You found it when you excused yourself to the lower deck for air. The music faded there, softer beneath the sound of the water. The yacht rocked gently beneath your feet. Moonlight stretched silver over the sea, and the world felt quieter, suspended between one decision and the next. You barely had time to breathe before he was there.

“Seriously?” His voice behind you was low. Controlled. Too controlled. You turned slowly. He stood in the narrow corridor of moonlight and shadow, jaw tight, eyes dark enough to make the night feel thinner around you. There it was. Finally. You leaned back against the railing, crossing your arms like your pulse wasn’t trying to leave your body. “Are we opening with accusations? Very romantic.” His laugh was short. Humorless. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re late. I thought jealousy would get you here faster.” That landed. You saw it. The flicker in his expression. The anger sharpened by something much worse. He stepped closer. “You think this is funny?”

“No,” you said quietly. “I think you don’t get to care.” The ocean moved below you. Dark and endless. He stopped. For one second, the entire world seemed to hold its breath. “And why not?” The question came softer than you expected. Not angry, not sharp, honest, and that was worse, because there was an answer. A real one. Because caring meant naming this. Because naming this meant breaking it. Because if he said it first, if either of you said it first, there would be no way back to pretending.

You looked at him and saw all of it at once, the boy you had spent every summer fighting, the man standing in front of you now, the terrible inevitability of wanting someone you were never supposed to want this much. Your throat felt tight. “Because,” you said, and even your own voice sounded unfamiliar, “you were the one who said it meant nothing.” Something in him shifted. Like regret. Like anger turned inward. He moved closer again, and this time you didn’t step back. There was nowhere to go.

Moonlight on the water. Champagne still bitter on your tongue. His hand braced against the railing beside you, trapping you there without touching. His voice dropped, rough around the edges. “And you believed me?” Your heart stuttered. Because no. No, you hadn’t. That had been the problem. You had heard the lie and let him keep it because the truth was too dangerous.

You looked up at him, and the space between you felt like standing in the ocean during a storm, like drowning and floating and drowning and floating, never knowing which one would win. “Tell me I’m wrong,” you whispered.

He stared at you like he was trying to decide whether honesty would ruin him. Maybe it would. Maybe it already had. His hand lifted, slow enough to stop, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a tenderness that felt far too intimate for a yacht full of people and all the lies between you. His mouth was only inches from yours. And when he spoke, it was barely sound at all. “I think,” he said, “I stopped being careful with you a long time ago.”

Not quite a confession. Worse. Because it was true. And truth, between the two of you, had always been the most dangerous thing of all. He stood there for one suspended second after saying it, like even he was startled by the sound of his own honesty. The yacht rocked gently beneath you, the ocean below black and endless, moonlight breaking itself into silver shards across the water. Somewhere above, the music still played, muffled now, distant, belonging to another life entirely. Laughter drifted from the upper deck like something from far away, from people who had not just stepped to the edge of something irreversible.

You could still feel the words between you. I stopped being careful with you a long time ago. It settled into your chest like saltwater, slow, stinging, impossible to separate from your own blood. For weeks, maybe years, the two of you had been circling this. Pretending desire was just annoyance sharpened into habit. Pretending every almost was accidental. Pretending the way he looked at you meant less than it did. And now here it was. Not clean. Not graceful. Just true. You should have said something. Something intelligent. Something devastating. Something that would let you keep whatever remained of your pride. Instead, your body betrayed you first.

Your hand found the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like instinct, like gravity. You didn’t even realize you’d done it until he looked down at your hand and something dark and quiet moved across his face. His restraint snapped so softly you almost missed it. Then he took your wrist.  And before you could think, before either of you could retreat back into irony and self-preservation, he pulled you with him. Up the narrow staircase. Past the low spill of music and careless laughter. Through the blur of warm bodies and champagne and summer pretending to be harmless.

You barely registered the startled glance Sunoo gave you as Heeseung walked past him without a word, your hand still in his like a confession neither of you were ready to speak aloud. The hallway inside the yacht was cooler, quieter. White walls. Dim lights. The hum of the engine beneath your feet. Somewhere, a door shut. Somewhere else, the sea kept breathing against the hull.

He kept walking. You followed because there was no version of this where you didn’t. Because at some point, resisting him had become another kind of surrender. At the end of the corridor, he stopped. A private deck. Smaller. Hidden from the party. Open to the night. Only the ocean. Only the moon. Only the two of you and everything you were pretending not to destroy.

The door shut behind you with a soft click. Silence. He turned. For a moment, neither of you moved. The wind came off the water cool against your overheated skin, lifting your hair, carrying salt into the space between you. You could hear your own breathing. His too. He looked at you like a man standing too close to fire and knowing he was about to step in anyway.

And suddenly, it felt like standing at the edge of land. Like the last piece of solid ground beneath your feet. Like one more step would mean surrendering to something larger than either of you, something tidal and reckless and impossible to survive unchanged. You crossed that distance first. Or maybe he did. Later, you wouldn’t know. Only that one second there was space, and the next there was none. His mouth found yours like gravity.

Not gentle. Not hesitant. Like being pulled under. The kiss hit you like cold water and summer lightning, sharp, immediate, consuming. Every part of you lit at once, every defense dissolving so quickly it felt humiliating. His hands were at your waist, your neck, your jaw, like he couldn’t decide where to hold you, only that he needed to. You kissed him back like drowning. Like if you let go, you’d wash out to sea. His mouth tasted like champagne and salt and every bad decision you’d ever wanted to make. It was anger and relief and hunger all tangled together, all the years between you collapsing into something hot and breathless and overdue.

The world tilted. Or maybe it was just the boat. Or maybe it was him. You had the absurd thought that this was what slipping away from land felt like, that moment your feet stopped touching the ocean floor and suddenly there was nothing holding you up but instinct and want. Floating. Falling. The same thing, sometimes. His hands slid to your back, pulling you closer, and the sound that left him against your mouth was low, wrecked, like even he was surprised by the force of this.

You understood. Because kissing Heeseung felt like melting. Like sun-warmed skin slipping beneath water. Like losing the shape of yourself. Like becoming something softer, stranger, more dangerous. He kissed you like he was angry at how much he wanted to. You kissed him like you were tired of pretending you didn’t. And somewhere in the middle of it, all your carefully built walls, your rules, your boundaries, your clever little exits, went under like they had never been there at all.

His forehead rested against yours for one brief second, both of you breathing like you’d been running, like maybe you had. His thumb brushed your cheek. A tenderness so small it almost hurt more than the kiss. When he spoke, his voice was rough enough to sound like truth. “You make this impossible.” You smiled, breathless, your lips still close enough to steal.

“So do you.” Then his mouth was on yours again, and whatever was left of reason disappeared with the tide.

—

The rain started sometime after midnight. By morning, Jeju Island had turned silver. The sky hung low and heavy over the coastline, clouds blurring the horizon until the ocean and the storm became one endless sheet of grey-blue. Rain slid steadily down the windows in soft crooked lines, tapping against rooftops and palm leaves and the quiet little streets of the neighborhood with the kind of patience only summer storms possessed.

Everything felt slower in the rain. Softer. The beach emptied. Yacht plans were cancelled. The marina sat abandoned except for boats rocking gently against their docks like sleeping animals. For the first time all summer, the town stopped performing. And somehow, that felt dangerous too. You woke late to the sound of thunder somewhere far away, curled beneath your sheets with damp air drifting through the cracked window. Your phone rested beside your pillow, screen lighting softly against the grey room.

A text.

power’s out at our house.

Then, a second later:

mom says yours still has electricity

And finally:

tragic. devastating. i’ll survive somehow.

You stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary. Then sighed. Because despite everything, despite all your promises to yourself about boundaries and self-preservation and not becoming the kind of girl who let boys ruin her summer, you were already smiling. An hour later, Heeseung arrived at your front door soaked from the rain.

Not drenched dramatically. Just enough that dark strands of hair clung messily to his forehead, rainwater catching along the line of his jaw and disappearing beneath the collar of his sweatshirt. The storm had turned the whole world softer around the edges, and standing there beneath the muted grey sky, he looked less like the polished golden boy everyone knew and more like something real. Your mother let him in with entirely too much enthusiasm. “Oh good,” she said brightly, already walking back toward the kitchen. “Now you can both stop pretending you don’t miss each other.”

“Mom,” you warned. Heeseung coughed into his sleeve to hide a smile. Rain followed him inside in traces, the smell of wet pavement and ocean wind clinging faintly to him as he stepped into the warmth of the house. For a moment, neither of you moved. No parties. No music. No late-night tension sharp enough to cut through.

Just quiet. The kind that made you suddenly aware of ordinary things. The soft ticking of rain against the windows. The oversized sweatshirt hanging off his shoulders. The fact that he looked at home here. That realization unsettled you more than it should have. The day unfolded slowly after that. Not exciting. Not dramatic. And maybe that was why it mattered.

You spent most of the afternoon in the living room while the storm darkened outside, half-watching terrible movies neither of you cared about. Your legs stretched across the couch beneath a blanket, his shoulder brushing yours every so often in that absent, thoughtless way intimacy sometimes arrived. At some point, your mother disappeared upstairs with a suspicious smile and the kind of timing that deserved investigation.

The rain deepened. Hours passed unnoticed. You learned strange things about each other in the quiet. Not the big things. Not the carefully curated versions people offered at parties. Small things. Real things. Heeseung hated peaches because he got sick eating too many as a kid one summer. You used to fake injuries during tennis lessons because you hated losing more than you liked sports.

He still remembered the time you punched a boy at thirteen for making Eunchae cry near the marina. “You broke his nose,” he recalled from the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand.

“He deserved worse.” “You were terrifying.” “I still am.” A smile touched his mouth then. Soft. Unthinking. Rainlight filled the room pale and blue around him, and suddenly the years between childhood and now felt strangely thin. Like maybe you had always been circling each other. Like maybe every version of yourselves had led here eventually. Later, thunder rolled low across the coastline while you sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch, flipping through an old photo album your mother had abandoned on the shelf years ago. 

Bad idea. There were photographs everywhere. Sunburnt summers. Beach days. Bonfires. All of you impossibly young. You paused on one picture, eight years old, missing front teeth, shoving Heeseung into the sand while he laughed hard enough to blur in the frame. Your chest tightened unexpectedly. “We look awful.”

“We look happy,” he corrected quietly. The room fell still after that. Outside, rainwater slid endlessly down the glass. Inside, something shifted. Not loudly, just enough to feel it. He sat down beside you on the floor, close enough that warmth gathered between you naturally. The photo album rested forgotten between your knees. And for the first time since this began, it didn’t feel like war. No tension sharpened into cruelty. No sarcasm waiting like a weapon.

Just this strange, aching softness neither of you knew how to hold. You turned another page slowly. Another photograph. Older this time. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. A summer party. You standing near the water laughing at something outside the frame while Heeseung looked at you instead. Not the camera. You. Your breath caught slightly. “You kept this?” He glanced down at the picture. Then away. Your pulse stumbled. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

His jaw shifted faintly. For a second, you thought he might dodge the question. Turn it into a joke. Deflect the way he always did whenever things came too close to honesty. Instead, his voice came quieter than you expected. “I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve spent a long time trying not to.”

The rain outside seemed to hush around the words. You looked at him carefully. Something vulnerable flickered there beneath all the practiced ease. Something raw enough to make your own chest ache in response. And suddenly you understood something terrifying, this was no longer just desire. Desire was simpler.

This, whatever this was becoming, had roots. Deep ones. You looked back down at the photograph because meeting his eyes felt too dangerous. “I used to hate summers here,” you admitted softly. The confession surprised even you. He looked at you then. “Why?” You traced your thumb along the edge of the page.

“Because everything always ended.” The words settled heavily between you, summer romances, bonfires, fireworks, warm nights, every beautiful thing in Jeju Island came with an expiration date stitched into it from the beginning, and suddenly, without meaning to, you had said something true. Something too true. You felt him shift closer beside you. Not touching. Almost worse.

For one suspended moment, it felt like standing at the edge of another confession, like both of you could ruin yourselves completely if you kept talking, so neither of you did. Cowards.

By evening, the storm had softened into a quiet drizzle. The whole house glowed warm against the rain-dark world outside, lamps casting amber light across the living room while distant thunder faded somewhere beyond the ocean. You’d lost track of time entirely. Dinner had happened somewhere in between conversation and silence and accidental touches that lasted too long. And now he stood near the front door pulling his sweatshirt back on while you lingered barefoot by the hallway, neither of you acknowledging how reluctant this felt. The rain tapped softly against the windows.

He looked tired. You probably did too. For one dangerous second, you almost asked him to stay. You could feel the question there, hovering at the back of your throat. Stay, not because of sex, not because of loneliness. Just, stay, and somehow that made it infinitely more frightening, across from you, he hesitated too, his hand resting on the doorknob, eyes on yours. Like he almost wanted to ask, but neither of you moved.

Because asking would mean admitting this had already crossed into something neither of you knew how to survive. So instead, he opened the door. Cool rain air slipped inside. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said quietly. Not later. Tomorrow. Something about that felt dangerously permanent. You nodded once.

“Yeah.” He left. And somehow the house felt emptier after. You stood there for a long moment listening to the rain before your mother appeared behind you carrying two mugs of tea. She looked toward the door knowingly, then back at you. “You know,” she said lightly, “summer’s ending soon.”

The words hit like cold water. Suddenly, the room felt too small. Too warm. Your heartbeat stumbled somewhere beneath your ribs. Because for the first time all summer, the ending no longer felt theoretical. It felt real. And terrifyingly close.

Summer began leaving in pieces. Not all at once. That would have been kinder. Instead, Jeju Island unraveled slowly, quietly, like a tide pulling back from shore before anyone realized the water was disappearing. The marina grew emptier first. Boats vanished from their slips one by one, carried back toward cities and obligations and real lives waiting elsewhere. Beach houses that had glowed warm every night for months slowly darkened at the windows. Suitcases appeared in entryways. Goodbyes drifted through the neighborhood in soft, temporary promises.

See you next summer.

As if next summer was guaranteed. As if people stayed the same long enough for promises like that to survive. The air changed too, still warm, but thinner somehow, the evenings arriving earlier, sunsets softer, touched already by the melancholy of something ending, even the ocean looked different, darker blue, quieter, less forgiving. You hated noticing it, because noticing meant acknowledging the clock, and the clock meant him, everything suddenly seemed measured in remaining time, three more Friday nights, two more yacht parties, a handful of mornings left before the entire town dissolved back into memory. 

Your arrangement had always come with an expiration date stitched into it. Ends with summer. At the beginning, the rule had felt safe, now it felt like standing beneath a blade waiting to fall. You started sleeping badly after that, not because of him, because of the way he had started looking at you. More carefully, more openly, like somewhere along the way, he had grown tired of pretending.

It happened in small moments at first, his hand lingering too long at your waist before letting go, the way his gaze searched for you automatically in crowded rooms now, no hesitation, no embarrassment about it, how he no longer acted surprised by tenderness, as though caring had become instinctive, dangerous, dangerous things. And worst of all, he had stopped treating this like it was temporary.

You noticed it one evening at the beach. The sky had gone pale gold with approaching sunset, the shoreline nearly empty except for scattered locals and gulls drifting low over the water. You sat wrapped in one of his hoodies, knees pulled loosely to your chest while the tide crept closer across the sand. Heeseung sat beside you quietly, one arm draped over his bent knee, watching the horizon.

Comfortable silence stretched between you. The kind that should have felt peaceful. Instead, it terrified you, because this wasn’t supposed to become comfortable. Comfort implied permanence. Permanence implied loss. “You’re thinking too loudly,” he murmured eventually.

You glanced at him. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you get this look on your face when you’re spiraling.” You looked away too quickly. The ocean breathed in and out before you answered. “I’m not spiraling.”

“You started reorganizing the snacks in my kitchen alphabetically yesterday.”

“That was stress cleaning.”

“That was psychotic.” A faint smile touched your mouth despite yourself. His gaze softened when he saw it. There it was again, that look, something gentler, something infinitely more frightening. Your chest tightened.

You stood abruptly before the feeling could settle properly. “I should go.” The shift was immediate. You saw him notice it in real time, the distance, the retreat, his expression changed carefully, like someone stepping onto unstable ground. “You just got here.”

“I know.” Rain clouds gathered faintly over the horizon, turning the water darker beneath the evening light. You avoided his eyes while brushing sand from your legs, because lately every time you looked at him too long, something inside you started giving way, and you couldn’t afford that, not now, not with endings everywhere. The drive home was quiet. not tense, worse, careful, as though both of you could feel something fraying between your hands and neither knew how to stop pulling. After that, it became impossible not to notice. How often he reached for you now. How naturally your lives had begun folding together. How every goodbye felt heavier than the last.

And the more real he became, the more frightened you grew. So you started pulling away, subtly at first, taking longer to answer texts, leaving earlier, skipping late-night visits with excuses thin enough that even you didn’t believe them, too tired, family dinner, headache, lies, all of them, because the truth sounded too ugly to admit aloud: You were beginning to love him, and loving someone with an end date felt like volunteering for heartbreak in advance. He noticed immediately, of course he did, he had always known you too well.

One night at Sunoo’s house, while music drifted softly through crowded rooms and everyone else played cards half-drunk around the kitchen island, you felt his eyes on you from across the room almost constantly, not possessive, not angry, trying to understand, which somehow hurt worse. You laughed too brightly at things that weren’t funny. Let conversations distract you. Pretended not to see the way his jaw tightened every time you slipped further away from him. By midnight, the tension between you had become unbearable.

You found him eventually outside on the balcony overlooking the ocean, moonlight silvering the sharp edges of his profile. The wind moved softly through the dark. Neither of you spoke immediately. There was too much sitting between you now. Finally, he turned. “You’ve been avoiding me.” Not accusatory. Just tired. You crossed your arms tightly against yourself. “I’ve been busy.”

A pause. Then quietly, “That’s not true.” Something sharp moved through your chest. Because no matter how carefully you built distance, Heeseung always walked straight through it. You looked out toward the water instead, far easier than looking at him. The ocean below looked endless tonight, cold, restless. “I just think maybe we forgot what this was supposed to be.” The silence after that felt dangerous. When he spoke again, his voice had gone lower. “And what exactly was it supposed to be?” You swallowed, temporary, easy, nothing, but none of those words fit anymore. Not after rainy afternoons and forehead kisses and sleeping beside each other until sunrise, not after the way he looked at you now. 

You could feel him watching you carefully, waiting, and suddenly the pressure of it became unbearable, the ending hanging over everything, the fear curling tighter around your ribs every day this became more real, because if you admitted what this was becoming, then losing it would destroy you. So instead, you stepped backward emotionally the way frightened people always do. “You said it yourself,” you murmured. “This ends with summer.”

His expression shifted, hurt, this time, barely hidden, “And that’s all you want?” You opened your mouth, nothing came out, because the answer existed, because it terrified you. The wind moved cold against your skin, below you, waves crashed endlessly against the shore, over and over, like something trying desperately to return to land. He stared at you for a long moment. Then finally asked, softly enough to hurt, “What are we doing?”

The question hung there between you, not angry, not dramatic, honest, and honesty had become the most dangerous thing between the two of you. You looked at him, really looked, at the exhaustion in his eyes, the hope he was trying not to show, the terrifying possibility of being loved back. Your throat tightened painfully. But fear arrived faster, fear always did.

So instead of answering, you stayed silent, and in that silence, something began to break.

—

The storm rolled in after midnight, it didn't rain at first, just pressure, heavy clouds swallowing the sky whole, the air turning electric and difficult to breathe. Wind moved through Jeju Island in restless waves, rattling windows and palm trees and the fragile remains of your composure. You hadn’t slept. Couldn’t.

His question kept replaying in your head like something unfinished. What are we doing? You had no answer that didn’t terrify you. So instead, you spent hours pacing your room while lightning flickered faintly beyond the ocean horizon, illuminating the walls in brief silver flashes. Coward.

The word followed you everywhere now, by one in the morning, your thoughts had become unbearable, by one-thirty, you were walking toward his house through the storm, barefoot, sweatshirt pulled tight around yourself, heart beating too hard.

The neighborhood lay silent beneath the dark sky, every house asleep except his. Light still glowed beneath his bedroom door upstairs. Something inside your chest twisted painfully at that. Like some foolish part of you had hoped he’d be sleeping peacefully. Unaffected. But of course he wasn’t.

You knocked once before opening the door. He looked up immediately from the couch. And the moment your eyes met, you understood this was going to hurt. The room was dim except for one lamp near the window. Thunder murmured low outside, rain finally beginning against the glass in soft scattered drops. Heeseung stood slowly. Neither of you spoke at first.

The distance between you felt enormous. You hated it. You hated that you were the one who created it. “You came,” he said eventually. His voice sounded exhausted. You wrapped your arms around yourself tighter. “I couldn’t sleep.” Something unreadable moved across his face. For one dangerous second, it almost softened. Then he remembered. “What do you want me to say?”

There it was. No avoiding it now. Your pulse stumbled painfully. “I don’t know.” “That’s the problem.” The words landed harder than they should have. Thunder rolled somewhere closer now. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through the calm he’d been holding together for days. “I feel like I’m standing outside a locked door with you lately.”

You looked away immediately. Because if you looked at him too long, you would fold. “You’re making this more serious than it is.” Even saying it felt wrong. You could hear the lie rotting underneath the sentence. So could he, his laugh this time sounded hollow.

“Seriously?” You swallowed hard. “This was supposed to be simple.” “Simple?” His voice sharpened suddenly. “You think any of this has felt simple?” Rain hit harder against the windows. The room felt smaller now. Too warm. Too full of things neither of you knew how to survive. You took a step backward instinctively, he noticed, of course he noticed, and something inside him finally snapped.

“I’m tired,” he said quietly, “of pretending I don’t care.” Silence, the words settled into the room like lightning striking water, there it was, the thing both of you had spent all summer running from, not hidden anymore, not softened into implication, real. You stared at him, your heart hurt so badly it almost felt physical, because part of you had wanted this, wanted him to say it, and another part, the larger, more frightened part, wanted to run until your lungs gave out.

Loving someone meant they could leave. Summer always left. You knew that better than anyone. So fear reached for cruelty the way drowning people reached for air. You laughed softly. Wrong move. His expression changed immediately. You felt your own panic rising now, wild and sharp and impossible to control. “This was never supposed to mean anything.”

The second the words left your mouth, you wanted them back. Too late. Silence. Not dramatic. Worse. Stillness. You watched the hurt move across his face slowly, like something extinguishing. His eyes lost warmth first, then softness, then hope, and suddenly the room felt freezing. He nodded once, a small movement.

“Right,” he said quietly. “Got it.” You opened your mouth instantly. Nothing came out. Because the truth was trapped somewhere beneath all your fear, clawing at your ribs too late. He grabbed his keys from the counter. Didn’t look at you again. Thunder cracked outside just as he reached the door. “Heeseung—”

He stopped. For one second, hope flared painfully inside you again. Then he spoke without turning around. “I think,” he said softly, “I deserved better than that.” And left. The door shut behind him with terrifying finality. You stood there frozen while rain hammered against the windows and the storm swallowed the coastline whole. For the first time all summer, he didn’t come back, and afterward came silence. 

No texts. No late-night knocks at your window. No headlights outside your house. Nothing. Just absence. Cold and endless as the sea. After Heeseung left, summer collapsed in on itself. Not dramatically. No thunder. No shattered glasses. No cinematic unraveling loud enough for the world to notice. Just absence. Quiet and creeping and everywhere.

It settled over Jeju Island like fog rolling in from the ocean, slipping beneath doors and into lungs and through the spaces between ordinary things until everything familiar felt wrong. The beach became unbearable first. You still went sometimes out of habit, carrying books you never opened, towels that stayed folded beside you untouched. The shoreline stretched wide and glittering beneath the August sun, beautiful in the same indifferent way it had always been, but now it felt hollow somehow.

Like a photograph of somewhere you used to belong. Everywhere you looked, there were ghosts of him. Near the dunes where he had first kissed you like he was starving. At the marina docks where moonlight had turned his honesty into something dangerous. On the stretch of sand where he’d once laughed at you for trying to fight the tide after too much tequila and too little dignity. You kept expecting to see him.

Leaning against the lifeguard tower. Walking toward you through the surf. Looking at you the way he always did lately, like he had already memorized every version of your face. But the spaces stayed empty, and somehow emptiness had weight.

The parties weren’t any better. Without him, they felt exposed somehow. Too loud. Too artificial. Music thumping against hollow spaces where your heartbeat used to live. Champagne too sweet. Laughter arriving half a second too late to feel real. You drifted through them like someone haunting her own life.

People noticed, of course they did. Sunoo stopped cornering you with gossip and instead watched you carefully whenever you thought nobody was looking. Eunchae started hugging you too tightly before leaving parties. Even Yunjin, who usually treated emotional devastation like a spectator sport, went strangely quiet around you. One evening near the bonfire, while everyone else sat tangled in conversation and salt air and late-summer exhaustion, Sunghoon settled beside you silently with two drinks. You accepted one without looking at him.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked softly before him. The ocean breathed dark beyond the shoreline. Then finally, “You look miserable.” No judgment. Just fact. You let out a quiet laugh that sounded closer to breaking. “I’m fine.”

“Right.” The word carried enough disbelief to hurt. You stared down at the bottle in your hands. “You know,” he said after a moment, “you’re the first thing he’s ever taken seriously.” Your chest tightened immediately. You looked at him then. Sunghoon kept his gaze fixed on the fire. “He acts like nothing matters most of the time,” he continued quietly. “But you did.”

Past tense. The word sliced through you before you could stop it. You swallowed hard. The fire blurred faintly. “He won’t even come out with us anymore,” Sunghoon admitted. “Jay says he’s been packing.” Packing. Something cold moved through your ribs.

You looked away quickly toward the ocean because suddenly breathing felt difficult. Summer had always ended. You knew that. You had built your entire heart around that truth years ago. Nothing beautiful stayed. Not beach towns. Not warm nights. Not people. Especially not people.

But somehow, somewhere between the rainstorm and the yacht and the way he remembered your coffee order, you had forgotten. Or maybe you had simply hoped he would become the exception. That realization arrived slowly over the following days. Not all at once. In fragments. You missed him in stupid ways first. Reaching automatically for your phone after something funny happened.

Turning toward the empty seat beside you at dinner before remembering. Still wearing one of his hoodies to sleep because taking it off felt too much like admitting he was gone. You found traces of him everywhere. In your routines. In your silences. In yourself.

And the worst part was understanding that this grief did not feel temporary. It rooted itself deeper every day. One afternoon, rain threatened faintly over the coastline while you wandered through town half-distracted, passing storefronts already packing away summer displays. Towels disappearing from racks, souvenir stands closing early, seasonal flowers wilting slowly in the heat. August ending in real time. You paused outside the small café near the marina where you and Heeseung had once hidden from the heat for nearly two hours, sharing iced coffees and childhood stories neither of you had meant to tell.

You remembered the way he’d looked at you across the table that day, soft, unarmed. Like loving you had happened quietly when he wasn’t paying attention. The realization hit then, simple, terrible. Oh. This is love. Not infatuation, not summer lust, not convenience sharpened into attachment. Love.

Real enough to hollow you out. Real enough to ruin everything else afterward. You leaned against the storefront window, eyes burning suddenly. Horrible, absolutely horrible, because now you understood why everything felt wrong without him. He had become stitched into the shape of your summer so completely that removing him tore pieces out alongside it.

And worse, you had done this. Fear had done this. You replayed the fight endlessly afterward, every cruel sentence tasting more poisonous each time you remembered it. This was never supposed to mean anything. You had watched those words break him in real time, and still you’d said them. Coward.

By the final week of August, panic settled fully into your bloodstream. You started looking for him without meaning to. Driving past the Lee house too slowly. Watching the beach at sunset. Checking your phone at two in the morning like your body still expected him to return eventually. He never did. The silence between you became its own kind of violence. Finally, the worst part.

It happened accidentally. Your mother stood in the kitchen arranging flowers while late afternoon sunlight spilled gold across the countertops. Outside, cicadas buzzed lazily in the heat, summer sounding exhausted now. You barely listened until she said, “I saw Mrs. Lee earlier.” Something inside you immediately sharpened.

“Oh?” “She said Heeseung’s leaving tomorrow morning.” The world stopped. Your hand froze halfway around your coffee mug. “What?” Your mother glanced up, surprised by the sudden rawness in your voice. “He’s heading back early. Something about work starting sooner in Seoul this year.” Tomorrow. The word crashed through you like cold seawater. Tomorrow meant this was real. Tomorrow meant endings.

Tomorrow meant there was suddenly almost no time left to fix the thing you had destroyed with your own hands. Your pulse turned violent beneath your skin. Outside the window, the ocean stretched blue and endless beyond the cliffs, glittering beneath the fading August light. Beautiful. Temporary. Already slipping away.

—

The next morning arrived too bright. Cruel sunlight flooded Jeju Island in sheets of gold, the ocean glittering innocently beneath the sky like yesterday had not split your heart open. Everything looked painfully beautiful in the way endings often did.

You barely slept. Every hour had passed tangled in panic and memory and the unbearable realization that if you let him leave now, this would become one of those tragedies people carried forever.  The kind stitched permanently beneath your ribs. By nine in the morning, your hands were shaking. By nine-fifteen, you were in your car.

You drove too fast down the coastline road, sunlight flashing violently through the trees, your heartbeat louder than the music still playing faintly through the speakers. Wind rushed through the open windows carrying salt and heat and the last dying breath of summer. Your mind replayed him endlessly. The rainstorm. The yacht. The forehead kiss. The way he had looked at you like you were something worth staying soft for.

The moment his face went cold after your cruelty. You gripped the steering wheel harder. Not this. Please not this. The marina came into view suddenly beyond the cliffs, boats swaying gently beneath the sunlight. People moved lazily along the docks carrying luggage and coffees and ordinary lives. Heeseung. Standing near the end of the dock beside one of the ferries heading toward the mainland.

White T-shirt. Dark sunglasses. One duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Leaving. The sight hit you so hard you nearly forgot to breathe. For one terrible second, fear almost won again. Turn around. Protect yourself. Pretend this never mattered. Then he glanced up. Saw you. And everything stopped. You barely remembered getting out of the car. Only the sound of your footsteps against the dock, the ocean below, your pulse roaring loud enough to drown the gulls overhead.

He straightened slowly as you approached, no smile, no anger either, just exhaustion, like he had finally become tired of hoping, that hurt most. You stopped a few feet away from him, sunlight breaking across the water between you both. Neither of you spoke at first.

Words suddenly felt impossibly small compared to everything sitting between your ribs. Finally, he exhaled quietly, “You came.” The simplicity of it nearly broke you, no accusation, no bitterness, just surprise, your throat tightened painfully. “I had to.” The wind moved softly around you, carrying warmth off the ocean.

He looked at you carefully then, like he was trying not to expect too much, and suddenly you realized something devastating, if you stayed silent now, you would lose him forever, no more pride, no more running, just truth, your eyes burned. “I was scared,” you admitted first. The words came rough, fragile around the edges. Heeseung stayed perfectly still. So you kept going before courage disappeared again.

“I think…” You swallowed hard. “I think I knew what this was becoming before you did. And it terrified me because everything here ends eventually and I didn’t know how to love someone without already grieving them.” His expression shifted slightly. You stepped closer. “I said those things because I thought if I ruined this first, it would hurt less when summer ended.”

Your voice cracked embarrassingly on the last word. The ocean blurred faintly behind him. “But it already hurts,” you whispered. “It hurts all the time.” Silence. Not empty. Listening. You looked at him fully then, no defenses left anywhere inside you. “I was stupid.” A breath. “And cruel.” Another. “And completely in love with you.”

Just love. Messy and terrifying and real enough to destroy you if he rejected it. Your chest ached violently waiting for him to say something. Anything. Heeseung stared at you for a long moment that felt endless beneath the August sun. Then finally, he laughed softly, not mockingly, disbelieving, like he had spent the entire summer waiting for a miracle and couldn’t quite believe it had arrived, you frowned immediately through the tears threatening your eyes. “That’s your reaction?”

He stepped closer. Close enough now that you could see the exhaustion beneath his eyes, the relief slowly undoing it. “I’ve been waiting all summer for you to admit that,” he said quietly. Idiot. You made a broken sound halfway between a laugh and a sob before grabbing the front of his shirt and kissing him, hard, desperate enough to make up for every moment you wasted being afraid. His hands found your waist instantly, pulling you against him with something almost painful in its urgency, and suddenly the entire world dissolved into sunlight and saltwater and relief.

The kiss felt different now, not drowning, not war, like finally reaching shore after spending months lost at sea, his forehead rested against yours when you finally pulled apart, both of you breathing unevenly beneath the burning light. “You are unbelievably difficult,” he murmured.

You laughed wetly. “You stayed anyway.” “Yeah,” he admitted softly. “I did.” Around you, the marina continued moving, boats departing, gulls crying overhead, summer ending one irreversible second at a time. But for the first time since this began, nothing about this felt temporary anymore.

—

The late afternoon light filtered through the curtains of Heeseung’s bedroom, casting a golden haze over tangled sheets and bare skin. Months had passed since that messy night, since the angry kisses and the “this was a mistake” lies. What started as stolen moments and stubborn denial had slowly, stubbornly, become something real.

Now, you were exactly where you belonged, underneath him, legs locked around his waist as he moved inside you with deep, unhurried strokes. Every thrust pulled a fresh sound from your throat. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, back arching as pleasure coiled tight in your core. “Heeseung— mmph!” Your cry was muffled as he leaned down and kissed you, slow and filthy, his tongue sliding against yours while his hips kept that devastating rhythm. Heeseung chuckled warmly against your mouth, the vibration sending sparks through your body. He kissed you once more, softer this time, then pressed his lips gently to your forehead, lingering there as he stayed buried deep inside you.

Still teasing. Still chaos. Still both completely insufferable. But now it was real. He pulled back just enough to look at you, sweat-damp hair falling over his eyes, that signature smirk playing on his lips even while he was still pulsing inside you. “Thought I told you not to fall in love with me,” he murmured, voice low and rough with affection.

You smiled up at him, glowing and utterly wrecked, your hand coming up to brush his hair back.

“Thought I told you not to call.” Heeseung let out a genuine laugh, the kind that made your chest feel too full. He rolled his hips once more, slow and deep, drawing a soft gasp from you before stilling again. “Yeah, well… I never was good at listening,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “That night after the party, when I texted you to come over… I told myself it was just one more mistake. One more time and we’d get it out of our systems.”

You raised an eyebrow, tracing your fingers down his spine. “And how’s that working out for you?” “Terribly,” he admitted, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Because every time you walked away, I kept thinking about you. Every summer. Every fight. Every time you looked at me like you wanted to kill me and kiss me at the same time.”

He shifted slightly, still deep inside you, and rested his forehead against yours. “I kept telling myself not to fall. And then you showed up at my door the next morning anyway. Stubborn as hell. Beautiful as ever.” You laughed softly, tightening your legs around him. “You’re the one who kept calling. Kept texting. Kept pulling me back in.”

Heeseung’s eyes softened, that rare vulnerable look breaking through the cocky exterior. “Because I couldn’t stop. Even when I tried.” His thumb stroked your cheek. “Guess I’m the idiot who fell first.” The room felt smaller, warmer, wrapped in golden light and years of history finally settling into place. All the almosts, the what-ifs, the angry almost-kisses on balconies and beaches, they had led here. To this. You pulled him down into another kiss, slow and sweet this time, savoring the way he melted against you.

When you broke apart, Heeseung froze for half a second, then broke into the brightest, most boyish grin you’d ever seen on him.“That’s what this whole thing has been, hasn’t it? One long, messy ‘maybe’ that turned into forever.” You nodded, eyes shining. “No more mistakes. No more running. Just us.”

“Just us,” he echoed. He kissed you again, deeper, hungrier, and started moving inside you once more, slow and intentional, like he was sealing the words into your skin. The laughter faded into soft moans and whispered names, the two of you losing yourselves in each other one more time.

Later, as the sun dipped lower and you lay tangled together under the sheets, Heeseung’s fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare back, he pressed one last kiss to your shoulder.

“So… Call Me Maybe?” he asked, smirking.

You grinned. “Only if you promise to always pick up.”

“Deal.”

It started with a single encrypted email on a cold Monday morning in your quiet Seoul apartment.

“Project Aether – Confidential Invitation. We need the best. Compensation: 850 million KRW for the first six months. Full NDAs required.”

You almost deleted it. But curiosity and the staggering amount of money made you attend the initial meeting.

Two days later, you were sitting in a sleek black conference room thirty floors underground, surrounded by men in suits who never smiled. They laid out the project clearly:

Seven carefully selected young men. All volunteers. All in peak physical and mental condition. All willing to undergo progressive human enhancement for the sake of national defense.

Your job was simple on paper: Observe. Document. Stabilize. Keep them sane while their bodies and minds were rewritten.

The money was life-changing. The risks were high. You asked every hard question. You read every risk assessment. You knew this was dangerous.

Still… you signed the contract with a big smile.

Week 2.

Enhancements had not truly begun yet.

You walked into Observation Room 4 with a bounce in your step, wearing your crisp white lab coat over a soft pastel blouse, hair tied in a neat but cute bun with a little ribbon. Tablet in one hand, a bright smile already on your face.

Behind the reinforced glass, Subject 01 was waiting.

Heeseung sat leaning back lazily, legs spread, black uniform fitting him perfectly. His sharp eyes lifted and locked onto you the second you entered.

You pressed the intercom button and waved cheerfully.

"Hi there! I'm Dr. Y/N," you said with an enthusiastic lilt in your voice. "I'll be your psychologist throughout the project! It's so nice to finally meet you, Heeseung. How are you feeling today?"

Heeseung stared at you for a long moment, clearly surprised by your energy. The corner of his mouth slowly lifted.

"So... you're the one they sent to babysit us while we go crazy?" His deep voice sent a little shiver down your spine, but you kept smiling.

You laughed softly, tilting your head.

"Not babysit! I'm here to support you and make sure you're mentally okay during all the changes. We're in this together, okay? Think of me as your friendly guide through all the science stuff!"

Heeseung's eyes darkened with interest as he leaned closer to the glass.

"You're really young... and way too bubbly for a place like this," he murmured, voice low. "Do you smile this much for all your subjects, Doctor?"

You grinned and shrugged playfully.

"Only for the ones who look like they need it! Now, let's start with some easy questions. How have you been sleeping? Any worries about the upcoming procedures?"

Heeseung chuckled, the sound rich and deep.

"I sleep better knowing someone as cute as you is watching over me."

You met the others over the next three days, bringing the same warm energy to every session.

With Jay, who was sharp and a little skeptical, you leaned forward excitedly.

"Jay! I've read your files. You're super smart. I love working with intelligent people! Tell me, how are you really feeling about all these tests?"

Jay raised an eyebrow, but his lips twitched.

"You always this cheerful, Doctor? Or are you secretly terrified of us?"

"Terrified? No way!" you laughed. "I'm excited! This project could help so many people one day. And I want to make the journey easier for all of you."

Jake immediately matched your energy with a bright grin of his own.

"Wow, Doctor, you're like actual sunshine," he said warmly. "Can I call you Y/N instead of Dr. Y/N? It feels friendlier."

You giggled. "Only during casual talks! But yes, I like friendly."

Sunghoon was quiet at first, just staring intensely. You didn't let the silence bother you.

"Sunghoon~ You have such cool visuals! Are you uncomfortable? Do you need anything to feel more relaxed during our talks?"

He finally spoke, voice low. "...You're not scared of me."

"Nope!" you said brightly. "I think we're going to get along great."

Sunoo melted a little at your sweetness.

"Dr. Y/N, you're so kind," he said softly, smiling back at you. "You really care, don't you?"

"Of course I do! That's why I'm here," you replied happily.

Jungwon watched you with calm intensity but answered your questions politely.

"You have a lot of energy, Doctor."

"I do!" you beamed. "Gotta keep the mood light, right?"

And Ni-ki was the most forward.

"Damn, Doctor. You're actually cute as hell," he grinned, fangs not yet present but his energy already wild. "I like you. When can we meet without the glass?"

You laughed, waving your hand.

"Patience, Ni-ki! Professional boundaries first, okay? But I promise I'll always be honest with you."

By the end of the first week, you had detailed profiles on all seven, but you also felt genuinely fond of them already.

You kept telling yourself they were subjects... but it was hard when they were all so interesting.

As the enhancements began, you watched everything through the observation glass.

First came muscle and bone density treatments. Week after week their bodies changed — shoulders broadening, muscles growing sharper and stronger. You noted every mood swing and wrote detailed reports, but you still visited them with the same bright energy.

The therapy sessions slowly grew more charged.

One day Heeseung leaned close to the glass, eyes intense. "Do you have a boyfriend waiting for you outside, Doctor?"

You blushed but laughed. "Hey! That's private information, Mr. Heeseung! Focus on you, not me~"

Jake teased you every session. "One real smile without the professional mask, please? Your smiles make my day better, Y/N."

Sunghoon stared longer and longer. One day he said quietly, "You smell nice today." His voice had a new, darker edge.

You giggled nervously but answered, "Thank you! I changed my body wash. Glad you noticed."

Their stares started changing. What used to be curiosity slowly turned into something hungrier, darker, more possessive.

By Month Four the final hormonal cocktail was administered. This phase pushed their strength, recovery speed, and primal instincts into overdrive.

That was when everything cracked.

Violent incidents started. Handlers were injured. The boys became restless and aggressive with everyone except when they heard your voice over the speakers.

You would speak in your usual bright but firm tone, "Hey guys, it's Dr. Y/N. Can you please calm down for me? I know it's hard, but I'm right here, okay? Breathe with me."

Every time, all seven of them would stop and listen.

Month Five.

You were called into an emergency meeting. The Director and Dr. Elias Voss showed you the footage. All seven subjects were in reinforced cells, pacing like predators. Their bodies were now much larger and more powerful. Their eyes had a faint glow and their teeth looked slightly sharper.

"They have imprinted on you, Dr. Y/N," the Director said seriously. "You are the only compatible Anchor. Without regular close contact with you, their minds become unstable and feral."

You stared at the screens. Heeseung was looking straight at the camera like he could see you.

Dr. Voss added gently, "We need you to become their official Anchor. You would live with them in the final habitat level. Daily proximity. Physical contact when needed. Your body would also receive minor modifications for safety and endurance. Their breeding instincts are extremely high now. This will not stay clinical."

The room was silent as you thought.

You bit your lip, then lifted your chin with bold determination.

"If my presence can really help stabilize them… if I can make a real difference here… then I'll do it. I'll become their Anchor."

You signed the new contract with steady hands, even though your heart was racing.

Three weeks after signing, you woke up slowly on the medical bed. Your body felt sore and strangely sensitive. Thick restraints held your wrists and ankles. IV lines were still in your arms. Your head throbbed lightly.

Dr. Elias Voss entered and helped unclip the restraints.

"Welcome back, Dr. Y/N. The synchronization was successful. Your body has been adjusted to better handle their pheromones and physical strength."

He turned the large glass wall transparent.

Your breath caught.

On the other side stood all seven of them in a luxurious common area. They looked completely transformed — taller, broader, radiating raw power. Their black uniforms stretched tight over powerful muscles. Their eyes glowed with open, dark hunger as they stared at you.

Heeseung stepped forward and pressed his large hand against the glass. His voice came through the speakers, low and rough.

"Finally… Our bubbly little Anchor is awake."

Jake smiled, but the look in his eyes was pure lust. "You smell even sweeter now, Y/N."

Sunghoon dragged his gaze slowly down your body, dark and unashamed.

Sunoo tilted his head with a sweet smile that didn't hide the hunger. "We missed you so much, Doctor."

Jungwon watched you like a leader claiming his prize. "Welcome to your new home with us."

Ni-ki smirked, fangs clearly visible. "Been waiting too long to get my hands on you properly."

Dr. Voss spoke quietly beside you. "Individual sessions begin tomorrow. Try to keep them calm as long as you can."

Heeseung's eyes burned into yours, dark and full of promise.

"Come to us soon, sunshine. We've been starving for you… in every way."

Your heart pounded hard. You felt nervous, but you also felt that spark inside you. You were no longer just their doctor.

You were their Anchor now.

And something much deeper, much more primal, had officially begun.

Dr. Elias Voss gave you a few hours to rest and adjust before the first session began. You changed into a fresh white lab coat over a soft lavender blouse and simple black pants, tied your hair into your usual cute bun with the little ribbon, and took a deep breath.

"Alright," you whispered to yourself with a small smile. "You've got this, Y/N. They're still the same guys... mostly."

When the door to the habitat level opened, the scent of warm cedarwood, something sweet, and raw masculine energy hit you all at once. The luxurious common area was massive — soft lighting, large couches, a full kitchen area, and an open gym space in the corner. It looked more like an expensive penthouse than a facility.

All seven of them were waiting.

The moment you stepped inside, their heads turned in perfect sync. The air instantly felt thicker.

You put on your brightest professional smile and waved.

"Hi everyone~! Good morning! Or... afternoon? I’m not sure what time it is anymore," you said with a soft laugh, trying to keep your voice light. "How are you all feeling today?"

Heeseung was the first to move. He walked straight toward you, slow and deliberate, until he was only a few steps away. Up close he looked even bigger than before. His shoulders were wider, his jaw sharper, and his eyes had a faint golden ring around the dark pupils.

"Sunshine," he said, voice low and rough. "You have no idea how good it feels to finally have you here without glass between us."

You tilted your head, still smiling even as your heart raced.

"Well, here I am! No more glass. But remember, we still have rules for the sessions. I’m here to help keep you stable, okay?"

Jake appeared beside Heeseung, smiling brightly but with clear hunger in his eyes.

"You smell incredible," he murmured. "Even better than before. Did they change something in you?"

You giggled nervously and took a small step back, opening your tablet.

"Maybe a little! Just to help with compatibility. Now, who wants to go first for their individual session?"

All seven of them stared at you like they wanted to be first.

Dr. Voss’s voice came through the hidden speakers.

"Start with Heeseung, Dr. Y/N. One hour sessions. We’ll be monitoring.

You led Heeseung into the private session room attached to the habitat. It was comfortable — two couches facing each other, soft lighting, and a small table. No glass. No barrier.

Heeseung sat down, legs spread wide, arms resting on the back of the couch as he watched you. You sat across from him, crossing your legs and smiling.

"So! Let’s begin like usual. How have you been feeling since the last round of enhancements? Any mood swings, headaches, or aggressive thoughts?"

Heeseung didn’t answer right away. His eyes slowly traveled from your ribbon down to your lips, then lower.

"I feel… hungry," he said finally. "All the time. Especially when I think about you."

You blinked but kept your bubbly tone.

"Hungry is pretty normal with the hormonal changes! We can work on ways to manage that. Maybe some meditation or—"

"Do you know what I think about when I’m hungry, Doctor?" he interrupted, leaning forward. His voice dropped. "I think about pulling you onto my lap and burying my face in your neck. I think about how soft you’d feel. How sweet you’d taste."

Your cheeks flushed pink. You laughed softly, trying to play it off while writing notes.

"Heeseung… that’s very direct," you said, still smiling but with a slightly higher pitch. "Those kinds of thoughts are part of the new instincts. We should talk about healthier outlets."

Heeseung smirked, dark and slow.

"You’re even cuter when you blush. Do you know how long we’ve waited to be this close to you?"

The rest of the session continued like that — you trying your best to guide the conversation back to clinical topics while Heeseung kept steering it toward you. How you smelled, how your voice affected him, how he wanted to touch your hair.

When the hour ended, he stood up and gently brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear before you could react. His fingers felt burning hot.

"Next time, I won’t be so polite, sunshine."

The next session was with Jake.

He was more playful but no less intense. The moment the door closed he moved closer on the couch, sitting only one seat away.

"You’re nervous," he said with a warm smile. "Your heart is beating fast. I can hear it."

You giggled and lightly tapped your tablet.

"Jake! Personal space, remember? And stop showing off your new super hearing."

He laughed, but his eyes stayed locked on you.

"I missed your laugh. The way you bounce when you walk. The little ribbon in your hair. Did you wear it for us?"

You touched the ribbon self-consciously.

"It’s just my usual style! Now tell me — any trouble controlling your strength lately?"

Jake reached out and gently took your hand, turning it over in his much larger one. His thumb stroked your wrist.

"My strength is fine. It’s the other instincts that are hard to control," he said softly. "I keep imagining pinning you down and filling you up until you can’t think straight. Until you’re carrying our scent."

Your breath hitched. You pulled your hand back gently but kept smiling.

"Jake… that’s the breeding instinct talking. We need to work on redirecting those thoughts."

He just grinned wider. "I don’t want to redirect them. I want you."

Sunghoon’s session was quieter but heavier.

He barely spoke for the first fifteen minutes, just staring at you with those icy yet burning eyes. When he finally talked, his voice was low.

"Come closer."

You shook your head with a playful smile. "We can talk just fine from here~"

"You’re scared I’ll lose control?" he asked.

"No. I trust you to behave during sessions," you replied cheerfully, even though your pulse was racing.

Sunghoon leaned forward.

"I want to bite you. Right here," he touched his own neck. "And then lick it better. Over and over."

You swallowed but kept your tone light. "Biting is… a strong urge. We should add that to the list of things to manage."

By the time you finished the first four sessions (Heeseung, Jake, Sunghoon, and Sunoo who was sweetly terrifying with how gently he described wanting to ruin you), you were exhausted but still smiling.

Dr. Voss met you in the small monitoring room.

"You’re doing well," he said. "They’re calmer than they’ve been in weeks. But their fixation is getting stronger. Tomorrow you’ll do sessions with Jungwon and Ni-ki."

You nodded, cheeks still warm.

"They’re very… intense now."

Voss gave you a careful look. "That’s only the beginning, Doctor. Their need for you physically is only going to grow."

That night you slept in your own assigned room inside the habitat level. The door locked from the outside for “safety.”

You lay in bed, heart still racing from all the things they had said to you during the day.

Through the wall, you could faintly hear low voices talking. Then a soft growl. Then Heeseung’s deep voice clearly saying.“Soon.”

You pulled the blanket higher, a strange mix of nervousness and warmth blooming in your chest.

This was going to be much harder than you thought.

The next morning you woke up feeling a little more refreshed but still flushed from yesterday’s sessions. You chose a soft mint green blouse under your white lab coat today and tied your hair in your signature cute bun with the small white ribbon. Taking a deep breath, you stepped into the common area with your usual bright energy.

"Good morning, everyone!" you called out cheerfully, holding your tablet. "I hope you all slept well. Who’s ready for today’s sessions?"

All seven of them were already gathered. Their eyes followed your every movement the second you appeared. The hunger from yesterday had not faded. If anything, it looked stronger.

Jungwon was the first for the day.

You led him into the private session room and sat down with a warm smile.

"Hi Jungwon~ Let’s start like always. How are you feeling after all the changes? Any new urges or difficulties controlling them?"

Jungwon sat across from you, posture straight and composed even though his eyes were anything but calm. He looked at you quietly for a long moment before speaking.

"You look tired, Doctor," he said softly. "Did you have trouble sleeping because of us?"

You laughed lightly and waved your hand.

"A little bit! It’s a new environment after all. But I’m okay! Now tell me about you."

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

"I keep thinking about you at night," he admitted, voice calm but heavy. "About how small you are compared to us now. How easily I could pick you up and put you wherever I want. How you would sound if I held you down and bred you full until you couldn’t move."

Your pen stopped moving for a second. You felt heat rush to your face but forced yourself to keep smiling.

"Those thoughts are very strong, Jungwon. That’s the new instincts working. We can try breathing techniques or—"

"I don’t want to control it," he interrupted gently but firmly. "I want to act on it. With you. All of us do."

He stared at you with quiet intensity, the kind that made it hard to look away.

You swallowed and wrote a few notes, keeping your voice bubbly.

"Well… we’ll work on finding a balance, okay? Step by step."

When the session ended, Jungwon stood up and gently touched the ribbon in your hair.

"This is cute," he murmured. "Makes me want to pull on it while I’m behind you."

You let out a surprised little giggle and stepped back.

"Boundaries, Jungwon!"

He just smiled softly before leaving.

Ni-ki’s session was the most chaotic.

The tall maknae walked into the room with a big smirk, immediately dropping onto the couch right next to you instead of across from you. His thigh pressed against yours.

"Ni-ki," you scolded playfully, scooting away. "Personal space, remember?"

He grinned, showing his sharp fangs.

"I’ve been waiting days to be this close to you, Doctor. Personal space is overrated."

You laughed despite the way your heart was racing and tried to start the session.

"Tell me about your energy levels. Any aggression spikes?"

"Only when I think about how long I’ve wanted to fuck you," he answered without hesitation. "I want to put you on all fours and mount you like an animal. I want to bite your neck while I fill you up. Over and over until you’re dripping with me."

Your cheeks burned bright red. You covered your face with the tablet for a second before peeking over it with a shy but determined smile.

"Ni-ki! You can’t just say things like that so casually!"

"Why not?" he asked, leaning even closer. "You smell so fucking good when you’re embarrassed. It makes me harder."

You stood up quickly, still trying to keep things light.

"Okay! Maybe we should continue this session with you sitting on the other couch, yeah?"

He laughed but obeyed, though his eyes never left your body for the rest of the hour. He kept teasing you with filthy comments wrapped in that playful tone until you were a flustered mess by the end.

After all individual sessions were done, Dr. Voss announced through the speakers that you could have group time in the common area for the rest of the evening.

You joined them for dinner. The table was full of food specially prepared for their enhanced bodies. You sat down and tried to keep the mood bright.

"Wow, this looks delicious! Let’s eat a lot, okay? You all need the energy."

They ate while watching you. The conversation started normal but quickly turned dangerous again.

Sunoo, who had been the gentlest during his session, suddenly spoke while staring at your neck.

"Your skin looks so soft, Doctor. I keep imagining how it would look with my marks all over it."

Jake reached over and lightly touched the back of your hand.

"You’re blushing again. It’s cute."

Heeseung, sitting at the head of the table, spoke in his deep voice.

"You’re doing well, sunshine. Staying so cheerful even though we keep telling you how badly we want to ruin you."

You took a sip of water and smiled, though your voice was a little breathy.

"I’m here to help you, not to run away. We can handle this together."

Jay smirked from across the table.

"You say that now. But when all seven of us lose control at the same time… even someone as bubbly as you might have trouble keeping up."

The table went quiet for a moment. The air felt thick with tension.

You stood up with a bright smile, trying to ease the atmosphere.

"Alright! Who wants to play a board game? We should do something fun to relax!"

A few of them agreed, but as the night went on, they kept finding small ways to get closer to you. Heeseung sat right beside you on the couch. Ni-ki kept brushing his leg against yours. Sunghoon stared at your lips like he wanted to devour them.

By the time you went back to your private room and locked the door, your legs felt weak and your mind was spinning with everything they had said to you.

You changed into your sleep clothes and lay in bed, heart beating fast.

Through the wall, you could hear them talking in low voices. Then a soft, deep growl echoed.

Heeseung’s voice carried clearly,"She’s holding on so well… but not for long."

Another voice (you thought it was Jay) answered,"I give it a few more days before we can’t hold back anymore."

You pulled the blanket up to your chin, breathing a little faster.

A strange warmth had started spreading through your body. You weren’t sure if it was just nervousness…

…or something the facility had changed in you.

The next few days followed a similar routine, but the tension in the habitat kept rising.

Every morning you walked into the common area with your bright smile, cute ribbon in your hair, and fresh lab coat, trying your best to keep things professional and light.

"Good morning, my favorite seven!" you sang out cheerfully on the sixth day. "Who’s ready for today’s check-ins? I brought some new calming exercises we can try together!"

They were all waiting again. Their stares had grown bolder. More possessive.

Heeseung’s eyes lingered on your legs. Jake licked his lips slowly. Ni-ki looked like he wanted to pounce.

You did group sessions that morning instead of individual ones. All seven of them sat in the large circle with you in the brightly lit therapy room.

"Today we’re going to talk about managing instincts," you said, clapping your hands with enthusiasm. "I know the new urges are very strong, but we can find healthy ways to—"

"Can we touch you?" Sunoo asked sweetly, cutting you off. His angelic smile made the question sound almost innocent.

You blinked. "For… therapeutic reasons?"

Jungwon answered calmly, "Physical contact helps stabilize us. That’s what the doctors said, right?"

You hesitated for a second but nodded, keeping your bubbly tone.

"Okay, but only hands and arms for now. And be gentle!"

That was all the permission they needed.

Heeseung immediately pulled you closer until you were sitting between him and Jay on the big couch. His large hand settled on your thigh, thumb slowly stroking the fabric of your pants.

"Soft," he murmured near your ear. "Even softer than I imagined."

Jake took your left hand and placed it on his chest.

"Feel that?" he asked. "My heart beats faster when you’re close."

You laughed nervously, cheeks turning pink, but tried to continue the session.

"See? This is good. Grounding touch can help lower aggression. Now let’s talk about—"

Sunghoon, sitting on the floor in front of you, suddenly rested his head on your knee. His hand wrapped around your calf possessively.

"You’re warm," he said quietly. "Smell so fucking good."

You swallowed hard but kept smiling.

"Sunghoon, that’s nice, but maybe a little higher than the knee would be better—"

He ignored you and gently pressed his nose against your thigh, inhaling deeply.

Ni-ki groaned from the other side. "Hyung, stop hogging her. I want a turn too."

The next hour became less of a therapy session and more of them finding excuses to touch you. Fingers brushing your waist. Hands playing with the ends of your hair. Jungwon gently tugging your ribbon while whispering how he wanted to use it to tie your wrists.

You were flushed and slightly breathless by the end.

"Alright! That’s enough physical contact for today," you announced, standing up quickly. "Great progress everyone!"

But your voice was a little higher than usual.

Later that evening, they convinced you to watch a movie together in the common area.

You sat on the massive sectional sofa with a big bowl of popcorn, trying to act normal. Within ten minutes, you somehow ended up in the middle of all of them.

Heeseung had his arm around your shoulders. Jake’s hand rested on your knee. Sunoo was playing with your fingers. Ni-ki kept nuzzling into your hair whenever he laughed.

Halfway through the movie, Jay leaned in and spoke lowly against your ear.

"Your scent is driving us insane, you know that?"

You turned your head, still trying to keep it light. "It’s just the shampoo I—"

"No," Jay interrupted, eyes dark. "It’s you. Sweet. Fertile. Ready."

Your breath hitched.

Heeseung’s hand on your shoulder tightened slightly as he added, "We can smell how your body is changing too. The facility made you more sensitive, didn’t they?"

You bit your lip and tried to focus on the movie, but your heart was racing.

"I’m… I’m just here to help you stay stable," you said softly, voice a little shaky but still warm.

Sunghoon, on your other side, suddenly pulled you onto his lap in one smooth motion. You let out a surprised squeak.

"Sunghoon!"

"Stay," he ordered quietly, arms wrapping around your waist. His chest was burning hot against your back. You could feel how hard he was through his pants, pressing against you.

The others watched with dark, hungry eyes.

You stayed there, flustered and warm, trying to act like this was still normal.

"You guys are getting really touchy lately," you said with a nervous giggle.

"Because we’re running out of patience," Ni-ki answered honestly. "Every night we talk about how we want to fuck you. How we want to fill you up until you’re swollen with our cum. How pretty you’ll look carrying our babies."

Your face burned. You squirmed on Sunghoon’s lap without thinking, which only made him groan and hold you tighter.

"Be careful moving like that, Doctor," he warned, voice strained. "I’m barely holding back as it is."

You stayed frozen after that, heart hammering wildly while the movie continued playing.

When it finally ended, Heeseung stood up and offered you his hand.

"Time for bed, sunshine."

He walked you all the way to your bedroom door. The others followed close behind like a pack.

Before you could close the door, Heeseung placed his hand on the frame, leaning down until his face was inches from yours.

"One day soon," he said quietly, eyes glowing with lust, "you’re not going to close this door on us."

You looked up at him, cheeks pink, breath a little fast, but still managed a small, brave smile.

"Goodnight, Heeseung."

You closed the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily.

Your body felt hot all over. A strange ache had started low in your stomach. The modifications they made to you were definitely working — you were becoming more sensitive to their pheromones every single day.

From the other side of the door, you heard seven low, deep voices murmuring.

And one clear sentence from Jungwon,"Soon. She’s almost ready."

The next day the facility staff increased the “physical proximity allowance.” Dr. Voss told you it was necessary for better data. You had groaned. Man, this was getting too much now. You tried to stay positive when you stepped into the common area.

"Good morning, boys!" you greeted with your usual bright smile, ribbon bouncing in your hair. "Should we do some group breathing exercises today?"

The words barely left your mouth before Heeseung was already walking toward you. He didn’t stop until he was right in front of you, towering over your smaller frame.

"No breathing exercises today, sunshine," he said, voice low and rough. Without waiting for permission, he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you flush against his chest.

Your hands instinctively pressed against his hard stomach.

"H-Heeseung… at least let me put my tablet down first," you laughed nervously, trying to keep your bubbly tone.

Jake appeared behind you instantly, pressing his body against your back and sliding his hands over your hips.

"You don’t need the tablet right now," Jake murmured against your ear, his breath hot. "You need us."

Before you could reply, Sunghoon took the tablet from your hands and placed it on the couch. Then he stepped close and cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks.

"You’re getting red again," he said quietly, eyes dark. "Cute."

They didn’t give you any space. You were completely surrounded — Heeseung in front, Jake behind, Sunghoon holding your face, while the others slowly closed in.

You let out a shaky giggle.

"Okay… this is a lot of morning affection…"

Sunoo smiled sweetly as he reached out and gently tugged the ribbon in your hair.

"Can I take this off?" he asked softly, already sliding it free. "I want to see your hair down."

Your hair tumbled over your shoulders. Ni-ki groaned at the sight.

"Fuck… that’s so much better."

Jungwon stepped closer and ran his fingers through your loose hair, gripping it lightly at the roots.

"You look prettier like this," he said calmly. "Easier to hold onto."

Your heart was racing. Their hands started moving again — bolder than yesterday.

Heeseung’s big palm slid down your back and rested just above your ass, pulling you tighter against him so you could feel how hard he already was. Jake’s hands roamed over your waist and stomach, occasionally brushing just under your blouse. Sunghoon leaned in and pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses along your neck.

You squirmed between them, breath coming faster.

"Guys… we’re supposed to be doing a session…"

"This is the session," Jay said, stepping in to kiss the other side of your neck. "Stabilizing ourselves with our Anchor."

They slowly guided you toward the big couch. Heeseung sat down first and pulled you onto his lap so you were straddling one of his thick thighs. Jake sat right beside him and tugged you closer until your side pressed against his chest.

You tried to protest weakly, "This position is… really not professional—"

"Shh," Heeseung whispered, one large hand stroking up and down your thigh. "Just sit with us for a while."

For the next hour, they kept you trapped on the couch in the middle of them. Their touches grew steadily more possessive.

Fingers slipped under the hem of your blouse to caress bare skin. Hands squeezed your thighs. Someone (you were pretty sure it was Ni-ki) gave your ass a firm squeeze every time you tried to shift positions. Sunoo kept nuzzling into your neck, occasionally sucking gently on your skin, leaving faint marks.

At one point, Jungwon pulled you from Heeseung’s lap onto his own. He positioned you so you were sitting with your back against his chest, then wrapped one arm around your waist while his other hand rested dangerously high on your inner thigh.

"You’re trembling," he whispered in your ear. "Are you scared… or excited?"

You bit your lip, face burning.

"A little bit of both," you admitted in a small voice.

Heeseung, now kneeling in front of you, slowly pushed your legs further apart so he could settle between them. His hands stroked up your thighs, getting closer and closer to where you were secretly throbbing.

"Look at me, sunshine," he ordered softly.

When you did, he leaned in and pressed a slow, deep kiss just below your ear, then another lower on your neck. You couldn’t stop the tiny whimper that escaped you.

Jake chuckled darkly. "She makes such pretty sounds."

The touches kept getting heavier. They took turns pulling you onto their laps. Every time you moved to another lap, different hands explored your body — squeezing your waist, gripping your hips, stroking your thighs, occasionally brushing teasingly between your legs over your pants.

By the time lunch came around, you were flushed, breathless, and visibly affected.

During lunch they didn’t let you sit alone. You stayed on Jay’s lap while he fed you bites from his plate.

After eating, they pulled you back to the couch.

This time they laid you down completely. Heeseung rested your head on his thigh, stroking your hair. Jake and Sunghoon each claimed one of your legs, slowly rubbing up and down. The others sat around you, hands never leaving your body.

"You’re doing so well, Doctor," Sunoo praised sweetly, even as his fingers traced circles dangerously close to your chest. "Letting us touch you like this…"

You were starting to lose the ability to form proper sentences.

"I… I think we should slow down a little…" you breathed out.

Ni-ki smirked and leaned down to kiss your stomach over your blouse.

"We’re only just getting started."

The day continued like that — long, endless touches, heated whispers, and growing hunger. By evening, your lab coat was long discarded, your blouse was wrinkled and slightly unbuttoned at the top, and your body felt like it was on fire.

When Dr. Voss’s voice finally came through the speakers announcing the end of the day’s session, you were a trembling, pink-faced mess.

Heeseung kissed your forehead gently before helping you up.

"Go rest, sunshine," he said, voice husky. "Tomorrow… we won’t be this gentle anymore."

You walked back to your room on shaky legs, feeling seven pairs of eyes burning into your back.

The moment your door locked, you leaned against it and slid down to the floor, breathing hard.

This was no longer an experiment.

They were claiming you.

And you were running out of reasons to stop them.

The next morning, before you could even step into the common area, Dr. Elias Voss called you into the monitoring room.

You sat across from him, still wearing your lab coat, hair tied with your little ribbon. But your neck and thighs still carried faint marks from yesterday’s touches.

“Dr. Y/N,” he began, looking serious. “I’ve reviewed the footage. Their behavior has crossed the line. The physical contact is becoming far too intense and sexual. This is supposed to be a controlled experiment, not… whatever this is turning into.”

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat.

“They’re just… adjusting to the new instincts,” you said softly, trying to defend them. “The enhancements made their drives very strong. They’re calmer when they can touch me.”

Dr. Voss shook his head.

“They are becoming dangerous. We’re seeing increased aggression when you’re not in the room. If this continues, we’ll have to pull you out and separate you from them for your own safety. I’m going in to speak with them right now. They need to tone it down immediately.”

Your eyes widened.

“Wait— Dr. Voss, maybe I should talk to them instead—”

But he was already standing.

When you both entered the common area, all seven of them were waiting. The moment they saw Dr. Voss standing protectively close to you, their expressions darkened.

Dr. Voss spoke firmly, voice echoing in the large space.

“Subjects, your physical interactions with Dr. Y/N have exceeded safe parameters. From now on, you will maintain a minimum distance. No touching without explicit approval. No sexual comments. No marking. If you cannot follow these rules, we will remove Dr. Y/N from the habitat immediately for her protection.”

The air instantly became heavy.

Heeseung’s jaw clenched. His eyes flashed with clear anger.

“You want us to stay away from our Anchor?” he growled, voice low and threatening.

Jake’s hands curled into fists. “She belongs with us. You don’t get to decide how much we touch her.”

Sunghoon took a dangerous step forward. “Say that again.”

The tension exploded.

Ni-ki suddenly lunged forward with a snarl, aiming straight for Dr. Voss. Jungwon and Jay barely managed to grab him, holding him back as he fought against their grip, muscles bulging with rage.

“You fucking touch her and I’ll rip your throat out!” Ni-ki shouted.

Sunoo, usually the softest, had a terrifyingly cold smile on his face. “You want to take her away from us? After you made her our Anchor?”

Heeseung looked like he was one second away from violence too. His golden-ringed eyes were locked on Dr. Voss like prey.

Two security guards quickly entered the room, but they looked terrified.

Dr. Voss stepped back, visibly nervous now.

“See?” he said to you urgently. “This is exactly what I was worried about. We need to separate you right now for your safety. Come with me, Dr. Y/N.”

He reached for your arm.

But you stepped forward, placing yourself between the boys and Dr. Voss.

“Wait!” you said loudly, your voice still carrying that bright but firm tone. “Everyone, please calm down!”

You turned to the seven of them. They were breathing heavily, eyes wild with anger and possessiveness.

You gave them your softest, warmest smile.

“It’s okay,” you said gently. “I’m fine. Really. Dr. Voss is just worried about me… but I chose this. I chose to be your Anchor. I’m not scared of you.”

You slowly walked closer to them, even as Voss tried to stop you.

You reached out and gently placed your hand on Heeseung’s chest. His breathing was ragged, but he stilled under your touch.

“I’m staying,” you said clearly, looking at all of them. “We can compromise, okay? Just… try not to be too rough. For me?”

The boys slowly relaxed — but only because you were touching them and speaking softly.

Heeseung grabbed your waist and pulled you against him protectively, glaring at Dr. Voss over your head.

“She stays,” he declared, voice final. “If anyone tries to take her, we will destroy this entire facility.”

The other six moved closer, surrounding you like a protective pack.

Dr. Voss looked extremely uncomfortable, but he could see that forcing the issue right now would end badly.

“…Very well,” he said stiffly. “But I’m increasing monitoring. Any extreme behavior and this experiment ends. Dr. Y/N, you have final authority to call for extraction if it becomes too much.”

You nodded, still smiling even though your heart was racing.

“Thank you, Dr. Voss. I’ve got this.”

As soon as Dr. Voss left the room, the boys turned all their attention back to you.

Heeseung’s grip on your waist tightened.

“You defended us,” he murmured, voice dark and pleased. “Good girl.”

Jake pressed against your back, kissing the side of your neck.

“You’re really ours now, aren’t you?”

You let out a shaky breath, cheeks warm.

“I’m your Anchor… so yes. I’m staying with you.”

Sunghoon tilted your chin up.

“You just stopped us from tearing that man apart,” he said quietly. “That means you understand. We need you.”

The atmosphere had completely shifted again. Their bad mood was turning into something even more intense — raw hunger mixed with dark satisfaction that you had chosen them.

Ni-ki stepped close and whispered against your ear,

“Now that you’ve told them you’re staying… we don’t have to hold back as much, right?”

Your breath hitched.

This was getting more dangerous by the day.

Dr. Elias Voss sent a message asking you to come to the monitoring room alone. The seven boys were told to wait in the common area.

You walked in nervously, still wearing your slightly wrinkled lab coat and ribbon in your hair. Dr. Serena Voss and the senior staff doctor were already waiting inside with Dr. Elias.

Dr. Serena smiled at you gently and asked you to sit down.

“Dr. Y/N… I'm Dr. Elias's wife,” she began. "We wanted to speak with you privately."

Dr. Elias Voss looked serious.

“We’ve been monitoring their latest data. The heat cycle is starting sooner than expected. Their hormonal levels are spiking dramatically.”

The senior staff doctor was more direct.

“To put it plainly… they’re going to want to fuck you. All seven of them. Probably quite aggressively. Their breeding instincts are extremely high right now. They’ve been fantasizing about it for weeks — filling you up, breeding you, claiming you completely.”

Your cheeks burned red. You gripped the edge of your seat.

Dr. Serena continued calmly,

“During the heat, they may lose control. They might fuck you for hours. One after another, or even more than one at the same time. Their bodies will demand release inside you. We’ve modified your body to handle it, but it will still be intense.”

She leaned forward slightly.

“You still have a choice. We can try to sedate them through the worst of it… but it will be painful for them, and there’s a high chance they’ll break containment to get to you anyway.”

Dr. Elias Voss added quietly,

“If you go into that nest room with them, expect to be fucked. Thoroughly. They see you as their mate now. This won’t be gentle clinical sex. It will be raw.”

You sat there in silence for a long moment, heart pounding hard in your chest. Your face was completely flushed.

“I… I understand,” you whispered, voice small but steady. “I chose to be their Anchor. I’m not going to abandon them now.”

Dr. Serena gave you a sympathetic look.

“Then we’ll prepare the nest room. Take a few minutes to collect yourself before you go back to them.”

The three doctors left you alone in the monitoring room for a moment.

You sat there, breathing shakily, thighs pressed together as you tried to process everything they had just told you so bluntly.

When you finally stepped back into the common area, all seven boys turned to look at you at once. They could clearly see how flushed and nervous you were.

Heeseung walked over immediately and pulled you into his arms.

“What did they say to you?” he asked, voice low.

You hid your face in his chest, voice muffled.

“…Nothing important,” you lied softly. “Just some medical updates about the heat cycle.”

Jake stepped closer and gently stroked your back.

“You’re shaking, baby,” he murmured. “Your heart is racing.”

Sunghoon tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You’re lying. You smell even more nervous now.”

You hugged Heeseung tighter, refusing to lift your head.

“I’m okay… really. I’m just a little overwhelmed. That’s all.”

Ni-ki chuckled darkly from behind you.

“They told you we’re going to fuck you, didn’t they?”

You didn’t answer. You just pressed your burning face deeper into Heeseung’s chest.

Heeseung’s hand rubbed slow circles on your lower back.

“You don’t have to tell us,” he said gently, but his voice was getting rougher. “We already know what’s coming.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of your head.

“Come on, sunshine. Let’s go to the nest room.”

The seven of them surrounded you as they guided you toward the large reinforced nest room. Your heart was beating so fast you could barely think.

You had chosen this.

And now there was no turning back.

The nest room was enormous and dimly lit, with a massive circular bed in the center covered in soft black and cream sheets. There were pillows everywhere, making it look like a giant nest. The boys guided you inside and closed the heavy reinforced door behind them.

At first, they were surprisingly gentle.

Heeseung sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you onto his lap, cradling you carefully. The others sat around you in a circle, watching you with intense but controlled eyes.

“You’re safe here,” Heeseung murmured, stroking your back slowly. “We’re not going to jump on you like animals… not yet.”

Jake leaned in and kissed your temple softly. “Try to relax, sunshine. We know this is a lot.”

You gave them a small, nervous smile, still trying to keep your bubbly tone even though your voice was shaky.

“Okay… good. Because I’m really nervous,” you admitted with a soft laugh. “Seven of you is… a lot.”

They kept you in the middle, touching you gently — hands on your waist, thighs, hair, and back. No one pushed further. They were clearly waiting.

You stayed like that for almost an hour, talking quietly, them comforting you while their bodies grew hotter against yours.

Then the clock on the wall struck 12:00.

The main lights in the room slowly dimmed, shifting into a deep, warm red glow. The temperature in the room seemed to rise instantly.

All seven of them stiffened at the same time.

Their breathing changed — becoming heavier, deeper. Their eyes darkened dramatically, the golden rings around their pupils glowing brighter. You could feel their bodies heating up against you, muscles tensing.

A small hidden earpiece you didn’t even know you were wearing crackled to life.

Dr. Serena’s voice spoke calmly but clearly,“Heat cycle has officially begun, Y/N. Their pheromones and aggression levels are spiking. Get ready. They won’t be able to hold back much longer. Remember to breathe. Your body can handle them.”

The moment she finished speaking, Heeseung’s grip on your waist became much tighter. A low, deep growl rumbled from his chest.

“Fuck…” he cursed under his breath, burying his face in your neck and inhaling deeply. “You smell so fucking good.”

Jake’s hand slid up your thigh, squeezing harder than before.

“Sunshine…” he groaned, voice strained. “I can’t… I need you.”

Ni-ki crawled closer, eyes completely feral now as he stared at you like prey.

“I’m so fucking hard it hurts,” he growled.

The gentle touches from earlier were rapidly disappearing. Their hands grew bolder, gripping, squeezing, pulling you closer like they were losing control by the second.

Sunghoon reached out and started unbuttoning your blouse with shaky fingers, breathing heavily.

Jungwon’s usual calm voice was gone, replaced by a low, dangerous tone,“Take her clothes off.”

You let out a shaky breath, heart hammering wildly in your chest as seven pairs of glowing eyes locked onto you with pure, unrestrained lust.

“Fuck…” Heeseung breathed against your neck. “It’s starting.”

Dr. Serena’s voice crackled softly in your earpiece one last time,“Heat cycle is active. It will be for the next 24 hours. Try to breathe, Y/N. They won’t be able to hold back now.”

Heeseung’s lips crashed against yours in a deep, desperate kiss. No more gentleness. This kiss was hungry, possessive, and consuming. His tongue claimed your mouth as his hands roamed down your body, ripping your blouse open roughly. Buttons scattered across the bed.

Jake was behind you instantly, yanking your pants and panties down your legs in one swift motion, leaving you completely exposed.

“So fucking pretty,” Jake groaned, his hands spreading your thighs wide for the others to see.

You whimpered into Heeseung’s mouth as Sunghoon dropped between your legs and dragged his tongue slowly up your soaked pussy, groaning at your taste.

“She’s dripping,” Sunghoon growled before sucking your clit into his mouth.

You jerked hard, moaning loudly. Ni-ki grabbed your hair and turned your head, feeding his thick, heavy cock past your lips.

“That’s it… suck me, Doctor,” he moaned, slowly pushing deeper into your mouth.

They worked in perfect sync.

Heeseung pulled away from your lips only to latch onto your breast, sucking hard on your nipple while Jay claimed the other one. Jake and Sunoo kissed and bit along your neck and shoulders, leaving dark marks everywhere.

Sunghoon pushed two long fingers inside you while still licking your clit, curling them perfectly against that spot that made your eyes roll back.

You were moaning helplessly around Ni-ki’s cock, body trembling as pleasure attacked you from every direction.

After a few minutes, Heeseung moved between your legs.

“Look at me,” he ordered, voice rough.

You barely managed to meet his glowing eyes before he lined up his massive cock and pushed inside you in one long, slow, powerful thrust.

A muffled scream left your throat as he stretched you open so wide it burned.

“Fuck… so tight,” Heeseung groaned deeply, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “You’re taking me so well, sunshine.”

He started fucking you with deep, heavy strokes — pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. The wet, obscene sounds of his cock plunging into your soaked pussy filled the entire room.

Ni-ki pulled out of your mouth and was quickly replaced by Jake, who fucked your throat more eagerly.

They began rotating.

After Heeseung had fucked you hard for several minutes, Jay took his place, pounding into you even rougher. Then Sunghoon. Then Jake.

Every time one of them came, they buried themselves as deep as possible and pumped you full of thick, hot cum.

By the time the fourth load was shot inside you, your pussy was a creamy, messy wreck — cum leaking out with every thrust.

You were crying, shaking, and moaning incoherently, lost in overwhelming pleasure.

Sunoo smiled sweetly even as he pushed his cock into your cum-filled pussy.

“Our pretty little cumdump,” he whispered lovingly while fucking you slow and deep, pushing the previous loads even deeper inside you.

Jungwon was next. He gripped your hips hard and fucked you with powerful, precise strokes, eyes locked on your face the entire time.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” he praised. “Taking all of us like a good Anchor.”

Ni-ki was the roughest. He flipped you onto all fours and fucked you from behind like an animal, spanking your ass hard while growling.

“Fuck yes— take my cock. Gonna fill you until you’re pregnant with our babies.”

Heeseung knelt in front of you and fed you his cock again, fucking your throat while Ni-ki destroyed your pussy from behind.

You were completely surrounded.

Used.

Claimed.

Filled.

And they still had hours left in their heat.

The red lights made everything feel hotter, more sinful.

You were a complete mess — covered in sweat, cum, and marks from their mouths and hands.

Ni-ki was still fucking you hard from behind, his hips slamming against your ass with wet, filthy sounds.

“Fuck— I’m gonna cum again,” he growled, spanking your ass hard before burying himself deep. You felt another thick load shoot inside you, so much that it leaked out around his cock and dripped down your thighs.

The moment he pulled out, Jungwon took his place again.

He flipped you onto your back again and pushed your legs up toward your chest, folding you in half.

“Look at this pretty pussy,” Jungwon groaned, staring at the mess they had made of you. “So full of our cum already…”

He slid inside easily because of how wet and stretched you were. His thrusts were deep and controlled, but each one was powerful enough to make your breasts bounce.

“So good,” he moaned. “You were made to take our cocks.”

Heeseung moved beside your head and fed you his cock again, slowly fucking your throat while Jungwon bred your pussy.

You were crying around Heeseung’s cock from the overwhelming pleasure, body shaking every time Jungwon hit that perfect spot inside you.

After Jungwon filled you with his load, Jake and Jay moved together.

Jake lay down on the bed and pulled you on top of him, sliding his cock back into your messy pussy in one smooth thrust. He held you against his chest as Jay knelt behind you.

You whimpered when you felt Jay’s cock press against your already full pussy.

“W-wait— both?” you gasped.

“Yes, baby,” Jake whispered, kissing you softly. “You can take it.”

Jay pushed in slowly, stretching you even more. The feeling of two thick cocks inside you at the same time made your eyes roll back and a broken moan rip from your throat.

“Fuck— so tight,” Jay groaned, slowly starting to move.

They found a rhythm — Jake thrusting up while Jay thrust down. The double penetration made you feel impossibly full. Every movement made wet, squelching sounds as cum was pushed out of you.

Sunoo knelt beside you and stroked your hair gently, even as he pushed his cock into your hand.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered sweetly. “All fucked out and full of us.”

Heeseung, Sunghoon, and Ni-ki watched with dark eyes, stroking themselves as they waited for their next turn.

Jake and Jay fucked you together until they both came deep inside you, adding even more cum to the mess.

By the time they pulled out, your pussy was gaping slightly, creamy white cum pouring out of you in thick streams.

But they weren’t done.

Sunghoon pulled you onto his lap, facing him, and sank you down on his cock. Heeseung moved behind you and pushed back into your pussy as well, making it three cocks stretching you at once — though only two were inside your pussy.

You screamed in pleasure, completely overwhelmed.

Heeseung growled in your ear, “That’s our good girl. Taking everything we give you.”

They used your body for what felt like hours — rotating positions, fucking you alone, in pairs, sometimes making you ride them while others used your mouth and hands.

Every single one of them came inside you at least twice.

Your belly felt swollen and heavy with their cum. Your voice was hoarse from moaning and crying their names. Tears of overwhelming pleasure ran down your cheeks.

At one point, all seven of them were touching you at the same time — hands, mouths, cocks everywhere.

Heeseung was fucking you deep while whispering hotly against your ear:

“Gonna keep you like this for days, sunshine. Full of our cum. Breeding you until it takes.”

You came again hard, shaking violently as another orgasm ripped through your body.

They praised you nonstop.

“Good girl.”

“Our perfect Anchor.”

“Taking our cocks so well.”

“Gonna look so pretty pregnant with our babies.”

Hours blurred together in a haze of sweat, cum, and overwhelming pleasure. Your voice had gone hoarse from screaming their names, your bubbly professionalism long shattered into broken moans and whimpers.

By hour six, they had you in the center of the massive bed, surrounded by pillows soaked with fluids. Heeseung had you riding him reverse cowgirl, his thick cock buried to the hilt while Jay knelt in front of you, feeding his own length down your throat. Every bounce made more cum from previous loads leak out around Heeseung’s shaft, dripping messily onto the sheets.

“Fuck, look at her,” Jake groaned from the side, stroking himself as he watched. “Our pretty little Anchor is stuffed so full she’s leaking everywhere.”

Sunghoon moved behind Heeseung and pushed two fingers alongside his hyung’s cock, stretching you even wider. You sobbed around Jay’s length, thighs shaking violently as another orgasm tore through you.

Sunoo, ever the deceptively sweet one, cupped your face gently while Jay used your mouth. “You’re doing so well, Doctor~ Taking every drop like you were made for us.” He leaned in and kissed your tear-streaked cheek even as your body jolted from the double penetration below.

Ni-ki and Jungwon took turns claiming your breasts, sucking hard enough to leave blooming marks while their hands roamed your swollen belly, already rounded slightly from the sheer volume of cum pumped into you.

They rotated constantly. Sometimes two in your pussy, one in your ass (after careful but relentless preparation), one in your mouth, and the rest using your hands or marking your skin. At one point they had you completely suspended between them — Heeseung and Sunghoon holding your legs wide open while Jake and Jay fucked into you together, their cocks rubbing against each other inside your overfilled cunt.

The wet, filthy sounds echoed endlessly. Growls, praises, and filthy promises filled the air.

“Gonna breed you until your womb is overflowing,” Jungwon panted, slamming into you with precise, punishing thrusts.

“You’ll smell like us for weeks,” Sunghoon growled against your neck before biting down.

Ni-ki was the most vocal and wild, fucking your ass with deep, animalistic snaps of his hips while calling you his favorite cumslut in that playful-yet-feral tone.

Hours passed. The heat made them insatiable.

They came inside you over and over — thick, heavy loads that made your belly visibly swell. Your pussy and ass were puffy, red, and constantly leaking their seed. At times they simply held you down and took turns breeding you slowly, savoring the way your body clenched and milked them even when you were too exhausted to do more than tremble.

By hour fourteen you were a limp, sobbing, blissed-out mess. They had to hold you up for most positions now, but they never stopped praising you.

Jungwon, ever the leader, pulled you into his arms during a brief lull around hour eighteen. The red lights were still glowing, but their movements had grown slightly less frantic.

He kissed you deeply, almost tenderly, while the others pressed close, hands stroking your marked skin.

“You’re ours now, sunshine,” he whispered against your swollen lips. “No more pretending this is just clinical. You belong in this nest.”

You could only nod weakly, voice gone, but you managed a tiny, exhausted smile — that same bubbly spirit flickering through even now. “Y-yeah… yours…”

The final hours were slower, deeper. They took you one by one again, savoring every last thrust as the heat cycle began to wane.

Jungwon was last, folding you gently beneath him and rocking into you with long, possessive strokes while the others watched, hands still touching you everywhere.

When he finally came, flooding you with what felt like the heaviest load yet, the red lights slowly faded back to soft white.

The heat cycle ended.

Silence settled over the nest room, broken only by heavy breathing and the soft sounds of shifting bodies. All seven of them collapsed around you in a protective pile of limbs and warmth. You lay in the center, completely spent, body aching in the best and worst ways, covered in marks, sweat, and drying cum. Your belly was noticeably rounded from everything they’d pumped into you. Your hair was a wild mess, ribbon long lost somewhere in the sheets.

Heeseung pulled you gently against his chest, stroking your back with surprising tenderness. His voice was rough but soft now. “You did so well, Y/N. Our perfect little doctor.”

Jake nuzzled into your neck from the other side, pressing soft kisses to the marks he’d left. “We’re so proud of you, baby. You took everything.”

Sunghoon rested his head on your thigh, eyes closed, one hand gently massaging your sore muscles. Sunoo curled against your stomach, kissing the swollen area almost reverently. “We’ll take care of you now.”

Jay brought water and a warm cloth, carefully cleaning your face and neck while Jungwon and Ni-ki massaged your legs and feet. They were all still hard, but the feral edge had dulled into deep, possessive satisfaction.

“You’re not leaving this nest for a while,” Ni-ki murmured, though his tone was playful again. “Doctor’s orders can wait.”

You let out a weak, raspy laugh — the first real sound you’d made in hours that wasn’t a moan or sob.

“I… I think I’m going to need a new lab coat,” you whispered, voice completely wrecked. “And maybe… a week of recovery.”

They chuckled softly around you, the sound warm and affectionate now that the peak of the heat had passed.

Dr. Serena’s voice eventually came through the hidden speakers, sounding both impressed and slightly concerned.

“Cycle complete. Vital signs stable. Dr. Y/N, you… handled that exceptionally well. We’ll give you all 48 hours before any further check-ins. Rest.”

The speakers clicked off.

Heeseung tucked you more securely against him, the others closing in until you were cocooned in their heat and scent. Someone pulled a soft blanket over all of you.

“Sleep, sunshine,” Heeseung murmured, lips brushing your forehead. “We’ve got you.”

As your eyes fluttered shut, surrounded by seven enhanced, utterly devoted mates, you felt a strange mix of exhaustion, satisfaction, and warmth blooming in your chest.

You had chosen this.

And even as your body ached and your mind floated in a pleasure-drunk haze, a small, bubbly part of you whispered that you didn’t regret it.

Not even a little.

The experiment had evolved far beyond science.

You were theirs now.

And they were never letting their Anchor go.

The nest room was quiet except for the soft sound of breathing and the occasional rustle of sheets. The red emergency lights had long faded, replaced by the gentle, warm white glow of the habitat’s normal lighting. You had no idea how long you’d been asleep—only that your body felt heavy, sore in the most intimate places, and deliciously used.

You woke up slowly, cradled against Heeseung’s broad chest. His arm was locked around your waist, possessive even in sleep. Jake was spooned behind you, face buried in the back of your neck, while Sunghoon’s head rested on your thigh like it belonged there. The others were tangled around you in a warm pile of limbs and muscle.

A tiny whimper escaped you when you tried to shift. Everything ached—your thighs, your core, your throat. Your belly still felt oddly full and swollen from the sheer amount of cum they’d pumped into you.

Heeseung stirred immediately, golden-ringed eyes cracking open. His voice was low and rough with sleep. “Sunshine… you’re awake.”

The others woke almost in sync, like a pack sensing their mate’s movement. Soft kisses and gentle hands immediately began moving over your body—checking, soothing, claiming.

“Easy,” Jay murmured, pressing a warm cloth between your legs to clean you carefully. “You were so good for us, baby.”

Sunoo nuzzled against your stomach, kissing the soft, slightly rounded swell there with almost worshipful tenderness. “Look at you… still carrying so much of us.”

You let out a weak, raspy laugh, your usual bubbly tone cracking through the exhaustion. “I feel like I got hit by a truck… seven very enthusiastic trucks.”

Ni-ki chuckled, fangs flashing as he grinned. “You took all seven trucks like a champ, Doctor.”

They didn’t let you move much for the first few hours. Someone brought water and electrolyte drinks. Jungwon fed you small bites of nutrient-dense food by hand while Jake massaged your sore legs. Heeseung kept you mostly on his lap, your back against his chest, his large hands gently rubbing circles over your swollen belly.

“You did so well,” he whispered against your ear, voice full of pride and lingering hunger. “Our perfect Anchor. We were worried we’d break you… but you kept smiling even when we were ruining you.”

You blushed deeply, hiding your face against his neck. “I… I chose this. I’m not going to run away now.”

The 48-hour recovery window passed in a blur of gentle touches, deep kisses, and surprisingly soft intimacy. They took turns holding you, bathing you in the large attached bathroom, and whispering praises. The feral edge of the heat had dulled, but their possessiveness remained—stronger than ever.

When Dr. Voss finally allowed you all back into the main habitat area, you tried to return to some semblance of professionalism.

You showed up in a fresh white lab coat over a soft baby blue blouse, hair neatly tied in your signature cute bun with the little white ribbon. Tablet in hand. Bright smile on your face, even if you were still walking a little carefully.

“Good morning, everyone~!” you greeted cheerfully, though your voice was still slightly hoarse. “How are my favorite seven feeling today? Any lingering… side effects from the heat?”

They were all waiting for you.

The moment you stepped fully into the room, the atmosphere thickened. Seven pairs of eyes tracked your every movement with dark, satisfied hunger.

Heeseung was on you first. He pulled you against his chest without hesitation and kissed you deeply, tongue claiming your mouth like he hadn’t spent the last 24 hours inside you.

When he finally pulled back, you were breathless and flushed.

“H-Heeseung! We’re… we’re supposed to do a proper check-in session—”

Jake appeared behind you, arms sliding around your waist. “Check-in can wait five minutes. We missed you.”

“You were literally sleeping on top of me for two days,” you laughed, trying to sound stern but failing as Sunghoon tilted your chin up for a slow, deep kiss of his own.

Sunoo smiled sweetly while playing with the ribbon in your hair. “You look so cute trying to be professional again… even with our marks all over your neck.”

You instinctively tugged your collar higher, cheeks burning.

Dr. Voss’s voice came through the speakers, sounding exhausted. “Dr. Y/N, try to keep them… contained. We’re resuming light sessions today. Physical contact is still permitted but try not to… escalate immediately.”

The boys smirked.

“Too late,” Jungwon said calmly, pulling you onto his lap on the big couch. He positioned you sideways so your legs draped over his thigh, one hand resting possessively high on your inner thigh.

The “session” quickly became them taking turns holding you while you asked your questions. You tried to stay focused—recording mood stability, energy levels, any residual aggression—but it was nearly impossible.

Every time you tried to write notes, someone would kiss your neck, squeeze your thigh, or slide a hand under your blouse to caress bare skin. Ni-ki kept nipping at your ears. Sunghoon stared at your lips like he wanted to devour them again.

At one point Heeseung pulled you onto his lap facing him, your core pressed right against the obvious bulge in his pants.

“You’re still wet,” he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. “I can smell it. Our cum is still leaking out of you, isn’t it?”

Your breath hitched. You gripped his shoulders, trying to keep your voice steady. “T-That’s… scientifically interesting. We should monitor—”

Jay leaned in from the side and bit your shoulder lightly. “Stop pretending you don’t love it.”

You lasted another twenty minutes before your tablet was gently taken away and set aside.

This time they didn’t go into full heat mode. Instead, they loved you slowly on the big sectional couch—taking turns fucking you with deep, lazy thrusts while the others watched and touched you. No rushing. Just long, claiming strokes and filthy praises whispered against your skin.

When they finally finished, you were once again a flushed, cum-filled, blissed-out mess in the middle of them, lab coat discarded somewhere on the floor, blouse open, ribbon slightly crooked in your messy hair.

Heeseung stroked your cheek, eyes glowing with dark affection.

“You’re not our doctor anymore, sunshine,” he said softly but firmly. “You’re our mate. Our Anchor. Our everything.”

You looked up at all seven of them—tall, powerful, completely devoted—and felt that familiar mix of nervousness and warmth bloom in your chest.

A small, genuinely bubbly smile tugged at your swollen lips.

“…I think I’m okay with that.”

Weeks later,

The experiment had fundamentally changed.

Sessions still happened—mostly because you insisted on keeping some structure—but they almost always ended with you being passed between them, filled, marked, and praised until you couldn’t remember your own name.

Your body had adapted even further. You craved their touch now. Their scent. The feeling of being completely surrounded and claimed.

Some mornings you still greeted them with your bright “Good morning, boys~!” and cute ribbon… only to be bent over the nearest surface within minutes.

They never got tired of you.

And deep down, you never wanted them to.

You were theirs.

Completely.

Author: If you ever want an epilogue, just say the word, baby. I’m here.

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

Permanent Taglist:-

@slutofpsh

@laurenalpha123

@dreamiestay

@amortenha

@peonywon

@mitmit01

@heeevangelizesme

@gvni-eve

@yourmomni

@leov3rse

@punchbug9-blog

@casualtreatynightmare

@yenienha

@rosepetals09

hearing the ping of your phone immediately as you put it down made you smile. looking down at the new message ‘ for your nails baby get something pretty for me <3’ followed by a cash deposit into your account.

you loved getting your nails done; picking out pretty colors and fun designs — you especially loved going home and showing sunghoon what he spent his hard earned money on.

“hoonie!”

the boy had his phone to his ear talking to jake ; lazily sitting in the chair. his sweats low on his hips , black shirt slightly lifted up revealing his stomach. “hey baby.” he mouthed , you sat down next to him he wrapped his arm around your shoulder.

“jake , ima call you back.” he said. “yeah , she just came in— shut up , i’ll see you tomorrow.” he hung the phone up , ready to give all his attention to you. “you got them?”

“look!” excitedly holding your hands out. “i even got gems this time and a 3d flower.” he watched you go into detail about what exactly you told your nail lady. “aren’t they pretty?”

“so pretty baby , you know i love spending money on your nails every month.”

he held your hands , caressing them; the smell of the vanilla lotion you kept in your car filling his nostrils as brought your hand to kiss your knuckles. “your hands are so soft, baby.”

you knew sunghoon didn’t spend money on your nails every month just to see you bring back different variations of pinks and gossip from the salon. “i know , the lotion is so worth it.” you caressed his cheek , your hands traveling down his neck; down his torso. “fuck.” he sighed as you reached his waistband.

“keep going baby.” he sighed, feeling the warmth of your hand on his stomach. your hand slipped into his sweats , palming his half hard cock. he cursed under his breath as you massaged his cock. “fuck baby , take me out.”

he lifted his hips up allowing you to pull his sweat down enough to free his erected cock; his tip leaking with precum as it sat against his stomach. “touch it pretty.”

he groaned feeling your soft hands wrapping around his cock. “so warm baby , keep going.” you stroked him softly , kissing his neck. his head was thrown back against the couch , eyes half open as your hand moved up and down. “fuck baby , ima about to cum.”

your thumb swiping across his tip; making him cum , covering your hand. “shit.” he sighed as his load spill over your hand , his eyes finally opening, right as you were two of your freshly done nails that were covered in his cum into your mouth , sucking on them.

“shit.” he chuckled breathlessly, throwing his head back. “you’re gonna fucking kill me.” you giggled. “so pretty baby.” he kissed your lips. “i should pay you back.” he gently pushed you on to your back , hovering above you.

you loved getting your nails done , but you loved sunghoons reaction the most

It started with a single encrypted email on a cold Monday morning in your quiet Seoul apartment.

“Project Aether – Confidential Invitation. We need the best. Compensation: 850 million KRW for the first six months. Full NDAs required.”

You almost deleted it. But curiosity and the staggering amount of money made you attend the initial meeting.

Two days later, you were sitting in a sleek black conference room thirty floors underground, surrounded by men in suits who never smiled. They laid out the project clearly:

Seven carefully selected young men. All volunteers. All in peak physical and mental condition. All willing to undergo progressive human enhancement for the sake of national defense.

Your job was simple on paper: Observe. Document. Stabilize. Keep them sane while their bodies and minds were rewritten.

The money was life-changing. The risks were high. You asked every hard question. You read every risk assessment. You knew this was dangerous.

Still… you signed the contract with a big smile.

Week 2.

Enhancements had not truly begun yet.

You walked into Observation Room 4 with a bounce in your step, wearing your crisp white lab coat over a soft pastel blouse, hair tied in a neat but cute bun with a little ribbon. Tablet in one hand, a bright smile already on your face.

Behind the reinforced glass, Subject 01 was waiting.

Heeseung sat leaning back lazily, legs spread, black uniform fitting him perfectly. His sharp eyes lifted and locked onto you the second you entered.

You pressed the intercom button and waved cheerfully.

"Hi there! I'm Dr. Y/N," you said with an enthusiastic lilt in your voice. "I'll be your psychologist throughout the project! It's so nice to finally meet you, Heeseung. How are you feeling today?"

Heeseung stared at you for a long moment, clearly surprised by your energy. The corner of his mouth slowly lifted.

"So... you're the one they sent to babysit us while we go crazy?" His deep voice sent a little shiver down your spine, but you kept smiling.

You laughed softly, tilting your head.

"Not babysit! I'm here to support you and make sure you're mentally okay during all the changes. We're in this together, okay? Think of me as your friendly guide through all the science stuff!"

Heeseung's eyes darkened with interest as he leaned closer to the glass.

"You're really young... and way too bubbly for a place like this," he murmured, voice low. "Do you smile this much for all your subjects, Doctor?"

You grinned and shrugged playfully.

"Only for the ones who look like they need it! Now, let's start with some easy questions. How have you been sleeping? Any worries about the upcoming procedures?"

Heeseung chuckled, the sound rich and deep.

"I sleep better knowing someone as cute as you is watching over me."

You met the others over the next three days, bringing the same warm energy to every session.

With Jay, who was sharp and a little skeptical, you leaned forward excitedly.

"Jay! I've read your files. You're super smart. I love working with intelligent people! Tell me, how are you really feeling about all these tests?"

Jay raised an eyebrow, but his lips twitched.

"You always this cheerful, Doctor? Or are you secretly terrified of us?"

"Terrified? No way!" you laughed. "I'm excited! This project could help so many people one day. And I want to make the journey easier for all of you."

Jake immediately matched your energy with a bright grin of his own.

"Wow, Doctor, you're like actual sunshine," he said warmly. "Can I call you Y/N instead of Dr. Y/N? It feels friendlier."

You giggled. "Only during casual talks! But yes, I like friendly."

Sunghoon was quiet at first, just staring intensely. You didn't let the silence bother you.

"Sunghoon~ You have such cool visuals! Are you uncomfortable? Do you need anything to feel more relaxed during our talks?"

He finally spoke, voice low. "...You're not scared of me."

"Nope!" you said brightly. "I think we're going to get along great."

Sunoo melted a little at your sweetness.

"Dr. Y/N, you're so kind," he said softly, smiling back at you. "You really care, don't you?"

"Of course I do! That's why I'm here," you replied happily.

Jungwon watched you with calm intensity but answered your questions politely.

"You have a lot of energy, Doctor."

"I do!" you beamed. "Gotta keep the mood light, right?"

And Ni-ki was the most forward.

"Damn, Doctor. You're actually cute as hell," he grinned, fangs not yet present but his energy already wild. "I like you. When can we meet without the glass?"

You laughed, waving your hand.

"Patience, Ni-ki! Professional boundaries first, okay? But I promise I'll always be honest with you."

By the end of the first week, you had detailed profiles on all seven, but you also felt genuinely fond of them already.

You kept telling yourself they were subjects... but it was hard when they were all so interesting.

As the enhancements began, you watched everything through the observation glass.

First came muscle and bone density treatments. Week after week their bodies changed — shoulders broadening, muscles growing sharper and stronger. You noted every mood swing and wrote detailed reports, but you still visited them with the same bright energy.

The therapy sessions slowly grew more charged.

One day Heeseung leaned close to the glass, eyes intense. "Do you have a boyfriend waiting for you outside, Doctor?"

You blushed but laughed. "Hey! That's private information, Mr. Heeseung! Focus on you, not me~"

Jake teased you every session. "One real smile without the professional mask, please? Your smiles make my day better, Y/N."

Sunghoon stared longer and longer. One day he said quietly, "You smell nice today." His voice had a new, darker edge.

You giggled nervously but answered, "Thank you! I changed my body wash. Glad you noticed."

Their stares started changing. What used to be curiosity slowly turned into something hungrier, darker, more possessive.

By Month Four the final hormonal cocktail was administered. This phase pushed their strength, recovery speed, and primal instincts into overdrive.

That was when everything cracked.

Violent incidents started. Handlers were injured. The boys became restless and aggressive with everyone except when they heard your voice over the speakers.

You would speak in your usual bright but firm tone, "Hey guys, it's Dr. Y/N. Can you please calm down for me? I know it's hard, but I'm right here, okay? Breathe with me."

Every time, all seven of them would stop and listen.

Month Five.

You were called into an emergency meeting. The Director and Dr. Elias Voss showed you the footage. All seven subjects were in reinforced cells, pacing like predators. Their bodies were now much larger and more powerful. Their eyes had a faint glow and their teeth looked slightly sharper.

"They have imprinted on you, Dr. Y/N," the Director said seriously. "You are the only compatible Anchor. Without regular close contact with you, their minds become unstable and feral."

You stared at the screens. Heeseung was looking straight at the camera like he could see you.

Dr. Voss added gently, "We need you to become their official Anchor. You would live with them in the final habitat level. Daily proximity. Physical contact when needed. Your body would also receive minor modifications for safety and endurance. Their breeding instincts are extremely high now. This will not stay clinical."

The room was silent as you thought.

You bit your lip, then lifted your chin with bold determination.

"If my presence can really help stabilize them… if I can make a real difference here… then I'll do it. I'll become their Anchor."

You signed the new contract with steady hands, even though your heart was racing.

Three weeks after signing, you woke up slowly on the medical bed. Your body felt sore and strangely sensitive. Thick restraints held your wrists and ankles. IV lines were still in your arms. Your head throbbed lightly.

Dr. Elias Voss entered and helped unclip the restraints.

"Welcome back, Dr. Y/N. The synchronization was successful. Your body has been adjusted to better handle their pheromones and physical strength."

He turned the large glass wall transparent.

Your breath caught.

On the other side stood all seven of them in a luxurious common area. They looked completely transformed — taller, broader, radiating raw power. Their black uniforms stretched tight over powerful muscles. Their eyes glowed with open, dark hunger as they stared at you.

Heeseung stepped forward and pressed his large hand against the glass. His voice came through the speakers, low and rough.

"Finally… Our bubbly little Anchor is awake."

Jake smiled, but the look in his eyes was pure lust. "You smell even sweeter now, Y/N."

Sunghoon dragged his gaze slowly down your body, dark and unashamed.

Sunoo tilted his head with a sweet smile that didn't hide the hunger. "We missed you so much, Doctor."

Jungwon watched you like a leader claiming his prize. "Welcome to your new home with us."

Ni-ki smirked, fangs clearly visible. "Been waiting too long to get my hands on you properly."

Dr. Voss spoke quietly beside you. "Individual sessions begin tomorrow. Try to keep them calm as long as you can."

Heeseung's eyes burned into yours, dark and full of promise.

"Come to us soon, sunshine. We've been starving for you… in every way."

Your heart pounded hard. You felt nervous, but you also felt that spark inside you. You were no longer just their doctor.

You were their Anchor now.

And something much deeper, much more primal, had officially begun.

Dr. Elias Voss gave you a few hours to rest and adjust before the first session began. You changed into a fresh white lab coat over a soft lavender blouse and simple black pants, tied your hair into your usual cute bun with the little ribbon, and took a deep breath.

"Alright," you whispered to yourself with a small smile. "You've got this, Y/N. They're still the same guys... mostly."

When the door to the habitat level opened, the scent of warm cedarwood, something sweet, and raw masculine energy hit you all at once. The luxurious common area was massive — soft lighting, large couches, a full kitchen area, and an open gym space in the corner. It looked more like an expensive penthouse than a facility.

All seven of them were waiting.

The moment you stepped inside, their heads turned in perfect sync. The air instantly felt thicker.

You put on your brightest professional smile and waved.

"Hi everyone~! Good morning! Or... afternoon? I’m not sure what time it is anymore," you said with a soft laugh, trying to keep your voice light. "How are you all feeling today?"

Heeseung was the first to move. He walked straight toward you, slow and deliberate, until he was only a few steps away. Up close he looked even bigger than before. His shoulders were wider, his jaw sharper, and his eyes had a faint golden ring around the dark pupils.

"Sunshine," he said, voice low and rough. "You have no idea how good it feels to finally have you here without glass between us."

You tilted your head, still smiling even as your heart raced.

"Well, here I am! No more glass. But remember, we still have rules for the sessions. I’m here to help keep you stable, okay?"

Jake appeared beside Heeseung, smiling brightly but with clear hunger in his eyes.

"You smell incredible," he murmured. "Even better than before. Did they change something in you?"

You giggled nervously and took a small step back, opening your tablet.

"Maybe a little! Just to help with compatibility. Now, who wants to go first for their individual session?"

All seven of them stared at you like they wanted to be first.

Dr. Voss’s voice came through the hidden speakers.

"Start with Heeseung, Dr. Y/N. One hour sessions. We’ll be monitoring.

You led Heeseung into the private session room attached to the habitat. It was comfortable — two couches facing each other, soft lighting, and a small table. No glass. No barrier.

Heeseung sat down, legs spread wide, arms resting on the back of the couch as he watched you. You sat across from him, crossing your legs and smiling.

"So! Let’s begin like usual. How have you been feeling since the last round of enhancements? Any mood swings, headaches, or aggressive thoughts?"

Heeseung didn’t answer right away. His eyes slowly traveled from your ribbon down to your lips, then lower.

"I feel… hungry," he said finally. "All the time. Especially when I think about you."

You blinked but kept your bubbly tone.

"Hungry is pretty normal with the hormonal changes! We can work on ways to manage that. Maybe some meditation or—"

"Do you know what I think about when I’m hungry, Doctor?" he interrupted, leaning forward. His voice dropped. "I think about pulling you onto my lap and burying my face in your neck. I think about how soft you’d feel. How sweet you’d taste."

Your cheeks flushed pink. You laughed softly, trying to play it off while writing notes.

"Heeseung… that’s very direct," you said, still smiling but with a slightly higher pitch. "Those kinds of thoughts are part of the new instincts. We should talk about healthier outlets."

Heeseung smirked, dark and slow.

"You’re even cuter when you blush. Do you know how long we’ve waited to be this close to you?"

The rest of the session continued like that — you trying your best to guide the conversation back to clinical topics while Heeseung kept steering it toward you. How you smelled, how your voice affected him, how he wanted to touch your hair.

When the hour ended, he stood up and gently brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear before you could react. His fingers felt burning hot.

"Next time, I won’t be so polite, sunshine."

The next session was with Jake.

He was more playful but no less intense. The moment the door closed he moved closer on the couch, sitting only one seat away.

"You’re nervous," he said with a warm smile. "Your heart is beating fast. I can hear it."

You giggled and lightly tapped your tablet.

"Jake! Personal space, remember? And stop showing off your new super hearing."

He laughed, but his eyes stayed locked on you.

"I missed your laugh. The way you bounce when you walk. The little ribbon in your hair. Did you wear it for us?"

You touched the ribbon self-consciously.

"It’s just my usual style! Now tell me — any trouble controlling your strength lately?"

Jake reached out and gently took your hand, turning it over in his much larger one. His thumb stroked your wrist.

"My strength is fine. It’s the other instincts that are hard to control," he said softly. "I keep imagining pinning you down and filling you up until you can’t think straight. Until you’re carrying our scent."

Your breath hitched. You pulled your hand back gently but kept smiling.

"Jake… that’s the breeding instinct talking. We need to work on redirecting those thoughts."

He just grinned wider. "I don’t want to redirect them. I want you."

Sunghoon’s session was quieter but heavier.

He barely spoke for the first fifteen minutes, just staring at you with those icy yet burning eyes. When he finally talked, his voice was low.

"Come closer."

You shook your head with a playful smile. "We can talk just fine from here~"

"You’re scared I’ll lose control?" he asked.

"No. I trust you to behave during sessions," you replied cheerfully, even though your pulse was racing.

Sunghoon leaned forward.

"I want to bite you. Right here," he touched his own neck. "And then lick it better. Over and over."

You swallowed but kept your tone light. "Biting is… a strong urge. We should add that to the list of things to manage."

By the time you finished the first four sessions (Heeseung, Jake, Sunghoon, and Sunoo who was sweetly terrifying with how gently he described wanting to ruin you), you were exhausted but still smiling.

Dr. Voss met you in the small monitoring room.

"You’re doing well," he said. "They’re calmer than they’ve been in weeks. But their fixation is getting stronger. Tomorrow you’ll do sessions with Jungwon and Ni-ki."

You nodded, cheeks still warm.

"They’re very… intense now."

Voss gave you a careful look. "That’s only the beginning, Doctor. Their need for you physically is only going to grow."

That night you slept in your own assigned room inside the habitat level. The door locked from the outside for “safety.”

You lay in bed, heart still racing from all the things they had said to you during the day.

Through the wall, you could faintly hear low voices talking. Then a soft growl. Then Heeseung’s deep voice clearly saying.“Soon.”

You pulled the blanket higher, a strange mix of nervousness and warmth blooming in your chest.

This was going to be much harder than you thought.

The next morning you woke up feeling a little more refreshed but still flushed from yesterday’s sessions. You chose a soft mint green blouse under your white lab coat today and tied your hair in your signature cute bun with the small white ribbon. Taking a deep breath, you stepped into the common area with your usual bright energy.

"Good morning, everyone!" you called out cheerfully, holding your tablet. "I hope you all slept well. Who’s ready for today’s sessions?"

All seven of them were already gathered. Their eyes followed your every movement the second you appeared. The hunger from yesterday had not faded. If anything, it looked stronger.

Jungwon was the first for the day.

You led him into the private session room and sat down with a warm smile.

"Hi Jungwon~ Let’s start like always. How are you feeling after all the changes? Any new urges or difficulties controlling them?"

Jungwon sat across from you, posture straight and composed even though his eyes were anything but calm. He looked at you quietly for a long moment before speaking.

"You look tired, Doctor," he said softly. "Did you have trouble sleeping because of us?"

You laughed lightly and waved your hand.

"A little bit! It’s a new environment after all. But I’m okay! Now tell me about you."

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

"I keep thinking about you at night," he admitted, voice calm but heavy. "About how small you are compared to us now. How easily I could pick you up and put you wherever I want. How you would sound if I held you down and bred you full until you couldn’t move."

Your pen stopped moving for a second. You felt heat rush to your face but forced yourself to keep smiling.

"Those thoughts are very strong, Jungwon. That’s the new instincts working. We can try breathing techniques or—"

"I don’t want to control it," he interrupted gently but firmly. "I want to act on it. With you. All of us do."

He stared at you with quiet intensity, the kind that made it hard to look away.

You swallowed and wrote a few notes, keeping your voice bubbly.

"Well… we’ll work on finding a balance, okay? Step by step."

When the session ended, Jungwon stood up and gently touched the ribbon in your hair.

"This is cute," he murmured. "Makes me want to pull on it while I’m behind you."

You let out a surprised little giggle and stepped back.

"Boundaries, Jungwon!"

He just smiled softly before leaving.

Ni-ki’s session was the most chaotic.

The tall maknae walked into the room with a big smirk, immediately dropping onto the couch right next to you instead of across from you. His thigh pressed against yours.

"Ni-ki," you scolded playfully, scooting away. "Personal space, remember?"

He grinned, showing his sharp fangs.

"I’ve been waiting days to be this close to you, Doctor. Personal space is overrated."

You laughed despite the way your heart was racing and tried to start the session.

"Tell me about your energy levels. Any aggression spikes?"

"Only when I think about how long I’ve wanted to fuck you," he answered without hesitation. "I want to put you on all fours and mount you like an animal. I want to bite your neck while I fill you up. Over and over until you’re dripping with me."

Your cheeks burned bright red. You covered your face with the tablet for a second before peeking over it with a shy but determined smile.

"Ni-ki! You can’t just say things like that so casually!"

"Why not?" he asked, leaning even closer. "You smell so fucking good when you’re embarrassed. It makes me harder."

You stood up quickly, still trying to keep things light.

"Okay! Maybe we should continue this session with you sitting on the other couch, yeah?"

He laughed but obeyed, though his eyes never left your body for the rest of the hour. He kept teasing you with filthy comments wrapped in that playful tone until you were a flustered mess by the end.

After all individual sessions were done, Dr. Voss announced through the speakers that you could have group time in the common area for the rest of the evening.

You joined them for dinner. The table was full of food specially prepared for their enhanced bodies. You sat down and tried to keep the mood bright.

"Wow, this looks delicious! Let’s eat a lot, okay? You all need the energy."

They ate while watching you. The conversation started normal but quickly turned dangerous again.

Sunoo, who had been the gentlest during his session, suddenly spoke while staring at your neck.

"Your skin looks so soft, Doctor. I keep imagining how it would look with my marks all over it."

Jake reached over and lightly touched the back of your hand.

"You’re blushing again. It’s cute."

Heeseung, sitting at the head of the table, spoke in his deep voice.

"You’re doing well, sunshine. Staying so cheerful even though we keep telling you how badly we want to ruin you."

You took a sip of water and smiled, though your voice was a little breathy.

"I’m here to help you, not to run away. We can handle this together."

Jay smirked from across the table.

"You say that now. But when all seven of us lose control at the same time… even someone as bubbly as you might have trouble keeping up."

The table went quiet for a moment. The air felt thick with tension.

You stood up with a bright smile, trying to ease the atmosphere.

"Alright! Who wants to play a board game? We should do something fun to relax!"

A few of them agreed, but as the night went on, they kept finding small ways to get closer to you. Heeseung sat right beside you on the couch. Ni-ki kept brushing his leg against yours. Sunghoon stared at your lips like he wanted to devour them.

By the time you went back to your private room and locked the door, your legs felt weak and your mind was spinning with everything they had said to you.

You changed into your sleep clothes and lay in bed, heart beating fast.

Through the wall, you could hear them talking in low voices. Then a soft, deep growl echoed.

Heeseung’s voice carried clearly,"She’s holding on so well… but not for long."

Another voice (you thought it was Jay) answered,"I give it a few more days before we can’t hold back anymore."

You pulled the blanket up to your chin, breathing a little faster.

A strange warmth had started spreading through your body. You weren’t sure if it was just nervousness…

…or something the facility had changed in you.

The next few days followed a similar routine, but the tension in the habitat kept rising.

Every morning you walked into the common area with your bright smile, cute ribbon in your hair, and fresh lab coat, trying your best to keep things professional and light.

"Good morning, my favorite seven!" you sang out cheerfully on the sixth day. "Who’s ready for today’s check-ins? I brought some new calming exercises we can try together!"

They were all waiting again. Their stares had grown bolder. More possessive.

Heeseung’s eyes lingered on your legs. Jake licked his lips slowly. Ni-ki looked like he wanted to pounce.

You did group sessions that morning instead of individual ones. All seven of them sat in the large circle with you in the brightly lit therapy room.

"Today we’re going to talk about managing instincts," you said, clapping your hands with enthusiasm. "I know the new urges are very strong, but we can find healthy ways to—"

"Can we touch you?" Sunoo asked sweetly, cutting you off. His angelic smile made the question sound almost innocent.

You blinked. "For… therapeutic reasons?"

Jungwon answered calmly, "Physical contact helps stabilize us. That’s what the doctors said, right?"

You hesitated for a second but nodded, keeping your bubbly tone.

"Okay, but only hands and arms for now. And be gentle!"

That was all the permission they needed.

Heeseung immediately pulled you closer until you were sitting between him and Jay on the big couch. His large hand settled on your thigh, thumb slowly stroking the fabric of your pants.

"Soft," he murmured near your ear. "Even softer than I imagined."

Jake took your left hand and placed it on his chest.

"Feel that?" he asked. "My heart beats faster when you’re close."

You laughed nervously, cheeks turning pink, but tried to continue the session.

"See? This is good. Grounding touch can help lower aggression. Now let’s talk about—"

Sunghoon, sitting on the floor in front of you, suddenly rested his head on your knee. His hand wrapped around your calf possessively.

"You’re warm," he said quietly. "Smell so fucking good."

You swallowed hard but kept smiling.

"Sunghoon, that’s nice, but maybe a little higher than the knee would be better—"

He ignored you and gently pressed his nose against your thigh, inhaling deeply.

Ni-ki groaned from the other side. "Hyung, stop hogging her. I want a turn too."

The next hour became less of a therapy session and more of them finding excuses to touch you. Fingers brushing your waist. Hands playing with the ends of your hair. Jungwon gently tugging your ribbon while whispering how he wanted to use it to tie your wrists.

You were flushed and slightly breathless by the end.

"Alright! That’s enough physical contact for today," you announced, standing up quickly. "Great progress everyone!"

But your voice was a little higher than usual.

Later that evening, they convinced you to watch a movie together in the common area.

You sat on the massive sectional sofa with a big bowl of popcorn, trying to act normal. Within ten minutes, you somehow ended up in the middle of all of them.

Heeseung had his arm around your shoulders. Jake’s hand rested on your knee. Sunoo was playing with your fingers. Ni-ki kept nuzzling into your hair whenever he laughed.

Halfway through the movie, Jay leaned in and spoke lowly against your ear.

"Your scent is driving us insane, you know that?"

You turned your head, still trying to keep it light. "It’s just the shampoo I—"

"No," Jay interrupted, eyes dark. "It’s you. Sweet. Fertile. Ready."

Your breath hitched.

Heeseung’s hand on your shoulder tightened slightly as he added, "We can smell how your body is changing too. The facility made you more sensitive, didn’t they?"

You bit your lip and tried to focus on the movie, but your heart was racing.

"I’m… I’m just here to help you stay stable," you said softly, voice a little shaky but still warm.

Sunghoon, on your other side, suddenly pulled you onto his lap in one smooth motion. You let out a surprised squeak.

"Sunghoon!"

"Stay," he ordered quietly, arms wrapping around your waist. His chest was burning hot against your back. You could feel how hard he was through his pants, pressing against you.

The others watched with dark, hungry eyes.

You stayed there, flustered and warm, trying to act like this was still normal.

"You guys are getting really touchy lately," you said with a nervous giggle.

"Because we’re running out of patience," Ni-ki answered honestly. "Every night we talk about how we want to fuck you. How we want to fill you up until you’re swollen with our cum. How pretty you’ll look carrying our babies."

Your face burned. You squirmed on Sunghoon’s lap without thinking, which only made him groan and hold you tighter.

"Be careful moving like that, Doctor," he warned, voice strained. "I’m barely holding back as it is."

You stayed frozen after that, heart hammering wildly while the movie continued playing.

When it finally ended, Heeseung stood up and offered you his hand.

"Time for bed, sunshine."

He walked you all the way to your bedroom door. The others followed close behind like a pack.

Before you could close the door, Heeseung placed his hand on the frame, leaning down until his face was inches from yours.

"One day soon," he said quietly, eyes glowing with lust, "you’re not going to close this door on us."

You looked up at him, cheeks pink, breath a little fast, but still managed a small, brave smile.

"Goodnight, Heeseung."

You closed the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily.

Your body felt hot all over. A strange ache had started low in your stomach. The modifications they made to you were definitely working — you were becoming more sensitive to their pheromones every single day.

From the other side of the door, you heard seven low, deep voices murmuring.

And one clear sentence from Jungwon,"Soon. She’s almost ready."

The next day the facility staff increased the “physical proximity allowance.” Dr. Voss told you it was necessary for better data. You had groaned. Man, this was getting too much now. You tried to stay positive when you stepped into the common area.

"Good morning, boys!" you greeted with your usual bright smile, ribbon bouncing in your hair. "Should we do some group breathing exercises today?"

The words barely left your mouth before Heeseung was already walking toward you. He didn’t stop until he was right in front of you, towering over your smaller frame.

"No breathing exercises today, sunshine," he said, voice low and rough. Without waiting for permission, he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you flush against his chest.

Your hands instinctively pressed against his hard stomach.

"H-Heeseung… at least let me put my tablet down first," you laughed nervously, trying to keep your bubbly tone.

Jake appeared behind you instantly, pressing his body against your back and sliding his hands over your hips.

"You don’t need the tablet right now," Jake murmured against your ear, his breath hot. "You need us."

Before you could reply, Sunghoon took the tablet from your hands and placed it on the couch. Then he stepped close and cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks.

"You’re getting red again," he said quietly, eyes dark. "Cute."

They didn’t give you any space. You were completely surrounded — Heeseung in front, Jake behind, Sunghoon holding your face, while the others slowly closed in.

You let out a shaky giggle.

"Okay… this is a lot of morning affection…"

Sunoo smiled sweetly as he reached out and gently tugged the ribbon in your hair.

"Can I take this off?" he asked softly, already sliding it free. "I want to see your hair down."

Your hair tumbled over your shoulders. Ni-ki groaned at the sight.

"Fuck… that’s so much better."

Jungwon stepped closer and ran his fingers through your loose hair, gripping it lightly at the roots.

"You look prettier like this," he said calmly. "Easier to hold onto."

Your heart was racing. Their hands started moving again — bolder than yesterday.

Heeseung’s big palm slid down your back and rested just above your ass, pulling you tighter against him so you could feel how hard he already was. Jake’s hands roamed over your waist and stomach, occasionally brushing just under your blouse. Sunghoon leaned in and pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses along your neck.

You squirmed between them, breath coming faster.

"Guys… we’re supposed to be doing a session…"

"This is the session," Jay said, stepping in to kiss the other side of your neck. "Stabilizing ourselves with our Anchor."

They slowly guided you toward the big couch. Heeseung sat down first and pulled you onto his lap so you were straddling one of his thick thighs. Jake sat right beside him and tugged you closer until your side pressed against his chest.

You tried to protest weakly, "This position is… really not professional—"

"Shh," Heeseung whispered, one large hand stroking up and down your thigh. "Just sit with us for a while."

For the next hour, they kept you trapped on the couch in the middle of them. Their touches grew steadily more possessive.

Fingers slipped under the hem of your blouse to caress bare skin. Hands squeezed your thighs. Someone (you were pretty sure it was Ni-ki) gave your ass a firm squeeze every time you tried to shift positions. Sunoo kept nuzzling into your neck, occasionally sucking gently on your skin, leaving faint marks.

At one point, Jungwon pulled you from Heeseung’s lap onto his own. He positioned you so you were sitting with your back against his chest, then wrapped one arm around your waist while his other hand rested dangerously high on your inner thigh.

"You’re trembling," he whispered in your ear. "Are you scared… or excited?"

You bit your lip, face burning.

"A little bit of both," you admitted in a small voice.

Heeseung, now kneeling in front of you, slowly pushed your legs further apart so he could settle between them. His hands stroked up your thighs, getting closer and closer to where you were secretly throbbing.

"Look at me, sunshine," he ordered softly.

When you did, he leaned in and pressed a slow, deep kiss just below your ear, then another lower on your neck. You couldn’t stop the tiny whimper that escaped you.

Jake chuckled darkly. "She makes such pretty sounds."

The touches kept getting heavier. They took turns pulling you onto their laps. Every time you moved to another lap, different hands explored your body — squeezing your waist, gripping your hips, stroking your thighs, occasionally brushing teasingly between your legs over your pants.

By the time lunch came around, you were flushed, breathless, and visibly affected.

During lunch they didn’t let you sit alone. You stayed on Jay’s lap while he fed you bites from his plate.

After eating, they pulled you back to the couch.

This time they laid you down completely. Heeseung rested your head on his thigh, stroking your hair. Jake and Sunghoon each claimed one of your legs, slowly rubbing up and down. The others sat around you, hands never leaving your body.

"You’re doing so well, Doctor," Sunoo praised sweetly, even as his fingers traced circles dangerously close to your chest. "Letting us touch you like this…"

You were starting to lose the ability to form proper sentences.

"I… I think we should slow down a little…" you breathed out.

Ni-ki smirked and leaned down to kiss your stomach over your blouse.

"We’re only just getting started."

The day continued like that — long, endless touches, heated whispers, and growing hunger. By evening, your lab coat was long discarded, your blouse was wrinkled and slightly unbuttoned at the top, and your body felt like it was on fire.

When Dr. Voss’s voice finally came through the speakers announcing the end of the day’s session, you were a trembling, pink-faced mess.

Heeseung kissed your forehead gently before helping you up.

"Go rest, sunshine," he said, voice husky. "Tomorrow… we won’t be this gentle anymore."

You walked back to your room on shaky legs, feeling seven pairs of eyes burning into your back.

The moment your door locked, you leaned against it and slid down to the floor, breathing hard.

This was no longer an experiment.

They were claiming you.

And you were running out of reasons to stop them.

The next morning, before you could even step into the common area, Dr. Elias Voss called you into the monitoring room.

You sat across from him, still wearing your lab coat, hair tied with your little ribbon. But your neck and thighs still carried faint marks from yesterday’s touches.

“Dr. Y/N,” he began, looking serious. “I’ve reviewed the footage. Their behavior has crossed the line. The physical contact is becoming far too intense and sexual. This is supposed to be a controlled experiment, not… whatever this is turning into.”

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat.

“They’re just… adjusting to the new instincts,” you said softly, trying to defend them. “The enhancements made their drives very strong. They’re calmer when they can touch me.”

Dr. Voss shook his head.

“They are becoming dangerous. We’re seeing increased aggression when you’re not in the room. If this continues, we’ll have to pull you out and separate you from them for your own safety. I’m going in to speak with them right now. They need to tone it down immediately.”

Your eyes widened.

“Wait— Dr. Voss, maybe I should talk to them instead—”

But he was already standing.

When you both entered the common area, all seven of them were waiting. The moment they saw Dr. Voss standing protectively close to you, their expressions darkened.

Dr. Voss spoke firmly, voice echoing in the large space.

“Subjects, your physical interactions with Dr. Y/N have exceeded safe parameters. From now on, you will maintain a minimum distance. No touching without explicit approval. No sexual comments. No marking. If you cannot follow these rules, we will remove Dr. Y/N from the habitat immediately for her protection.”

The air instantly became heavy.

Heeseung’s jaw clenched. His eyes flashed with clear anger.

“You want us to stay away from our Anchor?” he growled, voice low and threatening.

Jake’s hands curled into fists. “She belongs with us. You don’t get to decide how much we touch her.”

Sunghoon took a dangerous step forward. “Say that again.”

The tension exploded.

Ni-ki suddenly lunged forward with a snarl, aiming straight for Dr. Voss. Jungwon and Jay barely managed to grab him, holding him back as he fought against their grip, muscles bulging with rage.

“You fucking touch her and I’ll rip your throat out!” Ni-ki shouted.

Sunoo, usually the softest, had a terrifyingly cold smile on his face. “You want to take her away from us? After you made her our Anchor?”

Heeseung looked like he was one second away from violence too. His golden-ringed eyes were locked on Dr. Voss like prey.

Two security guards quickly entered the room, but they looked terrified.

Dr. Voss stepped back, visibly nervous now.

“See?” he said to you urgently. “This is exactly what I was worried about. We need to separate you right now for your safety. Come with me, Dr. Y/N.”

He reached for your arm.

But you stepped forward, placing yourself between the boys and Dr. Voss.

“Wait!” you said loudly, your voice still carrying that bright but firm tone. “Everyone, please calm down!”

You turned to the seven of them. They were breathing heavily, eyes wild with anger and possessiveness.

You gave them your softest, warmest smile.

“It’s okay,” you said gently. “I’m fine. Really. Dr. Voss is just worried about me… but I chose this. I chose to be your Anchor. I’m not scared of you.”

You slowly walked closer to them, even as Voss tried to stop you.

You reached out and gently placed your hand on Heeseung’s chest. His breathing was ragged, but he stilled under your touch.

“I’m staying,” you said clearly, looking at all of them. “We can compromise, okay? Just… try not to be too rough. For me?”

The boys slowly relaxed — but only because you were touching them and speaking softly.

Heeseung grabbed your waist and pulled you against him protectively, glaring at Dr. Voss over your head.

“She stays,” he declared, voice final. “If anyone tries to take her, we will destroy this entire facility.”

The other six moved closer, surrounding you like a protective pack.

Dr. Voss looked extremely uncomfortable, but he could see that forcing the issue right now would end badly.

“…Very well,” he said stiffly. “But I’m increasing monitoring. Any extreme behavior and this experiment ends. Dr. Y/N, you have final authority to call for extraction if it becomes too much.”

You nodded, still smiling even though your heart was racing.

“Thank you, Dr. Voss. I’ve got this.”

As soon as Dr. Voss left the room, the boys turned all their attention back to you.

Heeseung’s grip on your waist tightened.

“You defended us,” he murmured, voice dark and pleased. “Good girl.”

Jake pressed against your back, kissing the side of your neck.

“You’re really ours now, aren’t you?”

You let out a shaky breath, cheeks warm.

“I’m your Anchor… so yes. I’m staying with you.”

Sunghoon tilted your chin up.

“You just stopped us from tearing that man apart,” he said quietly. “That means you understand. We need you.”

The atmosphere had completely shifted again. Their bad mood was turning into something even more intense — raw hunger mixed with dark satisfaction that you had chosen them.

Ni-ki stepped close and whispered against your ear,

“Now that you’ve told them you’re staying… we don’t have to hold back as much, right?”

Your breath hitched.

This was getting more dangerous by the day.

Dr. Elias Voss sent a message asking you to come to the monitoring room alone. The seven boys were told to wait in the common area.

You walked in nervously, still wearing your slightly wrinkled lab coat and ribbon in your hair. Dr. Serena Voss and the senior staff doctor were already waiting inside with Dr. Elias.

Dr. Serena smiled at you gently and asked you to sit down.

“Dr. Y/N… I'm Dr. Elias's wife,” she began. "We wanted to speak with you privately."

Dr. Elias Voss looked serious.

“We’ve been monitoring their latest data. The heat cycle is starting sooner than expected. Their hormonal levels are spiking dramatically.”

The senior staff doctor was more direct.

“To put it plainly… they’re going to want to fuck you. All seven of them. Probably quite aggressively. Their breeding instincts are extremely high right now. They’ve been fantasizing about it for weeks — filling you up, breeding you, claiming you completely.”

Your cheeks burned red. You gripped the edge of your seat.

Dr. Serena continued calmly,

“During the heat, they may lose control. They might fuck you for hours. One after another, or even more than one at the same time. Their bodies will demand release inside you. We’ve modified your body to handle it, but it will still be intense.”

She leaned forward slightly.

“You still have a choice. We can try to sedate them through the worst of it… but it will be painful for them, and there’s a high chance they’ll break containment to get to you anyway.”

Dr. Elias Voss added quietly,

“If you go into that nest room with them, expect to be fucked. Thoroughly. They see you as their mate now. This won’t be gentle clinical sex. It will be raw.”

You sat there in silence for a long moment, heart pounding hard in your chest. Your face was completely flushed.

“I… I understand,” you whispered, voice small but steady. “I chose to be their Anchor. I’m not going to abandon them now.”

Dr. Serena gave you a sympathetic look.

“Then we’ll prepare the nest room. Take a few minutes to collect yourself before you go back to them.”

The three doctors left you alone in the monitoring room for a moment.

You sat there, breathing shakily, thighs pressed together as you tried to process everything they had just told you so bluntly.

When you finally stepped back into the common area, all seven boys turned to look at you at once. They could clearly see how flushed and nervous you were.

Heeseung walked over immediately and pulled you into his arms.

“What did they say to you?” he asked, voice low.

You hid your face in his chest, voice muffled.

“…Nothing important,” you lied softly. “Just some medical updates about the heat cycle.”

Jake stepped closer and gently stroked your back.

“You’re shaking, baby,” he murmured. “Your heart is racing.”

Sunghoon tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You’re lying. You smell even more nervous now.”

You hugged Heeseung tighter, refusing to lift your head.

“I’m okay… really. I’m just a little overwhelmed. That’s all.”

Ni-ki chuckled darkly from behind you.

“They told you we’re going to fuck you, didn’t they?”

You didn’t answer. You just pressed your burning face deeper into Heeseung’s chest.

Heeseung’s hand rubbed slow circles on your lower back.

“You don’t have to tell us,” he said gently, but his voice was getting rougher. “We already know what’s coming.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of your head.

“Come on, sunshine. Let’s go to the nest room.”

The seven of them surrounded you as they guided you toward the large reinforced nest room. Your heart was beating so fast you could barely think.

You had chosen this.

And now there was no turning back.

The nest room was enormous and dimly lit, with a massive circular bed in the center covered in soft black and cream sheets. There were pillows everywhere, making it look like a giant nest. The boys guided you inside and closed the heavy reinforced door behind them.

At first, they were surprisingly gentle.

Heeseung sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you onto his lap, cradling you carefully. The others sat around you in a circle, watching you with intense but controlled eyes.

“You’re safe here,” Heeseung murmured, stroking your back slowly. “We’re not going to jump on you like animals… not yet.”

Jake leaned in and kissed your temple softly. “Try to relax, sunshine. We know this is a lot.”

You gave them a small, nervous smile, still trying to keep your bubbly tone even though your voice was shaky.

“Okay… good. Because I’m really nervous,” you admitted with a soft laugh. “Seven of you is… a lot.”

They kept you in the middle, touching you gently — hands on your waist, thighs, hair, and back. No one pushed further. They were clearly waiting.

You stayed like that for almost an hour, talking quietly, them comforting you while their bodies grew hotter against yours.

Then the clock on the wall struck 12:00.

The main lights in the room slowly dimmed, shifting into a deep, warm red glow. The temperature in the room seemed to rise instantly.

All seven of them stiffened at the same time.

Their breathing changed — becoming heavier, deeper. Their eyes darkened dramatically, the golden rings around their pupils glowing brighter. You could feel their bodies heating up against you, muscles tensing.

A small hidden earpiece you didn’t even know you were wearing crackled to life.

Dr. Serena’s voice spoke calmly but clearly,“Heat cycle has officially begun, Y/N. Their pheromones and aggression levels are spiking. Get ready. They won’t be able to hold back much longer. Remember to breathe. Your body can handle them.”

The moment she finished speaking, Heeseung’s grip on your waist became much tighter. A low, deep growl rumbled from his chest.

“Fuck…” he cursed under his breath, burying his face in your neck and inhaling deeply. “You smell so fucking good.”

Jake’s hand slid up your thigh, squeezing harder than before.

“Sunshine…” he groaned, voice strained. “I can’t… I need you.”

Ni-ki crawled closer, eyes completely feral now as he stared at you like prey.

“I’m so fucking hard it hurts,” he growled.

The gentle touches from earlier were rapidly disappearing. Their hands grew bolder, gripping, squeezing, pulling you closer like they were losing control by the second.

Sunghoon reached out and started unbuttoning your blouse with shaky fingers, breathing heavily.

Jungwon’s usual calm voice was gone, replaced by a low, dangerous tone,“Take her clothes off.”

You let out a shaky breath, heart hammering wildly in your chest as seven pairs of glowing eyes locked onto you with pure, unrestrained lust.

“Fuck…” Heeseung breathed against your neck. “It’s starting.”

Dr. Serena’s voice crackled softly in your earpiece one last time,“Heat cycle is active. It will be for the next 24 hours. Try to breathe, Y/N. They won’t be able to hold back now.”

Heeseung’s lips crashed against yours in a deep, desperate kiss. No more gentleness. This kiss was hungry, possessive, and consuming. His tongue claimed your mouth as his hands roamed down your body, ripping your blouse open roughly. Buttons scattered across the bed.

Jake was behind you instantly, yanking your pants and panties down your legs in one swift motion, leaving you completely exposed.

“So fucking pretty,” Jake groaned, his hands spreading your thighs wide for the others to see.

You whimpered into Heeseung’s mouth as Sunghoon dropped between your legs and dragged his tongue slowly up your soaked pussy, groaning at your taste.

“She’s dripping,” Sunghoon growled before sucking your clit into his mouth.

You jerked hard, moaning loudly. Ni-ki grabbed your hair and turned your head, feeding his thick, heavy cock past your lips.

“That’s it… suck me, Doctor,” he moaned, slowly pushing deeper into your mouth.

They worked in perfect sync.

Heeseung pulled away from your lips only to latch onto your breast, sucking hard on your nipple while Jay claimed the other one. Jake and Sunoo kissed and bit along your neck and shoulders, leaving dark marks everywhere.

Sunghoon pushed two long fingers inside you while still licking your clit, curling them perfectly against that spot that made your eyes roll back.

You were moaning helplessly around Ni-ki’s cock, body trembling as pleasure attacked you from every direction.

After a few minutes, Heeseung moved between your legs.

“Look at me,” he ordered, voice rough.

You barely managed to meet his glowing eyes before he lined up his massive cock and pushed inside you in one long, slow, powerful thrust.

A muffled scream left your throat as he stretched you open so wide it burned.

“Fuck… so tight,” Heeseung groaned deeply, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “You’re taking me so well, sunshine.”

He started fucking you with deep, heavy strokes — pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. The wet, obscene sounds of his cock plunging into your soaked pussy filled the entire room.

Ni-ki pulled out of your mouth and was quickly replaced by Jake, who fucked your throat more eagerly.

They began rotating.

After Heeseung had fucked you hard for several minutes, Jay took his place, pounding into you even rougher. Then Sunghoon. Then Jake.

Every time one of them came, they buried themselves as deep as possible and pumped you full of thick, hot cum.

By the time the fourth load was shot inside you, your pussy was a creamy, messy wreck — cum leaking out with every thrust.

You were crying, shaking, and moaning incoherently, lost in overwhelming pleasure.

Sunoo smiled sweetly even as he pushed his cock into your cum-filled pussy.

“Our pretty little cumdump,” he whispered lovingly while fucking you slow and deep, pushing the previous loads even deeper inside you.

Jungwon was next. He gripped your hips hard and fucked you with powerful, precise strokes, eyes locked on your face the entire time.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” he praised. “Taking all of us like a good Anchor.”

Ni-ki was the roughest. He flipped you onto all fours and fucked you from behind like an animal, spanking your ass hard while growling.

“Fuck yes— take my cock. Gonna fill you until you’re pregnant with our babies.”

Heeseung knelt in front of you and fed you his cock again, fucking your throat while Ni-ki destroyed your pussy from behind.

You were completely surrounded.

Used.

Claimed.

Filled.

And they still had hours left in their heat.

The red lights made everything feel hotter, more sinful.

You were a complete mess — covered in sweat, cum, and marks from their mouths and hands.

Ni-ki was still fucking you hard from behind, his hips slamming against your ass with wet, filthy sounds.

“Fuck— I’m gonna cum again,” he growled, spanking your ass hard before burying himself deep. You felt another thick load shoot inside you, so much that it leaked out around his cock and dripped down your thighs.

The moment he pulled out, Jungwon took his place again.

He flipped you onto your back again and pushed your legs up toward your chest, folding you in half.

“Look at this pretty pussy,” Jungwon groaned, staring at the mess they had made of you. “So full of our cum already…”

He slid inside easily because of how wet and stretched you were. His thrusts were deep and controlled, but each one was powerful enough to make your breasts bounce.

“So good,” he moaned. “You were made to take our cocks.”

Heeseung moved beside your head and fed you his cock again, slowly fucking your throat while Jungwon bred your pussy.

You were crying around Heeseung’s cock from the overwhelming pleasure, body shaking every time Jungwon hit that perfect spot inside you.

After Jungwon filled you with his load, Jake and Jay moved together.

Jake lay down on the bed and pulled you on top of him, sliding his cock back into your messy pussy in one smooth thrust. He held you against his chest as Jay knelt behind you.

You whimpered when you felt Jay’s cock press against your already full pussy.

“W-wait— both?” you gasped.

“Yes, baby,” Jake whispered, kissing you softly. “You can take it.”

Jay pushed in slowly, stretching you even more. The feeling of two thick cocks inside you at the same time made your eyes roll back and a broken moan rip from your throat.

“Fuck— so tight,” Jay groaned, slowly starting to move.

They found a rhythm — Jake thrusting up while Jay thrust down. The double penetration made you feel impossibly full. Every movement made wet, squelching sounds as cum was pushed out of you.

Sunoo knelt beside you and stroked your hair gently, even as he pushed his cock into your hand.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered sweetly. “All fucked out and full of us.”

Heeseung, Sunghoon, and Ni-ki watched with dark eyes, stroking themselves as they waited for their next turn.

Jake and Jay fucked you together until they both came deep inside you, adding even more cum to the mess.

By the time they pulled out, your pussy was gaping slightly, creamy white cum pouring out of you in thick streams.

But they weren’t done.

Sunghoon pulled you onto his lap, facing him, and sank you down on his cock. Heeseung moved behind you and pushed back into your pussy as well, making it three cocks stretching you at once — though only two were inside your pussy.

You screamed in pleasure, completely overwhelmed.

Heeseung growled in your ear, “That’s our good girl. Taking everything we give you.”

They used your body for what felt like hours — rotating positions, fucking you alone, in pairs, sometimes making you ride them while others used your mouth and hands.

Every single one of them came inside you at least twice.

Your belly felt swollen and heavy with their cum. Your voice was hoarse from moaning and crying their names. Tears of overwhelming pleasure ran down your cheeks.

At one point, all seven of them were touching you at the same time — hands, mouths, cocks everywhere.

Heeseung was fucking you deep while whispering hotly against your ear:

“Gonna keep you like this for days, sunshine. Full of our cum. Breeding you until it takes.”

You came again hard, shaking violently as another orgasm ripped through your body.

They praised you nonstop.

“Good girl.”

“Our perfect Anchor.”

“Taking our cocks so well.”

“Gonna look so pretty pregnant with our babies.”

Hours blurred together in a haze of sweat, cum, and overwhelming pleasure. Your voice had gone hoarse from screaming their names, your bubbly professionalism long shattered into broken moans and whimpers.

By hour six, they had you in the center of the massive bed, surrounded by pillows soaked with fluids. Heeseung had you riding him reverse cowgirl, his thick cock buried to the hilt while Jay knelt in front of you, feeding his own length down your throat. Every bounce made more cum from previous loads leak out around Heeseung’s shaft, dripping messily onto the sheets.

“Fuck, look at her,” Jake groaned from the side, stroking himself as he watched. “Our pretty little Anchor is stuffed so full she’s leaking everywhere.”

Sunghoon moved behind Heeseung and pushed two fingers alongside his hyung’s cock, stretching you even wider. You sobbed around Jay’s length, thighs shaking violently as another orgasm tore through you.

Sunoo, ever the deceptively sweet one, cupped your face gently while Jay used your mouth. “You’re doing so well, Doctor~ Taking every drop like you were made for us.” He leaned in and kissed your tear-streaked cheek even as your body jolted from the double penetration below.

Ni-ki and Jungwon took turns claiming your breasts, sucking hard enough to leave blooming marks while their hands roamed your swollen belly, already rounded slightly from the sheer volume of cum pumped into you.

They rotated constantly. Sometimes two in your pussy, one in your ass (after careful but relentless preparation), one in your mouth, and the rest using your hands or marking your skin. At one point they had you completely suspended between them — Heeseung and Sunghoon holding your legs wide open while Jake and Jay fucked into you together, their cocks rubbing against each other inside your overfilled cunt.

The wet, filthy sounds echoed endlessly. Growls, praises, and filthy promises filled the air.

“Gonna breed you until your womb is overflowing,” Jungwon panted, slamming into you with precise, punishing thrusts.

“You’ll smell like us for weeks,” Sunghoon growled against your neck before biting down.

Ni-ki was the most vocal and wild, fucking your ass with deep, animalistic snaps of his hips while calling you his favorite cumslut in that playful-yet-feral tone.

Hours passed. The heat made them insatiable.

They came inside you over and over — thick, heavy loads that made your belly visibly swell. Your pussy and ass were puffy, red, and constantly leaking their seed. At times they simply held you down and took turns breeding you slowly, savoring the way your body clenched and milked them even when you were too exhausted to do more than tremble.

By hour fourteen you were a limp, sobbing, blissed-out mess. They had to hold you up for most positions now, but they never stopped praising you.

Jungwon, ever the leader, pulled you into his arms during a brief lull around hour eighteen. The red lights were still glowing, but their movements had grown slightly less frantic.

He kissed you deeply, almost tenderly, while the others pressed close, hands stroking your marked skin.

“You’re ours now, sunshine,” he whispered against your swollen lips. “No more pretending this is just clinical. You belong in this nest.”

You could only nod weakly, voice gone, but you managed a tiny, exhausted smile — that same bubbly spirit flickering through even now. “Y-yeah… yours…”

The final hours were slower, deeper. They took you one by one again, savoring every last thrust as the heat cycle began to wane.

Jungwon was last, folding you gently beneath him and rocking into you with long, possessive strokes while the others watched, hands still touching you everywhere.

When he finally came, flooding you with what felt like the heaviest load yet, the red lights slowly faded back to soft white.

The heat cycle ended.

Silence settled over the nest room, broken only by heavy breathing and the soft sounds of shifting bodies. All seven of them collapsed around you in a protective pile of limbs and warmth. You lay in the center, completely spent, body aching in the best and worst ways, covered in marks, sweat, and drying cum. Your belly was noticeably rounded from everything they’d pumped into you. Your hair was a wild mess, ribbon long lost somewhere in the sheets.

Heeseung pulled you gently against his chest, stroking your back with surprising tenderness. His voice was rough but soft now. “You did so well, Y/N. Our perfect little doctor.”

Jake nuzzled into your neck from the other side, pressing soft kisses to the marks he’d left. “We’re so proud of you, baby. You took everything.”

Sunghoon rested his head on your thigh, eyes closed, one hand gently massaging your sore muscles. Sunoo curled against your stomach, kissing the swollen area almost reverently. “We’ll take care of you now.”

Jay brought water and a warm cloth, carefully cleaning your face and neck while Jungwon and Ni-ki massaged your legs and feet. They were all still hard, but the feral edge had dulled into deep, possessive satisfaction.

“You’re not leaving this nest for a while,” Ni-ki murmured, though his tone was playful again. “Doctor’s orders can wait.”

You let out a weak, raspy laugh — the first real sound you’d made in hours that wasn’t a moan or sob.

“I… I think I’m going to need a new lab coat,” you whispered, voice completely wrecked. “And maybe… a week of recovery.”

They chuckled softly around you, the sound warm and affectionate now that the peak of the heat had passed.

Dr. Serena’s voice eventually came through the hidden speakers, sounding both impressed and slightly concerned.

“Cycle complete. Vital signs stable. Dr. Y/N, you… handled that exceptionally well. We’ll give you all 48 hours before any further check-ins. Rest.”

The speakers clicked off.

Heeseung tucked you more securely against him, the others closing in until you were cocooned in their heat and scent. Someone pulled a soft blanket over all of you.

“Sleep, sunshine,” Heeseung murmured, lips brushing your forehead. “We’ve got you.”

As your eyes fluttered shut, surrounded by seven enhanced, utterly devoted mates, you felt a strange mix of exhaustion, satisfaction, and warmth blooming in your chest.

You had chosen this.

And even as your body ached and your mind floated in a pleasure-drunk haze, a small, bubbly part of you whispered that you didn’t regret it.

Not even a little.

The experiment had evolved far beyond science.

You were theirs now.

And they were never letting their Anchor go.

The nest room was quiet except for the soft sound of breathing and the occasional rustle of sheets. The red emergency lights had long faded, replaced by the gentle, warm white glow of the habitat’s normal lighting. You had no idea how long you’d been asleep—only that your body felt heavy, sore in the most intimate places, and deliciously used.

You woke up slowly, cradled against Heeseung’s broad chest. His arm was locked around your waist, possessive even in sleep. Jake was spooned behind you, face buried in the back of your neck, while Sunghoon’s head rested on your thigh like it belonged there. The others were tangled around you in a warm pile of limbs and muscle.

A tiny whimper escaped you when you tried to shift. Everything ached—your thighs, your core, your throat. Your belly still felt oddly full and swollen from the sheer amount of cum they’d pumped into you.

Heeseung stirred immediately, golden-ringed eyes cracking open. His voice was low and rough with sleep. “Sunshine… you’re awake.”

The others woke almost in sync, like a pack sensing their mate’s movement. Soft kisses and gentle hands immediately began moving over your body—checking, soothing, claiming.

“Easy,” Jay murmured, pressing a warm cloth between your legs to clean you carefully. “You were so good for us, baby.”

Sunoo nuzzled against your stomach, kissing the soft, slightly rounded swell there with almost worshipful tenderness. “Look at you… still carrying so much of us.”

You let out a weak, raspy laugh, your usual bubbly tone cracking through the exhaustion. “I feel like I got hit by a truck… seven very enthusiastic trucks.”

Ni-ki chuckled, fangs flashing as he grinned. “You took all seven trucks like a champ, Doctor.”

They didn’t let you move much for the first few hours. Someone brought water and electrolyte drinks. Jungwon fed you small bites of nutrient-dense food by hand while Jake massaged your sore legs. Heeseung kept you mostly on his lap, your back against his chest, his large hands gently rubbing circles over your swollen belly.

“You did so well,” he whispered against your ear, voice full of pride and lingering hunger. “Our perfect Anchor. We were worried we’d break you… but you kept smiling even when we were ruining you.”

You blushed deeply, hiding your face against his neck. “I… I chose this. I’m not going to run away now.”

The 48-hour recovery window passed in a blur of gentle touches, deep kisses, and surprisingly soft intimacy. They took turns holding you, bathing you in the large attached bathroom, and whispering praises. The feral edge of the heat had dulled, but their possessiveness remained—stronger than ever.

When Dr. Voss finally allowed you all back into the main habitat area, you tried to return to some semblance of professionalism.

You showed up in a fresh white lab coat over a soft baby blue blouse, hair neatly tied in your signature cute bun with the little white ribbon. Tablet in hand. Bright smile on your face, even if you were still walking a little carefully.

“Good morning, everyone~!” you greeted cheerfully, though your voice was still slightly hoarse. “How are my favorite seven feeling today? Any lingering… side effects from the heat?”

They were all waiting for you.

The moment you stepped fully into the room, the atmosphere thickened. Seven pairs of eyes tracked your every movement with dark, satisfied hunger.

Heeseung was on you first. He pulled you against his chest without hesitation and kissed you deeply, tongue claiming your mouth like he hadn’t spent the last 24 hours inside you.

When he finally pulled back, you were breathless and flushed.

“H-Heeseung! We’re… we’re supposed to do a proper check-in session—”

Jake appeared behind you, arms sliding around your waist. “Check-in can wait five minutes. We missed you.”

“You were literally sleeping on top of me for two days,” you laughed, trying to sound stern but failing as Sunghoon tilted your chin up for a slow, deep kiss of his own.

Sunoo smiled sweetly while playing with the ribbon in your hair. “You look so cute trying to be professional again… even with our marks all over your neck.”

You instinctively tugged your collar higher, cheeks burning.

Dr. Voss’s voice came through the speakers, sounding exhausted. “Dr. Y/N, try to keep them… contained. We’re resuming light sessions today. Physical contact is still permitted but try not to… escalate immediately.”

The boys smirked.

“Too late,” Jungwon said calmly, pulling you onto his lap on the big couch. He positioned you sideways so your legs draped over his thigh, one hand resting possessively high on your inner thigh.

The “session” quickly became them taking turns holding you while you asked your questions. You tried to stay focused—recording mood stability, energy levels, any residual aggression—but it was nearly impossible.

Every time you tried to write notes, someone would kiss your neck, squeeze your thigh, or slide a hand under your blouse to caress bare skin. Ni-ki kept nipping at your ears. Sunghoon stared at your lips like he wanted to devour them again.

At one point Heeseung pulled you onto his lap facing him, your core pressed right against the obvious bulge in his pants.

“You’re still wet,” he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. “I can smell it. Our cum is still leaking out of you, isn’t it?”

Your breath hitched. You gripped his shoulders, trying to keep your voice steady. “T-That’s… scientifically interesting. We should monitor—”

Jay leaned in from the side and bit your shoulder lightly. “Stop pretending you don’t love it.”

You lasted another twenty minutes before your tablet was gently taken away and set aside.

This time they didn’t go into full heat mode. Instead, they loved you slowly on the big sectional couch—taking turns fucking you with deep, lazy thrusts while the others watched and touched you. No rushing. Just long, claiming strokes and filthy praises whispered against your skin.

When they finally finished, you were once again a flushed, cum-filled, blissed-out mess in the middle of them, lab coat discarded somewhere on the floor, blouse open, ribbon slightly crooked in your messy hair.

Heeseung stroked your cheek, eyes glowing with dark affection.

“You’re not our doctor anymore, sunshine,” he said softly but firmly. “You’re our mate. Our Anchor. Our everything.”

You looked up at all seven of them—tall, powerful, completely devoted—and felt that familiar mix of nervousness and warmth bloom in your chest.

A small, genuinely bubbly smile tugged at your swollen lips.

“…I think I’m okay with that.”

Weeks later,

The experiment had fundamentally changed.

Sessions still happened—mostly because you insisted on keeping some structure—but they almost always ended with you being passed between them, filled, marked, and praised until you couldn’t remember your own name.

Your body had adapted even further. You craved their touch now. Their scent. The feeling of being completely surrounded and claimed.

Some mornings you still greeted them with your bright “Good morning, boys~!” and cute ribbon… only to be bent over the nearest surface within minutes.

They never got tired of you.

And deep down, you never wanted them to.

You were theirs.

Completely.

Author: If you ever want an epilogue, just say the word, baby. I’m here.

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

Permanent Taglist:-

@slutofpsh

@laurenalpha123

@dreamiestay

@amortenha

@peonywon

@mitmit01

@heeevangelizesme

@gvni-eve

@yourmomni

@leov3rse

@punchbug9-blog

@casualtreatynightmare

@yenienha

@rosepetals09

you lean forward, bracing your hands against the headboard and grinding your clit directly onto the bridge of his nose. you’re already a mess, your arousal dripping down his face, and the sensation of his sharp, straight nose sliding between your lips as you move makes your head swim.

"like that, hoonie?" you whisper, your voice soft yet lewd as you look down at him, wanting approval. "look at you, pinned under my cunt like a good little puppy."

"i am," he gasps, his tongue darting out to lap frantically at your entrance, trying to catch the globs of arousal trickling down. " just ride me, baby... ride my face until i can't breathe. i want to feel you cum all over my face."

he starts to buck his head up into you, forcing his nose deeper into your slit while his tongue works with a frantic, animalistic energy. he’s not even touching his cock, but you can see the massive, angry bulge in his gray sweatpants throbbing with every wet slap of your skin against his mouth. he’s so overstimulated just from the scent and the taste of you that he’s shaking.

"ride it, slut," he growls, his voice turning dominant despite his position. "bounce that wet little hole on my face. i want to feel you twitch. want to feel your pussy clenching around my nose."

you start to move faster, your hips snapping down onto him with a rhythmic, punishing force. the sound is filthy—a constant, squelching wetness that fills the room. you’re rubbing yourself raw on him, your breath hitching as you feel your climax building. "fuck, sunghoon... your nose... it's so hard... it's hitting everything..."

"that's it," he whimpers, his hands sliding up to grab your tits, squeezing them roughly as he watches you come undone. "fuck, i'm going... i'm going just from the smell... don't stop..."

he lets out a choked, desperate sound as his body suddenly stiffens. he’s cumming completely untouched, his cock jerking violently inside his pants, staining the fabric dark as he jets his seed while his face is still buried in your heat. he’s gasping for air, his nose deep in your folds as you finally snap, your pussy pulsing and soaking his entire face in a messy finish.

the room is now thick with the scent of sex and the heavy, ragged sound of both your lungs fighting for air. sunghoon is still pinned beneath you, his face slick and shiny with the amount of arousal you just painted across his skin. he looks absolutely wrecked, his eyes half-closed and glazed with a mixture of post-orgasmic bliss and a lingering, perverted hunger.

"don't you dare move," he rasps, his voice a low, vibrating growl from beneath your thighs. his hands are still anchored on your hips, keeping your weight settled firmly over his mouth. "i told you i wanted to drown in you, and i'm not done cleaning up the mess you made."

he starts to work again, but the pace is different now—slower, more methodical, and more lewd, straight up our of porn. his tongue sweeps across your folds in long, wet strokes, lapping up every stray drop of your cream that’s currently dripping off his chin and onto his neck. he’s being so thorough it’s humiliating, his nose still buried deep in your slit, inhaling the scent.

"you taste so fucking good," he mumbles against your wet skin, his voice muffled and distorted. "look at what you did to me. i'm soaked in you. i've got your spit and your pussy juice all over my eyes, and i've never felt better. you’re such a messy little thing for your hoonie, aren’t you?"

you’re still twitching, your muscles sensitive and raw as you feel him licking you clean. "hoon... please... i'm so sensitive..." you whimper, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, but he only responds by humping his face deeper into your cunt.

"i don't care," he sneers, his dominant streak flaring up as he catches a sensitive spot with his tongue, making your hips jerk. "you're going to sit here until every bit of this mess is back inside my mouth where it belongs. i want to taste exactly how much you loved riding my face. look at your thighs... they're shaking so bad. your cunnie is just a pathetic dripping mess for me, isn't she?"

he pulls his head back just an inch, just enough to look up at you with a perverted, lop-sided grin. his face is a disaster; smeared with your arousal, his hair messy, and his lips swollen. "now, be a good girl and lean down. i want to taste your mouth while i'm still covered in you. i want you to taste the mess you made, angel."

he doesn’t even wait for you to move; he reaches up and hooks his fingers into your hair, yanking your head down until your face is inches from his. he looks like a total degenerate, his skin gleaming under the remnants of your own arousal, and the smell of your sex is thick and cloying between you.

"look at me," he commands, his voice a low. "look at the mess you left on my skin. i’m going to put it all back inside you."

he slams his mouth against yours in a kiss that is less of an embrace and more of a hostile takeover. it’s filthy and wet, his tongue dragging the slickness from his cheeks onto yours. his tongue thrusts into your mouth with an animalistic force, tasting of salt and the heavy, scent of your own pussy. he’s forcing you to swallow yourself, making you consume the very mess you just made on his face.

"you taste fucking delicious, darling," he mumbles against your lips, not breaking the contact, his breath hot and smelling of you. "so greedy and sweet... wanna taste your cunt on your tongue until i die."

his hands slide down from your hair to cup your face, his thumbs roughly smearing the stray drops of cream into the corners of your mouth. he’s breathing into you, sharing the same thin air, his tongue sweeping over your teeth and the roof of your mouth as if he's trying to coat every inch of your throat in the taste of your climax.

the kiss is desperate and needy, punctuated by the sound of wet, messy suction. you’re whimpering into his mouth, your mind absolute mush as you taste your yourself. he pulls back just a fraction of an inch, a thick, glistening string of spit and arousal connecting your lips in the dim light.

Rent hikes, unreliable part-time jobs at the campus café, and now your flaky roommate, Mia, had ghosted you entirely—packing her bags in the dead of night after some dramatic fallout with her boyfriend, leaving you to foot the bill alone. You weren't rich; far from it.

Coming from a small town where your parents had a small bakery just to keep the lights on, you'd clawed your way into this prestigious university on scholarships and sheer grit. Majoring in journalism, you dreamed of exposing truths, breaking stories that mattered. But right now, the only story breaking was your own stability.

Panic clawed at your chest as you scrolled through the university's roommate classifieds app on your cracked phone screen.

Options were slim: overpriced singles, sketchy off-campus basements, or pairings with people whose ads screamed red flags.

"Seeking quiet roommate who doesn't mind cats... or my taxidermy hobby." Nope.

"Party animal wanted! Must love EDM and late nights." Hard pass.

Then, one ad popped up, sleek and straightforward amid the chaos: "Luxury apartment off-campus, one bedroom available. Male roommate (clean, respectful) seeking tidy, drama-free cohabitant. Utilities, Wi-Fi, and parking included. Prime location near campus. Contact Jake Shim."

Jake Shim. The name sent a jolt through you, like a shot of espresso on an empty stomach. If you’d been on campus longer than a week, you knew Jake.

The Shim Jaeyun, the Australian-Korean charmer who was one-seventh of ENHYPEN, the unofficial royalty of the university. They weren’t a frat, but Jay, Sunghoon, Heeseung, Sunoo, Jungwon, Ni-ki, and Jake had a stranglehold on campus culture.

They dominated parties, sports events, and even academic circles with an effortless charisma that made them untouchable. Jake, though? He was the crown jewel of their mystique.

Whispers about him were inescapable. He was the ultimate heartthrob: tall, with an athlete’s build honed from years of soccer, messy black hair that fell just right over his forehead, and a jawline so sharp it could cut glass. His warm brown eyes, flecked with gold, seemed to promise secrets, and that lazy, lopsided grin had a reputation for disarming anyone in a ten-foot radius.

But Jake’s charm came with a darker edge. He was the campus playboy, a fuckboy whose trail of broken hearts was as legendary as his conquests. Girls fell for him like moths to a flame, only to be ghosted after a night of whispered promises and fleeting ecstasy.

The rumors were vivid: girls left his bed dazed, addicted to the memory of him, but always with a strange pallor, a lingering exhaustion no one could explain. “He’s intense,” they’d say, half-dreamy, half-wary, before he’d move on to the next.

So why did someone like Jake Shim—rumored to come from a wealthy family with ties to a tech empire in Australia—need a roommate?

His ad screamed luxury, not necessity. Maybe he wanted a buffer, someone to keep his chaotic lifestyle in check. Or maybe it was a front, a way to funnel more girls through his orbit under the guise of “shared space.” Your gut twisted with unease, but the eviction notice in your hand didn’t care about gut feelings.

Your parents had poured everything into getting you here; calling them for help wasn’t an option. You’d rather sleep in the library than admit defeat.

Taking a deep breath, you typed: Hey Jake, I’m Y/N, journalism major. Saw your ad—super interested. I’m tidy, keep to myself, and can move in ASAP. Can we meet to discuss? Your thumb hovered over “send” for a heartbeat before you hit it. No turning back now.

His reply pinged back in under five minutes: Yo Y/N, sounds promising. Come by the apartment tonight, 7 PM? Address attached. Let’s see if we click. -Jake

The address was in the city’s upscale district, a far cry from your moldy dorm. By 6:45, you were standing outside a sleek high-rise with a glass lobby, a doorman eyeing you curiously as you clutched your worn backpack.

The elevator ride to the 14th floor felt eternal, your reflection in the mirrored walls showing a nervous girl in jeans and a thrifted sweater, hair pulled back in a messy bun. You didn’t look like you belonged here, but you knocked on unit 1402 anyway.

The door swung open, and there he was—Jake Shim, in the flesh, leaning casually against the frame. He was taller than you’d imagined, maybe six feet, with a lean, muscular frame that his black hoodie and low-slung sweatpants did little to hide.

His hair was damp, tousled like he’d just stepped out of the shower, and a faint scent of sandalwood and cedar hit you, warm and intoxicating. His eyes scanned you, quick but thorough, before that infamous grin spread across his face. “Y/N, right? Come in, let’s talk.”

The apartment was a revelation. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a glittering cityscape, the living room sprawling with modern furniture: a plush gray sofa, a glass coffee table, and a flat-screen TV that probably cost more than your tuition.

The kitchen gleamed with stainless steel and granite, a stark contrast to the instant ramen aesthetic of your dorm. “Holy shit,” you muttered, catching yourself too late.

Jake laughed, a low, easy sound that made your cheeks heat. “Yeah, it’s alright, isn’t it? Family hookup. Dad’s firm owns a few properties here.” He gestured to the open space. “Kitchen’s stocked, gym’s downstairs, rooftop pool if you’re into that. Your room’s this way.”

He led you down a hallway to a bedroom that felt like a hotel suite: a king-sized bed with crisp white linens, a walk-in closet bigger than your old dorm room, and an en-suite bathroom with a rainfall shower. You tried not to gape. “This is... included in the rent?”

“Yup. Split 50/50, utilities covered. I’m not here to screw you over,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. His casual tone didn’t match the intensity in his gaze, like he was testing you, waiting for a reaction. “I’m usually out. Classes, soccer, parties. I’ve got... friends over sometimes, but I keep it chill. You cool with that?”

You nodded, though warning bells rang faintly. “Friends” probably meant his parade of hookups, but you weren’t here to play morality police.

“Yeah, no drama from me. I’ve got classes, work at the campus café, and deadlines. I just need a place to crash and study.” You said, softly chuckling.

He tilted his head, studying you again, like he was peeling back layers. “Journalism, huh? You one of those ‘truth-seeker’ types?”

“Something like that,” you said, managing a smile. “I like digging for answers.”

His grin widened, but there was a flicker in his eyes—something guarded, almost predatory. “Good luck with that. So, we got a deal? Move in tomorrow?”

You hesitated. This was too good to be true, and Jake was too much—too charming, too perfect, too everything.

But the eviction notice burned a hole in your pocket, and you couldn’t afford to be picky. “Deal,” you said, extending your hand.

His grip was firm, warm, and sent a strange jolt up your arm, like static electricity. “Welcome home, Y/N,” he said, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip.

As you left, his scent lingered in your mind, along with that fleeting look in his eyes—something dark, hungry, and ancient. You shook it off, chalking it up to nerves. Back at your dorm, packing your meager belongings, excitement warred with unease. Jake Shim was a walking red flag, but you needed this. What was the worst that could happen?

Jake hadn’t always been this way. Born in Brisbane to a wealthy Korean-Australian family, he’d grown up with everything—private schools, soccer camps, parents who threw money at problems but never time.

His father ran a tech conglomerate; his mother, a former K-drama actress, was more trophy than parent. Jake was their golden boy, but the shine came with loneliness. Constant moves, new cities, new faces—no one stuck around long enough to matter.

At 18, he took a gap year, backpacking through Europe to “find himself.” In Prague, under a blood-red moon, he found something else. Her name was Viktoria, a woman with porcelain skin and eyes like burning coals. She’d lured him into a dimly lit club, her voice promising secrets he was too young, too reckless, to resist. In an alley, she’d kissed him—then bit him. The pain was searing, then euphoric, as his human life drained away. When he woke, he was no longer mortal. Viktoria was gone, leaving him with a curse: insatiable hunger, and a need to feed on human blood to survive.

He stumbled back to Australia, hiding his new nature. Sunlight burned but didn’t kill; mirrors still showed his face, but his reflection felt like a stranger. He was different. He aged like normal humans but his hunger for blood was the one thing that had changed. He ate food. But he needed blood side by side too. Blood banks were a gamble—too traceable. Animal blood left him weak, craving more. Humans were the answer, but feeding without killing was a tightrope. He learned to blend pleasure with pain, using sex to mask the bite. His saliva, laced with a subtle venom, dulled memories, leaving his partners with only vague dreams of ecstasy and a lingering weakness they couldn’t explain.

University offered a fresh start. He enrolled, majoring in engineering to keep up appearances, and fell in with ENHYPEN—six guys who became his brothers. They’d learned his secret by accident: a botched feeding during a party, blood on his shirt, fangs out. Instead of running, they’d stayed, vowing to protect him.

Jay handled logistics, Sunghoon scouted safe venues, Heeseung covered alibis, and the others kept the rumor mill spinning with harmless gossip to mask the truth. Jake’s playboy persona was their shield: no one questioned why girls left his bed looking pale when “heartbreak” was the easier story.

But it weighed on him. Every feed felt like a betrayal, every girl a means to an end. He craved connection, not conquest, but survival demanded the act. The apartment was his attempt at normalcy—a space to feel human, to anchor himself. He hadn’t expected you: Y/N, with your sharp eyes and quiet strength, so different from the girls who chased him. When you’d walked in, your scent—warm, alive, like jasmine and sunlight—hit him like a drug. He’d chosen you on impulse, telling himself it was practical. But deep down, he knew: you were dangerous, a temptation that could unravel his carefully built control.

That night, as you packed your boxes, you couldn’t shake the image of Jake’s grin or the way his touch had sparked something electric. He was trouble, no doubt, but you’d faced worse. Or so you thought. In the shadows of unit 1402, Jake stood by the window, watching the city lights, his reflection barely visible.

Your scent still clung to the air, stirring something primal. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. Stay in control, he told himself. But the hunger in his veins whispered otherwise.

The hum of the city filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of unit 1402, a soft counterpoint to the thud of cardboard boxes hitting the hardwood floor. You’d spent the morning hauling your life from the moldy dorm to Jake’s luxury apartment, your arms aching from the effort but your heart buoyed by the prospect of a fresh start. The eviction notice was a ghost in your past now, replaced by the surreal reality of your new home. The apartment was even more breathtaking in daylight: sunlight streamed through the glass, painting the open-concept living room in warm golds, glinting off the sleek kitchen counters. Your bedroom, with its plush bed and cavernous closet, felt like a dream you didn’t deserve. But Jake’s presence—his effortless charm and that unsettling intensity—kept you on edge.

He’d helped you move, showing up at your dorm in a black SUV with Jay and Sunghoon in tow. The three of them made quick work of your boxes, their easy banter and casual strength turning a grueling task into a two-hour job. Jay, all sharp jaw and sharper wit, had teased you about your thrifted aesthetic—“You sure you’re ready for Jake’s bougie lifestyle?”—while Sunghoon, with his model-like cheekbones and cool reserve, carried your heaviest boxes without breaking a sweat. Jake, though, was the wildcard: his lopsided grin never faltered, but his eyes kept finding you, lingering a beat too long, like he was memorizing your every move.

Now, as the sun dipped low, you were officially moved in. The guys had left, and it was just you and Jake in the apartment, the air thick with the unspoken. You stood in the kitchen, unpacking a box of mismatched mugs, while he lounged on the couch, scrolling through his phone. He’d changed into a fitted white tee and jeans, his hair still damp from a post-move shower, and the casual way he sprawled—long legs stretched out, one arm slung over the backrest—made the room feel smaller, like he was claiming every inch of space, including your attention.

“Thanks for the help today,” you said, breaking the silence as you set a chipped blue mug on the counter. “Didn’t expect the whole ENHYPEN crew to show up.”

Jake glanced up, his grin flashing. “No biggie. The boys like to flex their muscles now and then. Plus, I figured you’d need the backup. Those boxes looked like they’d been through a war.”

You snorted, holding up a mug with a cartoon cat on it. “These? They’re survivors. My mom’s been collecting them since I was a kid. Sentimental value.”

His eyes softened, just for a moment, before the playful glint returned. “Cute. Didn’t peg you for the sentimental type, truth-seeker.”

You rolled your eyes, turning to stack the mugs in a cabinet. “I’m full of surprises. You’ll see.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” His voice was low, teasing, and when you glanced back, he was watching you, elbows propped on his knees, chin in his hands. The intensity in his gaze sent a shiver down your spine, not entirely unpleasant. You shook it off, focusing on the task, but the air felt charged, like static before a storm.

Dinner was takeout—pizza, because Jake insisted it was “move-in tradition.” You sat cross-legged on the floor, a slice of pepperoni in hand, while he sprawled across from you, the coffee table between you littered with boxes and soda cans. The city lights twinkled outside, and for a moment, it felt... normal. Two college kids, new roommates, sharing a meal. But then you noticed the way he ate: deliberate, almost too careful, like he was savoring something more than the pizza. He caught you staring and raised a brow.

“What? Got sauce on my face?” he asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin, that grin ever-present.

“Nah, just... you eat like you’re analyzing it,” you said, half-joking. “Engineering major thing?”

He laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Something like that. Gotta make every bite count.”

The conversation flowed easily after that—music tastes (he was into indie rock and K-pop, naturally), your journalism projects (he seemed genuinely curious about your latest piece on campus funding scandals), and the quirks of living together. “I’m a night owl,” he warned, popping open a soda. “If you hear me wandering at 3 AM, don’t freak out.”

“Noted,” you said, leaning back on your hands. “I’m an early bird, so we’ll probably miss each other half the time.”

“Good. Means you won’t cramp my style,” he teased, but there was that flicker again—something guarded, like he was holding back a bigger truth.

The first hint of that truth came later that night. You were in your room, unpacking clothes, when laughter drifted through the walls. High-pitched, flirty, unmistakably feminine. You froze, heart sinking. Jake’s “friends.” Right. You’d known this was part of the deal, but hearing it so soon—on your first night—hit differently. The laughter turned to murmurs, then soft moans, muffled but unmistakable, coming from his room across the hall. You shoved in your earbuds, blasting a podcast to drown it out, but curiosity gnawed at you. Who was she? Another conquest, another girl to add to the campus rumor mill?

Morning came, and you were up early, brewing coffee in the kitchen when the girl emerged. She was stunning—long dark hair, smudged mascara, wearing a crop top and skirt that screamed last night’s party. But she looked... off. Pale, almost gray, her eyes glassy as she clutched her purse and stumbled toward the door. A faint bruise bloomed on her neck, barely hidden by her hair.

“You okay?” you asked, setting down your mug, concern outweighing your awkwardness.

She blinked, like she hadn’t noticed you until now. “Uh, yeah. Just... rough night. Too much vodka.” Her voice was shaky, and she touched her neck absently, wincing. “Jake’s... intense.”

You frowned. “Need water or anything? You don’t look great.”

She shook her head, already halfway out the door. “I’m fine. Thanks.” And she was gone, leaving a trail of unease in her wake.

Jake appeared minutes later, shirtless, sweatpants riding low, his hair a mess but his grin as disarming as ever. “Morning, roomie. Sleep okay?”

You crossed your arms, leaning against the counter. “Not bad. Your... friend didn’t look so hot, though. She okay?”

His grin faltered, just for a split second, before he recovered. “Tara? Yeah, she’s fine. Probably just hungover. She parties hard.” He grabbed a banana from the counter, peeling it with a casualness that felt forced. “You want breakfast? I make a mean omelet.”

You declined, your mind stuck on Tara’s pallor, the bruise, the way she’d seemed almost... drained. It was probably nothing, you told yourself. College hookups, alcohol, late nights—people got sloppy. But the journalist in you, the one who dug for answers, wasn’t convinced.

Over the next few days, you settled into a rhythm. Classes started, your journalism assignments piled up, and work at the campus café kept you on your feet. Jake was true to his word: he was out most of the time, either at soccer practice, engineering labs, or parties with ENHYPEN. When he was home, he was surprisingly considerate—leaving you coffee, doing dishes, even offering to quiz you for your media ethics exam. He was easy to talk to, his charm disarming, but those fleeting moments of intensity kept you on guard. His eyes would linger too long, his smile sharpening when you laughed, like he was seeing something you didn’t.

Then came Friday night. You were studying in the living room, sprawled on the couch with your laptop, when the front door opened. Jake, followed by another girl—this one blonde, all legs and giggles, clinging to his arm. He shot you an apologetic look. “Hey, Y/N, this is Chloe. We’re just... hanging out. Cool if we use my room?”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, no problem. I’ve got headphones.”

He winked—winked—and led Chloe down the hall. The sounds started soon after: laughter, music, then the telltale moans. You cranked your music louder, but not loud enough to miss the front door opening an hour later. Chloe stumbled out, her makeup smudged, her skin ghostly pale. Another bruise, this time on her collarbone. She didn’t even notice you as she left, swaying like she might collapse.

You waited until Jake emerged, now in a loose tank top, looking infuriatingly relaxed. “Another rough night?” you asked, keeping your tone light but your eyes sharp.

He shrugged, grabbing a water from the fridge. “Chloe’s a lightweight. Can’t handle her liquor.” But his fingers tightened around the bottle, and you caught a flicker of something—guilt? Fear?—in his expression.

“Two girls in a week, both looking like they’ve seen a ghost,” you said, closing your laptop. “You sure they’re just hungover?”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the room felt too small. “What are you implying, Y/N?” His voice was still playful, but there was an edge now, a warning.

“Nothing,” you said, standing. “Just... hope they’re okay.”

“They are,” he said quickly, too quickly. “I’m not a monster.”

You didn’t respond, but as you retreated to your room, the journalist in you was screaming. Something was wrong.

The bruises, the pallor, the way Jake deflected—it didn’t add up.

You opened your laptop, starting a private note: Jake Shim. Girls. Symptoms: pale, weak, bruises on neck/collarbone. Possible drugs? You hesitated, then added: Or something else.

As you lay in bed that night, the city’s hum a faint backdrop to your racing thoughts, the pieces of the puzzle refused to fit. Jake’s charm, his playboy reputation, the girls leaving unit 1402 pale and bruised—it all pointed to something darker than a reckless college lifestyle.

Unbeknownst to you, the truth was far more sinister than drugs or debauchery. Jake wasn’t alone in his secret: every member of ENHYPEN—Jay, Sunghoon, Heeseung, Sunoo, Jungwon, Ni-ki—carried the same curse, their flawless charisma and otherworldly allure masking their vampiric nature.

Each had been turned in their own time, in their own tragedy, bound together by a shared hunger for blood and a pact to protect one another.

Jake’s playboy act was just one facet of their carefully crafted facade, a way to feed without drawing suspicion, but the others had their own methods, their own victims, their own battles with the monster within.

For now, you were oblivious, chalking up the unease to your journalist’s instincts, but the truth lurked in the shadows of the apartment, waiting to unravel. And Jake, watching you from his room, knew that your curiosity could be their undoing—or his salvation.

The golden glow of the city skyline spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of unit 1402, painting the hardwood floors in hues of amber and rose. It was Sunday evening, a week since you’d traded your moldy dorm for Jake Shim’s luxury apartment, and the space still felt like a dream you might wake from. Your bedroom, with its king-sized bed and cavernous closet, was a sanctuary, but the rest of the apartment—Jake’s domain—was a puzzle you couldn’t stop trying to solve. His effortless charm, that lopsided grin that lit up lecture halls, and the way his presence filled a room made your heart stutter in ways you weren’t ready to admit. But the girls—those endless, fleeting girls stumbling out of his room, pale and bruised—kept your budding feelings in check, tangled with suspicion and something sharper: jealousy.

You sat at the kitchen counter, a half-finished journalism article on your laptop, your fingers hovering over the keys. The cursor blinked on a blank line, but your mind was elsewhere, replaying last night. Another girl—Lila, with her red hair and dazed smile—had left at dawn, her skin ghostly, a faint bruise on her neck. She’d looked at you with vacant eyes, muttering about a “wild night” before vanishing. It was the third girl that week: Tara, Chloe, now Lila. Each one left you with the same unease, a knot in your stomach that wasn’t just concern. It was the way Jake’s eyes softened when he talked to you, then turned razor-sharp when those girls clung to him. The way his laugh felt like it was just for you, only for another girl’s giggles to echo through the walls hours later. You hated how it made you feel—small, irrational, jealous.

The front door swung open, and chaos poured in. All seven members of ENHYPEN spilled into the apartment, their voices a cacophony of laughter and banter. Jake led the pack, his soccer bag slung over one shoulder, his black athletic shirt clinging to his lean frame, damp with sweat. Behind him came Jay, sharp-jawed and smirking, carrying a stack of takeout containers; Sunghoon, all cheekbones and cool reserve, with a bottle of soju; Heeseung, quiet but intense, his eyes scanning the room like a predator; Sunoo, bright and bubbly, waving at you; Jungwon, the group’s calm strategist, balancing a tray of bubble tea; and Ni-ki, the youngest, bouncing with energy, already teasing Jake about something.

“Y/N!” Sunoo chirped, bounding over to the counter. “You’re joining us for dinner, right? We got katsu and bulgogi. Jake said you’re a foodie.”

You smiled, closing your laptop to hide your notes: Jake Shim. Girls. Symptoms: pale, weak, bruises on neck/collarbone. Possible drugs? Something else. “Didn’t realize I was invited to an ENHYPEN feast,” you said, trying to keep your tone light despite the flutter in your chest. Jake’s grin, directed at you, didn’t help.

“Always invited, roomie,” Jake said, dropping his bag and leaning against the counter, close enough that his arm brushed yours. His scent—sweat, cedar, and something faintly metallic—hit you like a wave. “Gotta make sure you feel at home.”

Jay snorted, setting out the food. “Careful, Y/N. He’s only this nice when he wants something.”

“Like what?” you asked, half-joking, but your eyes flicked to Jake, searching for a reaction.

He just winked, grabbing a pair of chopsticks. “Just your sparkling company, truth-seeker.”

The group settled around the coffee table, the living room buzzing with their energy. Ni-ki sprawled on the floor, stealing fries from Sunoo, who swatted him playfully. Jungwon passed you a bubble tea, his smile warm but his eyes sharp, like he was studying you. Sunghoon poured soju, his movements too precise, while Heeseung watched the chaos with a quiet intensity that made your skin prickle. They were magnetic, each in their own way, but something about their synchronized grace, the way their eyes caught the light—flecks of red in the dim glow—felt... off. You pushed the thought aside, chalking it up to your overactive imagination.

Dinner was loud, messy, and surprisingly fun. They teased Jake about his soccer skills (“He tripped over the ball last game,” Ni-ki cackled), shared campus gossip (apparently, the dean was in a scandal), and asked about your journalism projects. Jake, sitting beside you, kept finding excuses to brush your arm—passing you food, nudging you to laugh at Jay’s bad puns. Each touch sent a spark through you, and you hated how much you craved more. But then you remembered Lila’s pale face, and the warmth in your chest turned cold.

As the night wound down, the door knocked. Jake sighed, standing. “That’ll be Mia,” he said, his tone flat, like he was reciting a script. He shot you a glance—apologetic, almost—before opening the door. A brunette in a tight dress threw herself into his arms, giggling. “Jakey!” she squealed, oblivious to the room’s sudden tension.

Your stomach twisted, a sharp pang you couldn’t deny. Jealousy. You looked away, focusing on your bubble tea, but Sunoo caught your expression, his smile softening. “She’s just a friend,” he whispered, leaning closer. “Jake’s... complicated, but he’s not as bad as the rumors.”

You forced a nod, but the sounds from Jake’s room started soon after: laughter, music, moans. You excused yourself, claiming exhaustion, and retreated to your room, locking the door. The jealousy burned now, irrational but undeniable. You barely knew Jake, yet the thought of him with Mia—her hands on him, his lips on hers—made your chest ache. You opened your laptop, trying to distract yourself with your article, but the words blurred. Instead, you added to your private notes: Mia. Same pattern? Bruises, pallor. Jake’s ‘friends’—why do I care?

Hours later, the apartment was quiet. You crept to the kitchen for water, the city lights casting long shadows. Jake was there, alone, leaning against the counter with a glass of something dark—too thick for wine. His tank top hung loose, his hair a mess, and his expression was haunted, nothing like the playful charmer from dinner.

“Y/N,” he said, startled, nearly spilling his drink. “Thought you were asleep.”

“Couldn’t,” you said, grabbing a glass. “Too much noise earlier.”

He winced, setting his drink down. “Sorry about Mia. I didn’t mean to... make things weird.”

You shrugged, but your voice betrayed you, sharp and shaky. “It’s your apartment. Do what you want.”

He stepped closer, his eyes searching yours. “You’re pissed. Why?”

“I’m not,” you lied, turning to fill your glass. But he moved faster, blocking your path, his body inches from yours. His presence was overwhelming—warm, solid, but his skin was too cool, his gaze too intense.

“Don’t bullshit me, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice dropping to that low, velvet tone that made your heart skip. “You’ve been watching me like I’m a puzzle. And now you’re... what, jealous?”

Your cheeks burned, and you looked away, hating how transparent you were. “Why would I be jealous? I barely know you.”

He tilted his head, his lips twitching into a half-smile. “Exactly. Those girls—Tara, Chloe, Lila, Mia—they’re nothing. Just... fleeting. You’re different. You’re here, in my space, in my head.” He paused, his eyes softening. “I don’t want you thinking you’re just another face passing through.”

Your breath caught, the sincerity in his voice disarming you. “Then why do they keep coming? Why do they leave looking like... like they’re half-dead?”

His expression darkened, a flicker of something—guilt, fear—crossing his face. “It’s not what you think. I’m not hurting them. They’re just... overwhelmed. I’m intense, like you said.”

“Intense doesn’t explain bruises,” you shot back, your journalist’s edge cutting through. “Or why they look drained.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Y/N, you’re digging into something you don’t understand. Just—trust me, okay? They’re fine. I’d never hurt anyone. Especially not you.”

The way he said it, raw and almost desperate, made your heart ache. You wanted to believe him, wanted to lean into the warmth of his words, but the doubts lingered. “Why should I trust you?” you whispered.

“Because I’m trying to be better,” he said, stepping closer, his hand hovering near yours but not touching. “For you.”

The air between you crackled, and for a moment, you thought he might kiss you. But he stepped back, grabbing his glass and turning away. “Get some sleep, Y/N. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

You nodded, retreating to your room, your mind a storm of emotions. Jealousy, attraction, suspicion—they swirled together, tying you in knots. You updated your notes: Mia. Same symptoms. Jake says they’re ‘nothing,’ says I’m different. Trust him? You stared at the screen, then added: I want to.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the apartment’s windows, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. It was Tuesday, your second week living with Jake Shim, and the rhythm of your new life was starting to feel deceptively normal. Your bedroom had become a cozy retreat, cluttered with textbooks and coffee mugs, but the rest of the apartment—Jake’s domain—hummed with an undercurrent of mystery that kept you on edge. His easy charm, those fleeting moments when his gaze lingered too long, had wormed their way into your heart, stirring feelings you weren’t ready to name. But the girls—those pale, dazed figures slipping out of his room at dawn—fueled a jealousy that burned hotter with each passing day, tangling with your growing suspicions about what he was hiding.

You sat cross-legged on the living room couch, your laptop balanced on your knees, trying to focus on a journalism assignment about campus health disparities. Your private note was open in another tab: Jake Shim. Girls: Tara, Chloe, Lila, Mia, Sophie. Symptoms: pale, weak, bruises on neck/collarbone. Jake says they’re nothing, says I’m more. Wants my trust. Something’s wrong, but I’m falling for him. The last line, added after last night’s heated exchange, stared back at you. His words—You’re more—echoed in your mind, both a lifeline and a warning. You wanted to trust him, to believe the sincerity in his eyes, but the pattern of bruised, drained girls was impossible to ignore.

The front door burst open, and ENHYPEN’s chaos flooded in. All seven members spilled into the room, their laughter and banter a tidal wave of energy. Jay led with a smirk, carrying a bag of Korean BBQ takeout, his sharp jaw catching the light. Sunghoon followed, his cool beauty almost unsettling, a bottle of soju dangling from one hand. Heeseung’s quiet intensity anchored the group, his eyes flicking to you with a knowing glint. Sunoo bounced in, waving a box of mochi, while Jungwon balanced a stack of iced teas, his calm demeanor hiding a sharp edge. Ni-ki, the youngest, was already teasing Jake, who trailed behind, his soccer jersey clinging to his lean frame, hair damp from practice.

“Y/N, you’re eating with us, right?” Sunoo called, setting the mochi on the coffee table. “Jake said you’re basically part of the crew now.”

You closed your laptop, a smile tugging at your lips despite the flutter in your chest. “Did he? Guess I can’t say no to BBQ.”

Jake grinned, dropping his gym bag and sliding onto the couch beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours. “Good call, truth-seeker. You don’t wanna miss Jay’s food obsession in action.”

Jay snorted, unpacking the takeout. “Says the guy who’d eat instant ramen for life if we let him.”

The group settled around the coffee table, the air buzzing with their easy camaraderie. Ni-ki stole a piece of galbi from Sunoo, who swatted him with a laugh. Jungwon handed you an iced tea, his eyes lingering a beat too long, like he was sizing you up. Sunghoon poured soju with that eerie precision you’d noticed before, his movements almost too fluid. Heeseung leaned back, watching the chaos with a faint smile, but his gaze kept drifting to you, as if he could sense your unease. They were magnetic, each in their own way—Jay’s sly charm, Sunghoon’s icy allure, Sunoo’s warmth—but something about their synchronized energy, the way their eyes caught the light with fleeting red flecks, set your nerves on edge.

Dinner was a whirlwind of laughter and stories. Jake stayed close, his knee brushing yours, his laugh warm when you teased Ni-ki about his latest dance video going viral. He leaned in once, whispering, “You’re fitting in too well. Gotta keep you on your toes,” his breath tickling your ear. The contact sent a shiver through you, and you hated how much you craved more. But then you remembered Sophie’s pale face, the bruise on her neck, and the warmth turned to ice.

As the group cleared the table, a knock at the door broke the rhythm. Jake’s shoulders tensed, and he shot you a quick look—wary, almost guilty. “That’ll be Emma,” he said, his voice softer than usual. He stood, rubbing the back of his neck. “Be right back.”

Your heart sank, the now-familiar jealousy flaring like a lit match. Emma was another one—brunette, all curves and giggles, strutting in like she owned the place. “Jakey!” she squealed, wrapping her arms around him. The sight made your stomach twist, a sharp, irrational pang that left you gripping your iced tea too tightly. Sunoo caught your expression, nudging you gently.

“Don’t worry about her,” he whispered, his smile kind but knowing. “She’s just... temporary. Jake’s got his eyes on someone else.”

You forced a nod, but the words didn’t soothe the ache. Emma’s laughter echoed as Jake led her to his room, the door shutting with a soft click. The sounds started soon after: giggles, music, moans. You grabbed your headphones, cranking your study playlist, but the jealousy burned through the noise. Why did it hurt so much? You barely knew Jake, yet the thought of him with Emma—his hands on her, his lips close—made you want to scream.

An hour later, the front door opened and shut. You peeked out, catching Emma’s exit. She looked drained, her skin pale, a faint bruise on her collarbone. She swayed slightly, muttering about needing a nap, and was gone. The pattern was undeniable now: Tara, Chloe, Lila, Mia, Sophie, Emma. All pale, all bruised, all dazed. Your suspicions screamed—drugs, maybe, or something darker—but the jealousy overshadowed it, a raw, aching need to know why Jake kept choosing them over... what? You?

You didn’t think. You marched to his room and knocked, sharp and insistent. He opened the door, shirtless, sweatpants low, his hair tousled and his grin lazy. “Y/N? What’s up?”

You stepped inside, ignoring the coppery scent in the air. “Emma looked like hell,” you said, crossing your arms. “Same as the others. And I’m sick of watching girls stumble out of here while you act like it’s nothing.”

Jake’s grin faded, his eyes darkening. “You’re jealous,” he said, not a question, his voice low and careful. He stepped closer, the door clicking shut behind you. “Talk to me.”

Your cheeks burned, but you didn’t back down. “Yeah, I’m jealous. Okay? I don’t get it, Jake. You say I’m different, that I’m more, but then you bring these girls here, and they leave looking like... like you’ve taken something from them. What am I supposed to think?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his expression raw, almost pained. “Those girls—Emma, all of them—they’re nothing, Y/N. They’re... moments. Distractions. They don’t mean what you do.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re in my head, all the time. Your laugh, your questions, the way you look at me like you see right through me. I don’t want them. I want you.”

Your breath caught, his words hitting like a tidal wave. You wanted to believe him, to let his sincerity wash away the jealousy, but the doubts lingered. “Then why do they keep coming? Why do they look like that—pale, bruised, half-dead?”

He flinched, his jaw tightening. “It’s not what you think. They’re fine, I swear. It’s just... how I am. I get carried away sometimes, but I’m not hurting them. I’d never hurt you, Y/N.” His hand reached for yours, his touch cold but grounding, sending a jolt through you. “You have to trust me on this. Please.”

You searched his eyes, finding no lies, only a desperate need for you to believe him. “I want to trust you,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “But you’re making it hard.”

He nodded, his thumb brushing your knuckles before he let go. “I know. I’ll do better. For you.” His voice was soft, almost broken, and it made your heart ache. “Just... don’t pull away, okay? I need you here.”

The air between you crackled, heavy with unspoken truths. You nodded, stepping back, your mind a storm of emotions—jealousy, desire, suspicion. “I’m not going anywhere,” you said, and you meant it, even if it scared you.

Back in your room, you opened your laptop, your hands trembling as you updated your notes: Emma. Same symptoms: pale, bruised, weak. Jake says they’re nothing, says he wants me. I’m jealous, and I hate it. Trust him? I’m trying. You paused, then added: I’m falling harder, and it’s dangerous.

The bass of the music pulsed through the crowded off-campus house, a sprawling Victorian mansion turned party central, its walls vibrating with the chaos of a Friday night university rager. Fairy lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling cast a kaleidoscope of colors over sweaty bodies, red Solo cups, and the haze of vape smoke. You weaved through the throng, your heart a tangled mess of nerves and something sharper—jealousy, raw and unrelenting, that had been simmering for weeks. Living with Jake Shim, the Australian-Korean heartthrob and campus playboy, had turned your world upside down. His charm, his lopsided grin, the way his touch lingered just a second too long—they’d hooked you, despite your better judgment. But the girls, those endless girls slipping in and out of his orbit, pale and bruised, kept your feelings locked in a cage of doubt and longing.

You’d come to the party at Jake’s insistence, his text earlier that day a casual You’re coming tonight, right? Need my favorite truth-seeker there. The words had sent a thrill through you, but now, standing in the packed living room, you felt out of place in your jeans and thrifted sweater, surrounded by glittery dresses and confident laughter. Your journalism notebook was tucked into your bag, a habit you couldn’t shake, filled with notes that had grown increasingly desperate: Jake Shim. Girls: Tara, Chloe, Lila, Mia, Sophie, Emma. Symptoms: pale, weak, bruises on neck/collarbone. Jake says they’re nothing, says I’m more. I’m falling for him, and it’s dangerous. The last line, scrawled after his latest reassurance, burned in your mind. He’d sworn you were different, but the sight of him now—leaning against a wall, a brunette named Ava pressed close, her hands on his chest—made your stomach churn.

All seven ENHYPEN members were here, their presence magnetic, drawing eyes like moths to a flame. Jay lounged on a couch, his sharp jaw and sly smirk commanding attention as he sipped a drink he barely touched. Sunghoon leaned against a doorway, his icy beauty cutting through the crowd, his eyes scanning like a predator. Heeseung stood near the DJ booth, his quiet intensity a contrast to the chaos, while Sunoo’s bright laughter rang out from a group of dancers. Jungwon, ever the calm strategist, watched from a corner, his gaze flicking to you with an unreadable expression. Ni-ki, the youngest, was in the thick of the dance floor, his energy infectious but his eyes sharp, almost too sharp. They moved with a synchronicity that felt unnatural, their laughter too perfect, their eyes catching the strobe lights with fleeting red glints that made your skin prickle.

Jake caught your gaze across the room, his grin faltering as he noticed your expression. He gently disentangled himself from Ava, who pouted but let him go, and made his way to you, his soccer jersey clinging to his lean frame, his hair tousled in that effortlessly sexy way. “Y/N,” he said, his voice warm over the music’s thrum. “You look like you’re plotting my downfall.”

You forced a smile, the jealousy biting harder now. “Maybe I am. You seem... busy.”

He raised a brow, stepping closer, his scent—cedar, sweat, and something faintly metallic—hitting you like a drug. “Ava? She’s just a friend. You know that.” His tone was light, but his eyes were serious, searching yours. “You’re the one I wanted here tonight.”

Your heart skipped, but the memory of Emma’s pale face, her neck bruised, flashed in your mind. “Friends,” you echoed, your voice sharper than intended. “Like all the others who leave looking half-dead?”

His grin faded, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. “Y/N, we’ve been over this. They’re fine. I’m not—” He stopped, glancing around, then leaned closer, his voice dropping. “You’re different, okay? I don’t say that lightly. I need you to believe me.”

You wanted to, God, you wanted to. His words, the way his hand brushed your arm, sent warmth flooding through you. But the doubt, the journalist’s instinct, wouldn’t let go. “Then why do they keep showing up, Jake? Why do they always look like that?”

Before he could answer, Sunoo bounced over, his smile too bright for the tension between you. “Y/N, come dance with us! Jake’s being boring.” He grabbed your hand, pulling you toward the dance floor, but Jake’s eyes followed, dark and intense.

The night blurred into a haze of music and laughter. You danced with Sunoo, Ni-ki spinning you with a grin, but your eyes kept finding Jake. He was back with Ava, her laughter grating as she leaned into him. The jealousy flared again, a sharp, ugly heat that made you want to pull him away. You hated it—hated how much you cared, how much his attention mattered. When Ava whispered something in his ear and he led her upstairs, your heart sank. Another one.

You waited, sipping a lukewarm beer, your eyes on the staircase. An hour later, Ava hadn’t come down. Your stomach twisted, the same dread you’d felt with every girl before her. You couldn’t take it anymore. Slipping through the crowd, you climbed the stairs, the music fading to a dull throb. The upstairs hallway was dim, lined with closed doors, but one was cracked open, light spilling out. Jake’s voice, low and soothing, drifted through, followed by a soft gasp—not pleasure, but pain.

You didn’t think. You pushed the door open, and the world stopped.

Jake was bent over Ava, who lay on a bed, her eyes half-closed, her skin ghostly pale. His lips were at her neck, a thin trickle of blood running down her collarbone. Her hands gripped his shoulders, weak but clinging, a soft moan escaping her lips. The air smelled of copper and something primal, and Jake’s eyes—red, glowing, inhuman—snapped to you. His fangs glinted, sharp and stained with crimson.

“Y/N,” he rasped, pulling back, blood smearing his lips. “You weren’t supposed to see this.”

You stumbled back, your heart pounding, but before you could scream, the air shimmered. A gust of wind—impossible in the closed room—swept through, and ENHYPEN appeared, as if materializing from nowhere. Jay, Sunghoon, Heeseung, Sunoo, Jungwon, Ni-ki—all seven, their eyes blazing red, their presence overwhelming. Ava’s body went limp, her eyes fluttering shut, and then—she was gone. Not unconscious, not slumped, but gone, vanished from the bed like she’d never existed. The bloodstain remained, a stark reminder on the white sheets.

“What the fuck,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you backed against the wall. “What are you?”

Jake stood, wiping his mouth, his eyes still glowing but filled with something like panic. “Y/N, listen to me—”

“Stay back!” you snapped, your hand fumbling for the doorframe. The other six closed in, their red eyes locked on you, their movements too fast, too fluid. Sunghoon’s cool beauty was now terrifying, his gaze like ice. Heeseung’s quiet intensity felt suffocating, while Jay’s smirk was gone, replaced by a grim line. Sunoo’s brightness had vanished, his face hard. Jungwon and Ni-ki flanked the group, their youth belied by an ancient hunger in their eyes.

“We’re vampires,” Heeseung said, his voice calm but unyielding, cutting through the chaos. “All of us.”

The word hit like a sledgehammer. Vampires. The pieces snapped into place: the girls, the bruises, the pallor, Jake’s deflections. Your knees buckled, but you caught yourself, your journalist’s mind screaming to document, to understand, even as fear clawed at you.

“You... you’re feeding on them,” you said, your voice shaking but steady. “That’s why they look like that. You’re drinking their blood.”

Jake stepped forward, his hands raised, his eyes fading back to brown, pleading. “It’s not what you think. We don’t kill. We take just enough to survive. My venom—it makes them forget, makes it feel... good. They’re okay, Y/N. I swear.”

“Then where’s Ava?” you demanded, pointing at the empty bed, the bloodstain glaring. “She just vanished.”

Jay exchanged a glance with Heeseung, his jaw tight. “She’s safe,” he said, but his tone was evasive, and it did nothing to calm you.

“Safe?” you snapped. “She was here, bleeding, and now she’s gone! What did you do?”

Jungwon stepped forward, his calm demeanor unnerving. “We can’t explain that yet. But you need to trust us. We’re not monsters.”

“Trust you?” Your voice cracked, the jealousy from earlier now a distant echo beneath the terror. “You’re vampires, and I just saw Jake bite someone!”

Jake’s face twisted, guilt and desperation warring in his expression. “Y/N, I didn’t want you to see this. I’ve been trying to keep you away from it, to keep you safe. You’re not like them. You’re—” He stopped, his voice breaking. “You’re everything to me.”

Your heart stuttered, the sincerity in his words cutting through the fear. You wanted to believe him, to cling to the Jake who’d made you coffee, who’d laughed with you over pizza, who’d promised you were more. But the blood on his lips, the red eyes of his brothers, the empty bed—it was too much.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered, turning for the door, but Sunghoon moved faster, blocking your path with a grace that wasn’t human.

“You can’t leave,” he said, his voice cold but not cruel. “Not until we know you won’t talk.”

“Sunghoon,” Jake snapped, stepping between you and his brother. “Back off. She’s not a threat.”

“She’s a journalist,” Sunghoon retorted, his red eyes narrowing. “She’s already halfway to exposing us.”

“I won’t say anything,” you said quickly, your voice trembling. “I swear. Just let me go.”

Heeseung raised a hand, silencing the room. “We believe you, Y/N. But this is bigger than you realize. You’re in our world now, and we need to protect you—and ourselves.”

Jake turned to you, his eyes pleading. “Please, Y/N. Stay. Let me explain everything. I know it’s terrifying, but I need you to trust me. I... I care about you. More than you know.”

The room spun, your mind reeling with the impossible truth. Vampires. Jake, Jay, Sunghoon, Heeseung, Sunoo, Jungwon, Ni-ki—all of them, bound by a secret you’d stumbled into. Your jealousy, your feelings for Jake, felt trivial now, yet they burned brighter, tangled with fear and fascination. You looked at Jake, his face raw with emotion, and something in you softened.

“Okay,” you said, your voice barely audible. “I’ll stay. But you tell me everything. No more lies.”

Jake nodded, relief flooding his features. “No more lies. I promise.”

The others exchanged glances, their red eyes fading to normal, but the tension remained. You sank onto the bed, the bloodstain a grim reminder of what you’d seen. Your notebook was still downstairs, but you didn’t need it to know what to add: Jake. ENHYPEN. Vampires. Caught him feeding on Ava. She vanished. They swear they don’t kill. Jake says he cares about me. I’m terrified, but I’m staying. Why?

The party raged on downstairs, oblivious to the shattered world above. Jake sat beside you, keeping his distance, his hands clenched as if fighting himself. The others lingered, their presence a silent warning. You were in deep now, bound to their secret, to Jake’s world. And as his eyes met yours, warm despite the monster within, you knew there was no going back.

The fog clung to the campus forest like a shroud, curling through the gnarled oaks and muffling the distant hum of Friday night parties. You stumbled along the uneven path, your sneakers crunching on wet leaves, your breath visible in the chill air. Jake’s hand was a cold anchor in yours, guiding you through the mist after you’d fled the chaotic mansion party where you’d seen the unthinkable: Jake feeding on Ava, his fangs glinting, her blood staining the sheets before she vanished. The revelation that he—and all of ENHYPEN—were vampires had shattered your world, yet here you were, running with him, fear and fascination twining like vines around your heart. His touch, his desperate promise to protect you, kept you tethered to him, even as your journalist’s mind screamed for answers.

Jake’s pace slowed as you reached the edge of the forest, where an abandoned lecture hall loomed, its gothic arches and cracked windows swallowed by the fog. “In here,” he said, his voice low, urgent, as he pushed open the rusted door. The creak echoed like a warning, but you followed, your pulse thudding. The interior was a cavern of shadows, rows of dusty desks illuminated by slivers of moonlight breaking through the fogged windows. The air smelled of mildew and something sharper—copper, like blood.

You pulled your hand from his, backing against a desk, your eyes locked on him. Jake’s soccer jersey was still speckled with Ava’s blood, his hair tousled, his eyes flickering between warm brown and a fading red glow. He was beautiful, a dreamlike figure in the dimness—sharp jaw, lean frame, that lopsided grin you’d fallen for—but the blood, the fangs you’d seen, made him a nightmare too. “Talk,” you said, your voice trembling but firm. “You’re a vampire. Your friends—brothers—are too. Ava disappeared. I need the truth, Jake. All of it.”

He ran a hand through his hair, his expression torn between guilt and resolve. “I know you’re scared. You should be. But I meant it—I’ll never hurt you. We’re not monsters, not the way you think.” He stepped closer, his cold hand hovering near your cheek, and the proximity sent a shiver through you, equal parts fear and a strange, magnetic pull. “We feed to survive, take just enough. My venom—it blurs their memories, makes it feel like a dream. Ava’s safe, Y/N. She’s in her dorm, thinking she blacked out from drinking. We... moved her. Fast.”

“Fast?” you echoed, your mind flashing to the party, how ENHYPEN had appeared from nowhere, their eyes blazing red, Ava vanishing like a ghost. “You mean that... teleporting thing? What the hell was that?”

Before Jake could answer, the air shimmered, a gust of wind rattling the windows despite the sealed room. Shadows coalesced, and ENHYPEN materialized—Jay, Sunghoon, Heeseung, Sunoo, Jungwon, Ni-ki—all seven, their eyes glowing crimson in the moonlight, their presence filling the lecture hall like a storm. They stood in a loose semicircle, their movements too fluid, too silent, their beauty amplified in the eerie setting. Jay’s sharp smirk was gone, replaced by a taut jaw; Sunghoon’s icy allure felt lethal, his gaze piercing; Heeseung’s quiet authority was suffocating; Sunoo’s brightness twisted into something predatory; Jungwon’s calm hid a simmering edge; Ni-ki’s youthful energy was now a coiled threat.

You stumbled back, your heart hammering, but the desk trapped you. Their red eyes locked on you, and the air thickened with a primal hunger that made your skin crawl. “Jake,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, fear spiking but fascination blooming—a dreamlike dread, like staring into the eyes of wolves who could sing you to sleep.

Sunoo inhaled deeply, his eyes flaring brighter. “Fuck, her scent—jasmine, adrenaline, life. It’s like a drug.” His voice was a low purr, his fangs glinting as he stepped closer, his usual cheer replaced by something ravenous.

Ni-ki’s hands twitched, his red eyes narrowing. “Her pulse is screaming. I can hear it, taste it. Just one bite—”

Jungwon’s gaze darkened, his calm cracking. “She’s pure, fresh. We haven’t fed like this in ages. Jake, move.”

Jay growled, his own eyes blazing, his control fraying. “She’s right here, heart pounding like a fucking beacon. I’m starving.”

Sunghoon’s lips curled, his fangs visible. “You saw what happened at the party. The reveal’s got us on edge. Her blood... it’s calling.”

Heeseung’s eyes burned brightest, his voice a cold blade. “We’re all hungry, Y/N. The hunt tonight wasn’t enough. You’re... different. Potent.”

Terror surged, your breath hitching, but that fascination held you captive. They were terrifying, yet breathtaking—each a dark angel in the moonlight, their red eyes like stars in a nightmare sky. You should’ve run, screamed, but the dreamlike pull of their presence, the way Jake stood protectively in front of you, kept you rooted.

“Back off,” Jake snarled, his fangs extending, his body a shield between you and his brothers. His voice was raw, feral, his eyes blazing red again. “She’s mine to protect. You touch her, you answer to me.”

The tension crackled, their red eyes flickering with hunger but also restraint. Heeseung raised a hand, his authority cutting through the haze. “We stop for Jake. She’s his. But she needs to know.”

Jake turned to you, his expression softening, though his fangs and red eyes betrayed his struggle. “Y/N, listen. We’re a coven, turned against our will—different times, different places, but bound together. We feed on the willing, the reckless, never killing. The girls—they consent, in a way, drawn to us by instinct. My venom makes it painless, even pleasurable. They forget, wake up weak but alive. Ava’s fine, relocated by our speed, our... tricks. We’ve survived centuries like this, hiding as students, blending in.”

Sunoo’s eyes dimmed slightly, his hunger reined in. “Universities are perfect. Young blood, endless parties to cover our tracks. We’re careful, Y/N. We have to be.”

Jungwon nodded, his red gaze steadying. “But there are risks—other vampires, hunters. We protect each other, and now... you’re part of that, whether you want it or not.”

Ni-ki’s fangs retracted, his voice bitter. “Her scent’s too strong. I’m barely holding it together. We need to hunt, now.”

Jay clenched his fists, his eyes fading to brown. “Agreed. We’ll find others—clean feeds, no traces. Jake, keep her close.”

Sunghoon’s gaze lingered on you, red flickering. “You’re lucky he cares. Most wouldn’t survive knowing this.”

Heeseung’s voice was final. “We go. Hunt elsewhere. Y/N, trust him. He’s your shield in our world.”

One by one, they vanished—blurs of shadow melting into the fog, their red eyes winking out like dying embers. The lecture hall fell silent, save for the creak of the building and your ragged breathing. Jake stood before you, his fangs retracting, his eyes shifting back to brown, but the blood on his shirt, the intensity in his gaze, kept the truth stark.

You sank onto a desk, your hands trembling, fear coursing through you like ice. Yet that fascination burned brighter—a dreamlike pull to Jake, to the danger he embodied. He was a monster, a predator, yet the way he’d shielded you, his raw promise to protect you, made him feel like a dark knight from a twisted fairy tale. “I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice soft but steady. “But I’m... drawn to you. It’s like a nightmare I don’t want to wake from.”

Jake knelt before you, his cold hand brushing your cheek, sending a shiver of fear and thrill through you. “I know. I’m terrified too—of what I am, of losing you to this. But I meant it: you’re more than a feed, more than anything. I’ll keep you safe, Y/N, even from myself.”

Your heart raced, the fear and fascination blurring into something new—a longing to understand him, to stay despite the horror. “No more girls,” you said, the jealousy from the party flaring again, sharp and raw. “I can’t watch them come and go, Jake. Not anymore.”

His eyes softened, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. “No more. I swear. They were survival, nothing else. You’re... everything I’ve been running from and running toward.”

The air between you crackled, his cold touch grounding you in the surreal moment. You nodded, your fear still alive but tempered by that dreamlike allure, his presence a magnet pulling you deeper into his world. “What now?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“We go home,” he said, standing, his hand extended. “And we face this together. No more secrets.”

You took his hand, the coldness a stark reminder of his nature, yet the warmth in his eyes a promise that kept you tethered. The fog swallowed the lecture hall as you left, the campus a ghostly maze, but Jake’s grip was steady, a lifeline in the dark. Your notebook, left behind in the chaos, would need updating: Jake. ENHYPEN. Vampires. They hungered for me, but stopped for him. I’m terrified, fascinated, falling deeper. No more girls, he says. I believe him. For now.

The city pulsed beneath a moonless sky, its neon veins glowing through the mist that cloaked the rooftop club—a hidden enclave perched atop a sleek high-rise, accessible only to those who knew the right whispers. The club was a secret haven, its glass walls frosted to obscure the writhing bodies inside, the bass of electronic music thrumming like a heartbeat. You stood at the edge of the dance floor, your heart a storm of fear and fascination, the revelation of Jake’s vampiric nature—and that of his ENHYPEN brothers—still raw from the abandoned lecture hall. Jake’s hand rested lightly on your lower back, his touch a cold anchor that both grounded and unnerved you. His presence was a paradox: a dreamlike figure, all sharp jaw and tousled hair, whose warm brown eyes held a promise of protection, yet the bloodstains you’d seen on his lips haunted you, fueling a jealousy that burned alongside your growing feelings.

The club was alive with a different kind of energy tonight, darker, more primal. You’d come here at Jake’s urging, his text a cryptic Meet me tonight. Somewhere safe. We need to talk. But “safe” felt like a lie as you scanned the crowd. The other six ENHYPEN members wove through the throng, their beauty otherworldly under the strobing lights: Jay’s sharp smirk cutting through the haze, Sunghoon’s icy elegance drawing gasps, Heeseung’s quiet command parting bodies, Sunoo’s bright charm masking a predatory edge, Jungwon’s calm intensity like a coiled spring, and Ni-ki’s youthful energy now a dangerous spark. Their eyes, catching the neon glow, flickered with red flecks, and you noticed something new—a restlessness in their movements, a hunger that hadn’t been there before.

Jake leaned close, his breath cool against your ear. “Stay near me, Y/N. Something’s off tonight.” His voice was low, strained, and his hand tightened on your waist, possessive yet protective. You nodded, your pulse racing, the memory of Ava’s blood on his lips flashing in your mind. The jealousy still lingered—those girls, their dazed exits, the bruises on their necks—but his promise that you were more, that intimacy was his alone, kept you tethered to him. Yet the fear, the fascination, was a live wire in your veins, his vampiric allure like a dream you couldn’t escape, beautiful and terrifying.

You clutched your small crossbody bag, your journalist’s notebook tucked inside, a lifeline to your rational self. Your latest entry burned in your mind: Jake. ENHYPEN. Vampires. They hungered for me, stopped for him. I’m terrified, fascinated, falling deeper. No more girls, he says. I believe him. For now. But belief was fragile when the air felt charged with danger, the club’s shadows hiding secrets you weren’t ready to face.

The music shifted, a slower, pulsing beat that seemed to sync with your heartbeat. Jake guided you to a quieter corner, a velvet-curtained alcove overlooking the city’s misty skyline. The others followed, their presence a silent pressure, their eyes glinting redder now, more intense. You caught Sunoo’s gaze, his usual warmth replaced by a sharp hunger, his fangs peeking out as he licked his lips. Ni-ki’s hands twitched, his eyes locked on your neck, while Jungwon’s calm facade cracked, his gaze burning. Jay and Sunghoon circled closer, their movements too fluid, and Heeseung’s quiet authority seemed strained, his eyes glowing like embers.

“Jake,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you pressed closer to him, fear spiking but that dreamlike fascination holding you in place. “What’s happening? They’re... different.”

He cursed under his breath, his arm wrapping around you protectively. “Something’s wrong. The air—it’s not just the club. There’s a trigger, something old, primal. It’s waking our hunger, stronger than usual.”

Before you could ask more, the lights flickered, plunging the club into a strobe of black and neon. A strange hum filled the air, not music but something deeper, like a chant from unseen throats. The crowd didn’t notice, lost in their haze, but ENHYPEN tensed, their red eyes flaring brighter, their fangs extending. You froze as their gazes locked on you, hunger radiating like heat. Your scent—jasmine, adrenaline, life—seemed to amplify, a beacon in the dark.

Sunoo moved first, his brightness gone, his voice a low growl. “Her blood... it’s singing. I can’t hold back.” He stepped closer, his fangs gleaming, his eyes crimson pools.

Ni-ki followed, his youthful face twisted with need. “It’s too much. Her pulse—I need it.” His hand reached out, trembling but eager.

Jungwon’s eyes blazed, his calm shattered. “She’s like fire. One taste, Jake. Just one.”

Jay’s smirk was gone, his voice rough. “You feel it too, don’t you? She’s calling us. We’re starving.”

Sunghoon’s icy gaze was molten now, his fangs sharp. “Let us have her, Jake. You can’t fight us all.”

Heeseung’s control wavered, his eyes burning red. “It’s the hum—some ancient call. It’s pulling us. Her blood’s too potent.”

Fear surged, your heart pounding like a drum, but that fascination—dark, dreamlike—kept you rooted. They were predators, yet their beauty was hypnotic, their red eyes like stars in a nightmare sky, drawing you in even as terror clawed at you. Jake’s arm tightened around you, his fangs extending, his own hunger visible in the tense lines of his body. But his eyes, though red, held a desperate resolve.

“No,” Jake snarled, his voice a feral roar that shook the alcove. “She’s mine. Not for feeding, not for anything—mine to protect.” He turned to you, his gaze softening despite the crimson glow. “Y/N, I’m sorry. I didn’t want this. But... I can’t stop them alone. They need to feed, just a little. Not like the others—not for sex, not for anything but survival. I’ll keep it controlled. Do you trust me?”

Your breath hitched, fear and fascination blurring into a surreal haze. The idea of all seven biting you was horrifying, yet the way Jake looked at you—raw, pleading, his love a lifeline in the nightmare—made you nod. “I trust you,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the tremble in your hands. “But only for you. No one else... like that.”

He nodded, his jaw clenched, and turned to his brothers. “One bite each. Controlled. No venom, no intimacy—just blood. You break that, you deal with me.”

The others hesitated, their red eyes flickering with hunger but bound by Jake’s command. Heeseung nodded first, his authority sealing the pact. “Agreed. For you, Jake. We take only what we need.”

The hum intensified, a low vibration that seemed to pulse from the city itself, and the air grew heavier, the mist outside thickening. Jake guided you to sit on a velvet bench, his cold hand steadying you. “Look at me,” he said, kneeling before you, his eyes holding yours. “It’ll hurt, but I’m here. You’re safe.”

Sunoo approached first, his movements slow, deliberate, his fangs glinting as he knelt beside Jake. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost human. He leaned in, his cold breath grazing your wrist, and you flinched as his fangs pierced your skin. The pain was sharp, like needles, but brief, his lips drawing a small trickle of blood. Your vision blurred, the sensation dreamlike—painful yet strangely intimate, like a secret shared in a nightmare. He pulled back, his eyes dimming to brown, licking the blood from his lips with a shudder.

Ni-ki was next, his youthful face tight with restraint. “Just a taste,” he muttered, more to himself than you. His bite, on your other wrist, was quicker, less gentle, but he stopped himself, pulling away with a growl, his eyes flashing red before fading.

Jungwon followed, his calm facade barely holding as he bit the inside of your elbow, his fangs precise but his hands trembling. “You’re strong,” he whispered, almost in awe, as he drew back, blood staining his lips.

Jay’s bite, on your forearm, was rougher, his hunger barely contained. “Fuck, you’re potent,” he growled, pulling away with effort, his eyes flickering red to brown. Sunghoon was gentler, his icy touch on your shoulder almost soothing, but his bite stung, his eyes blazing as he licked the wound clean.

Heeseung went last, his authority palpable as he took your other shoulder, his fangs sinking in with a controlled precision. “You’re a risk,” he murmured, pulling back, his eyes holding yours. “But Jake’s right—you’re worth it.”

Each bite left you dizzy, the pain sharp but fleeting, the sensation a strange mix of horror and allure. Your blood on their lips, the way their eyes glowed then dimmed, was like a dream you couldn’t escape—terrifying, yet captivating, their beauty amplified by the act. Jake watched every moment, his fangs bared, his body tense as he fought his own hunger. When Heeseung stepped back, Jake took your face in his hands, his touch cold but grounding.

“Your turn,” you whispered, your voice weak but defiant, the fascination outweighing the fear. “If they get to, you do too.”

His eyes widened, a mix of hunger and guilt. “Y/N, I—”

“Do it,” you said, tilting your head, exposing your neck. “I trust you.”

He hesitated, then leaned in, his fangs grazing your skin. The bite was different—slower, deliberate, his lips lingering as he drew a small amount of blood. The pain was sharp, but his venom, unlike the others, sent a warm rush through you, blurring the edges of fear into something almost euphoric. He pulled back, blood on his lips, his eyes brown again, raw with emotion. “You’re everything,” he whispered, wiping the blood away with his thumb.

The hum faded, the air lightening, and the others stepped back, their hunger sated but their eyes still wary. Heeseung spoke, his voice calm but firm. “It was the city—an old ritual, buried in the streets. Something woke it, stirred our hunger. You triggered it, Y/N, your scent, your life. We’re bound now, you’re part of us. We feed to survive, but we don’t kill. You’re safe with Jake.”

Sunoo nodded, his brightness returning slightly. “We’re a coven, centuries old. We hide as students, feed on the willing, erase traces. Tonight was... an exception. You’re too potent.”

Jungwon’s gaze softened. “We stopped for Jake. He loves you. That’s why we held back, why we only took a bite.”

Jay smirked, though it was strained. “You’re dangerous, Y/N. But he’s got you. We’ll hunt elsewhere, clean feeds.”

Sunghoon’s eyes lingered, his voice cold but not cruel. “Don’t tempt us again. Stay close to him.”

Ni-ki grinned, his fangs gone. “Yeah, you’re trouble. But Jake’s worth it.”

Heeseung’s voice was final. “We go. Hunt clean. Y/N, you’re his. Don’t forget it.”

They vanished into the mist, shadows melting into the night, leaving you and Jake alone. The club’s music pulsed faintly below, but the alcove felt like another world, the city’s glow a distant dream. You touched your neck, the bite marks tingling, your body weak but alive with adrenaline. Fear still coursed through you, but the fascination—the dreamlike pull of Jake’s world—was stronger. He was a monster, yet his love, his restraint, made him your protector, a dark knight in a nightmare you couldn’t escape.

“I’m sorry,” Jake said, his voice breaking as he pulled you into his arms, his cold chest a strange comfort. “I didn’t want this. But I’ll protect you, always. No one else—no intimacy, no love. That’s mine alone.”

You nodded, your fear softening into that surreal allure, his embrace a tether in the chaos. “No more girls,” you said, the jealousy flaring despite everything. “Just you and me.”

“Just us,” he promised, his lips brushing your forehead, cold but warm with intent. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”

The mist thickened outside, the city a labyrinth of secrets. You left the club, Jake’s arm around you, the alley outside cold and foggy, the bite marks on your skin a reminder of the pact. Your notebook, left in the chaos, would need updating: Jake. ENHYPEN. Vampires. They all bit me, triggered by some ritual. Jake loves me, kept it controlled. I’m terrified, fascinated, bound to them. To him. No intimacy but with Jake. I’m in deep, and I don’t want out.

The storm howled outside the campus library, rain hammering the tall, arched windows like a vengeful deity, thunder shaking the ancient shelves that loomed like sentinels in the dimly lit upper floor. It was late Sunday night, the library a desolate maze of dusty tomes and flickering fluorescents, the air heavy with the scent of old paper and ozone. You sat at a secluded table, your textbook open but ignored, your fingers tracing the edge of your notebook where your latest entry burned: Jake. Vampire. Snapped at the club—blood, need, love. No other girls, just us. I’m terrified, fascinated, in love. I’m his, and he’s mine. The faint bite marks on your wrists and shoulders from ENHYPEN’s pact a week ago still pulsed, a reminder of their hunger, but it was Jake—his red-eyed desperation, his vow to claim you alone—that consumed you. Fear coiled in your gut, but fascination, that dreamlike pull of his vampiric allure, had you craving his touch, his bite, his everything.

Jake had been a ghost for days, avoiding the apartment, dodging your texts, his messages cryptic: Need space. You’re driving me fucking wild. You’d felt the tension in his fleeting glances, his clenched jaw, the way his eyes darkened when you brushed past him, his restraint fraying like a rope stretched too tight. The jealousy over his past feeds—Tara, Chloe, Ava—still stung, but his promise that you were everything kept you tethered, even as his absence left you aching. Tonight, you’d come to the library to escape, to drown your longing in work, but the storm seemed to summon him.

The heavy oak door creaked, and Jake appeared, drenched from the rain, his black hoodie clinging to his lean, muscled frame, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes blazing with a hunger that stopped your breath. He moved like a predator, weaving through the stacks with unnatural grace, his scent—cedar, rain, and that sharp, metallic tang of blood—hitting you like a drug. “Y/N,” he growled, his voice raw, barely human, as he reached you, his presence filling the corner like a storm cloud. “I can’t fucking do this anymore.”

You stood, your heart pounding, fear and desire colliding like the thunder outside. “Jake, what’s wrong? You’ve been gone for days. I thought—” Your voice broke, the ache of his absence spilling out. “I thought you didn’t want me.”

His eyes flared red, fangs glinting as he closed the distance, pinning you against the table, his body cold but radiating heat, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force. “Don’t want you?” he snarled, his voice dripping with need, his breath cool on your neck. “I’ve been starving for you, Y/N. Your scent, your heat—it’s been tearing me apart. I want your blood, your body, your fucking soul. I want to make you mine forever.”

Your pulse raced, fear spiking at the intensity in his red eyes, but the fascination—the dreamlike allure of his hunger—lit you up like wildfire. He was a monster, yet in the flickering light, his sharp jaw, tousled hair, and desperate gaze made him a dark god, beautiful and terrifying, a nightmare you craved. “Then take me,” you whispered, your voice trembling but bold, tilting your head to expose your neck, the bite marks from his brothers faint but throbbing. “I’m yours, Jake. Only yours.”

His growl was feral, his control snapping like a brittle thread. He kissed you, hard and possessive, his lips cold but searing, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, tasting the heat of your desire. His fangs grazed your lip, drawing a bead of blood that he licked away with a moan, the sound vibrating through you. “Fuck, you taste so good,” he rasped, his hands tearing at your sweater, yanking it over your head, exposing your skin to the cool air. “Been dreaming of this for days—fucking you, drinking you, turning you. I want you with me, always.”

The word turning sent a jolt through you, fear and fascination blurring into a heady rush. “Turning me?” you gasped, your hands fisting his hoodie, pulling him closer even as your mind reeled. “You mean... make me a vampire?”

His eyes locked on yours, red and raw with longing. “Yes,” he said, his voice rough, desperate. “I want you forever, Y/N. Not just your blood, not just your body—I want you beside me, eternal, mine. I’ve never wanted this with anyone else. Say you want it too.”

Fear gripped you, the weight of eternity terrifying, but the dreamlike pull of his love, his hunger, was stronger. You’d seen his world—dark, dangerous, beautiful—and you wanted to be part of it, bound to him in a way no one else could be. “I want it,” you said, your voice steady despite the tremble in your hands. “Turn me, Jake. I’m yours.”

His eyes flared brighter, a primal groan tearing from his throat as he lifted you onto the table, books crashing to the floor, the storm’s roar drowning out the chaos. He tore at your jeans, ripping them down with a hunger that left you breathless, his cold fingers sliding up your thighs, parting them with urgent need. “Gonna fuck you first,” he growled, his voice thick with desire, his fangs glinting. “Make you feel me, all of me, before I make you mine forever.”

You moaned, your body arching as he ripped your panties aside, his cold fingers plunging into you, slick and relentless, working you open with ruthless precision. The sensation was electric, pain and pleasure blurring as he curled his fingers, hitting that spot that made you tremble, his thumb circling your clit with savage intensity. “So fucking wet,” he groaned, his eyes red with hunger, his cock straining against his jeans. “You’re made for me, Y/N. Your body, your blood—mine.”

Fear flickered, but the fascination—his vampiric allure, the dreamlike haze of his hunger—drove you wild. You clawed at his hoodie, yanking it off, exposing his toned chest, pale but perfect, a dark Adonis in the storm’s glow. “Fuck me, Jake,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, the bite marks on your skin pulsing with need. “Bite me. Make me yours.”

He didn’t wait. His fangs sank into your neck, the pain sharp and searing, but his venom flooded you with warmth, a euphoric rush that made you cry out, your body clenching around his fingers. He drank deeply, his tongue lapping at the wound, moaning against your skin as he tasted you. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled, withdrawing his fingers to unbutton his jeans, his cock springing free—hard, cold, impossibly thick. He pushed into you in one brutal thrust, the stretch intense, the venom amplifying every sensation into a blinding haze of pleasure.

You screamed, the sound swallowed by the storm, your body arching as he fucked you hard, the table creaking beneath his relentless pace. His hips snapped, each thrust deep and unforgiving, his cock filling you, cold but burning, hitting that sweet spot that made you see stars. “Been wanting this,” he panted, his lips bloody, his eyes red but locked on yours, raw with need. “Days of craving you—your cunt, your blood, your fucking eternity. Gonna make you mine, Y/N.”

The pain of his bite, the venom’s rush, the brutal rhythm of his thrusts—it was too much, yet not enough. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, your nails raking his back, drawing blood that didn’t flow like yours. “Do it,” you moaned, your voice desperate, the dreamlike allure of his hunger pushing you to the edge. “Turn me, Jake. I want forever with you.”

He growled, his thrusts faltering as he bit you again, higher on your neck, the pain sharper, his venom flooding you with a heat that made your body shake. “Need your blood first,” he rasped, his voice animalistic, his cock driving deeper, each thrust a claim. “Need you weak, ready. Then I’ll give you mine—make you like me.”

You nodded, your body trembling, the pleasure overwhelming, the fear a distant echo beneath the fascination. His thrusts grew erratic, his grip on your hips bruising, his fangs grazing your shoulder as he resisted another bite. “Come for me,” he growled, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing with desperate precision. “Come while I’m fucking you, drinking you.”

The command, the venom, his cock—it shattered you. You came hard, your body convulsing, a scream tearing from your throat as the pleasure crashed over you, blinding and surreal, a dreamlike haze of ecstasy. Jake groaned, his thrusts faltering as he followed, his release cold inside you, his fangs sinking into your neck one final time, drawing deep, leaving you dizzy, weak, your blood singing in his veins.

He pulled back, blood dripping down his chin, his eyes fading to brown, raw with love and guilt. “Y/N,” he whispered, brushing your hair back, his touch gentle now, though his body still trembled with need. “You’re sure? Turning—it’s forever. Painful. You’ll be like me, hungry, hiding. But we’ll be together.”

You nodded, your vision blurry, the venom’s afterglow and blood loss making you lightheaded. “I’m sure,” you said, your voice soft but certain. “I want you, Jake. Forever.”

He kissed you, slow and bloody, his lips tender despite the crimson smear. “Okay,” he said, biting his wrist, blood welling up, dark and thick. “Drink. It’ll hurt, but I’ll be here. Always.”

You pressed your lips to his wrist, the taste metallic and sharp, the pain immediate as his blood burned down your throat. Your body convulsed, the library spinning, the storm’s roar fading to a distant hum. Jake held you, his cold arms a lifeline, his voice a soothing mantra. “I’ve got you, Y/N. You’re mine now. Forever.”

The pain was searing, like fire in your veins, but his presence—the dreamlike allure of his love—kept you tethered. The library faded, the world blurring into darkness, and you clung to him, your dark knight, as the turning began.

The rain-soaked alley outside was your next memory, the storm a curtain around you as Jake carried you, your body weak but alive with a new, strange energy. The cobblestones glistened under neon lights, the mist curling like spirits, and Jake’s eyes, brown but flecked with red, watched you with fierce devotion. “It’s starting,” he said, setting you down, steadying you against a brick wall. “The hunger, the strength—it’ll come soon. I’ll teach you everything.”

You nodded, the bite marks on your neck throbbing, your body buzzing with something not quite human. Fear lingered, but the fascination—his love, his hunger—was stronger. You said, jealousy flaring even now, your voice rough with the turning’s strain. “Just us.”

“Just us,” he vowed, kissing you under the rain, his lips cold but warm with love, the taste of blood lingering. “You’re my eternity, Y/N.”

Your notebook, left in the library, would never be updated, but the truth was in your veins now: Jake. Vampire. Loved me, fucked me, turned me. I’m his, forever. Terrified, fascinated, eternal.

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

TAGLIST:-

@slutofpsh

@laurenalpha123

@dreamiestay

@amortenha

@peonywon

@mitmit01

@heeevangelizesme

@gvni-eve

@yourmomni

@leov3rse

@punchbug9-blog

@rosepetals09

@yenienha

@kristynaaah

SOMEWHERE IN OHIO

(four days before Christmas)

You woke up to the persistent sound of scraping and a soft string of muttered curses.

At first, you couldn’t quite remember where you were. Your limbs felt leaden underneath you. The kind of heaviness that came with a cramped cold and too much sleep. And it didn’t help that the windows had become fogged with frost, the glass catching what little light filtered through the gray dawn, but then, it all came back to you — the cancelled flight, the panic attack at the airport exit, and Jongseong — Jongseong.

You sat up abruptly, receiving a protest from your neck because of the awkward angle you had slept in, but you ignored the discomfort as your eyes swept around.

He wasn’t in the driver’s seat anymore, having moved outside, and using what appeared to be his credit card to scrape ice from the windshield.

When he noticed you were awake he mouthed something you couldn’t quite decipher, but before you could try to react, he had moved, reaching for the door handle, and allowing a burst of frigid air to rush into the car as he climbed back into his seat.

He gazed at you, cheeks flushed, nose red at the tip. His hair had become tousled, the neat locks falling loose from whatever product he used to style them back on the day previous, and the sight of him like this — so disheveled and unguarded, made something within you stop functioning. Your chest tightened with air still stuck on it, and when you managed to make it function again, it released all of that at once.

“Morning,” he said. “The snow has stopped and I already found a convenience store just a few miles from here. I thought we could grab breakfast there.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

And it felt so natural — so effortlessly right, that you couldn’t help but smile as you watched him stepping on the pedals, his right hand reaching for the gear shift as he shifted from neutral to first gear with a soft, releasing the clutch with perfect timing, and guiding the car forward onto the road that stretched ahead of you both.

The highway had been plowed at some point during the night. Towering banks of snow piled high and uneven on either side of the cleared road, catching the sun which now was beginning to break through the clouds, casting long shadows and forbidding any fresh snow to fall from the pale gray sky until you had arrived at the convenience store Jongseong had mentioned.

It stood completely alone at the intersection of two rural roads that disappeared into the distance, surrounded by endless snow-covered fields that stretched to the horizon. A squat, weathered building with a faded red sign that read Lucky’s in large letters that had surely seen better days, with a single, old-fashioned gas pump stood out front, and a parking lot that had been haphazardly cleared by someone’s plow truck, leaving irregular patches of ice mixed with exposed asphalt.

A faint bell announced your arrival, the sound quickly smothered by the harsh fluorescent lights humming and buzzing softly overhead, their persistent drone filling the space underneath a christmas song and making the early morning feel even more surreal than it already was.

You followed close behind Jongseong as he made his way through the cramped aisles, picking out granola bars and several packaged muffins wrapped in crinkly plastic that you highly doubted it would serve for a single breakfast.

He had just reached for another package when he suddenly stopped mid-motion, his attention caught by something else. And without any explanation, he turned and moved towards the small wire rack positioned by the cash register, reaching out and pulling a laminated road map of the United States, the kind of physical artifact you thought that had gone completely extinct in the modern age of GPS and smartphones. But Jongseong was already adding it to the basket with the same matter-of-fact confidence he brought to everything else, and so, you didn’t say anything.

Gary — the cashier, obviously wasn’t a great woman from the sixties. He was a man, probably from the seventies, and he didn’t give a second thought about it when you extended your own credit card telling him to split the amount despite Jongseong’s small protest.

“I could have-” he began as you claimed a small, slightly sticky table positioned by the front window. The weak morning light streamed in through the glass, illuminating the dust motes floating in the air.

“I will feel bad if you pay everything,” you said. “Not to mention that if you pay for everything, then it’s like I’m be-” you stopped abruptly.

“Beholden to me?” he supplied, immediately and all at once earning a gasp from you.

It had been the word slipping through your lips, but you had caught on to the implications of it before you had finished, and thought you would be saved, but then there was Jongseong saying it, a pleased smile on his lips — almost wistful, and it was even worse because you weren’t used to wistful Jongseong.

You weren’t used to Jongseong, to be honest.

“I’m done with this conversation,” you said, reaching out for the map at his hand and spreading it out.

“Okay,” Jongseong said, reaching into the inside pocket of his heavy winter coat. You watched as he pulled out a pen, and you weren’t sure why the sight surprised you — of course the man who wore analog watches and bought maps would have a proper pen with him at all times.

He clicked it open with his thumb, the small mechanical sound oddly loud in the relative quiet of the nearly empty convenience store.

“We are here,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his shoulder almost brushing yours as he brought the pen to the map and circled a spot somewhere over the center of Ohio before his finger traced slowly across the laminated surface, moving steadily westward across state lines.

“Seattle is here,” he continued, tapping the coastal city with his index finger for emphasis. “That’s about two thousand miles, give or take a hundred.”

“That’s a lot of miles,” you said — though you found yourself watching him rather than focusing on the daunting distance stretched across the map before you.

In the way you both stood, you could catch sight of the birthmark on his neck — just an inch above the collar of his coat.

“That’s why what you said yesterday makes sense,” he replied, and you forced yourself to look at the map, catching his pen hovering thoughtfully over the surface. “We should take proper breaks, find decent hotels in between stops instead of sleeping cramped in the car again like last night.”

He traced a potential route west with his fingers, the movement so slow and contemplative, physically feeling out the journey ahead. “What if we aimed for Chicago next? I think we could get there by late afternoon if the roads stay clear and we have a good time.”

His question was light enough, but there was something in it — a subtle weight that you might have missed if you weren’t paying such close attention to him.

But you were.

He wanted to go to Chicago, you realized — maybe to see the famous lights, or walk along the waterfront, or simply — because.

“Chicago sounds good,” you managed. “But wouldn’t everything be completely booked around big cities? I mean — it’s Christmas week. Hotels must be impossible to get.”

Jongseong’s expression shifted, the pen in his hand stilling completely against the laminated surface of the map. For a moment he said nothing, his jaw working slightly as if carefully considering his next words, and you could see the conflict playing out behind his eyes — disappointment warring with practicality.

“Maybe we should avoid staying there then, we can try getting a motel close by,” you said. “A few cities down and have a little walk there — even if we don’t stay the night in the city itself. We could still stop for a few hours, see what it's like.”

Jongseong turned to you, his expression brightening with a genuine smile.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, we could definitely do that.”

❄︎

The sun had broken through by the time you finally left the convenience store, the first sun you seemed to have seen in quite a while — spilling golden light across the snow-dusted landscape with a warmth that felt almost impossible given the season, the sky now a brilliant crystalline blue that stretched endlessly overhead like a promise.

You settled back into your seat with a contented sigh as he started the engine, making the heater immediately whirred to life, beginning its work of pushing warm air into the cold car interior.

The drive to Illinois stretched before you like an endless white ribbon unfurling across the landscape, the scenery shifting gradually and almost imperceptibly from Ohio’s gently rolling fields and modest hills to the flatter, more expansive terrain that characterized the Midwest as Jongseong shifted to the sixth gear, the BMW pushing a bit faster.

“You’re good at this,” you said out of silence.

He glanced over at you briefly before returning his eyes to the road, one dark eyebrow raised in question. “At what?”

“Driving. Manual transmission. The whole road trip thing,” you clarified, gesturing vaguely at the dashboard and the snowy landscape beyond.

“My dad taught me when I was sixteen. Said automatic was for people who didn’t really want to drive — who just saw it as a chore.”

You forced a gasp out of you, a dramatic offensed sound before you muttered a small thank you, and Jongseong laughed then, that one burst that caught his eyes clinking and his head inclined as if he was shy — noticing that his father’s saying could have included you.

“It’s just practice,” he admitted. “I could help you.”

You looked at him, your heart racing because it was the first time you were actually considering it. It was a sunny day, the roads were clear and empty — the few cars you had encountered fastly disappeared after an exit or two there were no reasons for you to say no.

“And if I stall it?” you asked.

“You stalled it.”

“And if I grind the gears”

“You grind it.”

“It would be difficult to find a tow here.”

“But not impossible,” he said.

You picked at the corner of your nails, an anxious motion you seemed to have acquired and didn’t know how to stop.

“I will help you,” he said.

Jongseong pulled over, the car idle as you switched places. You slid the seat up as close to the wheel as it would go and in fact — didn’t stall.

The BMW revved, strong and sure, and the car surged forward.

Differently from what you expected the BMW gear stick wasn’t as smooth as the fanciness gave away, and you struggled to change from the first to the second.

When you were to change it to the third, Jongseong reached out — he didn’t speak or anything, he merely placed his hand above yours, his fingers tightening and giving you the strength you needed.

“You are good at this,” he said. “Why did you say you were bad?”

“Matthew,” you said, your voice coming with a venom that surprised even yourself.

“The ex?”

“Yes,” you confirmed. “When I got my license, I asked to use his car a few times, but he was always saying how bad I was at this — he even used to place his hand on the wheel while I was driving.”

Jongseong scoffed then, a small thing that you always took as an annoyed trait, but as you glanced at him, he had rested his elbow at the window as he rubbed the tip of his fingers through his mouth, eyes completely focused on the road.

He was annoyed, you could tell — but with Matthew, and it made something flutter inside of your chest, skittering unevenly beneath your ribs.

❄︎

By the time you crossed the state line into Illinois, the afternoon light was already beginning its slow fade, gradually painting everything in deepening shades of blue and purple as the sun sank lower in the winter sky. Jongseong had called ahead during a brief rest stop to a motel on the outskirts of Chicago — a place called the Pinewood Inn that a friendly woman at a gas station had enthusiastically recommended, assuring you both with absolute certainty that it was safe, reasonably priced, and most important clean.

The motel materialized out of the growing dusk like something straight from a nostalgic movie — a low, single-story building with faded green shutters that had probably once been vibrant, and a neon sign that flickered VACANCY in bright pink letters against the afternoon sky, buzzing faintly with electrical current.

Inside the small lobby, the air smelled strongly like artificial pine air freshener mixed with the burnt aroma of old coffee that had been sitting too long on a heating plate. Behind the desk sat a woman who looked to be somewhere in her sixties, her reading glasses perched precariously on the very end of her nose as she glanced up from a half-completed crossword puzzle, her pen pausing mid-word.

Jongseong spoke quietly and politely to the woman at the desk, sputtering and stopping only when she asked how many rooms, his eyes in yours as he let you take the lead.

And there it was again, that heat in your cheeks that seemed to be becoming a frequent feeling around him. But he waited patiently, although the woman was less so, and you sounded far too quiet when you said, “two.”

“Two rooms,” you said, “Please.”

Jongseong just nodded — just once, a single sharp movement of acknowledgment before he pulled out his leather wallet from the right pocket of his coat. “Two rooms, then.”

The woman handed over two keys, each attached to plastic tags shaped like pine trees that matched the motel’s name and theme. “Rooms twelve and thirteen, just down that way to the left,” she said, gesturing vaguely with her pen. “Continental breakfast starts at seven sharp, but honestly, I’d strongly recommend the diner across the street if you actually want something decent to eat.”

You thanked her and followed Jongseong out into the cold evening air, your carry-on clutched in your hands, the handles already making your fingers ache from the cold. The rooms were side by side, exactly as the sequential numbers suggested they would be, and when Jongseong unlocked his door and pushed it open, you caught a brief glimpse of the interior — dated but appearing genuinely clean, with a floral bedspread in muted colors and dark wood furniture that had almost certainly been there since the 1980s, maybe longer.

“So,” he said, turning to face you fully in the narrow concrete walkway between your two doors. His breath clouded thickly in the frigid air between you, forming small white puffs. “What’s the plan?”

You adjusted your grip on your bag, shifting its weight. “I was thinking — shower first, definitely, maybe a short nap? And then we could head into the city later this evening? Walk around for a while?”

“That sounds good,” Jongseong said, and his smile was so genuine and warm, reaching his eyes fully in a way that made something flutter unexpectedly in your stomach. “How about we meet back here around seven? That should give us both enough time to clean up and rest a bit.”

“Seven works perfectly,” you agreed, already turning toward your own door with your key in hand. But you paused with the key halfway in the lock, glancing back at him over your shoulder. “Jongseong?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

He looked at you for a long moment, something deep and unreadable crossing his features before that soft, gentle smile returned to his face. “Of course, Ribbons.”

Inside your room, you dropped your luggage heavily on the couch and exhaled a long, deep breath you hadn’t even realized you had been holding in your chest.

The shower wasn’t temperamental like your own at Hell’s Kitchen, and you took the opportunity to take a long, hot shower — letting the steam gradually fill the small bathroom until the mirror was completely fogged over, obscuring your reflection entirely as you wrapped yourself in motel’s robbed afterwards.

You set an alarm on your phone and collapsed onto the bed.

The mattress was considerably softer than you had expected from a roadside motel, the pillows visibly worn but still comfortable enough, and despite your firm intention to just rest your eyes for a brief moment, you fell asleep almost immediately, exhaustion claiming you completely.

❄︎

You woke up before the alarm, laying in the quiet stillness of your room before you reached for your phone resting on the nightstand.

It was the end of the afternoon already, something past six and late enough on the west coast for your mother to accept your call.

“Darling,” your mother’s voice came through the phone speaker, warm and familiar and comforting, immediately soothing something tight in your chest you hadn’t even realized was there. “Iwas hoping you would call around this time — your father went out for some errands — now we can talk properly without interruption. Tell me how’s it going.”

“I am fine, Mom,” you said, sinking down onto the edge of the bed and getting comfortable. “I am in Illinois now. Just outside Chicago.”

“Illinois!” She sounded genuinely surprised. “You’ve made excellent time then. And the roads? They’re safe? Not too icy?”

“Yeah, they were okay,” you said, then paused, picking absently at a loose thread on the bedspread. “We stopped at a motel for the night. We are going to head into the city later this evening.”

There was a brief beat of silence, and then your mother’s voice dropped, “is he treating you well? This is the same boy from school, yes? The one you thought that hated you?”

“He never hated me,” you said, feeling heat creep steadily up your neck, suddenly thankful that your mother couldn’t possibly see you blushing. “That was just — I asked him about it yesterday and he said he was just shy.”

“Oh God, all those years thinking he couldn’t stand you, and now look at this — he’s driving you across the entire country,” your mother said, making a thoughtful, knowing sound. “He must be very kind to do this.”

“He is,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s been really good about everything.”

Your mother laughed, the sound bright and knowing and full of implication. “And handsome? Is he handsome?”

“Mom—” you protested weakly.

“I’m your mother! I’m allowed to ask these things,” she said, her voice coming a bit firmly although you could sense the wide smile in her voice. “So? Is he?”

“Yes,” you said, not even needing to take a second thought.

You always had thought Jongseong was handsome — even before you had encountered him at the airport and discovered how the years had sharpened his features, leaving only the echoes of it for when he smiled down at you, and oh — he had been smiling at you a lot lately.

You wouldn’t go as far as to say that you had a crush on him back in your school days because you were truly convinced he hated you, and so, you tried your best to remain as far as you could, never having straight interaction or going to his small concerts at the school garden on Friday despite your wish to — you remained inside the building and went to the library instead, strategically getting the table under the windows because once you open it, you could hear him without him ever knowing.

“Yes,” you said again. “Yes, he is.”

“Great. And more importantly — how do you feel? About him specifically? About this whole situation?”

“I have been thinking,” she said once you didn’t reply. “If you are uncomfortable or something, me and your father can take the road too — meet you somewhere in the middle.”

You rolled through the bed, starring at the bedsheets as though it would make the room smaller and your confession a secret kept. “It’s alright, mom. I mean, we barely knew each other before yesterday, and now we are spending all this time together, and he is so—” You struggled to find the right words. “He is so nice and easy to be around. I guess you both don’t have to worry”

“Alright,” she conquered. “But tell me, just in case.”

“Sure,” you agreed. “Have you decorated the house already?”

“Yes, but not completely — still have some bits and pieces that I would prefer you here to help.

You felt tears prick unexpectedly at your eyes, though you weren’t entirely sure why the emotion was surfacing. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Of course. Now go — go see those Chicago lights with your handsome road trip companion. And call me tomorrow, okay?”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The line went quiet and then disconnected, and you set the phone down carefully beside you on the bed before you stood up to dress, taking more time than you would like to admit to decide your clothes despite the fact it was the same variation you used to your daily basics at the library — just trading the usual high heels for a more practical boot and precisely seven o’clock, you stepped outside.

Jongseong was already standing in the doorway, leaning against its wall as his hands fidgeted with the BMW’s keys.

You stared at him, more conspicuous for the fact that you tried to be inconspicuous about it.

He had showered too, his hair slightly damp, and again — out of whatever he had used on the day previously, allowing the locks to fall almost tousled, and so, despite the expensive long coat, and the grayish button-down you had never seen, the old familiarity of him pierced you.

“Ready?” he asked, pushing himself up.

You confirmed with a nod, stepping out into the cold parking lot beside him.

“Do you want to do the honors?” he asked, shaking the BMW keys at you, but you only shook your head.

“The cities might be a bit too much.”

❄︎

The drive into Chicago was relatively short, just fifteen minutes down a highway that gradually transformed from dark, empty stretches of nothing into the glowing, vibrant sprawl of the city.

Jongseong found parking in a multi-level garage near Millennium Park, having to maneuver the car up to such narrow ramps — you found yourself truly glad by the fact that you hadn’t accepted the keys back in the motel, having just the trouble of having to come out of the BMW and signaling if he had gotten into the parking correctly before — finally, you stepped out onto Michigan Avenue, allowing the full overwhelming force of Chicago’s holiday splendor to hit you all at once.

The city had been transformed into something almost magical. Every single tree lining the famous Magnificent Mile had been wrapped in tiny white lights, creating long, glowing tunnels of pure luminescence that stretched as far as you could see as the stores windows were elaborately decorated with animated holiday displays — mechanical reindeer that moved their heads in repetitive patterns, artificial snow that seemed to fall perpetually behind thick glass. The buildings themselves were outlined in lights, their architectural details highlighted and emphasized against the dark winter sky.

You gasped, stopping abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk to take it all in.

Jongseong stopped beside you, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets against the cold, and when you glanced at him, you found him watching you rather than the lights, his gaze soft and focused entirely on your face.

“Pretty impressive, right?”

“It’s beautiful,” you said with genuine awe. “Have you ever come before?”

“No,” he admitted, and for a second he thought he had ended the conversation once again, but then he kept going, “my father used to come here a lot during this time of year, and suggested me to — I never heard him.”

“I am glad you finally came,” you said then.

❄︎

Chicago during the holiday season was not just beautiful — it was absolutely crowded.

You tried your best to stay close to Jongseong as you wove through the dense city, but despite your constant attention, you caught yourself failing.

The boy came out of nowhere, running in a game you couldn’t quite tell with his brother, and pushing you.

Jongseong was fast to catch you, his hand closing around your elbow to prevent you from falling, and for a moment you were the only silent spot in the bustling city. He kept his hand on your elbow even after it was clear you were safe, his thumb moving in a small, unconscious circle against the inside of your arm — a gesture so brief and subtle you might have imagined it.

“Here,” he said, making a small pressure for you to move to his other side, walking away from the main current of foot traffic. “I don’t want you getting trampled.”

And after that, he didn’t let go. As you continued down the avenue with its strings of lights and decorated storefronts, his hand remained a constant around you. Sometimes his fingers rested at your elbow, a warm weight through the sleeve of your coat. Sometimes, when you paused to admire a particularly elaborate window display or to let a group of carolers pass, his hand would migrate to the small of your back, his palm settling there with a familiarity that felt both presumptuous and yet — exactly right, gently steering you through gaps in the crowd.

When you crossed streets — the walk signals beeping, cars honking impatiently, slush spraying up from tires — his fingers would mold around your wrist, circling it completely, and keeping you tethered to him like you might drift away if he loosened his grip even slightly.

“Sorry,” he said at one point, as he guided you around a particularly dense cluster of tourists who had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to take photos, completely blocking the flow of traffic. His hand moved to your waist again, fingers spanning your hip as he maneuvered you through the narrow space between bodies. “Is this okay? I just don’t want to lose you in all this.”

“It’s fine,” you said, your voice coming out softer than you intended, almost intimate in a way that made you flush. “I am thankful, actually — I have never managed big crowds.”

You walked for nearly an hour, taking in the sights the enormous Christmas tree in Millennium Park — easily forty feet tall and dripping with thousands of lights that reflected off the surrounding buildings in fractured patterns of red and gold and silver. The ice skaters glided across the rink in circles, their laughter carried on the cold air. The Bean sculpture in all its impossible, mirrored glory, surrounded by people taking photos, its reflective surface capturing and distorting the lights and the crowd and the city skyline into something abstract and dreamlike as street vendors sent up clouds of fragrant steam, selling hot chocolate so thick it was almost pudding, and soft pretzels that you didn’t need to give Jongseong a second look before you both hovered to the line.

By the time eight-thirty rolled around, you knew that soon after your stomach would start growling, having worked out all the muffins you and Jongseong had shared on your way there, and the pretzel, making its displeasure known with increasingly loud protests. Jongseong must have sensed it too, or maybe it was just him — always worried, but he leaned down slightly, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across your cold cheek, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with the temperature.

“Hungry?” he asked, and you nodded at him.

He pulled out his phone, the screen casting a blue-white glow on his face as he scrolled briefly through search results, his brow furrowing in concentration. Then he pointed down a side street that branched off from the main avenue, narrower and quieter, lined with brownstones instead of storefronts. “There’s a place a couple blocks from here. Italian — My treat.”

❄︎

The restaurant, when you found it tucked away like a secret, was everything the main avenue wasn’t — modest, unassuming, the kind of place you could walk past a hundred times and never notice.

It occupied the ground floor of an old brownstone, its exterior weathered brick and a simple wooden door with a brass handle worn smooth from decades of use as a sign in elegant script read Carmella’s slightly faded above, and warm golden light spilled from its tall windows onto the snow-dusted sidewalk, pooling there like liquid honey.

Jongseong was the one to lead once again, talking to the hottest who directed you to a table at the far wall of the place, the furniture draped in crisp white linen that looked freshly pressed, topped with a small candle flickering inside an amber glass holder that cast dancing shadows across the tablecloths and Jongseong’s watch as you checked the menus.

When the food arrived, you traded bites across the table, and everything was rich and perfectly seasoned, the kind of food that made you close your eyes with appreciation and small sounds of pleasure escape unbidden from your throat.

When you moved to tell him you were in love with everything, Jongseong was already looking at you through the top of his wine glass, that solemn attention you had just recently discovered.

Your cheeks burned underneath it, but you didn’t need to turn you gaze away, didn’t need to hide, Jongseong was already turning away himself, snapping his head so fast he nearly gagged on the wine, but it made you smile then, a small chuckling escaping though because that was the Jongseong you remember — not merely an echo, but him entirely.

Your Jongseong.

“There is,” he began, and then cleared his throat, pulling the glass over the table with deliberate attention. “There is a place similar to this in New York,” he told you. “We could go — once we are back — after the holidays.”

The realization arrived like a hand pressed suddenly to your chest — gentle at first, then insistent, and impossible to ignore.

This trip had an ending. Of course it did. And beyond that ending lay New York: your grim apartment in Hell’s Kitchen with its paper thin walls and temperamental shower, Mrs. Driscoll’s tupperware at your door, all the small failures of your life waiting patiently for your return.

Jongseong narrowed his eyes from across the table, reading what you hadn’t said.

“You don’t want to go back to New York,” he guessed.

“I-” you began, not really sure of how you were supposed to continue.

Truthly speaking, you had to go back to New York — you had already paid the January rent, and despite it not being much, you had a few possessions of which you hadn’t stuffed in your carry-on, but it’s true that you didn’t feel like going back to it.

“Do you want to move back to Seattle?” he asked then.

But the question was even worse, because you hadn’t thought about it.

You wanted to go back home for the holidays, but your plan had stopped at the imagined moment of when you stepped inside of your parents’ house, there was no after just then.

“I don’t know. I haven’t — I haven’t thought about it yet,” you admitted. “When I moved to New York, I had my whole life visualized — from the university I would study, to the place I would work and live,”

“But I have — I think I lost the entrance to it somewhere and I don’t know how to go back and find it — I don’t know because-”

“Everyone acts like you’re supposed to have it all figured out by now, like there’s some master plan you should be following,” he said. “But I don’t think anyone really does. We’re all just making educated guesses and hoping they work out.”

“That’s either very reassuring or very terrifying,” you said.

He smiled, that lopsided expression that made your stomach flip. “Maybe a little of both.”

❄︎

By the time you finished — it was past ten. Chicago’s night even colder than before and the shock of the temperature change after the warmth of the restaurant made you gasp, your breath crystallizing instantly in the frigid air, but before you could do anything, Jongseong was rolling his scarf around your neck — the same one he had gave you in the airport and you had returned somewhere over Ohio.

“You should dress more warmly,” he said, already turning to walking back toward where you had parked.

You were about half a block from the parking garage, when you heard someone call out, the voice cutting through the ambient noise of the city.

“Wait, is that—”

You turned, regretting it the exact same moment when you did.

“Oh, no,” you whispered.

“Who?” Jongseong murmured.

“Matthew’s friends,” you whispered back, the words coming so breathlessly that you wondered if Jongseong had even heard, but he raised an eyebrow at you then, something unreadable flickering across his expression before he turned so he could properly face Isaac and Andrew.

“Hey!” Isaac’s voice carried across the snowy sidewalk, louder now, as he closed the distance between you with long strides.

“I thought that was you,” he said, his breath forming thick clouds in the cold air that hung there before dissipating. He was bundled in an expensive-looking peacoat — cashmere, probably, with horn buttons — his cheeks ruddy from the cold and possibly from drinking. “What are the chances? We were heading home but our flight had an emergency stop here because of the—”

“Storm,” Andrew supplied, appearing at Isaac’s shoulder. He looked the same as you remembered — sandy hair, wire-rimmed glasses, that particular preppy aesthetic that all of Matthew’s friends seemed to cultivate.

“Small world,” you managed, though what you truly wanted to say was evil world.

Matthew, Isaac, and Andrew had all met through the random lottery system of the university dorms in their first year, despite the fact that all of them were from New York, or at least the wealthy outskirts — Westchester, Greenwich — or some places where people had groundskeepers and tennis courts at the back of their houses.

They had been inseparable ever since, a trio of privilege and easy confidence.

“So,” Isaac continued. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh,” you said, and the lie arrived before you could think better of it, smooth and practiced as breathing. “I am here with my boyfriend.”

To his credit, Jongseong didn’t falter — God, the man didn’t even blink before he reached for your hand, curling his fingers around yours and using it to pull you toward him, drawing you in until you were almost fully in front of him, his chest a solid existence of warmth at your back, as he looped his arm around your waist.

It was a perfect fit — his hand settling on your hip like it had been made to rest there, the scratch of his fingers catching in the belt loops of your jeans, his thumb pressing against the soft flesh just above your hipbone in a way that made your breath catch.

“Hi,” he said, extending his free hand to Isaac, then Andrew. His voice was pleasant enough as he greeted both, but you could feel it — the way he was holding you as if to keep them away from you. “I am Jongseong.”

“Isaac,” Isaac said, straightening himself to his full height. “And this is Andrew. We’re friends of Matthew.”

The name landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples outward. You felt Jongseong’s hand press more firmly against your waist — not quite protective, but grounding.

“Matthew,” Jongseong repeated, as if testing the weight of it for beat. Then another before finally — with the kind of bright, helpful tone one might use when correcting a minor factual error: “Oh, you mean her shitty ex?”

You made a sound that might have been a laugh or a choke — possibly both.

“Right, yes.” Jongseong’s expression remained perfectly pleasant, almost cherubic in its innocence. “She has mentioned him.”

Isaac’s smile flickered. Andrew’s jaw tightened in that way you had seen a hundred times before — and for a small fraction of a second you thought, he was about to say something as he looked between you and Jongseong, but he let it all go as Isaac continued. “We were just catching up,” he said, recovering with the kind of forced lightness that fooled no one. “Haven’t seen her in ages — since-”

“New Year’s Eve,” you supplied.

You didn’t expect Jongseong to remember.

You had mentioned the night Matthew cheated on you just once — the spout you had released in the middle of the airport’s restaurant with a lot of other information, but his eyes landed on you then, his brow furrowing in a concern that was out of the character he had pulling.

Your hand met his on your waist, and he released the hold just enough so your fingers could weave through his.

“We have just finished dinner” Jongseong started, his tone turned pleasant and conversational once again. “Or else I would invite you both to — catch up, but we had a long trip today and I have to take her back to Seattle, you know? A lot of miles ahead still.”

“Right, love?” The endearment rolled off his tongue like warm honey, sweet and natural and devastatingly convincing.

“Yes, I am quite tired,” you admitted softly, which was true, though not the whole truth. The whole truth was that you just wanted to leave, wanted to escape this increasingly awkward encounter and preserve the perfect evening you had been having, wanted to get away before the duration of their presence could puncture the bubble of happiness you had found yourself in.

Jongseong squeezed your waist reassuringly, his fingers pressing gently against your hip in a way that sent warmth spreading through you, understanding everything you weren’t saying in that uncanny way he seemed to have.

Without another word, he waved politely at the pair with his free hand, wishing a merry Christmas and a safe trip for them before he guided you out of the conversation and down the snow-dusted street, his hand never leaving yours — protective and possessive and perfectly natural all at once.

Jongseong guided you away from them, holding you close against the biting Illinois cold as you retraced your steps through the city and then, further — allowing Chicago’s bustling streets to gradually give way to quieter residential neighborhoods where warm light spilled from curtain windows, highlighting your cold breaths.

It hadn’t snowed while you were at the restaurant, but you had moved so far from downtown that the powder still felt fresh, the sound of your boots crunching against the snow being the only thing mingling through the cold air.

“I am sorry,” you finally said, the words breaking the silence like cracking ice, sharp and sudden in the quiet night. “I didn’t mean to put you into such a strange situation — I just-” You halted, struggling to articulate what you had felt in that moment. “I guess I didn’t want them to think I am still stuck on Matthew.”

“Are you?” he asked. “Stuck on him?”

“No,” you replied. “When I look back now, I wonder why I was still with him.”

Jongseong was quiet for a long while, his thumb tracing slow, absent patterns on the back of your hand as you walked through the snowy streets, the gesture both soothing and distracting. The silence felt contemplative rather than uncomfortable, filled with the soft crunch of snow and the distant sound of the city.

“I just think,” he finally said. “I am more of husband material anyway.”

“What?” you asked, your head snapping up to look at him, trying to read his expression in the shifting shadows cast by the streetlights.

Jongseong was smiling, that lopsided, devastating smile that tugged at the right corner of his mouth and made something within you shift.

You quickly realized he was merely joking around, trying to lighten the heavy mood that had settled over you both. But your mind had already betrayed you, racing back to each and every moment that proved that yes — he was more of a husband material.

“Are you alright?” he asked gently, his smile fading into concern as he noticed how you had gone quiet.

“I guess I just need a drink,” you said.

It had been just an automatic reply, but Jongseong was already looking around — searching the quiet street for whatever establishment could come to supply this sudden need.

❄︎

The jazz bar held no sign outside announcing its presence, no bright neon or wooden placard, no warnings or advertisements — it was just the sultry sound of live music spilling from its open doors.

You stepped in without much fanfare, your fingers still intertwined with Jongseong’s, but the view almost made you laugh out loud — not because it was ridiculous, but because of the sheer, unexpected charm of it all.

A man in his sixties sat at a well-worn piano in the corner of the dimly lit room, his white suit slung carelessly over his shoulders as his fingers danced across the piano keys with the fluid confidence and muscle memory of someone who had been doing exactly this for thirty years or more. Another man — not much younger, with distinguished silver threading liberally through his dark hair — sang nearby into a vintage microphone, his voice rich and smoky like aged whiskey, full of lived experience.

And they would be among the youngest people there aside from you and Jongseong.

Senior citizens spun gracefully across the old wooden floor in pairs, moving with the effortless synchronicity that came only from decades of dancing together, of knowing instinctively exactly how their partner would move, where they would step, how they would turn.

Jongseong turned to look at you questioningly, his eyes searching your face in the low golden light, silently asking if this place was okay.

You didn’t want to shout across the small distance between you, didn’t want to break the spell of the music that wrapped around, so you took a step closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, reaching up on your toes until your lips were near his ear, your breath ghosting across his skin.

“It is okay for me,” you said softly, feeling him shiver slightly at your proximity, “as long as they have alcohol — you?”

Jongseong dropped his head, bringing his mouth close to your ear so you were the one now shivering.

“I love old people,” he said, and it made you laugh, truly laugh. There was wistful Jongseong once again, and you were loving to have him.

The bar itself was tucked against the far wall, a long stretch of dark wood polished smooth by decades of elbows and glasses. It was tended by a woman who looked like she had been standing in that exact spot since the place first opened its doors, she barely looked up as you and Jongseong approached, her weathered hands already reaching for glasses with the practiced efficiency of someone who had mixed thousands of drinks and could do it in her sleep.

“What can I get you?” she asked.

You halted then, not sure of what the options in a place like this were, but Jongseong was fast to help you, ordering a cocktail with strawberry and a whiskey sour for him.

“How do you know?” you asked. “The strawberry thing — how do you know it’s my favorite type of drink?”

“Senior year,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You furrowed your brows at him, your confusion falling heavy into your features, and you waited, waited for the small softness before he finally opened up, but it didn’t come this time, the conversation ending as the woman slid your drink across the bar.

Jongseong reached for his, raising in the unmistakable sign for a toast.

“To cancelled flights,” you said.

“To Chicago,” Jongseong countered warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled, touching his glass to yours with a soft, clear clink that rang out like a bell.

The first drink disappeared faster than it should have, the cocktail spreading warmth through your chest and loosening something that had been wound tight inside you since you had run into Isaac and Andrew on the snowy street as the pianist transitioned seamlessly into something faster, his fingers finding a melody which made the couples on the floor adjust their movements accordingly, swaying close together rather than spinning now, moving as one in the dim light.

“My grandma would love this place,” you said.

“The one who screams about the refrigerator?”

“That one,” you told him. “You should come for Christmas, and see — since you like old people, you know?”

Jongseong laughed at that, that one bright burst before he said that he might. And you ordered another round, and then another after that. The bartender kept them coming without comment or judgment, just a knowing look as she mixed and poured.

“How long have you been together?” she asked, and maybe it had been the previous lie still lingering over your tongue, maybe it had been the alcohol on your head, or the night itself, and the fact that it was true, but you allowed the words to spill then.

“Not long enough.”

Jongseong choked on his breath, but the waitress only smiled, pushing the cups before moving away.

Outside it may be early winter, layers of snow covering the streets, but down here, it was mid-spring, that warm weather where one could tell the harshness has ended and the bright days were surely coming — or maybe that was just everything heating you from the inside out, but you had shrugged off your coat sometime during the third drink, draping it over the back of your chair. Your cheeks felt flushed and hot, and when the sound shifted going into a known song from your grandma’s collection, you laughed, telling this fact to Jongseong.

He gazed at you, and you were not sure what he found there, but it made him stand up, extending his hands at you with a small “come”.

He guided you to the dance floor and you showed him where to put his hand, and how to feel the rhythm in your hips. You showed him how to lead, how to twirl you, and dip — not really sure if you were doing it right because your only teacher and partner had been your grandma, but at some point you started laughing and couldn’t stop, the joy bubbling up from somewhere deep inside, and Jongseong was laughing too, his face open and younger-looking in the dim golden light.

You lost track of how long you danced, how many songs played and blended into each other. The elderly couples gradually filtered out into the snowy night as you were still going back to the bar, a drink for you and water for Jongseong because he was already done with alcohol considering that he had to drive you both back before you were back on the floor, and the room had taken on that pleasant, soft-edged fuzzy quality that came with being just the right amount of drunk, where everything felt warm and possible.

When you reached Jongseong this time, a slower song had begun.

You had been so long on the dance floor that there had been no novelty on allowing Jongseong to guide you, but there was something different about doing it when the night had fallen more slowly.

It felt softer.

He placed your hands on his shoulders, but he didn’t let go easily. You felt his fingertips slowly tracing your pulse before his hands molded to your waist, bringing you closer at the same time he leaned in — just enough to rest his cheek against yours, but every contact was like a static shock, a spark of life where his skin met your skin, and your heart picked up.

“I don’t know how to slow dance,” you said in the rush. “My grandma only taught super fast songs.”

“Neither do I, but we can figure it out.”

And you did — swaying gently in the dim golden light, your bodies moving together in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the music and everything to do with the way you fit against each other, the way his breath ghosted across your temple, the way your hands slid to the back of his neck for support, but your palms fitted so well on the slope curve that you couldn’t help but run your palm over it, fingers curling at his hair and making Jongseong shiver beneath your touch, the soft rustle of his breath hitching against your skin almost imperceptibly.

You were close — too close. Jongseong had to look down to find your gaze, and when he did, you felt his breath against your mouth, the softest gust of warm air against your lips.

The seconds seemed to melt together, and you couldn’t tell how long you had been breathing on each other when his fingers spread at the side of your waist, thumb seizing for your skin as he angled you to him.

You were already warm from the sticky air and dancing, but you could swear you grew even warmer when he closed his eyes and came closer, brushing his nose on yours.

Your every sense was acutely aware of his proximity. You could feel the firmness of his chest pressing against yours, and the steady rhythm of his breath. Jongseong was all around you, all inside of you, the scent of his woody perfume and the whiskey he had been drinking. And you trembled with the thought, a little chill settling through your skin despite the warmth of the place.

But then, he clenched his jaw, brows knitted together as if something was suddenly hurting him, and before you could ask what happened, he moved, abruptly and all at once stepping back.

“You are drunk,” he said. “We should go. It’s already past one, anyway.”

And the moment slipped through — like a dream you wake up too hastily from. By the time his hand reached for you, fingers finding the slots between yours and guiding you back to where you had abandoned your coats, you wondered if you truly almost had kissed him.

Jongseong let go of your hand only so he could help you into your coat, his fingers lingering at your collar as he adjusted it properly, making sure you were covered against the cold, and then you were pushing through the doors and outside in the shocking, breathtaking cold, the dramatic temperature differential making you gasp and stumble.

The walk back to the parking seemed longer than it had before, the streets emptier and more deserted now, the snow deeper where it had continued to fall.

Between one step and another your feet started to feel disconnected from your body — tiredness wearing you out to the core, and you stumbled once on an uneven patch of sidewalk, then twice more, catching yourself on Jongseong’s arm each time.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he said, stopping under the yellow glow of a streetlight. “Come here.”

“What?” you asked, confused as he turned his back to you and crouched down slightly, his shoulders broad and steady.

“Get on,” he said, looking back over his shoulder at you. “You are going to break an ankle like this.”

You shook your head weakly, lips parting on a retort you never managed to give because you stumbled again on nothing at all, and Jongseong just raised one eloquent eyebrow at you in a look that clearly said I told you so.

“Get on,” he repeated.

You hesitated for only a moment, some last shred of concious making you pause, before giving in to the inevitable. You looped your arms around his neck, feeling the soft fabric of his coat collar against your forearms as he hooked his hands securely under your thighs and stood up, lifting you with an ease that made something flutter dangerously in your chest and made you wonder just how strong he actually was. Your chin came to rest on his shoulder, fitting there perfectly, and you could smell that scent that was distinctly, uniquely him — expensive perfume with notes of sandalwood and vanilla, musk, cedar and something warmer, more fundamental underneath that was just Jongseong.

“This is embarrassing,” you said.

“This is practical — better than having to find a hospital at this hour of the night,” he corrected, his breath coming out in white puffs that you could see over his shoulder “and it’s no trouble at all.”

“Liar,” you said, but you were smiling against his shoulder, unable to help it, warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

Chicago passed by around you in a dreamlike blur of streetlights and falling snow, the cold night air slowly sobering you but not enough to make you want to get down and lose this moment.

You hadn’t felt safe in so long that you had forgotten what it was supposed to feel like — not the absence of danger, but this — the presence of someone who would not let you fall. It was the kind of safety that made you aware of every previous moment you had had to hold yourself upright, white-knuckled and alone. The kind that hurt a little. And so, you sank into it — into him, closing your eyes.

“Jongseong?”

“Tell me what it is, Ribbons,” he said softly, and you could hear the smile in his voice, feel it in the way his shoulders shifted.

“Of all the people I could have encountered in that airport,” you whispered. “I am so glad it was you.”

His steps faltered — just for a fraction of a second, barely perceptible — but you felt it in the way his hands tightened on your legs, in the way his breath caught before he released it in a slow, deliberate exhale that ghosted warm against the cold air.

“I am glad too,” he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that hadn’t been there before — something almost raw and unguarded that made your heart skip.

hello, my loves! thank you so much for staying with me for another chapter ♡ i had so much fun writing it, especially the last scenes, so i hope that reading it was as enjoyable :) don’t forget that comments, asks or any type of feedback is more than welcome! i love knowing what you guys are thinking of my stories, so never think twice before reaching out to me!!!

PART ONE｜9.7K｜WARNINGS & CONTENTS (for this part): slow-burnish, inaccuracies to the united states settings, and panic attacks, mentions of a cheating ex, usage of pet names, reader cries a lot, but please, forgive her, she (and i) had a tough year, kinda of yapper broke girl x quiet rich guy type of relationship

PART TWO｜9.4K｜WARNINGS & CONTENTS (for this part): still slow-burnish, more inaccuracies to the united states settings, mentions of alcohol, they fake-date, Jongseong being the most husband material man out there, and slow-dancing with reader (yes, it is a warning and you will understand why)

PART THREE｜7K｜WARNINGS & CONTENTS (for this part): at this point my inaccuracies to the united states should be considered a crime as well as the slow-burn, but hold my hand through this, mentions of alcohol, mentions of a minor character death, i feel like it’s the slower (and angsty) chapter of the miniseries, but it’s important for my boy, Jongseong :(

PART FOUR｜9.2K｜WARNINGS & CONTENTS (for this part): panic attacks, one-bed tropé (we cheer!), smut, dry-humping, nipple play (f. receiving) because yes! they are in their lovers era

PART FIVE｜7K｜WARNINGS & CONTENTS (for this part): mentions of alcohol, smut, fingering and oral (f. receiving), condom removal, shower sex

PART FINAL｜on going｜WARNINGS & CONTENTS (for this part): mentions of alcohol, smut, oral (m. receiving), unprotected sex, accidentally made my boy a sub for a few hot minutes in this one (this chapter contains the dirtiest smut of the series, but anyway, consider it a reward for keeping up with me? and my Christmas present?)