r ˖Ი𐑼⋆

He loves wiping down your skin with a warm towel or suggesting a shower together… not to fish for another round, but simply to make sure you are completely relaxed and free of any lingering tension.

B = Body part:

His absolute favorite parts of you are your hands or your neck. He is endlessly fascinated by the sheer difference in your sizes and strength… holding your small hands reminds him of the peace he only finds with you, miles away from his violent field work.

Your favorite part of him has to be his back or his broad shoulders. During intimacy, he loves feeling your fingers dig into his shoulders when things start getting too intense for you to handle.

C = Cum:

He heavily prefers coming inside you or coating your stomach. There is an incredibly possessive edge to his nature that he suppresses in his day-to-day life, but completely unleashes in bed. If he chooses to come on your skin, he loves watching the contrast against your flesh before cleaning you up himself with agonizing slowness.

D = Dirty Secret:

He has a major thing for overstimulation. He loves driving you right over the edge, holding you at the brink of ruin and ordering you to look him dead in the eye while forbidding you from moving. His little secret is just how much he enjoys seeing the pure, desperate plea in your eyes when you completely lose control.

E = Experience:

He is highly experienced and knows exactly what he’s doing. His age brings not just maturity, but a refined expertise. There are no clumsy movements or hesitation, he reads your body language flawlessly. He knows exactly when to switch up the tempo, where to apply pressure, and how to make you utterly unravel for him in minutes.

F = Favourite position:

Either cowgirl but with his hands firmly gripping your hips to dictate the entire depth and pace. Also he is obsessed with prone bone because it allows him to use his full weight to pin you flat against the mattress. He loves burying his face in the crook of your neck, biting your skin, and keeping a heavy hand locked on your waist to maintain a deep rhythm.

G = Goofy:

He is predominantly serious and incredibly intense, though he keeps that signature cynical sense of humor. He might flash a smirk or drop a teasing comment if you try to "rebel" against him in bed, or if you bite your lip to stifle your whimpers.

"No, no... don't hold that in" he’ll tell you calmly, pushing deeper.

H = Hair:

Impeccably groomed. Someone as strictly disciplined with his physical training doesn't slack on personal hygiene. He keeps everything clean, trimmed and aesthetic down below, matching his overall sharp presentation.

I = Intimacy:

It’s a unique mix of rough dominance and deep, spiritual devotion. It’s not traditional "sweet" lovemaking… it’s demanding, highly physical and heavy due to his sheer size. However, he is never careless. The emotional weight is intense: he treats you like his only safe haven in a world full of scum, so while his grip is iron-clad, his kisses are pure devotion.

If you’re in missionary, he will explicitly command you to wrap your arms tight around him.

J = Jack off:

He only does it when he’s away for days on ERPB operations, or when the stress of a case is so overwhelming that he needs a quick release to clear his mind before sleep. If you’re anywhere near him, he would a thousand times rather use your body than his own hands.

K = Kink:

Bondage: He loves light restraints, particularly pinning both of your wrists above your head using just one of his massive hands.

Marking: He is obsessed with leaving deep bite marks and bruises in discreet places that stay hidden beneath your everyday clothes. Seeing his marks on you the next day makes him smirk with pure self-satisfaction.

Breeding kink: He absolutely dreams of knocking you up one day, but he restrains himself for now because he wants to selfishly enjoy his uninterrupted time with you.

Size kink: He’s the type of boyfriend who constantly compares his hand size to yours during the day. In bed, he likes comparing other things…

Mirror kink: Hwa-jin loves the mirror in your bedroom. He will force you to watch the reflection while he touches you or takes you from behind, utterly captivated by the stark size difference between your two bodies.

L = Location:

While he appreciates the comfort of a king-sized bed, locking the door to his office at the ERPB headquarters late at night, with the city lights spreading out behind the glass, has a dangerous appeal. He thoroughly enjoys the adrenaline of clearing off his desk and taking you right there.

M = Motivation:

Your initiative. Because he always has to be the strongman, the master strategist and the protector in his public life, having you suddenly push him onto the bed, yank off his tie and take charge at the start drives him absolutely wild. It flips his hunter instinct on immediately.

N = NO:

Anything that causes real pain and anything involving genuine verbal degradation. He can be rough and deeply dominant, but he would never insult you or do anything to make you feel insecure or worthless. Mutual consent between you is absolute law.

O = Oral:

He absolutely loves giving, and he has infinite patience when he sets his mind to it. He enjoys the view from down there and the intoxicating sense of control when he hears you gasp. When it’s his turn to receive, he is quiet but commanding, running his fingers through your hair to guide your rhythm gently.

P = Pace:

He always starts with a slow, heavy and highly deliberate pace, intentionally wearing down your endurance. He loves watching you squirm and beg for more. Once his own patience wears thin, the rhythm becomes fast, hard and purely instinctive until you both crash over the edge.

Q = Quickie:

Not his favorite, as he prefers to take his time to fully decompress and worship your body, but he’s not against them. If it’s been a tense week and you only have ten minutes before he has to head out for a mission, he will pin you against the hallway wall without a second thought.

R = Risk:

He is completely open to experimenting with toys, new positions or semi-public places, but he will always ensure the risk is highly calculated. He is never going to let you get caught, he plans the logistics of his sex life just as meticulously as his field operations.

S = Stamina:

He has terrifying stamina. His military background and peak physical conditioning as a field supervisor mean he simply does not tire out. He can go for hours in a single round without his strength wavering once and he is fully capable of clearing 3 to 4 full rounds before showing even the slightest hint of fatigue.

T = Toys:

He doesn't have a massive collection, but he owns a few high-quality pieces (like a powerful bullet or wand vibrator). He introduces them when he wants to see your reaction or when he wants to keep you stimulated while he steps back just to watch you writhe.

U = Unfair:

He is brutally unfair, he loves playing dirty. He can spend hours casually touching your thigh under the table during a formal dinner or whispering explicit details into your ear about what he’s going to do to you the second you get home, only to act completely normal and professional the moment anyone else looks your way, leaving you desperate.

V = Volume:

He is incredibly quiet, low and guttural. He’s not a talker or a shouter, but he makes a lot of deep noises… low growls in your ear, heavy breathing and chuckles when he manages to make you scream his name. He prefers for you to be the loud one in the relationship.

W = Wild Card:

You went to visit him at the ERPB offices and ran into a group of corrupt, wealthy parents trying to corner and threaten him over their delinquent kids. You watched him handle the situation with his usual ice-cold calmness, utterly breaking their nerve and forcing them to back down through his sheer presence alone.

The second the room clears out and the office goes dead silent, the leftover adrenaline and dark tension completely transform him. He drags you straight into the records room, locks the heavy door, strips your coat off and takes you right there against the filing cabinets with an urgency he rarely shows… venting the entire day's fury into possessing you.

X = X Ray:

His anatomy absolutely does justice to his imposing 6'3" frame, he is noticeably well above average in both length and girth. He’s heavily veined and firm and when he's aroused, he becomes rock hard. His physical endurance carries over here, too… he maintains his size effortlessly between rounds.

Y = Yearning:

His sex drive is incredibly high, but he possesses immense mental discipline. He can focus purely on his work for days on end if a high-stakes mission requires it. But the exact microsecond the "supervisor mode" clicks off and he steps through the front door with you, all that repressed desire boils over completely.

Z = ZZZ:

You felt the shift in the mattress before you even opened your eyes. Hu-min pressed himself against your back, his broad, solid chest flush against your shoulder blades. His skin was burning hot, and it didn't take two seconds of shifting your hips to realize he was already rock hard against your backside.

"Sorry..." he mumbled against the nape of your neck.

He began seeking out a more intimate contact, grinding his length against you with focused intent. His hips rocked in a lazy yet urgent rhythm. You felt so small in his shadow, a sensation that always washed over you whenever Hu-min decided there should be absolutely zero space between the two of you.

"Good morning?" you teased, letting out a soft breath of a laugh.

"Sorry, I can't help it..." he started, sounding noticeably desperate. "Its just... I had a dream about you and..."

"It’s okay, babe" you answered, trying to soothe him while explicitly giving in to his touch.

His right hand slid under your arm, pinning you firmly by the chest. He pulled you flush against him, forcing you to slot perfectly into the curve of his body, making your backside press tight against his pelvis as he continued that agonizingly steady friction.

"Hu-min..." you managed to gasp, tilting your head back to find his face.

He buried his nose in the crook of your neck, his hands moving quickly over your skin to strip away your clothes. He didn't want to adjust; he wanted to stay in this "spooning" position he loved so much because it let him feel every single inch of your back against his chest.

He slid inside you in one deep, slow surge that seemed to fill every corner of your being. Hu-min let out a guttural growl, his grip on your waist tightening. His thrusts were powerful, driven by a strength that made the bed frame creak. With every push, you felt the sheer weight of his muscles and his raw need for you.

As the minutes ticked by, Hu-min’s pace took on an overwhelming energy. His movements became faster, more demanding. The wet sound of his hips slapping against your thighs joined the heavy cadence of his breathing.

You could feel his stamina only building with the effort. Far from wearing out, every plunge felt deeper than the last, raising the temperature until sweat made your bodies slick, sliding effortlessly against one another.

His hand on your chest tightened its hold as he lost himself in the frenzy of the moment. The pleasure was a rising tide, and your boyfriend was right at the center of it, pushing you toward the edge with a force that had you seeing stars.

"I can't... I'm not stopping" he gritted out through clenched teeth, his self-control shattering as the climax drew near.

When he finally hit his peak, Hu-min didnt pull away. Just as you’d discussed before, he let go inside you. He drove into you one last time, making your back arch and emptied himself completely, claiming you as his own. His spasms were long and deep… and eventually, he rested his forehead against your shoulder, utterly spent.

"Forgive me" he whispered, though he didn't sound sorry at all as he traced lazy circles over your stomach. "I just... I couldn't stop myself."

He stayed like that for a few minutes, relishing the feeling of being inside you and the synchronized thumping of your hearts. However, the protective Baku didnt stay gone for long. He got up with a sigh and returned shortly after with a warm towel.

❥ His physical affection is blunt and confident. He’ll pull you right onto his lap without asking while talking to his friends, using you as his personal resting spot. For him, having you right there is how he unwinds.

❥ His sweeter side really shows in how he takes care of your stuff. If your scooter, bike or any electronic device acts up, he’ll roll up his sleeves and spend hours fixing it just to impress you and remind you how handy he is.

❥ He loves teasing you or playing petty pranks on you just to see your reactions. When you get mad, he’ll let out that signature laugh of his, tug at your cheeks and plant a quick kiss on your nose to cut your tantrum short.

❥ While the teacher is explaining electrical circuits, he’ll text you a picture of his notes where he’s filled the margins of the page doodling your name with hearts around it, captioned:

“Class is boring as hell, can only think about your pretty face."

❥ When you’re hanging out with him and his tech-school friends, he’ll lock his arm tightly around your waist and won't stop bragging about how amazing you are or how good you are at something. He loves puffing out his chest and showing everyone that he has the best girlfriend in the world.

❥ If he shows up bruised or with busted knuckles after a school fight, he’ll grumble reluctantly if you try to patch him up, but he’ll sit completely still and let you do your thing. While you wrap a bandage around his hand, he’ll just stare at you with a soft smile, thinking about how incredibly lucky he is to have you.

❥ He’s the type of boyfriend who acts tough in public, but his chat with you is filled with the softest stickers: cuddling kittens or kissing bears. If you take more than five minutes to reply, he’ll spam your phone with crying emojis and hearts until you pay attention to him.

❥ Whenever it gets a little chilly or he just notices you look tired, he’ll take off his school jacket and drape it over your shoulders. He’s utterly obsessed with how oversized it looks on you and the fact that you go home smelling like him.

NSFW (not so much really):

❥ If he’s in the mood to get you alone, he’ll tell you straight to your face… no filtering, no subtlety, even if there are people nearby. He loves watching you blush while he just maintains a smug smirk.

❥ His kisses are intense, deep, and incredibly physical. He loves biting your lips with just the right amount of pressure and leaving very visible marks on your neck, almost like a trophy so everyone at school knows exactly who you belong to.

❥ When you're both in class and can't touch, he’ll lock eyes with you from across the room. It’s a heavy, intense and crystal-clear stare… the kind that lets you know exactly what he’s planning to do to you the second you’re behind closed doors.

❥ In bed, he’s definitely the one setting the pace. He loves using his physical strength to dominate you, pinning you against the wall or holding your hands firmly over your head. He deeply enjoys seeing the effect he has on you and how he makes you lose control.

❥ If you manage to sneak into the empty electronics or auto shops at school, he’ll use the setting to his advantage. He’ll hoist you up onto a workbench, slide between your legs, and kiss you with the urgency of someone who knows they could get caught at any second, feeding off that risk.

❥ He can get pretty bold over text, but he never loses his sap. He’ll send you messages like: "I'm dying to have you in my bed tonight, you're the most addictive thing in the world. I want to kiss every single inch of your skin and remind you a thousand times that you're entirely mine. Don't keep me waiting, babe" or "I love how shy you get when I take control, you look so beautiful it makes me want to eat you up and never let you go."

❥ In private, he loves slowly undoing your uniform shirt buttons with one hand while keeping his other hand firm on the nape of your neck, forcing you to hold his gaze as he completely undoes you.

❥ He’s used to physical roughness from the technical school environment, and he carries that safe but incredibly intense energy into the bedroom. He likes picking you up, straddling you, or holding you against the wall to feel your full weight, proving to you just how easily he can handle you.

❥ While things are heating up, his dirty talk gets way more direct and raw. He’ll whisper in your ear how good you look underneath him, how much it turns him on that you're his and he won't hold back a single thing he’s feeling in the moment, looking to completely break your composure.

ᴺᵒʷ ᵖˡᵃʸᶦⁿᵍ ♬⋆.˚ Adore You - Harry Styles (Literally just PERFECT)

ᴺᵉˣᵗ ᵁᵖ ♬⋆.˚ Japanese Denim - Daniel Caesar

The grocery bags crinkle as you shove the door shut with your hip, almost dropping one of them. You shake your hair out of your face, some of it just sticks there anyway clinging to your eyes.

You quickly kick your shoes of at the door before heading into the kitchen to set the bags down on the counter. An easy smile on your face while you unpack.

“Sieun! Baby, I’m home!” you call out, your tone carrying through the apartment.

He usually came grocery shopping with you without you having to ask. Sieun didn’t like when you carried heavy bags alone. He especially hated when the plastic cut into your palms even if you promised him it was fine. Promptly urging him to pull the bags right out of your hands without allowing room for protest.

But today you insisted on going alone, pushing him back toward his desk and his unfinished work.

It doesn’t take long before you hear his footsteps.

The kitchen was open to the living room, one of those small yet cozy apartments, making you catch him in your peripheral vision. His cream quarter zip and sweats were still on from earlier. A slightly worn out look on his face coupled with faint tired shadows underneath his eyes.

Always from staring at documents and his laptop screen.

His hair was a slight mess, probably from running his hands through it far too much.

He pauses when he sees you. Just for a second.

“You carried everything okay?”

Placing the jar of strawberry jam down, you looked up at him and slightly rolled your eyes. Though there was a little smile on your face.

“Yes, I carried everything okay,” you reassure him, knowing how much he thinks of your comfort. “You worry too much.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

Sieun shakes his head.

“I just don't want you getting hurt.”

Your smile softens.

“I know.”

More groceries slowly spread across the marble countertop between you.

He leans over the island, forearms pressing into the cool surface. His sleeves were slightly pushed up, revealing how the muscles in his arms looked strained after spending the whole day hunched over his desk, typing away.

“I got a cupcake mix,” you continue, rummaging through another bag. “And frosting. Oh, and those little decorating things.”

He hums quietly.

“So we can make them together later.”

Another hum.

“And I got that strawberry jam you like.”

“Mm.”

“And hot chocolate since it’s so cold out—“

You pause.

“Baby.”

He isn't looking at the groceries.

His eyes are panning over you instead. The flushed look of your cheeks from the cold outside. The way your fingers carefully unpack each item. The smile on your face whenever you get lost in your own words.

Putting your arms around your chest, you cross them.

“Are you listening?” you raise an eyebrow.

“I am.”

“No, you're staring.”

A pause.

“Can I not do both?”

You smile despite trying to seem ticked off.

“I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

His voice is quiet, tired from work, but there's warmth in it.

“I like listening to you.”

You shake your head slightly and resume your unpacking.

His gaze drops briefly to your hands. At the pretty diamond sitting on your finger, catching the soft hue of the kitchen light, the promise ring he'd given you on your second anniversary.

His eyes linger there for a moment. Quietly in awe of everything. Such a minor detail, but the way it was resting so perfectly on your hand, it was a quiet reminder of a vow he'd made long ago. And he never regretted it.

Even now, watching you ramble about cupcake frosting, while unloading groceries in his hoodie with pink cheeks, the thought comes as easily as breathing.

Yeah. Her.

The same love he felt for you still deep within him. Within every inch of his body like you already owned him far beyond words could describe. Stronger now than ever.

He was sure about you. More sure than he's ever been about anything.

He rounds his way around the counter, watching you go on and on about a new Pocky flavor you were intrigued to try together, a smile playing at his lips. The corner of them lifting a little.

You look so cute. So perfect. Everything he needed in his life.

And craving you all day, was not making it any easier.

His need only doubled the moment you had walked out that door. Even while sitting at his desk, finishing up his last bit of work, his thoughts only kept drifting back to you. Always circling back to his beautiful girlfriend.

The way you’d laid so blissfully next to him in the morning. Lazily draped over the mattress, leg flung over him as you hugged him close. Face digging into his neck, close enough for him to smell your shampoo, like his chest was the only place you ever really wanted to be.

Which, naturally, made him sit restlessly waiting for you.

“—Right? It’s not crazy to say.”

His eyes flutter for a second as he snaps back from his thoughts, your voice cutting through the daydreams of how badly he wanted to sit you over that counter, wrap your legs around his waist and scatter your body with kisses and marks.

A dramatic sigh slips through you.

“You’re not even listening, I knew it,” you turn, already putting food away.

He pauses a moment trying to get his thoughts in line, string something coherent together that didn’t sound like he was caught lost of focus. Halfway between your words and his own reverie.

And yet, what he ends up saying is quite… unexpected?

“…You look beautiful.”

He catches you slightly off guard for a moment before you snap back in quite a stiff tone.

“Mhm.”

His eyes drift to the strawberry jam sitting on the counter. Without much thought, he twists it open and fishes a spoon out of the drawer, scooping up some and taking a bite straight from the jar.

The only person who could eat jam like that was Sieun. His hidden sweet tooth shamelessly came out around you.

And you had come to terms with that long ago.

He keeps picking at it inattentively, small bites here and there, his attention never leaving you. Eyes following you around the kitchen. The sway of your hair as you reach into the cabinets, the line of your back beneath his hoodie, the curve of your waist disappearing beneath soft fabric.

Putting the spoon aside, he swallows.

Something in him finally giving out. He couldn't keep his lips off of you any longer.

Sieun steps behind you as you reach into the fridge to slide a fresh carton of milk in, the cold air spilling out in between you. His hands find and settle at your waist, fingers tugging lightly at the hem of your hoodie before letting it fall back into place, like he’s toying with the idea for a second, teasing himself.

When he leans in, his breath brushes the back of your neck. Warm and soft, close enough that it changes the energy. Clashing with the cold waves coming from the fridge.

You feel it immediately, the way your skin reacts to his touch, small goosebumps rising along your arms as everything fades into something less important. Your thoughts tunneling in on the man behind you.

Pressed up against you.

“What’s gotten into you?” you ask, but you don’t move away.

He leans in and moves your hair to the side, pressing small kisses along the back of your neck, one after another, slow enough that it stops being accidental and starts being a choice he’s actively making.

His hands slide under your hoodie and stay there, fingers resting at your waist.

“Nothing,” he murmurs between kisses.

His crotch presses closer into you, making your breath catch as you felt his hard outline right against the curve of your ass.

“Doesn’t feel like nothing.”

He smiles against your neck, the corner of his mouth lifting from something only he knows, before his hands slide around you and turn you smoothly.

One arm slips around your waist as he crowds you against the wall, your back meeting the cool surface while his warmth closes in around you. His finger taps teasingly against the bottom of your chin, gently urging you to look up.

“Head up, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low enough to make something flutter in your chest.

You take a second too long to process it.

A tiny smile tugs at his lips.

“C'mere.”

His fingers slip beneath your chin, tipping your face up for you before he closes the distance, kissing you slowly, sluggishly. It felt like the kiss itself was mirroring how he wanted to relish the way your mouth danced against his.

He'd spent the entire day thinking about this and was finally getting what he needed.

His head tilts slightly, deepening the kiss, his free hand settling at your hip, keeping you close against the wall.

And without missing a beat, you kiss him back instantly, just as desperate to have him close. With the same intensity. His lips felt soft against yours, wet, inviting.

“Sieun…” you echo his name softly.

“Mm,” he breathes, smiling against your mouth. “Baby…”

His mouth doesn't last long before it finds your neck. Peppering it with gentle kisses as he pulls your head back by your hair. Not aggressively, but more like he's softly reminding you he needed to claim every inch of you.

“You smell good,” he rasps against your skin, sucking mixes of blue, red and purple on your neck. Tongue licking right into the thumping, restless rhythm of your pulse.

Eventually biting just hard enough to make you gasp before sucking the spot gentle. He blows cool air over the wet, stinging skin, and a full body shiver ripples down your spine before he kisses it warm again.

There was clear tooth indents in your neck. A sheepish smile immediately finds his face, though it doesn't stop him from going right back to it. Kissing, nipping, and fussing over every patch of skin he could find, as though he couldn't decide where to give his attention first.

Lacing with his hair, your fingers twirl it, your other hand on his shoulder. Keeping yourself sturdy in the moment.

“You’re being a little… needy…” you murmur between soft breaths, the words brushing his ear.

Which, weirdly, only seems to make things... more demanding.

As though the second he loosened his hold, you'd somehow disappear back into that evil grocery store that had stolen you from him for two whole hours.

“I just missed you,” he confirms.

You let out a little breathy laugh, “I wasn’t even gone that long.”

“Long enough.”

His breath comes in warm, shallow puffs against your mouth, pupils blown wide as he holds your gaze, the soft curve of his lower lip still pink from kissing. The need in his stare is sharp, that familiar puppy look in his eyes. Edged with a quiet claim that makes your heart stutter.

“A little break?”

He manages a sound of protest, his mouth slots back over yours before the sound can fully leave you, one hand fisted tight in the back of your hoodie to keep you close. His chest heaves against yours, every ragged breath warm between your lips, and he doesn’t pull back even when his lungs burn for air.

“Baby, mmh—” you giggle, his thumb brushing slow over the curve of your jaw before pulling back.

An idea clear in his eyes.

He grabs the same spoon once again, scooping a tiny amount and holding it in front of your lips.

"What are you doing?"

"Open."

"Sieun."

"Baby."

"You were just kissing me till you could barely breathe and now you want me to do a taste test? I already know it tastes go—"

Before you could finish, he slips the spoon gently past your lips and you have no choice but to take it.

"Don't swa—"

Immediately, the jam is down your throat.

"Baby, let me finish," he lets out a little breathy sound, almost a laugh, and shakes his head. Giving you yet another spoonful.

"Keep it in your mouth," he puts the spoon back.

Attention turning to you again, that is if it had ever left, his lips finds yours once more.

Only then do you realize what he's doing. And you'd be lying if it didn't make some certain parts of you pulse in need.

His tongue slips past your parted lips. The taste of the strawberry jam against his mouth as it mixes with his saliva, and his hand slides down to curl tight around your waist underneath your clothes, pulling you flush against him.

"Mm," he whines a little into the kiss, urging every bit of jam out of your mouth and into his.

His hands sneak up your torso, one settling tightly against your bra, cupping your tit into his desperate grip. The pressure of his thumb circling your sensitive peak makes your back arch off the wall into his chest. The moan you gasp out is swallowed immediately by him, his grip tightening just a little when you press closer.

Chasing the shudder you sent down his spine.

With one last content little hum, he kisses every bit of jam out of your mouth, sucking gently on your tongue before he lets go. His own tongue darting out to lick a bit that smeared the corner of your mouth.

Your fingers still curl in the fabric of his sweater, heart hammering against your ribs.

"Messy," he simply says and leans back in for another kiss, hand kneading your boob beneath the hoodie. Again.

Incredibly greedy.

“You taste good,” he whispers into your mouth.

You smile into the kiss, lewd, needy sounds spilling from your lips directly into his mouth. Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his clothes, your body leaning heavy into his, every nerve buzzing even as your knees go weak and you struggle to match the hungry rhythm he set.

“Better with the jam?” you tease.

He can’t help but smile, pulling back to study the expression settled on your face. The rosey tint spread across your cheeks, now definitely not from the cold but something entirely different, your messy hair, your pink bruised lips, and the glassy look in your eyes.

Especially the marks that adored your neck.

He stares a little too long. Thumb brushing against your cheek then your bottom lip. As if he was testing if you were real. Real and his.

“Mm.”

Another second passes.

“Don't make me compare you to food, weirdo.”

His mouth twitches.

You giggle.

“Seriously.”

The corners of his lips lift, something soft hidden beneath the teasing.

"Just you is enough."

A stupid smile washes over your face. Head over heels just as much as he was for you.

He kisses your warm cheek and whispers—

"Wanna make those cupcakes now?"

© geumnana ― 𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The fluorescent lights hum overhead with that specific frequency that makes your skull ache if you pay attention to it. You have not been paying attention to much lately. The past few days have passed in a blur of disconnected moments that your brain stopped trying to organize into linear time.

Your hand hovers over the shelf of instant noodles. Shin Ramen sits in its red package. The package in front of you blurs slightly. You blink. It stays blurred.

The question of when you last ate surfaces without urgency. Yesterday feels like a possibility. The day before seems equally likely. There was toast at some point.

You put the noodles in your basket without remembering the decision to reach for them. They join the other items you have collected. Energy drinks you will not open sit next to bandaids for cuts you do not have. A bag of cheap sugar cookies that taste like cardboard rounds out the selection. The basket weighs almost nothing in your hand. Everything weighs almost nothing these days.

The glass door of the refrigerated section reflects someone you don't quite recognize. Your hair is pulled back in a knot that was never meant to last four days. No makeup covers the greyish tint your skin has taken under these lights. You're wearing one of Seongje's hoodies. The sleeves hang too long and there is a stain on the cuff that might be coffee. The fabric smells like him and cigarette smoke.

He’s never seen you like this.

The thought arrives with unusual clarity, cutting through the static that has replaced most of your thoughts. In the eight months you have been together, he has never seen you barefaced. The version of yourself he knows is maintained and deliberate.

The version currently buying random shit at three in the morning looks like she has been underwater for a week.

You move toward the register on autopilot, body carrying you there without conscious input. The cashier is some college student doing overnight shifts. He glances at your basket and then at your face. Something flickers in his expression that looks like concern.

"You okay?" he asks.

The question takes too long to process. You blink at him and form the word in your mouth before speaking. "Fine."

He does not look convinced but he's not paid enough to push. The scanner beeps as he runs your items across it. Each beep sounds too loud in your skull. Everything is too loud or too quiet lately. 

His voice carries from the next aisle over.

Seongje says something you do not catch. Then laughter follows. Hwangmo is probably with him. The sound makes your stomach drop in a way that almost registers as emotion. That makes it the strongest thing you have felt in seventy-two hours.

Your hand tightens on the basket handle. The cashier continues scanning. The energy drinks beep. The cookies beep. Your brain screams at your body to move faster but everything moves through honey.

"That'll be-"

You shove money at him before he finishes, not bothering to wait for change. The plastic bag crinkles as you grab it and turn toward the door. If you can just get outside before he rounds the corner then maybe he won’t see that the girl in his hoodie with greasy hair is supposed to be his girlfriend.

"Yo, isn't that your girl?" Hwangmo's voice carries that specific amusement that means he is about to say something stupid. Every muscle in your body locks. Your back is to them but you can feel the weight of attention shifting in your direction.

"Where?" Seongje sounds closer than you expected.

"Right there. Chick at the register."

You keep walking. The automatic doors are right there. Five more steps separate you from escape.

"Wait."

Four steps remain.

"You guys have the wrong person." Your voice comes out flat and empty. The doors slide open. You are almost through when footsteps sound behind you.

"Turn around."

The words are not a request.

You stop in the doorway. Night air hits your face with sharp cold. The plastic bag cuts into your palm. Behind you Hwangmo is probably grinning. The fluorescent lights are bright enough to see through your closed eyelids.

"I said turn around."

You do.

His eyes land on you and something in his expression shifts. His gaze moves over your face and catalogs the absence of makeup. The circles under your eyes look dark enough to be bruises.

Hwangmo says something. You don’t hear it. Seongje isn’t looking at him.

"When did you eat last?" The question comes out quiet and matter-of-fact. He could be asking what time it is.

You open your mouth and then close it. The answer requires accessing information you do not have. "Today."

"Bullshit." He steps closer. Cigarette smoke clings to his jacket. "When?”

"I don't know."

"You don't know." He moves close enough that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "You don't know when you ate."

"I've been busy."

His eyes drop to the plastic bag in your hand. Energy drinks and cookies, things that are not food in any real sense, look back at him. When he looks at your face again, something cold and controlled has settled into his expression.

"How long has it been since you slept?"

"I sleep."

"How long?”

Your brain tries to count backwards. It gets lost somewhere around yesterday afternoon. The timeline refuses to organize itself. "I don't know. A few hours here and there."

He reaches out and touches your face. His thumb presses gently under your eye where the skin is darkest. You flinch from the shock of being touched after days in a body that stopped feeling like yours. "You look like shit."

"Thanks." The word has no bite to it. It just falls out of your mouth and lands between you.

Hwangmo still stands nearby. Seongje does not glance at him. His attention stays fixed on you with that careful intensity that makes you feel pinned in place.

"You're coming with me."

"I have to go home."

"No, you don't."

"I have-"

"Whatever you have can wait." His hand drops from your face to your wrist. The grip is firm but not painful. "You're coming with me."

You should argue. You should pull away and insist you are fine. You should go back to your apartment and continue the very productive spiral you have been in. The thought of doing any of that requires energy you stopped having days ago.

"Okay," you hear yourself say.

His expression doesn’t change but something in his posture relaxes slightly. He takes the plastic bag from your hand and turns to Hwangmo.

"Go home."

"But-"

"Go. Home."

Hwangmo must see something in his face that makes arguing a bad idea. He shrugs and wanders toward the back of the store. Seongje's hand is still around your wrist. The warmth and solidity of it registers as the first real thing you have felt in days.

"Can you walk or do I need to carry you?"

The question should be humiliating. Instead it just sounds like an assessment of your current functionality.

"I can walk."

"Then walk."

He doesn’t let go of your wrist. He pulls you gently toward the door and out into night air so cold it almost feels like sensation returning to your skin. You follow because the alternative is standing in a convenience store trying to remember what functional human behavior looks like.

His apartment is six blocks away. You have walked this route before as the version of yourself that wore lipstick and laughed at his dark jokes. That version seems very far away now, unreachable.

"You've been avoiding me," he says after the first block.

You stay quiet.

"Three days. No texts. Calls going to voicemail." His voice stays even without accusation. "I thought you were pissed about something."

"Not pissed."

"Then what?"

You don’t have an answer that makes sense. How do you explain the emptiness? How do you describe going through the motions of being alive without any of the actual living parts working? You have been wearing his hoodie for four days straight because it was the only thing that felt like it belonged to something real.

"I don't know," you say finally.

He makes a sound that might be acknowledgment. He does not push for more. He just keeps walking with your wrist held loosely in his hand, like he’s afraid you will disappear if he lets go.

Maybe you would.

His apartment looks the same as it always does. A couch sits against one wall while a low table holds an ashtray and his phone charger. There are no decorations or photos. The functional space could belong to anyone.

A hand on your shoulder guides you to the couch. The pressure feels gentle but firm enough that your body follows without question. You sink into the cushions and watch him move toward the small kitchen area.

"Stay there," he says.

The couch has become the most comfortable place you have sat in days. Your body settles into it like it might never get up again. Going anywhere was not part of your plans anyway.

Water hits metal too loudly in the quiet apartment as he fills a pot from the sink. The pot goes onto the stove and he turns the burner on. Blue flames lick up the sides. A cabinet opens and he pulls out two packets of instant ramen. The cheap kind costs less than a dollar and tastes like salt and MSG.

His movements are efficient and practiced as you watch with detached interest. This is clearly not the first time he has made food at three in the morning. The water begins to boil. Torn packets release noodles into the pot. Seasoning follows. Steam rises and fills the small space with the smell of artificial beef flavor.

A bowl appears in front of you on the low table three minutes later. Noodles sit in their broth and release heat into the air. Chopsticks rest across the top of the bowl.

"Eat," he says.

Your stomach turns at the thought of eating in a way that has nothing to do with nausea. Food has become an abstract concept over the past few days. Your body stopped asking for it.

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't care. Eat anyway."

The chopsticks feel heavy in your hand as you pick them up because arguing seems harder. Some noodles lift from the bowl and broth drips back down. Steam hits your face. The chopsticks lower without any food reaching your mouth.

"What's the problem?" he asks.

"I'm just not hungry right now."

"You haven't eaten in days. You're hungry."

"I don't feel hungry."

A long moment passes while he stares at you. Processing this information seems to lead him toward finding it unacceptable. His jaw tightens slightly. Frustration rather than anger shows in the gesture. "Why?”

The chopsticks go back across the bowl as you set them down. Noodles sink back into the broth. Your brain searches for an explanation that will make sense. 

"I usually shower before I eat dinner," you say. "So I'm not hungry right now."

The logic sounds reasonable in your head. Out loud it sounds less convincing. His expression suggests you have just said something in a language he does not speak.

"You're not hungry because you haven't showered," he repeats slowly.

"I always shower before dinner. It's just a thing."

He stands up from where he has been leaning against the arm of the couch. The new information gets processed. Some conclusion forms that you cannot see.

"Okay," he says. "Then go shower."

"I don't have any clean clothes here."

"I have clothes. Go shower."

Standing up and walking to the bathroom seems like the logical next step. Your body refuses to respond to these commands. The couch cushions might as well have grown roots into your spine.

Ten seconds pass before he reaches down and takes your hand. Steady pressure pulls you up until you are standing. Your legs remember how to hold your weight but only barely.

"Come on," he says.

His hand stays wrapped around yours as he walks toward the bathroom. Following requires less energy than resisting. Water turns on as he reaches into the shower. Steam begins to fill the space.

Temperature adjustment happens while you stand in the doorway and watch. The sound of water hitting tile almost drowns out the ringing in your ears that has been there for days.

Turning back to you, he reaches for the hem of his hoodie that you are wearing. You take a step backward and create distance. His hands stop.

"What are you doing?" you ask, suddenly shy.

"Helping you shower."

"I can shower by myself."

"Can you?"

"Yes."

That same careful assessment from earlier returns to his expression. Showering alone probably exceeds your current capabilities. Standing without swaying takes most of your energy. Coordinating the complex series of actions required to wash your hair feels impossible.

"I'm coming in with you," he says.

"What? No. I can do it myself."

"You've been wearing the same clothes for four days. You can't remember the last time you ate. You look like you're about to pass out. I'm not letting you get in the shower alone."

"That's weird."

"I don't care."

A staring contest begins. Steam continues filling the bathroom. Exhaustion has soaked so deep into your bones that arguing feels like climbing a mountain.

"I've never showered with someone before," you say finally.

"There's a first time for everything."

"This is weird."

"You already said that."

"Because it is."

"Are you getting undressed or am I doing it for you?"

Your gaze drops to the hoodie and sweatpants you cannot remember putting on. His hands move to the hem of the hoodie.

The fabric catches on your hair tie and pulls it loose. Greasy strands fall around your shoulders. The hoodie drops to the floor. Sweatpants follow. Underwear joins the pile. Once you’re completely naked, you feel no embarrassment or self-consciousness like you thought you would. His shirt comes off next, followed by his jeans. Looking at your body does not seem to interest him particularly. Nothing sexual lives in this moment. 

You step into the stall first. Hot water hits your skin and the sensation shocks your system. Heat seeps into your muscles and reminds them that relaxation used to be possible.

He steps in behind you. The shower stall allows maybe six inches of space between your back and his chest. Water hits both of you. Standing under the spray lets you watch it run down the drain.

"Tilt your head back," he says.

Compliance comes easily. Water hits your hair and soaks through to your scalp. His hands follow and work through the tangled mess with unexpected gentleness. A bottle opens somewhere behind you. Then his fingers return with shampoo that smells like mint.

Slow circular motions scrub your scalp. The pressure feels good without hurting. Your eyes close. Water runs down your face. Days of grease and grime get worked through by his fingers. Rinsing removes the shampoo and the bottle opens again. The conditioner works through the ends of your hair where tangles are worst.

"You smell like cigarettes," you say. Your voice sounds strange in the small space. 

"I was smoking earlier."

"You're always smoking."

"Yeah."

The conditioner rinses clean. His hands on your shoulders turn you around until you face him. Water runs between your bodies. Wet hair pushes back from his forehead. A washcloth hangs from a hook and he reaches for it. Body wash pours onto the fabric. He begins washing your arms with the same methodical attention he gave your hair.

"This is really weird," you say.

"You already said that twice."

"I'm saying it again."

Your shoulders receive attention next. Then your back and stomach. The washcloth scrubs away layers of sweat and stale air that have been clinging to your skin. Standing still and letting him work seems like the only option. Your brain has stopped trying to process what is happening. Making sense of anything no longer seems possible so passive observation takes over.

Legs get washed. Then feet. Every part of you receives the same careful attention. When he finishes, the washcloth gets handed to you.

"Your turn," he says.

The washcloth gets handed to you and you take it with hands that barely remember how to grip properly. Body wash pours onto the fabric in an amount that is probably too much. Your hands move to his chest and start scrubbing with all the coordination of someone who has forgotten how arms work.

The washcloth slides across his skin in uneven strokes that miss spots and repeat the same areas. You go over his left shoulder three times while barely touching his right. Your movements lack any kind of rhythm or purpose. This is not helping him get clean and both of you know it.

He stands completely still anyway and lets you work with clumsy hands and unfocused attention. No corrections come from him. He doesn’t guide your wrists to the areas you are missing. Your hand drags the washcloth down his arm and then back up. The water has started to run cool but he does not rush you or take over. He waits.

Eventually your hands slow and then stop moving entirely. The washcloth hangs limply in your grip while you stare at his chest like you have lost track of what you are supposed to be doing.

"Done?" he asks quietly.

The question takes a moment to process before you can answer. "Yeah."

The washcloth drops from your hand and hits the shower floor with a wet slap. He reaches past you and turns the water off in one smooth motion. Sudden silence fills the small space and makes every other sound seem amplified. 

"Feel better?" he asks.

"A little," you say.

"Good. Now you can eat." He steps out of the shower first and grabs a towel from the rack. The fabric wraps around his waist with practiced efficiency. Another towel gets pulled down and held open in both hands. You step out on unsteady feet and he wraps the fabric around you immediately. His hands tuck it in above your chest with quick movements. The towel feels rough and clean against your skin while holding more warmth than you expected.

He leaves you standing there wrapped in his towel. Movement sounds from the other room as drawers open and close. He comes back with a t-shirt that will be too big on you and sweatpants with a drawstring waist.

"Get dressed," he says. "Then we're eating."

The clothes get pulled on with movements that feel disconnected from your brain. The t-shirt hangs off your shoulders and reaches mid-thigh. Sweatpants bunch around your ankles even with the drawstring pulled tight. You shuffle back to the couch where the bowl of ramen still sits on the low table. Steam no longer rises from it. The broth has probably gone lukewarm.

Sitting down takes more effort than it should. Your body folds onto the cushions and you reach for the chopsticks. They still feel heavy. Everything feels heavy.

Seongje settles into the spot next to you with his own bowl. Noodles disappear into his mouth at a steady pace. A small amount lifts to your lips and you chew slowly. The taste registers as salt and something vaguely meat-flavored. Swallowing requires conscious effort.

Another bite follows. Then another. Each one takes time to get from bowl to mouth to stomach. Your jaw moves like it has forgotten the mechanics of chewing. The noodles are soft enough that this does not matter much.

He finishes his bowl in the time it takes you to eat maybe a quarter of yours. The empty dish gets set on the table with a quiet click. Settling back against the couch cushions, he reaches into his pocket. A cigarette pack emerges. The familiar sound of the flame catching fills the quiet.

Smoke curls up toward the ceiling as he takes a drag. The smell of tobacco mixes with the lingering scent of artificial beef broth.

Your hand reaches out without thinking about it. The gesture asks for what your mouth does not bother saying.

He looks at your outstretched hand and then at your face. The cigarette stays between his fingers.

"No," he says.

"Why not?" Your hand stays extended in the space between you.

"Because I said no."

"You're literally smoking right next to me." The smoke still hanging in the air gets a vague gesture from you.

"That's different."

Your hand drops back to your lap with more force than necessary. The chopsticks pick up more noodles but your movements have lost what little coordination they had. "How is that different?"

"You breathing in my secondhand smoke and you smoking directly are not the same thing." He takes another drag and this time turns his head to blow it away from you.

"The distinction seems pretty arbitrary."

"It's not arbitrary."

Another bite goes into your mouth while you stare at the remaining noodles in your bowl. "You smoke around me all the time. What difference does it make if I'm the one holding it?"

"The difference is you're already self-destructive enough without adding nicotine to the list." His voice stays matter-of-fact while the cigarette dangles from his fingers. "This is the last thing you need."

"That's hypocritical." The words come out without heat.

"I don't care."

"You're sitting here smoking while telling me I can't smoke." Another bite lifts to your mouth and the chopsticks shake slightly in your grip.

"Yeah." He takes another drag and blows the smoke away from your face. "I am."

The energy required to argue about this does not exist in your body. Your brain tries to form a rebuttal and gives up halfway through. Whatever. The fight is not worth having. Going back to eating your noodles in mechanical silence seems easier.

Silence settles between you like a physical presence. His cigarette burns down slowly and leaves a trail of ash that he taps into the ashtray. Eating at your glacial pace continues. The bowl is maybe half empty now. Progress exists even if it feels minimal.

He reaches over and taps ash into the ashtray on the table. The movement is practiced and automatic. Smoke continues to curl upward while you continue to chew with your eyes half-closed from exhaustion.

"When did it start?" he says after a while.

The question is vague enough that clarification seems necessary. "When did what start?"

"This." He gestures vaguely at you with the hand holding the cigarette. Smoke trails from the lit end. "The not eating and sleeping. All of it."

Your chopsticks pause halfway to your mouth and hover there while you think, trying to pinpoint when things started going wrong feels impossible. There was no clear beginning, just a gradual slide from functional to whatever this current state is.

"I don't know," you say finally. "A week ago maybe. Could be longer."

"What happened?" He stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray and immediately reaches for another one.

"Nothing happened."

"Something always happens." The lighter flicks and catches. New smoke joins the old.

"Not this time. I just got tired."

"Of what?"

"Everything." The word comes out flat and empty as you set the chopsticks down across your bowl. "All of it, the constant effort of being a person."

He does not respond right away. His eyes stay on you with that careful attention he gives to things he is trying to understand. The weight of his gaze feels heavy enough to press you further into the cushions.

"You should have called me," he says finally.

"I didn't know what to say." Your hands fold in your lap while your thumbs press against each other.

"You don't need to say anything. You just needed to call." 

"I'm done," you say, not sure if you were referring to the noodles, or to the weight of everything on your shoulders.

"You barely ate half." He looks at the bowl and then back at your face.

"It's more than I've eaten in three days."

"Fine. That's enough for now."

Standing up requires pushing yourself off the couch with both hands. Your legs remember how to support your weight but protest the effort with a slight tremor. The bowl gets picked up as you turn toward the kitchen area.

"I'll wash this and then head out," you say.

"Why would you head out?" The question comes immediately. 

"Because I should go home." Your feet are unsteady as you take a step towards the kitchen.

"Why?"

The question stops you mid-step. Going home means going back to your apartment, the unwashed dishes and the pile of laundry. It means going back to the space where the spiral started.

"I just should," you say without turning around.

"That's not a reason." His voice comes from behind you on the couch.

"I can't just stay here." The bowl trembles slightly in your grip.

"Why not?" The leather creaks as he shifts on the couch.

"Because I have things to do." Your knuckles are white where they grip the bowl.

"What things?" His voice stays level but something in it suggests he already knows you are lying. "What do you have to do at four in the morning?"

"I don't want to be a burden," you say. The words come out barely above a whisper.

"You're not." The couch creaks again and footsteps sound behind you.

"I'm literally falling apart in your apartment. That seems like a burden."

"I don't care. You're staying here."

"You can't just decide that,” You argue as you finally turn around to face him.

"I just did." He stands now and looks at you with that immovable expression.

"That's not how this works." Your voice lacks conviction.

"You can barely stand up without swaying. You're not going anywhere."

“I don’t have my stuff,” you say weakly.

“You don’t need stuff. You need sleep.”

“I can sleep at home.”

“No you can’t.” The certainty in his voice allows no room for argument. “You’ll go back to your place and stare at the ceiling for six hours and then come back here looking worse than you do now.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do.”

He is probably right. Going home means another day of going through motions without any actual living happening.

Your mouth opens to protest again but nothing comes out. The exhaustion has finally won. Fighting takes energy you stopped having days ago.

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll take the couch.”

“Get in the bed or I’m carrying you there.” The bowl gets taken from your hands before you can respond. Water runs in the kitchen as he rinses it. Dishes clink together.

He comes back and finds you still standing in the same spot. His hand wraps around your wrist.

“Come on,” he says, leading you to the bedroom.

You climb onto his bed without waiting for further instruction. The mattress gives under your weight.Muscles you did not know were tense begin to release. The pillow smells like him. 

He moves around the room for a moment. A drawer opens and closes. The lamp on the nightstand gets turned on and casts warm light across the space. Then the overhead light goes off and the room becomes softer. 

"Move over," he says.

You shift toward the wall and your body protests the movement. The mattress dips significantly as he climbs in next to you. His weight settles and changes the entire landscape of the bed. The blanket gets pulled up higher over both of you. An arm drapes over your waist with familiar weight. Warmth radiates from his body into yours and seeps through the borrowed t-shirt you are wearing.

“If you kick me I’m going to the couch,” you mumble into the pillow.

“I’m not going to kick you.”

"You say that now." Your words slur slightly with exhaustion.

“Go to sleep.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly. The words barely make it past your lips. “For not letting me leave.”

His arm tightens around your waist slightly. “You’re not going anywhere. Not anymore.”

Sleep pulls at the edges of your consciousness. For the first time in days it feels possible rather than theoretical. Your body starts to let go.

“Don’t disappear again,” he says against your hair. His breath is warm on the back of your neck.

You manage a sound that might be agreement. Your brain has stopped forming coherent words. His warmth and the weight of his arm and the smell of cigarette smoke all blend together into something that feels almost like peace.