Another shout—victory, probably—rattled from his room. You glared at the wall like it was personally mocking you.

You were debating whether running a quick errand would help clear your head when his bedroom door finally creaked open. Your whole body tensed. Footsteps padded down the hallway—slow, lazy, totally unsuspecting. A moment later, he emerged in the doorway of the living room, stretching one arm over his head, shirt riding up just enough to flash a strip of skin.

“Thought you went out,” he said casually, brushing his hair out of his eyes. His voice was raspy from hours of not talking.

“I didn’t,” you managed, hoping your face didn’t give anything away.

He nodded, eyes still half on whatever match he’d just finished. “I’m grabbing water. Want anything?”

Yes, you thought. Absolutely not water.

But out loud, you cleared your throat and said, “I’m good.”

He hummed in acknowledgment and headed toward the kitchen. You kept your eyes glued to the TV—even though it wasn’t on—because watching him move around the apartment in that loose, sleep-worn shirt and those grey sweatpants was not going to help your situation.

A cabinet opened. A glass clinked. The faucet ran. You focused on breathing like a normal human being.

Then, because the universe apparently hated you, he called out, “You okay? You look kinda flushed.”

You stiffened. “I’m fine. Just warm.”

He poked his head back into the living room, brows slightly raised. “I can turn the AC up?”

“No!” you blurted, too fast. “It’s fine. Seriously.”

He blinked, then shrugged like he couldn’t be bothered to figure you out right now. “Alright. Holler if you change your mind.”

And with that, he padded back down the hall, door closing behind him with a soft click.

You exhaled like you’d been underwater.

Great. Back to square one—with even more images you didn’t ask for now elbowing their way into your brain.

Would it really be that crazy to ask him?

The thought slipped in quiet and shameless, and you froze like you’d been caught thinking it out loud. You and Yunho were close. Closer than most roommates ever got. Months of shared takeout, late-night movie marathons, venting on the couch at 2 a.m.—you trusted him. You were comfortable around him.

Too comfortable, maybe.

The idea sat there, bold and reckless. If anyone would take you seriously—even in the most painfully awkward scenario—it’d be him. He’d never made you feel judged for anything before. And wasn’t that what friends were for? Favours, help, honesty?

Except this wasn’t asking him to pick up milk or plunge the sink.

You sank deeper into the couch, pressing your palms to your burning face. You couldn’t even imagine forming the words without combusting. But then your brain, messy traitor that it was, whispered: he wouldn’t have to say yes. He could laugh it off. Pretend it never happened. You could blame hormones or delusion or heatstroke. You’d both move on, maybe with a few weeks of mutual avoidance, but you’d survive.

And if he didn’t laugh?

If he actually considered it—

You shut that door in your mind so fast it nearly came off the hinges.

Still, the question lingered like static in your blood: was it really that out of bounds to want something from someone you already trusted with so much of your life?

You stared at the hallway, at the sliver of light under his door.

You were not going to ask.

Probably.

Maybe.

God, you needed help.

The floor creaked in the hall, and you shot upright like you’d been caught with contraband thoughts. Before you could collect yourself, his door flew open with a bang.

“What the actual fu—” Yunho stormed halfway into the living room, face twisted with raw frustration. His jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle ticking beneath his skin, and a vein pulsed visibly along the side of his neck, pronounced and throbbing with each angry breath. “Did the Wi-Fi just die completely?” His voice was louder than usual, sharp-edged and bristling. “I was in the middle of a fucking match and everything crashed! We were winning—I had the last kill lined up and—” He raked a hand through his hair roughly, making it stick up at odd angles, his chest heaving with the kind of anger that came from hours of buildup suddenly snapping.

You blinked at him, words dissolving in your throat. The flush across his cheekbones, the way his shoulders were tensed and drawn up, the visible strain in his neck… Your brain, scrambled beyond repair, reached for the first possible lifeline.

“Do you… have any single friends?” you blurted.

Silence.

His brows pulled together slowly, like he was running diagnostics. “What?”

You wanted to crawl into the couch cushions and never return. “I mean—uh—just curious. You know. For—uh. Research.”

“For… research,” he repeated, expression unreadable. Then, as if deciding not to question it too hard, he chuckled under his breath and shook his head. “You’re so weird sometimes.”

He padded back toward his room, muttering something about restarting the router.

The second his door clicked shut again, you dropped your face into your hands and groaned. Out of all the possible things to say, that was what your brain had offered? Fantastic. Just fantastic.

You told yourself to just sit there. Be normal. Pretend the last thirty seconds hadn’t happened.

But normal had packed its bags hours ago.

Before your dignity could wrestle your mouth shut, you called out, “Wait!”

His door stopped halfway through closing. Yunho leaned back out, one hand on the frame. “Yeah?”

Your brain fired off exactly zero sensible sentences, so you picked the worst possible one.

“Are you… leaving tonight?”

He stared. Not even suspicious—just confused in the purest, most innocent way. “Leaving?” he echoed. “Like… the apartment?”

You nodded too fast. “Yeah. Or, like, hanging out with someone. Or going to a friend’s. Or… I don’t know. Doing something that’s not here.”

His face did a slow-motion frown, like he was trying to load context that didn’t exist. “Why would I go anywhere? It’s almost midnight.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Just asking.”

He squinted a little. Not accusing—just baffled. “Are you okay? You’re being weird. Like, weirder than usual.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, probably unconvincingly.

He held up his hands in surrender. “Alright. I’m gonna reset the damn router and finish my game.” And with that, he disappeared back into his room, door clicking shut while you sat there wondering if spontaneous combustion was a thing that could be willed into existence.

The problem was that he looked concerned. Not annoyed. Not amused. Just… worried. And that somehow made everything worse.

You went into his gaming room before your brain could veto it. His chair was still spun halfway toward the door, his monitor glowing with a paused match. You stood in the middle of the room like a stray cat having an episode.

He looked at you with raised eyebrows. “Okay,” he said carefully, “start from the top. What’s going on with you?”

You opened your mouth, absolutely intending to lie. Something vague and dismissible. Something recoverable.

What came out instead was:

“I’m too horny to function and you won’t leave!”

Silence.

Not quiet—dead. Like the world buffer-spun and disconnected.

Yunho just stared. His brain visibly bluescreened.

You slapped both hands over your face and let out a noise that sounded like a ghost getting tasered. “Oh my GOD, I can’t believe I said that, please kill me, actually kill me—”

He made a sound. A soft, stunned laugh of disbelief. “Wait—what?”

You turned away like maybe if you didn’t see him, he didn’t exist. “I told you I’m having a crisis! My body is… doing stuff! And you’re over here making noises through the wall like—I don’t know! Sound porn?!”

“I was playing VALORANT!” he said, both horrified and defensive.

“You grunt when you’re focused!” you accused, pointing at him like that was a crime.

“I—what was I supposed to do, stop breathing?!”

“Yes! No! I don’t know! Move out!”

“That escalated—”

“I told you I needed you to leave!” you wailed. “I was trying to handle it like a normal, sane person but I can’t do that when you’re in the next room moaning every time you get headshotted—”

“I DO NOT MOAN—”

“YOU DO ENOUGH.”

You were breathing like you’d just outrun the cops. He looked like he was considering reincarnation.

Finally, he raked a hand through his hair and said, weakly, “So… just to confirm… you’re—like—turned on and I’m the problem?”

You threw your hands up. “Congratulations, you’ve solved the mystery.”

He made another noise—somewhere between a laugh and a stunned exhale. His ears were bright red. “And your solution was to ask me if I had single friends?!”

“I WAS SCRAMBLING!”

“And then you tried to evict me from my own apartment for the night?”

“Yes! Because I have self-control! Until I don’t!”

He just… stared at you for a long, long second.

Then, very quietly, very carefully, he said, “You know I’m single too… right?”

And THAT was the moment your soul evacuated your body.

You swore something in you tightened at his words—an involuntary pulse of heat that made you want to sink through the floor. Your mouth went dry. You just stared at him like an idiot, eyes wide, brain blank, body unhelpful.

Yunho, of all people, was blushing. Not a little, either—his ears were red, the tips of them practically glowing, and colour was creeping up his neck like he’d been caught doing something illegal. He cleared his throat, but his voice still came out a touch higher than usual. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You blinked once. Twice. “Because—I didn’t—You’re—You can’t just SAY that.”

“I was trying to help!” he shot back, flustered and defensive and very much avoiding eye contact. “You were yelling at me to evacuate the premises so you could—handle—whatever, and I— I don’t know! I panicked!”

You dragged a hand down your face. “You can’t just… offer yourself like a make-up sample.”

“I DIDN’T—” He stopped, groaned into his palm, and muttered, “Okay, maybe I did a little.”

Silence crawled back in, thick and buzzing. Your heart was thudding like it was planning an escape. His gaze flicked to you, then away, then back again, like he couldn’t decide if looking at you made this better or worse. Finally, he said, quietly, “So… what do we do now?”

Your brain responded with static.

Your body responded with betrayal.

And you? You just stood there, staring at him like a glitching sim, praying the Earth would develop a sinkhole under your feet immediately.

You’re dying inside. Each second that passes is torture, and the way he’s standing there—uncertain, flustered, his fingers nervously tapping against his thigh—is making everything worse. When did his hands become so goddamn fascinating? The way his fingers flex, the veins that trace up his wrists, the little nervous habits you’ve never noticed before are suddenly the most distracting thing in the universe.

He clears his throat. “Maybe we should just forget about—”

“I need you to fuck me right now,” you blurt out, the words practically exploding from your mouth, “or just tell me which one of your friends would be willing to. Because I’m losing my damn mind.”

Yunho’s eyes go wide, mouth dropping open in shock. He stares at you like you’ve just grown a second head. “I—what?” he stammers, his voice cracking. “My friends? You want me to—” He stops, processing what you just said. “Wait, did you just ask me to—”

“Yes,” you say, past the point of embarrassment. “I did. Because apparently subtlety isn’t working.”

He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at it slightly, and you swear the simple gesture sends another wave of heat through your body. You’re going to combust if he keeps doing things like that.

“You...” His voice catches. “You can’t just say that.” Something shifts in his expression—a flash of heat behind the shock. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and it’s such a small gesture but it makes your stomach do a free-fall.

“I just did,” you say, and your voice doesn’t even sound like yours anymore. “Look, I’m going insane here. You keep doing—” you gesture vaguely at all of him, “—THAT.”

“What am I doing?” he asks, genuinely confused.

“EXISTING!” you practically shout. “Standing there with your stupid hands and your stupid face and—god, you were just playing with your hair and I swear I almost launched myself at you.”

His eyes widen fractionally, and then—oh no—his lips curve into something that’s almost a smirk. Almost. “So...” he says slowly, “you’re saying I’m the problem?”

“Yes! No! I don’t know!” You run your hands through your hair in frustration. “I’m the problem. My body is the problem. The fact that you won’t stop fidgeting with your hands is the problem.”

And then, because apparently you’ve lost all control, you point accusingly at his fingers, which are currently drumming a nervous pattern against his thigh. “THAT. That right there! Stop it!”

He immediately freezes, looking down at his own hand like it’s betrayed him. “I’m not doing anything!”

“You’re breathing too loud!”

“I’m—” he sputters, “I can’t control that!”

“Exactly my point! ” you exclaim, throwing your hands up. “So either help me solve this problem or point me to someone who will, because I am DYING here.”

There’s a split second where time seems to stop. Yunho is staring at you, his pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly. Before you can process what’s happening, he moves.

In two quick strides, he’s in front of you. His hands cup your face, rough and urgent, and then his mouth crashes against yours. His fingers thread through your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back, deepening the kiss as he walks you backward until your back hits the wall.

“Is this what you want?” he growls against your mouth, his voice so low it sends shivers down your spine. “You want me to fuck you senseless? Make you forget your own name?”

The sudden change makes your knees weak.

Your answer is to grab his shirt and pull him back to you, kissing him hard. “Shut up and do it already,” you whisper.

You found his lips again, hungry and desperate. There was no time to waste. Your mouth met his wild and uninhibited—a delicious mess of pure want. You didn't care that your kiss betrayed a hunger that left no room for grace. But could you be blamed? Every single touch burned you from the inside out.

Something in him snaps. Your soft, desperate sounds pull him under completely. The kiss turns fierce—your mouths clashing, breath mingling, tongues chasing each other in a dizzying rhythm. His hands roam everywhere at once—up your sides, over your hips—before gripping firmly and lifting you as if you weigh nothing.

You gasp, a small, startled sound that quickly melts into a moan when your back hits the wall. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, drawing him closer, the friction between you sparking heat that steals your breath. The world narrows to this moment—his body against yours, the taste of his mouth, and the hunger that refuses to be tamed.

He trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, teeth grazing the rapid beat of your pulse. His hands slip beneath your clothes, and the moment his skin meets yours, you swear nothing else has ever felt like it. His touch is addictive leaving searing trails across your skin that make you gasp and arch into him, desperate for more.

You’re burning from the inside out, every touch sending electric currents through your body. Yet even through the fire, a shiver runs down your spine—not from cold, but from the dizzying rush of it all. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you up with effortless strength. You barely notice how hard he’s gripping you until you feel the dull ache blooming under his fingertips—marks you know will linger, proof of how completely you’ve given in.

His breath is hot against your ear when he murmurs, “Been thinking about this for months…” The confession sends a shiver straight through you. You can’t hold back the sound that escapes your throat when his fingers slide higher, teasing at the edge of your underwear. Your head falls back against the wall, offering yourself up as he trails open-mouthed kisses down your neck.

“About how your body would feel under mine,” he whispers between kisses, his lips dragging heat across your skin. “How you’d taste.” Each word is punctuated by another mark, another slow press of his mouth, until you can feel every bruise blooming where his lips have been.

He doesn’t seem to care who might see the evidence later—but you know you’ll wear each one like a secret, a quiet kind of pride.

His mouth lingers against your neck, a low sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, the words half-growl, half-confession. Every movement is firm, deliberate—claiming, not asking.

“Need you...” you gasp as his hands slide over the curve of your ass, squeezing possessively, earning a moan from you. “I’ve never—ah—never needed anything this badly.” A sharp sting follows—he can’t stop himself from slapping your ass again. The faint burning on your skin is addicting.

Yunho’s teeth graze your earlobe. “Tell me how badly,” he demands, his voice rough with desire. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.” He kneads the soft flesh in his hands a bit more, only to move them up to the most dangerous zone, where it feels like you are about to burst. He drags his long fingers along your skin till he finds your heated core. The slight touch makes your stomach flip—like free-falling.

His fingers tease at your entrance through the thin fabric of your underwear, and you whimper, pressing against him desperately. The evidence of his arousal is hard against your core, making your entire body throb with anticipation. You curse under your breath, not sure if Yunho caught it or not.

“I want— ” Your breath catches, a shaky moan leaving your lips as his thumb circles exactly where you need it most. It's slow and deliberate, each move tantalising. The fabric—no matter how thin—keeps you from feeling him completely. It's torturous, like chasing a mirage. A moan rumbles deep in your throat. Shivers run down your spine. You try to continue. “I want to feel you inside me. Want you to make me scream your name.” Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss. The pain seems to fuel him, you catch him smirking — he shifts his grip to support your weight with one arm while the other finally, finally pushes your underwear aside. The chill air hits your warm core for a brief second, making you shiver.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs, his slender fingers meeting with your warm slick, voice filled with wonder as his fingers slide through your folds.

“It’s your fault” You roll your hips against his hand, seeking more friction. “Take responsibility for it.” He plays with your aching bud a little more, making you squirm with need. 

He captures your mouth again, swallowing your moans as one finger slides inside you. He wasn’t rushing not to hurt you, letting you take him in with delicacy. You inhale sharply, the length of his finger alone takes your breath away. The stretch is exquisite, but not nearly enough. “Another,” you plead against his lips. “More, please—”

He loves hearing you beg. He obliges gladly, adding a second finger, curling them in a way that makes your vision blur at the edges. “Like this?” he asks, smirking as you cry out. “Is this what you’ve been so desperate for?” His fingers move inside you, in and out, almost—but not quite—touching where you need him most.

“Don’t—ah—don’t tease,” you manage to say in between pants, your voice breaking as his thumb finds your clit, already swollen with arousal. “I’ve been thinking about your hands on me for so long.”

His rhythm falters for a split second. “You have?” The question sounds genuinely surprised—almost vulnerable—despite the position you're in.

“Yeah,” you admit, cupping his face and forcing him to meet your gaze. “Every time you walk around shirtless after a shower. Every time I hear you through these paper-thin walls.” You roll your hips against his hand for emphasis. “Every. Fucking. Time.”

The confession is the last drop—the leftover inhibition dissolving in an ocean of primal desire. Without warning, he withdraws his fingers, leaving you whimpering at the loss. Before you can protest, he’s carrying you to his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

Yunho lays you on the bed with surprising gentleness, then stands back to pull his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. As the light reflects off his skin, you realise his form is no different than the ancient statues people gaze at with awe. The sight of his bare torso—all lean muscle and smooth skin—makes your mouth go dry. You can’t help but watch the subtle flex of his muscles, your gaze lingering on the v-line that disappears into his sweatpants. Each move feels like an invitation to touch him. Your fingers instinctively find his body, trailing down the lines the light contours to perfection. He isn’t a game your mind is playing—he’s flesh and bone in front of you—yet it feels surreal.

“Take your clothes off,” he says, pulling you out of your deep haze, his voice a command that sends heat pooling between your thighs. “I want to see all of you.”

You comply eagerly, tugging your shirt over your head and shimmying out of your bottoms. His gaze is heavy on your skin, tracking every movement as you reveal yourself to him.

When you’re down to just your underwear, you hesitate, suddenly feeling a flash of vulnerability. Yunho seems to sense your uncertainty. He leans down to press a surprisingly tender kiss to your lips. “So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes.”

The confession makes your heart stutter. “Yun...”

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers, pressing kisses down your neck, your collarbone. “Let me make you feel good.” And you surrender to him.

His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts before moving to unhook your bra. He helps you slip it off, then kisses his way down to take a nipple into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue sends sparks of pleasure racing through you. Your nipples harden under his attention. His mouth works wonders—sucking the soft skin as if he's been parched and deprived, flicking the hard bud with deliberate strokes of his tongue. Your moans overpower every other sound in the room.

You arch into him, one hand fisting in his hair while the other grips his shoulder hard enough that your nails dig crescents into his skin. “More,” you gasp, the word barely coherent as he switches to your other breast, giving it the same devoted attention. The heat between your legs is unbearable now, your body begging for him to touch you where you need it most.

He lavishes attention on one breast, then the other, alternating between gentle licks and firmer suction that has you writhing beneath him. He bites down too—small, sharp nips that leave subtle red marks you know will darken by morning. All the while, his hands explore, learning every curve and dip of your body like he's memorising you by touch.

When his mouth travels lower, pressing hot kisses across your stomach, your breathing becomes shallow with anticipation. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, looking up at you for permission.

“Please,” is all you can say, lifting your hips to help him.

He slowly drags the fabric down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity of his gaze makes you feel exposed in the most exhilarating way. Once you’re completely bare, he takes a moment just to look at you, he studies each and every curve of your sweet body, memorising the landscape of your figure with a devouring gaze.

A possessive smile creeps on his lips slowly, “Spread your legs for me,” he says, his voice hoarse with want. You comply, knees falling open as he settles between them.

The first touch of his breath against your core makes you shiver.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to taste you,” he confesses, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “How many nights I was thinking about making you come on my tongue.” Each word is rewarded with kisses on your sensitive skin. The closer he gets, more you start to tremble with anticipation. 

The words alone nearly push you over the edge. “Then do it,” you challenge, tangling your fingers in his hair. “Show me.” You pull on the soft strands as you pant.

His eyes flash with determination before he lowers his head. And you can swear you just went to heaven and back, the moment his mouth meets your core you feel ecstatic. The first swipe of his tongue has you crying out, its wide across you, stimulating each nerve there at once. Your hips buck involuntarily. His tongue is warm on your wet core. The sensation is immaculate, you can’t help but to melt in his mouth. He pins you down with strong hands on your thighs, holding you open as he works you with his mouth.

“Oh god—Yun—” You can barely form words as he circles your clit with his tongue, alternating between broad strokes and targeted precision that makes your toes curl. “That’s—fuck—right there.”

He hums against you, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure crashing through your body. He could swear he's never tasted anything sweeter. Your slick coats his mouth—he loves devouring you, loves the mess of it all. It's driving him insane. As he sucks on your clit, he slides two fingers inside you, heightening the pleasure. He curls them to hit that perfect spot while his tongue continues its relentless assault. You feel yourself rapidly approaching the edge.

“I’m close,” you warn, voice breaking. “So close—”

He redoubles his efforts, establishing a rhythm that has you gasping for air. The combination of his fingers and his tongue sends you careening over the edge. Your back arches off the bed as pleasure explodes through you, waves of it crashing over you as you cry out his name, hand harshly pulling his hair.

He works you through it, gentling his touch as you become oversensitive, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs as you struggle to catch your breath. He gladly cleans your sweetness from you with his tongue. 

When you finally open your eyes, he’s looking up at you with a mixture of awe and smug satisfaction that should be illegal. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, slowly making his way back up your body.

You pull him down for a hungry kiss, tasting yourself on his wet lips. “Your turn,” you murmur, reaching between you to palm the hard length still confined by his sweatpants.

He groans into your mouth, hips instinctively pressing into your touch. “These need to come off,” you insist, tugging at his waistband.

Yunho strips off his remaining clothes. Your mouth waters at the sight of him—all of him—finally bare before you. He’s gorgeous, his body lean and strong, his arousal evident and impressive. You can’t fathom what's waiting for you. If his fingers alone reached so deep inside you how would his dick feel?

“Condom,” he mutters, fumbling in his bedside drawer. You watch, still pleasantly dazed from your orgasm, as he rolls it on with practiced ease.

When he returns to you, hovering above your body, there’s a moment of perfect stillness. His eyes search yours, a question in them that goes beyond physical want.

Something in his expression shifts, softens, then blazes with renewed hunger. He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock teasing against your sensitised flesh.

“Tell me if I need to stop,” he says, voice strained with the effort of holding back. He gives his length a few strokes. Then, with a groan that sounds like surrender, he pushes forward, entering you in one slow, deliberate thrust that has both of you gasping. The stretch is delicious, your body accommodating his size with a pleasure that borders on pain. The girth is not what you’re used to, no, this is revolutionary.

“Fuck,” you breathe, his forehead pressed against yours, his body trembling. “You feel—you're so big—” He’s clearly amused by your words, pride flickering across his face. You dig your nails into his shoulders. “Oh—fuck.” You clench around him, the grip so tight it nearly prevents him from moving any further, and he moans at the sensation of your walls wrapped around his cock.

He gives you a moment to adjust, stroking your hair as you both breathe against each other’s lips. “You okay?” he whispers.

“Yeah.” You nod, then roll your hips, taking him even deeper, and the broken moan that tears from his throat is your new favourite sound.

He finally begins to move, setting a rhythm that has you clutching at the sheets. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure radiating through your body, building on the sensitivity from your previous orgasm. The drag of him inside you is exquisite—filling you completely before withdrawing just enough to make you chase the sensation. 

“God, you’re perfect,” he groans, his voice strained as he watches where your bodies connect. “So tight around me—so fucking perfect.” He’s mesmerised by the sight of you taking him in completely, like you were made for each other. It drives him wild.

You can’t help the whimpers escaping your throat with each roll of his hips. The pressure is building again, faster than before, coiling tight in your lower abdomen. “Harder,” you plead, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist. “Need you deeper.”

Yunho’s eyes flash dark with desire. Seems like that’s what he wanted to hear desperately. He shifts his angle, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to drive even deeper. The new position hits something inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. As the new position offers you more freedom, he is now plunging in the deepest spots of your core. Each thrust is making you cry out with screams of pleasure, rocking your body and pushing you closer to the edge. 

“There!” you cry out, back arching off the bed. “Right there—don’t stop—fuck!”

His rhythm becomes more urgent, more desperate. His thrusts are precise, relentlessly hitting the spot that has your eyes rolling back. The sight before him is almost pornographic: your eyes rolled behind your lids, the whites peeking through; your mouth agape, tongue practically lolling out; your body twitching with each stroke. Sweat beads on his forehead, his muscles tensing under your fingertips as he chases both your pleasure and his own. “Touch yourself,” he commands, voice rough with exertion. “Let me see you come again.”

You slip a hand between your bodies, obeying his command, finding your clit swollen and sensitive.

“Good girl.”

The praise sends another surge of heat through you. Your movements falter for a second—you're so lost in pleasure that your body struggles to obey. The dual sensation of your fingers and his cock has you spiralling toward the edge almost immediately. Your moans grow even louder, as if that were possible considering how vocal you’ve been all along.

“God my cock is so wet going in and out of you.” Your fingers move faster against your clit, matching the rhythm of his increasingly erratic thrusts. “You love being filled like this, don’t you?”

His words only drive you closer to the edge. “Look at me,” he demands, and your eyes snap open to meet his. The intensity in his gaze nearly undoes you. “I want to see your face when you come on my cock.”

The building pressure snaps like a wire pulled too tight. You come with his name on your lips, your inner walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. The intensity of it leaves you gasping, arching, trembling, clutching at him like he’s the only solid thing in a world gone liquid with pleasure.

“That’s it,” he groans, his rhythm faltering as your walls clench around him. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—I’m gonna—” His words dissolve into a guttural moan as he follows you over the edge, his hips stuttering as he spills into the condom. He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin as aftershocks roll through both your bodies.

For several long moments, the only sound in the room is your mingled breathing. He collapses beside you, careful not to crush you with his weight, and pulls you against his chest. His heartbeat thunders under your ear, gradually slowing as you both come down from the high.

His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, his touch gentle and reverent—a stark contrast to the intensity of moments before. “That was... ” he starts, then laughs softly, seeming unable to find adequate words.

“Yeah,” you agree, smiling against his skin. “It really was.”

A moment passes between you, the air heavy with what just happened. Yunho shifts slightly, and you notice a flicker of uncertainty cross his face—so different from the confident man who just took you apart.

“Do you...” he starts, then clears his throat. His eyes dart away from yours briefly before returning. “Do you want to stay? Here? With me?” The question comes out hesitant, almost shy, as if he’s bracing himself for rejection. The vulnerability in his voice makes something warm bloom in your chest. You reach up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead, letting your fingers linger against his skin.

“I’d like that,” you reply softly. “Very much.”

He smiles, relief washing over his features, before pulling away briefly to dispose of the condom. When he returns, he gathers you back into his arms, and the comfortable silence stretches between you, your fingers still absently tracing patterns on his chest. Yunho shifts slightly, catching your hand in his. He brings it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your palm that makes your heart flutter.

“Can I...” he starts, then stops, a blush creeping up his neck. He looks surprisingly bashful for someone who was so commanding just minutes ago. “Can I kiss you? Again, I mean.”

“You know,” you say, smiling as you trace his bottom lip with your thumb, “for someone who just had his dick inside me, that’s an adorably hesitant question.”

His blush deepens, but he laughs, the sound rumbling pleasantly against your skin. “Yeah, well... that was in the heat of the moment. This feels... different.”

You understand what he means. The desperate hunger has given way to something more tender, more vulnerable. More dangerous, in its own way.

Instead of answering, you lean in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that’s gentle but unmistakably wanting. When you pull back, his eyes remain closed for a moment longer, as if savouring the sensation.

“How many rounds of Valorant did you play today?” you ask, your voice low as you trail a finger down his chest.

He blinks, thrown by the sudden change in subject. “Uh, seven or eight, I think? Why?”

You push him gently onto his back, swinging a leg over to straddle his hips. His hands automatically come to rest on your thighs as he gazes up at you.

“Because,” you say, rolling your hips just enough to make his breath catch, “I want at least that many rounds with you.”

A slow, dazed grin spreads across his face. “Well, you know what they say about gamers,” he murmurs, his thumbs making small circles on your skin.

“What’s that?”

His grin turns wicked as he flips you suddenly, pinning you beneath him with a smoothness that makes your pulse race. “We have excellent stamina and very, very good finger control.”

As his mouth finds yours again, more demanding this time, you think that you’ve never been so grateful for his gaming obsession.

“So,” you murmur when you finally break apart, “does this mean you’ll take more breaks from Valorant now?”

The old couple that owned the shop, quirky and eccentric, never planned to keep the game store open that long. It had begun as a nostalgic project the husband had started years ago to preserve the games he loved as a boy.  

Its location made it easy to miss, overshadowed by louder, flashier stores and cafés that drew the city’s younger crowds. The few who did stumble upon it were usually collectors or curious wanderers who came once, browsed for a while, and rarely returned. Still, despite the lack of customers and the shelves that gathered more dust than money, there was something charming about the shop.

Not long after meeting the old couple, you had connected with the husband over your shared love for games. He had mentioned how they needed someone to work at the shop, and you immediately agreed. 

They had talked about shutting it down a few times, and you practically begged them not to. You had offered to take care of everything for the shop, basically making it your own. They had agreed, amused and touched by your sincerity, and they kept it open mostly for you. Even now, you knew they paid you more than the store could possibly afford, but they brushed off your concern every time you brought it up. 

“Consider it an investment.” the husband would say with a grin, while his wife would bring you homemade pastries and insist you take them home. You appreciated them deeply, not just for their generosity, but for giving you a little corner of the world to belong to, even if it wasn’t meant to exist anymore.

Most days passed in a quiet meditative rhythm. You’d unlock the door in the late morning, sweep the floor, and put on a playlist that filled the space. Sometimes you’d rearrange the shelves just to have something to do, or work on brainstorming for your next painting, the pages of your sketchbook filling with different concepts and ideas. The same few regulars came by every week, a university student who collected vintage games, a middle-aged man searching for nostalgia, a trio of young boys who liked to play some of the old arcade games because you let them for free. You’d learned to cherish the calm between those visits. You had never been one for busy and loud environments, preferring the solitude that was given to you by the quiet shop. You were content to let the days pass like that.

You had started your day like usual, and now it was around midday. You were deep in a sketch when the bell above the door chimed, its soft ring cutting through the hum of music. You looked up from your sketchbook, half-expecting one of the usual regulars, but instead, someone you’d never seen before stepped inside.

He hesitated at the entrance, taking in the shop with a quiet curiosity, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, eyes roaming over the shelves stacked with colorful cases and faded consoles. His hair fell messily into his eyes as he surveyed the shop, eyes finally landing on you. 

You immediately bowed a little in your seat, your voice cutting through the silence. “Hello, welcome in.” 

He bowed back and whispered a quick, “Thank you.” before hurriedly making his way down one of the aisles, leaving your sight. 

You blinked after him for a moment, then with a small exhale, you lowered your gaze back to your sketchbook, pencil gliding softly across the page. Every so often, the sound of him moving broke the silence, the faint clatter of a case being lifted and set down again, or the tapping of his fingers on the buttons of an old console. 

Ten minutes passed, maybe more, until you heard his footsteps approach the front again. You looked up just as he reached where your counter was, though he didn’t meet your eyes. “Thank you,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Have a nice day.”

Before you could say anything back, the bell chimed again, and he was gone.

You stared at the door for a few moments, curiously wondering how he had stumbled across the shop, and why he had left so soon. It didn’t really matter though, you probably wouldn’t see him again. You brushed your pencil against the paper, and returned to your sketching, the sound of only graphite and soft music filling the space once more.

Contrary to your belief, he did return, exactly a week later.

The bell chimed softly, and when you looked up, your eyes widened in surprise. There he was again, standing in the doorway with that same quiet aura, his hoodie pulled up and hands in his pockets. For a brief moment, your eyes met and this time, he didn’t look away. “Hi.” he said, voice just as gentle as before.

You stared for a few seconds, then blinked, snapping out of your daze as warmth rushed to your cheeks. “H-Hi, welcome in!” you managed, offering a small, awkward smile.

He returned it with a shy curve of his lips before disappearing down one of the aisles. You tried to focus on the homework assignment in front of you, but your fingers were still against the keyboard of your laptop. Every now and then, you’d hear his quiet footsteps, the faint rustle of him looking around, and when your eyes drifted up, sometimes they’d meet his. Each time, he’d give you that same small, hesitant smile, and you’d quickly dart your gaze away, heart fluttering against your ribs. 

At one point, you noticed him standing in an aisle across from the counter, angled just enough that only you could see him. The light from the window caught on his bleach blonde hair, and you took the chance to look at him. Your eyes travelled from his pretty dark eyes, to his sharp jawline, down to his baggy outfit. He’s cute, the thought made your cheeks warm all over again.

Eventually, he made his way to the counter, holding a small vintage game in his hand. “Did you find everything okay?” you asked, your voice softer than usual.

He nodded, setting the game down carefully. “Yeah.” he said, smiling soflty.

You rang him up, both of you avoiding eye contact as he paid. When you handed him the small paper bag, you managed a polite, practiced line, though your voice wavered a little. “Have a good day — come back again soon.”

He looked at you directly. “I will.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and when he realized what he’d said, his eyes widened slightly. “I— I mean, thank you. Goodbye.” He fumbled over the words, cheeks pink, before quickly heading for the door.

The bell chimed once more, and you found yourself staring after him, your heart beating a little faster than it should. Through the front window, you watched him disappear down the street, a small, involuntary smile tugging at your lips.

He comes in again just three days later.

You glanced up from the small stack of boxes by your feet, surprised to see him standing there, this time in a t-shirt, hair styled nicely.

 “Hi.” he said, his voice a touch less hesitant than before.

“Hey,” you replied, smiling softly. “Welcome in.”

He gave a little nod before wandering off while you returned to unpacking the shipment that had arrived that morning. The soft crinkle of packaging filled the air as you carefully shelved a few old collectables that you had been able to win in an online auction. 

Eventually, the boy stopped near the end of the aisle across from you. You could feel his gaze flicker in your direction a few times and you assumed he needed help. “Is there something I can help you find?” you asked gently, turning towards him.

He startled slightly, straightening up. “Oh— uh, no. I’m fine,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck.

You nodded, a polite smile tugging at your lips. “Alright.” you murmured, and returned to stacking the boxes.

A few quiet moments passed before his voice broke the stillness. “How long has this place been open?”

You looked up again, surprised by the question but pleased he’d spoken first this time. “21 years. The owner loved video games when he was young and started this business in the early 2000’s to preserve tgem when all the new technology started advancing.” 

His eyebrows lifted in disbelief. “21 years?”

You smiled faintly. “Mhm, I try to take care of it as best I can.” He nods at your words with wide eyes, turning back to the shelf, running his finger along it. “I was actually wondering how you found it? Not a lot of new people come in here.”

“I was looking for a copy of Super Mario World from 1990 that I bought last week. This was the only vintage game shop that came up on Google in Seoul.” 

Your eyes lit up.  “Did you get a chance to play it?” 

He bashfully nodded. "All night."

You giggled softly, covering your mouth with your hand. “I can’t blame you. It’s hard to stop once you start.”

He grinned, a quiet laugh slipping out. “Yeah, exactly.” Then, after a small pause, he asked, “Are you into gaming too?”

You nodded instantly, a spark of excitement breaking through your usual reserve. “Very much. Actually,” You turn to face him fully now. “I’m getting a degree in game design and development right now.”

His eyes widened a little, clearly impressed. “Really?”

You nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. I’ve always loved games, especially the visual side. The way the graphics can completely change the mood of a game is really interesting to me.”

He blinked at you, brows slightly furrowed. “Graphics?” he repeated, testing the word like it was unfamiliar.

You tilted your head, realizing his confusion. “Oh, like the art style. How it looks visually.” you explained gently.

He nodded slowly in understanding, lips curling into a small, sheepish smile. “Ah, okay. Sorry, my Korean still isn’t that good.”

You waved your hand quickly. “It’s okay!” you said softly, smiling.

As he looked away, ears turning red, you couldn’t help but think that’s why he talks so quietly... 

“Where are you from?” you asked curiously.

“Japan.”

Your eyes lit up instantly. “Really? I lived in Japan for two years!” you replied — this time in Japanese.

His expression brightened instantly at the language shift, his surprise melting into excitement. “Really? When?” he asked, now fully in his native tongue.

“When I was fifteen to seventeen,” you said, smiling at the memory. “I really liked it there. I miss it sometimes.”

He smiled warmly, nodding. “That’s really cool. So where are you from originally?”

You hesitated for a moment before replying, “I was born in the U.S., but—” You paused, realizing your Japanese was starting to falter, and switched back to Korean. “Sorry, can I speak in Korean? My Japanese isn’t as good as it used to be.”

He chuckled softly and nodded. “Of course.”

You smiled gratefully. “I was born in the U.S., but because of my dad’s job, we had to move around a lot. I’ve lived in… nine different countries now, I think.”

His eyebrows lifted in surprise, and a look of genuine admiration crossed his face as he leaned slightly closer. “Nine? That’s… a lot.”

You laughed lightly, rubbing the back of your neck. “Yeah… thankfully now I’ll be in Korea for a while because of university.”

You felt his gaze linger on you after your last sentence, attentive in a way that made your heart flutter unexpectedly. You looked away quickly, pretending to smooth your sleeve as your fingers nervously fidgeted with the fabric.

You cleared your throat softly before glancing back up at him. “Um… I just realized I never asked,” you said shyly, “what’s your name?”

He blinked, as if realizing the same thing. “Ah, it’s Shota.” he replied, a little awkward but polite.

“Shota,” you repeated with a nod, testing the sound of it on your tongue. “That’s a nice name.”

He smiled slightly. “And you?”

You told him your name, but when he tried to repeat it, it came out slightly off, his accent tripping over one of the syllables. You couldn’t help but giggle softly. “Close,” you said, enunciating it again for him. 

He tried once more, slower this time, and when he got it right, you smiled brightly. “Perfect.”

He grinned, a little proud of himself, but before either of you could say more, the muffled buzz of his phone cut through the air. He fished it out of his pocket, glanced at the screen, and sighed. “Ah, sorry,” he murmured apologetically. “I have to go.”

Though disappointment flickered through you, you nodded with understanding. “Of course.” you said gently.

As he reached the door, you called after him softly, “Thank you for coming.”

he paused, turning slightly to look at you. There was a small, hesitant smile on his face, one that reached his eyes this time. “I’ll see you later.” 

The bell chimed as he stepped out, and you stood there for a moment, staring at the door even after it closed behind him. Then, unable to help yourself, you smiled, a quiet and giddy sort of smile that stayed with you long after he was gone.

Over the next few weeks, his visits became an unexpected diversion in your quiet life.

He never came on a fixed day. Sometimes a week would pass, sometimes longer and you’d start to assume that maybe you’d seen the last of him. But then, just when you’d stopped expecting it, the bell would chime, and there he was again with that timid smile and a soft, “Hey.” slipping from his lips. 

At first, your conversations were only surface level. He’d ask about certain games, and you’d show him around, guiding him through the aisles with enthusiasm. You taught him how to play some of the older arcade machines in the corner, your hands brushing his once or twice as you showed him the controls. He was terrible at most of them, missing jumps and losing all his lives, but every time he failed he’d laugh under his breath, scratching his neck in embarrassment while you tried to stifle your giggles. 

As the weeks passed, your talks began to stretch beyond games. He started telling you little things about his life in Japan, the difficulty of moving to Korea, the language barrier that sometimes made him feel invisible. He never mentioned being an idol, only saying he was a dancer, which you had found unbelievably cool. You could see how his eyes lit up whenever he talked about dancing, how passionate he was, how much he loved it despite the struggles. 

In return, you opened up too. You told him about the years you spent moving from country to country, always being the new kid, never belonging long enough to build roots. You admitted how lonely it got sometimes. He listened quietly, his expression soft and understanding, and when you finished, he said, “That sounds really hard. But… I think you belong here.”

You didn't know what to say to that. You just smiled, feeling warmth crawl into your chest that stayed even after he left that night.

The more time you spent together, the more his reserved nature melted away. Beneath the quiet exterior was a charmingly strange one. He was silly and quirky in the best way, especially when he tried to do whatever he could to see your face light up with a smile. Once, he dramatically fell to his knees in front of the arcade machine after losing yet another round. You’d laughed so hard that day you had to wipe tears from your eyes, and when you looked at him, you realized you’d stopped thinking of his visits as surprises. They’d become a part of your routine.

Today you had been hoping he’d come more than usual. Maybe because you’d been thinking about him more than usual. The way he laughed that low, boyish sound that always made you laugh too. Or the way he’d tilt his head when he was concentrating on a game, lips pressed together in a pout, only to grin like a kid when he finally won.

He was funny in the kind of way that made being around him feel freeing, and he was kind, so kind. It made your chest feel warm just thinking about it.

Then your brain would drift to other moments, Like when he’d lean over you to grab a token or show you something on the game screen, and you’d become painfully aware of how much taller he was or how close he felt. Or when he came in with faint traces of makeup on his face, the soft blush on his cheeks only adding to his pretty appearance. 

And then there was that one time when he showed up in a sleeveless shirt. You hadn’t meant to stare, but your eyes had a mind of their own, tracing the curve of his arms, the faint lines of muscle, the veins that stood out when he reached to stock something on the top shelf for you. You remembered the way your face burned, and you quickly turned away, pretending to busy yourself with other things. 

Somewhere between his shy smiles, his teasing remarks, and the comfort of his presence, you realized you were developing a crush on him. And the thought alone was enough to make your pulse race.

So yeah, you were really hoping he’d show up so you could stop thinking about him. But time passed and it was getting later and later. Your stomach had started growling angrily at you, having missed breakfast. You decided to close up early and grab food, also in an effort to distract yourself. 

You were just finishing up, the door half-locked and your bag slung over your shoulder, when a familiar voice called your name.

You turned, startled. “Shota?” you said, eyes widening.

He stood a few steps away, slightly out of breath, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Ah… I guess I’m late.” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice held a note of disappointment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were closing early.”

You shook your head quickly. “It’s no big deal,” you reassured him. “I just—” you laughed softly, embarrassed, “—closed early because I was starving. I haven’t eaten all day.”

He nodded, guilt flickering across his face. “Still… I wish I’d gotten here sooner.”

Before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out. “Well, um if you haven’t eaten yet, do you maybe—want to…” You trailed off, fumbling awkwardly over the invitation, your cheeks warming. “I mean, you don’t have to, but—”

“I’d love to." he interrupted, his answer immediate and certain.

You blinked at him, caught off guard, then smiled shyly. “I was heading to this ramen place nearby,” you said, locking the door behind you. “It’s small, but the food’s really good.”

He grinned, falling into step beside you as you started down the quiet street. Something felt different between the two of you. It was the first time you’d seen each other outside the shop's comforting atmosphere. You were exploring new territory. 

“How was your day?” you asked, glancing at him.

He exhaled, stretching his arms a little. “Tiring,” he admitted. “I was in practice all day.”

“Practice? For what?” you asked curiously.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, just long enough for you to notice before replying, “A dance competition.” His tone was casual, but something about it felt rehearsed.

You tilted your head, a little confused, but before you could ask more, he added quickly, “It’s been intense lately. Lots of long hours.”

You nodded softly, sensing he didn’t want to linger on it. He, on the other hand, was quietly wrestling with his thoughts, trying to figure out how to tell you he’d be gone for a few weeks, how to explain without revealing too much. But the words never came. Instead, he shifted the conversation, asking you about your favorite ramen toppings, and you laughed, grateful for the ease returning between you.

As you walked, your hands brushed. The warmth spread up your arm before you could pull away, your heart stuttering in your chest.

He noticed. You could tell by the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, his eyes glinting playfully beneath the streetlights.

You looked away quickly, your face flushed, but he only chuckled under his breath, amused. 

The ramen shop was small and warm, the windows fogged from the steam. You sat across from each other in a narrow booth, the table between you small enough that your knees brushed underneath. He glanced down when it happened, then looked up at you with a faint smile that made your stomach twist. 

When the steaming bowls arrived, you both thanked the waiter in unison and then laughed at how perfectly in sync it was. Shota picked up his chopsticks and looked at you expectantly. “Itadakimasu?” he said, and you repeated it, stumbling over the pronunciation. He tried to stifle a laugh but failed miserably, his shoulders shaking as you pouted in mock offense.

“You’re laughing at me!” you said, narrowing your eyes.

“I’m not!” he protested between chuckles. 

You nudged his foot under the table, pretending to be annoyed, but he grinned and leaned forward. “Say it again.” he teased.

You rolled your eyes but obliged, and when you did, he smiled so wide that your face grew warm again. “Perfect.” he said softly, and for a second, the tension became thick between you.

By the time you finished eating, your cheeks hurt from smiling. The conversation had flowed easily, laughter filling the small space between you. When the waiter came with the check, Shota quickly took it before you could.

You reached out to stop him, protesting softly, “No, let me at least split it with you.” But he just shook his head, that familiar shy smile tugging at his lips. “This is for distracting you so much at work.” he said, eyes crinkling slightly as he handed the waiter his card. 

You felt your cheeks warm, your voice barely above a whisper as you said, “Thank you.” He glanced at you then down at his wallet as he put his card away, mumbling, “You look so cute when you blush.” As if your face wasn't constantly red already around him, it might as well have been permanent now. 

You stepped out of the shop into the cool evening air, and Shota fell into step beside you. “So… where are you going next?” he asked casually. 

You felt a small pang of sadness creep over you, but hid it instantly, even though he noticed. 

“I’m just visiting the shop owners. So I guess this is goodbye.” He nodded hesitantly and you gave him a small smile, turning to leave. 

“Wait,” he said suddenly, grabbing your wrist. You froze, surprised by the contact, and looked up at him. He hesitated for a moment before leaning down and pulling you into a hug. You stiffened for an instant, then relaxed, wrapping your arms around him. This was the first time he’d ever actually touched you this way. 

He had to bend down to hug you properly, but then decided lifting you slightly would make it easier. You let out a startled sound as your feet brushed his shoes, and he chuckled warmly at your reaction. You clung to his shoulders, pressing yourself deeper against his embrace. 

After a moment, he gently set you back down, pulling away slowly. You stared up at him, speechless, and he quickly looked down before pressing a soft peck to your cheek. He released your body, stepped back, and raised his hand in a casual wave. “See you later.” he said, a small grin on his face.

You watched him go, longing in your chest, and lifted your own hand to wave. His grin only widened as he retreated down the street, leaving you with the warmth of the hug lingering long after he was gone.

He really had meant to see you later.

He had tried, over and over, to carve out even a small window of time to visit the shop, but somehow it never worked out. Practices ran late, schedules changed, and before he knew it, he was boarding a plane to America, the city lights of Seoul shrinking behind him. As the plane lifted off, a sinking realization hit him, he hadn’t even gotten your number. He cursed himself quietly, frustrated at how foolishly he’d assumed there would always be another day to see you.

America was a blur. Normally quiet, he found himself unusually distracted, staring off mid-answer, words catching in his throat. His members noticed, Keeho in particular, sharp-eyed as always, pulled him aside one day. 

“Tell me what's wrong. Is it about her?” Keeho said, urging him to open up. 

Shota nodded numbly. He had already told Keeho all about you, and how much he liked you. How he was waiting for the right time to tell you. 

He opened up about how he hadn't even told you he was leaving, and he would be gone for longer than usual. 

Keeho’s expression softened, and he gently scolded him. “It wasn’t right, keeping her in the dark like that,” he said firmly, “but if you really feel strongly for her… if you’re sure about her… you can tell her who you are, why you were gone. If she cares for you too, she’ll understand.”

Shota nodded quietly, taking Keeho’s words to heart. He repeated them to himself throughout the trip, a quiet mantra that kept him hopeful. No matter how far he was, he told himself, there would be a way to make things right.

When they landed back in Korea early in the day, Shota couldn’t hide the excitement bubbling in his chest. The first thing he did was run toward the shop, craving to be in your presence again. 

When he reached the door, he tried to open it, but it didn’t budge. His heart sank as his eyes caught the small sign taped to the glass: “Closed for the day.” He groaned, frustrated with himself, and walked away defeated.

He tried again the next day, and the day after, and the day after that. Each time, the door remained locked. Day by day, his worry grew, along with a gnawing sadness. By the eighth day, his hope had dwindled almost completely.

As he approached the shop that morning, barely holding onto a thread of hope, he stopped in his tracks. There you were, standing in front of the shop, hands buried in the pockets of your black hoodie, staring silently at the door.

He took a slow step toward you, he called your name gently.

You took a deep breath and turned toward him. The sight that met his eyes nearly stopped his heart, dark bags and circles beneath your puffy eyes, your face drained of the usual glow he loved, clad entirely in black instead of the brighter colors you normally wore. You met his gaze, and he felt a sharp ache in his stomach, as though seeing you like this somehow tore at him from the inside.

For a long moment, you just stared at each other, the silence stretching unbearably. Then, your lip trembled, and your voice cracked as you whispered, “Where were you…”

Tears spilled down your cheeks, and you lowered your gaze, defeated. Without thinking, Shota reached for you, pulling you into a tight embrace. He held you as your sobs wracked your body, pressing you close to his chest as though he could shield you from every hurt and worry that had built up in the days he’d been gone.

“He’s gone.”

The words tore out of you, raw and unfiltered, and somehow Shota knew immediately who you were referring to, the shop owner. His eyes widened in disbelief, and for a long moment, he didn’t know what to say. All he could do was hold you tighter as you clung to him, your body trembling against his chest.

“I… I needed you.” you whispered, your voice breaking, and Shota felt as if his heart might shatter right then and there.

Slowly, your sobs subsided, and you pulled your face from his chest. You dabbed at the tear stains on his shirt with a trembling hand. “I’m sorry.” you murmured.

He gently grabbed your hand to stop you and used the other to brush away the remaining tears that still streamed down your cheeks. You glanced down at his hand holding yours, and with a quiet, hesitant motion, you gently separated it. He felt a stabbing pang in his chest at the action.

Sniffling, you whispered, “Come with me,” and led him to a small park nearby. You both sat on a bench, the world around you quiet except for the distant hum of the city.

Silence lingered for a moment before Shota finally spoke, his voice soft. “I’m… sorry.”

You shook your head lightly. “He had been in the hospital before I left, but they said he was getting better… I don’t know. Life’s just… unfair.”

He didn’t say anything in return, letting the quiet settle again.

After a pause, without looking at him, you gently asked, your voice barely above a whisper, “Where’d you go?”

He hesitated, shifting slightly, unsure if this was the right moment to tell you everything. You noticed the tension in his posture and shook your head gently. “It’s fine,” you said softly, almost nervously. “You don’t owe me an explanation… it’s not like I’m your girlfriend or anything.”

He let out a quiet sigh, running a hand through his hair, clearly unsure how to approach the situation. “No,” he said finally, his voice low but firm. “You do deserve an explanation.”

You still didn’t look at him, and he visibly deflated, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. After a moment, he spoke again, hesitantly. “I… I’m an idol.”

Your head twitched at the confession, surprise flickering across your features, but you remained still.

He continued, voice quiet, almost pained. “I wanted to tell you… I really did. But… there are rules about this kind of thing. And when we had to go to America, I kept saying I would tell you, but I kept pushing it off, and then… I had no time left.”

His gaze dropped, shame flickering in his eyes. “It’s not an excuse. I should have been there for you. And… I was stupid because I never even got your number.”

You let out a small, quiet chuckle. “I was too.” you admitted, and he froze for a moment, savoring the sound of the gentle laughter that had been missing from his life while he was away.

His voice grew more insistent, almost pleading. “Please… look at me.”

You took a deep breath, gathered your courage, and finally looked at him. The sincerity in his eyes made your chest tighten. Without a word, you slid closer, settling gently next to him, and rested your head softly on his shoulder.

Slowly his arm slid around your waist, holding you close. After a while, your voice broke the silence, soft and apologetic. “It… wasn’t fair of me to react like that. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head gently, his lips curving into a small, reassuring smile. “Don’t apologize.” he murmured, his voice firm and warm, and you let yourself relax against him, feeling the tension of the past weeks slowly ease.

Eventually you pull your head off of him, instead twisting your body to sit cross legged on the bench to face him. He hesitantly reaches for your hand in your lap, giving you the chance to pull away, but you don’t and he gently breathes out a sigh of relief. 

He shifted slightly, his voice soft but earnest. “I’m… I’m sorry again. I should have been there for you.”

You shook your head gently, a small, reassuring smile on your lips. “Really… it’s okay. I forgive you.”

He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “No… I should have been open with you from the start.”

Your chest tightened as he took a deep breath, finally confessing. “The whole time I was away… all I could think about was you. Because… I love you.”

He paused, then continued, almost spilling over with the intensity of his feelings. “I love how you smile, how you get lost in your sketching, how you get embarrassed over the smallest things. I love your laugh, your kindness… the way you see the world. I never once stopped thinking about you, and it’s been driving me crazy because I couldn’t be with you. I just… I love you.”

You looked up at him, wide eyes shining, your lips curving into a hopeful, trembling smile. 

Shota’s voice softened, almost a whisper, as he continued, “I know it was by chance that we met… but I’m so happy it turned out this way.”

Your chest tightened, and before you could think, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a gentle hug. You pressed close, your cheek against his, and whispered softly into his ear, “I love you too.”

He let out a quiet, blissful sigh, a small smile pressing against your neck. You pulled back slightly, just enough for your eyes to meet, your noses brushing together in a delicate, electric touch. His breath hitched softly at the closeness, and you felt his heartbeat quicken against yours.

Slowly, almost hesitantly at first, you leaned forward, and your lips met his. The kiss started gentle as you tested the waters, and Shota responded immediately, tilting his head and pressing closer, as if he could never get enough. His lips moved with a mix of tenderness and desperation, lips tracing yours like he was memorizing every curve and contour.

His hands framed your face, thumbs brushing lightly over your cheeks, as he deepened the kiss, letting his emotions spill through every touch. You felt him shiver with the intensity of it, a lovesick, starved kind of passion, his body leaning entirely into yours as if he never wanted to let go. Every soft groan, every hitch of his breath against your lips, made your heart race, and you melted into him completely, letting the world fall away until it was just the two of you. 

When you finally pull away, your eyes meet his, and a nervous giggle escapes you, tumbling into a string of soft, uncontrollable laughter. You bury your face in his neck, trying to hide, and he laughs too, shyly, his cheeks turning a bright, warm shade of red. He feels a rush of happiness knowing he was able to lift your spirits, even just a little.

You pull back slightly, unable to meet his gaze, letting your eyes follow the gentle curl of his fingers instead. After a quiet moment, he hesitantly asks, “What’s going to happen to the shop?” His voice carries a note of attachment, the place having grown important to him too.

You pause, taking a soft breath before replying, a small smile touching your lips. “He left it to me… along with a bank account to keep it open.”

Shota’s eyes widen slightly, a soft smile spreading across his face. “That’s… amazing. It’ll be a good way to honor him.” he says, voice full of warmth, and you nod, feeling the comfort of his support beside you.

You squeeze his hand gently, and stood from the bench, pulling him up beside you. 

“Let’s go play games. It's what he would have wanted.” The tears form in your eyes but you blink them away as quickly as they come. Shota gives you an encouraging nod, and you lead the way back to your shop. 

A few days later, you reopen.

You’re behind the counter again, arranging a new display, when the door creaks open.

“Hey,” Shota says, stepping inside with a shy grin and two cups of coffee in hand. “I thought I’d bring a peace offering… and also check if the new owner still remembers me.”

You glance up at him with a teasing smirk. “I’m still not giving you the legend of zelda for free.”

He gasps dramatically. “After everything we’ve been through?”

You shrug, biting back a laugh. “Rules are rules.”

He sets the cups down, leaning over the counter until you’re only inches apart. “What if I pay in kisses?”

You feign thought, lips twitching. “That currency might work.”

Shota grins, closing the space between you, this kiss leaving you warm and fuzzy on the inside. When you part, he rests his forehead against yours, whispering, “I missed this.”

The shop feels alive again, sunlight spilling through the window just like the day he first walked in. But now you weren't strangers, and he has become not only important to you, but to your safe haven.

You remember the words he’d spoken to you, “I think you belong here.”