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Satoru scoffs, dropping onto the couch like he owns the room.

“I’m never late. Everyone else is just early.” Suguru turns slightly, just enough to glance at him.

“You kept me waiting.”

Satoru grins.

“Yeah?” he says lazily. “Did you miss me?” Suguru doesn’t smile.

But his gaze lingers.

“You’re irritating,” he replies.

“Mm,” Satoru hums, stretching his arms behind his head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Silence settles, but it’s not empty. It never is with them. Suguru finally moves, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps. He stops in front of Satoru,Too close for anyone else.

Exactly right for them. “Your control is slipping,” Suguru says quietly.

Satoru’s grin sharpens.

“Is it?”

Suguru’s eyes flick briefly toward the faint distortion in the air, the subtle warping of space where Infinity hums just a little louder than necessary. “You’re restless.”

Satoru tilts his head.

“Maybe I’m bored.” Suguru’s gaze drops to Satoru’s wrist, the ink there is dark.

Permanent.

Unmistakable.

Geto Suguru. His own wrist burns faintly in response.

Not pain.

Recognition.

“You don’t get bored,” Suguru says.

Satoru’s expression flickers, just slightly.

Enough for Suguru to notice. “Everything else does,” Satoru corrects.

Suguru reaches out.

His fingers wrap around Satoru’s wrist without hesitation.

Without permission.

He never needs it. The moment skin meets skin that same sharp, electric pulse.

Familiar.

Grounding.

Satoru exhales slowly.

“…There it is.” Suguru’s grip tightens just a fraction.

“You’re drifting again.” Satoru looks up at him through lowered lashes, something unreadable settling behind his usual arrogance.

“And you’re pulling me back?” he asks. Suguru doesn’t let go.

“Someone has to,” he says. Satoru laughs softly, but there’s no real humor in it.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Sounds like you need me.”

Suguru finally meets his gaze fully.

Steady.

Unwavering.

“I do.” The words land heavier than anything else in the room.

Satoru stills.

Just for a second. Then his grin returns, but slower this time. Sharper.

“Good,” he says. Suguru releases his wrist and  the absence lingers.

Like a missing weight. “They’ll start noticing,” Suguru says after a moment. Satoru leans forward slightly.

“Let them.”

“You’re not subtle.” 

“I’m not trying to be. Youn know troubles my middle name”

A pause. Suguru studies him.

Then—

“What did you do this time?”

Satoru’s smile widens.

Too pleased. “Nothing,” he says.

Suguru raises a brow.

“…Yet.”

Suguru exhales quietly, turning away again.

“You’re going to make a mess.” Satoru stands this time.

Steps closer. “I always do.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Satoru adds. “You’ll clean it up anyway.” Suguru glances back over his shoulder.

A small, knowing smile.

“Of course I will.”

Because that’s how it works.

Not balance.

Not equality.

A closed circuit.

One pulls.

One steadies.

Satoru and Suguru were a closed circuit. They had been since the day their skin first brushed in a crowded hallway during their first year the sharp, electric sting on their wrists followed by the black ink of each other's names blooming like a brand. Gojo Satoru on Suguru’s right wrist; Geto Suguru on Satoru’s left. It was a divine decree. They were the strongest, and they belonged to each other.

Until the Tuesday that tasted like copper and betrayal.

Suguru was mid-sentence, reaching for a porcelain teapot, when a sensation like a hot needle dragged across the underside of his left wrist. He hissed, the teapot shattering against the low table.

"Suguru?" Satoru was on his feet instantly, his blindfold pushed up, his Six Eyes scanning the room for a threat that wasn't there. "What happened? An attack?"

Suguru didn't answer. He was staring at his left wrist. Directly opposite the soulmate mark he shared with Satoru, a new line of script was rising through the skin. It wasn't the clean, bold ink of Satoru’s name. This was jagged, weeping a faint, translucent gold the sign of a Second Link. A rarity. A glitch in the universe.

Your name was etching itself into his marrow.

"I didn't touch anyone," Suguru whispered, his face going ghostly pale. "Satoru, I haven't left the room in four hours. I haven't... I don't even know who this is."

The cruelty of a Second Link was the "Passive Contact." Most soulmates required a touch to activate the mark, but for someone as powerful as the Twin Stars of Jujutsu, the universe sometimes skipped the formalities. Somewhere on campus, you had walked past a door he was behind or on a mission. You had breathed the same air. And the tether had snapped shut.

Satoru leaned over, his fingers gripping Suguru’s arm with a strength that would have crushed a normal man. He stared at your name. His jaw tightened, the air in the room beginning to vibrate with the sheer pressure of his Cursed Energy.

"A third," Satoru breathed, his voice devoid of its usual playfulness. It was hollow, dark, and predatory. "Someone thinks they can wedge themselves between us, Suguru."

"I don't even remember seeing them," Suguru said, his thumb brushing over your name. As he touched it, a wave of your emotions flooded him—loneliness, a quiet hunger for coffee, the slight chill of the hallway. It was nauseatingly intimate. "But I can feel them now. They’re... soft."

The atmosphere in the High-Rise suite didn’t just change; it curdled.

Satoru had been watching the gold script etch itself into Suguru’s left wrist with a detached, clinical fascination, a predator watching a new rival enter the territory. But then, the air in the room didn't just vibrate; it shattered. 

Satoru let out a strangled, jagged sound, his right hand flying to his own left wrist, clutching it so hard the skin turned deathly white.

"Satoru?" Suguru’s voice was sharp, his own pain forgotten as he reached out.

Satoru didn’t answer. He ripped his hand away, baring his skin. There, directly parallel to the heavy black ink of Geto Suguru, a new name was burning its way into his flesh. It wasn't gold. For Satoru, the "Limitless" sorcerer, the mark was a violent, electric violet. It thrummed with a frequency that bypassed his Infinity, sinking straight into his nervous system.

Your name. Identical to the one on Suguru but on his right wrist.

The silence that followed was louder than an explosion. They stood in the center of the room, two gods suddenly tethered to a ghost. The "Closed Circuit" had been breached. The perfect binary of their existence had been forced into a trinity, and the sheer need that flooded them was instantaneous and total.

"It’s the same," Satoru whispered, his voice cracking, his Six Eyes dilated until the blue was almost swallowed by black. "Suguru, it’s the same name. They’re ours."

He wasn't just talking about a soulmate. He was talking about a missing piece of a weapon. As the marks finalized, a psychic bridge snapped open. They felt your heartbeat. Something they never even knew was missing.

For Gojo and Geto, the strongest who lived in a world of their own making, the "hole" was the isolation of their own ascension. They had spent years viewing the world from a height where no one else could breathe, mistaking the cold of the summit for a natural state of being. They were two halves of a whole who believed their circle was closed, their stillness absolute.

Then, your name appeared—a third ink-stain on the skin of their wrists, a rhythmic, phantom pulse under their own.

For Gojo, it is the sudden, violent shattering of the "Infinity" he keeps between himself and the world. He has spent his life seeing everything with his Six Eyes but feeling very little. To suddenly feel a third heart beating against his own ribs, someone who isn't Geto, someone he hasn't even fully met, who he doesn’t remember is like the first time he ever felt the bite of a blade. It is a resonance that bypasses his technique entirely. He realizes that for all his godhood, he has been a ghost haunting his own life, waiting for a frequency he didn’t know he was tuned to.

For Geto, it is an even more terrifying revelation. He is a man who swallowed the rot of the world to protect it, thinking his burden was shared only by Satoru. To feel the steady, unknowing pulse of a soulmate is to realize that the room he thought was full of only duty and blood actually had a door he never tried to open. It is the "ancient desire" finally being named: the need not just to be understood by a peer, but to be anchored by a third point, turning their fragile line into a stable foundation.

They look at their wrists, then at each other, and the realization is starving: they have been the strongest duo in history, yet they were both dying of a thirst they only just recognized.

The pain wasn't a pinch. For you, it was an absolute, white-hot evisceration of your senses.

You were tucked away in the back of the library, the quietest corner of Jujutsu High, when your right wrist suddenly felt like it had been dipped in molten lead. A scream died in your throat, stifled by the sudden, overwhelming pressure of two distinct, warring energies slamming into your soul. You clutched your arm, gasping for air as the skin bubbled and wept, the ink forcing its way up from the bone.

When the smoke cleared from your vision, you stared down at your skin in pure, unadulterated horror.

Gojo Satoru. Geto Suguru.

The names were etched in a shimmering, violent violet and a deep, pulsing gold. They sat side-by-side, occupying your skin with a terrifying arrogance. You weren't just a soulmate; you were a bridge. A third point in a triangle that was never meant to have one.

The Instinct to Hide was immediate. 

You didn't feel chosen. You felt scared.

Everyone knew what they were. The Twin Stars. The pinnacle of the sorcery world. They were gods walking among mortals, and you? You were a Grade 4 anomaly, a "Shield" whose only talent was making yourself small and invisible. Your technique, Iron seclusion, allowed you to wrap a force field around your physical form so dense that even Cursed Energy struggled to permeate it. Coupled with your abnormal regenerative healing, you were the perfect survivor, but you were never meant to be a prize.

"No," you whispered, the word trembling in the stagnant library air. "Not them. Anyone but them."

You knew their reputations. Satoru was a void that consumed everything he touched; Suguru was a shadow that swallowed the world whole. To be tied to them wasn't a romance, it was an invitation to be erased.

The memory of your mother’s voice usually feels like a silk ribbon smooth, cooling, and easy to hold. But now, with the names Satoru and Suguru searing into your pulse, her words feel like a cruel irony, a fairy tale told to a child who was never meant to see the monster under the bed.

"A soulmate isn't just a partner, sweetheart," she had said, her fingers tracing the blank, expectant skin of your wrist while you were small. "They are the anchor to your storm. The world is loud and frightening for people like us, but when that name appears, the noise stops. It’s like finally finding the North Star after being lost at sea."

You remember the way she looked at your father a quiet, Grade 3 sorcerer with a softness that made the harshness of their profession disappear.

"It’s unconditional," she whispered, her eyes bright with a certainty you now find terrifying. "They won't just see your strength; they will cherish your shadows. They are the only ones who will truly let you thrive because they are the only ones who will truly know you. It is the greatest blessing the heavens can grant a sorcerer: to never truly be alone again."

In the suffocating silence of the library, you look at the violet and gold script. Her "North Star" was a gentle light; yours are two supernovas that threaten to incinerate everything you are. To your mother, a soulmate was a sanctuary. To you, looking at the names of the two most powerful, volatile men in existence, it feels like a sentence.

The First Pulse

Suddenly, a jolt of pure, manic need surged through your wrist. It wasn't your own. It was a projection a jagged, starving hunger that felt like a cold hand reaching through your chest.

They knew.

The psychic bridge had snapped open the moment the ink dried. They were feeling your heartbeat, your fear, the very scent of the old paper surrounding you. You could feel them, too two massive, celestial bodies suddenly pivoting in your direction, their intent so heavy it felt like the gravity in the library had doubled.

You scrambled to your feet, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You had to go. You had to bury yourself so deep in your own technique that even the Six Eyes couldn't find the shimmer of your soul.

You wrap your fingers around your wrist, activating Iron Seclusion. The barrier snaps into place, a cold, dense weight that mimics the "stillness" you've lived in for years. You try to drown out the sudden, rhythmic double-thrum of their hearts against your own, desperate to believe that if you hide well enough, even the "blessing" of heaven won't be able to find you.

You pushed your Cursed Energy to its limit, pulling the invisible veil of your shield tight against your skin. Usually, your shield was a defensive bubble, but now you collapsed it inward, using it to mask your heat, your scent, and your energy signature. You became a black hole in the sensory world, a static-filled void.

You sprinted for the back exit, avoiding the main halls where the high-ranking students loitered. You didn't have classes with them, you were beneath their notice, a support-track student who spent her days healing minor bruises and reinforcing training barriers. You belonged in the background. You needed to stay in the background.

The library didn't just go quiet, it went dead.

For Satoru and Suguru, the sensation was like being plunged into an abyss. One second, the psychic bridge was a roaring torrent of your fear, your heat, and the frantic rhythm of your heart. It was the most intoxicating thing they had ever felt, a divine frequency that harmonized their own clashing powers.

And then, it was gone.

No heartbeat. No scent. No emotional residue. Even the violet and gold marks on their wrists, which had been glowing with a feverish light, suddenly turned a dull, matte grey. They didn't disappear, the ink was still there, but the life was gone.

"Satoru?" Suguru’s voice was a ragged whisper. He was clutching his left wrist, his breath coming in shallow, panicked hitches. "I can't... I can't feel them."

Satoru was standing in the middle of the hallway, his Six Eyes darting frantically, scanning every atom of the air. 

His Infinity was flickering, reacting to the sudden, violent spike in his blood pressure. "They didn't die," he spat, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and genuine terror. "People don't just die and leave no soul residue. They vanished. They’re still here, Suguru. Somewhere in this building... but they’re gone."

In the basement levels, you were curled into a ball behind a stack of rusted training equipment, your hands clamped over your mouth.

Your ability wasn't just a shield anymore; it was a sarcophagus. You had collapsed the force field so tightly against your skin that it was effectively acting as a second dermis, a layer of "non-existence" that blocked every signal your body produced. No heat signatures for Gojo’s Six Eyes. No cursed energy leaks for Geto’s spirits to track.

But the cost was agonizing.

To keep the Shell up 24/7 meant your Cursed Energy was constantly recycling, a closed loop that left you feeling cold, lightheaded, and perpetually exhausted. Your abnormal healing was the only thing keeping your organs from failing under the pressure of the constant reinforcement.

You just had to make it to graduation.

The campus of Tokyo Jujutsu High had become a graveyard of nerves. Without the stabilizing influence of their soulmate bond, Gojo and Geto hadn't just become restless—they had become volatile. 

The training grounds felt like a pressure cooker on the verge of exploding. The air was thick with Satoru’s unrefined Cursed Energy, snapping like static electricity against the stone. You pressed your back against the cold wood of the pagoda, your iron seclusion vibrating so hard it made your collarbone ache. You were a ghost, a glitch, a nothingness—but seeing them like this, seeing the "protectors" of the school unravel into something so fundamentally cruel, made the papers in your hand feel like a death warrant.

Satoru didn’t look like the untouchable god of Jujutsu High anymore. He looked like a man starving in a room full of plastic fruit. He grabbed the younger student by the collar, hoisting him up until the boy’s toes barely grazed the dirt.

"Think harder," Satoru hissed, his voice low and jagged. "The library. That Tuesday. Who ran? Who left in a hurry? I don't care if they were a Grade 1 or a window washer—who moved like they were terrified of being seen?"

"N-nobody, Gojo-senpai!" the boy stammered, tears tracking through the dust on his cheeks. "It was just the usual crowd... I didn't see anyone run. It was quiet. It was just quiet!"

Satoru’s grip tightened, his knuckles white. "Impossible. Someone walked past us. Someone took the air out of the room and then just... vanished." He dropped the boy, spinning around to face Geto, his movements twitchy and erratic. "Suguru, he’s useless. They're all useless. How can someone be so close I can feel their pulse under my skin one second, and then be absolutely invisible the next?"

Geto didn't offer a comforting word. He didn't even look at Satoru. He was staring at the palm of his left hand, tracing the grey, lifeless name of yours that sat like a scar on his wrist. The refined elegance he usually carried replaced by a cold, predatory stillness.

"Maybe they didn't run," Geto murmured, his voice sounding like a blade sliding over silk. He stepped toward the trembling student, his shadow stretching out like a many-limbed monster. "Maybe they're still here. Watching us. Hiding in plain sight while we rot."

He knelt beside the boy, his hand reaching out to brush a stray tear from the kid's face with a tenderness that was far more terrifying than Satoru’s rage. "Tell me, Kohai... have you noticed anyone lately who seems a bit too quiet? Someone who doesn't talk, doesn't eat, just... exists in the corners?"

"I... I don't know everyone's names, Geto-san," the boy whispered, trembling. "Please, I just want to go to my dorm."

Geto’s expression didn't change, but the air around him darkened. "Go then. But if you remember a face even a blur in the hallway you come to us first. Because if Satoru loses his patience before I find them... there won't be a dorm left for you to return to."

You didn't wait to see the boy scramble away. You turned and moved, a silent shadow within the shadows. Every step felt like walking through deep water; iron seclusion was draining you, pulling from your very life force to keep your presence at zero.

"They're looking for a ghost," you breathed, your lips barely moving behind the veil of your technique. You looked down at your wrist, where the names burned like brands under the heavy bandages. "They can't find what isn't there."

The encounter happens in the open air, where there is nowhere to hide and the sky feels too wide. You are crossing the training grounds, sticking to the shadows of the eaves, when the 

resonance hits so hard it physically staggers you. It’s like a tether snapping taut, pulling your chest toward the center of the courtyard.

They are standing there, the "Twin Stars," looking uncharacteristically frayed. Gojo has his blindfold shoved up, his Six Eyes scanning the air with a frantic, electrified energy. Geto has his hand clamped over his right wrist, his knuckles white, his usual composure replaced by a raw, searching hunger.

You keep your head down, clutching your books to your chest, and try to scuttle past like a ghost. You wrap Iron Seclusion around yourself so tightly it feels like wearing a lead suit, desperate to dampen the "scream" of your soul.

"Hey. You."

Gojo’s voice isn't breezy this time. It’s a command. He’s in front of you in a blink, the space between you warping as he forces the world to bring you closer.

You jump, dropping a notebook. "G-Gojo-senpai! Geto-senpai! I’m so sorry, was I in the way?" You scramble to pick up your things, keeping your marked wrist pressed firmly against your stomach.

"Did you see anyone else come through here?" Geto asks, his voice tight. He’s looking right at you, but he’s looking through you, searching for a "strong" sorcerer, someone who could possibly match the violent power he feels thrumming in his own veins. "Someone... significant?"

"Significant?" You blink, widening your eyes in a mask of dull, Grade 4 confusion. "I—I didn't see anyone. Just the usual cursed spirits near the gate. Is everything okay? You both look... a bit pale."

Gojo leans down, his face inches from yours. He’s trying to read your flow of Cursed Energy, but Iron Seclusion makes you look like a flat, grey stone in a river of light. "My head is ringing," he mutters, more to Geto than to you. "The frequency is right here, Suguru. It’s deafening."

"Maybe it's the heat?" you suggest, your voice small and trembling with perfectly faked intimidation. "The sun is really bright today. I get migraines sometimes too. Should I go get Shoko-san for you?"

Geto sighs, a sound of pure frustration, and rubs his temples. To him, you are just a flickering candle, and he is looking for a second sun. "No. Just go back to class."

"Yes, senpai! Sorry to bother you!"

You bow low and practically bolt, your heart hammering a frantic SOS that you know they can feel, even if they haven't realized yet that the "insignificant" girl is the one holding the other end of the chain.

The Department Head’s office is stifling, smelling of old paper and incense, but to you, it feels like an interrogation room. You keep your right hand buried in the pocket of your blazer, your thumb obsessively rubbing the spot where Satoru and Suguru are etched into your skin.

The Department Head a gray-haired, bureaucratic sorcerer who cared more for quotas than souls—had looked at your transfer papers with a bored flick of his wrist. 

"A transfer?" The official doesn't even look up from the papers. He sounds bored, which is exactly what you want. "To the Kyoto branch? "

“yes," you say, your voice a practiced, dull monotone. "My technique, Iron Seclusion... it’s not suited for the front lines. I’m just a Grade 4. I think I’d be more useful with the logistics team there."

The man sighs, finally marking a thick red line through a document. "The higher-ups don't like moving pieces mid-semester. If you want out of the active rotation, you have to fulfill the minimum requirement for the quarter. Three more missions. Complete them, and I’ll sign the papers."

A surge of pure, unadulterated relief washes over you. You almost want to thank him. 

Three missions. That was it. That was the price of your life.

As you walk out into the hallway, your heart is light for the first time since the names appeared. You’ve done the math. The school is a machine of logic and hierarchy. They would never pair a Grade 4 anomaly with the Special Grade duo. It would be a waste of their time and a death sentence for yours. To the school, you are a pebble; to them, they are the mountain. There is no reason for your orbits to ever cross again.

You check your phone. The notification for your first mission has already arrived.

Location: An abandoned textile factory in the outskirts of Saitama.

Grade: 4 (Low-level fly-heads and lingering shadows).

Assigned Sorcerer: [Name].

You are alone.

A small, giddy laugh bubbles up in your chest. No Gojo. No Geto. Just you, your "useless" shield, and a few weak curses. You can do this. You’ll be invisible, just like you’ve always been. You’ll finish these three jobs, get your transfer, and disappear into a cubicle in Kyoto where the violet and gold on your wrist can stay buried under long sleeves forever.

As you walked back to your dorm to pack your tactical gear for the first solo mission, you looked at the grey, silent marks on your wrist. For the first time, they didn't look like shackles; they looked like a bad dream you were finally waking up from.

"Just three," you whispered, your thumb tracing the edge of the bandage. "They won't even notice I'm gone until the bus crosses the prefectural line."

The mission was a joke. Three minor curses, a few sweeps of your Iron Seclusion to crush them against the concrete, and you were done in thirty minutes flat. You practically floated back to the dorms. One down. Two more, and you’d be a ghost in Kyoto, safe from the two suns that threatened to burn your world down.

The "best feeling ever" was a dangerous drug. You were so buzzed on your own relief that you didn't notice the resonance in your chest smoothing out into a low, contented huma purr that wasn't yours, but theirs.

You stepped into the common room, intent on grabbing a soda and vanishing, when you saw him.

Suguru Geto was draped over a sofa, a book open in his lap, but he wasn't reading. He was people-watching, his dark eyes tracking every student that walked by with a clinical, almost desperate intensity. He looked like a man trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

You stiffened, your "Shield" snapping into place instinctively. You kept your head down, your gait deliberate and heavy, trying to look as "Grade 4" as possible. You steered a wide, awkward arc around the couch, heading for the vending machine.

Don’t look. Don’t breathe. Just stay invisible.

"You're back early."

The voice was like silk sliding over a blade. You froze, your hand halfway to the coin slot. You didn't turn around. Maybe he was talking to someone else.

"The girl with the barrier technique," Geto continued, his voice tilting upward with a hint of genuine curiosity. "I don't think I caught your name the other day."

You slowly turned, your face a mask of wide-eyed, stuttering surprise. "O-Oh! Me? I’m... nobody, really. Just finishing a low-level sweep. I didn't think a Special Grade like you would notice someone like me, Geto-senpai."

Geto closed his book, leaning forward. His right hand—the one with your name—was resting on his knee, his fingers twitching in time with your frantic pulse. He looked at you, really looked at you, and for a second, the "ancient desire" flared in his eyes.

"You're very... contained," he mused, his gaze drifting to your covered wrist. "Most sorcerers leak cursed energy like a sieve. But you? You're like a vault. It’s quiet around you. Almost too quiet."

He stood up, the height difference immediately making the room feel smaller. He took a step toward you, his expression softening into something dangerously observant. "Tell me—did you feel anything strange out there? A change in rhythm? A... pulling sensation?"

You forced a self-deprecating, nervous laugh, the kind that made you look small and slightly pathetic. "Oh, Geto-senpai, I’m actually really embarrassed about it. My Iron Seclusion is... well, it’s a bit of a defect. It’s so thick it basically smothers my own senses. I couldn't feel a 'pull' if it hit me with a truck. I’m basically sensory-deprived whenever I use it."

Geto’s expression flickered—a flash of pity, perhaps, or just the disappointment of another dead end. He sighed, the tension in his shoulders dropping. "I see. A defensive trade-off. That must be frustrating."

"It’s why I’m better suited for paperwork," you chirped, bowing quickly and scurrying away before he could ask anything else. You didn't stop running until you were behind your locked dorm door, clutching your wrist as if the names might leap off your skin.

The next week was blissfully quiet. You stayed under the radar, wore oversized hoodies, and successfully avoided the 'Twin Stars' by memorizing their training schedules. You were a ghost. A phantom. You were winning.

Then, the ping of a new mission notification hit your phone.

Location: Subterranean transit tunnels, Shinjuku.

Grade: 2 (Multiple sightings of high-output territorial curses).

Assigned Sorcerers: [You] & Kento Nanami.

Your heart did a strange little flip. Nanami. He was a Grade 1, stoic, professional, and most importantly not a soulmate. He wasn't one of the 'strongest' who moved like a whirlwind; he was a man who clocked in, did his job with surgical precision, and went home.

"Two out of three," you whispered to the empty room, a giddy smile breaking across your face.

Being paired with Nanami was the ultimate safety net. He was too disciplined to care about your personal life or your 'flow' of energy. He would expect you to put up your shield, stay out of the way, and let him handle the heavy lifting. To him, you would just be a tool, a 'Shield' to protect the perimeter while he worked the (7:3) ratio.

As you packed your gear, you felt a surge of triumphant joy. You were so close to the exit. You were almost to Kyoto. You were almost free.

You didn't realize that your sudden burst of happiness sent a sharp, intoxicating thrum through the bond. Somewhere in the school, Satoru Gojo tilted his head, a blindfolded grin spreading across his face as he felt a wave of "victory" that wasn't his own.

(Let me just say this while your ability blocks most things, a soulmate's bond is strong so without meaning some strong emotions can still filter through to your partners.)

The subterranean transit tunnels were a labyrinth of damp concrete and oppressive shadows. Nanami moved with his usual mechanical efficiency, his blunt blade finding the 7:3 ratio with every strike. You stayed back, your Iron Seclusion acting as a silent, invisible perimeter that kept the smaller, crawling curses from flanking him.

But the report was wrong. This wasn't a Grade 2 nest; it was a breeding ground for a Special Grade fetus that had begun to distort the very space of the tunnels.

A massive, multi-limbed curse surged from the ceiling, its sheer weight slamming into your barrier with the force of a falling skyscraper. The impact vibrated through your bones, the pressure so intense that for one flickering, agonizing second, your concentration snapped.

Iron Seclusion dropped.

It was only for a minute—maybe even less—as you scrambled back, gasping, and forced the barrier to knit itself back together. You felt exposed, naked, like a nerve ending stripped of its skin. You quickly reinforced the shield, the dense, cold energy snapping back into place, burying your presence once more.

It’s fine, you told yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs. I was only "visible" for a second. We’re deep underground. They’re miles away at the school.

You didn't realize that to a Six Eyes user, a second of your unfiltered soul is like a flare gun going off in a pitch-black room.

Up on the surface, in the middle of a bustling Shinjuku street, Satoru stopped mid-sentence. His blindfold didn't hide the way his head snapped toward the subway entrance, his breath hitching as if he’d just been punched. The "ghost" frequency he’d been chasing had finally, violently, become a signal.

Across town, in the quiet of a temple, Suguru dropped his tea. The phantom pulse on his wrist hadn't just thrummed; it had screamed. For that one minute, the hollow space in his chest had been filled with a terrifying, beautiful warmth—and then, just as quickly, it vanished back into the "stillness."

They both moved instantly, driven by a starving instinct they still didn't understand.

Down in the tunnels, Nanami finished off the curse and adjusted his tie, his expression unreadable behind his goggles. "That was a significant lapse," he said, his voice a calm, dry reprimand. "Are you injured?"

"No," you lied, your voice trembling as you clutched your wrist. "Just... lost my footing. I'm fine, Nanami-san. Let's just finish this. Please."

The subway air was thick with the smell of blood and damp concrete as you emerged, ducking your head and letting Nanami lead the way. You kept your jacket sleeves pulled low, your fingers white-knuckled around your wrists. You felt like a radio tower that had briefly broadcasted a signal to the entire world, and now you were desperately trying to cut the power.

Across the city, in a secluded corner of the Tokyo Jujutsu High courtyard, the two strongest sorcerers met. The air around them was electrified, distorted by the sheer output of their frustration.

Satoru was pacing, his blindfold discarded, his Six Eyes glowing with a manic, crystalline light. He looked like a live wire, sparking at the slightest touch. "It was right there, Suguru. For sixty seconds, it wasn't just a hum. It was a scream. It was loud."

Geto was leaning against a stone pillar, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his knuckles bruised from where he’d punched a training dummy into splinters. He wasn't smiling. The "gentle" philosopher was gone, replaced by a man who looked starved.

"I felt it too," Geto said, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "It wasn't a curse, and it wasn't a mistake. It was a soul. Our soul." He looked down at the gold-etched name on his wrist, his thumb tracing the letters with a possessive, aching intensity. "And then it just… went dark. Like someone slammed a door in our faces."

Satoru stopped pacing, turning to face his best friend. The realization hit them both at the same time, a cold, sharp clarity.

"They’re hiding," Satoru breathed, a dark, incredulous laugh bubbling in his throat. "Someone out there belongs to us—the two strongest people on the planet and their first instinct is to bury their presence so deep even I can't track it."

"They don't want to be found," Geto added, his eyes narrowing. The thought didn't just hurt; it offended him. He had spent his life protecting the weak, swallowing rot for a world that didn't love him back, and now the one person meant to be his "anchor" was treating him like a threat. "They’re using a barrier. A dense one. That flicker in the tunnels… they slipped. They lost control for a minute, and now they’ve bolted the door again."

Satoru’s grin turned into something predatory, something ancient. "Let them hide. They can't keep a seal like that up forever. Every time their heart jumps, I feel it. Every time they're scared, I know. We’re going to find our 'Shield,' Suguru. And when we do, I’m going to make sure they never feel the need to close that door again."

Dr. Min shakes her head, smiling apologetically. “You know I always abstain from voting when it comes to my mentees’ papers.” 

“So, what’s going to happen now? Which one of us will be going to the symposium?” you ask, finally managing to gather yourself and speak up. Despite your best efforts, you feel another wave of nausea hit you when Dr. Min glances your way. There’s something about the way she’s so poised and collected that always makes you think she’s silently judging you. 

“That’s what I’ve called you both here for,” she trails off, clapping her hands together. “I’ve decided that, for the first time in this university’s history, we will be sending two representatives to the annual Shakespeare Scholars Research Symposium!” 

Dr. Min pauses, most likely expecting celebratory cheers from the two of you. However, she’s met with stone-cold silence. You and Donghyuck just stand there stiffly, arms hanging limp by your sides and faces scrunched like you just ate the dog food flavored jelly bean from the BeanBoozled game. 

“Don’t get too excited, now,” Dr. Min jokes awkwardly. “Why the doom and gloom?” 

“But…our papers are way too similar. It wouldn’t make sense for both of us to go,” you protest. 

As much as you hate to admit it, you and Donghyuck are often interested in the same topics and themes when it comes to your research papers. This time is also no exception. For this paper, you decided to write about the female empowerment in the classic 1999 romcom 10 Things I Hate About You compared to the original source material, Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. Meanwhile, Donghyuck (because he’s incapable of not riding on your coattails) decided to write about gender identity in the classic 2006 romcom She’s the Man compared to Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. 

“Well, the concepts are certainly similar, but the actual content is different,” Dr. Min replies, “Besides, I think we need more pop culture in academia.” 

When you and Donghyuck fail to respond again, she huffs. “Come on, you guys! I know the two of you are competitive, but it’s a wonderful opportunity. This is going to look amazing on your CV when you apply for the PhD program.” 

The mention of the PhD program makes you and Donghyuck perk up like meerkats, and you know Dr. Min did it on purpose. 

“Thank you so much for the opportunity, Dr. Min. We would be happy to represent the university together,” Donghyuck quickly says, putting on the fakest smile you’ve ever seen. His eyes sparkle in a way that reminds you of those shiny plastic dolls that end up having a demonic spirit in them. Then he looks over at you and beams through grit teeth, “Wouldn’t we?” 

A fake smile of your own slowly spreads across your face like paralyzing venom as you glare at Donghyuck. “Yes, of course.” 

“Good.” Dr. Min nods, satisfied. “I’m glad to see that you two are getting along better. I’ll see you on Friday at the airport, bright and early.” 

You and Donghyuck say your goodbyes to her before marching out of her office like the twins from The Shining. The moment the door closes behind you, the two of you recoil from each other like being within 6 feet of one another will make your skin melt off. You both start speedwalking to the exit of the building at the same pace, completely parallel to each other on opposite sides of the hallway. 

“You are such a two-faced liar,” you hiss in a hushed whisper, “Always making me look like the difficult one while you’re all happy-go-lucky, kumbaya.” 

“Well, if it always looks like it, then maybe it’s the case, don’t you think?” Donghyuck sweetly retorts. 

“Ooh, burn,” you say sarcastically, “Your words might actually have some merit if there wasn’t steam coming off the top of your overinflated, egoistic head. I know you’re just as pissed about this as I am.” 

“Oh, Y/N. You are always so shortsighted,” Donghyuck sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “Don’t you see the bigger picture?

“Oh, this will be good,” you say wryly, crossing your arms and waiting for him to continue. 

“Elementary, my dear Watson―” he starts.

“Doyle never wrote that line―” you quickly interrupt. 

He rolls his eyes. “You don’t deserve to be Watson. You’re Moriarty.” 

“Why do I feel like I have to go through the Labors of Hercules in order for you to get to your point whenever I talk to you?” you demand. 

“As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, this symposium will be a great opportunity to settle this once and for all. You know they always give out a Best Research Paper award at the end. We may have tied today, but our tiebreaker can be that award. Whoever wins gets the recommendation letter from Dr. Min,” Donghyuck smugly explains. 

“You know, maybe there’s not just Helium in that skull of yours,” you smile, “I think that’s a great idea. I suppose a broken clock is right twice a day. ”

“You are so eloquent when it comes to insulting me, yet I don’t see any of that fire in your actual writing?” Donghyuck questions, blinking innocently. 

“Oh, I’ll show you―” 

You’re just about to rattle off another one of your eloquent insults when a loud howl of wind from the outside interrupts you, making the two of you jolt. Just as you reach the doors to the building, you see through the glass that the sky is a smoky, hazy gray. Rain is starting to fall, and it looks like it's about to become a torrential downpour in a little bit. 

You curse under your breath, thinking about your five minute walk to the bus station and whether or not you can beat out the thunderstorm. 

“Well, this certainly has to be a bad omen,” Donghyuck says unhelpfully. 

You jerk your head towards him and jab a finger in his direction. “This isn’t over. I have to catch the bus before I get waterboarded by this rain. I’ll deal with you on Friday. Until then, stay out of my sight.” 

Donghyuck shrugs, fishing out an umbrella from his backpack. Because of course he needs to flaunt the fact that he has an umbrella and you don’t. 

“Sounds good to me,” he replies casually. 

Steeling yourself for the rain and wind to pelt your face, you open the door in one fell swoop and walk outside―except you’re not getting wet because Donghyuck is trailing behind you and holding his umbrella above your head. 

“Uh, why are you following me?” you ask as he moves to walk beside you, even though you know his car is parked in the opposite direction. 

“Curb your main character syndrome, Y/N. I have somewhere to be, and it happens to be in the same direction,” he sighs. 

“Where?” you probe, suspicious. 

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business,” he answers snottily. 

“Then why are you sharing your umbrella with me? Did you get visited by three ghosts on Christmas?” you demand. 

“Is it really sharing if you’re just standing next to me and happen to be in the radius of my umbrella?” he ponders. 

“You’re like a bridge troll that asks people three riddles before letting them pass,” you sigh. 

“Please. As if you could ever solve my riddles.” 

You respond by flipping him off, and he just grins. 

The two of you walk the rest of the way in silence, the sounds of the rain growing heavier and cars speeding by serving as your only background noise. Occasionally, his elbow bumps your arm due to your proximity to each other. The mixture of the thick humidity in the air and the drifting scent of his fabric softener makes your head swim. 

When you make it to the bus station, you don’t say bye to him, nor does he say it to you. Instead, he swiftly turns on his heel and walks back. He doesn’t look back at you either, so your eyes linger on his back for just a tad longer than they should. 

You notice that one of his shoulders is damp, the sleeve of his shirt sticking to his skin, as raindrops roll down his arm. 

Act II) Ooh, see that, there. Who needs affection when I have blind hatred?

Donghyuck is being eerily quiet this morning, and it’s starting to unnerve you. 

He didn’t even jump at the opportunity to compliment Dr. Min’s new haircut (that she got specifically for this conference) the moment she arrived at the airport. When the three of you walked over to the security check line, he just stood there, thumbs tucked underneath the straps of his backpack as he bounced on the balls of his feet. If he heard even a second of the conversation you and Dr. Min were having, he gave no indication of it. 

He’s never this silent unless he’s scheming something. 

At one point, you started eyeing the security cameras nearby to see if you had accidentally gotten yourself on a prank show. As if this was all an elaborate setup by Donghyuck in order to humiliate you, and you weren’t going to the symposium after all. For a brief moment, you imagine Dr. Min also being in on the ruse and laughing with him about how awful your paper was and how funny it is that you actually thought you had a chance. 

Maybe your therapist was right about you having paranoia issues. 

Your delusions begin taking over your mind until you finally can’t take it anymore. Once the two of you get situated on the plane (Dr. Min got put up in first class, and you and Donghyuck were relegated to economy as lowly grad students), you finally ask:

“Okay, what is your problem? You’re acting weird―er than usual.”

Donghyuck is looking straight ahead, peering at the folded tray table on the seat in front of him. It takes him a second to acknowledge your words, turning towards you with a strained smirk. 

“Wow, are you worried about me?” His voice trembles. 

It isn’t until he turns towards you that you finally get a good look at his face. His normally glowing complexion is completely blanched, and his expression is strained, twisted into a grimace. In other words, he looks completely terrified. It scares you a little too. 

“Jesus,” you breathe, leaning in, “now I kind of am. Are you sick?” 

“I guess that’s one way to describe it,” he laughs, closing his eyes and leaning back. “Mentally and physically, yes. But not, like, in a stomach flu kind of way.”

You pause, studying his face. “Are you…afraid of flying?”

He opens one eye and glances over at you. “How much aura would I lose if I said yes?”

You lightly shove his arm. “Be serious. You have no aura anyways.” 

“Ouch. That’s one of the more hurtful things you’ve said to me recently.” 

“Seriously, are you okay?” you ask firmly. 

“Of course,” he replies, inhaling but his breath hitches, “I’ll have to be. This paper isn’t going to present itself.” 

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“What good would that do? Besides look super lame and give you another thing to hold against me,” he jokes. 

You snort. “Why would I hold this against you when I have actual legitimate reasons to find you lame?” 

Donghyuck looks genuinely taken aback, eyes widening like a newborn doe. His voice is quiet and hopeful, almost innocent, when he says, “...Yeah?” 

He sounds so sincere that you feel your face grow warm. “That is so rude. What kind of monster do you think I am? No matter how much I hate you, I’m not such a terrible person that I would make fun of your phobias.” 

He blinks. “No, that’s not what I meant―”

“Whatever. I don’t want you to think I have something over you now, so we’ll make it even,” you announce, “I’ll tell you one of my fears too.” 

“Y/N, you don’t have to―”

“When we were going through security earlier and you were being super quiet, I fully thought you and Dr. Min had planned an elaborate prank on me in which I wasn’t actually going to the symposium and that you were only letting me believe I was when, in fact, my paper was terrible,” you confess, blurting everything out in one breath. 

Donghyuck stares at you, completely bewildered. “So, you think I’m such a monster that I would―” 

“My point being,” you continue, “that I have an irrational fear of being left out. Because I’m not good enough.” 

“Y/N―” 

“But this doesn’t mean that I’m not gonna kick your ass at the symposium. I will be getting that award. Just…sometimes I gaslight myself into thinking the opposite,” you quickly add, realizing that you may have just given away a little too much of yourself. 

That’s the thing with Donghyuck. It’s really easy to forget about everything else when you’re bickering with him. You’ve never had to worry about what to say to him. He’s so smug and annoying and irritating that it makes you feel like you can do anything if it means being able to beat him. 

Maybe that’s why you freaked out so much when he was so quiet this morning. Maybe that’s why you’re telling him this now. 

“You know, you could’ve just said spiders or something,” he finally says after a long pause, a shit-eating grin finding its way to his lips. The color has come back to his face, and he’s got that mischievous spark in his eye again. 

“Firstly, I’m not afraid of spiders. Secondly, you’re an unbelievably huge asshole.” You cross your arms. “I can’t believe―” 

“Y/N.” Donghyuck reaches over and gently tugs on the sleeve of your sweater. His touch makes you fall silent. “I’m only going to say this once. And if you try to bring it up again, I’ll deny it, so listen carefully.”

You roll your eyes, waiting for another terrible joke. 

“Look at me,” he whispers, leaning in to make sure your eyes meet his. His brown eyes are so dark that they almost look black, like pools of obsidian, yet his gaze is so warm and firm as if you were being enveloped by a warm sunrise. The soft expression on his face anchors you to your seat, and you can’t bring yourself to look away despite knowing you probably should. 

“You are brilliant,” he states, as if they’re the truest words in the world. 

His sincerity catches you completely off guard, and your mind goes blank. All you can think about is the way he’s looking at you like he’s never been more sure of anything else. 

The two of you flinch when you hear the roar of the airplane’s engine, indicating that it’s about to take off. Donghyuck clenches his jaw and pulls away, and you can see his entire body tense as he grips the armrest so hard that his knuckles turn white. 

Ripping your eyes off of him, you reach under the seat for your backpack and fish out your AirPods with trembling fingers. You’re still so shaken from earlier that you randomly select a playlist before handing one of the AirPods to Donghyuck. When he raises an eyebrow, you simply reply, “To help you relax.” 

He wordlessly takes it and puts it in his ear, taking in the song. A few more seconds pass by before he, stifling a laugh, asks, “So, your idea of relaxation is playing death metal at full volume?” 

You gasp, looking back down at your phone and realizing you had selected your road rage mix by accident. Too embarrassed to admit it, you reach over to take the AirPod out. “Fine, be ungrateful then. I’ll listen by myself.”

Donghyuck tuts and leans his head away from your hand, nearly hitting it against the window. “Excuse me, I am trying to relax.”

“You’re obnoxious.”

“Can’t hear you over the sounds of my relaxation,” he says in a sing-song voice. 

“Whatever,” you sigh, but you’re fighting a smile.

Throughout the flight, you occasionally sneak glances at Donghyuck, checking to see if he’s uncomfortable. He’s always fast asleep, head leaning against the window and lips slightly parted. To your relief, he looks much more serene than he did at the start. 

He still doesn’t budge when the flight attendant comes around to hand out Biscoff cookies, and you’re tempted to steal his pack for yourself but decide against it. Instead, you begrudgingly put them in his lap. If you were anywhere else, you one-hundred percent would, but it doesn’t feel right this time. 

After scarfing down your cookies, you drift off yourself and don’t wake up until a crackly announcement from the captain that your flight will be landing soon startles you awake. When you look over at Donghyuck, he’s still asleep. Shifting in your seat, you hear plastic crinkling in your lap, and you look down in confusion. 

A pack of Biscoff cookies. 

Taking a shaky deep breath, you lean back against your seat. The two-pack, cinnamon-flavored shortbread cookies sit in your lap like a ticking time bomb. You think about sharing an umbrella under the rain. You think about Donghyuck’s fear of flying. You think about how he thinks you’re brilliant. You think about these damn Biscoff cookies. 

Suddenly, you wish you weren’t sitting arm-to-arm with Donghyuck; you wish he was always a hallway’s distance from you. Because that was the distance that you can think clearly when he’s around you. Because that was the distance before― 

Before. 

Act III) Nonsense! You don't need a man to wear a beautiful dress!

“Somehow, there was a misunderstanding and only a single room was booked for the both of you.”

Well, so much for distance. 

Dr. Min looks like she wants to crawl in a hole. “I am so sorry, you guys. The hotel is used to each university only bringing one student, so they weren’t expecting two. And the hotel is fully booked for the symposium, so they don’t have an extra room.” 

You and Donghyuck exchange defeated glances, too exhausted from the flight (for many reasons) to even react.

“None of the nearby hotels have any available either,” Dr. Min continues, “so, I can’t believe I have to ask this of you guys, but would you mind sharing a room? The room also has a sofa pull-out bed, and maybe you guys can rock-paper-scissors for it.” 

This certainly throws a wrench in your Avoid Lee Donghyuck Like the Plague weekend plans, but Dr. Min looks so stressed that you really don’t want to further complicate things for her. When you look over at Donghyuck (something that you had been explicitly trying not to do), he’s already looking at you, waiting for your answer. 

“It’s fine,” you finally say, sighing, “We’re all grown-ups, after all.” 

Dr. Min turns to Donghyuck, expectant. He just shrugs, replying, “If Y/N’s okay with it.” 

“Great. Thank you guys so much!” Dr. Min exclaims, clapping her hands together before handing you the room key. “You guys can take some time to get some rest and freshen up. Don’t forget we’re going to have dinner with a few of my colleagues tonight too. Meet me here at 7:30 sharp.” 

The two of you say your goodbyes before trudging over to the elevator. You don’t say anything to each other even as you enter your cramped room, equipped with a single queen-sized bed and a sofa pull-out couch that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since the 60s. 

You and Donghyuck just stare in disbelief for a moment before he turns towards you and holds out a fist. “Rock, paper, scissors?”

“Huh?” 

“Rock, paper, scissors!” You don’t even have time to react as Donghyuck starts counting down, lowering his fist on every word. 

Without thinking, you pick scissors, only for him to pick rock. 

“Looks like I get the bed,” he says smugly. 

“You ambushed me. That’s not fair,” you demand, crossing your arms. 

“Two out of three?”

“Rockpaperscissors!” you blurt at the speed of light, trying to catch him off guard. 

This time, he picks scissors while you pick paper. 

“You suck,” you snap, shoving his hand away and stomping towards the pull-out couch before dropping your bag on it. Donghyuck’s laugh rings throughout the room like a bell from behind you. 

This feels more like before―when he pissed you off more than anything. Donghyuck from before was too nice, too soft. It’s actually better that you’re sleeping on the musty pull-out couch; this is more of your dynamic with him. Before he shared his umbrella with you. Before he told you about his fear of flying. Before he called you brilliant. Before you nearly had a panic attack over some Biscoff cookies.

“I’m getting ready first,” you say petulantly. 

“Be my guest,” he replies, raising his hands up like he’s surrendering, “Take as long as you need.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Because of the double standard, of course. Women have to uphold a much higher beauty standard, and there is more societal pressure for them to feel like they have to dress up―” 

“Holy performative male.” You roll your eyes. “Do you cry when you think about women getting their periods, too?” 

“Only when I’m drinking my matcha and reading Sylvia Plath.” He winks. 

After grabbing a change of clothes and your skincare regimen, you promptly push past him and close the bathroom door in his face. 

.

.

.

In the end, it does take you a while to get ready. Between doing your skincare, putting on a full face of makeup, and styling your hair, you made sure to put in extra effort since you could be potentially networking with Dr. Min’s colleagues. You even brought your best evening gown in anticipation. 

When you finally emerge from the bathroom, Donghyuck is sitting on the bed with his laptop, furiously typing away. His eyes briefly glance up at the sound of the door opening and returns to the screen before he does a double take, eyes widening when he finally sees you. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, nodding towards his laptop. 

“Oh.” He stops for a moment. “My presentation notes. For the presentation. Tomorrow.” 

“What a vast vocabulary you have there, English major,” you tease, sitting on the edge of the bed so that you can slip your heels on. “Are you that nervous for tomorrow?” 

Donghyuck laughs, but it’s more like a breathless huff that he releases. “Something like that.” 

“You’re talking in riddles again. Whatever, just hurry up and get ready. We have to be down there in forty minutes,” you say after glancing at your phone. 

Clearing his throat, he gives you a quick two-finger salute before closing his laptop and grabbing his stuff. He stiffly walks around you at an odd angle, as if you had an invisible force field around you, and keeps his eyes straight ahead. 

While Donghyuck is getting ready, you scroll on TikTok, watching meditation videos and tutorials on breathing exercises in order to relax. You so badly want to make a good impression on Dr. Min’s colleagues (and, subsequently, on Dr. Min too) that you’re making yourself nauseous from imagining all the ways things could go wrong. 

You’re in the middle of a third attempt to completely clear your mind for a meditation exercise when Donghyuck steps out of the bathroom. Like the pain he is, he completely destroys any hope of a clear and sound mind as he walks over to you. 

Donghyuck is wearing a navy blue dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and the top two buttons undone, tucked into a pair of black slacks. His hair is lightly gelled, and you hate how effortlessly handsome he is. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, gesturing to your phone that’s still playing a video of a woman sitting cross-legged and telling you to breathe in and out. 

Hurriedly, you lock your phone and put it away in your purse. “Nothing.” 

“Why are you watching meditation videos? Nervous?” 

“Why do you ask if you already know?” you retort. 

“I enjoy the validation,” he replies smoothly, “So, is that a yes?”

“Yes, if you must know, I am nervous. Not all of us are natural-born ass-kissers, you know,” you hiss, “I need to get on their good side. Connections are everything in academia.” 

“Ah, but you don’t need meditation or ass-kissing to make a good impression. You forget the simplest method of all,” he points out. 

“And that is?”

“Being yourself,” he beams. 

“Thanks for the advice, Sesame Street. You think I wouldn’t be doing that if it worked?” you ask wryly. 

“How would you know if you’ve never tried it?” He crosses his arms. 

You stand up, suddenly feeling slightly offended. “What are you implying?” 

“Oh, I think you know.” 

“That is so rich coming from you. You’re the fakest of us all,” you snap, jabbing a finger in his chest. 

“I never said it works for me.” Donghyuck smiles, tilting his head. 

You pause, blinking as your hand falls limply to your side. “What do you mean?” 

“Don’t you know?” 

When you can’t think of a response, he shrugs. “Or maybe you don’t.” 

You watch him walk past you to get the room key from the nightstand, slipping it into his wallet, before grabbing your purse from the bed and handing it to you. “Come on, we’ll be late for dinner.” 

And just like that, dinner is the last thing on your mind. 

.

.

.

“It’s so surreal seeing you two in such fancy clothes. You guys look amazing!” Dr. Min gushes, as the three of you take your seats inside a fancy restaurant whose name you can’t even pronounce. A salad from here probably costs a month’s worth of rent. Luckily, you’re not paying. 

“You look stunning tonight as well, Dr. Min,” Donghyuck instantly responds, turning up his ass-kissing to 100. 

You just sip on your glass of water, trying to distract yourself with a task by picking up and setting down your glass continuously. Eventually, a waiter comes by and dramatically refills your glass without you even asking. You murmur a quick thank you before going right back to your routine. 

“Oh, here they are!” Dr. Min stands up and waves to someone behind you, and you quickly set your water back down. You smooth out the bunched up dress in your lap and tuck your hair behind your ears. As Dr. Min ushers her colleagues over to your table, you feel Donghyuck’s warm hand gently on your knee, stilling your leg that you didn’t even know you were furiously bouncing. 

He doesn’t say a word, only looking at you for a second before pulling away, standing up and plastering on a big grin to greet Dr. Min’s colleagues. Your leg burns like his fingerprints individually branded you. 

Mind whirring, you shakily stand up and hope that your face is doing something similar to a smile. 

“Donghyuck, Y/N, these are my colleagues. This is Dr. Collins and Dr. Gregory,” Dr. Min introduces, gesturing to two middle-aged men in suits who are both wearing glasses. Frankly, they look identical to you, but such is the case with the elites in academia. 

You all say your greetings before sitting down, and thankfully, Dr. Min orders the food for you, rattling off fancy French dishes that you couldn’t even begin to spell. She also orders a few bottles of super expensive wine, though you and Donghyuck choose to abstain. Despite your initial nerves, the dinner isn’t as bad as you thought it’d be. The conversation flows naturally between everyone, and you even get a few laughs from Dr. Collins and Dr. Gregory, which gives you a slight confidence boost. It isn’t until dinner is starting to wind down, and the professors are flushed and slightly slurring that Dr. Gregory turns towards you, saying, “You know, Y/N, you’re such a pretty girl. If only you would smile a bit more. You’d be a real stunner if you smiled more.” 

The pungent scent of wine on his breath wafts over to you as he continues, “Don’t be so uptight, you know?” 

Your entire body freezes, and you suddenly feel sick to your stomach. This isn’t exactly your first time dealing with creepy old men, but you’ve never had to do so with creepy old men that could control your future in your career. Especially not with your mentor’s colleagues―the mentor that you revere and want so desperately to impress.

You feel your face burn with shame and humiliation, as you try to think of something to say that will diffuse the situation but also not offend Dr. Gregory. Dr. Min and Dr. Collins look uncomfortable as well, but they don’t seem like they know what to do either. 

“Oh, lighten up! It was just a joke,” Dr. Gregory finally says after noticing the tense atmosphere, “You young people never have a sense of humor.” 

“Pray tell, what was the joke?” Donghyuck asks, his words dripping with a venomous sweetness. He’s gripping the cloth napkin in his lap with such strength that you think he might rip it. He’s seething with so much rage that you can feel it radiate from his body like heat waves. You’re worried he’s about to jump across the table and attack Dr. Gregory, so you slowly reach under the table and place your hand on top of his. 

It’s not worth it, you want to tell him. 

Without looking at you, Donghyuck releases the napkin and flips your hand with your palm facing upwards before lacing his fingers through yours, keeping your entwined fingers tucked into his lap. He holds your hand tightly but not enough to hurt. Just enough that you know he’s not going to let this slide. 

“Explain the joke,” Donghyuck continues to press, “What’s so fucking funny?” 

Dr. Gregory just stares at him in a drunken daze, and Dr. Min hesitantly glances between the two, finally stammering, “N-Now, that language isn’t appropriate, Donghyuck. However, Dr. Gregory needs to apologize to Y/N, too. Gosh, Dr. Gregory, you always get too drunk for your own good.” 

“You know, Dr. Gregory,” Donghyuck starts, completely ignoring her, “you’d be a real stunner if you went to an AA meeting instead of lurking around at research symposiums and sexually harassing female students.”

“How dare you accuse me of―” Dr. Gregory begins sputtering, face turning even redder. 

“Oh, lighten up! It was just a joke. What, you old perverts don’t have a sense of humor?” Donghyuck raises his voice, so that the surrounding tables can hear him. He stands to his feet, taking you with him, before using his free hand to slam a glass of water in front of Dr. Gregory. He uses so much force that the glass clatters loudly against the wooden table, and water splashes all over the table and Dr. Gregory’s lap. 

“Sober up, you piece of shit. Talk to her like that again, and I’ll make sure you’re drinking your fancy wine through a tube in your neck.” 

Donghyuck drags your chair out of the way, making sure to scrape the metal against the floor so that it makes a screeching noise, and leads you away from the table and out of the restaurant. Against your better judgment, you look back at the table. The three professors just sit there, shoulders slumped, looking smaller and smaller as you walk away. In the past, they stood tall like the highest peak of a mountain that you could never reach. Now, you can’t help but think that they look so…pathetic. 

Donghyuck doesn’t speak to you as you make your way back to the hotel; he just holds your hand like you’ll slip away if he doesn’t. After a few minutes, he takes your intertwined fingers and puts them in his pants pocket. He’s walking so fast that you start to stumble over the uneven pavement in your heels. 

“Wait, Donghyuck―” 

You nearly trip, but he quickly turns around and catches you. His hands are on your waist, warm and firm, as he carefully steadies you. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you say quietly.

Donghyuck takes in a deep breath, his hands linger around your waist as if he was the one being steadied. When he speaks, he unconsciously pulls you in a bit closer. “Yeah, I should’ve done a lot worse.” 

“Come on, you’re a grad student who’s cooped up at home all day writing research papers. You’re not exactly Mike Tyson,” you try to tease. You’ve never seen him this angry before. 

“I could definitely kick his teeth in.” He looks a little too determined for your liking. 

“And then get an assault charge?” You sigh. “I’m not paying your bail.” 

He seems to soften up a bit as he studies your face. His hands flinch at your sides, seemingly realizing that he’s cradling you against him, before he takes a step back. His palms drag against your dress as he lets go of your waist. 

“Are you okay?” Donghyuck doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, as he lifts them back up before putting them back down. 

“Of course.” You give him a halfhearted smile. “Not exactly my first rodeo with this kind of stuff.”

You can see a muscle in his jaw spasm. 

“It was nice seeing you cuss him out though. Took the words right out of my mouth. But, you know, I would probably get called a bitch or something if I said it.” You shrug. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“For what? Misogyny?” You raise an eyebrow. “Are you on your performative male shit again?” 

“Well, anyone who knows me knows that I am a staunch feminist. An ally, if you will.” Donghyuck raises a fist in the air, and you roll your eyes, though you can’t help the chuckle that escapes you. When you meet his gaze again, he hesitantly chews on his lip for a moment before continuing, “But…I’m also sorry that you had to listen to him speak to you like that. I wish there was something I could do that was more productive than kicking his teeth in.”

“Hm,” you hum, tapping your chin, “I suppose I could forgive you if you ordered room service. I’m starving. All that bougie French finger food Dr. Min ordered basically evaporated into thin air the moment I put it in my mouth.” 

You give him a mischievous grin, and the tension visibly leaves his body. 

“Deal.”

.

.

.

That’s how the two of you end up lounging on the bed together, a pepperoni pizza and chicken and waffles feast sprawled out in front of you. One of the television channels is playing a rerun of The Hunger Games: Catching Fire, so you and Donghyuck keep your eyes glued to the screen like children with their iPads. Occasionally, one of you will comment on how much both of you hate Gale and kick your feet when Peeta says his iconic “if it weren’t for the baby” line. 

Once the movie is over and the food is completely cleared out, you both flop onto your backs, feeling like stuffed turkeys with how much you ate. The two of you lay there in content silence for a second before you let out a sigh. 

It was a lot easier to not think about anything when you had all these distractions, but now that the night is winding down, reality is setting in quickly.

“Tomorrow is going to be so awkward,” you groan, covering your face with your hands. “Dr. Min is probably pissed.” 

Donghyuck furrows his eyebrows. “Surely, you don’t mean she would be pissed at us. Not when it was her creepy ass friend’s fault.” 

“Well, we certainly didn’t act very professional either.” 

“Y/N. Look at me, please.” You feel his hands gently swat yours away from your face. 

Begrudgingly, you turn your head towards him. His face is a lot closer than you’re expecting, and your eyes wander as you start to count all of the moles on his smooth skin. Your gaze briefly flickers to his heart-shaped lips before hurriedly traveling back up to his eyes. 

“You are not the one who should be worried about tomorrow,” he states firmly, “Dr. Min is the one in a position of authority. It’s her job to protect you.” 

“I hope that’s the case,” you mutter. 

“It is. She will.” He sounds so sure. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter―” 

“It does.” 

“―I just need to get through this presentation, and I’ll never have to see any of these people ever again.” Truthfully, you probably will since academia circles run small. Donghyuck knows that too. 

“Do you―” He hesitates, scanning your face carefully. “Are you going to file a report against Dr. Gregory?” 

You laugh humorlessly. “Would anyone believe me?” 

“You have three witnesses.”

“That I would be asking to jeopardize their own careers for me,” you point out, “I know we’ve had quite a spirited rivalry, but even I wouldn’t try to sabotage you like this.” 

His expression is twisted into something you can’t quite discern. “What―” 

“I’m not going to file a report,” you state matter-of-factly, “It’s not worth it.” 

Donghyuck goes quiet, clearly trying to collect himself, before whispering hoarsely, “It’s your decision.” 

He stares at you for a very long time when you don’t respond. Without even realizing it, the two of you had turned your bodies toward one another on the bed. Your legs are curled upwards, and if you wanted to, you could shift just slightly and bump his thighs. If you wanted to, you could reach out and brush the stray curl from his eyes. 

“Y/N.” He murmurs your name so softly that you almost don’t hear him. In fact, the syllables blend together almost as if he were sleeptalking. 

“Yeah?” You hold your breath. 

“Whatever happens tomorrow, whatever you decide to do, just know that I’m on your side. Always.” 

You don’t remember what you said back; you don’t even remember what he looked like when he said it, no matter how desperately you try. You almost wonder if it was just a dream. 

All you know is that you wake up wrapped in Lee Donghyuck’s arms the next morning. His bicep is under your neck while his hand is cradling the back of your head. His other arm is slung over your waist, fingers splayed across the small of your back. The hem of your evening gown has ridden up to your thighs, and your bare legs are tangled with his. Your cheek is tucked snugly into the crook of his neck, and every time he exhales, you feel his lips brush the crown of your head. He smells like faded cologne and warm skin.

Sunlight streams into your eyelids when you blearily blink, but you’re so distracted by the peaceful expression on Donghyuck’s face that you barely notice. Without even thinking, you brush the stray curl from his eyes. He slightly stirs at the movement before pulling you in closer, stilling once again after another second. 

Against your better judgment, you lean forward, burrowing your face into his neck and feeling his skin against yours. As you listen to the sound of his breathing, it doesn’t take you long to fall back asleep. 

Act IV) But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all. 

When you wake up, you’re under the covers. Donghyuck is gone. 

Except when you turn to the right, he’s curled up in a cramped fetal position on the pull-out couch with no blanket. His back is facing you, but you can see his shoulders steadily rise up and down.

You’re more impressed by how deeply you were sleeping to not notice him tuck you under the covers and then set up the couch. 

Shit, what if you drooled on him and that’s why he moved? 

Your hand frantically flies to the corner of your mouth, but it’s dry. Almost cracked. Then you realize that you slept in your makeup, and your skin is probably gasping for any sort of hydration. 

Swinging your feet over the side of the bed, you tip-toe your way to the bathroom. Carefully shutting the door behind you, you quickly begin your morning routine of brushing your teeth, washing your face, and taking the hottest shower you can handle. You stand still, letting the scorching water run down your body, as you recall the events from the night before. In the end, not even the scalding temperature can burn away the feeling of being enveloped in Donghyuck’s arms. 

Furiously scrubbing your face, you wish you had just gotten up and moved to the pull-out couch when you woke up the first time. Instead of cuddling Donghyuck like a psycho. He probably felt you clinging to him like a koala and promptly escaped, even though you were the one who lost rock-paper-scissors. 

Better yet, you wish you had never come here in the first place. Maybe then your professional and…personal lives wouldn’t be in complete shambles. 

Eventually, the water starts to run cold, and you have no choice but to step out into the steam-filled bathroom. Your phone chimes on the corner of the sink, and you reach over to check it― 

Your heart is nearly regurgitated out of your mouth. 

It’s a text from Dr. Min inviting you to breakfast. Just you and her. 

.

.

.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me privately.” Dr. Min is nervously wringing her hands as you awkwardly push around the omelette in front of you. 

Honestly, you had contemplated waking Donghyuck up and dragging him down with you, but then you came to your senses. You’re not sure when the switch happened that he’s the first person you turn to for help, and it freaks you out exponentially. Especially when just 48 hours ago, you would’ve rather hacked off your arm than ask him for anything. 

Besides, this is nothing you can’t handle. You’re pretty sure.

“No problem.” You try your best to look cool and composed. 

“I wanted to apologize for Dr. Gregory’s behavior last night. He got way too drunk, and it was completely unacceptable. He also wants to extend his sincerest apologies. I will make sure this never happens again.”

You’re not sure what to say in response. She’s waiting for you expectantly, almost as if she wants you to exonerate her from her guilt. Normally, you would rush to tell her that everything is okay and it’s all in the past now. But the expression on her face reminds you too much of last night, of how small she seemed. 

“Okay.” You nod stiffly. “I appreciate you letting me know.” 

There’s an awkward, drawn out pause between the two of you before Dr. Min clears her throat. “Okay. Good.” 

You start getting up to leave, but you hear a shrill, “Wait!” 

In all your years of knowing her, you’ve never seen Dr. Min look this nervous before. She can barely even maintain eye contact with you as she fidgets with her sleeve. “I, um, need to talk to you about something else. About the symposium.” 

So much has happened that you’ve barely even thought about the symposium. It almost relieves you to hear about something so normal, considering how…not normal everything has been. 

That is, until she says her next words:

“There’s been a bit of a mix-up. Initially, they were planning on having a keynote speaker. However, the speaker ended up canceling, so the schedule was made without his inclusion. The problem now is that the speaker informed us last-minute that he’ll be able to make it after all. So, I’ve been asked by the organizers to cut one of my students from the program, since I was the only one who brought two.” 

You shakily inhale when it dawns on you that this is the real reason she called you down here. That it was always going to be you. The truth of being inferior feels like someone just knocked the wind out of you. You’re struggling to breathe properly, but you will yourself to maintain your composure; you’ll be damned if you have a panic attack in front of Dr. Min. 

But all that goes through your head is not good enough, not good enough, not good enough.

“It’s not because your paper isn’t up to par,” she quickly insists, “in fact, your paper was brilliant―” 

She couldn’t have picked a shittier adjective. That word is another gut punch. 

“―it’s just that Donghyuck is more of what they’re looking for. What they’re expecting.” 

That makes you pause. “What?”

“The judges have their…biases. They’re much more inclined to respond to him,” Dr. Min responds vaguely, almost as if she’s too afraid to say what she really means aloud. 

“Because Donghyuck is a man?” 

“Trust me, as a woman, I understand. It’s ridiculous that academia is still such a deeply patriarchal system. I’m just trying to play by their rules. If Donghyuck gets the Best Research Paper award, it’ll look really good for the university,” she explains as if it’ll all make sense to you now. 

“So, you acknowledge how academia has fostered an incredibly sexist environment, yet you want to continue upholding that culture?” you ask incredulously, “Or is it because you’ve, against all odds, already succeeded in this environment so you don’t want to upset the status quo? You’re willing to close the door behind you if it means that you can retain your position?” 

“I have always championed for more female scholars in our field, Y/N. This is different. It’s beyond that,” she answers defensively. 

“Because your reputation is on the line?” 

Dr. Min purses her lips. “I am doing what is best for our school. I hope you’ll understand that some day. I’m sure Donghyuck will as well.” 

“We’ll see about that.” You clench your jaw. 

“Don’t further complicate things,” she warns, clearly perceiving your words as a threat, “I really am sorry that this happened. I know this would have been a wonderful addition to your CV and your application to the PhD program. I promise I will write you that letter of recommendation if things go smoothly today.” 

You actually laugh at her, a hysterical shriek bubbling in your throat. “You were my hero, you know.” 

Without waiting for her response, you get up from your seat and walk away, never once turning around to look back at her. You’re not sure how you gathered up the strength to return to your room without collapsing once, but you swear you’re going to faint when Donghyuck peeks his head out of the bathroom when he hears you come in. He has a running blowdryer in one hand and a round brush in the other. He looks so happy to see you that you feel nauseous. 

“Hey! I was wondering where you went. For a moment, I thought my snoring scared you off―what’s wrong?” In an instant, he’s set everything down and is making his way over to you. 

You sidestep him before dragging your numb body to the edge of the bed, sitting down with your back turned against him. Squeezing your burning eyes shut, you try to remember the breathing exercises you had been watching the day before. 

“Are you sick?” You hear Donghyuck’s soothing voice in front of you, but you don’t dare look at him. “Do you need anything?” 

You shake your head, feeling a sob rack your body. 

“Please tell me what’s wrong. What can I do? Tell me what to do, Y/N.” He sounds so scared that you know you won’t be able to tell him the truth. You’re not cruel enough to make him throw away this opportunity for you.

“Nothing,” you finally manage to get out. When you open your eyes, he’s kneeling in front of you, desperately scanning your face. What a sight he’s probably getting with all the tears and snot. “I’m not presenting today. There was a scheduling issue, and they had to cut someone from the program.” 

“What? Why would they cut someone when it’s their own fault? And why you?” 

You shrug halfheartedly. “Dr. Min didn’t tell me. Maybe my paper was just not as good as yours.” 

“No,” he responds immediately, “that’s impossible. There had to have been another reason. If anything, Dr. Min should have cut me. I was the one who acted out of line.”

You smile bitterly. “When you do it, you’re a badass. When I do it, I’m a bitch.” 

It was a sentiment you had echoed last night, but you had no idea just how ironic those words would turn out. 

“Then take my place.” Donghyuck says it like it’s the simplest solution in the world. 

“What, no,” you say in bewilderment, “Dr. Min has made it clear that she wants you to present. Besides, your name is on the program.” 

“Fine. I won’t present either.” He crosses his arms and looks away like a child throwing a tantrum.

“Are you insane? What’s the point of all this if neither of us presents?” you demand. 

“I’m not going to do it if you’re not.” 

“Don’t you want the recommendation letter from Dr. Min?”

He stares at you in disbelief. “You think I care about that?” 

“In case you forgot, you’re the one who suggested the competition―” 

“Y/N, that was before―” he pauses, wetting his lips, “before this.” 

Neither of you seem to know what this is. 

“It hasn’t been a competition to me for a while now. The letter, the award, this whole symposium, none of that matters to me. I just care about you.” Donghyuck’s voice breaks slightly. “The only thing I want is you.”

“But you hate me. We’re…sworn enemies.” Your voice is barely a whisper. 

That gets a chuckle out of him. “Maybe, initially. Maybe I didn’t like how much smarter you were than me. Maybe I didn’t enjoy the way you would always rip me a new one during class discussions. But―no matter how much I fought it, I started looking for you in every room I stepped into and only cared about what you had to say. I told myself a million different reasons for why I was acting the way I was. I thought whatever was forming was loathing, that you were just someone that I needed to prove I was better than. I convinced myself that I needed to tease and annoy you in any possible way because it was a tactic to gain the upperhand. When in reality, I was just doing whatever I could to get your attention. I suggested the competition because I would finally stop thinking about you if we settled our rivalry once and for all. But, Y/N―”

Donghyuck gently reaches up and cups your cheek with his hand, running his thumb along your cheekbone. You subconsciously lean into his touch, eyes fluttering. 

“Y/N, the award has always been yours. You’ve won from the very start, and I never stood a chance. I’m not doing this without you.” 

The boy you’ve spent your entire college career trying to outshine looks at you like you’re his North Star. 

Your fingers slide up his forearm before gently closing around his wrist, cradling his hand against your face. Tilting your head downwards so that you’re level with his kneeling position, you place your forehead against his. Donghyuck lets out a soft gasp like you just sent an electric shock through his body. 

“You have to do it. Something good has to come out of this shitshow,” you insist firmly.

He tries to pull away to protest. “No―” 

“You said you’d be on my side.”

He looks at you like you’ve physically hurt him.  

“Okay.” He finally relents, slumping his shoulders. “Okay, I’ll do it.” 

You surge forward, wrapping your arms around him. Donghyuck catches you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, burying his face in your neck and holding you like he exists only to do so. He holds you so lovingly that you almost break and tell him the truth. 

But you don’t. 

Instead, you let him go and tell him to hurry up and get ready. You don’t miss the way his gaze lingers on you even as he walks away. 

When the two of you finally make your way down to the conference room where the symposium is being held, Dr. Min is already waiting. You slightly flinch when you see her, and to your dismay, Donghyuck seems to notice. He gives you a quizzical glance before looking at Dr. Min, gauging her facial expression. Dr. Min, on the other hand, pretends like nothing happened, and it scares you how good she is at it. 

“There you guys are! Come on, Donghyuck is up first.” She ushers you both behind a makeshift stage that they’ve set up. “Okay, make sure to take a few deep breaths. Don’t bury your nose in your notes. Make sure to make eye contact with the audience.” 

Donghyuck isn’t paying attention to her whatsoever. Instead, he’s peering around the stage, clearly up to something. You don’t even have time to ask him what he’s planning before the announcer calls his name. 

Suddenly, Donghyuck doubles over, clutching his stomach in pain. “Owww!” 

He drags the last syllable, getting progressively louder the longer he holds the word. Both you and Dr. Min slightly jump at the volume of his voice. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks frantically. 

“Oh, my stomach is killing me,” he moans dramatically, “I think it might be the shitty French food we ate last night. Oh, I’m going to throw up.” 

He makes dry heaving noises, and Dr. Min takes a step back. “Um, okay. Let’s get you to a bathroom.” 

“What about the presentation?” he asks in between vomiting sounds. 

“You can’t present if you’re sick. We’ll―” 

“Oh, I have a wonderful idea.” He claps his hands together. “How about Y/N presents in my place?” 

You should’ve known Donghyuck would have something up his sleeve. 

“And look! A copy of Y/N’s paper magically showed up, so she’s all set! Wow, Shakespeare must be in the building with us on this beautiful afternoon.” He whips out the folded pieces of paper in his back pocket that you had thought was his paper. When he notices your death glare, he places the back of his hand on his forehead. “Oh, I feel so sick…” 

“Lee Donghyuck, I’m going to kill―” 

“We don’t have time for this,” Dr. Min snaps, snatching the paper from Donghyuck and shoving it into your arms. “I don’t know how you two planned this, but I’ll deal with you afterwards. Just go and present.” 

“But I―”

Dr. Min grabs your shoulders and essentially manhandles you onto the stage. You stumble out in front of a giant crowd full of confused scholars who definitely just heard all the ruckus Donghyuck made. Awkwardly shuffling over to the podium, you clear your throat into the mic by accident, causing a piercing feedback noise. 

“Oh, uh, sorry about that. I’m not Lee Donghyuck. He had…other issues to deal with. My name is Y/N, and I’m here to present on―”

You pause for a moment when you look down at your paper. Written in red ink are loopy, sprawling letters at the top of the page that read: 

You are the badass. 

Looking back up at the expectant crowd, you take the pages of your paper and rip them in half, the sounds of paper tearing echoing throughout the room.

“I originally planned on presenting about female empowerment in the 1999 film 10 Things I Hate About You compared to the source material, The Taming of the Shrew. However, I cannot, in good faith, speak on this topic without first recounting my own experiences this past weekend. Isn’t it a Shakespearean twist that all we do is sit around and discuss political and sociological issues being acknowledged in works of literature yet we can’t recognize those same problems in our own field? I hope my words force us to acknowledge our own internalized biases.” 

.

.

.

In the end, you don’t receive the Best Research Paper award. 

In fact, security escorts you out of the conference room shortly after you finish speaking. 

You’re not sure what the repercussions of what you just did are going to be, but you can’t find it in you to care. When you’re deposited in the hotel lobby, Donghyuck is already waiting for you. 

“How’s your stomach?” you ask sarcastically. 

He just shakes his head and chuckles incredulously. “You always find a way to one-up me.” 

“So, you’re admitting defeat?” You close the distance between the two of you, stepping so close that your chests nearly touch. 

Donghyuck swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Y/N, I―”

You throw your arms around his neck and bring him down to press your lips against his. He snakes an arm around your waist and lifts you up, pulling you tightly against him. He kisses you like he’s on his dying breath, and he holds you like you’re everything he ever dreamed of. For the first time in your life, you know you are. 

“Complete and utter defeat,” he whispers against your lips. 

Academic validation and beating Lee Donghyuck are your only motivations in life. You end up achieving only one of the two.

.

.

.

It isn’t until when you get back from the symposium the next week that you discover multiple sexual harassment claims were filed against Dr. Gregory after your speech and he was fired by the university. Additionally, Dr. Min was put on administrative leave for allegations of discrimination and abuse of power. She apparently is also being investigated separately by the organizers of the symposium for attempted bribery of the judges by not disclosing the fact that she habitually took them to dinner (who were actually Dr. Collins and Dr. Gregory). 

“Now, that’s some Shakespearean karma.” Donghyuck winks when he shows you the news article. 

“I guess we’re not getting those recommendation letters.” You sigh. 

He throws his head back and laughs. 

Seungcheol holds it open for you, only entering when he sees that you’re safely inside. You don’t know if you’re happy at the gentlemanly act or horrified at the idea of walking in like a lamb for slaughter.

“Will you be able to attend the meeting with the wedding coordinator next week?” Comes your question when the silence becomes unbearable. It’s a shy attempt at small talk that seems wholly unnecessary considering the fact that Seungcheol didn’t seem all too interested in whatever you had to say.

Ouch.

“I might not be able to attend the one on Monday,” Seungcheol informs you, polite and composed. “I’m still in Paris by then, but I can make it to the meeting on Thursday.”

“Oh? What are you doing in Paris?” You ask in an attempt to get the conversation going. This was, after all, the longest conversation you’ve ever had with Seungcheol, and you weren’t about to let go of that opportunity. “There’s a really nice chocolaterie there. If you have time, you should drop by.”

Seungcheol smiles politely at your suggestion, but his eyes are trained onto the decreasing numbers on the wall of the elevator. “I need to meet someone there, but I’ll try to drop by.”

“A friend?” You suggest thoughtlessly.

“No,” Seungcheol shakes his head and pauses for a few seconds, uncertainty marring the polite facade on his face. “A lover.”

You can’t help the way your mouth falls open. A lover?

Choi Seungcheol had answered you in such a forward manner that you didn’t even know what to feel. Were you sad at the idea that your first love was in love with someone else? Yes. Were you confused that he was being so normal about it? Also yes. Were you jealous? Yes, but did you really have the right at this point in time? The most you were allowed to feel was offended, but you were too shocked at his bluntness to even feel that.

Seungcheol, taking notice of your reaction, is quick to speak again. “Don’t worry, I’m only going there to sort things with her. I know how much the marriage means to our families.”

Your conscience suddenly gnaws at you. If you had known that Seungcheol was already taken, you wouldn’t have agreed so enthusiastically to your mother’s offer. “Seungcheol we can still go back and decline–”

The elevator dings and the doors open. Seungcheol motions for you to exit, holding a hand out to keep the elevator from shutting. You exit and watch as he follows.

“There’s no need,” Seungcheol smiles at you, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You and I both know that we don’t really have a choice.”

Seungcheol is right, but it does nothing to tame the guilt that’s ripping your insides into shreds.

When you reach your car, Seungcheol is quick to open the door for you, and had you not just had the most depressing conversation, you would’ve been giddy and over the moon at his thoughtful gesture.

“Drive safe,” Seungcheol smiles.

There’s only a single thought in your head as you drive home that afternoon:

What have you done?

–

Upon hearing the news that Seungcheol had a lover hidden from his family somewhere in Paris, the guilt had consumed you so greatly that you spent the entire night tossing and turning and wondering how you could keep the wedding from happening. 

For your first attempt, you tried to suggest that maybe there were other men that would be a better match for you. That idea was quickly shut down by your mother who had mentioned your feelings for Seungcheo, and she had proceeded to state just how wonderful of a match the two of you would be. Clearly, that first attempt was a failure.

For your second attempt, you told your father that maybe you weren’t ready for marriage, told him that maybe it was too early. Your father, ever the quick-witted man, brings up memories from your childhood where you pretended to be a bride at the cost of your mother’s closet full of designer. To seal the deal, he mentions that he and your mother were never truly prepared, but somehow they made it work. You wanted to argue that your lonely childhood would beg to differ, but you keep your mouth shut in favor of peace.

For your last attempt, you say no. No, you wouldn’t be marrying Seungcheol. No, you wouldn’t be giving up your freedom. You had pulled every single theatrical stunt you could to convince your parents, but neither of them were moved. In fact, you think they looked a little frustrated.

There was only so much you could do without revealing the truth, so in the end, the wedding pushes through.

You tried, you really did.

Seungcheol stands at the end of the aisle, tux crisp, hair styled, and smile picture-perfect. It has the butterflies in your stomach violently flapping their wings as you move closer and closer. If you hadn’t known the truth—if Seungcheol didn’t have some odd moral code that forced him to tell you that truth—then you think you would have considered this the happiest day in your otherwise tragic life. 

The last thing you wanted was to end up like your parents who were forced into a marriage despite their incompatibilities. While they could have sorted their issues with a little communication and compromise, the two were so stubborn that you ended up paying the price for their dysfunction. There wasn’t a single memory in your childhood that wasn’t filled with heated screams and cold shoulders. You sincerely hoped that Seungcheol and you wouldn’t end up like that, but it honestly seemed like the two of you were doomed from the start. You wouldn’t blame Seungcheol if he resented you for ripping him away from the love of his life.

But it’s difficult to let go of the hope that maybe the two of you could work out when Seungcheol smiles at you like that.

When Seungcheol takes your hand and guides you up the steps with the most dashing smile, you make a promise to yourself: You’re going to make this marriage work. You’re not going to repeat your parents’ mistakes. Seungcheol may not love you now, but you were going to try your best to make this marriage easy on him. It was going to be so easy that he’ll have no choice but to fall in love with you.

You weren’t going to give yourself any other choice.

–

You deserved better.

It’s the only thing running through Seungcheol’s head as he takes your hand, careful to keep his grip in check lest you break like glass underneath his touch. You’re beautiful, breathtakingly so, and from the few interactions Seungcheol has had with you, he has a feeling your personality is just as pleasant. It makes him feel like an asshole, an absolute bastard for being in love with someone else. You were the kind of person that had to be loved with a whole heart, and that wasn’t something Seungcheol could offer anytime soon.

Seungcheol’s heart was stowed away in a little café in Paris, in the clutches of a woman who now probably despised his entire existence. 

He could lie to you, he thinks as he watches you shyly steal glances at him from underneath your veil. Seungcheol could tell you he had miraculously moved on overnight and that he had fallen in love with you, just to spare your feelings, but he refuses to. Seungcheol doesn’t lie to the people who are important to him, and as someone who was about to become the woman he would spend the rest of his life with, you were the last person Choi Seungcheol would ever lie to…

Even if telling you the truth would only hurt you.

“You may now kiss the bride,” comes the officiant’s voice, and Seungcheol has to resist letting out a chuckle at the way your eyes go wide and your shoulders jolt. It’s imperceptible to the crowd, but Seungcheol has a front row seat to the way you look so nervous.

It’s when Seungcheol lifts your veil that he’s struck by reality all at once, his breath stolen by the metaphorical weight that’s crashing onto him with no mercy. With the veil out of the way, Seungcheol can no longer pretend that he’s getting married to the love of his life. Your features are clear as day, and though beautiful, are nothing like the ones he’s fallen in love with.

It felt wrong to kiss you with the thought of another woman lingering in his mind, but Seungcheol refuses to embarrass you and your families during an event that had the nation’s eyes on it.

With as much tenderness as he can muster, Seungcheol cups your cheeks and presses his lips against yours in a soft kiss that holds no love, warmth, or affection.

...while I do not love her, I am doing this out of respect for the fact that she will be my wife.

Seungcheol's own words in the letter addressed to his ex haunts him, a grim reminder of what he’s lost and what he’s doing it all for.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur, and the next thing Seungcheol knows he’s lying on your marital bed, freshly showered and absolutely exhausted from the day. He shuts his eyes for a second, lost in the softness of the sheets underneath him. Faintly, he can hear the sound of the hairdryer, a steady white noise that lulls him to a half-asleep state that he only snaps out of when the door to the bathroom opens with a light whoosh and shuts again with a soft click.

Even from his spot on the bed, Seungcheol can already get a soft whiff of your scent. It’s sweet, he thinks, it matches you.

“Seungcheol,” comes your soft voice, and Seungcheol is quick to sit up and give you his full attention.

“Yes?” He asks, watching as you sit on the space beside him on the bed. He notes your distance, notes how it was almost as if there was a boundary on the sheets that Seungcheol was unable to see.

“I want this to work,” You look a little uncertain, but your voice does not waver. “I know we aren’t in the best of circumstances, but I want us to get along.”

Seungcheol lips pull into a frown. Was he not being courteous enough? What could have given you the idea that the two of you wouldn’t get along? Sure, Seungcheol just had to let go of the only woman he ever truly loved to get married to you, but it’s not like you were at fault for that. It would be childish to blame you.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Seungcheol replies as his fingers twitch at his sides, itching to reach out to smooth the crease between your brows. However, he holds himself back. Touching you like that felt too… Close. It felt a little like betrayal. “I’m sorry if it seemed like I dislike you, but I’m really not blaming you for any of this. Believe me.”

“I know,” You smile at him, and that somewhat eases Seungcheol. “You don’t seem like the type of person to lie, but I just want to make sure.”

Seungcheol feels like there’s something deeper to your words, but he doesn’t pry. The two of you weren’t close enough for that. 

You’re biting on your lip, fingers fiddling with the hem of your pants, and Seungcheol’s almost about to ask you what’s wrong, but you speak before he gets the chance, “Can I make a request, then?”

“Go ahead,” Seungcheol nods, fully turning his body to mirror you, legs crossed underneath him. 

“Well, I have three requests, actually,” You look a little embarrassed as you say it. “You can tell me if it’s too much.”

Once you finish listing your requests, Seungcheol immediately agrees. Your requests were nothing, Seungcheol thinks, and honestly speaking, he wonders what prompted you to even request those things when they seemed like a given.

What made you think that any of it would be too much?

He does not love you, but some part of him wished he did, if only to soothe whatever ache made you like this.

You really did deserve better.

—

Choi Seungcheol is a diligent man.

It’s something you conclude five months into the marriage when you realize that he has never failed to grant your requests.

“My first request is that we should eat dinner together. You can eat every other meal outside, but I would like to eat dinner together, as much as possible.”

As a young child, you had grown up eating alone while one of the maids watched over you from a distance. Every once in a while, your mom or dad would drop by to greet you, but neither of them lingered too long, and they never did it together lest it led to another argument. Some part of you believed that some of their fights could’ve been fixed through a conversation over a warm meal, but you never really voiced it out.

You think that’s why that became your first request.

You’re not a good cook, and it’s something many people around you can attest to. You can do enough to get by, but you had been so used to having other people cook for you that you’ve failed to cultivate any skill whatsoever in the kitchen.

Clearly, cooking dinner for Seungcheol was a terrible idea, but you had to try.

The tonkatsu is half burnt, and in an effort to soothe your nerves, you flip it around to show the more palatable portion. They say that the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but you think that your cooking may just very well be Seungcheol’s quickest way to the grave, or at the very least, an upset stomach.

Maybe you should just ask Chef Wen to cook for tonight again—

“I’m home,” comes Seungcheol’s faint voice from the entrance of your home, and immediately, you place the plates onto the dinner table and wipe the sweat on your hand onto the apron you were wearing.

You were left with no other choice but to commit.

“You’re home early,” You greet Seungcheol who somehow found his way to the kitchen.

“It smells nice,” Seungcheol comments, walking in sniffing the air. When his eyes land on the table, his eyes are quick to light up. “Is that tonkatsu?”

He was about to be severely disappointed, and you don’t think you can stomach it. “An attempt…”

Seungcheol smiles at you, “It looks like a successful attempt. Did you make it?”

“Yes,” You reply, a little shy under his gaze. Could anyone blame you? Seungcheol’s dimples were practically winking at you! “It’s a little burnt, though, so don’t expect too much.”

Seungcheol takes a seat, and you do the same, eyes locked onto each of his moves as he grabs a piece. Your heart is pounding like a drum as you watch Seungcheol chew. 

He flinches for a second, and you feel like you could pass out right on the spot.

“It’s good,” Seungcheol’s smile is pained as he gives you a thumbs up. 

“Since when did you lie?” You huff out with a pout, feeling a little dejected. Was the tonkatsu so bad that he felt the need to lie to spare your feelings? You think it’s such an odd way of prioritizing things if that’s the case. “It’s clearly burnt.”

“It is,” Seungcheol nods in agreement as he gets another piece of tonkatsu. He was going to give himself a stomach ache if he kept this up. “But I’m not lying when I say that it’s good…”

“My wife took the time to cook it,” Seungcheol places a piece of tonkatsu on your plate—one of the less burnt ones, you note. “That makes it good.”

Screw you and your flowery words, Choi Seungcheol.

“My second request is that we should never sleep in separate rooms. Not for a long time, at least. Once or twice every once in a while is okay, but doing that for weeks… Well, I prefer we don’t do that.”

At first, your mother and father slept in separate rooms whenever they would fight. It was one of the ways you could tell that a major conflict had happened. Eventually, sleeping in separate rooms became their normal routine, and with the freedom to ignore their problems until it built up, the start of that normal routine inadvertently became the catalyst for the crumbling of their marriage.

It’s why you requested it despite the fact that you were technically sleeping next to someone who was an acquaintance at best. 

Seungcheol slept really well, but you’ve come to realize that he needed to cling on to something before he was actually able to sleep. It didn’t matter if it was a pillow or a person, as long as he could wrap it in his arm and throw a leg over it, it was more than enough.

There are nights where you childishly wish that it had been you in that pillow’s place, safely tucked under Seungcheol’s weight with his buff arms caged around you, but you know it would be too intimate to ask of Seungcheol. You weren’t that close yet. You don’t think you’ll ever get that close at the rate the two of you were going.

Or so you thought.

The first thing you notice when you slip into consciousness is the fact that your back is uncharacteristically warm. The second thing you notice is the arm around your waist and the legs tangled with yours.

A little horrified and already imagining the worst case scenario (a thief sneaking into your bed and cuddling (?) you) you slowly turn your head backwards to investigate only to be met with the sight of—

Choi Seungcheol?

Before you can even process it, Seungcheol’s eyes are already opening and staring straight into yours.

With the most absolutely unbothered, breathtaking smile, he speaks in a low, raspy voice, “Good morning.”

Holyshityouthinkyourpantiesarewet

“Good morning,” You whisper out in reply. Honestly, you’re still trying to process the fact that your fantasy of becoming a stand-in for Seungcheol’s pillow was granted, but if he was going to be completely nonchalant about it, then why shouldn’t you? “Did you sleep well?”

“Mhm,” Seungcheol hums before stretching with a groan, and the arm on you is lifted momentarily before it quickly returns back to your waist like it was magnetized. “Slept better than usual, really.”

“I assume you’re going to keep doing this then?” You’re trying to be nonchalant about it, you really are, but the implication of Seungcheol’s words have you wanting to kick your feet and scream into your pillow like a schoolgirl with a crush. 

“I will,” Seungcheol replies coolly before he suddenly gives you an uncertain look. “Unless you’re uncomfortable—“

You’re quick to put Seungcheol’s retreating arms back to what you now deem their rightful place. With the most unbothered tone you can muster, you reply, “I don’t mind.”

Seungcheol never sleeps with an extra pillow after that.

“My last request is that we have to talk to each other if there’s a problem. No matter how big or small it is.”

That request, you have yet to see fulfilled because surprisingly, married life with Choi Seungcheol was generally problem-free.

Except for the biggest problem of all. The one problem that neither of you would be able to solve even with all the communication in the world. The fact that Choi Seungcheol, despite his affectionate actions, was still in love with the woman from Paris. You see traces of her, even when you don’t look for it, even when you want to be blind to it.

It’s Sunday morning when you’re brutally reminded of the fact that despite living in his house, sharing his bed, and receiving his vows, you were the homewrecker.

After failing in your attempt to cook for Seungcheol, you decided to take a different approach: baking. The idea had struck you after you spotted a baking cookbook in Seungcheol’s living room, a fancy looking thing that had all the recipes written in a pretty cursive that you’re sure does not belong to Seungcheol. Briefly, you wonder if it belonged to his mother. You’d have to be careful with it, just in case.

You’re in the middle of whisking eggs when Seungcheol walks into the kitchen.

“What are you making?” Seungcheol asks, sliding into one of the seats before he rests his elbows on the kitchen island.

“Meringue,” You answer, hand still whisking away despite the burn in your forearms. No one told you that making this was akin to an arm workout. “Wanna try whisking this?”

You were honestly a little tired of beating the eggs, and you really didn’t mind if Seungcheol offered you an escape from it. For a second, you think you should’ve used the mixer instead of arrogantly pushing your agenda of doing everything manually to make it more special.

“I might ruin it.” Despite the hesitance in Seungcheol’s words, he takes the bowl and the whisk from you. “I don’t really bake.”

“Oh? Then who uses this?” You hold up the handwritten baking cookbook you found in the living room. 

The clinking of the whisk pauses as Seungcheol’s eyes land on the cookbook. You can see the way his eyes glaze, like he’s seeing right through you and the cookbook. For a second, he hesitates.

“It’s Sohee’s,” comes Seungcheol’s soft answer, and you can’t help but feel like you’ve touched upon something you shouldn’t have. “My ex.”

Ah. 

So that’s her name.

You can’t help it, the way your face quickly drops at the reminder that before you, there was her, and that without you, it would’ve been her. Seungcheol continues to whisk away, but you wonder if the same thoughts are running through his head. Did he wish it was her standing in front of him instead?

You wouldn’t blame him, if he did.

Hearing her name out loud somehow solidified her existence. Prior to this, she had been an idea, a construct, a memory you could brush off, but now? She’s real now. The cookbook in your hand is proof of her existence and evidence of your crime.

“What’s she like?” You can’t help but ask. You were already hurting to the point of numbness, anyway. What difference would it make if you drove the knife a little deeper? 

And Choi Seungcheol…

Choi Seungcheol never lies, and he never withholds the truth from those with the courage to ask.

(Was it courage on your end?)

“Strong, kind,” Seungcheol breathes it out in a way akin to reverence, his words laced with an affection foreign to you. “She’s very beautiful, but… It’s the last thing you’ll notice with her when she has so much to offer.”

And somehow that made it worse.

The universe is mocking you, and Seungcheol is its unknowing vessel. 

You came from a family that gained their wealth from exploiting the vanity of people. Beauty was the only thing that mattered in your shallow, perfectly curated circle. After all, a personality cannot impress with a single glance, but an ugly face can destroy an impression for life. Your mother made sure that you took care of your looks, the one thing she actually praises you for.

Maybe that’s why it stung to hear that Sohee’s beauty was the least interesting thing about her. 

“Is she doing well?” You ask. It’s a question bearing a high risk and a high reward, and the outcome all depends on Seungcheol’s answer. You hope you get the reward. If only to mend the rip in your heart and dampen the hit to your ego.

“I don’t know,” Seungcheol’s face turns grim as he answers. “I cut all ties with her before the wedding.”

You got the reward.

But why did it feel like you still lost?

—

You made Choi Seungcheol feel things.

He didn’t know what things, but he felt them.

It’s not love, if anyone was going to ask. He knew what love felt like. It was calm, slow, and comfortable. Not that he was an expert on love, but that’s what he felt with Sohee. So surely, that must be it?

Yes, it must be.

With you… It was the opposite. There was nothing calm, slow, and comfortable about the way Seungcheol felt around you. So if that was the case, did Seungcheol hate you? He knew what hatred felt like, and that’s definitely not what he felt for you.

Seungcheol doesn’t feel calm around you. In fact, it’s his first instinct to freeze whenever you walk into a room. He’s paralyzed by the multiple thoughts that run through his head at the sight of you. What should he do? What should he say? Did he brush his teeth? Did you just laugh at his joke? What did he say? Should he try to be funnier next time? When is the next time—

You get the point.

While it’s gotten better over the past few months, Seungcheol still has constant racing thoughts around you. Sure, he was married to you, but part of him was still hellbent on impressing you and making your life as easy as it can be with his intervention. After all, his father didn’t raise him—he could end the sentence there, honestly—to be someone who does things without doing it exceptionally.

So yes, Seungcheol definitely doesn’t feel calm around you.

As for slow? Nothing was ever slow with you, either. 

With you, Seungcheol is constantly rushing. He signs and reviews the paperworks on his desk like the hands of the clock are blades at his throat. He had to make sure that the stack on his desk was cleaned by the end of the day so that he could keep fulfilling your request of eating dinner together.

Not only that, but he was also rushing around you! Over the past few months that Seungcheol has been with you, he has come to realize that you had a tendency of running into things, hitting your head, and tripping on air. You made Mingyu look coordinated, and Mingyu was the clumsiest person Seungcheol knew prior to you. His days at home are spent blocking the edges of countertops with his hand, closing cabinets before you can hit your head, and running over to you the moment you trip over your own feet.

And comfortable? Seungcheol was never truly comfortable around you. However, he thinks he’s entirely to blame for this one. 

Seungcheol always feels a certain degree of unease in your presence, like he’s doing something he shouldn’t be. He sees the way your eyes linger on the cookbook that belongs to Sohee, sees the way your eyes fall at the mention of the woman, sees the way you cave in on yourself when anyone even mentions the word Paris.

Every second he’s around you, he’s worried that something related to Sohee will resurface, and he’ll have to see the way your face falls and your eyes go blank. The worst part of it all is that he can’t do anything about it. He can’t soothe your fears by telling you that he was no longer in love with her because if he did then he’d be lying to you.

And Seungcheol refuses to lie to you.

But he knows telling you the truth hurts you too, and he finds that he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place, and it’s so uncomfortable.

Seungcheol knows you deserve better, but he’s not sure if he can be that. If he showed up for you, he would be abandoning Sohee for good, and if he abandoned Sohee for good, then was everything he told her a lie? Just thinking about it makes his head hurt because how exactly do you choose between the love of your life and your wife when they’re two different people? 

Seungcheol’s working solution is to rip himself in two, body and soul, one for you and one for Sohee.

“Are you free next week?” Seungcheol asks, gaze following your form as you clean up the bowl that once held the meringue. It had been a failure, and you had swiftly concluded that baking wasn’t your strong suit.

Seungcheol wonders if there’s more to it than that.

“I’ll have to check with my assistant,” You reply as you dry your hands with the towel. You turn to look at him a little suspiciously. “Why?”

Seungcheol doesn’t really know the answer either. The only thing he knows is that he hates watching the smile fall from your face, and he’ll do what he can to bring it back. “We haven’t had our honeymoon.”

“Is this your subtle way of asking me on a honeymoon trip?” Your tone is playful and your smile reflects it, but Seungcheol can tell it stops at your cheeks. Your eyes were still blank. 

Seungcheol can feel the familiar unease sink in.

“Is it bad for a husband to want to spend a week alone with his wife?” Seungcheol returns your playful facade, and he hopes that some of his sincerity will bleed in through your ears and seep into your eyes.

“I guess not,” There’s a spark, but it’s faint, and it flickers, but Seungcheol prefers it over that glassy, faraway look in your gaze. “I’ll update you.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Seungcheol smiles.

Fuck, he hasn’t checked his schedule.

—

If Yoon Jeonghan had 1,000 won for every time a troubled husband spilled his feelings in the middle of lunch with him, he would now have 2,000. It isn’t much in this economy, but it’s odd that he has somehow had the misfortune of becoming Cupid twice. First, Mingyu, and now, Seungcheol.

He ought to start charging these idiots, really.

“So you’re telling me that you’re still in love with your ex, but you feel bad for your wife?” Jeonghan doesn’t know if he wants to be sympathetic or punch Seungcheol straight in the mouth. “The answer is clear, you know that right?”

“If it was, then I wouldn’t be asking you,” Seungcheol grumbles in a tone that Jeonghan knows is a telltale sign that the man is about to sulk. 

“Forget Sohee,” Jeonghan knows it’s harsh, but Seungcheol is old enough to know right from wrong. “You’re a married man, Choi Seungcheol. You need to start acting like it.”

“Jeonghan-ah, I’m in love with her,” Seungcheol says with his full chest, and Jeonghan has to bite back the extremely colorful words that are threatening to spill from his mouth. “It’s not that easy–”

“Are you even trying?” Jeonghan can’t help the way he snarks, and honestly, part of him feels a little bad. It’s easy for him to take your side because he doesn’t know Sohee that well, only hearing about her from Mingyu–not even from Seungcheol–who was friends with her. You, on the other hand, were a friend, and he has enough self-awareness to acknowledge that maybe he was being a little biased by taking your side. “Your relationship with Sohee barely lasted a year. It can’t be that hard.”

“I’ve been in love with her since we were kids.” Seungcheol’s voice is leveled, but Jeonghan doesn’t miss the way the man’s jaw clenches. “I can’t let go of her like it’s nothing.”

“Well, sorry. I didn’t know that,” Jeonghan’s voice is sarcastic, but he’s saying nothing but the truth. He was Seungcheol’s closest friend, but somehow it’s only now that he’s hearing about Seungcheol’s history with the woman? “Do you even want to move on from her? It doesn’t sound like you do.”

“I don’t know,” Seungcheol slumps against the chair, defeated. “I really don’t know.”

“But you want to make your wife happy, right?” Jeonghan asks, and when Seungcheol nods, he continues. “Then forget Sohee.”

The way Seungcheol’s gaze sharpens at Jeonghan’s words does nothing to intimidate the latter. Jeonghan’s just saying it as it is, and if Seungcheol couldn’t live with that, then he shouldn’t go to Jeonghan for advice. 

“Or at the very least, try.” Jeonghan only says it to partially soothe his friend. He’s an ass, sure, but he still cared for his friends. 

“Focus on your wife, Seungcheol,” Jeonghan adds with a sigh. He can’t believe he even has to say that. “Take her on a date, get her flowers. I don’t know, man. Go ask Mingyu how to make women happy or something. He’s the one who’s good at that.”

“We’re going on a trip next week, actually,” Seungcheol replies. “And I’m getting people to clean out Sohee’s things from the house. It might help.”

“You’re only doing that now?” Jeonghan stares at Seungcheol incredulously, and Seungcheol just gives him a tired look. “Ok, sorry, I won’t, but you better make the most of that trip. She’s your wife. Start acting like she is.”

“Yeah,” Seungcheol’s voice is soft, but Jeonghan can see that little spark in his eye, the one that Jeonghan sees when Seungcheol’s stubbornness is confronted with a seemingly unconquerable challenge. “I’ll try–”

“You will,” Jeonghan corrects. “Since when did you do things halfway?”

Something in Seungcheol’s eye tells Jeonghan that Sohee would be buried in the past.  However, whether it would be sooner or later, Jeonghan wasn’t sure.

–

Day 1, Solis Mane 

This is the closest thing to paradise on earth, you think.

The sunlight that filters through the foliage is warm against your skin, the breeze from the ocean is cool against your face, and the sand sprawling for miles on end is soft underneath your feet.

Seungcheol knew how to pick a vacation spot, alright.

Quietly, you walk along the sparsely populated shore with nothing but the sound of the waves retreating and returning to accompany you. Seungcheol had told you to explore a little while he spoke with Solis Mane’s owner, a friend of his who had flown out to the island as soon as news of Seungcheol’s visit reached the man. Though it seems a little selfish to cut their reunion short, you hope they finish soon, if only to have Seungcheol all to yourself in this shoreline.

It was supposed to be your honeymoon trip after all.

Holy shit, were you guys going to fu—

“Sorry I took a while,” Seungcheol’s voice keeps your thoughts from veering into untouched territory. “Joshua can get talkative. He’s hoping to have breakfast…”

Seungcheol’s words are tuned out the moment you get a good look at him. Somehow, he looked even better underneath the sun, hair tousled by the wind and skin shiny from a light layer of sweat. The man was fully clothed, and you were already going feral. How the hell would you manage when you guys had to go swimming?! 

Maybe you’re getting too ahead of yourself, but could you blame a girl when she just got a small view of that broad chest—

Seungcheol calls your name, and immediately, your eyes snap from his chest—it was looking at you, you swear—to his face. His brow is raised in question, and one corner of his mouth is lifted in a smirk that’s nothing short of smug.

Clearly, you’ve been caught.

“Sorry? What were you saying? I was lost in thought,” You’re surprised you’re still speaking straight despite the clawing urge to dig through the sand and bury yourself alive from embarrassment.

“I was saying that Joshua would like to have breakfast with us tomorrow,” Seungcheol’s tone is smug as he takes a step towards you, leaning down until his face is only a few centimeters away from yours. “But I think you were too busy enjoying the view, no?”

You had two options: Option A, flirt back and hope that Seungcheol reciprocates, and Option B, crash like an old computer that can’t seem to run the file named flirting.exe.

Stupidly, your instinct jumps to pick Option B.

“Huh?”

Wow.

Congratulations on your language proficiency score.

Seungcheol laughs, one hand reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Don’t worry, you’re free to look all you want.”

His words and gestures have you flustered, cheeks heating and heart racing. A little embarrassed and eager to take control of the conversation, you muster your most unimpressed look and speak, “There’s nothing to see, though?”

You see the way Seungcheol’s face flickers into confusion before it morphs into something that looks like he’s plotting. There’s a mischievous grin on his face and a fire in his eyes that has you wondering if you just dug your own grave and polished your own casket. Why did Seungcheol look like he was accepting a challenge? No challenge was made!

“We’ll see,” Seungcheol says before pulling at your hand lightly to get you walking. “Let’s go back to the villa for now. I’m a little tired.”

“Okay,” You reply, following him. The flight had been long, and if you were being honest, you were ready to tap out for the day. However, that wasn’t your primary concern, Seungcheol’s cryptic words and determined expression was.

Something tells you that you’re going to regret your words.

— 

Day 2, Solis Mane

A soft call of your name pulls you out from the grasp of sleep, your eyes slowly fluttering open only to be met with the sight of Seungcheol’s handsome face. 

What a great way to start the day, you think.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” Seungcheol says, flashing you a small smile as you yawn and stretch on the bed. “We’re having breakfast with Joshua today.”

Suddenly, you’re fully awake and sitting straight up. You refused to make a horrible first impression. Embarrassing Seungcheol by being late to the breakfast meeting his friend invited the two of you to was the last thing you wanted to do. 

“How long do I have before we meet him?” You ask, jumping out of bed without even sparing Seungcheol a glance as you pull out a dress from the closet. “Please tell me I have 30 minutes, at least.”

“You’ve got an hour, relax,” Seungcheol replies as he watches as you run back and forth in different spots in the bedroom to gather your things. “Joshua’s very laid back. He won’t mind if we’re a few minutes late.”

You frown as you turn to Seungcheol, “Still, I don’t want to give him a bad impression—“

It’s the first time you’re actually looking—like, really looking—at Seungcheol that morning, and you’re realizing that the universe has decided to finally enact its vengeance for your stupidity yesterday. Instead of his usual clothes that leave room for your brain’s creativity, Choi Seungcheol is now wearing a white sleeveless top and shorts, and while appropriate for the setting, it’s completely detrimental to your mental health. 

“There’s nothing to see, though?”

Your own words haunt you now.

How the hell were you going to meet Joshua and carry a proper conversation when the only thing you can think of is what it would feel like to sink your teeth into Seungcheol’s biceps?

“I’m going to shower,” You announce quickly, praying that Seungcheol didn’t notice the way you were flustered.

“Is it a cold one?” You hear Seungcheol call out from behind you with a laugh, and you’re quick to glare at him before slamming the bathroom door.

Well, so much for hoping he didn’t notice.

— 

Seungcheol finds this newfound dynamic between the two of you entertaining.

In the past few months of your marriage, you never really gave a sign that you found Seungcheol attractive. You were always so polite and composed in how you interacted with him. Of course, there were times that gave Seungcheol an inkling that you may find him a teeny tiny bit attractive, like when you’d get flustered by his words or his casual touch, but to him, that doesn’t really say much.

Yesterday, however, changes things, and now, Seungcheol realizes that you may actually find him more attractive than he thought you did. He sees the way your gaze lingers when you think he isn’t looking, sees the way you get flustered when he flirts here and there, and he definitely sees the way your eyes trail over his form instead of his face. It’s good news to him, and maybe bad news for you because Seungcheol was not going to go easy on you. There was just something about flustering such a pretty woman that got Seungcheol going, really. Plus, no harm in a little playful flirting with his wife, no? It’ll be a great bonding experience for you both.

The two of you were on a honeymoon after all. If anything, the two of you should be doing more than flirting, but Seungcheol is a gentleman; He isn’t going to pounce on you unless you give him a sign.

“Ok, I’m ready.” 

At the sound of your voice, Seungcheol shuts his phone off and sits up from the bed. There’s a flirtatious remark on the tip of Seungcheol’s tongue, but it disappears the moment his eyes lock onto you. All of a sudden, Seungcheol’s mouth is dry and the words are stuck in his throat.

You’re in a flowy white dress with a slit that bares one leg. The straps are thin, and the neckline plunges tastefully. The material isn’t that thick, perfect for the weather, and Seungcheol thinks that if he stared hard enough, he can see the faint blue of what he assumes to be your swimsuit underneath it.

(The demon on his shoulder hopes it’s a two-piece.)

“Enjoying the view?” Your teasing tone and the smug look on your face snaps Seungcheol out of his trance. “Don’t worry, you’re free to look all you want.”

You had just thrown his words back at him. With a flip of your hair and a sway of your hips that Seungcheol made sure to engrave to memory, you leave the bedroom. He realizes that you aren’t going down without a fight.

Seungcheol is definitely going to enjoy this new dynamic.

By the time you and Seungcheol arrive at the resort’s main restaurant, Joshua is already there, sipping from a glass of mango juice as he flips through the pages of a book with a pensive look. 

“Joshua’s already here,” Seungcheol presses a hand against the small of your back to guide you into his friend's direction. 

“Are we late? I didn’t wear a watch.” The worry in your voice is palpable as you get closer and closer to Joshua who’s still engrossed in his book.

“No,” Seungcheol takes a look at the silver watch on his wrist and shakes his head. “Joshua just has a habit of being early.”

“Good to hear,” You sigh out in relief.

Almost as if he could sense Seungcheol’s arrival, Joshua peels his eyes away from the book and immediately stands up with his arms wide open when his eyes make contact with Seungcheol’s. “Long time no see!”

“We saw each other yesterday,” Seungcheol snorts as he pats his friend on the back. When he pulls away, his hand is quick to find your waist and pull you against his side. “Y/N, this is Joshua Hong. He’s the owner of this resort and my longtime friend, and Joshua, this is Y/N L/N, my wife.”

Seungcheol makes sure to note the way you seem to glow at the words ‘my wife’. 

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. L/N. I apologize for not making it to the wedding.” Joshua bows lightly as he gives your hand a firm shake. “You’re even more beautiful than they say you are. Seungcheol’s a very lucky man.”

Something flares in Seungcheol’s stomach at that, but he’s not really sure what it is. Annoyance? Jealousy? Possessiveness? He’s not sure which, but whatever it was, it had him wanting to pull your hand away from the man’s touch.

“You’re too kind, Mr. Hong, and no worries regarding the wedding, I completely understand.” You smile softly at Joshua, and Seungcheol has to resist the urge to start sulking then and there. Why were you smiling so sweetly at his friend? You should be reserving that kind of smile for him! “You have a very lovely place. I could live here forever, really.”

“Oh, please call me Joshua,” Joshua replies with a smile just as bright as yours. “You’re free to visit Solis Mane any time, and you can stay as long as you want. We’re friends now, after all. But do take a seat, they’ll be serving breakfast soon.”

It only takes a few minutes before breakfast arrives: a bountiful spread of local cuisines mixed in with some familiar dishes from home. You’re chattering away with Joshua, already acting like the best of friends while Seungcheol quietly chews through his food.

How annoying, he thinks. Seungcheol realizes that he isn’t quite used to sharing your attention with other people. It’s even more frustrating that you’re suddenly so casual with Joshua when it took you a few weeks to warm up to him.

Maybe he was jealous.

“So how’s married life treating the two of you?” Joshua asks, eyes flickering between you and Seungcheol. “I’m a bachelor, so I can only live vicariously through my married friends.”

“It’s great,” Seungcheol takes the opportunity to insert himself into the conversation, one hand falling onto your thigh to squeeze it affectionately like a husband who just couldn’t take his hands off his wife. Joshua didn’t need to know that this was the first time Seungcheol was touching you so boldly. “Don’t you think so?”

Seungcheol resists the urge to smirk when he sees you try to discreetly press your thighs together, squirming under the way Seungcheol’s thumb rubs up and down your thigh over the fabric of your dress. 

“He can be a handful, but he treats me well,” comes your reply. Your tone is smooth, and only Seungcheol can pick up on the slight waver in it.

If Joshua wasn’t here, Seungcheol would’ve informed you that he was more than just a handful, and he’d prove it to you if you wanted to. However, Seungcheol still had a bit of shame, and out of respect for you, he instead replies, “Happy wife, happy life.”

Joshua laughs, “Wise words to live by.”

“He better live up to it,” You add jokingly.

“Of course,” Seungcheol’s hand parts from the softness of your thigh only to grab your hand and press a kiss on the back of it. “Your happiness is my priority.”

Seungcheol relishes in the way you fluster underneath his gaze.

Joshua, on the other hand, can only laugh, coo, and die a little inside at how sweet the two of you appear to be. The two of you looked like the prime example of a couple in love: playful, smitten, and absolutely handsy.

For the rest of breakfast, Seungcheol’s hand never leaves you, and you never push him away.

–

You think Choi Seungcheol is trying to kill you.

After breakfast with Joshua and a quick tour around the island, Seungcheol decided that he wanted to go for a quick swim in the beach. Tempted by the idea of cooling off in the island’s azure waters, you’re quick to agree. Nothing beats a refreshing swim after a few minutes of walking underneath the tropical sun. 

If only you knew how big of a mistake that was.

You’re lying back on one of the sunloungers, feeling the farthest thing from cool and refreshed–despite the pina colada in your hand–as you watch your husband play in the water, shirtless and looking nothing short of sin. Every stroke of his arm against the waves has his muscles flexing underneath the blaze of the sun, but even that heat was nothing compared to the one in the pit of your stomach.

Screw him, really.

(In more ways than one, the little voice in your head adds).

Seungcheol seems to get tired of swimming quickly, because the next thing you know, he’s walking to where you’re perched, practically in slow-motion, looking like he came straight out of Baywatch as he ruffles the remnants of the sea from his hair.

The moment he reaches you, you know you’re doomed. You’re lucky you’re wearing sunglasses because your eyes can’t help the way they follow the droplets rolling down his pecs and the soft curves on his abdomen before it seeps into his trunks.

“Not gonna swim?” Seungcheol asks, sitting on the side of the lounge chair you’re resting on, causing some of the droplets to fall onto your dress.

“Yah, Choi Seungcheol you’re getting me wet,” the words of complaint leave your mouth faster than you can think it through. You only realize the double entendre in your words when your eyes catch sight of the shit-eating grin on Seungcheol’s face.

“Not here, baby,” Seungcheol has the audacity to fake a scandalized look. “There are people watching.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, oh my god.” You groan, moving a hand to cover your face before you point at where the droplets are falling. “You’re dripping all over my dress, look.”

Seungcheol only smirks, hand resting on your thigh as he leans in to whisper against your ear. “Aren’t you the one dripping all over your dress?”

Flustered beyond belief, you push at his shoulder coupled with a string of colorful words. Seungcheol only laughs at your weak attempts to push him off. 

“Why do you torment me like this?” You sigh out dramatically, watching as Seungcheol turns the straw of your drink to his direction before he takes a sip. 

Seungcheol gulps, and with a light tap on your nose, he replies, “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

“Piss me off, and I’ll get even cuter,” You grumble, snatching your drink away. “Now I have to dry this dress off.”

“You can take it off and start drying it now,” Seungcheol shrugs casually before his face morphs into a suggestive expression. “That way the two of us have something to look at.”

“Dream on,” You reply.

“Trust me, I already do.” Seungcheol then leaves to go back into the water like he didn’t just drop a fucking bomb on you.

After that catastrophe on the beach, the rest of the day continues in a similar manner. Seungcheol takes every single opportunity to flex and fluster you. Need something passed to you? Here it is with a side of biceps. Something is out of reach? He’ll get it for you while giving you a peek of what’s underneath his shirt. Don’t know the direction to a place? It’s okay, he’ll walk ahead and give you a perfect view of his ass. The worst part of it is that he does it all with that infuriatingly handsome smile. The one where his dimples look so deep and his eyes practically disappear.

By the end of the day, you’re hot, bothered, and absolutely in need of an exorcism.

It’s after dinner that you find yourself free from Seungcheol’s torment. After a long day of playing in the sun and flexing all his muscles, he must’ve lost all his energy because his first instinct upon arriving at your villa is to crash onto the couch and snore as he prances off in dreamland.

You hope he gets a nightmare, if only to punish him for the torment he put you through all day.

Now left to your own devices, you decided to swim. Maybe the pool water would cool the fire raging in your stomach. Quietly–to avoid waking Seungcheol up–you peel off your dress and sink into the pool.

The water is cool against your skin, and you genuinely have to resist the urge to moan at how refreshing it was. You think you’ll have to try swimming in the beach tomorrow. You finally understand why Seungcheol couldn’t seem to part from the water when he wasn’t busy teasing you.

You swim around for a while, letting the cool water dance around your body as you paddle to keep yourself entertained. Once you start feeling tired, however, you’re quick to sit on the edge of the pool’s baja shelf, feet kicking through the water as you lounge around lazily.

You honestly hope this trip never ends.

–

The gentle sound of footsteps stirs Seungcheol awake from his nap on the couch, his eyes opening only to be met with the sight of you shimmying out of your dress to reveal a light blue two piece. It hugs you well, the tiny triangles clinging to your chest and barely covering the roundness of your behind. Seungcheol feels like a pervert for staring at you from the darkness of the villa, but he likes to think that he has a little leeway considering the show he was putting on for you all day.

It’s not like he was going to act on the filthy thoughts running through his head.

Unless you asked him to, of course. That’s a different story.

For a while he lies on the couch, watching you aimlessly swim around in the pool with a small smile on your face. You’re beautiful, Seungcheol knows that, but he thinks you’re even more beautiful in the moments where you’re smiling when you think nobody’s watching. It’s different from the practiced, polished look you wear daily, and Seungcheol wishes he could freeze time to make sure that your smile remains this way.

It had his heart beating uncharacteristically fast.

When he sees you sitting on the baja shelf’s edge, Seungcheol decides that it’s time to stop staring like a lowlife and actually join you.

Discreetly, he’s stripping off his shirt and tossing it onto the couch before silently walking in your direction. You’re oblivious to it all, feet kicking lightly underneath the water as Seungcheol dips into the pool behind you.

“Oh shit, it’s cold,” Seungcheol hisses, and your tranquility is disturbed.

You turn to look back at him, laughing as he struggles to walk towards you.

“I thought you were sleeping?” You ask, watching as Seungcheol slips into the water beside you.

“Couldn’t let you have fun all by yourself, now, could I?” Seungcheol replies. It’s even worse now that he’s up close and right beside you. From here, he has a front row seat to the way you glow from the pool lights, and it has his blood violently pumping through his veins.

He thanks the heavens that the pool is cold, or else this would’ve been an extremely awkward encounter.

“Thank you for planning this,” You whisper out softly as you stare into the waters. “I don’t think I’ve been this relaxed in years.”

Something warm blooms in Seungcheol’s chest at your sincerity, an odd mix of pride and affection. He playfully nudges your shoulder with his and speaks, “It’s only day two. Don’t thank me just yet.”

You turn your head to him, and Seungcheol swears his breath catches in his throat. Seuncheol is thankful that you’re quick to turn away again, gaze shy as you awkwardly cough.

Seungcheol can’t help the smile that makes its way onto his face. 

“I can’t believe we’re only here for a week,” You mutter, hand sifting through the water with your eyes trained on the little waves it makes. “I’d stay here forever if I could.”

“Me too,” comes Seungcheol’s reply before he can even stop himself. There was something so peaceful about the island. It’s only been two days but Seungcheol realizes that he hasn’t felt this light in years. There’s something about the place–something about you–that has him feeling like he can finally be at ease. It scares him a little, if he’s being honest. He doesn’t think he can bring himself back to the city after a taste of this paradise here with you. “We can always come back, if you want to.”

“Promise?” You ask, playfully sticking your pinky out to him, but there’s a genuine sliver hope in your eyes that has Seungcheol wanting to wrap you in his arms and shield you from all the disappointments of this world. 

“Yeah,” Seungcheol is careful to lock his own pinky around yours. “I promise.”

–

Day 3, Solis Mane

“What’s the plan for today?” You ask Seungcheol as you chew through the pancakes.

“We’re going island hopping for the day,” Seungcheol answers, cutting into his bacon. “Well, just one island, really. It’s ours for the day since Shua said we should enjoy ourselves there, so you can swim all you want. After that, we’ll go back and have dinner. We can have a few drinks if you want.”

“Wow, I’m almost jealous,” You sigh. It’s moments like this that you wish your family had chosen to dabble in the hospitality and tourism industry instead of capitalizing on everybody’s insecurities. “Maybe I’m in the wrong business.”

“Do you want me to build a resort in your honor?” Seungcheol jokes, but there’s a look in his eyes that tells you that if you said yes, he actually would build that resort. 

“One day, maybe,” you joke. It would be nice, you think. A small piece of paradise that you and Seungcheol could return to every once in a while whenever the city gets too loud.

After breakfast, Seungcheol is quick to grab your bag with one hand and your hand in the other. He doesn’t let go of you. From the walk to the villa to the short boat trip, Seungcheol’s hand remains intertwined with yours even if your hands are already sweaty from the nerves and the island heat. Every once in a while—you think it’s when he’s bored and wants to fluster to you—he presses his lips on the back of your hand, and you’re sure that if the boat man had no restraint, he would’ve already pushed the two of you off the boat from how ridiculously sweet Seungcheol was being.

Before you knew it, you were already on the island, and if you thought Solis Mane’s main island was paradise, then you think you might have just entered a whole new other world in Joshua’s private island.

Save for the small villa tucked in the edge where greenery meets sand, the island is completely in its natural form. There were no footsteps on the white sand, no beachgoers floating in the turquoise waters, and no sound save for the crashing of ocean waves onto the nearby rocks.

You think you could live here forever.

Immediately, once you’ve placed your things in the villa, you’re quick to strip down to your swimsuit, grab your sunscreen, and lay out a beach towel on the soft sand, leaving Seungcheol behind who can only chuckle at your excitement. Not wanting any damage to your skin, you’re quick to sit on the towel and start lathering your face, arms, and legs with sunscreen. Once you finish with your limbs and the front of your body, you move on to the most challenging part: putting sunblock on your back. 

“Need help?” Like a knight in shining swim shorts, Seungcheol swoops in and saves the day.

“Yes please,” You sigh in relief as you hand the bottle of sunscreen to Seungcheol. “I just need some on my back.”

“Ok,” Seungcheol says as he squirts the sunscreen onto his palm. “Lie back and turn over.”

You freeze. It’s after hearing Seungcheol’s words that you realise that maybe you didn’t think this through. However, not wanting to make the situation awkward, you’re quick to follow Seungcheol’s orders, back turned to him as you lay your forehead onto the back of your hands.

At the feeling of Seungcheol’s warm hand, you’re quick to jolt.

Seungcheol, noticing this, is quick to chuckle at your response, fingers massaging your upper back as he coats it with sunscreen. He’s skilled with his hands, you think. He could definitely be a masseur if he wanted to.

“Relax, I’m not going to try anything.” Seungcheol assures you, fingers now working their magic under the knot of where your swimsuit is tied. “Unless, you ask me to.”

“Shut up, oh my god.” You whine out in embarrassment, wanting to bury yourself into the sand. Despite Seungcheol’s teasing, you feel that you’re more at ease. It’s just sunscreen, and it’s just Seungcheol. There was nothing to worry about.

“I’m going a little lower, okay?” Seungcheol informs you, and when you nod, his hands move to spread sunscreen on the small of your back.

True to his word, Seungcheol does not try anything at all, and you’re not really sure what to feel. Are you glad that your back has a lower risk of burning under the sun? Yes. Is it cute that Seungcheol was such a gentleman despite the fact that you’re practically half-naked underneath his touch? Also yes. Were you disappointed that he didn’t try anything to turn the situation into something akin to the plot of a cheap porno? A little, but you refused to admit that out loud.

“Thank you,” You say as you take the sunscreen from Seungcheol’s hands.

“No need,” Seungcheol waves you off at first. However, it was almost as if something struck him, and his face quickly morphs into that expression he usually sports when he’s about to do something to mess with you. “Actually, could you put some on my back too?”

You don't know who you’ll bury in the sand first: yourself or Choi Seungcheol.

Unable to decline due to the fact that Seungcheol had helped you, you give him a smile that hopefully masks your nerves. “Sure.”

Seungcheol is quick to assume the position you were in previously on the towel. 

You can’t help but feel like a creep as you spread sunscreen over Seungcheol’s broad back. You’re sure that, at one point, you wanted to shut your eyes in hopes of easing your conscience. While you’re aware that Seungcheol has a habit of going to the gym, it’s only now that you’re able to appreciate all the hours of the week that he puts into it. His back is firm underneath your touch, the muscles stretching and curving every once in a while when Seungcheol fails to hold still. 

“You should try becoming a masseuse,” Seungcheol’s words are followed by a groan that has you feeling things. “You’ve got potential.”

You flush at his words, and you’re thankful that he can’t see you. Teasingly, you reply, “Sure, as long as you don’t mind me doing this to other men.”

Seungcheol is silent for a few seconds, and you almost think that maybe he didn’t hear you, but then, he replies, “Nevermind.”

You laugh at that, and Seungcheol turns his head back momentarily to pout at you. “Yah, why are you laughing?”

“You’re so childish,” You snort, finishing up Seungcheol’s back with one last swipe of your hand. “There, you’re good to go.”

Seungcheol sits up, still sulking. “Well, sorry for not wanting my wife to touch other men’s sweaty backs. You’re just gonna get your hands dirty.”

You roll your eyes, standing up to brush the sand from your legs. “Like your back’s any better?”

“Wow,” Seungcheol breathes out, feigning offense as he watches you walk to the water. “This is a high-yield, high-quality back, just so you know!”

You continue walking to the shore, calling out to Seungcheol. “What are you? Wagyu?!”

“A5!” Seungcheol answers back, a smile on his face as he watches you dip into the water. He only watches for a while before he’s joining you in the water.

The rest of the day passes by quickly despite having only the water and the villa to entertain yourselves. Conversations with Seungcheol just came so naturally, and you had been so caught up in talking Seungcheol’s ear off that you didn’t realize that it was time for you to go.

Once the two of you arrive back on the island, you’re quick to return to your villa to shower, change, and prepare for the dinner Seungcheol had planned. Feeling a little more bold, you’re quick to pick out a light blue backless dress that cinches at the waist before flowing out beautifully. 

“Ready to go?” Seungcheol calls out from behind the door.

“Yes, one second,” You call out to him as you put on lipbalm, a cherry-flavored one that you’ve sworn by throughout the years. Once you finish applying it, you’re quick to grab your purse and open the door. “I’m ready

The first thing you notice is Seungcheol who’s wearing a loose button down that coincidentally matches the color of your dress, and white pants. The two of you looked like you walked straight out of a ‘Mamma Mia!’ filming set, but you honestly find the aesthetic a little cute.

The next thing you notice is the fact that Seungcheol’s staring at you wide-eyed, frozen. Realizing that your gaze is on him, he’s quick to clear his throat and speak, “You look beautiful.”

Suddenly shy, you’re quick to swat at his arm. “How do you say those things with a straight face, oh my god.”

Seungcheol, now more relaxed, is quick to intertwine his fingers with yours as he leads you out of the villa. “It’s easy when I’m saying nothing but the truth.”

When the two of you arrive at the gazebo Seungcheol reserved, the food is already prepared, and the only thing left to do is to eat. The rest of dinner flies by with Seungcheol’s flirtatious jokes and lighthearted conversation. You’re so lost in the atmosphere that you don’t realize just how many glasses of wine you’ve downed until you feel your inhibition starting to slip and your filter starting to fade.

You were going to regret this.

–

“Yaaaaah, Choi Seungcheol,” Your words are slurred as you point your finger at Seungcheol. “You need to stop smiling at me like that.”

Cute, Seungcheol thinks, and quickly, he finds that he’s unable to follow your drunken orders. In a futile attempt to hide the smile on his face, he takes a sip from his drink: an iced tea. One of you needed to be sober, after all. 

Wanting to humor your drunken antics, Seungcheol asks, “Why?”

“If you keep smiling like… Like that…I’ll…” Seungcheol feels bad for the way he finds your drunken incoherence funny. You just looked so cute furrowing your brows as you tried to find your next words. “I’ll k-kiss you on the mouth! Yeah… I’ll do that. So stop.”

Seungcheol’s having the time of his fucking life. Some part of him is almost tempted to pull out his phone and start recording just to tease you tomorrow, but he knows you’ll kill him if he does, so he doesn’t. However, that doesn’t mean he wasn’t going to milk the absolute shit out of this situation.

“What if I want you to kiss me on the mouth, hm?” Seungcheol teases, wiggling his eyebrows at drunken you suggestively.

“I will! Don’t challenge me,” You slur as you wiggle your finger at him from side to side. “I’ll make it French too.”

Seungcheol wants to laugh his ass off so badly, but the fun might end if he does, so he bites his tongue. “Oh? That’s a little scandalous, no?”

You snort at his words, waving him off before you lean forward and rest your chin in your hands. There’s a coy smile on your face as you speak, “That’s the leeeeeast scandalous thing I want to do with you, really. I could– I could get sooo much worse.”

He’s probably opening Pandora’s box with what he’s about to say next, but Seungcheol does it anyway. With a sly smirk on his face, he leans in to mirror you and asks. “Really? What other things do you think about doing with me?”

There’s a pause. You’re leaning on your chin with a furrow in your brows, almost as if you were pondering the meaning of life itself as your poor drunken brain thinks of a response to Seungcheol’s prodding.

“A lot…” You sigh out dreamily, bringing the glass of your wine to your lips as you take another sip. A little parched, Seungcheol takes a sip from his own drink. “Most of them involve you bending me over, really.”

Seungcheol nearly spits out the drink back into his glass at your words, eyes widening as he looks at you. Unbothered by his reaction, you continue, “Honestlyyyyy, when you were rubbing sunscreen on my back… I was hoping you’d rub it… Somewhere else.”

This is what he gets for probing, Seungcheol thinks. He thinks of that moment of the beach, the one where he was rubbing circles into your back and resisting the urge to dip lower. Your drunken fantasies were honestly not that far from what Seungcheol wanted to do, really.

“Why are you so quiet?” You pout at Seungcheol, arms crossing across your chest as you remain completely unaware about the less than appropriate thoughts running through Seungcheol’s head. “You asked me, and I’m just answering.”

“Just shocked,” And a little turned on, Seungcheol adds silently in his head. While he definitely wanted to hear what other depraved fantasies you had about him, he didn’t really want to breach your privacy further. “I think you’ve had enough drinks. Should we go back–”

“Do you not want to fuck me?” You huff out, glaring at Seungcheol from across the table.

Seungcheol does! He really does, but he wasn’t about to make a move on you when you couldn’t properly consent. He’s scrambling in his brain for a reply, thinking of how to reject you without hurting your feelings. 

However, you quickly grow impatient at his silence, and before Seungcheol could answer, you’re already walking towards him, perching yourself on his lap, and wrapping your arms around his neck. On instinct, Seungcheol holds you by the waist to keep you from falling.

(He hopes you don’t feel the way he’s half hard in his pants).

“Yahhhh, Choi Seungcheol,” You slur out. “Am I not attractive to you?”

“You are,” Seungcheol answered immediately. He doesn’t lie to you, after all. He needed to get you off his lap quickly before he got any harder, but he couldn’t seem to think straight with the intoxicating mix of your natural scent and your perfume flooding his nostrils.

“Then why haven’t you made a move on meeee?” You  whine out, lower lip jutting out in a pout. “All you do is flirt, but you– you never go further.”

“Do you want me to?” Seungcheol asks, smirking when he sees your bravado fade into a shy expression at his words.

“Well… Yeah…” You mumble out, fingers playing with the tips of his hair. “Are you gonna fuck me here?”

Seungcheol internally groans at the idea. He could, he thinks. He could push his pants down, slip your panties to the side, and start bouncing you on his cock for the poor, innocent passersby to see, and he’d enjoy every second of it. He’d put on a fucking show if you wanted him to, but not right now. He wasn’t about to fuck you when you were drunk out of your mind and barely coherent. “No, you’re drunk.”

“I’m not,” You shake your head. “I swear.”

Seungcheol chuckles at your poor attempt, choosing to flick your forehead lightly. “If you ask me tomorrow morning, when you’re sober, I’ll do it. How does that sound?”

“But I am sobeeeer,” You complain, reaching out to rub at your forehead.

What a brat, Seungcheol thinks, just what he likes.

“Take it while I’m still offering,” Seungcheol shrugs, poking at your cheek. How soft, he thinks. He wonders if you’re just as soft everywhere else. 

“Fine,” You huff out as you slap his hand away, standing up and pulling at Seungcheol’s arm. “Let’s go back so I can sleep and then I’ll ask you when I wake up.”

Seungcheol grins at that.

You were definitely going to regret this in the morning.

–

Day 4, Solis Mane

When you wake up, you’re alone in bed and your head is pounding. You were never going to drink like that ever again. Last night’s vibe had been so good that you couldn’t help but get strung along into drinking countless glasses of wine and losing all your inhibition–

Oh.

Oh god.

Last night’s memories come at you full speed like a truck with no brakes, and you have to resist the urge to scream into the mattress and rip the pillows apart at the sheer embarrassment that flooded your veins.

“I’ll make it French too.”

“I was hoping you’d rub it… Somewhere else.”

“Are you gonna fuck me here?”

You don’t know how you’re going to face Seungcheol after that catastrophe. In all honesty, you think you might just sneak out of the villa, ask Joshua where the highest cliff on this island is, and proceed to jump off said cliff to become one with the ocean.

Holy shit, you were going to die from embarrassment. What were you going to do? What do you even say after all that? Was Seungcheol mad at you? What if he felt harassed? Where is Seungcheol? Should you pretend like you forgot everything? Would he notice—

“Good morning,” Seungcheol walks into the room, holding a wooden bed tray with a plate full of eggs, fruits, and bread accompanied by a glass of orange juice. “I brought you breakfast.”

Ah, so you’re going down the ‘pretend to forget everything that happened last night’ route, it seems.

You could work with that.

“Thank you,” You hope your voice is stable as you watch Seungcheol set the tray in front of you. The bed dips underneath his weight as he settles down beside you. Unable to handle your own awkwardness, you’re quick to start eating.

“Did you sleep well?” Seungcheol asks, watching the way you stuff your mouth with eggs and bread.

You swallow the food in your mouth and push it back with some juice before speaking, “Yeah, I guess I was really tired last night.”

“Well, you did have a lot of wine, so that probably added to it,” Seungcheol adds, and you have to keep yourself from physically flinching at the memory. “Do you remember anything from last night?”

This is the part where you lie through your teeth and pray that Seungcheol doesn’t call you out on your bullshit.

“Not really,” You lie before stuffing your mouth with fruits, eyes looking at anything and everything that isn’t Seungcheol. “Why?”

Seungcheol’s neutral facade morphs into a grin, and it’s only now that you realize that he was leading you to a trap… And you walked straight into it.

“Really?” Seungcheol tips your chin back with a finger to make you meet his gaze. “Why are you so nervous then?”

“I’m not!”

Wow! You’re so convincing.

“Okay, whatever you say,” Seungcheol pulls his hand away and shrugs casually. Despite his agreement with your words, you’re aware that he knows you remember everything. You weren’t exactly fooling him with your shit acting, after all. However, if he was going to give you a way out, then you were going to gladly take it.

Once you finish eating, Seungcheol takes the tray out of the room and returns to lie down beside you, body turned towards you as he rests his head on his palm. He says nothing, just stares at you like you’re some fascinating exhibit.

In an attempt to clear the awkward silence, you turn to him and ask, “What’s the plan for today?”

“The morning’s just free time so we’re staying on the island until 11:30,” Seungcheol replies. “And then we’ll go to the town on the nearby island to stroll around before the dinner I reserved at seven.”

Wow, Choi Seungcheol would make the perfect lifestyle dom. Not that you’re complaining. In fact, if anyone were to ask you, it turned you on a little to have a man take the lead without being overbearing or patronizing.

“So what are we doing for the next–” You turn to look at the clock on the wall, “four hours?”

“Well, I was expecting someone to take me up on my offer last night,” Seungcheol’s hand twirls a loose strand of your hair absentmindedly–you’d argue that it’s calculated–as he speaks. “But she insists on playing dumb, so we can just lie down for the next four hours.”

“Must not be that good of an offer,” You’re digging your own grave. You know that.

Seungcheol’s eyes sharpen at your words, jaw clenching as he gives you a tight smile. “Want to find out?”

Feeling a little bold, you reach out to trace Seungcheol's chest with the tip of your fingers as you whisper into his ear, “Only if you’re going to stop being such a coward and start being honest about what you want.”

You feel the air shift, and the next thing you know, Seungcheol has pinned your wrists to the bed and is capturing your lips in a rough kiss.

When Seungcheol pulls away, he looks like a completely different person. Gone was the man who took your teasing lightly, and gone was the man who treated you like you would break at any time. The man on top of you looked like he was going to eat you alive.

“You’re such a fucking brat, you know that?” Seungcheol hisses out, and you don’t know if you’re scared or getting wetter. “If I had it my way, I would’ve bent you over on our first day here.”

“You should’ve,” You reply, staring up at him in challenge. “It’s a honeymoon trip, after all.”

“God, you’re so mouthy,” Seungcheol groans as he pulls away from you and nudges you towards the floor. “How about we use that mouth for something else?”

You follow, kneeling onto the floor between Seungcheol’s open legs, but unfortunately for him, you haven’t lost your mouthiness just yet. He’d have to fuck that one out of you. With a mischievous smile, you rest your hands on Seungcheol’s firm thighs. “Are you asking me? Because I thought we agreed on being honest about what you want.”

Seungcheol looks absolutely pissed as he tongues at his cheek, and you’re living for it.

The next thing you know, there’s a burn in your scalp and a pulse in your core as Seungcheol grips your hair to bare your throat to him. It’s tight enough to have you dripping in your panties but loose enough to keep you from hurting. 

“You think you can handle me? Fine.” Seungcheol releases his hold on you, pushing his shorts and underwear down to free his cock. “Open up.”

Ok, maybe you were punching above your weight.

“Did you not hear me?” Seungcheols taunts as he runs his thumb over your bottom lip. 

At his touch, you part your lips and stick your tongue out. Satisfied, Seungcheol groans, “Good girl.”

A moan leaves your throat at his words, eyes practically rolling back when Seungcheol uses one hand to tap the tip of his cock repeatedly on your tongue. “You’re gonna have to open your mouth wider if you want me to fit in that tiny mouth.”

Your mouth falls open wider, tongue sticking out to lick under the tip of Seungcheol’s cock. 

“Fuck, that’s it,” Seungcheol groans, hands bracing himself on the bed as he watches you take his cock into your mouth. 

Fueled by the deep noises Seungcheol releases, you take more of his cock into your mouth until you feel like you’re on the verge of gagging, your hand pumping away at the parts that your throat can’t reach. 

The taste and weight of Seungcheol on your tongue has your mind blanking, and the grunts and moans falling from his parted lips only has you doubling your efforts. There’s nothing in your head but the sheer desire to get this man to come undone from your mouth and your touch. You wonder how much better it’s all going to feel when he’s finally fucking you with it—

Your little moment is cut short when Seungcheol pulls you off his cock.

“See? You can be good, after all,” Seungcheol praises as he gently pushes the hair away from your face and wipes the drool off your chin. “Now let me show you what I have to offer.”

It’s the only thing Seungcheol says before he’s manhandling you onto the bed and positioning you on all fours, hips raised high and shoulders pressed onto the sheets. Swiftly, Seungcheol pulls your shorts off followed by your panties, the heat of his breath against your core sending shivers down your spine.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Seungcheol breathes out, spreading you open with his thumbs to get a closer look at the slick dripping from you. If you weren’t so turned on, you probably would’ve shied away from Seungcheol’s burning gaze.

Without wasting a second, Seungcheol dives in. He’s relentless, licking and sucking your core like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you on his tongue. It’s warm, wet, and sloppy, and each obscene slurp of his tongue against your folds leaves you with nothing else to do but moan and whimper as you get closer and closer to your high. 

“Cheol–” You sigh out his name shakily, one hand reaching behind you to tangle your fingers into Seungcheol’s hair as he dips his tongue into your entrance. He was fucking his tongue into you so deeply and so messily that you think he’s trying to replace your slick with his spit.

“Feeling good, hm?” Seungcheol’s voice muffled by your pussy has you jolting, the vibrations sending sparks up your spine. Without warning, he sticks two fingers inside your heat, scissoring you open with loud squelches as you moan into the sheets.

“Fuck, right there!” You cry out when Seungcheol rubs a particularly rough patch of nerves that has your eyes rolling. “Please, I wanna cum!”

“Relax, pretty girl. I’ll get you there,” Seungcheol accompanies the skillful strokes of his fingers with featherlight kisses against your thigh. “You’re going to be cumming over and over until you’re begging me to stop.”

The filth of his words coupled by the drag of his fingers has you seizing, body going taut in a deep arch against the bed as shrieks of pleasure leave your throat, “Seungcheol, cumming!”

“That’s it, cum for me,” Seungcheol rasps against your skin, fingers not once faltering as they fuck in and out of you. “Show me how filthy you can get, fuck–”

With a soundless scream, you hit your peak, vision going white and body tingling so violently with pleasure that you can feel it all the way to your toes. If it weren’t for Seungcheol’s steady grip on your hips, you’re sure you would’ve crashed onto the bed like a boneless, formless mess.

Slowly, Seungcheol eases his fingers out of you, giving your folds one final lick before he starts trailing kisses up your spine.

“Cheol, wait a sec,” You whine out, collapsing onto the bed as Seungcheol hovers over your form. “I think you just sucked my soul out.”

Seungcheol chuckles, brushing your hair away with one hand to press an affectionate kiss onto your shoulder. “We can stop here if it’s too much.”

“No!” You say a little too eagerly, your cheeks warming when you realize how desperate you sounded. “Just give a minute.”

“Don’t push yourself,” Seungcheol teases, hand rubbing up and down your sides as he presses kisses all over your back. If you weren’t still so fucking horny, you probably would’ve fallen asleep like that: half naked with your slick and Seungcheol’s spit all over your thighs.

Once you regain your senses, Seungcheol moves to lay you on your back. He slips a pillow under your hips, and while comfortable, feels like a threat to your pussy that has barely recovered from Seungcheol’s tongue.

“Is the pillow necessary?” You nervously ask, your head a hazy mix of concern and pleasure as Seungcheol rubs his dick through your folds.

“Don’t you want to feel me deeper?” Seungcheol teases, moving his cock to lay over your stomach to show you just how deep he was going to bury himself inside you.

“With a dick like that, I don’t think you need the pillow,” You mumble out incoherently, ridiculously turned on at the sight of Seungcheol’s thick, heavy cock resting on top of your mound.

Despite your mumbling, Seungcheol catches your words. As he presses the tip of his cock on your hole, he speaks, “Then just think of it as back support. You’ll need it.”

An inhuman sound leaves your throat the moment Seungcheol slips in, cock stretching your folds so wide around his cock that you already feel like you’re on the verge of cumming. It’s only halfway in, but his dick was already rubbing all the right spots.

Judging by Seungcheol’s reaction, he isn’t faring any better than you.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Seungcheol hisses, fingers digging into your hips as he pushes through your slick and heat. “So fucking wet too, shit!”

Seungcheol chokes out a groan when he buries himself to the hilt, thick brows furrowed and mouth gaping as he throws his head back at the feeling, The sight of him looking so lost in you has you whining, your walls clenching tighter around him involuntarily.

“Fuck me, Cheol,” You whine out desperately, your pride found dead in a ditch. Only the universe knows how many nights you’ve spent cumming to the thought of Seungcheol, how many men you’ve dated wondering what it would be like if it had been Seungcheol there instead. “Please…”

“So beautiful even when you’re begging me to fuck you, huh?” Seungcheol pulls his hands away from your hips to brace himself on either side of your head, cock stroking in and out of you deliciously as he watches your face contort in pleasure. “Don’t worry, you’re going to cum until you’re crying.”

Suddenly, Seungcheol’s thrusts pick up their pace, cock bullying itself in and out of your tight heat so well that it has you clawing at the sheets and screaming Seungcheol’s name with no regard for the rest of the world.

“Yeah, take it, take it,” Seungcheol rasps through gritted teeth, eyes locked on to the way your wet hole sucks his cock in every time he pulls out. “This cute pussy doesn’t want to let go of me, huh? Doesn’t want me to stop?”

“No, fuck!” You answer with a cry, nails digging into Seungcheol’s shoulders as he presses his forehead against yours. “Want you to fuck me over and over, Cheol. Please, it’s so good!”

“Shh, I know, baby, I know,” Seungcheol coos, his soft lips pressing wet kisses against your throat as he ravages your cunt with his thick cock. “You’re being so good for me, aren’t you? Taking this thick cock with that tight cunt, fuck. Do you think you deserve another round after this?”

“Yes!” You whine out, nails scratching down Seungcheol’s back as you feel yourself approaching your high. You haven’t even cum yet but fuck if you’re not going to take the opportunity for another round with this beast of a man. “I’ll be good, please–”

You choke on your words when Seungcheol gives you a brutal thrust, that has your toes curling and you breath hitching

“What a good girl,” Seungcheol grins darkly, thrusts picking up pace. “Don’t worry, you’re not leaving this bed until we have to go.”

Seungcheol catches your mouth in a sloppy kiss that has you reeling. His kiss is rough, but it’s methodic. Each lick, suck, and breath is done with the intent of making you come undone. Both his cock and his tongue are inside you, and the idea of being ravaged from both ends by this man has your eyes crossing and the knot in your stomach coming undone.

With a gasp against Seungcheol’s hot mouth and tears pricking at your lashes, you breathe, “Fuck, Cheol, I’m cumming!” 

At your cry, Seungcheol is swearing, thrusts getting brutal as he lays his weight onto you and rasps filthy words in your ear, “Fuck that’s it, cum for me.”

Seungcheol doesn’t stop even when you come undone, thrusts unyielding as he clutches your body close to his. “I’m gonna cum, fuck–”

“Cum inside, Cheol,” You cry out weakly, arms wrapped around his neck as you let pants and moans against his ear. “Please.”

“Inside?” Seungcheol asks, but you can tell he’s only doing it to be considerate. “Are you sure, pretty girl?”

You’ve never been more sure of anything in your life.

“Cheol if you don’t cum inside, this will be the last time you fuck me.” Your threat is empty. You don’t think you’ll be able to cum happily if it isn’t Seungcheol making you cum. Choi Seungcheol has ruined all your future orgasms for you like a drug disrupting all your body’s pathways.

“Fuck, you’ve got a pretty face, but you’re such a fucking cumslut,” Seungcheol’s words are degrading as he pauses to throw your legs over his shoulders. “You really want it inside? Want me to fill every inch of that tiny pussy til it’s dripping out of you, is that it?”

“Yes!” You nod desperately. Nevermind the fact that you just came, you think you’re about to cum again. The new position burned your legs, but all it did was add to the mind-numbing sensation Seungcheol had you feeling.

“Fuck, you asked for this,” Seungcheol growls, hips driving into you over and over in a cacophony of slick and sex. “Cumming, fuck, I’m cumming–”

Seungcheol’s rasps cut into a deep moan that rumbles through his chest, the sound so hot and primal that it had you clamping down hard on his cock as you got your third orgasm of the day.

This man was going to fuck you dry, you think.

For a second, neither of you speak, your ragged breaths being the only sounds to fill the room. Seungcheol stares at you with half-lidded eyes, chest rising and falling as he presses a tender kiss against your knee.

“Think you can give me one more?”

—

By the time 11:00 comes around, no surface of the bedroom was left untainted by your slick and sweat. Seungcheol made sure to do well on his promise of fucking you until you couldn’t take it anymore. He didn’t want to disappoint you after all.

The weight of you is grounding, your head on his shoulder, your hand on his chest, and your leg entangled with his. If he hadn’t planned out a short trip to the town, he probably would’ve just spent the rest of the day dozing away in your hold and filling you up before dozing off again. Why bother going to the city when the best part of the trip was in his arms?

“Aren’t we supposed to leave by 11:30?” You ask, looking up at Seungcheol.

“We can push it back if you need more time,” Seungcheol replies, hand carding through your hair absentmindedly. 

“I’m good to go,” You sit up, and Seungcheol already misses the way you drape yourself all over him. “Let me shower first.”

Seungcheol perks up at that, lips curling into a suggestive smile as he asks, “Can I join?”

“No,” You say firmly as you get out of bed. “Bathe on your own.”

“Aw,” Seungcheol pouts, but the rejection is quickly soothed by the sight of your hips swaying as you walk into the bathroom. “Next time?”

Damn right, he did that.

“When we get back,” is the only thing you say before shutting the door.

Seungcheol couldn’t wait to get back.

Once the two of you are dressed and done cleaning away the remnants of debauchery on your skins, the two of you take the boat to the island housing the town a few kilometers away from Solis Mane. The moment the two of you arrive, you don’t waste any time before dragging Seungcheol to all the shops and establishments spread throughout the town.

There’s a bright wonder in your eyes that Seungcheol finds endearing, a youthful glow in the way you seem to be fascinated by even the most mundane of things. He watches as you enter shop after shop, looking at all their little trinkets and souvenirs. The pressure on his shoulders lifts immediately when he realizes that you’re actually enjoying the entire experience.

“Cheol, look. They have ice cream.” You point towards a tiny stall that had a man scooping colorful spheres onto waffle cones.

“Do you want some?” Seungcheol asks.

“Yeah, it’s kind of hot,” You reply, and Seungcheol doesn’t miss the way your eyes are locked onto the stall.

“Let’s get some, then,” Seungcheol says as he walks with you to the stall, fingers intertwined around yours.

Seungcheol buys two cones: one for you and one for him. The look in your eyes is so bright as you lick at the cream, and Seungcheol’s almost tempted to call up his secretary and ask how local business regulations worked so that he could buy the damned stall. He’d buy you all the ice cream in the world as long as you kept smiling like that.

Not wanting to forget this moment, Seungcheol takes out his phone and takes a quick picture of you. 

Your ears don’t miss the sound of his shutter, and with a glare that lacks heat, you call Seungcheol out, “Yah, why did you take a picture? I look so messy right now.”

Not wanting to miss your cute, frustrated face, Seungcheol snaps another picture, grinning.

“Yah!” You complain.

“You’re still pretty. Don’t worry,” Seungcheol says, rubbing his thumb on the crease between your brows. “I just wanted a memory from this trip.”

Your eyes soften at Seungcheol’s words, “Let’s take tons of pictures then.”

“Okay,” Seungcheol nods in agreement.

The rest of the day is spent looking for cute streets and breathtaking views where you and Seungcheol could take pictures. By the time you were finished, Seungcheol’s camera roll was filled with pictures of your face, with him appearing in some of them. His favorite picture out of all of them was a picture taken by one of the shopkeepers who had found the two of you to be such a cute couple that she wanted to take a picture for the two of you. In the picture, Seungcheol is sitting on a bench with the view of the sea as a picturesque background. You’re standing behind him, arms wrapped around his neck as you press a kiss on his cheek.

Seungcheol thinks he’s never smiled that brightly in his entire life.

(Immediately, he sets it as his homescreen.)

With time left to kill, the two of you walk into a little cafe and rest there, scrolling through the pictures you took throughout the entire day.

“Oh my god, delete that,” You groan out as you bury your face in Seungcheol’s shoulder. “I look so ugly there!”

Seungcheol thinks the two of you are looking at different things. You’re making a weird expression, sure, but Seungcheol thinks you look so cute and comfortable that he can’t find it in himself to delete it. “It’s cute though.”

“It’s not,” You pout. “Fine, keep it, but don’t show it to anyone else.”

You didn’t have to tell him twice. He refused to let anyone else have the privilege of seeing you this happy and carefree. That was for his eyes only.

“This one’s nice,” Seungcheol says as he swipes to a candid picture of you staring into the ocean, hair and dress lightly swept by the wind. 

He’s definitely keeping that one.

–

The rest of your vacation passes by in a blur of sand, sex, and sea, and part of you almost wants to never leave that island. However, duty calls, and the moment your last day arrives, you and Seungcheol pack your things and board the plane back to Incheon with the promise of coming back.

The sight of Seoul’s towering buildings fills you with a sense of dread, and Solis Mane feels like a distant dream you can’t return to.

Would things go back to the way they were before the honeymoon? Would you have to go back to polite conversations and casual touches that never became anything more? Would you have to live every single day of your life in that house wondering what it would be like if you had never left the island?

Would you have to live in Sohee’s shadow again?

It was easy to forget her during the trip. There were no cookbooks, no mementos, and no memories of her on that island to torment you, to haunt Seungcheol. That island was yours. You weren’t walking to cover someone else’s footsteps, you were creating your own trail. Unlike the house, where every corner is haunted by the touch of a woman that came before you.

Some part of you stupidly hopes that seven days is enough to rip Seungcheol from Sohee’s hold, but you’re sure that’s not the case.

The moment Seungcheol enters that house, he’ll remember her, and those seven days will be forgotten like a figment of his imagination.

“Are you okay?” Seungcheol’s voice accompanied by his hand slipping into yours jolts you from your thoughts. “You’ve been quiet for a while.”

“Just missing the island,” You smile at him, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. It’s half of the truth, the half that matters less.

“We can always come back,” Seungcheol gives you a soft smile, and it has your treacherous heart hoping that maybe things will start looking better after this. “Joshua already designated that villa as ours.”

Ours. It’s one word, but it means the world to you. 

“Next year, let’s come back.” You reply, hopeful.

“We can go back every year,” Seungcheol replies without a second thought. “All you have to do is ask.”

If you asked him to give you his entire heart…

Could he also do that without a second thought?

–

It’s been five days since you arrived back at Seoul, and it’s only now that you realize…

The house is different.

The colors are the same, the layout is the same, and honestly, if you hadn’t spent numerous days tormenting yourself with the objects in that house, you wouldn’t have realized that anything has changed… But it has.

The old paintings depicting the streets of Paris are gone, the cookbook in the living room is gone, the tiny little macaron trinket attached to keys Seungcheol hangs on the wall is gone–

Every single object that had you silently sobbing in the bathroom every night was gone.

Was it deliberate? Was that the reason why you haven’t heard Sohee’s name echo through the walls of this house at least once since arriving?

What the hell was going on?

You were tempted to ask Seungcheol, tempted to knock on the door of his study and ask him if he’s finally buried his past, but things were going so well. Contrary to your initial belief, nothing about the way Seungcheol treated you had changed despite coming back to this house. The only difference between then and now is that you and Seungcheol had to work during the day with the nights and early mornings being the only time you spent together. Time you made sure to savor.

You’re about to hit the sixth-month mark. Six months more and your marriage would have lasted as long as Seungcheol’s relationship with her. It’ll take time, you know that, but that was better than Seungcheol never moving on. You had started this marriage thinking that he would never even glance your way, but now you’re having conversations late into the night and having morning sex, so really, you’ll take what you can get.

Maybe things were getting better.

–

Kim Mingyu thinks he’s getting old.

He realizes this when Seungcheol picks up his phone to text away for the sixth time in 15 minutes, and Mingyu finds himself wanting to say ‘No phones on the dinner table!’ like a boomer. In his defense, it had been Seungcheol who had insisted on having this monthly meeting to discuss life and partnership updates, and Mingyu, despite wanting nothing more than to stay at home and dote on his wife and newborn son, had to go to this accursed meeting or he had to pay a hefty fine and face a sulking Seungcheol. 

The only upside was the booze.

(God his wife is gonna kill him if he comes home wasted.)

“Hyung, who are you texting?” Mingyu is unable to resist anymore. “You’re giggling so much. It’s weird, and creepy, and concerning.”

There were more words lying around somewhere in Mingyu’s head, but Seungcheol might put him in a headlock if he continued.

“My wife,” Seungcheol says in a dreamy tone, and Mingyu has to resist the urge to cringe at how lovesick his friend sounded.

Mingyu isn’t sure about how he should tread regarding the topic. On one hand, he was feeling a little angry at the fact that Seungcheol was being so weirdly in love with another woman after dumping his ex–one of Mingyu’s closest friends–in the most asshole-y way possible. On the other hand, he could relate. He, too, was absolutely smitten with his wife, and he couldn’t blame Seungcheol for giggling like a schoolgirl while texting his wife.

Mingyu decides to be polite. He needed to respect the fact that Sohee was a part of the past, and he needed to accept that he was partially at fault for even reuniting the two only for the relationship to end in the worst way possible. In his defense, Seungcheol is a stubborn man, and Mingyu had honestly thought that the man would fight for Sohee against all odds.

That didn’t happen.

“How’s Y/N doing?” Mingyu asks politely, if only to keep the conversation going. 

“She’s doing well,” Seungcheol is suddenly 100% into the conversation, and Mingyu doesn’t know if he’s going to be happy that Seungcheol is finally participating in the conversation or offended that Seungcheol is only talking because the topic is his wife. His friend was fucking gone. “But for some reason she’s more tired these days. I’ve told her to just work from home, but she insists on going to the office anyway.”

“I can’t blame her for being tired. I’d be tired if I was married to you,” Mingyu snorts, and Seungcheol sends a glare his way. “Not that I’d ever marry you.”

“I won’t fucking marry you either, dude,” Seungcheol gives him a look of disgust.

“Excuse you, I’m a great husband,” Mingyu argues back. Suddenly, his pride and husband skills were being questioned. He couldn’t have that. “My wife’s my witness, go call her.”

“Sure, I’ll call her,” Seungcheol smirks. “Then I’ll tell her how many bottles you’ve finished.”

“Hyung, I was kidding,” Mingyu loses all his fire at the mention of his wife. “Please don’t call her. She’s going to kill me.”

“Wow, you’re whipped,” Seungcheol laughs, downing the beer in his glass.

“Like you’re any better,” Mingyu rolls his eyes. “You were literally texting like a high schooler.”

Seungcheol only smiles, and despite the slight anger Mingyu harbors, he finds that he’s somewhat happy for his friend. It may not have worked out with Sohee, but at least it’s working out with you.

“You seem happier,” Mingyu says, a thoughtless comment to keep the conversation going.

“I am,” Seungcheol says with a smile. However, for some reason, it turns a little somber, almost as if Seungcheol was remembering something. “Just a little guilty for feeling that way.”

Ah.

So they were finally having this talk. 

Mingyu knows both sides to the story when it all fell apart, but for everything after that, he’s only known Sohee’s side. Today was the day he learned Seungcheol’s side, it seems. 

It’s a little fitting, Mingyu thinks, given the location. Two businessmen drunk off their asses on a Friday night discussing each other’s first love with either love or regret in their eyes wasn’t totally uncommon in this bar. In fact, Mingyu thinks the other table was in the same situation as him and Seungcheol.

Fuck, Mingyu needed another bottle if he was going to listen to all of this.

–

“Is it because of Sohee?” Mingyu asks.

Seungcheol braces himself for the longing, the desperation, but the only thing that fills him is guilt. An insurmountable, unfathomable amount of guilt that claws at his chest and stirs his stomach violently.

“Yeah,” Seungcheol nods. He can’t lie to Mingyu even if he wanted to. “You know what happened.”

“It already happened,” Mingyu shrugs casually, but Seungcheol can see the flicker of anger in the man's eyes. Sohee was like family to Mingyu after all, and Seungcheol was the bastard that broke her heart after Mingyu had entrusted her to him. “There’s no use in bringing up the past.”

“How is she?” Seungcheol asks. For some sick reason, some part of him still wanted to know, some part of him still cared, still… Loved. 

And it was a horrible feeling because when he thinks about the idea of being in love with Sohee, he’s suddenly haunted by the sight of your face and the nights you spent sobbing when you thought he was asleep.

“Good,” Mingyu says, but it does nothing to ease the ache in Seungcheol’s chest. “Or at least as good as she can be, given the situation.”

“I’m sorry,” Seungcheol has said it many times, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to say it enough. “I’m really sorry, I hope you know that.”

“I know,” Mingyu smiles at him but his lips are tight and his eyes are solemn. “It doesn’t change the fact that you broke her.”

“I love her,” Seungcheol finds that saying the words feels like someone’s dragging a barbed wire out of his throat. “I didn’t want to hurt her.”

Mingyu’s eyes grow sharp at his words. “You love her? Hyung, you’ve been married for months. What do you mean?”

Seungcheol pauses at that, your face flashing in his eyes.

However, Mingyu doesn’t give Seungcheol enough time to think because he continues speaking, “You’re kidding, right? You’re not seriously still in love with Sohee when you have a wife waiting for you at home.”

Seungcheol stays silent, jaw clenching and hands wrapping tighter around the glass. It’s the first time in weeks that he’s being put face-to-face with his problems like this, the first time he’s being forced to ponder about Sohee and what she meant to him now that he finds himself growing closer to you. 

“You’re unbelievable,” Mingyu laughs in disbelief. “Hyung, seriously—“

“I don’t know, okay?!” Seungcheol can’t help the way his voice raises, and part of him is thankful that the people around him are too wasted to care about his conversation with Mingyu. “I don’t fucking know anymore.”

“Well, you better know it soon” Mingyu spits out. “If you keep this up, you might end up ruining your marriage.”

“I won’t,” Seungcheol hisses, the thought making him uneasy. “I just need time.”

Mingyu stares at him, gaze hard and jaw clenched. Seungcheol wishes he could hear the hundreds of thoughts he knows is running through Mingyu’s head, wishes that the answer to his problem is somehow lost in that sea of thoughts.

Seungcheol doesn’t get that. Mingyu’s next words only add to his problems, “Hyung, did you ever even love Sohee?”

What?

“You’ve known her since we were kids, and even claimed to like her for that long,” Mingyu continues. “But not once did you look for her.”

Seungcheol is quick to defend himself, “I didn’t have the time—“

“Don’t give me that bullshit. We both know how stubborn you can be.” Mingyu’s dead serious about having this conversation, and Seungcheol can tell that he isn’t escaping this anytime soon. “If you wanted to fight for her, you would’ve done it. You hate being told what to do.”

Mingyu’s right, Seungcheol thinks, but he doesn’t understand why the man is suddenly questioning the depths of his affection for the woman whose heart he broke.

“You know it’s not that easy,” Seungcheol replies before taking another swig of his beer. Fuck, he didn’t want to be having this conversation right now or ever. “I love Sohee, but—“

“Then do you love Y/N?” 

Seungcheol’s blood goes cold at what he hears; Mingyu’s words acting like an anchor dragging him under, into ice cold waters.

It has him thinking of Paris, of the little café tucked away in a quiet street that felt so nostalgic, of the woman that baked him treats from his childhood and loved him wholly. 

It has him thinking of an island, of the little one-bedroom villa that feels like the promise of a better future, of the woman that makes his heart race and—-

Did you love him?

Did he love you?

“I don’t know,” Seungcheol breathes out.

“Then leave her,” Mingyu says with certainty despite the alcohol in his veins. “You said you love Sohee, but you don’t know if you love Y/N. The answer is right in front of you—“

“I’m not doing that,” Seungcheol looks at Mingyu like the man just went insane. The idea of leaving you fills him with a fear he’s never once felt in his life. It fills him with a dread that digs and claws into the crevices of his bones. “I’m not leaving her.”

“Then fix this,” Mingyu says firmly. “Unless you’re prepared to have her leave you.”

—

It’s 10:00 PM, and Seungcheol isn’t home yet.

You had expected it, considering the fact that he was out on a little boys’ night with Mingyu, but he had stopped answering your texts a few hours ago. You couldn’t help but get a little worried.

The sleep that threatens to take over you is a little difficult to fight, especially when you’ve been quick to tire these days. Only the lights and sounds coming from the variety show playing on the television was keeping you awake. Some part of you wonders if you should just stop being stubborn and follow Seungcheol’s suggestion of working from home until you regain your strength. 

“I’m hoooome,” Seungcheol drawls out as he hands his things over to the staff before walking to where you’re seated. 

At the sight of him staggering over to you, you’re quick to giggle.

Seungcheol’s a mess. His cheeks are flushed, his tie is askew, and his hair’s sticking out like he’s run his head through it multiple times. When he reaches you, he’s quick to kneel on the floor and lay his head on your lap.

He reeks of alcohol, and while it usually doesn’t bother you, something about the scent this time has you wanting to run to the closest toilet to empty your guts.

“I haven’t eaten dinner…” Seungcheol mumbles, and you’re alarmed. “Have you?”

“Cheol, why haven’t you eaten? It’s late,” You cup Seungcheol’s cheek to make him look up at you. He looked so cute, but the scent was seriously bothering you.

Seungcheol smiles at you, leaning into your hand as he speaks, “You requested that we— we eat dinner together. Remember?”

This idiot.

“Cheol, I already ate,” You say cautiously, already preparing for a sulky Seungcheol to make his appearance. “Chef Wen already went home so I can just cook for you if you want.”

As expected, Seungcheol pouts at you. “Traitor.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” You laugh a little. “What do you want to eat?”

“Are youuu on the menu?” Seungcheol wiggles his eyebrow suggestively, and you have to resist the urge to pull out your phone and start recording this.

Oh, how the tables have turned, Choi Seungcheol.

“Not for dinner, but maybe for breakfast tomorrow,” You reply. You need to end this conversation quickly before you puked all over Seungcheol. The urge was so strong that it was almost as if you had been the one drinking. “Now go take a shower, you smell like alcohol.”

“Fineeee,” Seungcheol huffs out before walking towards the stairs. 

You stay a few paces behind him, far enough to not offend your nose with the scent of alcohol, but close enough to catch him in case he tripped or fell.

When Seungcheol finishes showering, you’re already curled up under the sheets waiting for him.

The bed dips behind you underneath his weight, the blanket shifting and rustling as he covers himself from the coldness of the room. Once Seungcheol settles under the blanket, his arms are quick to wrap around you.

“Don’t leave me,” Seungcheol mumbles out, the alcohol clearly still in his veins.

Your eyes are quick to flutter open at his words, softly, you hum, “Hm?”

“I love you,” Seungcheol whispers, nose burying itself into your hair.

Your heart is suddenly beating faster, anticipation filling your veins at his words. You know you shouldn’t trust the words of a drunken man, but was it so foolish for you to hope that it was true—

“Sohee.”

Your world comes crashing down that night.

—

Seungcheol wonders if he did anything wrong.

It’s been a week since the night he came home drunk beyond comprehension, and you’ve switched back to that polite persona you had at the start of your marriage. It’s subtle, but every time Seungcheol reaches out to touch you or kiss you, you flinch for a second before something akin to defeat takes over you.

What could he have done to make you act that way?

“Here’s the flowers,” The old woman hands Seungcheol an arrangement of her freshest, prettiest flowers with a kind smile. “Your wife’s a very lucky woman.”

“I like to think I’m the lucky one, Ma’am,” Seungcheol smiles as he takes the bouquet and hands the old woman his payment (with a little extra to show his appreciation).

Briefly, he wonders if he should drop by your favorite chocolate shop, but he decides against it immediately. Seungcheol had woken up to the sight of you doubled over the toilet, vomiting so much that he was so close to rushing you to the hospital. Only your dismissal had held him back. He’ll buy you the chocolates another time, he thinks, when you’re feeling better. For now, the bouquet would have to do.

Seungcheol knows the bouquet won’t magically undo whatever offense he did, but he hopes it’ll—at the very least—put a smile on your face. 

But whatever he did, he needed to find out soon. 

—

This was the longest three minutes of your life.

You think the wood underneath you will start smoking soon with how long you’ve been pacing over the same wooden panels for the last minute.

You had woken up this morning feeling a violent stir in your stomach. It had been so bad that you immediately shot out of bed and rushed to the toilet to empty your guts. You remember Seungcheol rushing over to hold your hair and rub your back up and down as you vomited into the toilet until your eyes were teary and your throat was scratchy.

Seungcheol had forced you to stay at home, even going as far as threatening you with the idea of him staying at home to watch over you to make sure that you don’t sneak off into work.

Having Seungcheol around was the last thing you wanted, so you complied.

There’s one minute left on the clock, and you’re sitting down on the floor, back against the wall of your bedroom as you tuck your knees to your chest.

You loved Seungcheol, and you still do. Even when the only thing you’ve been feeling around him these past few days is an inexplicable pain that rips your heart into shreds. Every single time you’re reminded of that night, you feel yourself die, a slow, painful death that you can’t seem to see the end of.

It’s a pain you wouldn’t wish on anyone in this world, not even on the people who’ve wronged you.

A minute passes, and on shaky legs, you stand.

Your heart is pounding, blood rushing through your ears and pumping through your veins as you take slow steps towards the bathroom sink. With trembling hands, you pick up the cassette.

It’s futile to delay when all the signs point towards it, you think. The sensitivity, the nausea, the vomiting, the missed period, and the calendar showing the date six weeks from your honeymoon trip.

Two lines.

Positive.

The entirety of your body goes cold, and you’re quick to clutch onto the edges of the bathroom counter to stabilize yourself as your knees go weak.

At that moment, you don’t think of Seungcheol.

Memories from your childhood flash through your mind like a storm. The dinners spent alone, the heated arguments bleeding from the crack of your parents’ bedroom door, the slow deterioration of their marriage, and their insistence of staying in that dysfunctional relationship for your sake.

You would’ve been better off if they had divorced.

The decision comes to you quicker than you thought it would. Your child wasn’t going to suffer the way you did. That child wasn’t going to grow up watching their father pine after another woman while their mother cried herself to exhaustion in the bathroom every night. That child won’t have the complete family everyone else had, but that child would be loved. 

You could spend the rest of your life being second best to the memories of a woman who was halfway across the globe, but your child didn’t deserve to be damned to a fate like yours just because their mother was stupidly in love with a man that would never love her back.

Quickly, you wipe your face dry and stuff the pregnancy test into the trash can, covering it with toilet paper from the dispenser. Once you’ve hidden all the evidence, you sit on the edge of the bed and text your lawyer to prepare all the necessary paperwork.

That night, when Seungcheol gets home, you only ask him one question. One last attempt to save your marriage that was on the verge of collapse.

“Seungcheol,” You whisper shakily, tears pricking at your lashes as your eyes lock onto the bouquet in Seungcheol’s hand.

“Is everything okay?” Seungcheol asks. The worry is evident in his eyes as he reaches out for you, but you step back, putting a hand out in front of you to stop him.

The worry in his eyes is quick to turn into hurt, but you’re sure it’s nothing compared to the one in your heart.

“Are you still in love with Sohee?” Her name leaves your mouth like a curse, your throat seizing like the words were physically killing you as you say them. “Tell me the truth, please.”

Choi Seungcheol never lies, but you still find yourself pleading with him to not do it anyway.

He looks at you like there’s a loaded gun in his hand, lips trembling and eyes flooded with fear. You can see the plea in his eyes, the desperation, but that’s not what you want.

What you want is the truth.

“I’m sorry,” It’s all Seungcheol says.

It’s all you need to hear.

A/N: I am so sorry. I’m just here to tell a story, really 🙂‍↕️ Feel free to scream at me in my askbox LMAO (NO BUT ACTUALLY I AM SO SORRY FOR THIS ONE 😭). Mingyu’s story was too happy so I’m just balancing it out with this one 😄 Part 2 will be hopefully be out by the end of the year because I still need to finish my thesis and get my degree 🥹

psa: reader and haechan grew up in the same foster home, and are not actual siblings.

The shiny floors of the lobby clicked beneath your heels. Probably louder than usual given you were stomping. The woman behind the front desk took one look at you and panicked, quickly rising to her feet as you approached, and said, “Ma’am, please let me announce you.”

“I don’t need to be announced to my husband,” you countered, shoving the doors open.

Hovering over his desk, Haechan lifted his eyes when you stormed into his office. He did a quick scan of you from head-to-toe, and liked what he saw if the smirk on his lips was any indication. He quite enjoyed the sight of you hurdling toward him like a freight train.

You slammed the papers on his desk, between his splayed hands, and said, “Sign these.”

And to the surprise of no one, he replied, “No.”

“Haechan, sign the goddamn papers.”

“Suck my dick.”

You threw up your hands and asked, “Do you seriously want a drawn-out court case? Do you have any idea how expensive that’s going to be?”

“I have plenty of money,” Haechan argued coolly. “And, thanks to me, so do you.”

“Go to hell,” you spat angrily, white hot rage flooding through your chest that he was just so… unaffected. You wanted to reach across the desk and strangle him, but you knew he would love that.

Haechan stood upright, grabbed the papers, and walked over to his shredder, feeding them into it. The loud grinding of gears filled the small space and once it finished, harsh silence filled the void.

You watched Haechan saunter toward you, closing the distance. His eyes were alight with mischief, as usual, while you glared at him in defiance and folded your arms.

“Long time no see, darling,” he purred, blatantly eyeing you.

“Don’t try to butter me up, dear. I want a divorce.”

Haechan shrugged. “Well, we don’t always get what we want.”

You took a step toward him, refusing to back down, and said, “You can’t keep me married to you.”

Haechan’s eyes fell to your lips and you could see that he was seriously considering kissing you. He quickly abandoned that thought, but leaned in, meeting your eyes again, and whispered under his breath, “Watch me.”

You bristled with frustration. “This isn’t fair.”

“Don’t talk to me about fair,” Haechan said, tilting his head cutely. Anything he could do to get under your skin. “I made you a deal from the jump.”

Your jaw clenched. Some of your bravado fizzled out when you remembered the last time you’d seen your husband, a month ago. When you told him you were drafting up divorce papers. “I’m not going to apologize,” you seethed through your teeth.

“Then I’ll see you in court.”

You bit your lip. He was beyond infuriating. You always felt like you were a step behind him, always. Throughout your relationship, Haechan played you like an instrument. He could make you do almost anything he wanted; and then convince you it was your idea in the first place. It was no wonder he was such a good lawyer, using his skills to get your brothers out of trouble.

You’d had enough and tried to disentagle yourself from your husband. Obviously, that wasn’t going well, so you tried to do the one thing he didn’t expect.

You braced your hands on Haechan’s waist and backed him against the desk, hard enough to earn yourself a grunt from his pretty lips. Drifting your fingers to his belt, you spoke coyly, “I want to negotiate a new deal.”

Haechan snorted, but his eyes were on your hands unfastening his pants. “What do you have in mind, darling?”

You reached in and grabbed him, peering up at your husband with heat as you fisted his cock. “Sign the papers and I’ll make you feel good.”

He played dumb. “How?”

You smirked and dropped to your knees.

Now, to your credit, Haechan never anticipated this move, but he wasn’t mad about it. He viewed your filing for divorce as the start of a chess match, and behaved accordingly. He had no doubt he would win, but he also kept in mind the queen was the deadliest piece on the board.

Haechan sank his teeth into his bottom lip, fighting a grin at how impatiently you dragged his pants down around his ankles. He gripped the edge of the desk behind him and teased, “You look so good on your knees.”

Your eyes had been glued to his cock, which was hardening in your hands like clockwork, but you shot him a scowl at that and snapped, “Don’t talk. It dries me up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You parted your lips and steered him into your mouth, focusing on the head with your tongue. You’d barely gotten him into your throat and a shudder rushed through your husband’s body. Still sensitive as ever. You loved that about him. He never got used to your touch.

Haechan tipped his head back and let out a staggered whimper, like he was trying his best to keep it at bay and failed, and one of his hands came round to fist in your hair. You liked when he pulled on your strands, so you let him do as he pleased. For now.

You sat at his feet, pliant and pretty for him, gazing up at him with teary eyes as if you were made just for his use. You knew he liked that, and you wanted him to bend to your will.

Haechan guided your head back and forth slowly, sinking his cock into your wet mouth until your lips sealed around the base of him. “Fuck,” he growled, pumping himself into your throat a little faster and you tapped on his thigh.

You sucked in a breath when he pulled himself from your mouth and coughed, blinking the tears from your eyes. You shifted your weight on your knees, very aware of the dampness in your panties, and finally looked up at your husband.

“Open up,” he whispered, bringing your head forward with his hand in your hair.

“Can I hold onto you?” you asked shyly, as if you weren’t currently sucking him dry like rent was due.

Haechan smiled at you being so submissive. “Of course,” he said, always rewarding your surrender with gentleness.

You reached for him, settling your hands on his hips as you took him in your mouth again, eagerly swallowing him down. The room filled with the wet squelches of his dick thrusting into your throat and soon, his endless stream of quiet moans. You hated how much you liked listening to his noises, but you couldn’t help the vicious clenching between your thighs. You dared not touch yourself though, and kept your hands on his hips.

Haechan gave a few last jagged thrusts, grabbed your hair with both hands, and emptied his load into your mouth, easing himself on your tongue until you’d licked him clean. Meanwhile, he made sure to whisper, “Good girl…. That’s my girl.”

You shivered at those words. They always made unspeakable memories rush back to you.

Your husband finally released your hair as you rocked back on your heels. You wiped at your wet cheeks and mouth, until Haechan slipped his fingers under your chin and raised your head to make you look at him again. Fucking hell, he thought. You were the most beautiful thing in the world. He touched your cheek affectionately and rasped, “You’re so stupid, darling.”

Expecting praise, you blinked in surprise. “What?”

“You sucked me dry after I shredded the papers.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you glared at him as you realized that you had lost any and all leverage at the moment. You were so fucking turned on that you were prepared to confess to him that you weren’t nearly dumb enough and he should fuck you stupid, just to make sure.

You shook your head, hoping to rattle your traitorous brain back to its senses, but your pussy was in control at the moment, and she was livid. And horny.

Haechan watched the wheels turning in your head as he fastened his pants and taunted, “Just admit it. You wanna fuck me so bad.”

You clambered to your feet shakily and hissed, “I fucking hate you.”

“Sure you do,” your husband said dismissively. “See you at home.”

You glared daggers at him as Haechan circled back around his desk, going about his day as if you hadn’t just given him the blowjob of his life. “You owe me a new deal,” you eventually said.

“I owe you a nut. No more, no less.”

You seethed with anger, but didn’t dare humiliate yourself further and trudged out of his office in defeat.

The moment the door closed behind you and he was alone again, Haechan collapsed into his chair and heaved a big breath, muttering, “Holy shit.” It had taken all of his willpower to hide just how bad he’d been shaking.

He propped his elbows on the desk and held his head in his hands, wondering what in the hell he was going to do to remedy the situation he’d caused.

Your car idled in the driveway of a familiar house for almost twenty minutes. You stared at the unassuming two-story home, nearly identical to the dozens of others in the neighborhood. For a while, you lost yourself to the memories.

If you divorced Haechan, another chapter of your life would come to a close. Oh well, you thought. All good things must come to an end.

Says who? Haechan’s voice echoed in your mind. He never subscribed to such ideas. There was no rule that said life couldn’t be good - and stay good - forever.

Loss was nothing new to you, but it was the loss of your brothers that made your chest hurt. They worked very closely with Haechan. He would win them in the distribution of assets, for sure.

You sighed deeply. It didn’t change all the history you had with your family. The kids nobody wanted, that was your lot. Once upon a time, you’d been among the worst; an untamed hellion of a girl who wanted to damage herself and those around her as much as she could until there was nothing left.

It was the only way to take back control.

Haechan had saved you from yourself, and for that you would always love him.

You glanced down at your phone and reread his text for the millionth time. Not long after you’d left his office, Haechan had messaged you, Wait for me at home. Please. We can talk.

You’d responded, Fine. And left it at that. Truly, you wanted to talk to him more than anything. That’s how this ridiculous stalemate had begun in the first place. The bridges of communication between you and Haechan had inexplicably broke down.

Actually, not that inexplicable. Haechan was burning them down and you didn’t understand why.

Thinking about the big fight that led to you kicking your husband out, you shook your head and decided the three boys inside would be a good distraction. You hopped out of the car, dragged yourself onto the porch, and lifted your hand to knock, but the door swung open before you could.

Mark was already flashing you that big smile of his. “We had a bet going on how long you would sit in your car,” he said with a tiny laugh.

You rolled your eyes. “And Jaemin won?”

“Jaemin won.”

You snorted and slumped into your brother’s waiting arms, huffing, “Bunch of fuckers. All of you.”

Mark chuckled, patting your back as he hugged you tightly.

You were ushered into the warm kitchen and landed in a heap in the chair pulled out for you at the dining table. Jaemin was regaling your siblings about some drama with the neighbors while Jeno poured glasses of wine. You muttered a soft “thank you” when he slid a glass your way.

A few glasses later, you said, “He’s right though. I am an idiot.”

The conversation had inevitably turned to your marriage with Haechan. It went without saying that your brothers were very invested in how things would end.

“You really went to his office just to blow him?” Jeno exclaimed, putting his glass to his lips.

“I was trying to negotiate,” you said innocently.

“Yeah,” Jaemin said, lingering on the word. “Not your best move.”

“Tell me about it,” you droned, tossing back more wine, but it did nothing to dull the embarrassment you felt at being outmaneuvered.

Mark drunkenly spoke up, “I think it’s a great move.”

All eyes shifted to him and his rosy cheeks.

Mark glanced around the table and said awkwardly, “We men are simple creatures.”

You giggled while Jaemin and Jeno bobbed their heads in agreement.

A soft buzz settled in and the familiar symphony of laughter filled the kitchen, although one voice was missing. You sat with your brothers until night fell, reminding you of all the years you spent with them, talking till the sun came up.

Nobody knew you like they did. This was your safe space, the place where part of your heart would always live; the only good piece of you that existed.

“Divorce does seem a bit extreme, though,” Mark started, his eyes batting sleepily. “I mean, did you guys even try couples therapy?”

“You can’t convince someone who knows everything to go to therapy,” you replied, your voice filled with disdain. Therapy had been one of your first suggestions, but Haechan would rather dig to hell with his bare hands than be vulnerable with a stranger.

“Good point,” said Jeno. He was probably the most similar to Haechan in that regard. They had so many wounds from the past. Talking about it didn’t make them go away, especially when they’d spent so much time trying to forget.

Jaemin scratched his head. “You guys got married so young. You had to know that as you got older you’d hit some bumps in the road. Why are you ready to throw in the towel now?”

“I can handle bumps in the road. Shit, I can handle mountains, but I don’t want to handle them by myself. A marriage is supposed to be a partnership - that’s what we promised each other,” you said softly, stopping when you remembered the day you married Haechan. Sorrow filled you then. You’d both been so happy.

“What changed?” Mark asked carefully.

You stared at your glass of wine, swirling it slightly. You knew Mark probably heard Haechan’s side; they were best friends as well as brothers. Mark was the only person Haechan confided in. Not you. He only showed you his best side, his perfect side. But you’d bared your soul to Haechan and it killed you that he wouldn’t reciprocate.

“Nothing, I guess,” you finally admitted, your voice quiet as if shame had taken over. “We were always like this, but I was too in love to notice. Now, I see everything and… he won’t let me in. I feel like I don’t know him anymore.”

“You left, because you wanted him to come after you.”

You could hear the sympathy, but also the sharp edge of Mark’s voice. It was a statement and an accusation, and you knew then and there Haechan had come to that conclusion himself and shared it with his best friend. Maybe he hoped one day Mark would get the chance to voice it to you.

Once again, refusing to do it himself.

“My ears are burning,” announced Haechan as he walked in.

You ignored him as he took off his shoes and slipped out of his coat. When he marched right up to you and pressed a kiss to your cheek, you grimaced dramatically.

“Honey, I’m home,” said your husband cutely.

You deadpanned, “How was work?”

“Great. I got my dick sucked.”

You’d walked right into that one. Sneering, you so badly wanted to swing at his head. But he’d probably like that.

Haechan skipped away victoriously and poured himself a drink.

One-by-one, your brothers found excuses to leave you alone with your husband. The wine made you warm and relaxed, so you didn’t put up much of a fight. You sat across from Haechan at the table, watching him throw back a shot of something heavy, and tensed with just how goddamned attractive he was.

Your heart was mad at him. Your brain demanded you sever all ties to him for the sake of your peace. But god, your body wanted him so badly you couldn’t fathom going another night without bouncing on it.

All of which was made much worse by alcohol. You felt lighter, more at ease, and you realized too late you were now at a serious disadvantage when dealing with your husband. He could argue circles around you to begin with. Now, you were weighed down with wine. You were practically putty in his hands.

“You look drunk,” Haechan finally spoke to you, his eyes clouded.

“I’m not that drunk,” you shot back impatiently, avoiding his stare. You were going to hang onto your anger if it killed you.

“I can’t fuck you if you’re wasted.”

That snatched the wind right out of you. You looked everywhere but at him, knowing you would make a fool of yourself. “No one is asking you to,” you said, your voice low.

“That’s why you came back,” Haechan said calmly, spinning his glass of wine before taking a sip. His tone was red hot with mockery when he added, “You can hate me all you want, but you can’t stay off this dick.”

“Don’t be mean,” was all you could bring yourself to say.

“Why not?” Haechan reached across the table and snatched your hand, proceeding to play with your fingers. “You leave me. You threaten me with divorce. But I’m not allowed to be a little mean?”

You exhaled loudly. His hands on yours was ruining you. You wanted him to drag you across the table and take you in his arms, holding you until your heart healed. However long that took. But he had a point and so you surrendered. “You’re right. Be as mean as you want. I can take it.”

Haechan scoffed. He looked down at your hand and grabbed your ring finger, spinning your wedding band that he’d slid on your finger the day you married him, and whispered, “Feel this?”

“Yes.”

“You know what it means?”

“I know what it means.”

Haechan grabbed your hand tight and hissed, “It means if you wanna get out of this marriage, you’ll have to kill me.”

You tried to yank your hand back, but you were no match for his strength on the rare times he wanted to exert it. “Let go.”

Haechan shook his head. “Never.”

You glanced toward the table and watched him lace his fingers through yours, stroking his thumb over your hand gently as if he wasn’t ripping you to pieces with his words. Before you could stop it, tears slipped down your cheeks and you quickly used your free hand to wipe them away.

“Don’t cry, darling,” your husband cooed.

“I can cry if I want to,” you told him petulantly, like a fussy child. You chastised yourself for sounding so pathetic and groaned, “Fucking merlot.”

Haechan chuckled darkly and brought your hand to his lips, pressing one kiss after another across your knuckles.

Your eyes widened. Damn it. His soft lips reached your wrist and his kisses turned to nibbles then to suckling. You shifted in your chair, because you were flying at breakneck speed toward insanity. With his guard down, you ripped your hand away and whined, “We’re supposed to be talking.”

Haechan smirked, licking his lips. “I think you should take me upstairs and have your way with me,” he said shamelessly. “I owe you an orgasm.”

You let your head fall back and groaned. “Sex is not going to fix this.”

“I know that, but sex can at least do something about this tension,” he said matter-of-factly, and when you opened your mouth to argue, your husband cut you off, “You want it. Don’t even try to lie. I can see it’s eating you alive.”

It was the truth. You missed him so badly your body ached for him.

You were at the end of your rope. He was making you crazy with lust. Haechan always knew exactly what to say and do. You swung around to finally face him and said, “If I do this, you’ll meet me halfway with the divorce.”

“Not a fucking chance.”

You swore at him and got to your feet, heading upstairs to the room you shared with him. Haechan was right behind you, noting your steady gait. You notoriously stumbled all over the place when you were really drunk, but you seemed to have sobered pretty well in the past few minutes. Surely he didn’t have anything to do with that.

When you stepped into your room, Haechan slipped in behind you and shut the door, just as you wanted. You turned to him and he backed you into the wall, cornering you with his body against yours. You swallowed the lump in your throat and stammered his name, but any other words died on your lips when Haechan pressed a kiss to your neck.

“I just think there’s a more…,” you trailed, eyes fluttering at his hot mouth tracing under your jaw. “Amicable way for us to handle this.”

“I agree,” Haechan said blithely, lilting back to start unbuttoning your shirt.

Your body heated up by a thousand degrees. You watched him undressing you and stammered, “But you won’t… compromise with me on anything.”

Haechan tossed your shirt to the floor and then went to work on your jeans. His eyes were on the rapid rise and fall of your breasts. “Give me something I can compromise with,” he replied, calm as ever. “You keep asking for things I can’t give.”

“But that’s…,” you hesitated, his lips back on your neck, sucking right over your thundering pulse. Sanity was throwing itself out the window. His hands palmed at your breasts, slowly but surely taking off your bra.

“I’ve been counting down the days till I could fuck you again,” Haechan said in a low growl, kissing his way across your collarbone.

“I want that,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself. You quickly cleared your throat and lied, “I-I mean, I want us to talk things out. You know, in between fucking.”

Haechan’s breath was scalding on your skin when he laughed. He traveled his lips down to your breasts, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking. You were so malleable in his hands. He couldn’t wait to hear you beg before the night was over.

“Babe, I…,” you rasped, raking your nails over his scalp, trying to steer his dangerous mouth away from your chest. “I can’t think right now.”

“That’s the point, darling.”

Uh-oh. It was coming. You could feel the desire and the need boiling over and flooding into your veins. Any second now you were going to snap, throw him onto the bed (or the floor), and ride him into the sunset until he begged for mercy.

You sharply yanked Haechan’s head up, making his lips brush against yours and earning a delicious groan from his pouty lips. “You’re the worst.”

He grinned with delight like the devil himself. “You knew that when you married me.”

That was true. You knew what he was and what he was capable of. Mark’s question came to you again. What changed?

“You don’t fight fair,” you sighed under your breath.

“Why should I?” Haechan smarted, nibbling beneath your ear and playing with your breasts. “This is way more fun. And I always win.”

You held onto his shoulders and whimpered when he bruised your neck, crying out his name when he pinched and rolled your nipples. “Let me win once,” you choked out, grasping a handful of his hair again.

“When I win, so do you,” Haechan said shortly. “If you win, I lose.”

Those words swam around in your mind for a moment. Haechan kept kissing and touching you, but what he’d said drove you insane. “Are you saying… that what I want hurts you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand.”

Haechan pulled back to look you in the eyes and you wanted to crumble to the floor. “Yes, you do. For you to win, you want me to change who I am. For me to win, I want you to stay exactly as you are.”

“I don’t want you to change,” you exclaimed, cradling his head in your hands as if he were about to vanish before your eyes. “I just want to know you.”

Haechan grabbed your wrists and pried you from his face, sneering, “No, you don’t. You don’t want to know just how broken the man you married is.”

Your lips trembled as you began to cry. “You think I’m not broken too? I just want you to hold me and tell me everything’s going to be okay, but you won’t do that. It’s beneath you.”

Haechan released your hands. “It’s above me, not beneath.”

The tears were steady now. “Just love me,” you pleaded, wrapping your arms around his shoulders to keep him close. “That’s all I want from you.”

“And that’s all I’ve ever done,” he said coldly, leaning in to press his brow to your forehead. “But you fucking left me.”

You nodded and opened your mouth to speak.

Haechan crowded into you even closer. You didn’t think he could possibly press himself into you harder, but he did. His nose brushed yours as he whispered, “You have no idea what I want to do to you.”

His eyes went dark. You were ready to fold. All he needed to do was say the word.

Haechan reached up and grabbed your jaw gently. “When you left me, I wanted to hunt you down, drag you back, and tie you to the bed.”

Fire lit itself through your veins. Your heart skipped a beat. The way he’d said it made your knees weak. “Why didn’t you…,” you asked, shifting your weight. “Come after me?”

“You don’t want to stay with me. Who am I to make you?”

“You are my husband,” you said, raising your voice, and pushed his chest. “You’re supposed to drag me back to you. That’s what I wanted!”

Haechan’s eyes flickered.

You shook your head and cried, “I moved your queen across the board into enemy territory, where she was alone and vulnerable. And you did nothing.”

“I can only move one step at a time. She can move anywhere.” Haechan looped his arms around your waist and said, “She’s so much stronger than me. I knew she’d come back.”

“Don’t ever let me do that again.”

“I won’t.”

That was enough. You kissed him then, full of hunger and longing. Haechan kissed you back with so much lust and pain, you could feel it pouring out of him and into your skin. If you could just melt into him, life would be a lot easier.

Haechan steered you to the bed and shoved you onto the mattress harshly. In the next second, he was tugging your pants and underwear down your legs. Finding yourself naked while he was fully clothed, you laughed quietly. That was exactly how you would describe your relationship. You were open and real, he was sealed away and perfectly pressed.

“What’s so funny, pretty girl?”

You shook your head. “You’re so quick to strip me down. But you have to always be untouchable.”

Haechan snorted. “You can touch me.”

Your husband crawled over you and kissed you until there was not a single thought in your head anymore, chasing away the strife. You were completely tactile, only aware of his body on yours and his mouth on yours. You would be content with kissing him until sleep finally took you and put you out of your misery.

When the first cuff closed around your wrist, you weren’t surprised. Haechan didn’t stop for a moment until your hands and ankles were chained to the posts of the bed, distracting you with his tongue in your mouth. For the final touch, he smiled wickedly at you and gave you one more kiss while wrapping a blindfold around your head and tying it snug.

“Be good,” Haechan warned, climbing off the bed. You could hear his footsteps across the floor, and then nothing. With your sight gone, your hearing was all you had.

You laid there. Not that you had much of a choice. You tested the cuffs a few times, making the chains jingle. “H-Haechan,” you called out after a moment.

There was a small sound of movement, then familiar fingers touched your folds. You immediately squirmed. You must have wrestled a bit too much for his liking, because fingers became a flat hand delivering a single smack to your sex.

“I said behave,” your husband scolded.

You stilled yourself, but the rapid thumping of your heart threatened to rip you apart at the seams. Haechan touched and caressed between your legs, tormenting you, waiting for you to snap. The last thing you wanted was to give him any satisfaction. So, you bit your lip and willed your body not to move as two fingers pressed into your core.

Haechan tsked his tongue. “You think it pisses me off if you’re quiet?”

“God, I hope so,” you retorted.

Your husband laughed and the sound was downright salacious. His voice was even worse. “Joke’s on you. I’m not stopping until you traumatize the neighbors.”

You bit your lip harder, because his fingers were sinking in and out of you at a delicious pace, hooking against your sweet spot while his thumb pressed and rolled your clit. You could hear yourself getting wetter and wetter, so turned on it was borderline embarrassing.

“I’m not doing it,” you said stubbornly. “You won’t break me.”

“Famous last words.”

Your lower body tightened against your will. Damn him, you groaned inwardly. Despite your blindfold, you just knew he was smirking, his eyes on your perfect cunt as he buried his fingers inside. He dragged them against your walls, as deep as he could go.

“Remember when we were sixteen…,” Haechan started, fingering you to the edge of your first climax of the night. His tone was so dull, like he was discussing a business meeting that could have been an email.

“And you came in me after five seconds?”

A hand slapped over your mouth. Deserved, you mused. He’d lasted at least twenty seconds.

“You begged me for it,” your husband reminded, cocky. “You begged me to do it again too. You loved fucking training me with your body.”

You said something, but it was muffled against his palm.

“It’s my turn to train you. And you’re going to come now or I’m going to leave you tied up here until one of our brothers gets curious enough to check if you’re still alive.”

Fuck him and all the mean fucking filth that always came out of his mouth, you thought, but it was worthless. Your body coiled and shook as you released, your back arching on the mattress as much as was allowed by the restraints.

Haechan kept stroking his fingers in and out of you as you came, a victorious gloat on his face. He removed his hand from your mouth to press on your lower belly to keep you in place, your noises of pleasure filling the room.

“Fuck, yes, baby,” you moaned, writhing on the bed as he milked the last of your aftershocks. Finally, the need that had built inside you since getting on your knees for him was satiated.

Or so you thought.

“That’s one,” Haechan said nonchalantly and you gulped.

Time swiftly lost all meaning. Haechan worked you from one climax to another, your pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears. Actually, it was music to him. He loved listening to you beg.

At some point, Haechan’s phone rang and he had the audacity to answer, fielding someone’s questions levelly while still fucking you with his fingers. You partly wanted to ask who the hell was calling so late, but you couldn’t formulate the words when release was already dragging you back into its throes again.

Your husband hung up the phone and asked, “Where were we?”

“Please, Haechan. Please,” you chanted, whimpering desperately. Your body was slick with sweat, your cheeks damp with tears spilling from beneath the blindfold. You were an overstimulated mess, your body trembling wherever and whenever he touched you; even the lightest, briefest of caresses.

“Please, what?”

“I can’t take anymore.”

He chuckled. “You sure?”

You nodded rapidly. “Yes. I’m sure. Please.”

“Hm, I dunno,” your husband said, as if he were talking to himself. “I really like watching you get off.”

You were totally at his mercy and as far as mercy was concerned, Haechan had no reason to show you any.

Haechan played with your clit, his hand wet with the evidence of your many orgasms, and wiped off some of your slick on his pant leg before resuming his ministrations. “It’s probably a good thing I can’t keep coming over and over like you do, my little slut. I’d just stay inside you forever.”

“Fuck… you.” Your body arched off the bed again as you finished on his fingers, writhing. The orgasm was so intense you couldn’t even make noise, your breath stuck in your chest as you were trapped in a high between pleasure and pain.

The moment you settled down, Haechan said, “Tell me to stop.”

You took a few breaths. You were a nerve laid raw and he was still pumping his fingers in you, no matter how much you squirmed and shook. “If I tell you to stop, are you going to leave?” you asked, your voice wet with tears.

Haechan said nothing and the silence was brutal enough to crush you. For a moment, he just stared at you in wonder; your shivering and glistening body, your cheeks soaked with tears, your chest heaving for air. He had you right where he wanted you, but it wasn’t enough.

The bed shifted and you knew he was kneeling between your legs again, but this time, he propped over you and brushed his lips against yours, swallowing your cries. You felt his hard cock resting on your folds and it made you clench.

“Can I put it in?”

“Yes,” you said without missing a beat, nodding quickly.

Haechan slid into your wet, sore cunt and ripped your blindfold off, making you squint against the light. Your husband’s eyes rolled at the tight perfect vise of your walls and he groaned deep in his chest, biting his lip to keep from chanting, “Fuck.”

The sound that came out of you when he sheathed inside was mortifying. You let your head fall back on the mattress, satisfied at finally being filled, but so aching with release you couldn’t keep still.

“You don’t want a divorce. You want my attention. Now, you have it. Tell me what you really want from me,” your husband demanded, canting his hips back and forward, thrusting into you deep.

Your body accepted him hungrily. You pinched your lips together to stifle any more noises. They wouldn’t help your case. You were so sensitive it was almost brutal, your lips parted on another moan as he stroked his cock into you slowly, over and over. “I-I want…,” you trailed, your eyes rolling back. Another orgasm was already building.

Haechan smiled slightly at the twisted pleasure on your face and dropped his head to your chest, kissing across your breasts and lingering on your nipples. He snapped his hips into yours, driving his length into you so hard the headboard began to smack against the wall.

“Stop, stop, stop,” you chanted, fighting the binds around your wrists.

Haechan bottomed out in your heat and stilled, gazing down at you and watching you shuddering on his cock. “You want me to stop because it hurts or you’re about to come again?”

“I can’t come anymore.”

“I think you can.”

You blew out a breath. He was like a brick wall. Felt like one too, much to your delight. You searched his eyes, knowing there had to be some way to get to him.

Your husband smiled down at you and taunted, “Go ahead and think about it, baby. I can do this all night.”

You slumped into the mattress in defeat, your arms going limp at your sides. You unclenched your fists in surrender, letting go of the sheets. “Untie me,” you finally said. By your tone, it wasn’t a demand, but a request you knew he wouldn’t deny.

One-by-one, Haechan unbuckled the clasps around your wrists and ankles. You lay there demurely, acting like he’d done what he set out to do, but you weren’t broken. Not by a longshot.

The moment you were free, you launched at him, swinging at your husband’s head to throw him off balance. He caught your hands with his own, like you knew he would, but you tackled him anyway, knocking him to his back and landing right on him. Haechan fought back enough to make it interesting, but he relented pretty quickly when you dropped down on his dick and started riding him.

“Shut the fuck up, Haechan,” you growled when he opened his mouth to speak, probably to irritate you and you were beyond irritation already. Your whole body was screaming, your sex was utterly spent and aching, but this was the only way you knew how to slap that obnoxious look off his face.

Haechan grunted every time you slammed down on him, letting you pin his hands on opposite sides of his head. Your pussy grabbed him hard and when you stopped bouncing on his dick to roll your hips back and forth at a relentless pace, his eyes fluttered back and he moaned loud enough to make you laugh at him.

“If you would have come after me, we could have been doing this,” you said, annoyed. “You’re so stupid, my love. You’d rather have your pride than my pussy.”

Haechan shook his head. “Not true.” He struggled to get the words out with how hard you rode him, but finally managed to say, “There’s nothing I want more than you.”

“Act like it.”

Your husband reached for your waist and started to sit up, but you braced your hands on his chest and shoved him to the bed again. He grumbled in frustration and grabbed your hips harshly, digging his fingers into your flesh.

You propped yourself over him and dragged your lips over his jaw, nibbling at his neck. Then, you wrapped your fingers around his throat and squeezed, and hissed, “Come inside.”

Haechan’s eyes widened at you and he rasped, “Now who’s not fighting fair?”

You tightened your grip on him and worked yourself on his cock, feeling his hips rising to meet you like he couldn’t control it. “All’s fair in love and war,” you whispered.

Haechan didn’t question which one the two of you were. It was always war with him. He knew nothing else, and here you were matching him just as hotly. He whispered your name like a prayer and gazed up at you in worship.

It was all too easy to surrender to you, so that’s what he did.

“Give it to me.” You coiled both hands around his neck and kept your hold tight. Given the fucked out bliss on his face and the black pool his eyes had become, it was exactly what he needed. His cock was so painfully stiff in your cunt, you wanted to give him release so badly it possessed you.

Haechan panted and grabbed hurriedly at your body, his voice pitching as he warned, “I’m coming. Fuck. Don’t stop.”

You ground yourself down on his length and lost yourself to the high, crying out in pleasure when you finished one last time. Haechan released into your pulsing sex with a moan that echoed through the room, both of you whimpering through your ends. You rutted against each other to get through the aftershocks, Haechan painting your walls with his seed.

Your vision went blurry and you fell forward onto his chest, your husband’s arms wrapping around your body to catch you. Haechan held onto you with a desperation he rarely showed and felt himself floating back down to reality. Everything was warm and fuzzy, and he felt like he couldn’t get enough air.

You hid your face in his neck and closed your eyes. More than anything, you didn’t want to be parted; you wanted to stay locked against him forever.

“Are you okay?” Haechan asked after a moment.

“No,” you replied, making him shift under you with worry. “It hurts.”

Haechan started to gather you and lift. “Flip over so I can pull out.”

You clung to him harder and shook your head, and whispered sadly, “No. How I feel about you… it hurts.”

Haechan sighed heavily. “How do you feel about me?”

You let him sit up, keeping you in his lap, and even though he’d gone soft, you just didn’t want to be separated from him. You were fiending for any part of him you could get. You wanted the connection, you needed it. You were desperate to feel him. “That you’ll never love me as much as I love you,” you confessed, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and hiding in the crook of his neck.

“It really pisses me off when you say shit like that,” Haechan snapped.

Your blood turned to ice in your veins. Haechan laid you down on the mattress beneath him and then pried himself out of your arms and off the bed. You grabbed the blanket and covered yourself, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable, and watched him start to dress.

“You didn’t deny it,” you spoke up a moment later.

Haechan bristled with anger and rounded on you. “I have never done anything different. You changed, not me. I’ve never lied when I told you I love you, but you lied when you said you would never leave me.”

“So, I’m the problem?” you exclaimed.

Haechan made a face, like that was exactly the conclusion he wanted you to reach.

“Don’t you see that I always have to do something drastic to get your attention?”

Haechan mocked, “Don’t blame me for you being dramatic.”

You sat on the edge of the bed, holding the blanket close around your naked body, and peered up at him with tears in your eyes. “You shut me out, Haechan.”

He stopped and frowned at you. “I did not,” your husband snapped vehemently, like the thought repelled him.

“You did.” A soft sob escaped and you covered your face with your hands.

Haechan panicked, dropping between your legs and wrapping his arms around your waist. “Look at me,” he said, whispering your name gently.

You shook your head, still hiding your face.

“Look at me,” he said again slowly, reaching for your hands gingerly and pulling them away.

You were a mess, your eyes red, your cheeks glistening with tears, your lips still swollen from his kisses. “You never tell me how you feel,” you cried, sniffing back more tears. “I’ve told you everything, but you won’t let me see you. Sometimes, I feel like I’m sleeping with a stranger. It hurts.”

Haechan hung his head in shame, staring vacantly at your lap. He sucked in a breath to steady himself and clung to your hands.

You leaned your head against his and continued, “I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do, but you want to stay a mystery to me. You won’t let me in. I feel so disconnected from the person I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

Haechan’s eyes were misty now and he said, “I don’t want you to know… the shit I went through, the things I had to do. I don’t need you to carry that. I want that person to be dead. If I tell you about him, it would be like bringing him back from the dead when I worked so goddamn hard to bury him.”

“I understand, but that’s the thing about us and our brothers. We are the worst of the worst. We’ve been through hell. That’s why we’re the only ones that could get through to each other.”

“I know, but you’re different,” Haechan said shakily, wiping at his cheeks. “You’re my girl. If you knew… I could never survive you looking at me differently.”

You shook your head and assured him, “Don’t tell me, baby. Don’t dig up that body for me. Leave it be. But you’re so concerned with making sure I only see you how you want me to see you, that I’m barely getting glimpses of the man I love.”

“So, me crying right now - is that doing it for you?” Haechan asked with a tiny smile.

You laughed. “Yeah, it is. I don’t want you to cry, but crying is normal. It’s human. You think I don’t know you hide in the bathroom when you cry, because you think it’s weak? Why do that when you could be crying into my boobs instead?”

Haechan nuzzled your neck. “This is kinda nice.”

You chortled again, hugging him to your chest. “I just wanna feel you,” you whispered tenderly. “All the good. All the bad. Everything. Tell me how you feel… right now, in this moment.”

Haechan breathed you in, letting himself be cocooned by the warmth of you. Honestly, being on his knees between your legs and in your arms, feeling how hard you were holding him like he was your entire universe was healing something inside him. He’d never let himself be so sensitive to you and your touch before; that type of intimacy was too terrifying. It could so easily be abused.

“I think I’ve mastered the art of appearing vulnerable, but never actually being it. I always treat every conversation like an interrogation. Every relationship is a chess match. I don’t know who I am without this mask. I don’t want anyone to know the real me. I have to be…” Haechan trailed, the realization finally hitting him.

You nodded your understanding and finished for him, “It’s how you took back control.”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“I know about that all too well. I figured if I broke myself beyond repair, then no one else could do it.”

Haechan met your eyes and ran his thumbs over your cheeks, wiping away the remnants of your tears. He could see the joy pushing through your pain; connecting with him like this was all you’d ever wanted. “And now?”

“The good with you is replacing the bad from my life before. I don’t think you know just how much you saved me, Haechan.”

Haechan smiled at you, warmth blossoming in his chest when you leaned in and kissed him warmly on the lips.

“I love you, and I don’t need to know your past to keep loving you. I just don’t want you to hide from me anymore,” you said, brushing his hair back from his face. He would never know just how beautiful he looked to you, his cheeks pink and his eyes starry.

“I’ll do better.” Haechan blew out a breath. He felt… lighter. It was such a foreign feeling to him. This stalemate between the two of you had thrown him off kilter. He thought you wanted more than he was willing to give - to dig up the past. But he’d misunderstood. You just wanted him.

He could let you in. It wasn’t so scary anymore.

“Thank you, and…,” you bit your lip to fight the urge to cry. “I’m sorry for leaving you.”

That was all he wanted. “I forgive you,” Haechan said, and he meant it. The battle was over and somehow, you both had won.

"Morning, Renjun!" You chirped from behind the counter as you dried down a mug, the café already prepped for opening— you liked to take your time when doing the opening duties, and you found that coming in earlier helped avoid any unnecessary rushing on your end.

Renjun didn't say anything, opting to shut his eyes as he tilted his head to the ceiling. You didn't miss the tick of his jaw as he trudged towards you wordlessly, letting his bag fall from his shoulder to the shelf beneath the cash register.

"You know how to make a cloud latte," he muttered under his breath as he put on his apron, securing it tightly with a double knot behind his back. "Why am I here?"

Despite his less-than-enthused response, you grinned. You've been working with Renjun long enough to know that he's a little bit of a grump, so you didn't take his moodiness to heart.

"Hyuck's your best friend. It would make sense for him to ask you instead of anyone else," you reasoned lightly. "Plus, having company isn't so bad, is it? You'll be out the door before you know it!"

"Citizens are advised to stay indoors..."

Renjun lets out a groan as he lets his head hit the cabinet behind him. It hurts, but not as much as the migraine that's already beginning to form in his temples. And as if to add insult to injury (no pun intended), the sky lets out yet another guttural rumble, reminding him once more of his ill-stricken fate.

"I don't think Seoul's had a downpour this bad in ages," you remark from somewhere at the dining area. Renjun couldn't tell where exactly you are; he had slid down to the floor when he decided to accept his fate fifteen minutes ago, and his only view since are the bottles of syrup and unopened bags of coffee beans under the espresso machines.

And as if to add even more insult to injury, the two of you are the only ones left in the shop. With it being a Tuesday afternoon, most of your regulars are either at work or school. Renjun has never liked working during the rush hour, but God does he wish for that to be the case now.

He looks up when he sees your head pop above the counter, raising a brow at the smile on your face. He knows how awfully cheery you are, but even in a time like this? You must be crazy, he thinks.

"Isn't this nice? I never knew this café could get any cozier."

"Nice?" Renjun scoffs as he finally gets to his feet. "What about this is nice? We're stuck in, I don't know, what might as well be a Cat 5 hurricane, and you think it's nice?"

You roll your eyes, seemingly unbothered by his sharp tone. "You're so dramatic! I've been in one, you know? While I was on vacation in the States. It was a Cat 2, I think, and I promise this doesn't even come close to that! I mean, as long as we're not asked to evacuate, we should be fine-"

Renjun lets out a loud tsk, cutting you off as he unties his apron rashly, the fabric crumpling in his hand.

Your eyes widen when you register his movements. "You're not actually planning on leaving, are you?"

Renjun scoffs dryly in response. "You think I have a death wish?"

"Honestly? I could never tell when it comes to you."

He glares at you.

You quickly round the counter, successfully trapping him before he could escape to the break room. "Look, I'm sure it won't be too bad! Let's just continue to wait for updates. Coffee?"

"I hate coffee," he deadpans.

"You literally work in a café!" You laugh airily, moving to the teabag jars beside the espresso machines. Despite the heater being on, the coolness from the outside is starting to seep in, and you're sure Renjun could feel it too.

He doesn't say anything but huff under his breath as he leans against the cabinets behind him, taking out his phone from his back pocket. You take it that he's done with the conversation.

For a while, it's silent, the only sound apart from the tinkling of your metal spoon the harsh crashing of raindrops against the window panes outside. You think it's calming, but Renjun seems to think otherwise when you see him flinch from your periphery at the sudden flash that illuminates the room, soon followed by a loud boom of thunder.

Instinctively, you turn to him, but Renjun keeps his eyes fixed to his phone, his lips downturned into his usual frown.

"Did you know that lightning is hotter than the surface of the sun?" You remark, crossing the distance towards him with the mug of tea in your hands. Renjun looks up from his phone at your question, his stare blank, but his right brow raises slightly when he realises what you're offering.

He doesn't make the move to accept the mug as he pockets his phone, opting to cross his arms instead. "What are you doing?"

You tilt your head. "Huh?"

He nods towards the steaming mug in your hands. "What are you trying to do?"

"You said you don't like coffee, so I made you tea instead! It's Lemon Balm, known to reduce anxiety. It could also improve one's mood-"

"Yeah, so long as I'm still trapped in here, that's not gonna happen," he mutters, turning to face the window outside.

The rain is still as relentless as ever, the skies dark and gloomy despite it being daytime. If it was any other day, Renjun would have already been out the door, making his way home. A regular eight-hour shift is already treacherous enough on it's own— an eight-hour shift with you, while it's raining, on top of that, has got to be one of the worst things that's ever happened to Renjun in a while, which says a lot considering he's literally living in the same timeline as Lee Donghyuck.

Renjun turns to steal a glance at you, no longer at his side as you busy yourself with doing the dishes. As if just now never happened, you're back to humming to yourself, the song only sounding vaguely familiar to his ears. The cup of tea you made him is left abandoned on the counter, and for a split second he feels guilty for having not accepting it earlier.

You see, it's not like Renjun hates you. He's just indifferent, and that makes a huge difference. He's someone who prefers to keep to himself, a concept that you can't seem to fathom for some reason, and he finds your overtly-positive attitude equal parts annoying and draining. Renjun doesn't hate you— he just hates everything you embody, and that's enough to make him stay away.

"Look what I found!"

The last time Renjun heard your voice has to be around a few hours ago, when he decided to move from the counter to one of the couches in the dining area. It wasn't the most ideal considering the floor-length windows still gave him the perfect view of rain that he hated so much, but his legs were beginning to hurt from standing for so long and he didn't really want to sit on the floor and deal with your small talk any longer.

You must have gotten the hint when you decided to leave him alone, retreating to the break room to do God-knows-what— based on the grin on your face now, Renjun has a feeling that he's going to find out very soon.

You bound towards him, settling next to him with something in your hands. Your eyes instantly land on the sketchbook on his lap, but before you could say anything, like utter out a compliment on his drawing, Renjun snatches the pad away from your sight.

"What?" He grunts, cheeks feeling slightly warm for some reason. He had abandoned his phone some time earlier, deciding to peruse his sketchbook to pass the time. It was a good thing he brought it out everywhere he went— as awful of a situation he's stuck in, at least he has something familiar to keep his sanity in check.

Your grin grows wider (Renjun wonders how that's even possible) before you set a box between the two of you.

"I was bored, right? So I figured I'd clean out the break room to pass the time, and I found this! Johnny must have left it here and forgot about it."

Renjun studies the blue box, the words HALLI GALLI staring back at him in bold, yellow font. Oh, hell no. You're the last person he wants to play a card game with— not just because you're you, but also the fact that he just doesn't fare well with games in general.

It's not like Renjun is bad at them— if anything, it's quite the opposite, but the last time he played Halli Galli, he had almost gotten into a fistfight with his friends (he had to receive a kiss penalty from Donghyuck even though he won because Mark kept making up rules as they went along). Needless to say, all their game nights now require the presence of a moderator (not like that has done much anyway considering Jaemin hates intervening in literally anything ever, so Renjun doesn't know why they still try).

"I'm not playing this with you."

"Aw, why not? It's fun! Even for serious people like you," you tease, but Renjun doesn't laugh. Ignoring him, you continue, "we could make the most of this quiet time together."

"Nothing about today has been quiet," Renjun mutters. He's pretty sure you heard him, but you simply brush it off as you open the box, letting the cards fall on the sofa while you place the bell in the middle.

Renjun huffs, knowing he isn't left with a choice. You're adamant, he realises, and even if he weren't to give in now, he knows he'd have to eventually, and he'd rather deal with this now than later on.

You start the game, putting down a card of two coconuts before you glance at Renjun, waiting for him to complete his turn. He does the same (albeit much less enthusiastic than you), his card flipping to the other side to reveal four strawberries.

The game continues on that way, with you practically at the edge of your seat as you anticipate every next move. You had just put down three bananas, and your eyes are fixed on Renjun's hands as he slowly flips his card to reveal... two bananas.

You yelp, palm quickly outstretching to hit the bell, and despite Renjun's obvious disinterest in the game (or so you thought), you're surprised to learn that he's just as quick, his hand clashing against yours as you fight to ring the bell at the same time.

"I definitely got that one!" You proclaim proudly, to which Renjun scoffs.

"No way, you're barely even on the bell!"

"Nuh-uh, look! Your hand is literally on top of mine!" You wriggle your fingers for good measure, causing Renjun to look down at your hand— both of your hands, which are still on the bell. You were right; while most of your palm is covering the bell, only the tips of his fingers are touching the metal surface, the rest of his skin resting idly on the back of your hand. He's never really noticed how tiny your hands are— it's not like he's that huge of a guy to begin with— and the thought somehow brings an unexplainable flush to his face.

He quickly removes his hand, carding through his deck for the sole purpose of having something to do before passing you a card. "You just got lucky," he mutters, clearing his throat.

You giggle. "No, I'm just that good," you sing, waving the card mockingly in front of his face before putting it together with your deck.

Renjun rolls his eyes. You remind him so much of Donghyuck; it's a wonder how he isn't your best friend.

"I used to play this game a lot when I was younger," you quip randomly in the midst of the next round. You do that a lot, Renjun realises, stating facts he didn't ask for when it gets too quiet. It used to leave him not knowing how to react, but if there's anything Renjun has learnt about you in this limited time you've spent together, is that you don't need a response from him to continue talking, so he doesn't say anything.

"I'm an only child, so visiting my grandparents in Jeju was the only time I'd get to hang out with my cousins. We'd do everything together— even stay up late and wake up early the next morning so no time would be wasted. It was a wonder how we never ran out of things to do," you chuckle to yourself, fiddling with the cards in your hand.

"One time, it started to rain super heavily— kind of like right now, actually— all while we were cycling outside. Instead of seeking shelter, we decided to play in the rain. We got home freezing our toes off and I fell sick the next morning, but it was so worth it. I wouldn't trade that moment for anything else," you trail off softly, and Renjun doesn't miss the twinge of longing in your voice. At this point, the game had been long abandoned, your attention now fixed on the rain outside and Renjun on you. You turn to him, the fond smile still playing on your lips, and that is what causes him to look away, only then realising that he had been staring.

"What about you?"

Renjun's brows knit in confusion. "Huh?"

"You don't seem to like the rain very much."

"Yes, because it inconveniences people. Kind of like the situation we're in right now, don't you think?" His tone comes off as a little snappy, but before Renjun could regret it, you're already beaming at him in response. He wonders if you're ever capable of any other emotion apart from happiness.

"Sure, but look at where it brought us! Two friends, bonding, towards becoming even better friends!"

Nevermind. He doesn't feel bad anymore, not when he remembers that this is who he's dealing with right now. Plus, the term friends is a little bit of a stretch, isn't it? He doesn't know anything about you apart from the fact that— well, you're an only child and that your grandparents live in Jeju. He doesn't even know your last name, and he'd like to think that that should be the minimum requirement before considering someone a friend.

He rolls his eyes as he lazily throws his last card, ready to wrap up the game, only to perk up when he sees his lone strawberry face-up with four of yours. Quickly, he reaches forward to ring the bell, grinning in triumph when he realises you hadn't gone head-to-head this time.

"A-ha! I win!" Renjun smirks proudly, too caught up in his victory to realise that he's smiling. It falters when he notices you staring at him— not in defeat, but something much... softer. It looks similar to when you were recounting your memories with your family in Jeju. It looks like Jaemin when he's scrolling through pictures of his three cats in his gallery. It looks like Mark... when he's on FaceTime with his girl whenever they do long-distance.

Suddenly, Renjun could no longer hear the rain thumping harshly against the window next to him. He could no longer see the lightning that comes in flashes, nor does he flinch at the thunder that follows. Only two words form in his head:

Oh, shit.

lee donghyuck [3:41pm] yowww 🔥🔥🔥 [3:53pm] r u alive? lol [4:02pm] wait no like actually r u???? [4:22pm] pls tell me ur sfae omg im gonna start sobbinf and cryin rn dont evne [4:46pm] HUANG RENJUN [5:12pm] NAWWW we really lost an angel today.... jun i hope ur looking up at us 🙏🙏🙏

huang renjun [5:24pm] UP???

lee donghyuck [5:24pm] oh hey lol [5:24pm] wyd

Renjun utters a curse under his breath as he switches to his phone app, bringing the device to his ear immediately after he dials Donghyuck's number. It rings twice before the boy picks up.

"Injun-ah!" Donghyuck's voice is hoarse— so he wasn't lying about being sick. That doesn't make Renjun any less annoyed, though. "I was so worried-"

"Cut the shit, Hyuck. Did you know?"

Donghyuck is silent before he replies, as though carefully choosing his next words. "... Know what?"

"That she likes me."

"That who likes- oh my God. Did she tell you already?" If it's even possible, Donghyuck's already-naturally nasally voice sounds even more annoying now that he's excited while sick.

"What?" Renjun hisses into his phone, glancing around the room to make sure he wasn't too loud. Granted, he's currently alone in the men's room and he's 90% sure you aren't outside eavesdropping, but he could never be too careful. "So it's true?"

"I mean, only because she was so fucking obvious," Donghyuck snickers before he breaks out into a fit of coughs. "I'm surprised it took you this long to notice."

Renjun groans. "How the hell was I supposed to know? She talks to everyone the same way!"

"Dude, have you seen the way she looks at you? It's like when Jaemin looks at Luke, Lucy, and Lu-"

"Yeah, yeah. I got it, alright?" Renjun grumbles. "Shit, what should I do now?"

"Um, nothing? It's not like you're even supposed to know that she likes you," Donghyuck quips plainly. "Dude, why are you even freaking out? Wait- do you like her back?"

"No!" Renjun exclaims, a little too quick for his own liking. Maybe it's because he could practically see the teasing smirk on his friend's lips, or maybe it's just the suggestion that sounds so fucking absurd he had to shut it down immediately. "It's just- look, I've been nothing short of mean to her this entire time so I kinda feel bad, alright? Why would she even like me like that? I mean- is she some sort of masochist, or something?"

Donghyuck guffaws, clearly not about to let his embarrassing stuttering slide. "Okay? And why are you so worried? Since, you know, you don't like her like that and all."

"You're hopeless," Renjun mutters, not bothering to bid Donghyuck goodbye before he hangs up. He should've known that the boy is the last ever person he should seek advice from; Jaemin would have made for a better candidate.

But calling Jaemin now would only be suspicious, and Renjun knows it would only be a matter of time before you would knock on his door to ask if he's doing alright— because that's just who you are as a person.

Huh, maybe he does know you better than he thought.

Renjun has long given up hope that he'd be going home tonight. The thunderstorm is still as relentless as ever, the skies growing even darker now that the sun has set. The café is bathed in a warm light, and under a different circumstance he would've found it cozy.

You're situated behind the counter now, probably having moved there when he was in the restroom. Instead of going back to the couch, Renjun finds himself heading towards you. He doesn't know why.

"Forecast says the rain won't stop until morning." You don't look at him as you say this, and Renjun quickly notices the two cups of instant noodles you're currently busying yourself with, the rising steam swirling lazily in the air. You only turn to him once you're done mixing the noodles, a sympathetic smile on your face. "Looks like we'd have to stay the night."

"You sound oddly sad for someone who claims to love the rain." Against his better judgement, the words slip out of his mouth. Renjun thinks it must have something to do with his conversation with Donghyuck earlier, because why does he feel like he's being weird all of a sudden?

You merely shrug, handing one of the cups to him. This time, he accepts it, and Renjun tries not to flinch at the feeling of your fingers brushing against his.

"Well, I still do! If I could, I'd run outside right now and play in the rain, but the news just issued a lightning alert and I'd rather not risk getting struck, you know. Besides, staying inside isn't all that bad," you quip lightheartedly, a small grin on your face as you bring your chopsticks to your lips, blowing on your noodles lightly.

Renjun doesn't say anything, his brows only furrowing at your response. How is it that you're still so cheery even after everything that's happened? It's as though you didn't just find out that you're literally stranded here with no way home until the next morning.

The room illuminates momentarily when thunder strikes, and this time, Renjun does flinch. If he wasn't already holding on to his cup of noodles so tightly, it would have already spilled all over him. Clearly, you notice, and you don't look away quickly enough to act like you didn't.

"You know, I've learnt recently that a lightning bolt is only as wide as your thumb, but it could stretch on for miles," you say as you swallow your food, showing a thumbs-up as you grin at him playfully. "It's kind of crazy, right? How something so small could be so powerful?"

Renjun clenches his jaw, shutting his eyes momentarily. "Alright," he mutters, placing his cup on the counter. "Why do you keep doing that?"

You raise your brows, lowering your hand. "Doing what?"

"That. Every time it gets loud and I- I startle, you tell me some random fact, as if it's going to magically drown out the thunder."

"Well, it works, doesn’t it? It’s my secret technique to distract you! And think about it this way: every time it thunders, I get to share a cool tidbit with you. Like how lightning can strike the same place twice!”

"Yeah, because that makes me feel so much better," Renjun mumbles, though he finds that the edge in his voice has softened.

"Oh, relax." You roll your eyes jokingly. "Lightning only often hits tall structures like trees or skyscrapers, so you’re safe here with me.”

He scoffs. "Tall? Is that a jab?"

You gape, and you fear that you've struck a nerve within him. "N-No! I mean, I'm just saying! You're probably just not tall enough to worry about it, unless you're like, I don't know, Yao Ming or something," you start to ramble. "Even then, did you know that the tallest man in the world is a whole foot taller than him? I guess he would have a higher chance of getting struck by lightning, then, wouldn't he? Or not, considering, well, you know, he's dead. I don't-"

You're cut off when you feel a palm cover your lips, and your eyes widen at the contact. Renjun stares at you, unimpressed.

"You," he starts. "Talk too much. You know that?"

With his hand still over your mouth, you're unable to reply— even if it wasn't, you doubt you could, anyway. His skin against yours brings a warmth to your neck and cheeks, and you could only hope he couldn't see how bright red you're sure you are.

You nod your head slowly.

Renjun scoffs, finally dropping his hand as he glances to the window behind you. If you weren't already staring at him so intently, you would've missed the slight upturn of his lips. "Wow. So not only am I terrified of the storm, I'm short, too?" He shakes his head, half-amused.

"Hey, you said it, not me!" You exclaim defensively, feeling much more relieved now that you've seen him smile. You wonder if he's aware of how pretty his smile is. "Though for the record, I think you're the perfect height!" You pause, "f-for dodging lightning, of course!"

Renjun didn't like how the first half of your sentence made his heart beat faster. If only he were any closer, he'd hear your heart beating just as fast, too.

"You kids hang on tight, alright? There are blankets in the break room if you need them— and keep me updated!"

You've been in contact with your boss since the lockdown announcement hours ago, and despite your last message telling him that you and Renjun are alright, it seems that it's just in Johnny's nature to be overly-concerned as his worried face now flashes on your screen.

"We're alright, Boss, we promise!" You say for the umpteenth time. "This shop's stable enough to withstand a strike or two I'm sure, so we'll see you tomorrow morning!"

"Don't joke about that," Renjun hisses, nudging your arm with his elbow. He turns to the screen again. "We'll be sure to give you hourly updates."

At this, Johnny seems a little more at ease. You bid your boss goodbye, and the café soon falls into a silence, with only the humming of the lights and distant rumbling in the skies to keep you company.

"So... should we get ready for bed?" You ask, slapping your thighs as you stand up from the couch. For some reason, it feels awkward. You've long grown accustomed to Renjun and his lack of words, but somewhere along the way today, it seems that the air between you two has shifted— for better or for worst, you couldn't really tell— and you're not sure if you could salvage it.

You've always liked Renjun— of course you have— but today, it feels more impossible to contain your feelings with nobody else around. You like to think that you were good at hiding it all this while (despite what Donghyuck says), but right now, you're not so sure if you could spend a second longer with Renjun without accidentally blowing your own cover.

"I'll go grab the blankets," he says quietly, snapping you out of your reverie before ushering away to the break room. You let out a breath you didn't realise you were holding, turning around to face the couch. Surely, your feelings could wait, because right now, there's only one thing that matters more: your sleeping arrangement.

You bend down to grab the couch by the armrest, pulling it further towards the middle of the dining area. With it being originally situated right by the window, you figure it wouldn't make for such an ideal (or safe) makeshift bed.

"What are you doing?"

You huff, returning to your original height to see Renjun by the door of the break room, a bundle of plaid blankets in his hands. He has a brow raised— you notice he does that a lot when looking at you— and you laugh meekly.

"Just, you know. Wouldn't wanna get struck by lightning, or anything like that."

He rolls his eyes (again, something he does a lot when it comes to you) as he makes his way towards you, letting the blankets fall on the sofa. "You can take the couch. Probably should lay one of these out first, though. Not sure how many butts have been on there."

Usually, you would have laughed at his comment, but this time, you find yourself tilting your head in confusion instead. "Where are you gonna sleep?"

Renjun shrugs. "The chair works fine for me."

You frown. Taking one of the blankets, you spread it out before letting the fabric fall over the couch. "The chair? There's no way you'd be comfortable like that! Look, the couch is big enough for the both of us. We'd have to stay seated, of course, but that's better than sleeping in a chair, right? Or would you rather we take turns?"

Renjun scoffs. "What? We're not in an apocalypse. There's no need for night watch."

Still, you stall, and it causes him to sigh. Renjun steps towards you, gently planting his hands on your shoulders before guiding you down onto the sofa. "Gosh, you're stubborn. Just take the couch, alright? It's not like I'm planning on sleeping, anyway."

The last part of his sentence comes out in a low murmur, but you still catch it.

"What do you mean you're not planning on sleeping?" You echo, and based on the flash of panic that crosses his face, you're sure he hadn't mean to let that one slip.

"I mean, with the storm and all," Renjun explains stiffly, glancing away. "I'm just saying, there's no way I'd be able to sleep with all that noise."

You gape slightly before your lips transform into a grin. "Could I interest you in another fun fact, then?"

Renjun groans loudly, and you find yourself giggling at his response. And when you hear the low chuckle that escapes his lips, you find your heart swelling at the sound of his laugh.

"Seriously, let's just share, alright? Look, I'll even stay up with you! I won't talk if you don't want me to, though."

Renjun finally gives in, sitting at the other end of the couch. "When has that ever stopped you?"

Noting the lack of bite in his voice, you grin. "Touché."

Eventually, the two of you fall into a comfortable silence, and for the first time in a while, you don't feel the need to make conversation. You've never been one to be able to stay quiet for very long; clearly, Renjun is someone who does, and today, you learn that it really isn't all that bad.

Renjun steals a glance towards you, but you have your eyes fixed on the rain outside, a small smile still tugged on your lips. It looks like you're watching a movie, the floor-length windows a giant movie screen, and the flashes of lightning the different scenes bouncing off your features. He must have missed the thunder that comes afterwards, only realising it when you turn to him with that stupid, pretty smile still on your lips.

"Uh," Renjun stutters, having been caught off-guard at the sudden eye contact. He quickly looks away. "You don't have to do this."

You tilt your head. "Do what?"

"Stay up with me. You should get some rest."

You laugh, and Renjun wonders if it's always sounded this beautiful. "Don't be silly! I don't mind. I know you're gonna chide me for saying this, but it's kinda nice. I can't remember the last time I stayed up to watch the rain," you pause before turning to him. "You're probably gonna hate me forever for making you endure both a thunderstorm and my chatter in one night," you say teasingly.

"That's not true," he says quietly, only belatedly hoping that you hadn't heard him. Clearing his throat, Renjun turns to his right where his messenger bag lies, taking out his sketchbook he had haphazardly stuffed inside earlier. He flips it open, feeling your curious eyes on him as he looks for the page he had been working on.

"The rain looks better on paper for me," he explains awkwardly. "You know, since we're on the topic of likes and dislikes."

Renjun feels you scoot towards him, and he hates that he could feel the warmth emitting from your side even despite the blanket that envelops your shoulders.

"That's so pretty," you say in awe as you study the drawing. Despite it being so simple, nothing but a rough sketch of a window pane covered with rain drops, you still find yourself marvelling at the intricacy of it all. You could barely even write a whole essay legibly, yet here Renjun is, crafting a whole masterpiece with nothing but a blue ballpoint pen. "I wish I had an ounce of your talent. You're amazing, Renjun."

Even though he's no stranger to getting compliments for his works, it somehow feels different coming from you. It's probably because of how intimate it is— you and him, cramped on a couch in a barely-lit café with your arm pressing into his side— that's all there is to it, right?

But as he turns to you, taking in the stars that seem to dance in your eyes and the pink hue that dusts your cheeks even in the dark, Renjun starts to wonder if maybe, it's more than that. If maybe, the way his heart is stuttering isn't because of the setting, but you— only you.

With the way Donghyuck's question from earlier still plays in the back of his head like a broken record, Renjun knows that it's the truth.

✦ ✦ ✦

With it being late into the night, the two of you lapse into silence, too tired to keep a conversation going, but still very much awake— as though under an unspoken agreement to not fall asleep.

The rain has reduced significantly and the thunder has lessened, nothing but an occasional low rumble in the distance, but every now and then you'd still feel Renjun tensing from next to you.

“You know, statistically, you’re more likely to get struck by lightning than win the lottery,” you mumble sleepily, barely able to keep your eyes open.

Renjun lets out a soft chuckle. “Comforting,” he replies, though there’s no real edge to his voice. “So, basically, I’m doomed.”

“Not while I’m here,” you say through a yawn. “Consider me your good luck charm.”

Renjun shakes his head, but there’s a softness in his expression now, something warm and unspoken passing between you. The couch creaks slightly as you both shift to get more comfortable. Your cheek brushes slightly against his arm, but Renjun doesn't pull away. In your half-conscious state, you barely feel his arm circle behind you, pulling you closer towards him as he guides your head to rest on his shoulder.

"Then I guess I'd have to keep you around for every storm."

Click.

That's the sound you wake to, the sun that hits your eyelids being the second thing to rouse you from your slumber. You stir, your cheek brushing against something soft that only makes you want to sleep even more, but the sound of suspicious giggling causes you to open your eyes.

Your bleary vision lands on Donghyuck, who's currently standing before you with a cheshire-like grin, his phone in his hands.

"Don't you two look cozy?" He coos, tapping on his screen once more before his phone produces another click.

Finally registering what's happening, you jolt awake, only belatedly realising the oh-so-soft material to be Renjun's clothed chest. You must have fallen asleep on him sometime during the middle of the night, and you can't figure out what's more embarrassing: that, or the fact that Donghyuck has proof of said... intimacy.

"Lee Donghyuck! You better not post that!" You yelp, jumping off the couch to reach for his phone, only to fail as he waves his arm in the air, cackling manically.

Renjun finally stirs at the noise. “What’s going on?” he mumbles groggily, only to frown when he registers what you and Donghyuck are doing.

You whip to turn to Renjun, almost tripping in the process, throwing him an apologetic glance. “N-Nothing! Just- uh, a little misunderstanding!”

Donghyuck lowers his arm, tongue poking out of his lips as he types rapidly on his phone. “Oh, I’m definitely sharing this. Aw, you two are so adorable!”

Renjun groans. "Fuck off, Hyuck, seriously." He stands up, picking up his bag before stuffing all his belongings inside. "Ignore him. Let's go."

You giggle, your own embarrassment seeping away when you realise just how flustered he is. "Renjun, wait-"

"Nope, not waiting," he mutters, the tip of his ears noticeably pink as he slings his bag over his shoulder. "We're leaving before this asshole gets anymore material." He shoots Donghyuck a glare, who only waves a hand mindlessly.

"I may be an asshole, but at least I'm not delusional. Seriously, guys, it's painful watching you pretend like you're not into each other!" He cries dramatically, and Renjun's eyes widen before he forces another warning stare to his friend.

"Thanks for the unsolicited advice, Hyuck," he mutters, hoping his voice didn't waver too much, before quickly grabbing your arm and leading you to the door. "We're leaving."

"Have a good day, lovebirds!" Donghyuck sings, and Renjun flashes him a middle finger with his free hand without turning around.

You couldn't help but to laugh as you let him drag you out to the sidewalk, the cold outside air hitting your skin for the first time since yesterday. It's no longer raining, but the streets are still wet from the overnight storm, and it helps in cooling your own burning cheeks.

Renjun finally releases you when you're a little further away from the café, turning to face you with a sigh. "Sorry 'bout that," he mumbles, his cheek still painted red, and you wonder how it's possible for him to be this cute, grumpiness and all.

"It's okay." You bite your bottom lip to suppress a grin, and Renjun smiles at you weakly.

There's a moment of silence between you two before Renjun clears his throat awkwardly. "He's right, you know?"

"Hm? About what?" You ask, slightly taken aback by his sudden soft tone.

Renjun shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his voice quiet. “About… me being into you. Wait, that came out weird." He stumbles over his words, and you merely beam at him as you give him time to compose himself.

"It's just— I know I haven't been the nicest to you, and I know it may sound crazy, but I had this whole revelation yesterday that I do have feelings for you— and I promise this isn't just a fleeting thing because of the storm— I genuinely think you're really cool."

You don't say anything, only a soft smile playing on your lips, and that causes Renjun to panic.

"I mean, I know I've been a jerk to you, and I know this isn't an excuse, but I just didn't know how to-"

You cut him off by leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, effectively halting his words. His mouth hangs open slightly, eyes wide as he stares at you in disbelief, his face flushing.

When you pull back, you couldn't help but laugh softly at his stunned expression. “You're rambling,” you tease with a playful smile.

He coughs out a small laugh. "Yeah, sorry. Guess I was." The smile stays on his face this time as he meets your eyes. "So... does that mean you're not compelled to the idea of going on a date with me?"

"Nope. Not at all." You rock between your heels and toes, already feeling the excitement bubbling in your chest. You like to think that you're doing a much better job at keeping your composure, but you're sure anyone could see just how bright red you are. "I think I'd really like that, actually."

Renjun's eyebrows raise before his expression eases into one of relief, and for the first time, a large smile graces his lips. You think you might just have a new favourite thing now— one that easily tops the rain.

Giselle hums, tilting her head in consideration. “I mean. Fair.”

You find the tape—buried under a pack of sketch pens—and tear off a piece with your teeth. Giselle doesn’t even blink. You’ve clearly been driven past the point of rational behavior.

The common room is nearly empty at this hour. The vending machine hums in the corner, a lone microwave beeps from the communal kitchen, and some guy is asleep at one of the tables, his face smushed into an open textbook. Outside, the campus is quiet, bathed in the dull orange glow of streetlights.

And above all that—above you—the same godforsaken sound drifts through the ceiling. A soft, melancholic strumming, like the soundtrack of a coming-of-age movie that just won’t end.

Newsflash: we’re not. This is a dorm, not some group therapy tent at a shitty music festival, and I promise you, no one is having a life-changing moment listening to your sad indie ballads through these paper-thin walls. I don’t know what heartbreak you’re working through, but please—either take it somewhere else, invest in some headphones, or play at a reasonable hour like a normal human being. 

You slap the notice onto the bulletin board and smooth the tape with your palm. Giselle huffs as she gets up from the couch to read the piece of paper you’ve put up.

NOTICE: TO INDIE GUITAR GUY

Some of us just crawled out of finals week held together by caffeine and regret, and the only thing we want to hear at 2 AM is nothing. But instead, every night without fail, you’re out here strumming away like we’re all living in some coming-of-age movie where you’re the main character. 

If not, I will personally start hunting you down to cut your guitar strings. Try me, asshole.

“You do realize you could just go up there and knock, right?”

You cross your arms. “And then what? Have a conversation?”

“That is generally how human interaction works, yes.”

You shake your head. “No. If I knock, I have to be nice. And if I’m nice, I can’t say everything I want to say. This is a better solution.”

Giselle gestures toward the board. “Your better solution is an unhinged public rant?”

“Yes.”

She squints at the paper, then snorts. “You threatened to cut his guitar strings.”

“Because if I get my hands on them, I will.” You shove a thumbtack through the top of the page for extra measure, pinning it onto the board with a little more force than necessary. The other notices tremble in protest—flyers for dorm cleaning (which you think would definitely be a scam), someone looking for a new roommate, and a very questionable ad for adopting a cat together.

You furrow your eyebrows at the last one. Whoever put that up actually lacks brain power because pets aren’t allowed in the building and the RA can easily see what’s on this board. 

You turn away from the bulletin board, brushing your hands together like you’ve just solved a great moral dilemma. “Okay,” you say, “I’m going to bed.”

Giselle barely glances up from her phone. “Good luck with that.”

You ignore her and make your way toward the hallway, already fantasizing about the blissful, uninterrupted sleep that will hopefully be in your future. Maybe you were a little dramatic, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

And if Indie Guitar Guy has even an ounce of common sense, he’ll take the hint.

And right now, you’re pretty sure you’re experiencing it firsthand.

E

The placebo effect is when your brain tricks your body into thinking something is working, even when it isn’t. Like when people take sugar pills in medical trials and somehow start feeling better just because they believe they got real medicine. It’s mind over matter, proof that sometimes, the illusion of change is just as powerful as change itself.

For the next two days, you sleep like a rock.

The thought of guitar guy reading your notice, and finally stopping his antics makes all your post-exam exhausted brain latch onto the idea like it’s a lifeline. It doesn’t matter how it worked—whether it was shame, guilt, or a sudden revelation that 2 AM concerts aren’t a personality trait. What matters is that it’s quiet. No more strumming drifting through the walls, no more tossing and turning while waiting for him to get tired.

You wake up feeling victorious.

For the first time in weeks, you don’t have to drag yourself out of bed like an extra in a zombie movie. Your coffee tastes better, the air smells cleaner, and even your 8 AM lecture seems bearable. Giselle eyes you over her cereal as you practically float around the dorm, humming to yourself.

“Wow,” she says, shoveling another spoonful into her mouth. “I almost forgot what you’re like when you’re not being slowly driven to insanity.”

“You see?” You gesture at yourself. “This is what happens when people respect community living.”

By the third night, you almost forget he ever existed.

But of course, you were being delusional. Stupid, even. Because this dorm not only houses you and your friends, but also stupid boys who would probably not give a flying fuck about notices like the one you put up. 

You rub your eyes vigorously, trying to scrub away the sleepiness. It’s past midnight and you should be cruising through your REM cycles right now. Instead, you listen to the strumming of a guitar somewhere above you.

And because the universe is cruel like that, you actually recognize the damn song.

Why would anyone sane play Mariposa by the Peach Tree Rascals at fucking 1 in the morning? You curse internally before groaning, rolling onto your stomach and shoving your face into your pillow, as if that’s going to block out the sound. It doesn’t. If anything, the acoustics of the dorm—cursed, absolutely cursed—only amplify the soft, lazy strumming. He’s not even playing the full song, just absentmindedly plucking out the chords, like some guy in a movie sitting by a campfire, contemplating life or whatever.

For a brief second, you think, Okay, fine. It sounds kind of nice.

And then you remember that it’s past midnight.

Sitting up abruptly, you push your covers off, jumping off your bed with a newfound motivation. What kind of asshole sees that big notice that you put up and still doesn’t have the decency to stop?

When Giselle hears you shuffling around, she looks up from her econ textbook, shaking her head with a sigh. “You’re going to feel bad when this guy turns out to be, like, the sweetest person ever.”

You scoff, yanking a hoodie over your head. “I’ll take my chances.”

Giselle closes her book and watches you with something between amusement and resignation. “What are you even gonna say?”

You shove your feet into a pair of slides. “I don’t know. Something about common courtesy and how not everyone wants to listen to his fuckass music?”

She snorts. “You’ve already committed to the villain role, huh?”

You jab a finger in her direction. “No. I’m the protagonist. He’s the inconsiderate side character messing up my storyline.”

Giselle slumps into her desk, her voice coming out muffled. “Again, you’re going to feel so bad when this dude is actually, like, a golden retriever in human form.”

You ignore her, grabbing your phone and stomping toward the door. “I highly doubt that.”

And with that, you march out of your room, slamming the door behind and scaring the scrawny but tall kid who lives in the dorm next to yours. His clothes and the corridor smell vaguely of something burnt, but you don’t think too much of it, fully prepared to give Indie Guitar Guy a piece of your mind.

The walk to his room isn’t long, but it gives you just enough time to fully work yourself up. Your footsteps are firm, your hoodie sleeves bunched around your fists like you’re ready to throw hands if necessary. Every tired, miserable night flashes before your eyes.

You knock once. The chords still continue to be played. You knock again. No reaction.

Your eye twitches as you knock again—hard, promising that this is the last and you’ll break his door the next time if you have to. 

The strumming stops. There’s a beat of silence, then the sound of soft shuffling. You hear the doorknob turn and then the door swings open and the entire speech you’d prepared dies in your throat.

He’s cute.

And not in the way you were expecting (not that you were, but still). He stands there, slightly disheveled, hair messy like he’s been running his hands through it, an old hoodie hanging loose on his frame. His guitar pick is still caught between his fingers, and his eyes—dark, warm, blinking at you in confusion—look way too soft for someone who’s been torturing you for weeks.

You forget, briefly, what you came here to do.

Then he scratches the back of his neck, looking at you in confusion. “Hey… Can I help you?”

To your absolute horror, instead of going off on him, the only thing that escapes your mouth is, “Um.”

UM?

What happened to excuse me, asshole, do you have no shame? Where the hell did that go?

He looks at you expectantly, still waiting for you to continue.

You swallow hard, mentally scrambling to put yourself back together. “So… I don’t know if you saw, but I put up a notice on the bulletin board?”

He blinks. “What notice?”

You hate how your stomach flips at the way his brows pinch slightly, confused but genuinely curious, like he actually wants to know.

You clear your throat. “Just—about the, uh. The guitar.” You gesture vaguely, as if that explains anything. “At night.”

“Oh.” It comes out almost sheepishly as he looks down at the pick he was flipping in between his fingers, like he’s only now realizing.

You should push. Tell him off right now, stand your ground and speak your mind. But all you manage is to say—

“It’s just, um… really late, y’know?”

Oh my God.

What is this? A customer service complaint? Where is the wrath, and the all-caps shouting you promised yourself on the way up here?

He blinks at you again. Then, slowly, his lips part in realization.

“…Wait,” he says, eyes widening. “Am I the asshole from the notice?”

You stand there, every inch of your body fighting to scream YES. YES, YOU DUMB, SILLY, PRETTY BOY.

“...I mean—I wouldn’t say asshole?” You grimace.

You did. In fact, you didn’t just say it—you typed it out, printed it AND posted it in the common room’s bulletin board. Why didn’t you just scream it out of the windows while you were at it?

“Oh, shit.” He scratches his forehead, “That was you?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “I—uh.”

He watches you for a second before exhaling. “Oh, man. I’m really sorry about that,” he says, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “I swear, I didn’t see the notice until earlier tonight.”

You should still be annoyed. Should. But the way he says it—so earnestly, with his brows slightly furrowed—makes you forget.

“I thought it was just some general complaint,” he continues, glancing down before hesitantly meeting your eyes again. “Didn’t realize I was the ‘asshole.’”

You feel heat creep up your neck. “Okay, but, like, not seriously—”

His lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smile. “Right. Totally.”

Your face burns.

Guitar guy must sense your embarrassment because he quickly clears his throat, straightening up. “Anyway,” he says, voice a little softer, “I really didn’t mean to keep you up. I just—I play when I can’t sleep.” He scratches his forehead, looking almost bashful. “Didn’t think it was carrying through the walls that much.”

Before you can mumble out something incoherent or non-sensible again, he continues. 

“No, yeah. You’re right. I’ll stop.” Then, almost shyly, he glances back at you. “I, uh… I don’t think we’ve met before?”

You blink, caught off guard.

“I’m Mark,” he says, smiling a little. “Since, y’know. You technically already know way too much about my sleep schedule.”

You let out a breathy laugh, more surprised than anything. You hadn’t expected him to be this nice. Or this—

Well. This.

“I guess that’s fair,” you mumble, suddenly feeling a little stupid standing here in your sleep shorts and oversized hoodie.

Mark’s smile lingers. Then, with a little hesitation, he nods toward you. “So, uh. Do I get to know your name, or?”

You hesitate for half a second—because this is not how this was supposed to go, and he is not supposed to be this sweet—but eventually, you sigh, giving him your name.

Mark nods, a small grin on his lips, “Cool, well. I’m really sorry. I’ll stop now, so you can go sleep!”

Maybe it’s because he said he couldn’t sleep, or maybe it’s because you think that in your notice it may have seemed like he’d a bad player (he’s not), or maybe it’s just because your sleepy brain finds him cute that you pipe up, just before you leave.

“I’m sorry if I came off as really rude. It’d just been a hard week.” You sigh, a little hesitant, “And you don’t have to stop playing… I mean—at this time, please don’t. But I wouldn’t mind listening to you some other time.”

Mark blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Oh—uh—really?”

You nod, suddenly feeling shy under his gaze. “Yeah. You’re… not bad.”

His ears turn a little pink. “Oh. Thanks.” He scratches his neck, smiling softly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

There’s a pause.

Then, before you can process it, Mark lifts a hand, pointing his fingers toward you like a finger gun. “Sleep well, neighbor.”

Oh my God.

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “Goodnight, Mark.”

And with that, you turn away, fully aware that you’ve just lost the battle. God, Giselle is never going to let you live this down once you tell her.

A

The next morning, you groan as you shuffle out of bed, running on autopilot as you grab your mug and head to the common room, your only goal in life being to reach the sad, overworked coffee machine.

The moment you step in, the sharp smell of burnt coffee greets you—bitter, slightly tragic, but necessary. You yawn, rubbing your eyes as you press the button on the machine, waiting for it to sputter out something drinkable.

“You actually slept last night, right?”

The voice makes you blink. You turn, and standing next to you, looking way too put together for this hour, is Mark Lee.

Oh.

You fight every urge to react. He’s in a hoodie, hair slightly mussed like he just rolled out of bed, his hands shoved into his pockets. He’s looking at you, head tilted slightly, waiting for an answer.

“Uh.” You blink again, processing. “Yeah?”

Mark lets out a tiny breath of relief. “Good,” he says, nodding. “I, uh… I stopped playing. Like I said I would.”

Oh, he’s shy.

Somehow, this is worse. You were prepared for maybe an awkward nod or a "what’s up?". Not this gentle, earnest follow-up on whether you got enough sleep.

“Yeah.” You swallow. “I noticed. Thanks”

Mark nods again, rocking back on his heels. He’s quiet for a second, then gestures toward the coffee machine. “You, uh… do this every morning?”

You shrug. “Unfortunately.”

He lets out a small laugh, and for some reason, you feel stupidly warm.

“There you are.”

You both turn as Giselle enters the room, hair still a little messy from sleep, her own mug in hand. She barely glances at you before heading straight for the coffee machine, too preoccupied to notice the tension in the air.

When she’s finally done shoving your mug out of the way and filling her’s first, she looks up at the two of you.

“Who’s this?” Giselle asks you, voice loud enough for Mark to hear.

You’re about to reply when Mark steps forward instead, holding his hand out for her to shake. She stares at it for a second.

“I’m Mark. Um… the annoying guitar guy.”

“Oh!” Giselle exclaims, a smile making way onto her lips as she shakes his hand. “Good to meet you. Damn, did she yell your ears off yesterday? I tried to stop her, I swear.”

Mark laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, it was fair. I didn’t even realize how loud I was.”

Giselle smirks, nudging you with her elbow. “See? Not everyone’s out to get you.”

You roll your eyes, choosing to ignore her as you finally bring your coffee to your lips. The second the burnt liquid hits your tongue, you wince. “God, this is awful.”

Mark watches, slightly amused. “Yeah, it smells kinda brutal.”

You sigh. “It’s usually bearable. Can’t function without it.”

“You ever try the café across campus?” Mark asks. “Way better than whatever this is.”

You shake your head. “Too much effort. This is closer.”

Giselle hums, sipping her own coffee. “She’s lazy,” she supplies helpfully.

You glare at her, but Mark just chuckles, rocking back on his heels. “Well, if you ever decide to make the trek, let me know. I’ll come with.”

You nod absently, still focused on your coffee. “Mm, noted.”

Mark hesitates for half a second, like he’s waiting for something, but when you don’t react, he clears his throat. “Alright, I’ll catch you later.”

“Later,” you mumble into your mug, already preparing for the day ahead.

As soon as he’s gone, Giselle turns to you, staring.

You blink. “What?”

Her lips curl into a slow smirk. “Oh my God.”

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

She snorts. “Nothing. You’re just an idiot.”

You scowl. “Great. Love to hear that first thing in the morning.”

Giselle just shakes her head, looking far too entertained as she takes another sip of coffee. “No, no. This is fun. Let’s see how long it takes.”

“See how long what takes?”

But she just grins. “Nothing. I’m going to shower first.”

D

The library is quiet, save for the occasional sound of pages flipping and hushed whispers between students. You’re not here by choice. You’d have preferred to sit in the common room, a little more comfortably, but the heated discussion over banning glitter for the upcoming door deco competition isn’t something that you’d sit through either.

So now, you’re here, settled at a table near the corner, your laptop open, coffee beside you. You don’t even realize someone is sitting a few seats away until you stretch, glance up—

And Mark Lee is looking right at you.

Oh.

Your brain stalls for half a second before you lift a hand in a casual wave.

Mark grins, like he was waiting for you to notice, and—without hesitation—grabs his stuff and moves over.

"Hey," he says, plopping down across from you.

You blink at him. "Hey?"

He gestures vaguely. "Thought I’d say hi."

You squint. "Didn’t look like you were studying."

Mark laughs, rubbing his jaw. "Yeah, well… he’s having roommate trouble right now, and I’m a great listener."

It takes you a second to register that he’s talking about the guy still sitting at his old table. When you glance over, you realize—oh. Renjun.

You nod as you glance back at your laptop. You vaguely remember seeing the notice that he needed a roommate, but it’d probably been taken down a few days ago. 

“Has he not found one yet?”

“Worse. He forgot to mention that he’d only room with guys,” Mark sighs, glancing at him before shaking his head, “And now he’s living with a girl that he’s definitely starting to like.”

You almost laugh out of disbelief. “Is co-ed rooming even allowed?”

“Nope,” Mark pops the p. “But he’s a fucking goody-two-shoes and the RAs love him, so honestly, even if they find out, they’ll give him a good notice period for either to move out.”

“I can hear you two.” Renjun hisses, before shrinking a little as he looks around, hoping no one was bothered.

You clear your throat. “So, what, are you just here for moral support?”

Mark grins. “Kind of. I keep them sane.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Right. Naturally.”

He leans in slightly, chin resting on his palm. “But, you know, the library’s not so bad.”

You shoot him a skeptical look. “Didn’t take you for the type to hang out here for fun.”

Mark shrugs, the corners of his lips quirking up. “Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf. Becoming a dedicated academic weapon.”

You exhale. “Right. And I’m the dean of the university.”

He gasps. “Wow. No faith in me at all? For all you know, I could be topping my classes.”

You hum, unconvinced.

Mark watches you for a second, then leans in just a fraction closer, voice lowering slightly. “Guess I’ll have to prove you wrong then.”

You blink at him, caught off guard, but before you can say anything, Renjun finally looks up from his laptop, fixing Mark with a withering stare.

“Can you prove it somewhere else?” he mutters. “Some of us are actually trying to study.”

Mark grins, completely unbothered. “See? Told you he’s suffering.”

G

You’re halfway through filling your water bottle when you hear a loud clatter followed by an equally loud “Shit!”

You whip around just in time to see Mark Lee standing in the dorm kitchen, staring at the floor like it personally betrayed him. A broken instant ramen cup lays at his feet, noodles spilled across the tiles in a sad, soupy mess.

“…Do I even want to know?” you ask.

Mark looks up, startled. He must not have noticed you walk in. His hood is halfway up his head, and his sweatpants are hanging loose at his hips, like he just rolled out of bed to grab food.

“I—” He rubs the back of his neck. “I thought I could grab it before it hit the counter.”

You raise an eyebrow, stepping closer to assess the damage. “And?”

He sighs. “And I could not.”

You try to hold back your laugh, but it slips out anyway. Mark groans, crouching down to clean up the mess, and you, feeling slightly bad for him, grab some napkins to help.

“Appreciate it,” he mutters as you both start wiping up the broth.

“No problem. Midnight disasters seem to be a running theme in this dorm,” you joke.

Mark huffs a small laugh. “Tell me about it. Last week, Jisung nearly set the toaster on fire.”

You pause, still crouched down. “Is that the kid that lives next door to me? I swear that the night I came and complained—” You shoot a slightly guilty look at him. “—to you, he smelled like burnt stuff.”

“Probably,” Mark shakes his head, “I mean, I’m not the best person to teach him how to cook, but he’s got a few friends. The kid’s just too stubborn and a little bit of an airhead to ask for help.”

The two of you continue cleaning in comfortable silence for a moment before you stand to toss the napkins in the trash. When you turn back, Mark is still crouched on the floor, gathering the last of the noodles into a pile. His hood has slipped back slightly, revealing the messy strands of his hair, and his sleeves are pushed up just enough to show his forearms.

Not that you’re looking.

Mark groans as he tosses the ruined noodles into the trash. “Man, this sucks. I was really looking forward to eating that.”

“You could just make another one?”

He hesitates, then sighs. “That was my last cup.”

You frown. “That was your only food?”

Mark scratches the back of his head, avoiding your gaze. “…Maybe.”

You stare at him. “Mark.”

“I meant to get groceries,” he mutters. “I just forgot.”

“For how long?”

“…A while.”

You let out a long sigh before turning toward the fridge. “Alright, come on.”

Mark blinks. “Huh?”

“You’re not starving on my watch,” you say, pulling out a container. “I made extra earlier.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Wait—really?”

“Don’t make it weird.” You shove the container into his hands before you can think twice.

Mark stares at it for a second before looking back up at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re kind of nice, huh?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Don’t spread that around.”

He hums as he pops open the lid. “Guess I owe you one now.”

“Damn right you do.”

Mark laughs, leaning against the counter. “You know, if you ever wanna cash that in, we could go grab real food sometime.”

You snort. “Yeah, sure. In exchange for a half-eaten bowl of ramen.”

He grins, scooping up a bite. “Deal.”

You shake your head, grabbing your water bottle before heading back to your room.

You twist the cap back onto your water bottle just as Giselle walks in, kicking off her shoes with a sigh. She doesn’t even look at you before flopping face-first onto her bed.

“I give up,” she mumbles into her pillow.

You glance at the clock. “On what? Life?”

“Basically.” She groans, turning her head just enough so her voice is no longer muffled. “I ran into my ex on the way back. He saw me trip on the dorm steps. I don’t think I can recover from this.”

You snort. “You literally dumped him. Why are you embarrassed?”

She lifts a hand in the air, shoving her middle finger at you. “I have my reasons.”

Shaking your head, you take another sip of water. “You could always poison his meal plan or something.”

“Maybe.” She turns onto her side, finally looking at you. “What about you? You were out late.”

You shrug. “Just went to get water.”

She narrows her eyes slightly. “And?”

“…And Mark was there.”

That gets her attention. She sits up properly now, leaning forward. “Oh?”

You frown. “What?”

She tilts her head at you. “Nothing. Just…interesting.”

You roll your eyes. “He spilled his ramen. I helped clean it up.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s it.”

“Uh-huh.”

You sigh, climbing into bed. “What?”

“Nothing.” She flops back, pulling her blanket over her legs. “You just seem to run into him a lot.”

You pause for a second. “He lives upstairs.”

“Mhm.”

You throw your pillow at her before slumping into your bed as well, switching your lamp off with a sigh.

It’s not weird.

Mark lives upstairs. You’ve only run into him a couple of times. Completely normal, considering the dorm isn’t that big. Still, as you stare at the faint outline of your ceiling in the dark, you think back to the way he laughed, how he leaned against the counter, how his eyes crinkle when he smiles.

He’s cute. That’s just a fact. In an endearingly clueless way, with his messy hair and his habit of rubbing the back of his neck when he talks. Objectively cute. Universally acknowledged cute. Annoyingly cute, even.

But it’s not like that. Obviously.

You roll onto your side, pulling your blanket tighter around you.

Just a coincidence. 

You close your eyes, willing yourself to sleep, but for some reason, you can still hear his voice in your head. The soft laugh, the way he said we could grab real food sometime. The casualness of it.

Not an invitation. Not really. Right?

You huff, pressing your face into your pillow.

Whatever. You’ll probably forget about it by morning.

B

You hear the music before you see him.

The common room isn’t empty, but it’s quieter than usual—just the occasional shuffle of someone flipping through a textbook, the distant hum of the vending machine. And then there’s him.

Mark is curled up on the couch, one leg tucked under him, guitar resting easily against his chest. He’s not playing anything loud—just soft, absentminded strumming, like he’s working through a song in his head.

And you should keep walking. You really, really should.

But instead, you hesitate, shifting from one foot to the other just enough that the floor creaks under you. Mark glances up at the sound, fingers faltering slightly over the strings.

“Oh,” he says, blinking like he wasn’t expecting company. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you say back, already regretting this.

His lips twitch, like he’s holding back a smile. “You look like you were about to turn around.”

You scoff, stepping fully into the room. “I was just—” You pause. What were you doing?

Mark tilts his head, waiting.

“I needed a break,” you sigh.

He nods, adjusting the guitar in his lap. “Good timing.”

He doesn’t elaborate, just keeps playing, and maybe that’s your cue to leave—but your feet carry you toward the couch anyway. You sit down—not next to him, but close enough to see the way his fingers move over the strings.

You watch for a second, then glance at his face. “You play in the daytime now?”

Mark exhales a quiet laugh. “Only because I’ve been feeling considerate towards a certain someone.”

You’re sure that there’s colour rising to your cheeks now, but you try to mask it off by laughing. “Wow. Growth.”

He shakes his head, letting out a soft hum under his breath, but he doesn’t deny it.

For a while, there’s no talking—just the sound of the guitar, the occasional scrape of his pick against the strings. You don’t realize how much time has passed until you catch yourself fully zoning out, elbows resting on your knees, watching his hands like an idiot.

Mark notices.

He doesn’t call you out for it, but his fingers slow slightly, like he’s suddenly aware of the attention.

You snap out of it immediately, shifting your gaze. Nope. Absolutely not.

Mark clears his throat, tapping his thumb against the body of the guitar. “You play?”

“What?”

“The guitar,” he says, nodding toward it. “You don’t play, do you?”

“Oh.” You shake your head. “No.”

Mark hums, considering. “Do you want to?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, adjusting his grip. “I could teach you something. If you want.”

You hesitate. You could say no. You should say no.

But Mark is already tilting the guitar toward you, his brows raised in a quiet ‘well?’

You fumble with it, your fingers slipping against the strings as you try to mimic the way Mark holds it. It feels unnatural, like trying to write with your non-dominant hand.

And against all logic and reason, you reach for it.

The guitar is heavier than you expected.

“Here,” Mark says, shifting closer on the couch. His knee brushes against yours, and you stiffen slightly, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care. He reaches over, adjusting your grip. “You’re holding it like it’s gonna bite you.”

“Maybe it will,” you mutter.

Mark laughs, low and warm, and you try not to focus on how close he is. His fingers guide yours to the fretboard, pressing down on the strings. “This one’s the B,” he says, plucking it. A soft, clear note rings out.

You frown. “Sounds like every other string.”

“Wow.” He feigns offense, clutching his chest. “And here I thought you had an ear for music.”

“I have an ear for silence at 2 in the morning,” you deadpan.

Mark grins, “Fair.” He leans back slightly, but his knee stays pressed against yours. “Okay, try pressing here.” He taps a spot on the neck.

You attempt it, but the string vibrates pathetically under your finger.

“You’ve gotta press harder,” he says.

“I am pressing hard.”

Mark hums, skeptical. Then, before you can react, he reaches over and presses his finger on top of yours, adding pressure. “Like this.”

Your brain short-circuits.

His hand is warm. His fingers are calloused from playing. And he’s so close you can smell his stupid laundry detergent—the one that everyone else in this dorm uses.

You swallow. “...Right.”

Mark doesn’t move his hand. “You got it?”

"Yep." Your voice cracks slightly.

"Sure?" His thumb brushes against yours as he adjusts your positioning - just for a second, but it's enough to make your pulse jump.

"Positive." You stare very hard at the guitar's soundhole.

Mark finally pulls back, rubbing the back of his neck. The tips of his ears are pink. "So, uh. That's... the basics."

You strum all the strings at once. It sounds like a trash can falling down stairs. "I'm a prodigy."

"I wouldn't say no to, like. Coffee instead." He says it too fast, then backtracks. "I mean—not like—just caffeine helps with—"

Mark snorts. "Yeah. Next Ed Sheeran right here." He fiddles with his pick. "We could... keep practicing sometime. If you want.”

You shrug. "I mean, I guess I owe you for not murdering me over that notice."

"Mark."

"Yeah?"

"You're rambling."

His shoulders hunch. "Right. Sorry."

You hand the guitar back. "But yeah, coffee's fine. The dining hall swill is killing me anyway."

Mark brightens instantly. "Remember that place across campus? Their cold brew is actually decent and they've got these chocolate croissants that—" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "I mean. If you're into that."

"But I'd commit crimes for a good chocolate croissant," you add.

"Cold brew gives me heart palpitations."

"Oh." His face falls. "We could find somewhere else—”

Mark's smile returns, slow and warm. "Tomorrow? I'm free after two."

"Sure." You stand up, completely missing the way his fingers tap an anxious rhythm against the guitar body. "Don't be late."

"I won't!" It comes out too eager. He cringes at himself. "I mean. Yeah. Cool."

As you walk away, you don't see him slump back against the couch, dragging a hand down his face. You definitely don't hear the quiet, frustrated whisper of: "Smooth, Lee. Real smooth."

E

You're lacing up your sneakers when Giselle walks out of the bathroom, rubbing her damp hair with a towel. She pauses mid-step when she sees you.

"Where are you going?"

"Getting coffee with Mark." You tighten the knot on your shoe.

She stares. Then, very deliberately, looks you up and down.

You're in a hoodie (a slightly wrinkled one), sweatpants, and the same sneakers you've been wearing for three years.

"...Dressed like that?"

You frown. "What?"

She gestures vaguely at your entire existence. "You're just going out like that?"

You scoff. "Dude. We’re just hanging out."

Giselle presses her lips together like she’s trying very, very hard not to lose her mind.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

You glance up. She's watching you in the mirror, towel slung over one shoulder, eyes sharp.

You narrow your eyes. "What."

She exhales sharply. "Okay, tell me this: how many times has Mark asked you to ‘hang out’?"

You shrug. "I dunno. A few times? Haven’t really been able to go."

"And these ‘hangouts’—" she makes little air quotes, "—were they things like, ‘Hey, wanna grab food?’ or ‘Hey, wanna get coffee?’ Or, oh, I don’t know, ‘Hey, wanna come sit really close to me while I teach you how to play guitar?’"

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Because, yeah. That is... exactly how it’s been.

Giselle sees the realization hit. "Oh my God," she says, dragging a hand down her face. "He’s been asking you out this entire time!"

You blink. "What? No. He hasn’t—he’s just been nice."

Giselle shoots you a deadpan look. "Nice?"

"Yeah!" You wave a hand. "Some people just—invite other people to do stuff! It’s normal!"

Giselle rubs her temples. "Okay. Let’s say, for a second, that I believe you. Do you think Mark has asked anyone else to ‘just hang out’ like this?"

You open your mouth. Pause.

Giselle’s smile is way too smug. "Mhm. Exactly."

You shift uncomfortably. "Okay, but—but what if you're wrong? What if this is just his personality?"

Giselle flops dramatically onto her bed. "Then I will personally apologize to you for enabling your delusions." She waves you off. "Now go. And if he confesses, don't let your dumbass panic and run into traffic."

You scowl. "That happened one time."

Giselle is already onto her dressing table, raking through her makeup brushes.

You check the time. Mark’s already waiting.

Your stomach flips.

You swallow. "I'm gonna go."

"Yeah," Giselle sighs, rolling onto her side. "Go figure your shit out."

—

You’re definitely overthinking this as the two of you walk around campus.

Mark walks beside you, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed. He kicks a stray pebble down the sidewalk, eyes mostly on the ground. Meanwhile, you are internally spiraling.

Because Giselle’s words won’t leave you alone.

"He’s been asking you out this whole time."

And the more you think about it, the more obvious it feels.

The coffee. The late-night talks. The stupid guitar lesson where his hand had covered yours, warm and steady.

You sneak a glance at him. He looks normal. Maybe a little cold, but not like someone who’s been trying to ask you out for weeks.

You fidget with your sleeves. Just ask. It’s Mark. It’s not like he’s gonna laugh in your face. Right?

“…Hey.”

Mark glances over. “Hm?”

You swallow. “So. This whole, uh. Hanging out thing.”

His brows lift slightly, like he’s waiting for you to continue.

You take a deep breath. “You—you weren’t, like. Asking me out, were you?”

Mark stumbles.

Not dramatically, but just enough that his shoe drags weirdly on the pavement.

You immediately regret everything. “Never mind! Stupid question, forget I—”

“What?” Mark fully stops walking.

You stop too, face burning.

Mark turns to you, brows slightly furrowed, like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle. “…Why would you ask that?”

You die internally. “Giselle said something,” you mumble.

Mark blinks. Then he shifts from one foot to another. “What… exactly did she say?”

You stare very hard at the sidewalk. “Just. That you might’ve been, um. Subtly. Asking me out this whole time.”

Silence.

You dare to look at him.

His ears are so red.

“Oh,” he says, voice sounding a bit strung, higher than usual.

You panic. “You don’t have to say anything! I just—”

“I mean,” Mark rubs the back of his neck, looking very interested in a nearby streetlamp. “I… kinda was?”

Your stomach flips.

Oh.

Oh.

Mark winces. “Not in, like, a weird way! Just—” He exhales, rubbing his temple. “I thought you were cool. That night when you came up, i thought you were like…really pretty. And I figured, if you weren’t interested, we could just keep hanging out and it wouldn’t be—” He gestures vaguely. “A thing.”

You nod. Maybe too much. “Right. Yeah. Totally.”

Mark watches you carefully. “So, uh. Is it weird now?”

You pretend to think, but you already know your answer. You can see Mark’s shoulders shrinking with every waiting second.

“No.”

Mark’s shoulders relax. “Oh. Cool.”

You fidget with your sleeve. Your breath stutters.

“I think I like you too,” you admit, voice way too soft.

Mark stares for a few seconds, like he almost didn’t hear you, before his whole face lights up.

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Uh. That’s—that’s cool.”

You laugh, nervous. “Yeah?”

He nods, a little too fast. “Yeah.”

When he looks at you again, he’s still flushed, still blinking like he’s trying to process this in real time.

“So, uh,” he starts, “what now?”

You don’t really know how to answer that.

You rock back on your heels. “I mean… we’re still getting coffee?”

Mark lets out a soft laugh, like he hadn’t even considered otherwise. “Right. Yeah. Obviously.”

The two of you start walking again, a little slower this time. The air between you is different now—not awkward, but buzzing, like a chord just on the verge of ringing out.

You steal a glance at him. His hands are jammed in his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched, but there’s something almost relieved in the way he carries himself now. Like he wasn’t expecting this to go well.

You bite your lip, hesitating.

“You know,” You begin, “I thought you were cute too.”

“What?” Mark lets out, a little too loudly.

It almost makes you giggle. “That night when I came up to complain. I was supposed to go all out on you and make sure you’d never play your stupid guitar again. I was quite serious about cutting your strings off.”

Mark shakes his head sheepishly with a small laugh. 

“But when you opened the door, I kind of forgot all of that.”

He stares at you, lips parted slightly like you just short-circuited his entire brain.

You shrug, suddenly feeling way too exposed. “I dunno. You just—looked cute.”

Mark drags a hand over his face, groaning. “What the hell.”

You blink. “What?”

“That’s so unfair,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “You showed up looking all pissed off and intimidating, and I was standing there in, like, the ugliest shirt I own.”

You snort. “It wasn’t that ugly.”

Mark groans again, looking up at the sky, almost too embarrassed to meet your eyes. “This is crazy.”

“What is?” you ask, still laughing.

“That you thought I was cute!” He gestures wildly. “Like. That doesn’t happen!”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach is doing so many flips. “Shut up.”

Mark looks at you for a second, then exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. The tips of his ears are still bright red. “I was really nervous that night, you know,” he admits.

Your brows lift. “Really?”

He nods. “You were just—you had this whole, like, ‘I will end you’ vibe, and I was trying so hard not to make it worse. But then you kinda—” He stops, mouth twitching. “You hesitated. Just for a second. And I thought, ‘Oh. She’s not actually as scary as she looks.’”

You gasp, shoving his shoulder. “Wow. Rude.”

Mark laughs, bumping into you slightly. “Sorry, sorry. But I was right, wasn’t I?”

You purse your lips. “Debatable.”

Mark hums, tilting his head. “Guess I’ll have to spend more time with you to figure it out.”

Your heart does a weird little jump.

You don’t let yourself overthink it.

Instead, you nudge him back, eyes flicking forward to the coffee shop just ahead. “You better buy me the best chocolate croissant they have.”

Mark grins. “Deal.”

And when his fingers brush yours, just briefly, you don’t pull away.

bun_theory0222 • 2h

INFO: Did you at least try the samples? Were they worth the lawsuit? We’re all dying to know here.

➥ Reply ⥣ 3.2k ⥥

muffinbutdrama1122 • 1h

nah cuz why is he suing when he CLEARLY wants to flirt??? this man is embarrassing but so are you. somebody matched ur freak <3

➥ Reply ⥣ 1.7k ⥥

soggywaffle0205 • 6m

YTA why can’t this shit happen to me. AT LEAST I would commit to the bit.

➥ Reply ⥣ 420 ⥥

cerealfordinner0323 • 2h

Bro sued you just to slide into your life again. He’s not slick, and neither are you. Good luck with that wedding cake.

➥ Reply ⥣ 9,011 ⥥

. . .

If you could hop a few steps to the right, feign unconsciousness, and climb right into the active fireplace, it could potentially make everything okay. For you, that is. Not for the poor bakery employees who would have to call the cops. 

“I’m sure he’s a handsome one!” The girl behind the counter giggles, light pink dusting her cheeks. “You’re- you’re so gorgeous!”

Setting aside the fact that most gorgeous women you know end up with malformed gargoyles, your current predicament is almost equally sinister. What started as an innocuous process to gain free wedding samples (in other words, a scam) has led to a question that should be obvious but completely escaped your mind following your trailing success.

“We’ll need to have you come in with your fiance for the free wedding cake samplers. Is he around?”

Is he around?! Boy, you sure hope so. Because now you’re also frantically looking around with the employee after you blurted out another lie: “He’s going to be here soon!”

When did you turn into a compulsive liar? You’re not sure if your mom would be proud of you for being so good at nabbing free food, or disappointed that you’re a filthy liar. After all, she did tell the buffet employees you were under 10 all the way till you were 14. So, really, you’re not the source of the problem! You brush your festive red skirt of invisible crumbs, trying to busy yourself.

The cafe itself is well decorated for Christmas—a silver reindeer bores holes into your head from by the front door, a small Christmas tree stands at the center that’s a little emaciated but the cute Sanrio ornaments in Santa hats make up for it, and most importantly, a beautiful Mont Blanc cake sparkles from atop the glass counter. (Seriously, why didn’t you think of this? Your own bakery is all sparkles and no play.)

You move out of the way of other customers, and casually glance at the source of your awe and joy. Powdered sugar dusts the top as idyllic snow, covering the sugared cranberries and sugared chestnuts, not dent in them under the white fondant star. The base of the cake is tied with an edible red ribbon, completing the seasonal aesthetic of it. A sigh rests momentarily upon your lips before it escapes. 

You love Mont Blanc cakes, but you never quite get it right. That’s your biggest failure as an up-and-coming baker, and such is the reason for your unhinged serial sampling scam. You swear it started off as a search for inspiration in a creative rut but before you knew it, a lie had spilled from your eclair-sweetened lips, and another, and another. 

It is at this point that you briefly consider bolting for the door. Tibet is great around this time of the year. Maybe if you convert to a monk lifestyle and atone for your sins, you’ll be granted a pardon in the form of delicious sweets. Before you can make your escape, however, the front door jingles, and in strides a sight unbelievably reassuring. A man with caramel hair enters, who might as well be wrapped in a giant red ribbon and seated atop a snow-white horse in golden ornaments.

It’s a Christmas miracle. Hallelujah! They still apply to you.

His smile—soft and sweet as meringue hearts—lights up the room as he inhales the warm, sugary air of the bakery. You’re hit with the vaguest sense of familiarity. He might be one of the few customers you get these days. For a moment, you falter. Are you really going to victimize this stranger?

Yes. Yes, you are. The situation is dire.

“Hi darling!” You exclaim within earshot of the employee, before lowering your voice. “Could you help me out a little here?”

The man blinks, dazed for whatever reason. “Uh… sure?”

“Okay, then follow along and ask questions later,” you reply, and loop your arm through his gingerly. The touch of his fuzzy winter coat makes you relax a little. It is chocolate-colored, with beige fluff around the collar. Not now, you think to yourself, You need to stop thinking about sweets for one goddamn moment.

“Here he is,” you laugh sheepishly as you bring the man forward. Gosh, what in the heavens are you doing? You didn’t even ask his name. 

The employee stares, jaw agape. What’s with the reaction? He’s not that hot. 

“O-oh,” she responds. “That’s quite the surprise. I never knew. Congratulations, sir!”

You turn to look at him. He simply scratches his chin with a sheepish smile, and manages to respond with a “Thanks, Kimi.”

He must be a regular, you think. Oh, (Name), what did you get yourself into? You’re just gonna have to read his name off his coffee order first.

“We have a selection of samples for our wedding cake choices,” the girl, Kimi, moves to the far side of the counter, offering a small menu card to the two of you. “I know you’re not a big fan of wedding cakes, Mr. Lee, but the latest tiramisu flavors should suit your tastes, no?”

Just how close are they?! You chew on your lip and try to calm your depraved little heart.

“Well,” he responds, thinking for a second, “I actually hadn’t thought this far. What do you think, honey?”

He turns to you with a radiant smile, but you sense a hint of mischief. You don’t have time to think of that though—so you just change the topic. 

“Actually, do you have a Mont Blanc flavor? I’ve always had trouble perfecting it myself.”

Truth be told, that ‘honey’ had flowed from his lips and struck you straight in the heart. He’s not too bad to look at, you think now. His tousled hair catches the light with a playful sheen, framing his face and accentuating his disbelieving smile, while his fluffy coat adds a cozy touch to his charming, boyish demeanor. If you were to overthink a little, you’d find a hint of mischief in his voice. Alas, you’re a simple girl who only overthinks sweet treats, not boys.

“You bake?” He blurts, before his ears turn red from realization.

Kimi shoots him a puzzled look and your breath hitches in your throat. Was the miracle an idiot in disguise?

“I mean, uh, gosh, you make me so nervous, honey.” He looks like he’s trying his very best to ace an exam he never studied for. “I meant to ask if you're going to bake.. today? Don’t look at me like that.” 

Maybe you should’ve picked a candied apple and prayed that a witch had poisoned it. You can’t even force out a smile at that pathetic save.

“You’re a lucky man, Mister,” Kimi jabs, a look of distrust in her eyes before they flash to you. “I’m afraid Miss (Name) in a wedding dress would make me drop dead at the altar.”

“Oh, you- you flatter me,” you choke out, “I promise you wedding gowns aren’t my thing at all. Besides, you’d look beautiful in white yourself.”

Why is she so into this wedding conversation? How close are these two? You’re not sure how to react, and neither do you know how this man is going to explain your mysterious disappearance the next time he visits the bakery. You’re sure as hell not going to continue the act beyond this. It’s time you retired from this scam business. You’re not even sure how you’ll talk your way out of this with the man, currently engaged in small talk with Kimi. 

And— is he blushing?! Does he have something going on with the girl—Kimi? Did you just ruin something? Your heart tightens a little, and you have to physically restrain yourself from falling to the floor, head in your hands.

You laugh awkwardly, trying to diffuse the situation. When you open your mouth, you are interrupted.

“Actually, Miss, I think I take back what I said about the handsome part,” Kimi jokes, evident disdain sent towards Donghyuck.

Your natural response is a little laugh that leaves before you know it. Maybe, the feelings you sensed were of unrequited resentment. He does have the kind of face that looks like it’s often smacked by girls. No offense to him.

Kimi hands you the first sample (two delicious slices of Mont Blanc) and excuses herself to fetch the rest. The two of you make your way to a booth with the heaviest silence you’ve ever experienced. You might as well be at a funeral.

“So… free samples are that good, huh?” The man asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Shut up,” you mutter. 

“I’m Donghyuck, by the way,” he responds with a youthful laugh. “Might I have the honor of knowing my fiance's name?”

“(Name). And stop looking at me like that.”

He lets out a short breath.

“You know, maybe we should’ve pretended it was an arranged marriage.”

“Quite proficient in the scamming business, are you?”

“Oh, you’re better off not knowing my dirty secrets.”

You couldn’t care less about his secrets but the look you shoot at him is certainly dirty.

He opens his mouth but you interrupt him to absolve yourself first. “Listen, I don’t do this often. And I’ll have you know it’s nothing personal. Well, not against you. The owner of this place maybe.”

Donghyuck blinks. “Oh? Do tell. I’m all for being a hater with my fiance.”

You stare at him, not impressed.

“Sorry.”

“Okay, so this started a month or two ago. I had been working tirelessly, testing recipe after recipe, trying to perfect the Mont Blanc cake. It was my dream to make it iconic, you know? But before I could even settle on the perfect combination of flavors, some smug bastard opens a bakery right across from me. And what does he have as his specialty? Why, the Mont Blanc cake of course. Seasonal! Cute, elaborate new decor every two weeks! Just how rich is he? I bet he doesn't even bother to create his own recipes. This guy didn’t just steal my idea, he’s turned my passion into some overpriced, generic trend!”

You heave, tired from the onslaught of frustration. Chewing on your lower lip, a pout naturally makes its way onto your face, and so do more complaints. 

“And that’s not all, okay? I never see him at the bakery. I refrain from entering my competitors' establishments unless I greet them in person. But this asshole is just never there! What, is he too good to work at his own bakery? Too good to grace us lowly bakers with a visit? How could he just swoop in and steal my signature item?”

Donghyuck listens to your rant with intent, cheek resting against his palm. He even looks a little ridiculously charmed right now. 

“Wait… so you’re the infamous Free Cake Phantom everyone’s talking about?” He gasps.

You’ve finally turned to your poor, neglected Mont Blanc sample, just for your heart to jump out. “What?”

“Just kidding. Your secret is safe,” he says, digging into the cake with infuriating nonchalance. “But hey, you’ve got good taste. This Mont Blanc though? It’s my personal recipe.”

Your fork halts halfway to your mouth. “Your recipe? What, you work here or something? And, no offense, but it’s overwhipped.”

If that’s a joke, it’s not very funny. The man looks more like a confectionary than a confectioner. There’s no way he works here. He’s probably some jobless guy drifting from bakery to bakery on early Saturday mornings.

His jaw drops. “Overwhipped? Are you kidding me?”

You wave the fork at him like it’s a weapon. “Chestnut puree shouldn’t have the texture of mousse. It’s called finesse, Mr. Lee.”

Before he can respond, Kimi returns with another tray, and you slip back into character, placing your hand on Donghyuck’s. “Thank you,” you coo at her. “I can’t wait to share all these flavors at our wedding.”

Donghyuck stiffens slightly at the unexpected contact, but he recovers quickly, plastering on the fakest grin known to man. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

Kimi laughs. “You’re such a lovely couple. When’s the big day?”

You freeze, and so does Donghyuck. For a moment, neither of you has an answer.

“Oh, we’re still, uh, deciding,” you blurt, glancing at him for backup.

“Yeah, we’re thinking spring,” he adds smoothly. “Cherry blossoms. Very romantic.”

“Y-yes. Maybe the Raspberry Rose should be in the winner’s spot then.”

As Kimi bows politely and walks away again, Donghyuck leans in to whisper. “Should I book the honeymoon now, or…?”

“Don’t push your luck,” you hiss, elbowing him in the ribs. 

He makes a pained sound, but recovers quickly. 

The second flavor is dubbed “Marble Eclipse”, a decadent blend of rich chocolate and vanilla, perfectly balanced with a luscious buttercream frosting. You try to focus on the taste, but Donghyuck’s smug grin as he watches you take a bite is more distracting than you’d like to admit. You’re not easily flustered, not by men. Unfortunately, he would have been the exact type you’d have tried to nab in college.

You shake your head. Focus, (Name), you think to yourself, You’re in the enemy’s lair right now!

“So… I might as well come clean,” Donghyuck says with a serious tone, right after you’ve taken a bite. You pause in horror. What arcane knowledge is he going to use for your humiliation this time?

“I visit your bakery often, and I must say your selection is just as good, if not better.”

You exhale.

“Oh, it’s better alright,” you retort, before realizing the unwarranted passion in your voice. You compose yourself. “I mean, maybe their Mont Blanc is… a solid competitor.”

Donghyuck laughs, clearly amused by the bashfulness on your face.

“Wait, are you patronizing me?”

“Of course not!” He places his hand over his heart in mock hurt.

“I think the difference is that this one keeps up with the youth.” He waves his fork about, explaining his point further. “Everyone loves new, shiny things. Cycle those as much as possible. Have you ever considered holding blind box events with your cupcakes? I’m sure the kids would love to find out which flavor of panda bear cupcake they got—matcha, my personal favorite, or coconut cream, or… god forbid, chocolate mint. Ugh. Have you considered removing that from the menu? Anyway, that shouldn’t take too much time and money, right?”

The youth? What is he, forty? However, however, the look on his face as he describes your own baked goods to you is enough to make you intensely flustered. Has this man visited so often? And you never noticed him? How could you miss that easy-going smile?

A familiar figure saves you from whatever awkward, garbled response you were going to muster.

Despite Kimi’s arrival, Donghyuck has a hard time taking his eyes off you. Lashes swaying with each flicker of his eyes over your face, he’s hardly taking a bit of the delicious marble cake, in fact. What, have you got something on your face?

Kimi apologizes profusely before you can say anything to greet her. 

“There’s only one slice prepared for the Tiramisu Dream sample,” she explains. “I’m so sorry about this. Would you mind sharing this one? I apologize again.”

“No worries, Kimi,” Donghyuck responds, laughing a little. You shake your head and reassure it’s alright too. 

Anyway, that slice is going to be yours. You’re ready to pry it from his cold, dead hands.  

To your surprise, though, he shoots a friendly smile at you. 

“Want the first bite?”

“May I?” You ask, just to be sure.

“By all means,” he says, gesturing grandly. “After all, what’s mine is yours, fiance.”

You swear, if he calls you that one more time, he’s going to end up in the cake display.

Kimi stares at the two of you blankly for a moment. It instantly flusters you and Donghyuck both, so much so that the idiot digs his fork into the cake slice and holds it up to your lips with a soft ‘ah’ —and so much so that you actually accept it graciously. 

And all that only for Kimi to not even notice as she excused her way back to the counter. So now you’re just two idiots deep in your romantic charades. Donghyuck clears his throat, too late to cover his coral-tinted cheeks and ears. You’re certain you wear a similar expression.

“You’re- you’re so weird,” you jab, unable to come up with an insult higher than middle school grade. 

“What, you wanted me to do airplanes too?!”

“Take that fork and drive it through your tongue, will you?”

“Woah, woah, no need for violence, Miss (Name). Peace and Love.”

Unexpectedly, it makes you break character into unbound laughter. The weariness of the act and the silliness of the whole situation leaks into the sound, and it’s enough to make Donghyuck join in. For passersby, you are just a couple already past your third, fifth and seventh dates.

“Any comments for the tiramisu cake?” Donghyuck asks, grinning ear to ear.

You catch your breath, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. “Yeah, I have a comment: who puts this much cocoa powder on top? Are you trying to choke your customers?”

“Awh, and I thought you were gonna be nice,” he whines, “Your smile is just so… inviting.”

As if on cue, he chokes on the cocoa powder. 

“I still like it,” you continue. “I’d just do it better.”

“I have the utmost confidence in that.”

Gosh, his smile is nauseating—too bright, too easy, like he’s actually enjoying this. Maybe he’s a rising actor, and you’re the one being hoodwinked. After all, who looks at someone like that on a first meeting?

A moment passes, and suddenly his thumb is at the corner of your lips, brushing off the cocoa powder with a touch so casual it feels anything but. “Got it,” he murmurs, and the air between you shifts, warm and oddly heavy.

“So, how do you know all this?” you ask, changing the topic. You’re forcing yourself to focus, to breathe. 

He leans back, a small laugh slipping out like he’s grateful for the lifeline. “You- uh- you could say I’m a connoisseur of pastries,” he offers, his voice lighter now. “I like to sample the best around town—just, you know, legally. I even take notes of my favorites.”

He gestures towards you, and you scoff.

The words settle between you as you toy with the edge of your skirt, smoothing the fabric down over your lap. There’s something about the way he speaks—so casual, so effortless—that needles at you. For a man so annoyingly confident, he sure seems relieved to have redirected the conversation.

Your hand grazes the tiny snowman buttons on your cardigan, tracing the cold plastic absentmindedly. His gaze flickers to the movement, then back to your face, a smile tugging at his lips like he’s trying not to laugh. You don’t know what’s more embarrassing—getting outed as the Cake Thief or the fact that he’s bound to know he flusters you.

You tilt your head, giving him a skeptical look. “How professional of you.”

The bite in your tone is softening, and you don’t like it one bit.

He holds up his hands, feigning surrender. “Hey, it’s an art. Someone’s gotta appreciate it, right?”

The faint chatter of other patrons fills the room, but his presence sharpens the moment, making it feel like it’s just the two of you. For a fleeting second, you catch yourself wondering what kind of person would take notes on pastries for fun. It’s so bizarrely specific, so utterly unnecessary—and yet, so like him.

His smile deepens, pulling you out of your thoughts. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” he teases.

You roll your eyes, but there’s no stopping the traitorous grin threatening to break through. You refuse to indulge him, even as you feel the faintest crack in your defenses.

"Maybe,” you say, finally.

He chuckles, the sound warm and genuine, before leaning back against his chair with a satisfied air, as if he’s won something. You glance at the tray, willing yourself to focus on anything else.

How awkward. How warm. 

You spot a napkin fluttering off the table, carried by a sudden draft from the door. Instinctively, you step out of your chair to grab it, but Donghyuck beats you to it, scooping it up with an exaggerated flourish and a bow.

“Your knight in shining armor,” he declares dramatically, holding it out like a trophy.

“More like my nuisance in sugar-stained armor,” you retort, snatching it from his hand.

He laughs, unabashed. “Ah, so sharp. Yet here you are, sharing cake with said nuisance. Life is full of mysteries.”

“I’m just here for the cake,” you deadpan, dusting your hands off.

For a second, his smile falters—not in hurt but in sheer disbelief. He tilts his head, studying you with an incredulous expression, and you suddenly feel like a frog under a magnifying glass.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” he says, almost to himself, his voice low but still playful.

“Get what?” you ask, genuinely confused.

Donghyuck presses his lips together, fighting back a grin. He steps closer, leaning in just enough for you to catch the faint scent of chestnut cream. “I mean, I could spell it out for you, but that might ruin the fun.”

“Spell what out?” you press, a little flustered now.

He straightens with a laugh, shaking his head. “Nothing, you airhead. Absolutely nothing. Is your head full of cotton candy, by any chance?”

You narrow your eyes at him, but before you can respond, he’s already pulling his chair back, resuming his seat with a sigh.

“Mont Blanc, Marble Eclipse, and Tiramisu on the first date,” he states, deep in thought. “Maybe Matcha Lemon, Lavender Peach, and White Chocolate on the second… Perhaps a Red Velvet and a Strawberry Shortcake before you realize I literally own this place?”

You feel the heat intensify on your cheeks. You almost miss the last part, clouded by the implications of the rest of his words. He… wants to go on more dates with you? Was this a date all along? You’ve been swindled into having fun with a man somehow. He even knows the ins and outs of a baker’s life. And he’s charming in an oddball sort of way. You shouldn’t be feeling solidarity with this weirdo. But then again, somehow, his laugh is very… endearing. 

Wait a minute.

“You- you really own the place?!” A scream dies in your throat.

Donghyuck looks positively taken aback. “So you actually weren’t aware?!”

“What do you mean? How the hell am I supposed to know?! You described yourself as a connoisseur of pastries. I thought you were some kind of freelance failure so I didn’t pry!”

“Excuse me?!”

“Well, either that or you’re unbelievably rich. But then you don’t look it. Your sleeves have flour and oil stains on them, and your shoes are all dusty too, and there’s gold flakes in your hair—okay, how did I miss this?”

“Geez, way to judge someone by their looks. I’m not taking that from the local tart snatcher.”

The retort barely registers because your brain is too busy replaying the words “I own this place.” The realization hits, and before you can think better of it, the chair screeches back as you bolt upright.

“Wait, where are you—” Donghyuck’s voice is cut off by your shrill, mortified “Bye!” as you make a beeline for the door, leaving behind a very startled staff and a half-empty tray of cakes. Immediately after your exit, you let out a shriek. 

What the hell are you doing?!

Your face burns as you speed-walk down the street, each step punctuated by the memory of your impulsive retreat. You must have cast your senses away at that moment, like some wide-eyed fool in a fairy tale, almost charmed by that silly man and his absurd little quirks. It’s not your fault, of course—it’s his, with his flour-dusted sleeves, that stupidly endearing laugh, and the way he talked about pastries like they were a love language. What was wrong with him?! you think, conveniently ignoring the fact that it was your awkwardness and runaway theatrics that had caused the scene. You’d blame it on sugar overload if it weren’t for the nagging realization that maybe—just maybe—he’d gotten under your skin, and the fact that you deserved it.

. . .

You hadn’t expected to hear from him again. Not after your embarrassing getaway. But three days later, you’re staring at an email with the subject line: "Notice of Legal Action for Unauthorized Sampling."

You open it with trembling fingers, only to find what can only be described as the world’s most dramatic—and definitely fake—lawsuit. 

Your jaw drops as you scroll through the email. He’d even attached a fake case number: #CAKE-404-NO-FUN.

The body of the email was littered with ridiculous legalese. Phrases like "egregious acts of confectionery negligence" and "failure to properly appreciate artisanal craftsmanship" were scattered between absurdly specific accusations.

There is a diagram. An actual diagram. Arrows pointing to "Exhibit A" (the Mont Blanc) and "Exhibit B" (the empty spot on the tray), annotated with notes like "victim of hasty consumption" and "left to fend for itself."

And then, at the very bottom, there it was—the pièce de résistance:

“This suit may be settled by one (1) heartfelt apology and one (1) coffee date at the aforementioned bakery. Should you require legal counsel, I suggest bringing your A-game. I am, after all, a connoisseur of arguments… and pastries. 😉”

You groan, head thunking against the back of your chair. The audacity. The drama. The fuckass emojis. 

This man is getting to you.

Your first reaction is, of course, panic. Your second? Rage. And by the time you storm into the bakery at ass o’clock before it even opens, Donghyuck is waiting for you, leaning against the counter like he owns the place. (Which he does, actually.)

He’s propped on his elbows, his posture easy and unhurried, as if he’s been expecting you. The black apron around his waist is slightly askew, and his beige T-shirt bears faint streaks of flour across the chest, a testament to an already busy morning. His fluffy brown hair is an artful mess, the kind that looks unintentional but infuriatingly perfect, with a few errant strands curling over his forehead. There’s a streak of something golden—sugar, maybe?—on his cheek, catching the light as he tilts his head to regard you with an expression that’s equal parts curious and smug.

“You’re early,” he remarks, his voice low and teasing, as though he isn’t the root of all evil.

“You think this is funny?” you demand, shoving your phone in his face.

Donghyuck grins, unbothered. “Hilarious, actually. Did it get your attention?”

“You can’t just send someone a fake legal notice!”

“Worked, didn’t it?” He shrugs, leaning back with infuriating calmness. “Besides, you owed me an explanation for your Houdini act. You know, poor Kimi had to clear your tray. She almost cried.”

“She did not!”

As if on cue, Kimi pokes her head out of the kitchen. “Oh, she absolutely did. It was tragic,” she deadpans before ducking back in.

You groan, feeling your cheeks grow hotter by the second. “You’re unbelievable.”

Donghyuck leans back, smug as ever, and gestures to the email still open on your phone. “Unbelievable or resourceful? Let’s review: I sent a single, harmless message—full of creativity and wit, I might add—and look where we are.”

“At me wanting to strangle you?”

“At you running right to me,” he corrects, his grin widening. “What, were you worried?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snap. “I’m here because—” 

You stop, realizing you don’t have a decent answer. “I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of thinking I took you seriously.”

“Oh, you absolutely took me seriously.” He nods sagely. “I saw the panic in your eyes. Admit it: for a second, you thought you were going to have to pay me a hundred grand or grovel at my feet.”

“I- ugh- fuck you!” is all you can muster, stepping forward without thinking.

He mirrors your movement, the space between you shrinking by degrees. 

“But seriously, you ghosted me, and I had to get creative. What the hell was I supposed to do? I figured the legal drama might get my point across.”

“What point?”

“That I wanted to see you again.” The words come out so easily, so matter-of-fact, you don’t know how to respond. When you finally glance up, he’s watching you closely, his expression uncharacteristically sincere.

“Just because you’re all cute and covered in flour like the star of some indie chef movie doesn’t mean you get to toy with me.”

“Ha! You’re presumptuous—despite all the fine details on me you seem to observe.” He leans in. “But guess what, I’m a greedy bastard that loves attention. So, look closer.”

And you look anywhere but his lips, too pink and too plush, as your face grows hotter than a convection oven on broil.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you manage, staring resolutely at the display of cakes. “That hardly counts as details.”

“Details,” he echoes, his grin growing wider. “Like the way I look at you?”

“You’re just a flirt,” you mutter.

He gasps, mock-offended, and gestures dramatically to the kitchen. “Kimi, did you hear that? I’m just a flirt!”

“You said it, not me,” Kimi calls back without missing a beat.

You laugh despite yourself, the sound surprising you. And Donghyuck doesn’t miss it. His gaze softens, the teasing edge in his voice dropping slightly. “There it is. I knew you could laugh without running away.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

For a moment, the air shifts, the humor giving way to something quieter. Donghyuck’s gaze lingers—not on your awkward posture or flushed cheeks, but on you, as though trying to piece together something he doesn’t quite understand.

“What?” you finally ask, defensive.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head, but there’s a small, genuine smile now. “Just... you’re such a fidgety person.”

“Are you trying to shell out an insult?”

“No, I mean, I always see you scuttling here and there. Always on the move. Always observing, but never stopping long enough to be seen. You just… don’t seem like someone who takes much time for yourself.”

You blink, caught off guard. He tilts his head, like he’s trying to figure out if he’s crossed a line.

“I’m wrong?” he asks, almost sheepishly.

“I—” You pause, unsure of how to respond. “You’re nosy, that’s what you are.”

“That’s a yes,” he decides, grinning again.

Donghyuck chuckles, leaning just a little closer, his warm brown eyes locking onto yours. “Tell you what,” he says, his voice dropping to a murmur, “I’ll prove I’m not just nosy. Let me take you out. Somewhere you don’t have to bolt out the door halfway through.”

“You think I’d agree to that?” you retort, though your words lack bite. The proximity is doing something to your brain, and you’re acutely aware of how close he’s leaned in.

His grin is confident and infuriating. “I think you’d be curious enough to say yes.”

Your breath hitches as you realize how little space is left between the two of you, your noses almost brushing. “Woah,” you whisper, trying to play it off, “my mommy warned me about boys like you. All up close and personal with flour in their hair.”

He raises a brow, unrepentant. “Smart woman. But she didn’t tell you we’re pretty good at first dates, did she?”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes, soft but genuine. “Fine,” you say, straightening up and taking a step back before your pulse betrays you further. “But you’re paying. And no weird cakes this time.”

“Deal,” he replies, his smile softer now, more sincere.

And for a moment, you believe it—not just the act, not just the cakes and the banter, but the idea that maybe, somehow, this strange, sugar-dusted series of events has led to something real.

. . .

r/AmITheAsshole

u/YeastMode6969 • 16h

UPDATE: I faked my engagement for free cake samples then got sued after I ran away. AIO?

Fine, you guys were right. We’re dating now. Let’s just say we’ve been filling my cream puffs lately  🫠

Edit: I also got the Mont Blanc recipe!!

⥣ 7.7k ⥥ 3,297 Comments

kimikakes • 13h

KIMI HERE, REPORTING LIVE FROM THE SCENE: they literally argued over frosting consistency for half an hour yesterday. This relationship is built on chaos and croissants.

➥ Reply ⥣ 7.1k ⥥

bun_theory0222 • 2h

Hellooo where are the recipes. Priorities, OP :/

➥ Reply ⥣ 4.1k ⥥

lil_sugar_daddy0813 • 1h

man i was betting on donghyuck dying alone i dont wanna lose my $20

➥ Reply ⥣ 1.3k ⥥

muffinbutdrama1122 • 1h Give me your money NYEOW ➥ Reply ⥣ 1.7k ⥥

soggywaffle0205 • 6m why are you suddenly a furry ➥ Reply ⥣ 1.1k ⥥

Chapter 1: Raised in Shadows, Told to Shine. 

Comparison. 

The core of all insecurities. The onset of overthinking. The path to self loathing. 

That’s what comparison does to a person—drive them to the edge of insanity in hopes of turning into something; into someone the others will look up to, compare themselves to. 

It was a bad thing per se, but it was motivation enough for Jeno to work harder in order to leave the country, to get away from his family. 

The reason? His mother ever so conveniently happened to have fallen in love with a rich guy, someone who never knew what struggle meant, and Jeno was just four back then. It didn’t take much time for him to settle into the lifestyle, however, no matter how much he could have prepared to face his step-brother, he simply couldn’t bother looking him in the eye. 

Why? Because he was known to be the epitome of perfection. Jung Jaehyun was the son every parent wanted, the student every teacher was fond of, the doctor every nurse wanted to work with. 

The sweet dimple on his cheek was a great asset in melting the hearts of everyone in his proximity or afar. 

Jeno on the other hand, wasn’t quite sure why he wasn’t considered to be enough, especially when he got decent grades throughout his school life, he wasn’t a bother, kind to those who were around them, but it changed. 

It changed when he got daily reminders of how he wasn’t even close to how amazing and successful his step brother was. 

That’s when things started looking down for Jeno. He stopped caring about the grades, he wasn’t sure why he was supposed to put up a I’m so good, so smart act in front of others when there was no reason for him to do that. 

Others didn’t bother doing the same for him. 

Rather, he tried to work upon the only thing he was passionate about, the only thing that mattered to him—football. 

Despite winning several trophies for playing the sport, his parents labelled it to be useless, which broke the last fragment of his heart, shattering it to the point of no return. 

Which would explain his current demeanor—moody, permanent scowl on his perfectly sculpted face and no care for the others around him. His sole focus being football, which is also the reason behind his current dilemma. 

“Being an excellent player in the sports team does not guarantee you your scholarship, Mr. Lee,” Jeno’s teacher incharge spoke up, taking off her specs right after reviewing his annual grade report, “you’re failing three out of five modules, and if you don’t start getting back on track soon, then I’m afraid you won’t be able to play in the team anymore.” 

Fuck. 

Jeno had been neglecting his studies, he admits, yet he never thought that he’d reach this point. It’s not that he wasn’t smart, he simply had no motivation to go on with his studies. His parents could easily pay the university to keep him around, however, he wanted nothing from them, which also explains why he got himself a scholarship in the first place. 

“I’m sorry if I’m late.” Jeno’s eyes snapped wide open, turning back to see his step brother entering the teacher’s cabin. 

“Why are you here?” Jeno asked, a muscle in his jaw twitching but Jaehyun only smiled. 

Jeno’s professor was equally stunned, probably even more with her jaw wide open at the appearance of such a handsome young man. 

“I called him in since your parents were busy,” his professor said, handling Jeno a letter, “go and find your tutor in the council room, she’ll be helping you with the upliftment of your grades, Mr. Lee, and now if you’ll excuse us, I’ve got to fill in your brother with your current situation,” she said the last part awfully sweetly as Jaehyun sat down in one of the vacant chairs, smiling at her kind tone. 

Jeno scoffed, the demeanor change around Jaehyun went crazy and he wasn’t a fan of it, especially when he was called in to complain about his mistakes. 

He simply wanted to leave the university and never come back. 

He waited, taking deep breaths before punching the wall, not being able to contain his anger. The impact did hurt, yet he paid no heed to it, the blood dripping as he walked towards the council room to get over with the day. 

The name written on the sheet wasn’t unfamiliar to him, rather it only wearied the already infuriated boy as he knocked on the door of the student council room, which was empty except for you sitting there, working on a few papers which appeared to be the newsletter for the month. 

“Come in,” you allowed, not looking up as Jeno made his way inside the room, observing the surroundings where he’s never been before. 

Then he looked your way, taking in your appearance. You looked cozy in your university varsity jacket, your specs sitting on your nose as you buried yourself in reading whatever it was that you were reading. He couldn’t deny you looked pretty in a way that’s comforting to eyes. 

With no words exchanged, he pushed the letter towards you, which finally made you look up at the source of disturbance, your eyebrows raising slightly as you most certainly did not expect the star football player to visit you in the council room, which he’s never been to before. 

He simply stood there, hands shoved into his pockets while still looking around, and you took a second to grab the letter, skimming over to read and understand that the letter was given by Mrs. Kim, the teacher in charge of your department, requesting you to take up the few teaching sessions you had applied for, Jeno being the student you’ll have to teach for the same. 

You clicked your tongue, folding the letter exactly as it was before pushing it his way, your arms folding across your chest as you finally spoke up, “I reject. I don’t wish to teach you.”

His eyes were quick to snap towards you, finally staring right into your own eyes, irritation clear as he pushed his tongue on his inner cheek, eyebrow raised. 

“Aren’t you supposed to kiss your professor’s feet, given that you’re in student council? And here I thought you’d be a good girl.” Jeno rasped, resting his arms on your table, leaning down to your level. 

You chuckled, expecting the exact response from him, “this is exactly why I don’t want to waste my time on you—you athletes don’t wish to study, you just require a passing grade, for which I don’t have time to spare.” 

“What the fuck do you mean waste your time?” 

“Lee Jeno, you’ve got more money with you than your bank account can handle, so I’m sure losing your scholarship won’t do you much harm,” you said with a sickening smile, “you’ve got no interest in studying, your attendance record states that oh so proudly.” 

“You don’t know shit about me,” Jeno seethed out, messy hair strands falling over his eyes. 

“I know everything I need to know about you. Now excuse me, unlike you, I actually have work to do,” you said, passing him a tight lipped smile, not letting the proximity faze you. 

“You—” 

Jeno’s sentence was cut short with two sharp knocks on the slightly ajar door, a head peeking in, successfully garnering your attention. You could feel your mood doing one eighty with the sudden intrusion of this stranger—whom you didn’t wish to be a stranger around anymore, your eyes softening, lips parting as you stared at him in awe. 

Meanwhile, if Jeno thought that the day was done being a bitch to him, then he was wrong because the level of irritation that bubbled up in him the moment he saw the change in your expressions. 

“Sorry to interrupt, may I get in?” Jaehyun asked, smiling his usual dimpled smile, which had you swooning in record time. 

You could practically see veins of frustration popping out on Jeno’s neck, “no. Your work is done, you should head back home,” he groaned, but Jaehyun only looked you way, continuing to get in, looking your way. 

“I’m Jaehyun, Jeno’s elder brother. I can’t thank you enough for agreeing on giving him tutoring lessons, especially with how busy you must be with council duties,” he spoke up, shaking your hand, which was smaller in his warm, big hands. 

Jeno scoffed, “she’s not—”

“Of course, Jaehyun! It’s my pleasure to help him out, and it’ll only help me better with my extracurricular credits! It’s no problem,” you nodded, a gentle smile on your face as your eyes practically twinkled with excitement, taking in the beauty that Jaehyun beheld. 

It was ridiculous. 

It was absurd how just two sentences; paired with a sweet smile from his brother, were enough for you to change your decision, in the span of two seconds at that. 

He tightened the hold he had on the strap of his black bag, “no fucking need. I’ll find another tutor,” Jeno deadpanned, walking out of the room, not paying attention to Jaehyun who called out his name in the background. 

He wouldn’t let you use him to get to his brother. 

With that thought, he decided to detour and make his way to the gym, trying to blow off steam by practicing punching, each one getting progressively stronger as his mind replayed the difference in your behaviour when it came to him and his brother. 

It didn’t bother him that his knuckles were bruising, he knew he needed this extrinsic pain to get rid of the obvious hurt he felt each day. 

And he couldn’t understand why he felt so affected by your actions, especially when it was the first time you had met. 

Jealousy was indeed a bitch. 

Chapter 2: Surrendered to the skirt. 

Two days passed by and Jeno’s mood showed no progress in terms of improving, rather, he felt worse each time the memory invaded his brain. He tried his best to sit down and open the first module of the unit he had to study. 

It’s not like he was bad at studying, he was just a bit out of practice, and well, his mental health wasn’t doing much to help him get any better. 

Just when he was about to actually get a hang of getting into the topic, the doorbell rang. His parents were out for business, as usual, and his step brother was busy doing morning shifts, which meant that he was alone at the mansion, minus the myriad of worker staff they had to take care of the place. 

Essentially, he had to get down to see who it was at the door, only to spot you leaning against the doorframe as one of the attendants had asked you to wait. He stopped, observing you from the staircase as you typed something on your phone. 

Why were you here after clearly rejecting him? Why were you here when he’s clearly told you he doesn’t want you to be his tutor?

Scoffing, he walked down the stairs and towards you, standing right in front of you, clearly invading your personal space as he decided to lean against the same side of the thick door frame with his brows raised.

You took a second to take in his appearance as he was clad in casual gray sweatpants with a black tank, which honestly did nothing to hide his muscles. 

“Why are you here?” Jeno asked with a bored tone. 

“I’m here to teach you, remember?” You gave him a pointed look. 

“And I clearly told you I don’t wish to study from you, it’s better if you leave now. I’ll just tell Mrs. Kim that you taught me,” he said, almost turning back to go inside. 

“And have them wondering how you failed even after getting tutored by me? Yeah, I don’t think so,” you shook your head, inviting yourself in without second thoughts. 

“Y/n, I’m not fucking kidding, you should leave. Besides, the one you came for isn’t at home at the moment,” he muttered bitterly. 

That caught your attention, “oh? Busy with a job then?” You asked, looking around the exquisite paintings hung at the entrance of his place. 

“Are you gonna leave or do I have to call the guards to escort you out?”

You chuckled, “you really don’t want the previous year questions I have? The council students get them each year you see, they’re bound to guarantee you good marks,” you explained with a smirk. 

Jeno groaned, his lip bitten as he tried to think if tolerating you would be worth the questions, but his football career was at stake and there was no better option but to accept it. 

“What’s the catch?” Jeno asked after a few seconds, sighing with defeat. 

“Nothing at all. We both know that you need these papers to get the grade that you wanna achieve and I’ll get my extra credits,” you reason. 

“You just wanna meet my brother,” he said dryly, “either way, you won’t get to see a lot of him, he’s always at the hospital, working and being the perfect son he is. Plus, he’s definitely not into uni students,” he looked you up and down, soon gulping and looking elsewhere. 

You were clad in a pretty skirt which showed off your legs—which you did wear in hopes of crossing paths with Jaehyun, but you completely missed how Jeno was staring at your body. 

He wasn’t sure if it was out of hatred that he stared at you, or it was admiration because you were one of those people he despised—overachievers.  

You were in the student council, got good grades and professors favoured you, it wouldn’t be a surprise if your parents loved you for being the ideal daughter. It most certainly didn’t help that your appearance seemed as if you were the sweetest, kindest angel on earth, which wasn’t the case when you were around Jeno though. 

“I’ll manage,” you shrugged, “so, I need your final word, Mr. Lee.”

“I am sure I can find better tutors than you,” he raised his brows, challenging you and you didn’t look fazed at all. 

“I am quite literally the best, professor Kim asked me to tutor you for a reason, besides, no one’s gonna agree to help you out with exams being only one month away,” you made your point, extending your hand for him to finalize his decision. 

Overconfidence. He sighed. 

Jeno stared at your extended hand, thinking of the bigger picture here. He’d get tutoring and would be able to score decent grades if he gets back to his usual routine of studying. 

Downside? He’d have to face you each day. 

Sighing and keeping his feelings in check, he simply nodded, taking your smaller hand into his as he accepted the offer, suddenly aware of the warmth of your palm and how it leaves a tingling feeling behind as you shake his hand firmly with a smirk. 

“So, where are we gonna study?” 

Chapter 3: Silent room, a loud mind. 

Turns out, it’s not that easy to sit down and just teach Jeno. 

Given the amount of classes he had missed, or rather, the amount of classes he had managed to attend, it was clear that he didn’t even have the basic idea of the syllabus for the semester modules. 

Moreover, you had already pissed him off by mentioning how you didn’t expect him to have such a clean and organized room, as if you had already decided that he was going to be a messy human. 

Moving forward, you both sat down next to each other with your laptop open in front of you as you made him write down all the topics he needed to cover for the next month, forming a sort of timetable of a kind. 

It was surprisingly peaceful between you two, as if you both wished to get over with it as soon as possible, behaving as civilly as you could but there was this one thing that Jeno couldn’t stop doing. 

Overthinking. 

It’s the way you looked his way with disappointed and concerned filled eyes whenever he messed up, the way his jaw clenched when you told him to do better, the way he couldn’t help but stare at your glossed up lips as you looked around his room, eyes settling on his childhood pictures which were framed. 

It was also new to him to actually interact with people outside of his football team, especially girls. He couldn’t remember the last time he had talked to one. He wondered what was going on in your mind, he wondered if you were silently judging him through it all.

That’s all what people in his life did anyway. 

“You were cute as a kid, what happened to you now?” You joked, chuckling as you looked his way, only to find his mouth slightly agape.

He hadn’t expected you to say that, and he certainly didn’t want to retort back with something that would ruin his mood, “I grew up to be hot is what happened to me,” he replied smoothly. 

“Oh, so you do know how to joke around,” you raised your brows in surprise. It was indeed the image he had formed over the years. The image of him being nothing more than a rude jock who wouldn’t even reply to someone nicely. 

Now that you were actually interacting with him, you were going to find out how many of the rumors were true about him. 

He only leaned closer at your statement, you could see his muscles flexing as he rested one arm on the table in front of you both, “it’s not a joke, love. I am hot.”

You scoffed at the term of endearment, suddenly aware of his scent now that he was so close to you, “and egoistic too,” you helpfully added. 

“Rightfully so.”

Your childish argument was interrupted that very second as the door to Jeno’s room swung open, revealing the exact man you came to see. 

Jaehyun was smiling, dressed in black slacks and a button up shirt as he welcomed you here, and you were quick to notice Jeno’s mood turning fowl that very second. 

“Thank you so much for coming here, Y/n. Let me send a few snacks and drinks for you both while you study,” he smiled, and you rushed up to stand, not even bothering about the pen that fell down as you did so. 

“Jaehyun,” you walked up to him, much to Jeno’s dismay, “oh, you don’t have to do anything,” you smiled sweetly, and he only shook his head softly, grabbing your arm. 

“Don’t worry about it, just sit and relax, okay?” He squeezed your arm, going downstairs and you sighed with a smile. Even his scent was perfect to you. 

“You done daydreaming?” Jeno asked, deadpanning once his brother had left. 

“You done solving the question?” You retorted. 

He sighed, as if his energy was drained already, “yeah, just check and get this over with,” he said, handing you the binder and looking elsewhere. 

It was probably the first time you actually paid attention to his dejected tone, as if he didn’t have the energy to fight back, and you obviously didn’t wish to irk him more, especially when he looked so frustrated right now. Thankfully, a lot of his answers were indeed correct, which was another surprise to you. 

He was smart, he just simply didn’t wish to study. 

“Something wrong?” He asked, cocking his brow and you blinked, “you’re actually not as dumb as you portray yourself to be,” you mumbled, checking everything thoroughly. 

It should’ve been insulting to Jeno per se, but even the slightest amount of approval was a big thing for him, causing the corner of his lips to curl up. He felt insane, the amount of emotions he felt in a single day was perhaps the reason for the same, courtesy of you. 

He was glad Jaehyun didn’t enter the room again, sending in a servant staff to give you the snacks instead, which maintained the peace throughout the session. 

You couldn’t help but notice how well he concentrated once there was silence in the room, your eyes focused on his hand gripping the pen, making it seem more veiny than it already was. 

Also, you didn’t miss the hint of a smile ghosting his face when you told him he did a good job right before leaving, which made you think of a few things, one being— 

He looked beautiful with a smile. 

Chapter 4: You can’t read my mind, so read my lips. 

As much as Jeno loved the comfort of his room, he really wanted to avoid you bumping into Jaehyun again.

Even the thought of your interactions, your fake sweet smiles, made him wanna punch the wall. Jaehyun really had it easy and Jeno never understood why, it was no joke that Jeno was decent looking as well, talented in his own way, and a kind hearted person who just happened to have a protective wall around him so as to not get hurt any further. 

Which is why you had been tutoring him in the library from the past ten sessions, his own personal request to avoid having privacy with you. 

Heck, even Jeno didn’t know it was his own mind trying to protect him, which is why he couldn’t let anyone in, anyone.  

Which made this situation far from ideal as he had you pressed against the library wall, no distance between you both as you closed your eyes in pure distress. 

“What the actual fuck is he doing here?” Your question was directed more to yourself, which confused Jeno further.

He poked his tongue into his cheek, annoyance creeping through, “what the fuck is going on?” He asked. 

“Shhh, not so loud,” you pressed your palm against his mouth, “just hide me.”

He rolled his eyes, grabbing your wrist effortlessly, pinning it above your head, “you don’t tell me what to do, yeah?” He mumbled, flustering you under his gaze before your eyes travelled back to where you were looking initially. 

He sighed in annoyance, looking back at the direction of your supposed fear. 

Na Jaemin. Another of Jeno’s football teammates. 

“Why are you hiding from Jaemin,” he asked, brow raised as he leaned into you. 

“Ugh,” you groaned, “he’s my ex, he shouldn’t even be in the library, he’s never here!” You were stressed and Jeno smirked devilishly. 

“Fucking hell, you’re the girl he keeps on stalking and crying about?” He chuckled, “let me call him,” he turned away for a second. 

You used your free hand to grab his nape, “don’t fucking move,” you mumbled. 

Perhaps you were too harsh with the grabbing, also not calculating the proximity enough, because Jeno’s nose was brushing against yours, lips close to the point of touching, and a low groan escaping his lips as your name rolls out his tongue in the most angry grunt ever, “what the actual fuck are you doing?” 

“J—just let him leave,” you mumbled, gulping and closing your eyes, his mint breath fanning your face as heat crept up your neck, up till your ears. 

“What will I get out of it,” he asked, his free hand resting on your waist now, “why should I help you?”

“I’m literally helping you study, Jeno,” you seethed out.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he groaned, making you open your eyes, staring into his deep ones now, suddenly feeling small under his gaze, and well, his body. 

“What?” you asked, looking away to check if Jaemin had left, pushing Jeno away the second you confirmed it. 

Jeno, however, wasn’t having any of it. 

With a scoff and the shake of his head, he grabbed your wrist again, twisting it behind your back, not putting too much pressure so it just hurt but still made it clear how he would not let you go so easily, “you can’t run from me.”

“Let go, I fucking swear—” you let out, squirming around and pushing him, he didn’t budge at all sadly. 

“You do realize I’m a lot stronger than you, right?” He chuckled. 

“Fuck—what do you want me to do?” You rolled your eyes, jaw clenching as you looked at him. 

Before he could answer, your eyes widened in fear yet again as you yanked his arm so forcefully, he had no chance to balance himself, a yelp leaving his mouth as you ran and he was following right after you. 

Jaemin was back and you could just not deal with his ass anymore, hence the overwhelming response. Fight or flight? Flight for sure. Dragging Jeno into it might be a stretch but hey, whatever helped you run away from the gremlin, right? 

“Y/N,” Jeno hissed yet again, once you stopped by your seat, gathering both yours and his belongings scattered across the table from when you were studying a few minutes back, before getting up to find a book, before seeing Jaemin roaming around the halls of the library. 

It was quite amusing to Jeno if he was being honest, a mix of feelings as you grabbed his wrist effortlessly yet again, your eyes set on the exit door leading to the parking lot where Jeno’s Ferrari Purosangue stood proudly. 

“Get in!” You screamed even though you were far from the threat (read: Jaemin) now. 

“That’s my car in case you forgot—”

“Now.” 

“So fucking annoying—” He grumbled, with a small smile playing on his lips. 

You looked so bothered as if you were chased by Ghostface and not Jaemin, even though you probably wouldn’t run away from the prior. It was comical regardless, the long breath you exhaled once you were comfortable on his premium quality car seat, head leaned back fully. 

You opened your eyes after a few seconds only to find Jeno’s eyes on you, face curved into an amused look. You stared at one another for a second, two seconds, three seconds—and he burst out laughing. 

It was probably the first time you saw him laugh like that—so freely, without any care in this world. It was loud but breathless, making his eyes crinkle with small crescents forming, his perfectly aligned pearly teeth showing as he went on, laughing at your disheveled state and crazy response to everything that happened the past twenty minutes. 

You were calm and composed for the most part, it was rare for you to look this frustrated over anything, which came as a surprise to Jeno, the whole situation seemingly pure comedy to him. 

You observed him so carefully, your own lips twitching into a smile and before you knew it, you were laughing alongside him so normally as if two friends were laughing over a joke. 

A weird sort of warmth spread over your body, it made no sense honestly, you were pinned to the wall just a few minutes back and Jeno looked as if he’d burst into flames with his anger, and now he’s laughing at your disheveled, non-composed state. 

Once Jeno caught you staring back at him with glittering eyes, and a little smile, he froze. It was easy for him to come back to his senses (read: put his walls back up) which only made your smile drop too. It was awkward, both of you looking elsewhere while clearing your throats, definitely not something you expected. 

“Uh—sorry about that, yeah,” you mumbled, playing with the loose threat of your sweater sleeve. 

“Yeah, no problem,” he retorted, turning the car engine on to start driving. 

Why was it awkward? Because you laughed together like two absolutely normal individuals? Because you had Jeno pinning you to the wall to avoid your ex? 

Or because you almost kissed. Almost. 

 The ride back to your apartment was silent, no songs playing in the car, just the small buzz of engine, and the nail tapping on the screen of your phone—to avoid any kind of conversation happening, also clearly missing out on how Jeno glanced at you every few seconds, the speed of his thoughts running faster than his own car. 

“I’ll—see you tomorrow then?” Your voice cracked as you said so, wincing slightly at your own tone. 

Jeno was about to chuckle again, yet he covered it with a low cough as he mumbled a yes, as you opened the door once he stopped in front of your apartment. 

That’s it, you were leaving, and his eyes didn’t leave you till you disappeared into the apartment. 

He gripped the steering wheel tighter, groaning as he banged his head into it, a low horn sound only frustrating him further. It was hard for him to drive after, the scene of you being so vulnerable yet glaring at him like a scared little vixen trying to look brave, replayed in his mind. 

No, he couldn’t drive, couldn’t focus on the road anymore, stopping the car at a random parking lot of a fast food chain, grabbing his phone to pull up Instagram, specifically Jaemin’s account. 

He didn’t have to scroll much to find the picture he was looking for—his teammate, Jaemin, standing right next to you with his arm resting on your waist. Jeno didn’t know why that picture left a bitter taste in his mouth all of a sudden, knowing well how badly Jaemin fucked up when he cheated on you. 

And now the asshole is running after you again. 

You didn’t deserve that, you deserve someone better—someone perfect like you. 

He went back, not having it in him to look at the picture again, instead, going to your account now. It looked professional, all your posts being highly calculative to make your feed look pleasing. Your highlights, however, had this one particular picture—a picture of you smiling without a care in the world, so raw, so genuine, so beautiful. 

Beautiful. 

Jeno thought you looked beautiful, and it made him angry. 

He was angry—because deep down, he desired to be the reason for your smile. 

Chapter 5: Pretty in pink, but my head’s in the dark. 

Jeno made you smile. 

You did know that laugh was contagious, however, you didn’t think you’d actually give in to Jeno’s sweet chuckles. 

Sleep didn’t come to you easy when the constant reminder of the study session poked the back of your mind, not to mention what happened in the library earlier, where you and Jeno almost kissed—

No. 

You shook your head. Such niche experiences never falter you, so why was this such a big deal? 

Another groan left your mouth, but alas, your body was relaxed enough to sleep so you woke up energetic the next day. It felt oddly friendly when you saw Jeno at the University, and he threw a two finger salute your way, you waved back before going your way. 

“You’re zoned out, again.” Karina, one of your classmates, pointed out and you sighed as she rambled about how you needed to let some guy in, quite literally, to blow off some steam, which you clearly weren’t doing, hence the stuck up energy. 

Being descriptive about it didn’t help either—yet another reminder of how Jeno’s body was pressed against yours this hour, yesterday. 

Heat crept up your neck, urging you to pack up and leave the room. It was hot, stuffy almost for you to do anything, which is why you found yourself studying at the empty seat of the University park. 

You had to face him again, of course, there was no escape to that, and as if the universe was testing you, the time passed by way too quickly for your liking and soon, you found yourself standing in front of the main door of Jeno’s place. 

Before you could even ring the bell, the door opened to a huffing Jeno, almost as if he ran downstairs, but how did he know—

“Hey,” he whispered, looking around. 

He didn’t wait for your reply, simply grabbing your wrist and dragging you inside, your skin burning at the unexpected touch, but you didn’t shake him off of you, only asking in a low tone, “what are you doing?” 

“Shh,” Jeno mumbled, as though he was trying to avoid someone, or rather, trying to hide you from someone. His efforts were futile, however, once he heard that stern voice of his mother booming through the walls of his mansion. 

Now you get why Jeno was in a hurry, the look on her face had a chill going down your spine. 

You felt Jeno stiffen alongside you, his hold on your wrist now tighter, uncontrollably so. 

“You must be the new tutor for Jeno,” she said, scrutinizing every bit of your existence, Jeno’s jaw clenched at her unwavering gaze. 

“Yes ma’am, It’s a pleasure meeting you,” you tried to say, only for her to cut you off. 

“Trust me, darling. There must be no pleasure in helping Jeno, but I do hope he learns a thing or two from you—you look like a smart young lady, hopefully, a positive influence on him.” 

You looked at her with your mouth open slightly, not believing the sight in front of you. No mother should look down on their children like that, ever. 

“Mrs. Jung, I hope we’re talking about the same Jeno because he is amazing at studies, he grasps concepts faster than I do, and then I believe I’m the one who’s learning from him right now!” You smiled, full of enthusiasm, feeling Jeno’s hand dropping down from your wrist. 

“In fact, I’ve never seen anyone play football so perfectly while also being so brilliantly academically smart, I firmly believe his grades will shock you this time. Now, if you’ll excuse us, it’s time for our tutoring session.”

You passed her a small smile, the shock clear on her face, before grabbing Jeno’s hand and taking him along with you—to his room. You didn’t look back, simply closing the door as you breathed out with a pissed expression. 

Jeno’s heart was beating fast, he wasn’t sure if he had words to speak at this moment, so staring at you was all he could do. 

You spoke for him. 

You defended him. 

No one’s ever done that, no one cared enough to understand, moreover, it didn’t help how you looked angrier than him at the situation. 

“W—Why?” Jeno couldn’t keep his voice in check, “you didn’t have to—say all that.”

That’s when you turned around, facing him. All your anger disappeared once you focused on his face, so vulnerable, so confused, so desperate to know your answer. 

“Jeno,” the gentleness in your voice only made him gulp and look down at the floor, “I hope you don’t believe a word she says, because that’s not true,” you spoke, inching closer. 

You were not one who was good at making people feel better, Jeno of all people at that, however, this gave you an insight of why Jeno is the way he is—closed off, hence the lack of words from your side, but you knew you had to say it. 

That’s the thing, we judge people too quickly, you always had snarky remarks for him, not knowing how deep they cut him. He looked shaken right now, traumatized, especially because you experienced a part of his life which he never wanted to share with anybody. 

“Jeno, you’re doing so well, you know that right?” You whispered, as genuine as possible, your fingers grabbing his own, which made him look up at you finally. 

He was shaken, not from his mother’s words—he was used to them—but from yours. 

“No one’s ever said that,” he spoke so silently, you almost missed it. You held his hand tight—being almost angrier than him while answering his mom back—he isn’t sure if he’ll ever be over that. 

Jeno didn’t realize his eyes were glistening. 

“What?” You breathed out. 

He gulped yet again, jaw clenched now as he struggled to get his words out, the floor being the most interesting thing to him, “defended me. No one’s done that.”

“I—is that why you hate Jaehyun? Because people only see him?” You asked, wincing at the question when you saw him stiffen again, a sharp pang in your chest once he brushed your hand off of his. 

“Don’t. Don’t fucking go there.”

“I didn’t mean—” 

“Oh I fucking know what you mean. Everyone sees him fuck—you see him, because he’s perfect, right? That’s what he is, perfect,” he seethed out, “you don’t know what it’s like—to live in someone’s shadow,” there was a flash of pain in his eyes. 

You stayed mum, letting him speak. 

“Every place, every room, every fucking person just sees him,” he muttered, “I need to better, but it’s never enough, because he already did it—Jaehyun did it better. You look at him the same way as others do, and me? The afterthought—the failure.”

Your heart broke a little, guilt settling in because unknowingly, you fueled the same anger and trauma for him. 

“Jeno,” you mumbled, “you’re not a failure.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I’m starting to,” you spoke, and he looked up, “and thank god you’re not Jaehyun,” you chuckled, fingers ghosting near his jaw, your touch featherlight, making him suck in a deep breath. 

“Why?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper, eyes hopeful, which scared him. 

“Because you’re real, you don’t fake your emotions. You don’t smile at somebody who you don’t care about, you get angry, messy, you let yourself be shown how you are,” you lip twitched slightly as you said so, your own heartbeat rose at the sentences you so easily uttered, “that’s what makes you a human, Jeno, a human who’s trying his best, which is what matters.”

He blinked. 

He wanted to speak, but he couldn’t, simply leaning into your touch with his eyes closed. 

“You’re you, the stupid jock who’s not scared of anything, yeah?” You tried to make him smile, which helped as you saw his lips curving up. 

Midway through your sentences, you genuinely questioned yourself about why you even like Jaehyun, it was honestly just your mind playing games with you. 

“You scare me,” he muttered. 

“Why?”

“Because you say things so convincingly, it makes me wanna believe you.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Just—don’t say it when you don’t mean it.”

“I do,” you said in a breath, his eyes on yours now, more intense than ever, “I mean every word.”

He stared a little longer, staring at you unamused as if you’d laugh in his face right this second. You didn’t. 

“You’re serious,” he said, voice hoarse. 

You nodded softly. 

Jeno took a single step forward, the air around you so tight, it felt like a rubber band stretched to its max, on the verge of snapping back. 

You inhaled sharply once Jeno’s cold hand brushed the hair on your shoulder, grazing against your bare skin, moving up your nape. 

“Do you have any idea what you just said to me?” He murmured, eyes locked on yours, turning you around easily to pin you against the wall—something he liked to do, apparently. 

“Tell me,” you mumbled. 

If someone told you two days back that you’d be in Jeno’s room, calming him down before getting into a compromising position with him, you would have laughed in their faces. It was reality for you now, something that made you feel so unconventionally flustered. 

The way he brushed his thumb along your jaw, slow and deliberate, made you shiver, “you’re making me forget that i’m supposed to hate this—feeling anything.” 

You were hanging on the last bit of your sanity, drowning in Jeno’s scent, his nose brushing against your cheek, hand gripping your waist, heat radiating off of your body. 

“Jeno—”

“Say it again,” he whispered. 

“Say what?” You breathed. 

“That you’re glad I’m not him.”

You chuckled under his hold, your voice still shaking, “I’m so glad—so fucking glad you’re not him.” 

His breath sounded like a curse, lips hovering a breath above yours, you could feel his hesitation against your skin. He wasn’t sure if he had the right to touch someone as perfect as you, yet you didn’t stop him, the space in between you was so tight, it might as well elicit electricity. 

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink, only leaning into his touch, resting your hand over the top of his on your jaw. The touch was faint, yet you could feel it everywhere. 

You held your breath as he leaned in—

Knock. 

Jeno swore under his breath as you flinched, it physically hurt him to step back. 

“Jeno?” Of course, it was Jaehyun who had to interrupt you two. 

Your hands trembled as Jeno moved to the door, and you quickly turned towards the desk, rushing to sit down, pretending that nothing had happened—that you didn’t almost kiss Jeno a few seconds back. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes furious with a hint of daze in them. “Yeah?” His voice came out strained as he asked Jaehyun through the door. 

“Mom wants to talk to you,” He said.

“Be right down,” he answered, shaking his head, staring at your way one last time, holding eye contact for a second, letting you see just how much he hated this situation, veins popping in his neck.

Then he opened the door, closing it behind him and disappearing from your eyesight. 

You stayed there, overwhelmed, lips tingling, pulse racing. 

A truth burned your skin in an excruciating pain. 

If he had kissed you, you wouldn’t have stopped him. 

Chapter 6: I can go from A to Z, but U is what I want. 

Jeno hadn’t texted you all night. 

Not that you waited, except, you did. 

He never came back to the room after Jaehyun called him out, you waited, till you couldn’t anymore and had to rush out before your mind drove you to the edge of insanity. 

So you grabbed your bag, rushing to the first place you thought of—the courtyard behind the Science block. It was calm, no student in sight, thankfully. 

Your five minutes of calm ended a second too quickly, a voice calling out your name in its full glory. You cursed the universe for treating you like this and you didn’t have to turn around to figure out who it was.

Jaemin. 

“I gotta admit, I didn’t peg you to fall for the broken type.” He stepped out smiling as insane as a villain who hasn’t moved on does. 

“Still stalking me?” You rolled your eyes, “get a fucking job.”

“I call it being invested,” he smirked, shoving hands in his pockets, “it’s honestly a downgrade, going from me to Jeno.”

“Not again,” you muttered, grabbing your book which you had just taken out. 

“I mean, trading me for Jeno?” Voice full of pity. 

“As if you were an option, Jaemin,” you turned sharply. 

That shut him up for half a second.

“I just don’t get it,” he said, voice colder now. “He’s always angry, I was angry, I made you feel something, can he say the same?”

Your head was hurting by now, as you mumbled yet another shut up, only to be stopped by Jaemin as he grabbed your arm. 

“What? He’s the angry, tortured type. You’re into hopeless projects now?”

“I’m into honesty,” you snapped, “something you don’t offer.”

“What does he have that I don’t?”

“Self awareness maybe,” a voice came from behind you, low, cold, almost lethal. 

Jeno was here. 

“Let go of her,” he said, dead-eyed, he was ready to snap. 

And Jaemin did, a scoff leaving his mouth before he smirked, “great, speak of the devil.”

Jeno raised his brow, “you done?”

Jaemin chuckled, “not even close.”

You sighed, “of course not,” this day couldn’t get worse. 

“You really think this is love or whatever?” He said, looking at Jeno but his words were directed to you instead, “he’s gonna burn you someday, and you’re gonna let him.” 

Oh god, you were not having any of this, why was this conversation even happening? It made absolutely no sense. 

Jeno moved faster this time, but you blocked his chest with your arms, “enough,” you said sharply. 

“Ask him to leave.” Jeno said, voice low. 

“Jaemin, just leave,” you said, turning to him. 

But he didn’t, and so Jeno did, shoving past you as you rolled your eyes, Jaemin’s sinister smile only widening, getting so close to him, he had to lean back slightly. 

“Don’t test me, and don’t come near her again, or else I won’t be this patient.” Jeno spoke. 

“Aw? You’re gonna hit me in front of her, Jeno?”

“I don’t need to, she already cut you deeper than I ever could.” 

Jaemin blinked, clenching his jaw, before turning to you, maintaining eye contact, “she’s not your girl, Jeno.”

“You don’t know that,” he gritted his teeth. 

“You’ll come back,” Jaemin’s jaw ticked as he said so. 

“Hold your breath until I do,” you replied.

That was it, he left. It wasn’t silent, nor dramatic, but with enough tension to let you know that he will be coming back. 

Once he was gone, you shoved Jeno, hard. 

“The fuck was that?”

“What? I came here trying to find you, only to witness you talking to him.”

“I didn’t want it to happen either, but the world hates me,” you mumbled, grabbing your bag and walking away with Jeno following you behind. 

“I fucking hate that he still gets to talk to you, why does he have access to you?” His voice rose and you prayed no one would hear him, thankfully this area was empty. 

“He doesn’t, and why do you even care?” You asked, with distress clear on your face, “pretending like I mean something to you in front of Jaemin is just as worse, Jeno.” 

“I—”

“No, you won’t even talk about last night, as if it didn’t happen,” you snapped and he froze, “you didn’t even come back to your room.”

His silence was your answer, and you knew this conversation wasn’t gonna go any further, Jeno couldn’t do that—he was scared of opening up, and he was scared of answering those questions, so even though you were hurting on the inside, you let him be. 

“Tomorrow, library, at five. Be on time.” You mumbled, leaving him behind you. 

“Fuck—fuck!” Jeno punched the wall next to him. He didn’t want you to go—the first person who ever tried to understand him, took his side, defended him. He was beyond scared of letting his guard down, so he groaned, sliding down the wall. 

“How do I even tell you I want you?”

Chapter 7: I stayed, even when it was easier to run.

The library was too quiet for how loud your mind was. The sound of your pen dragging across the paper felt almost intrusive as you tried to finish your assignment. 

It had been three nights since the library fiasco. 

Two nights since the almost kiss. 

One night since the blow up with Jaemin.

You almost didn’t wish to come here, yet here you were, with the sample test papers ready, clad in your little black skirt, a cardigan too loose for you, waiting for Jeno to show up—hoping he would. 

The clock ticked. He was a solid nineteen minutes late now, another minute and you’ll get up to leave. That’s when you heard the lazy footsteps approaching your side, the farthest corner of the library. You expected him to sit in front of you, yet he opted to sit right next to you, so close you could feel the fabric of his jeans brushing against your thigh. He took a seat without permission, like he had the right to be, like nothing had happened. 

He came in like guilt personified, shoulders hunched, hoodie loose, hair an unbrushed mess of indecision. And when he saw you?

He hesitated.

You didn’t look up, simply sliding him the sheet of questions to solve, the air around you turned weighted. His pen scratched, your leg bounced, you sipped water and he watched the corner of your mouth, practically burning holes into you. 

It was unbearable. 

This tension—it’s not a war but there’s rarely ever any peace. Catherine and Heathcliff reincarnated, except you weren’t on a moor, you were in a library, trying not to fall apart across the wooden study table. 

Just yesterday, he burned through Jaemin like jealousy was oxygen. 

He couldn’t stop staring, yet he solved the questions for forty minutes, sliding the sheet back to you for checking, expecting some sort of conversation now, anything, even a little hum of acknowledgement from your side, but none of it happened. 

He watched you scribble your pen over the margin, circling a few things, ticking the others, lip bitten in concentration. He observed you so intensely, how your eyes flicked across his answer sheet, but you didn’t look his way, not even once. 

“You won’t even talk to me now?” He asked, keeping his voice in check. 

“Four answers wrong, you did pretty well, can do better still,” you mumbled, passing him the paper. 

“Y/N,” he sighed, tired, he was afraid of this happening—letting you down, and that’s exactly what he did. Running away from his problems was what Jeno always did, he wasn’t perfect, he knows it, but he wants to try and be better, better for you. 

“You came late,” you said, still not looking up. 

“I didn’t sleep last night,” he exhaled, jaw clenched. 

“Not my problem,” you retorted. 

“I was thinking.”

“You should study instead.”

“You hate me now, huh?” Jeno leaned forward, voice flat. 

You blinked. The question hit out of nowhere.

“I don’t hate you,” you replied carefully. “But I don’t know how to deal with you either.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, Jeno. It’s the truth. And that’s more than you’ve been giving me.”

He looked at you then, really looked—eyes narrowed, jaw tight, like he was keeping a war behind his teeth. His eyes were empty, yet so full of you. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, quietly. “I don’t know how to be—good at this, with you.”

“And yet you’re good at disappearing. You’re good at leaving me hanging like none of it mattered.”

You weren’t yelling. You didn’t need to. Your disappointment was louder than any raised voice.

Jeno sat back in his chair, breathing shallow. “You kissed me back.”

Your throat tightened, “you didn’t kiss me at all.”

“Exactly,” he muttered. “Because I would’ve ruined it. Ruined you.”

You shook your head slowly. “No, Jeno. You didn’t kiss me because you’re scared of how much you want to.”

His hands balled into fists. “And you’re not?”

“We’re not talking about me.” You looked away. 

He scoffed, turning to look at you fully, leaning in with his hand now resting on your thigh, burning the skin with his touch. 

“You want honesty, huh? So here it is—I’ve been thinking about you, about everything that’s happened in the past few days, no one’s ever messed with my mind so much and it fucking scares me. You’re messing me up—”

You couldn’t hear more, not when he was so close, not when he poured his heart out to you. Nothing about you two was normal, even your heartbeat was synced with how abnormally high they were. 

“Shh,” you mumbled, covering his mouth with your palm, and even the rude gesture calmed him down—your touch calmed him down. 

“You have an exam tomorrow.” You said and he stared, “study, pass the exam, and we’ll talk, yeah?”

He blinked, almost as if you showed him mercy, and gave him a chance to do something, to prove that he’s worthy of being near you. His scholarship, football, future—everything was at stake, but did he care? No. He cared about not letting you down. He wanted to prove himself to you. 

“You—you promise?” He asked, gripping the extra sheets and notes you passed his way.

You nodded, eyes softer now. You didn’t wanna hurt Jeno, you could see just how hard he tried to fight with his demons, but this time, you wanted him to win.

“I’ll be waiting.” 

You turned to leave then, leaving Jeno with his thoughts as he watched you leave, eyes on your legs. He gulped, looking back to the paper to find a line scribbled in your handwriting. 

You already know the answer, you’re just afraid of getting it wrong. 

It wasn’t about the question, it was about him. 

He just wanted to be worthy enough to stand in front of you and say I didn’t fuck this up this time. So he started, he worked all night, solved as many sample problems as he could, everything felt like a punch in the gut but he couldn’t give up, not this time. 

Jeno couldn’t sleep at night, 

I’ll be waiting. 

That’s what you told him, and he was looking forward to it, because for the very first time in his life, someone wasn’t waiting for him to fail. 

He woke up before his alarm had the chance to ring, didn’t care about his mother’s remark on how he woke up on time for once, or how Jaehyun gave him a long, unreadable look. Jeno didn’t react, he had bigger problems to tackle today. 

You were just as restless as him if not more, checking your phone every few minutes as if you’d get any text from Jeno. He must be busy studying, you hope that was the case. 

He walked into the exam hall calm, focused, terrified. He didn’t skip questions. He didn’t zone out.

He solved the final problem two minutes before time and rechecked every line like his life was hidden in the margins.

When he walked out of that room, his shirt clinging to the back of his neck from sweat, his palms aching from gripping the pen too hard—he knew. He’d done it. Or at least, he hoped he did. 

Yet, he didn’t text you, he wouldn’t until he got the results. 

Chapter 8: Jealousy is but a red thread around my throat. 

You waited, not loud, but silently. 

Two whole days, you held your breath, even planned on visiting the football practice to just get a glimpse of Jeno, yet you couldn’t muster enough courage to do so. God, you were so affected by everything he did, and this felt so very suffocating, waiting on someone. You knew what you felt, there was no point in denying it, however, you couldn’t figure out how it happened, so quickly at that. 

Heck, even Jaemin was more present in your chat inbox, even though you never replied to him, it just made you wonder if your time with Jeno was just a hoax. 

Did you imagine it all? 

On the other hand, on the other side of the city, sitting in a dim room with sunlight pouring in, Jeno was drowning in darkness. 

The exam portal was open in front of him, he refreshed the page every two seconds, not being able to sit still. His hands were shaking, not from fear but from want.  From the feeling of your voice telling him that you’ll talk to him once he proves himself. 

He gave up the wait, the result wasn’t out the whole day. It was three in the morning when the notification woke him up like a jolt. 

Results were out. 

He rushed to check it, the numbers stunning him as his jaw hung open. 

83%

Not perfect. But more than enough.

Enough to pass. Enough to stay on the team.

Enough to say, Look. I did it. I’m not a fuck-up. The first thing he thought of was you. So he typed—just two words.

Jeno: I passed.

Because he didn’t know how to say what he really wanted to—I passed, and all I could think about was your voice. I passed, and I still don’t feel whole unless you tell me you’re proud. I passed, and it’s not enough if I can’t show you.

Your reply came back six minutes later.

You: I knew you would. 

It was soft, gentle. But was it enough for Jeno? No. It should’ve been enough, but it wasn’t. 

He didn’t reply, he didn’t text you again. He opted to skip the lectures for the day and stay in his room, blinds closed, only darkness consuming him. 

You knew it was hard for Jeno, you knew you shouldn’t wait for his reply or him approaching you—he was too scared to do that, which is exactly why you grabbed your bag and went to his place the first thing in the morning. Maybe Jeno needed time, but you had to check. 

You rang the bell, your heart pounding as you did so, expecting Jeno to open up and see you. Once the door opened, your pulse stuttered. 

Jaehyun. 

Of course, it had to be him. 

“Y/N,” he said your name smoothly, “didn’t know you were coming by.”

You hesitated with a small chuckle, exhaling the breath you were holding, “is Jeno home?” 

He nodded, stepping aside to let you in, “yeah, he’s in his room, didn’t come out this morning at all.”

“Oh,” you said softly, wondering if he was alright. 

There was a pause, an awkward silence after that, you felt heavy, wanting to go upstairs but you weren’t sure if you were allowed to. 

Jaehyun closed the door behind you. “He’s been off since the results,” he said, voice low. “I thought passing would help, but I don’t know. He kind of shut down again after telling us he passed.”

You gulped, chest tightened at the revelation. 

“I came to check up on him, I’m not sure if he wants to meet though.”

“He’d want to see you.” Jaehyun said, smiling sincerely, “you’re good for him.”

Your eyes widened at that, “I’m not sure he thinks that.” You tried to smile, “can I go to his room?”

“He locked the door, I think he’s sleeping,” Jaehyun said apologetically. 

“I don’t wanna bother him.” You smiled sadly, “those are good pictures,” you mumbled, looking at the wall full of frames, particularly the ones with Jeno in them.

“Yeah, I took most of those,” Jaehyun replied with another smile, he knew you wanted to talk to Jeno so he suggested something, “Maybe if you take him something to eat? I can give the breakfast he skipped—”

“Oh no, I can run to the bakery and get something—”

Then you noticed a movement in your peripheral vision, you turned around to find Jeno. He was standing down the hall, his fluffy hair a mess, eyes wide as if he didn’t expect you to be here—especially with Jaehyun. 

“Hey,” you breathed out. 

No reply. 

“Y—you didn’t reply, I came to see you,” you tried speaking again. 

However, his expression didn’t change and suddenly, you felt like you shouldn’t have come here at all. He was frozen even when you said you wanted to make sure he was okay. Then he came back to his senses, clearing his throat. 

Jaehyun left the room, letting you two be alone. 

“Why didn’t you ask for me?” He whispered, just sadness in his voice. 

“I did, that’s what I came for,” you tried to explain.

Jeno stared at you, he was so broken inside he couldn’t let himself believe it. You dressed up, all pretty, your eyes so soft, your lips turning into a pout of disappointment. You looked perfect, and you came here for Jeno? He just could not believe it. 

“You were talking to him,” Jeno said, referring to Jaehyun, his voice broken. 

“He opened the door, what can I do?” You shook your head, trying to explain, “you didn’t even text back, Jeno.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he replied, “I’ve never done this before. I’ve never had someone wait for me and mean it.”

Your lips parted to reply but he wasn’t done. 

“You said you’d talk to me after the exam,” he went on, voice sharper now, “but when you showed up, you let him open the door. You let him tell you how I was.”

“I didn’t—” your voice faltered, “I didn’t come for him.”

“Didn’t look that way.”

That hurt. You flinched. “Jeno, why are you doing this?” 

“Because I waited for you,” he snapped. “I sat in that room like a fucking idiot thinking you’d come to see me. Not make small talk with my brother or compliment his photography.”

“You heard that?” You froze, it wasn’t your intention to do any of that. 

“I heard everything, every second you spent without taking my name,” he said. 

Just like that—he hurt you. Every conversation was about Jeno, every single one. He just couldn’t see it. 

“I thought I was getting better,” he admitted, quieter now. “I thought passing the exam would mean something. That it would be enough.”

“It was,” you whispered. “Jeno, it is. I am proud of you.”

“Then why didn’t it feel like it?” His voice broke on that line. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a step away, then back, like his own body was a prison.

You stood frozen. Every word hit somewhere different.

“I wanted you to come,” he said, softer now. “Not to check in. Not to ask if I’d eaten. I wanted you to come for me. Just for me. You don’t get it, Y/N.”

“No,” you stepped forward. “You don’t get it. You think everything is about being chosen or abandoned. But not everyone’s trying to leave you, Jeno. Sometimes people show up. But you keep slamming the door in their face.”

He turned away. “Then go.”

“I came for you.” You said one last time, your eyes watering, not being able to contain the hurt you held in them. 

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have.”

That one landed like a punch.

Your mouth opened. Then closed. You nodded. Just once.

“Fine.”

You turned.

And you left.

And this time, he didn’t stop you.

Chapter 9: I know that I’m hard to read, but you got me here to stay 

You spent most of your morning crying alone in your student council room, but it just wasn’t enough, not when you were being wronged every second of the day, not when the person you wanted kept running away from you no matter how hard you tried. At least you did. 

You couldn’t run away though, you had an important meeting with your council at six in the evening, by that time, you had done everything to make yourself look normal again, but your mind was entirely elsewhere, in another realm, a realm where things were different. 

Jeno, on the other hand, left his room as soon as he realized how wrong everything had gone. All afternoon his own words replayed in his mind, how he asked you to leave and how you left a single tear drop on the floor before you turned around and left. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have.

It felt like biting into something rotten, saying that out loud to you. Like watching the one and the only thing he wanted turn and walk away. You didn’t yell back, you didn’t beg, you went still, and left. He saw you leave—he made you leave. 

And he let you go anyway. Because that’s what he did. Because pushing people away was easier than asking them to stay.

Until now.

Now he was pacing in his room like a caged animal, hoodie still damp, heart in his throat. He kept hearing your voice in the hallway. Kept seeing your face. Kept remembering the way you reached for him and he didn’t reach back.

His chest felt tight, his limbs tense. He couldn’t stay here, not in this house, not knowing you might never come back.

He had to find you.

So he ran. He ran to the courtyard, not caring about the rain pour, soaking him up from head to toe. You weren’t in the library, not in the council room, the classrooms were empty. He was panicking. 

That’s when he heard a voice, turning around the corner of the athletic department, he walked straight into one of his football teammates he couldn’t stand at all—Minjae, a loud-mouthed asshole, smiling like a madman. 

“Fucking hell, Lee Jeno, you look like shit.” He grinned. 

Jeno didn’t answer, he was in a hurry, he had to find you, to make things right with you, he was about to push past Minjae when—

“Oh, by the way,” he smirked, “Jaemin told us a lot about how you finally landed his ex, the pretty goody two shoes, Y/N.”

Jeno froze, jaw clenched at the mention of you and Jaemin in the same sentence, coming from an asshole at that. 

“Didn’t think you’d have a go at someone like her. She seems to like guys who have more brains than biceps.” He laughed at his own joke. 

“The fuck did you just say?” 

Minjae laughed. “Chill, man. I’m just saying—props to you, seriously. Girl like that? All polished and pretty and loyal? I mean, not that it’ll last. Girls like that don’t stay with guys like us. She’ll figure it out eventually.”

Jeno’s vision turned black.

“Say that again,” he said, voice like static.

Minjae raised his hands. “Relax. You don’t need to get all—”

The punch landed before he could finish.

Minjae hit the ground hard, water splashing up from the impact, the rain pouring down heavier now. He tried to shove Jeno back, but to no avail as he bent down, his fist colliding with Minjae’s jaw again.  

Jeno wasn’t fighting Minjae per se, he was fighting every single voice that told him he wasn’t enough, that he could never live up to his brother, that he could never be with someone as perfect as you. That’s what he believed too, till you actually became real for him. 

His mind was elsewhere when he took a blow to his jaw, lip bleeding now, Jeno stumbled but scoffed before punching him again, and again, till his knuckles were shredded, a throbbing in his jaw which almost felt like fire. 

It was only when someone pulled him off of Minjae, Jeno stopped, spitting out blood in the rain slick grass. Everything hurt, but not as much as his burning chest. 

“Are you insane?” Someone yelled his way, “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Jeno didn’t bother answering, pulling out his phone and rushing away, typing out texts to you. 

Jeno: where are you? please say something i’m so fucking sorry Y/N i didn’t mean it  i didn’t mean any of it i swear Y/N please 

No response. His messages were just there, unread, and unanswered. He simply didn’t know why. 

He didn’t know how you had been in the private meeting room for the past hour, student council prep being a whole scheduling disaster, handling arguments about clubs and their out-of-the-worldly budget demands. 

You were half awake at best, distracted by the storm that brewed outside. Your phone vibrates once, then again, and when you finally pull it out to check the numerous missed calls—your screen goes dark. Perfect, just on the day you didn’t bring your charger or powerbank. 

The feeling in your gut—it wasn’t good, which is why you excused yourself mid meeting, something you never do, to rush back home. You were soaked as you ran to your apartment, close to the University, thankfully. You plugged your phone in to charge as you rushed to take a shower, hoping the hot water would soothe your nerves. It didn’t. 

You kept thinking about Jeno, about the fight at his place earlier, how he asked you to leave with the saddest look in his eyes, and how badly it hurt you. You were out of the shower in fifteen minutes, toweling your hair with one hand and rushing to check your phone with the other, not expecting a myriad of notifications. 

17 Missed calls. 

6 Voicemails. 

26 Unread texts. 

The last of which made your blood run cold. 

Jeno: Y/N please  i’m outside 

You rushed to the front door, and he was there—leaning against the wall beside your entrance, hoodie clinging to him, hair wet and plastered to his forehead, eyes closed and him wincing like he couldn’t hold himself up anymore. Like it hurts too much to exist. Hands bruised, lip split, and he opened his eyes—bloodshot, glassy. 

“Jeno,” you gasped out loud, “w—what happened?” You said, going close to him. 

“I tried to find you,” he said, voice wrecked, “I tried but I couldn’t, I thought that maybe you blocked me.”

“No—I was in a meeting and my phone died, god I’m so sorry—fuck, come inside.” You shook your head in distress.

“Y/N,” he groaned, and you gently helped him when he didn’t move, like he wasn’t allowed to, “I fucked up.”

“Shh, come inside, it’s cold,” you whispered and he nodded after a moment of hesitation. You tried to be calm, you tried to take control of the situation for once and he listened, this time he did when you took him to your room. 

You didn’t ask how this happened to him, only guiding him to the bathroom, “you’re soaked and bleeding, take a shower, i’ll put your clothes in the wash and dryer.”

He opened his mouth to say otherwise, but you didn’t let him, grabbing a fresh towel and handing it to him. 

“Are you sure you want me here?” He asked, vulnerable. 

“I wouldn’t have opened the door otherwise, Jeno, I do.”

He nodded, swallowing hard as he disappeared into the bathroom without another word and you worked your washing machine and dryer, sitting down right after, exhaling and letting your guard down, hands shaking with worry. 

You were glad Jeno was taking his sweet time inside, because you had no clue how to go on with this situation. Jeno stalling coming out simply because he was ashamed, also consumed in how good your shampoo smells. He was at your place, in your bathroom, all bloodied up, why? Because he couldn’t be normal for once and let you in. 

His walls came crashing down each time you came closer to him, but this time, he didn’t want them to go back up the second he touched you, this time, he wanted you inside with him. 

His clothes were dry very soon and you kept them in your room, waiting outside by the sofa, letting him come out all dressed up. The water stopped soon, the door creaking as he came out, and you were sitting on the sofa, hair still wet. 

Then Jeno opened the door, you stood up at the noise, and he looked your way in a silent plea to ask you if he could sit next to you, and you nodded. He held up the bloodied towel, “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and you smiled softly, taking it away from him. 

The silence was too loud after as you both sat next to each other, you waited for him to say something, waited for the reality of tonight to settle in—to make sense, to stop trembling beneath your skin. And then he spoke as you took out your medicine kit, gently grabbing his hand to take a look at his bruised knuckles. 

“Y/N,” he took your name as if it was the only thing he knew. 

He watched you kneel in front of him, your eyes not angry, just steady, quiet, and unbearably kind. His fingers trembled in yours, you gently pulled the sleeve back, pressing a warm damp cloth to the wounds, making him wince slightly at the contact. 

“Sorry,” you breathed out. 

“I deserve worse,” he breathed back. 

“No, you don’t,” you said, looking up at him. 

He laughed under his breath, “why are you so kind to me? I don’t deserve it, Y/N.”

“You don’t get to decide what I give you, Jeno,” you replied, “you’re bleeding, again.”

“Not my first time.”

You gripped him tighter, “and that’s supposed to make it better?”

“No,” he said, voice low, “just means I’m good at it by now.”

You didn’t answer. Just ripped the antiseptic packet open a little more forcefully than necessary and pressed it to the bruised line of his knuckles. He flinched.

“Good,” you muttered. “Means you still feel something.”

“God, Y/N—”

“No,” you snapped, trying your best to act normal but you both were far from that, “not yet.”

You cleaned the split in his skin with the kind of precision that only comes from anger—controlled, careful, but deeply furious.

“You don’t get to act like none of this mattered,” you said, eyes locked on his wounds. “You don’t get to disappear into your guilt and then show up bleeding and say I didn’t know where else to go. That’s not enough.”

His jaw clenched. “I didn’t come for a reward.”

“Good,” you said coldly. “Because you’re not getting one.” You wrapped gauze around his hand slowly, tight enough that it would sting.

He didn’t pull away.

“I came because I thought I’d lose you,” he said through his teeth, “I came because I’m fucking terrified that I already did.”

“Who’s fault is that?” You said, standing up, “you keep doing this thing, you pull me in, let me see you and then the very second it gets real, you shut the door in my face.”

“I know,” he said. Loud. Frustrated. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t see the way you look at me when I say the wrong thing? Like you’re trying so fucking hard not to walk away?”

“You told me to go!”

“I didn’t mean it!”

“Then don’t say it!” You shouted, “don’t look at me like I’m everything one second and then act like I mean nothing the next!”

“I didn’t think you’d stay.”

“I stayed!”

You were both breathing hard now. Staring at each other like you didn’t know whether to cry or kiss or throw something, You still stood in between Jeno’s legs, him looking up at you.  Jeno ran a hand through his damp hair, pacing a few feet before turning back to you, eyes wide and glassy.

“I ruin things,” he said, “I always have. I don’t know how to love something without fucking it up. But I wanted you anyway—I still do.”

Your throat tightened. “And I’m supposed to what? Carry all of that? Be your exception?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “I just need you to see that I’m trying. Even if it’s ugly. Even if I’m bleeding and loud and afraid. I need you to see me, and stay anyway.”

You stared at him.

He looked like someone who hadn’t slept in days. Someone who’d gone through hell and walked straight into another fire because you were at the center of it.

Your voice cracked, “you don’t make it easy.”

“I know.”

You looked down at your hands—his blood still faintly on your fingertips. He reached out slowly. You didn’t move. Not when his fingers curled around your wrist. Not when he pulled you in his lap, not when his forehead leaned into yours like he was holding on for dear life.

“I hate that I hurt you,” he whispered. “But I’d rather burn with you than freeze without you.”

“I wasn’t gonna leave, Jeno.”

“I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because I’m sick,” he said suddenly. “Sick of being the one who’s always too much. Too angry. Too wrong. I get one thing right—one fucking exam—and even then I screw it up by throwing a punch at someone who talks shit about you and then picking a fight with the only person who’s ever actually looked at me like I could be more.”

Your breath hitched. You grabbed the gauze, wrapped it around his hand. Tighter than needed.

“Then be more, Jeno.”

He stared at you.

“Be more,” you repeated, “because I’m tired of being in love with someone who’s so determined to hate himself.”

That silenced him. Fully. Until he spoke again.

“You’re in love with me?”

The words dropped like a bomb between you.

You froze. Swallowed. Refused to take it back, chuckling to yourself at how easily you let go and told him that, “yeah—god help me, I am.”

Then you tried to move back, only his arms wrapped around your waist tighter, holding you in place, “you don’t get to say that and walk away.” He growled. 

“Who said I’m walking away?” You mumbled, holding onto his shoulder for support. 

It was unreal, how close you guys were but still not close enough, it was never enough. 

“You’re mad at me,” Jeno stated. 

“I should be mad.” 

“I’m mad too,” he added. 

“Good,” you rolled your eyes, trying to move again.

But he didn’t let you, not this time, his thumb brushing your cheek. 

That was it. That was when Jeno finally let go. He couldn’t delay this anymore, not again, not when you were right in front of him, not when your soft lips brushed so tenderly against his bruised ones, not when you told him you were in love with him—not when he knew he had to have you. 

He surged up and into you—hands gripping your face, mouth pressing against yours like it was the only way to breathe. It wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t neat, it was everything you’d been holding back.

Lips slotted together, you could taste blood on your tongue from where he was hurt before, which only made you groan into the kiss, he was frustrated, so frustrated, not having it in him to let go for even a second. 

You gasped, arms flying up to clutch at his shoulders, pressed chest-to-chest, his body was warm—too warm—and you could feel his tension in every line.

You broke the kiss first, panting, eyes wide. “You shouldn’t—” you tried to say, especially when his body was hurting. 

“I have to,” he breathed, leaning in again. “Let me, just once. Please.”

You didn’t stop him, grabbing his nape and pulling him into you once again, because when Jeno kissed you again, it felt like pain, penance, and pleasure all in one. It was as if he was trying to earn your forgiveness with his mouth, trying to pour out everything he couldn’t say to you, groaning into your mouth when your hips shifted over his lap. 

“I fucking—” He said midway the kiss, “god I—”

You shushed him gently, “you don’t have to say it.”

“I love you,” he breathed out, forehead pressed against yours, eyes earnest and full of life for the first time since you saw him, “I don’t care if it’s too early, I can’t fucking not say it, I love you, I—”

Before he could ruin the moment with the spiral in his throat, before he could pull back in fear, you pressed your lips against his like it was the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

He responded like he’d been starving. Mouth hot, desperate, hands gripping your waist like the world was falling apart and he only had seconds left to memorize you. The kiss was brutal in the way it made you feel, there was no choreography to it, no elegance—just lips, teeth, breath, and aching hunger.

His mouth was swollen. Your lips, bruised from how much he kissed you like he didn’t know how to stop.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathed.

You stared at him. “I don’t want you to.”

Then you grabbed his jaw once you heard him wince, “does it hurt?” You asked, pecking his jaw, trailing kisses all over. 

“It’s the only thing that doesn’t hurt,” he whispered, letting your lips take over, tracing every bit of his face and neck, his eyes closing with the fire that you ignited within him. 

“This feels like a dream,” he whispered.

“It’s not.”

“But it could be,” he added, almost to himself. “You—like this, in my lap, in your apartment, touching me like I’m not a monster.”

You cupped his face again, guiding his eyes to yours, “you’re not a monster, Jeno.”

“You don’t know the things I’ve thought.”

“Then tell me.”

His voice cracked, “I thought I’d die if I didn’t see you again. I thought that maybe I’m already ruined and maybe I don’t deserve you but I can’t stop loving you anyway. I thought—”

You kissed him again. Slow this time. Deep and aching, “then stop thinking,” you whispered, “just be here—with me.”

His fingers trembled as they curled into the hem of your shirt.

“Can I?”

You nodded.

He pulled the fabric up carefully, reverently, and you helped him, raising your arms until it was off. His breath hitched. Not because of how you looked—but because he was looking at you like that.

Like something sacred.

You grabbed the back of his hoodie, tugging. He hesitated for a split second before pulling it over his head. The sight made your breath catch.

His torso was littered with bruises, some dark purple, some fading yellow. His ribcage dipped where the muscle was taut with tension. You reached out, fingertips grazing over a particularly harsh mark near his side.

He flinched. “That one’s from earlier.”

Your jaw clenched, “you shouldn’t fight because of me.”

“I wasn’t,” he said, “I was fighting every voice in my head that said I wasn’t worth your love.”

You kissed the bruise.

He gasped.

“I hate that they ever made you feel like that.”

His hands slid back up to your sides, lips brushing your jaw. “You make it go quiet.”

“I want to,” you whispered.

Your kisses grew slow again, heavier with emotion than desire. You could feel his heartbeat where your chest pressed into his, your hands in his hair, his head tilted just enough to deepen the kiss. You rolled your hips slightly in his lap, and he groaned again, burying his face in your neck.

“Fuck, Y/N—”

“Jeno,” you murmured, your nails dragging softly along his back, “look at me.”

He lifted his head. His eyes—wild, glassy, full of everything he couldn’t say.

“I love you,” you said again. “I’m not afraid of it. So don’t be either.”

He leaned forward, pressing your foreheads together. 

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.”

“You’re so fucking pretty, did I ever tell you that?” He mumbled against the skin of your neck, brushing his lips all over before placing open mouthed kisses over the expanse of your clavicle, “so fucking pretty.”

Jeno wasn’t gentle anymore, not when he’d been craving your presence, craving you. He couldn’t help but treat you like a reward, like he finally had won the only thing in life that actually mattered to him. 

He was quick to grab your waist and flip you over, getting on top of you on the couch that was too small for things he had planned in his mind. It was almost like a dam breaking the way his mouth was on your neck, biting, sucking, claiming you. 

“Jeno—” you mumbled, your back arching as you felt his body pressing into you, fingers wrapped around his wet locks as he marked your skin with every ounce of desperation he had, his fingers mapping out every inch of your body as if he’s afraid he’d forget it—as if he could ever forget anything about you. 

The warmth of his hands brushed over your bra clad nipples, a whimper leaving your mouth. Jeno wasn’t undressed yet you could feel him getting hard, and god you wondered just how big he was, grinding into you as if he was already inside your cunt. 

“I hurt you so fucking much,” Jeno mumbled, lips ghosting over your tit, “now I’ll hurt you in the way you want me to,” he said with dark eyes, yanking your bra down enough for your nipples to show, latching his mouth to you all in light speed. 

All his life Jeno couldn’t take control of anything, but seeing you shiver under him just made sense to Jeno, he had to take control—he had to make you feel so good, you wouldn’t ever look at anyone else. 

“You’re fucking crazy,” you whispered, already disheveled with how needy you were, wetness pooling in your panties, soiling the new pair you had put on not too long ago. 

“Yeah? You drive me crazy, baby,” he chuckled, and that sound went straight to your pussy. Jeno was hot, so fucking hot, but him using nicknames on you with his deep tone—only god knows how you would survive this. 

You bit your lip to conceal your moans, which only infuriated Jeno, biting your nipple harshly to make sure you scream, “don’t fucking hide your pretty voice,” he said. 

His hands went to your other breast and he gave it a tight squeeze, your eyes were on him as you watched his lips parting, letting his tongue make contact with the tip of your very hardened nub. He bites down on your nipple, making you cry out, but quickly soothes it with his tongue before switching to the other side, he wants to drive you wild with pleasure, to possess every inch of your body.

Lost in the haze of pleasure, you surrender yourself completely to Jeno’s possessive touches, letting him have his way with you. The room fills with the sounds of your moans and his desperate sucking, a symphony of carnal desire. In this moment, there is nothing but you and Jeno, and the burning hunger that consumes you both. 

Jeno’s hands roam across your body, his touch electric against your skin. He grabs your hips, pulling you flush against him as he claims your lips in yet another searing kiss, tongue delving into your mouth, hot and hungry, making you more hungry for his touch—for him.