#a random... casual... work day... a random... regular... shower...

You and Jake weren’t best friends exactly, you were more like orbiters who kept getting pulled into each other’s gravity. Same friend groups. Late-night library hangs. Group project partners who accidentally became each other’s go-to plus-one. You’d pass each other snacks during lectures and you might’ve "jokingly" sat on his lap a few times.

By the end of final year, it was just… normal to be around each other.

Fast forward to post-grad life looming. Your friend group start spiraling with “where is everyone living next year” stress.

You say “Ugh, I don’t want a random roommate. I just want someone chill.” Jake, half-asleep on the couch, goes “So… live with me then.” You blink. “You’re serious?” He shrugs. Casual, like always, “Yeah. We already practically do.”

And that’s it.

You both tour two flats, pick the one with huge windows, two bedrooms and a couch that sinks too deep, and sign a lease. It’s not even dramatic. It just makes sense.

You fight over rugs. He insists on a “muted navy palette.” You want color. He ends up secretly buying the yellow throw you liked.

On your first night together in the flat, you’re both sitting on the floor eating noodles out of the box.

“You nervous?”

“Only about what your snoring sounds like.”

He throws a pillow at you.

And after weeks of living together, you two fall into a rhythm. Jake leaves early in the morning for his part-time internship at a law firm. He was prepping to become a lawyer, so seeing him in suits, shirts and ties quickly became a regular occurrence. The first time you saw him all professional was when you had to help him with his tie.

It was kind of cute. He quietly shuffled into your room and gently woke you up. You remember how shy he was, a slight blush covering his cheeks. Still remember the way his hand rested on your waist as you worked on knotting his tie properly.

Since you’re a screenwriter, your mornings on the other hand are much slower. You shuffle to the kitchen in socks and a hoodie that might be his. Most days, you talk to yourself more than you talk to anyone else. Except Jake. Always Jake.

He’s usually gone by the time you fully wake up, but his presence lingers. A mug left in the sink. Cologne in the hallway. A post-it on the fridge that says, "Eat something real today. Instant noodles don’t count. – J"

Days you two spend apart, but evenings unanimously become a time just for you two. Sometimes you would go out for a walk, other days a party, but most evening would end with a shared dinner and watching series.

But not tonight. You had been looking forward to tonight for way too long. You had been eyeing one of your coworkers for months and finally he asked you out on a date. Sunghoon was the same age as you and Jake and while you didn’t really know him that well, there was something about him...

Which is why you spend over an hour picking your outfit, and then another hour doing your makeup. You’re just putting on your perfume when you hear a soft knock at the door.

Jake leans in, fresh from a shower — hair damp, grey tee hanging loose, one hand braced against the wood. His eyes catch your reflection in the mirror. He doesn’t smile.

“You going out with that guy tonight?”

Your mascara wand pauses. You glance at him through the mirror. “You mean Sunghoon?”

Jake shrugs. "Whatever his name is."

You turn slightly, narrowing your eyes. “Why?”

“Just asking,” he says casually.

There’s a beat of silence. The room smells like your perfume and the faint mint of his body wash. You go back to your lashes, but he doesn’t move.

Then, he steps closer, so close you can smell his body wash, and reaches past you like he’s fixing something on the counter. Instead, his fingers brush along your temple, then tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingers a second longer than it needs to.

“You look prettier with your hair like this,” he murmurs, voice low.

You freeze. It’s nothing. It’s always nothing.

Except it isn’t.

You stare at him in the mirror. His eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable, a challenge tucked behind his calm demeanor. Your pulse stutters.

Then your phone buzzes on the counter.

You glance at it. A message from Sunghoon. hey… sorry. can’t make it tonight. something came up. rain check?

You deflate before you can stop yourself. Jake notices immediately.

“Let me guess,” he says. “Date’s off?”

You try to sound breezy. “Work emergency or something.”

Jake doesn’t gloat, but there’s something smug in the way he shifts back, arms folding across his chest.

“Guess that means movie night’s back on,” he says, already turning toward the living room. “Your pick. But nothing depressing.”

You don’t answer right away. You just watch him go.

It takes you a moment to move, and then you’re changing into shorts and a loose shirt. It would lowkey be a waste to take your makeup off after you just applied it, so you leave it on. No other reason.

When you reach the living room, Jake’s already half-sprawled on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest like he owns the place (he kind of does). The blinds are drawn, the fan hums softly in the corner, and Netflix’s horror menu flashes onscreen.

He looks up when he sees you, and his gaze lingers for a second longer than usual. On your legs. Your lips. Your eyes — still done up like you’re going somewhere better than this.

“Didn’t change much,” he says, smirking.

You throw a pillow at him. “Shut up.”

He catches it, laughing. “I meant that as a compliment. You look…” He gestures vaguely. “Fancy. For a movie about bloodsucking sadists.”

You shrug, climbing onto the couch and tucking your feet under you. “Might as well let the vampires appreciate the effort.”

Jake’s eyes flick to your lips again, just for a beat. Then he’s clearing his throat, shifting to grab the remote. “Alright. No crying if it’s gory.”

You nudge his leg with your toe. “Please. I’ll protect you.”

Jake grins, all smug. “Oh yeah? Gonna fight off the undead for me?”

You nod solemnly. “With style.”

“Great,” he says, tossing the blanket over both of you. “Then I’m officially off-duty.”

You shift to get comfortable, letting your legs stretch across the couch. The blanket settles over you both. His thigh brushes yours. Your foot nudges his again, not quite by accident. He doesn’t move.

The movie starts — all flickering shadows and eerie violins — but your focus wavers. Jake smells like laundry detergent and that citrusy cologne he always wears. You feel the rise and fall of his chest beside you, calm and steady.

A few minutes in, another jump scare hits. You jolt. He snorts.

“Still feeling brave?” he teases.

You scowl at him, then shift closer, just to prove a point. Your knee nudges his hip. Your arm slides across his stomach.

“Shut up,” you mumble. Jake doesn’t say anything, but he lifts his arm and lets you curl against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Before long, you’re draped half across his chest, cheek against the soft cotton of his T-shirt. The room is dark except for the flicker of the screen. His fingers find your hair, brushing through it slowly, over and over.

It feels good. Too good. You let yourself sink into it for a few long breaths. Then you start to shift back. But Jake doesn’t let you. His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers resting gently. “You always run when I touch you,” he murmurs.

You give a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Do not.”

But your voice is too soft to sound convincing. The movie drones on in the background  but your mind's gone quiet. Jake’s still stroking your hair. Your eyes flicker to the muted blue light of your phone on the coffee table.

Sunghoon’s text still sits there. You don’t say anything, but your body gives you away, in the way your shoulders curve in, the weight of your breath.

Jake notices.

“Hey,” he says softly, thumb grazing your jaw. “You okay?”

You nod. Pause. Then shake your head.

“I feel stupid,” you admit.

Jake shifts to face you more fully. “Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like I even liked him that much.” You press your cheek against his chest, voice muffled. “I just wanted someone to like me that much.”

There’s a long pause. Jake doesn’t say anything right away, he just holds you tighter, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“You know,” he says eventually, a teasing lilt creeping back into his tone, “I bet I’m a better kisser than that guy anyway.”

You let out a tired laugh, pulling back to look at him. “Oh yeah? So confident.”

Jake shrugs, mouth twitching. “I have a good resume.”

“Oh, do you?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Prove it.”

You don’t even know what makes you say it.

Maybe it’s the leftover sadness. Maybe it’s the way his thumb is brushing your cheek. Or the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re not just his roommate. Like you’re his everything.

But suddenly you’re leaning in, still half-laughing.

The kiss starts soft. Just lips. Barely moving. Just a pause. Just a breath. Then Jake tilts his head. His hand slides up to cup your jaw. His thumb grazes the corner of your mouth and—

He kisses you like he means it.

No teasing. No jokes.

You whimper. A quiet, involuntary sound you don’t even recognize as your own. And he pulls you closer in response.

You don’t even realize spreading your legs, straddling him from where he still lays down on the couch. Jake’s hands rest on your hip and when his tongue traces your lower lip. When you open your mouth in submission his grip on your hips tightens.  You shudder, and then Jake starts guiding your hips. Back and forth, slowly. You let him.

But then, just as suddenly, you both pull back.

You’re both breathing hard. Your thighs are still locked around his hips. His hands still resting on your waist. The air between you feels charged but no one’s saying it.

So you clear your throat and go, voice light, “Okay. Yeah. You’ve… definitely got a good resume.”

Jake huffs a laugh, chest rising under your palms. “Told you.”

“But,” you add, trying to keep your voice teasing, even though your pulse is still sprinting, “I’d need references before hiring full-time.”

He raises an eyebrow. “References? Babe, I am the reference.”

You laugh, it’s shaky, breathless and slowly climb off his lap, adjusting the hem of your shirt like that’ll somehow undo the grinding you just did.

Jake shifts too, leaning back on the couch like nothing happened. Except for the pillow hat he places in his lap. And the way his gaze drops to your lips again, just for a second.

“So,” you say, grabbing the remote from the coffee table. “Still wanna finish the movie, or was that your idea of a plot twist?”

Jake grins, low and slow. “Let’s see how it ends.”

You press play. But your body’s still humming. He throws his arm across the back of the couch, unbothered.

Neither of you says anything else.

But something’s changed.

And you both know it.

The next morning is weird. It’s one of those days where you can’t work from home so you wake up at the same time as Jake does. And when you step out of your room, wearing only an oversized shirt – that’s probably Jake’s – you pause.

Jake is at the kitchen table, coffee half-drunk and Kindle in hand. His hair is still damp from his shower. He’s wearing that crisp white shirt that always fits a little too well, sleeves already rolled to the elbows.

His eyes lift when he hears your bedroom door creak open, and then they drop, slowly tracing the length of your legs like they have every right to.

“Morning,” you mumble, throat suddenly dry. You don’t wait for him to answer before disappearing into the bathroom.

When you return, you’ve changed into something semi-professional and pulled your hair back. Jake’s putting on his watch by the door. His cologne hits you before his voice does.

“You good?” he asks casually, like you didn’t ride him on the couch fourteen hours ago.

“Peachy,” you say, grabbing your tote bag. Your voice is light. Neutral. A little too neutral.

The car ride is… quieter than usual. There’s no playlist. Just the sound of traffic and turn signals. Until Jake breaks the silence.

“So, Sunoo texted. He wants to do something this weekend,” Jake says, eyes still on the road.

“Oh?” you ask, eyes flicking toward him.

“Haunted house. The one near the old train station.” He glances at you. “You in?”

You shrug, forcing a smile. “Yeah, sure. Who else is coming?”

“Me, Sunoo, Jay, Heeseung. I think Yujin and Liz are joining, too.”

“Great,” you say. “Perfect for Yujin to scream into Jay’s arms.”

Jake chuckles at that. “Better than Sunoo clinging to my hoodie again.”

“You’re the designated safety blanket. You knew what you signed up for.”

Jake glances at you again. His voice drops just a touch, teasing. “You gonna cling to me too this time?”

You don’t answer right away. You let the question hang there, feel the weight of it settle between the bucket seats.

Then you say, “Only if the ghosts get handsy.”

Jake snorts, but you catch the faint smile tugging at his mouth. He taps the steering wheel lightly with his thumb.

“That’s my favorite shirt, by the way,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“This morning. You wore it last week too.” He pauses. “Looks better on you.”

You stare out the window, ears burning, pretending you don’t hear him. But your heart is a little too loud.

And suddenly, the idea of getting scared on purpose this weekend… doesn’t seem so bad.

Except when the weekend rolls around and the seven of you near the abandoned train station you don’t think you will have to pretend to be scared.

The air is colder here, even though it’s the middle of summer. Not even a breeze breaks through the stillness. Like the atmosphere has forgotten how to move. Everything is quiet in that unnatural, pressurized way that makes your ears buzz. Even the sky feels different. Dusky, despite the fact that it’s barely past sunset.

The old train depot looms ahead. All rusted beams and broken windows, the paint long since peeled away to reveal something grey and rotting underneath. Ivy curls up the corners like fingers trying to hold it shut or maybe hold something in.

Jake whistles low under his breath beside you. “Charming.”

“Nope,” Sunoo says immediately. “Absolutely not. This place is cursed. There’s, like… ghost laws being broken right now.”

Liz snorts. “What the hell are ‘ghost laws’?”

Sunoo ignores her. “Why is it so quiet? Why is the sky pink? Why does it smell like iron and regret—?”

“Stop reading Wattpad,” Jay mutters, though his own grip on the back of Yujin’s shirt is noticeably tight.

“I’m just saying,” Sunoo huffs, edging closer to Liz, “if we go missing, check the attic first. It’s always the attic.”

Heeseung says nothing, but he’s clearly uncomfortable, his hands are in his pockets, shoulders hunched. He gives the place one slow look and mutters, “Why do I feel like something’s watching us?”

Jake laughs under his breath. “Because something is watching us. The actors are probably already inside.”

You glance at him. He looks calm. Relaxed, even. But when you brush his hand with yours, he squeezes it lightly. Just once.

You don’t let go.

By the time you reach inside, you’re glued to his side. He lets you, fingers interlocked together and your other arm gripping his bicep. You think he flexes his muscle when you touch him, but don’t comment on it.

 The haunted house (train?) is all black walls and red lighting, with old train sounds whistling through hidden speakers. The air smells like dry metal and artificial fog. Each hallway is tighter than the last, cramped and dark and full of sharp turns.

It doesn’t take long before you’re pressed against Jake, your face buried in his chest after a vampire-jumpscare pops out of a hidden wall.

“Jesus,” you whisper, trying to breathe.

He chuckles and holds you tighter. “They got you good, huh?”

“You flinched too!”

“Only because you screamed in my ear.”

Up ahead, Liz and Sunoo are doing a running commentary about which horror tropes they’re about to fulfill.

“Oh my god, we split up!” Liz shrieks. “This is how I die! I’m the comic relief!”

“I’m the comic relief!” Sunoo counters. “You’re the hot one who survives ‘cause of fan demand!”

Meanwhile, Jay is trying to walk calmly while Yujin clings to his arm with a suspiciously delighted smile. Heeseung’s behind them, dead silent, bambi eyes scanning every corner like he’s prepping for actual war.

But you and Jake… are in your own little bubble. Somewhere between adrenaline and instinct, you’re not thinking anymore. You’re just holding onto him. Sometimes his arm is around your shoulders. Sometimes your hand is in his hoodie pocket. You’re never apart.

At one point, someone turns around and says, “Wait… are you guys, like, together?”

You don’t have time to respond. A vampire lunges from the shadows just then, and you shriek again, arms looping around Jake’s waist.

Behind you, Sunoo gasps, “It’s giving main couple energy!”

You feel Jake’s chest rumble against yours with laughter. You don’t look up.

But later, when the group finally exits through the heavy fire door and spills into fresh night air — breathless, laughing, buzzing — you catch Jake looking at you.

He doesn’t say anything. Just raises an eyebrow like he’s in on a joke you haven’t caught yet. You should roll your eyes. You should brush it off. Instead, you stare back. For just a beat too long. Your pulse is still racing and you know it’s not just because of the fake blood or flashing lights.

The group piles into a tucked-away corner booth at a 24-hour Korean BBQ joint, still riding the adrenaline of half-screams and nervous laughter.

Sunoo is loudly recounting how a jump-scare made him nearly cry. Liz keeps teasing Heeseung for “flinching like a grandma.” Yujin’s arm is looped through Jay’s, who’s clearly enjoying the attention.

You squeeze into the bench between Jake and Heeseung, feeling the warmth of Jake’s thigh pressed casually against yours like it belongs there.

You’re halfway through wrapping some pork belly in lettuce when Heeseung nudges you lightly with his shoulder. “You held it together better than I thought,” he says, mouth tugging into a crooked grin.

You look up, surprised. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “You just… seemed like the type to scream.”

“You’re the one who kept swallowing his own scream,” Liz chimes in with a laugh. “Like, Heeseung, be honest. You were dying in there.”

The table erupts in laughter. Heeseung doesn’t even deny it, just grins, eyes sliding back to you. “Still. You were pretty cool.”

Jake goes quiet beside you. You don’t notice. But his hand rests heavier on the bench now, a fraction behind your back.

The table shifts into smaller conversations. You sip your drink, unaware of Jake’s eyes watching the way Heeseung leans in when you laugh. Or how Heeseung always seems to address you when telling a story.

Jake says nothing. But the ice cubes in his water clink sharp under his grip.

You both get home after dinner. You're still laughing a little, still a bit tipsy from the soju and beer. Jake tosses his hoodie on the back of the couch, stretches. “You good?” he asks, glancing at you.

You nod, toeing off your shoes. “You were kind of a human shield back there.”

Jake smirks. “What can I say. Built different.”

You swat at him as you pass, and when you pause in the hallway, he follows. In the kitchen, you're pouring water, and he steps behind you. He’s too close, not quite touching you but you can feel his breath flutter over your neck. Goosebumps appear on your skin.

You turn around to say something and — bump into him. You both freeze.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

You laugh. He smiles. Then he tugs you into a hug, arms wrapping low around your waist. You don’t even question it anymore. Your arms slide around his shoulders. His face buries into your neck. You hold there. A few beats too long.

Then his hands start to move. Thumbs brushing over the hem of your shirt. Fingertips ghosting up your spine. You should say something, but instead you start leaning. Hips shifting closer. Your fingers tangling in the hair at the back of his neck.

You whisper, “You’re touchy tonight.”

Jake laughs, but it’s quieter now. “You didn’t mind seem to mind it in the train.”

“No,” you admit. “I didn’t, still don’t.”

When you pull back, it’s just enough to see his face. His eyes flick to your mouth. Then away. Then back again. He doesn’t let go of your waist. If anything his grip feels firmer, grounding you in this kitchen into his arms. Like you belong in them.

You tilt your head. “What?”

Jake hesitates. Then shrugs, too casual. “Nothing.”

You narrow your eyes. “No, what is it?”

He exhales slowly through his nose. “Just… you and Heeseung were talking a lot tonight.”

You blink. “So?”

He shrugs again, but it’s tighter this time. Like he regrets saying anything. “Didn’t realize you were into that.”

You stare at him, utterly confused. “Into what?”

Jake’s gaze finally meets yours head-on. “Guys who flirt like they’re trying not to get caught.”

Your lips part, startled. “What? He wasn’t— Jake. Are you jealous?”

“No,” he says immediately. Too fast. Then, quietly “Maybe.”

It’s quiet. So quiet you can hear the tick of the fridge behind you. Your fingers flex where they still rest on the back of his neck. You step in all the way now chest to chest.

And you say, softly “There’s nothing going on with me and Heeseung, we’re just friends.”

Jake’s jaw clenches. “Good.”

His hands slide up your sides. “Are we also just friends?”

You tilt your head. “I’m not sure what you mean, but you’re acting like you want to prove something.”

“I do,” he says. Then leans in. His lips find yours and it’s like a fuse short-circuits. The kiss starts hard. His hands gripping your waist, your thighs pressing closer, the edge of the counter digging into your back. Jake doesn’t ease into it this time. He kisses like he means it, like he's been waiting all night.

You gasp into his mouth. His tongue sweeps past your lips, and you moan before you can stop it.

His hands drop to your thighs, squeezing, and then he’s lifting you effortlessly onto the counter. You spread your legs and he steps between them without breaking the kiss.

One of his hands slides up your bare thigh under your shirt. His touch slow, teasing, stopping just below where you want him. The other cups your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.

You tug at the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer, chasing his mouth. Jake growls softly into the kiss low and pleased and murmurs against your lips “Still just friends?”

You shake your head, breathless. “Stop talking.”

But the specialness of the moment was ruined. As soon the words leave your lips Jake pulls back. He looks like a kicked puppy. A hot kicked puppy, with swollen lips and hair a mess. And it’d be hot if it weren’t for the look in his eyes.

Hurt.

Jake steps back completely. His hands fall from your waist like you burned him. “Right,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “Just… talking too much again.”

You blink. “Jake—”

But he’s already turning away, moving down the hallway. Your chest tightens, but you don’t follow. What would you even say? That it didn’t mean anything? That it did? Instead, you stare at the counter where he just stood. Your thighs are still spread. The air still tastes like his kiss.

The silence stretches between your two rooms that night like a canyon.

And it continues into the next day. You hear the door shut closed after he leaves for work. He’d usually come and say bye, sometimes even kissing the top of your head.

You’re not sure what you’re feeling when he just leaves. A strange hollowness seems to follow you throughout the day. Like a dark shadow you can’t quite shake.

You sit on the pleather couch, just staring at your screen as if the script would write itself. But no matter how much you push, no words get typed out. Or even worse, they do, but suck.

Whenever you try to concentrate your thoughts betray you. The kiss replaying like a music video over and over again. You force yourself reread your script for the fifth time.

It sucks. You have a writers block.

You want to scream, deadline fast approaching but you just can’t write today. You slam the laptop closed just as the front door opens.

Jake comes home after work, loosening his tie. Looks at you — slumped on the couch, laptop closed, a half-eaten granola bar on the table.

“You’re still in the same spot as this morning.” He notes, but you don’t register the concern in his voice.

“Congrats. You can see.” You flatly deadpan at end with your nerves. It was everything, the kiss, your confusing feelings, the writer’s block. Nothing seems to be going your way today.

He sets his bag down carefully, steps over to the couch, and lowers himself beside you. His knee touches yours.

“Is this… because of what happened yesterday?” he asks, voice softer now. Cautious. Like he’s not sure if he’s stepping on a landmine or something delicate.

You blink at him. Then scoff quietly. “No.”

His eyes flicker.

“I mean—” You sigh, finally looking at him. “Maybe. I don’t know. Everything’s just… loud right now. In my head.”

He stays quiet. He hates not being sure of you. Hates the idea that maybe you regret it. Jake’s fingers twitch, but he doesn’t reach for you yet. “Did I do something wrong?”

The question makes you soften. Just a little.

“No,” you say. “It’s not you. It’s this.” You gesture at the couch. The mess. The day. Your laptop. “I have a deadline tomorrow and I’ve written nothing. I’ve been sitting here for hours and everything I type feels like garbage.”

Jake breathes out. A small sound. His shoulders relax.

“Oh,” he says, almost relieved. Then he glances at you again — closer this time — eyes flickering to your mouth. “So it’s work.”

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Just work.”

A beat passes.

“You should’ve texted me,” he says, voice casual. “I could’ve picked up something sweet on the way home.”

“I didn’t know you were taking care of me now,” you say, teasing, tired.

Jake’s expression softens in that unreadable, dangerous way he has. “Someone has to.”

Then he moves closer.

You don’t stop him. His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. Your cheek finds the soft place between his jaw and collarbone. He smells like cologne and fabric softener and something warmer underneath, something like home.

“You’re so tense,” he murmurs, thumb brushing lightly over your arm.

You sigh again, melting without meaning to. The hug isn’t just comforting it’s grounding. Familiar. He rubs your back, and something in your chest eases. You sit like that for a while, your limbs tangled loosely.

Then Jake leans back just a little, just enough to see your face. His hand slides down your arm, brushes over your bare knee, thumb pressing into your thigh.

You glance at him, blinking.

He tilts his head. “Want me to distract you?”

You go still. “What?”

Jake’s hand doesn’t move, but his eyes are darker now. Slower. Studying you. Like he’s weighing your silence, like he’s making sure you understand him.

You do. All too well. And the worst part is you want to be distracted. You want to forget everything.

You swallow. “Jake…”

But you don’t say no.

Not when his hand slides higher. Not when he shifts to face you fully, his knee pressing between yours, lips brushing your cheek. Not when he whispers, “Just relax. I’ve got you.”

And when you breathe out, shaky and slow, that’s the only yes he needs. You allow him to guide you, lay flatly on the couch. And watch him.

You pupils are blown. His hands are slow at first, deliberate, almost reverent as they slide beneath the hem of your shorts. Jake swallows hard when you lift your hips for him, helping him pull them down your legs. His fingers tremble slightly as he sets them aside.

Your eyes are wide. Blown.

He hovers above you for a moment, one hand pressed against the couch cushion by your head. His eyes meet yours — and it’s not teasing, not smug. Just watchful. There’s a storm brewing beneath his gaze. A question, unspoken.

Still okay?

You nod, and your breath stutters. "Jake."

He leans in, brushes a kiss against your inner thigh, then another, higher. You flinch slightly at how tender it is. How intimate.

“Relax,” he murmurs again, voice low. His hands slide beneath your thighs and he shifts you forward. Closer to him. “Let me take care of you.”

You’re not sure if he’s talking about your stress, your block, your loneliness or himself. But when his mouth meets your lower lips he’s slow and devastating and you forget the question altogether.

He’s not rushed. Not greedy. He moves like someone making up for something, like this is a confession more than an act. A worship. Each flick of his tongue purposeful, his grip tightening when your thighs threaten to close around his head. He wants to be here. He needs to be here.

You gasp when Jake licks a long stripe from your hole up to your clit. He reaches for your thighs, setting them on his shoulders and then he digs in again.

He’s rougher this time, suckling on your clit. He moans, sucking with more passion when you grab his hair.

He let’s you rock his face on your pussy, squeezing your thighs.

And you… fall apart too easily. The slow build of pressure has been sitting inside your body all day, maybe longer. Weeks. The almost-kisses, the confusing touches, the way he looks at you like he wants to ruin you gently.

It all crests as his fingers dig into your hips and he murmurs against you, low and coaxing, “That’s it. Just like that.”

It’s almost too much. Not from stimulation but from the intimacy. From how seen you feel. You hear how wet you are, can feel Jake’s jaw work. And then – he adds fingers.

He slips his middle finger into you and your mind literally melts. Pleasure is all you can focus on right now, not caring about how loud you’re being or the way your hips keep humping his fingers deeper into you.

You tangle your fingers into his hair, back arching. “Jake—fuck—why are you—”

“Shh.” He hums into you, sending another wave through your body. “You needed this. That’s all.”

And when you finally come apart — shoulders tense, mouth parted, breath catching in your throat — Jake doesn’t stop. Lapping your juices up as if he’s a starving man. But it’s too much. You’re twitching, trying to pull back – but Jake has you locked in place.

He doesn’t let you go until you’re a whimpering and squirming mess, too sensitive, gasping his name like it’s a question.

He looks up at you from between your thighs, lips slick, eyes dark and unreadable.

You blink. “What the hell was that?”

Jake just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and shifts forward so he’s hovering over you again, his eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back.

“You needed it,” he repeats, soft and serious. “That’s all.”

But you both know that’s not all. It’s not sex. But it’s not not, either. And neither of you have a single word for what this is now.

Instead of answering him, instead of letting yourself ruminate over what just happened, you pull him down into a kiss.

Jake seems surprised, gasping when your lips meet. But you don’t mind taking lead. You cup his face, legs wrapping around his waist as you kiss him as if your life depended on it.

He kisses you back, matching your urgency, your need. You can taste yourself on his tongue, the saltiness of it making you moan as you grind down against his thigh, chasing more.

He groans into your mouth, hands gripping your waist tighter.

“You’re—” a breathless peck to his lips, “such—” another kiss, “a good friend.”

The words slip out, stupid and soft, the kind of thing you didn’t really mean — or maybe meant differently in your head.

Jake freezes.

His mouth is still on yours, but he doesn’t kiss back this time. His brow creases, and after a beat, he pulls away. Resting his forehead against yours, his eyes flutter shut like he’s trying to hold something in. His body is still hard against you, unmistakably turned on — but that fire dims as he slowly leans back.

“I need to shower,” he says quietly, voice low and clipped. “Watch a movie when I come back?”

You nod, feeling his absence instantly as he pulls away. Your chest aches not just from arousal but something else now. Regret? Confusion? You’re not sure. You didn’t mean it like that. Not like just a friend.

But the damage is done.

When he returns, fresh from the shower, his hair damp and curling at the ends, he wraps you in a blanket before joining you on the couch.

You expect warmth. Closeness.

Instead, the blanket settles like a barrier that’s soft, but solid. His arm curls around you from behind, sure, but there’s distance in the way he holds you now. A subtle restraint, like he’s afraid of touching too much.

Your chest twists.

You almost say something about earlier, about the kiss, about what you meant, but the words sit thick in your throat.

Because the truth is, you didn’t mean to call him a friend like that. Not in that moment. Not when you were half out of breath, high off his touch. But it was easier to label it safe than admit how much you were spiraling inside. How close you felt. How badly you wanted him to stay.

You fidget under the blanket. Jake doesn’t speak.

Your hand twitches like it wants to reach for his. It doesn’t.

And maybe this is what hurts more than anything — not the silence, not even the awkwardness. But the knowing. That one wrong word was enough to push you back behind this invisible line neither of you knows how to cross again.

So you let him hold you. Quiet. Still.

Not because you're fine with it, but because you're scared if you speak, the rest will tumble out. Everything you don’t know how to ask for. Everything you're afraid he doesn't want.

And maybe… just maybe, if you wait, this will pass. If you keep the quiet gentle, maybe you can find a way to fix it later. To talk when the air doesn’t feel so fragile. When it won’t sound like a confession.

So you press your face into the pillow, trying not to breathe too loud. Trying not to need too much.

Behind you, Jake shifts a little closer, just barely. His arm tightens for a second, like he almost forgets the wall between you.

But then it loosens again.

And neither of you says a word.

The next morning, Jake comes into your room just before leaving for work. He leans down. Presses a soft kiss to your cheek. Like it's nothing. Then he straightens, gives you a small smile that’s polite and distant and he disappears.

You lie there, frozen.

At first, you try to brush it off. Tell yourself this is what you wanted, right? Just friends. No pressure. No awkwardness. But that kiss stings in a way you weren’t prepared for. So you do the only thing that makes sense in the moment.

You start ignoring him back.

When he texts, you leave him on read. When he walks into the room, you don’t look up. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. But beneath the chill, the silence, the shoulder-turning — your heart aches. You’re not mad. Not really. You just don’t know how to say I didn’t mean it like that.

You miss him. And worse — you want him. Not just the way he touched you, but the way he looked at you. Like you weren’t just some girl, but someone he couldn’t stop wanting.

You crave that again.

So by the time Thursday rolls around, your pride is fraying, your patience thinning. You need a reaction. Any reaction.

Which is why you’re sitting on the couch in shorts that toe the line between indecent and illegal, a tank top clinging to you like it’s been shrunk in the wash — waiting.

Not because you think this’ll fix it. Not because you're confident. But because it's the only language you know how to speak right now.

The door clicks open.

Jake walks in.

You don’t turn your head. Not right away. You hear the jingle of keys. The sound of shoes being kicked off. A pause.

Then, finally, his voice — calm, clipped, guarded.

“Didn’t realize this was a lingerie party.”

You glance up slowly, eyes wide with innocence. “Oh?” you murmur. “This? Just comfy.”

And even though you smile, your heart's pounding in your chest. Because you're not teasing — you're reaching.

Jake drops his bag by the door, loosens his tie, and walks past you — like it’s nothing. But his eyes… his eyes say something else entirely.Lingering. Burning.

You push further.

“I was feeling a little hot,” you say casually, stretching your arms overhead. The hem of your tank rises with you.

He opens the fridge. Grabs water. Doesn’t look at you.

“You don’t say.”

You blink. So he’s going to act like he doesn’t care?

You rise. Pad toward the kitchen on bare feet. “You’ve been quiet,” you say, voice light. “Everything okay?”

Jake shrugs, drinks. “Busy week.”

He won’t meet your eyes.

You step closer. “Or is it the fact that you had your mouth on me, and now you’re acting like we’re just roommates again?”

That gets his attention.

Jake finally turns — cool gaze sweeping over you, lingering a second too long on the slope of your chest, the bare skin of your thighs. Then his mouth quirks. Not a smile — more like a warning.

“We are just roommates,” he says. “Friends. You said so yourself.”

You blink. “Right,” you say tightly. “So friends can do that? Friends can—”

You don’t finish. You’re flustered now, and Jake sees it. Smirks.

You move closer, fast, needing the upper hand. Bold. You press a hand to his chest, slide your fingers down to his waistband. Your other hand rests on his shoulder. You glance up at him, lashes low.

“You’re hard.”

Jake doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. “So are we taking turns stating the obvious now?”

Your breath catches.

His voice is calm. Controlled. Cold.

“You’re the one who wanted no label,” he continues, tone light but jaw tight. “So this? It doesn’t count. Just a reaction, right?”

You falter.

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear.

“But you’re not really looking for just reactions, are you?”

And then he walks past you. And now you’re confused.

You tried not letting it get to you, but insecurity starts to seep in. Was something wrong with you? You’re chilling in your room when your phone pings. It’s the groupchat.

🌞noo:

PARTY THIS FRIDAYYYY BY THE RIVER. pls someone else bring the aux tho. jake’s taste in music makes me want to bite drywall

Jake:

you’ve literally danced to my shit before????

🌞noo:

yeah because i’m hot and adaptable not bcs it was good

💋 Liz:

sunoo let jake have one win this week 😭

Jay:

where is this exactly?

Yujin:

next to the trail behind the docks. we used to go there for bonfires remember?

You respond, half-joking:

cute. will there be skinny-dipping or should i bring a towel

🦌 Hee:

you can borrow mine 👀

You do a double look as you read his reply. Your stomach swoops but before you can reply Jake’s responding.

Jake:

relax.

🦌 Hee:

lmao. you relax. what, scared she’ll get cold?

🦊 you:

i love it when the groupchat turns into a pissing contest <3

Jay:

anyway i’m bringing tequila. yujin said she’s making jello shots.

Yujin:

no i didn’t

 Jay:

you will tho 😇

💋 Liz:

can we all agree on one thing?

🌞noo:

no drama

💋 Liz:

no hookups between friends

🦊 you:

girl be serious

Is what you type, but your mind is already wandering traitorously to a boy with black fluffy hair and a puppy persona.

It’s Friday. Jay picked you and Jake up and now here you were. Golden hour is kissing the riverbank. Music drifts lazily through bluetooth speakers. There's a cooler full of drinks half-submerged in the water. People are arriving in waves — towels, sandals, skin on display.

You're in a two-piece with a light cover-up that’s definitely more "slip" than "dress." You clock Jake the second he gets in Jay’s car. Black swim trunks. Messy hair. Oversized tee hanging off his shoulder. He meets your gaze once and looks away.

Heeseung’s the one who whistles when he sees you.

“You always gotta show up looking like a vacation?”

You snort. “And you always gotta flirt like it’s your job?”

He grins. “Not a job if I enjoy it.”

Jake’s nearby. Not close. Not far. Just watching with a drink in hand, jaw tight. Sunoo and Liz are already loudly arguing over who makes better playlists. Jay and Yunjin are sitting side by side but not touching, throwing little glances every few minutes.

But Jake?

He’s not talking much. Not laughing. He hasn’t really been spending any time with you over the past week. Not texting as much. And suddenly it matters more than it should.

You pretend you’re not flirting with Heeseung. Yes, you lean in when he jokes. Yes you laugh too loudly at something stupid he says. And maybe you’re watching Jake’s reactions when you do so.  

And he sees it. He sees the way you touch Heeeung’s shoulder when he makes you laugh. Sees the way Heeseung’s eyes seem to linger too long on your top. And something in him snaps.

Just then you lean into Heeseung, Jake sees you saying something to him and then you’re leaving.

He follows you before Heeseung can.

The bass from outside the bathroom thumps through the tiled walls. You’re alone, fixing your lip gloss in the mirror, but your hands are shaking from nerves. You had a feeling  he followed you.

The door creaks open. Jake steps in. Locks it.

You meet his eyes in the mirror.

“Bathroom’s taken,” you say, tone flat.

He doesn’t leave. Just watches you. “You and Heeseung having fun?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

Jake shrugs. “You’ve been laughing at all his jokes. Hanging off him like he’s your boyfriend.”

You spin around slowly, still leaning against the sink. “So what? You jealous?”

He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at you, jaw tight, chest rising a little faster than normal.

“Should I be?”

You swallow. “I don’t know. Should you?”

Jake takes one step closer. Then another. He’s toe-to-toe with you now, his hand brushing your hip.

You don’t back down. “We’re just friends, remember? Isn’t that what we are?”

He exhales through his nose. The corner of his mouth twitches.

Then, without warning, he steps between you and the sink, arms braced on either side of you, caging you in.

You’re breathless.

“I was doing just fine,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes scanning your face, “telling myself we’re just friends.”

Your heart stutters. “What changed?”

Jake leans in, nose brushing yours. “You.”

You blink. “Because I flirted?”

“Because you know exactly what you’re doing.” His voice sharpens, heated now. “Wearing that dress. Touching his arm. Laughing like that.”

“I was just being nice—”

“No, you were provoking me. And you wanted me to see it.”

Your stomach flips.

Jake’s hand slides to your hip, pulls you flush against him. You can feel him. Hard and restrained. His voice stays low and even, but it cuts through you.

“You wanted a reaction?” His hand slips under your cover-up, skims bare skin. “Now you’re going to deal with it.”

He presses you harder against the sink. His other hand wraps around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, claiming. You half whimper half gasp, chest rising and falling deeply as you let him do with you whatever he pleases. After all, this was what you wanted.

“I’m not gonna say it,” he whispers, mouth brushing your ear. “Not yet. But I’ll show you.”

You gasp as he hooks your leg up on the sink, exposing you. You dress hikes up, bunching by your waist as your panties are put on display.

His hand slides between your thighs, brushes over the fabric clinging to you, wet and sticky.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs, amused. “And you’re trying to act like you don’t care.”

You clench around nothing, lips parted.

He pulls your panties to the side but doesn’t give you what you want. Just strokes you slow, maddening. Teasing. Fingers never quite brushing over your clit. He plays with you like that until you react.

You whimper.

“Use your words,” he murmurs, fingers circling your hole.

“Jake…”

“Say it louder.” He commands, stopping his movement.

“Please—”

He gives your pussy a sharp slap. The sting oddly pleasurable. But the unexpectedness of it, makes you flinch.

Your eyes fly open. “What—?”

“You like begging?” he says, tone cool, eyes half-lidded. “I think you do.”

He sinks to his knees, pulls your hips forward on the counter. You scramble for grip. His mouth is hot and unrelenting — but he keeps you right on the edge. Tongue circling your clit, tugging, sucking on it but never in the way he knows you like.

Eventually he gives in, circling your clit with his tongue, before working with his jaw. Loud suckling sound can be heard mixed with your loud whimpers.

But every time you start to fall apart, he backs off.

By the third time you’re panting. Desperate. “Jake—!”

He looks up at you, lips wet. “Say you want me.”

“I want you.” You cry out, rocking your hips (or trying to) against any surface. You’re practically buzzing with the need to release, shaking in want.

“No. Say you want to be mine.”

You falter. The words feel too big.

He doesn’t push. Just pulls back slightly — and the emptiness is unbearable.

“Say it,” he says again, softer now. “Or I’ll stop.”

Your hands fist in his hair.

“I’m yours.”

His eyes flash with something akin to victory and hunger.

“That’s better.”

He stands, yanks your panties down, and pushes into you in one smooth thrust. You want to curse, the stretch almost too much. You feel too full and at the same time you want more.

 Your moan is caught halfway in your throat. He kisses you like it’s punishment, like it’s worship. One hand on your throat. The other cradling the back of your head like you’re glass.

“You make me fucking insane,” he groans, hips snapping up into you, rougher now. “You want danger? You want someone to claim you?”

“Yes,” you choke out. “Yes.”

He fucks you like it’s a message. Like he’s carving his name into you. Hips relentlessly pushing into you.

You whimper, the rough pace Jake set making you cock drunk.

Jake notices, the hand around your throat sinks lower, covering youe tit as Jake leans down.

He kisses your neck softly, his hips snapping into you. He’s so close to you that he’s almost humping into you. Your body moving with his whenever he thrusts into you.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling harshly and Jake bites you. Literally bites you. And then, he’s sucking a love bite on your skin. Right below your throat. For everyone to see.

After, when you’re trembling and dazed and the mirror’s fogged with heat, he doesn’t say a word. Just adjusts your cover-up gently, tucks your hair behind your ear, and kisses your forehead like you didn’t just break each other in a public bathroom.

The morning after the party you’re tired. Hungover. Emotionally tapped. You fumble through your kitchen, making tea like your body doesn’t ache with memory — like Jake didn’t fuck you in a bathroom last night so hard you still feel him in you.

He’s already sat behind the kitchen table, almost as if he was waiting for you to wake up. At first neither of you say anything.

Until you can’t take it anymore.

“What?” you ask with more bite than you intended.

Jake’s jaw is tight. “We need to talk.”

You cross your arms. “There’s nothing to—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t do that again.”

You blink. “Do what?”

“Pretend it didn’t matter.”

Silence.

“You always do this,” Jake says, voice low. “Something happens, and you brush it off. You act like I’m imagining it.”

You open your mouth — and he shakes his head.

“You’re not confused. You’re scared.”

Your breath catches. You hate how right he is. He always sees you. Even when you don't want to be seen.

You try again. “Jake, we were drunk. The party—”

“I wasn’t drunk,” he says. “You know I wasn’t.”

His eyes are sharp, unreadable. “Were you?”

You hesitate. Shake your head once.

He exhales, jaw flexing — then takes a step forward. “So just say it.”

You take a shaky step back. “Say what?”

“That you want me.”

Your back hits the wall. “Jake—”

He pins you with his eyes, chest rising and falling. “Say it.”

You can’t look at him. “Why? So you can say I told you so?”

“No,” he says quietly. “So I can finally touch you without wondering if you’ll run the second we’re done.”

You grab his shirt, fisting it near his stomach, and pull him in until your breath fans his lips. “I want you,” you whisper. “All of you.”

His hands lift slow, intentional, and cup your face like you're something breakable. His thumbs brush your cheeks. He tilts your chin up, studies you.

"Okay," he says, like a vow.

When he kisses you, it’s not hurried or hungry. It’s deep. His mouth moves over yours like he’s memorizing, reclaiming. And when he finally pulls back, you're breathless.

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. “How you sound. How you taste. How you fall apart.”

His hand slides under your shirt, resting over your stomach not rushing, just feeling.

“And I’m not gonna stop this time,” he says. “Not until you forget anyone else ever looked at you.”

You gasp when his fingers dip lower, but he still doesn’t move fast. He lingers. Draws circles on your thigh like he’s playing with patience, watching you twitch.

He likes it. The way you can’t stay still. The way your breath comes shorter now, even though he’s barely touched you.

“You’re squirmy,” he murmurs, amused. “Already?”

“Jake,” you whisper, nails digging into his arms.

His gaze flicks up, sharp and dark. “Use your words.”

“You want me?” Jake asks, voice quiet but laced with heat.

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes wide.

He studies you, gaze steady. “Then prove it.”

Your heart skips. “I will. Jake—” you reach for him, desperate now, “I swear, anything.”

A flicker of something unreadable crosses his face.

“Yeah? Then let me try something,” he murmurs.

He produces a silk tie. The same one he wore this week. The same one that still smells faintly like cologne and heat and him. You hum in anticipation, you think he’s probably going to tell you to turn around and tie your wrists together. But you’re caught off guard when he speaks.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs.

You do. The tie ghosts across your cheek, a featherlight tease, before he slips it around your eyes and knots it behind your head — tight enough to hold, loose enough to keep you comfortable. Your breath catches as darkness wraps around you. It heightens everything. And everything is laced with Jake. It’s like you’re in a personal Jake-terrarium, his scent all around you, his hands ghosting over your arms, shoulders and back. He laces your fingers when you feel him against your ear, warm and close.

“You’re not gonna run this time?” His voice is low, close, threading against the shell of your ear.

“No,” you whisper. “I want this.”

“You want me,” he corrects. His fingers brush your jaw, tracing down your neck. “Say it.”

“I want you,” you repeat, voice needy.

Jake hums — satisfied, not smug. Then his hands take yours, and he guides you. Carefully. Silently. Every step feels electric. You don’t know where he’s taking you — until the air shifts, cooler now, tinged with the crisp morning air.

You’re on the balcony.

The city hums below. Too far to hear, close enough to feel. You’re hidden from view — probably. Not completely. It doesn’t matter.

Your hands rest on the railing, and Jake’s voice returns, low and calm behind you.

“Stay still.”

You do.

He steps in close, chest against your back, fingers slipping under your shirt, sliding it up, baring you to the sky.

“This okay?” he asks.

You nod, but it’s not enough.

“Words,” he reminds you, breath warm on your shoulder.

“Yes, Jake.”

The tie around your eyes tightens with your inhale. The air is cool, but Jake’s hands are fire.

He kneels behind you.

You feel his mouth first — soft, reverent — trailing kisses along the backs of your thighs, then up higher. You slightly bend over, hands gripping the balcony railing as if it’ your lifeline. And in a way it was. Because just one slip ad it could end badly – but you trust Jake. Trust him to take care of you.

His hands grip your hips. Gently at first. Then firmer. Possessive. And he holds you in place, watching as you try to rub your thighs together, but when his grip is too tight you switch to rocking your hips back and forward. it doesn’t give you any friction and that’s when Jake’s hands slide towards your butt, then under your butt, before he’s slippin one hand to your inner thighs.

But he doesn’t touch you there yet. He simply pushes his face into your clothed butt, nose pressing right where you need him. And then he says,

“You smell like you’ve been thinking about this all day.”

You whimper. He chuckles — low, pleased.

Then his fingertips glide up inside of you and you gasp. He was gentle, yet powerful. You spread your legs further, bending down even more so your chest presses against the cold railing.

“You’re soaked,” he says as he keeps pushing two digits in and out of you in a scissoring motion.  Your hips twitch. He presses you still with one hand, the other pulling at your lacy panties.

“Did you wear these for me?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe, wiggling your cunt over his hand.

“Did you want me to find you like this? Desperate. Squirming.”

“Yes,” you breathe, your pretty hole practically vibrating with the way you keep doing kegles.

His finger circles your clit — barely there. And you moan, knuckles white from how hard you’re holding onto the railing.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

You try. You fail.

He tsks under his breath and let’s go of the panties. They snap. The touch stinging. You immediately still completely. “Didn’t I say still?”

You gasp. “I’m sorry—”

Jake strokes deeper once, then pulls away. You whine at the loss.

He loves this. You can feel it in the way he exhales — slow, in control. You’re on fire. He’s the one holding the match. He stands up then, hugging you from behind. He presses his hips against you and you moan, rocking yourself back into him. Jake kisses your neck, and it’s all you can focus on.

But his hands are already pulling your panties down, he lightly pats you on your butt and you step aside a bit, letting them fully fall down. You don’t worry about someone seeing you two, you were too high up for pedestrians to see and your neighbors had the view obstructed by the railing. But still, you shiver once he bares you to the outside world.

But Jake doesn’t worry, he’s back on his knees as soon as your panties hit the ground. Then one finger slips back in. Then another. He keeps them deep as he pushes them in, and out. In a hook motion, reaching the most pleasurable spot inside of you.  His whole palm is on your cunt, with his thumb teasing your clit in light, endless circles.

“You feel that?” he whispers, mouth against your ear now. “How perfect you are like this? Bare. Open. Mine.”

You whimper. “Jake—”

“Not yet.”

He pulls his fingers out. You nearly sob.

Then he brings them to your lips. “Open.”

You do. He pushes them past your mouth, slow and steady, watching as you suck him clean.

“Good girl,” he says.

You nearly come from those two words alone.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod frantically, tie still in place, heart pounding out of your ribs. Jake pushes and hold you into his desired position. Now you’re standing straight, looking as if you’re just looking over the city (if only it weren’t for the tie still tied around your head), and Jake is holding you from behind – as if he’s just hugging you.

Your head cocks to the side, and Jake nuzzles into it. His right hand disappears behind you and you can hear him shuffling behind you.

Then you feel it — his cock, thick and warm against your entrance.

“You sure you’re not gonna run again?” he murmurs, teasing the tip against you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper. “Just—please.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me,” you plead, grinding yourself against his dick. And Jake finally pushes his hard dick into you. You don’t think you’ve ever been stretched by a dick this good and you kind of stop breathing. The lack of oxygen and vision made the feeling of his dick ten times better.

And you know Jake feels it too. He groans as soon as his cockhead stuffs you, hips stilling and stuttering for a moment.

You whine, squeezing him in a silent command to give you more, more, more.

“More Jakey, please,” you whine, he tsks but complies. Slowly stuffing you full.

He doesn’t give either of you time to move before he’s thrusting into you. Slowly. So slowly you think you know how every vein looks, how every ridge looks and you still want more.

Jake fucks you with intent. Deep, deliberate strokes that claim you inch by inch. You’re crying out, gripping the railing, blindfolded and desperate. He fucks you like he’s memorizing every sound you make. Like this isn’t just sex it’s proof.

That you’re not going anywhere.

That you’re his.

And when he finally lets you fall apart, it’s to the sound of his voice behind you, whispering like a spell

“That’s it. Good girl. Let them hear how mine you are.”

Your body’s still trembling, silk tie slipping down your nose, the air cooling your skin. Jake doesn’t speak right away. He just holds you from behind, pressing a kiss to your shoulder — then another, higher this time, near your neck.

You feel his heartbeat against your back. Fast. Just like yours.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers.

You start to laugh, just a little. Maybe from adrenaline. Maybe because you don’t know what else to do.

Jake gently unties the blindfold, letting it fall away. He cups your jaw, turns you to face him, and really looks at you.

“Too much?” he asks softly.

“No,” you say too quickly. Then realizing that might sound dismissive you add, “It was… good. Intense. But good.”

He studies you for a beat, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. You think he might tease you, say something cocky but instead, he kisses your forehead.

Then your temple.

Then your lips.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to protest.

Carries you in, literally. Like you weigh nothing. Like you’re something precious.

He runs a warm bath and adds eucalyptus salt like it’s routine. His hands are all over you — not sexually now, just present. Stroking your back as you sink into the water. Brushing damp hair from your face. Letting you lean into his chest when you finally relax.

You close your eyes. Not because you're tired. Because it’s easier than letting him see how much this is affecting you.

He still sees it.

“You okay?” he asks again, quieter now, as if he knows you’re trying not to feel anything too real.

“I’m fine,” you mutter. But your fingers are clinging to his forearm.

Jake notices. Smiles a little.

“I always kiss your temple after,” he says casually, like it’s a fact. “Even before tonight.”

Your eyes snap open. “You do?”

He nods. “It’s where you melt the most.”

You scoff. “That’s not—” But you trail off. Because yeah. You probably do.

Once you’re dry, wrapped in a soft towel and oversized shirt that smells like him, he pulls you into bed. Doesn’t let go.

You lie there together, limbs tangled, and it should be awkward, but it’s not. Not until the words slip out of your mouth — too fast, like everything else with you lately.

“So… what now?”

Jake shifts to look at you. “Now I take you on a real date.”

You blink. “Even if we’re already fucking?”

“Especially if we’re already fucking.”

That makes you laugh. So does he. Your noses bump as you kiss again, slower this time. Lazy. Sweet.

Afterwards you head to a late lunch — the usual post-party ritual. Sunoo picked the spot: some cozy place with overpriced eggs and bottomless mimosas. Everyone’s a little sluggish, mildly hungover, and deeply curious.

You and Jake walk in together.

At first, no one clocks it.

But then you slide into the booth next to Jake. And his hand is still resting on the small of your back when you sit. You’re glowing. He looks way too pleased.

Sunoo is the first to notice.

His eyes narrow. “Wait…”

Jake doesn’t say anything. Just leans back, throws his arm casually behind you like it’s nothing like it’s normal and smirks.

Sunoo gasps.

“WAIT.”

Jay lifts an eyebrow over his coffee. “Here we go.”

“Is this—are you two—” Sunoo points between you like he’s solving a murder. “Did you finally do it?”

Liz drops her fork. “Finally?”

Yujin gasps, slapping Jay’s arm. “I told you something was up after the haunted house.”

Jay just sips his drink. “Yeah, but I figured we’d all be grandparents before they figured it out.”

Heeseung doesn’t say anything at first. He just tilts his head, eyes flicking between the two of you. There’s a little smile tugging at his mouth — you think it’s fond, but you also see the tiniest flicker of something else. Surprise, maybe. Something more complicated. Still, he raises his glass like a toast.

“Well,” he says smoothly. “I guess Jake finally manned up.”

You look at him, curious, but Jake doesn’t flinch. “Someone had to,” he replies, calm and steady.

Sunoo clutches his chest. “So it’s real? Like real real?”

Jake nods. And then like it’s not a big deal at all he laces your fingers with his under the table.

You don’t pull away.

“Wait,” Liz says, eyes darting around. “Have you guys, like… had the talk?”

Jake looks at you. “Have we?”

You smile at him, that private kind of smile only he seems to get. “I think last night counted.”

Sunoo practically combusts.

“OH MY GOD THEY TOTALLY FUCKED.”

You slap your palm over your face. Jake just laughs, entirely unbothered. “Thanks for keeping it classy, Sunoo.”

Heeseung raises his brows. “Bathroom?”

Jay chokes on his drink.

“Not confirming or denying,” Jake says but he’s grinning now, actually grinning like he just won the lottery and isn’t even trying to hide it.

“You’re disgusting,” Yujin says through a laugh, but she’s clearly happy for you. “But like, in a cute way. I guess.”

“Disgustingly overdue,” Liz mutters. “Seriously, this has been months of tension. I deserve a gift basket.”

Sunoo nods, dead serious. “With candles. And at least one thank-you note.”

You roll your eyes but you’re still smiling.

And underneath the noise, the teasing, the laughter, Jake leans closer to your ear. Low enough that no one else hears.

“Mine,” he murmurs.

You look at him. “Yours.”

You liked writing cute little messages or smiley faces on his cup. You scribble good luck surviving on his cup. He counters the next morning by sliding a folded receipt back across the counter with You’re doing great. Probably. Written in surprisingly neat handwriting. You keep it. You don’t know why you keep it. You just do.

Some mornings he looks better—less hollow under the eyes, shoulders not quite as tense. Other mornings he looks worse, jaw tight, knuckles white around the cup like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Those days, you draw a little smiley face anyway. Those days, he stares at it longer before leaving.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” he says once, nodding at the cup.

You shrug, light and easy. “Occupational hazard. Excessive cheerfulness.”

He snorts. Actually snorts. “Dangerous in small cafés.”

Whenever he's talking, you can't help but focus on those big brown eyes, his freckles that you're still trying to count, man he fills out that work shirt oh so nicely, and what's that odd chunk taken out of his ear that you haven't worked up the courage to ask him about yet, and—

What is he doing to you?

Ten minutes past his usual time turns into twenty. You keep glancing at the door like it’s going to explain itself. It doesn’t. You feel stupid for the disappointment curling in your chest. He’s just a customer. A regular. A man with tired eyes and freckles and an ear that looks like it’s been through something violent.

He does come in, later than usual, hair still damp like he showered in a rush. There’s a faint bruise blooming along his collarbone, half-hidden by his shirt.

“You look like hell,” you say before you can stop yourself.

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You should see the other guy.”

You laugh—too quickly—and slide his cup over. This time, instead of a smiley face, you write Be careful, okay?

His finger stills when he reads it.

.•*•.

The week after, he comes into the shop late again. 

“Hey Robert, sleep in?” 

“Yeah, shit…” He drags a hand down his face, then ruffles his hair like he’s trying to wake himself up.

“Want your usual?” 

“I'm just kinda in a rush.” 

“You know you can make instant coffee at home if you just need a fix,” you say lightly. “I won’t be offended.”

“Yeah…” He scratches the back of his head, hesitating. “I guess I wanted to stop in and see you, though.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. “Is that so?” You lean over the counter, resting your chin in your hands.

“I don't think I'm just coming for the coffee anymore.” 

Your heart flutters. Okay. This is it. Now’s your chance—shoot your shot. 

“Well,” you say, trying to sound casual, “my shift ends at five, handsome.” You add a wink for good measure.

His face flushes, and for a split second you’re convinced you’ve misread everything. Maybe you imagined the tone in his voice. Maybe he just sees you as a friendly barista. Oh god, you’re spiraling.

Then, to your surprise, he smiles—soft, a little shy—and nods, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Great, I’ll see you then.” 

.•*•.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Time seems to drag and sprint all at once as you wait for five o’clock. Then he returns, looking a little worse for wear but happy to see you regardless.

“Hey, w-would you like anything before we leave?” 

“No no, I'm fine; I think I've got all I need right here.” 

“Robert…” You blush, feeling the heat creep up your neck. “What, um, would you like to do?” 

“I imagine you're hungry after your shift.” 

“I can make dinner!” 

Robert lifts a brow, amusement now slipping into his voice. “I think it's highly unfair that the girl I ask to dinner, who also makes my coffee, would make me dinner.” 

You laugh. “Well, what do you suggest?” 

So there you are in your living room eating Chinese food with Robert Robertson. Yeah, you had a good laugh about that one. Conversation comes easily after that: work stories and shared venting about coworkers. 

“I have some coolers in the fridge if you want,” you say after a while. “Unless you’re driving home soon.”

“I don’t live too far from here, actually,” he says. “And yeah—that’d be nice.” 

You get up to grab the drinks, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that this is happening. When you come back, he’s standing a little awkwardly, hands shoved into his pockets.

“You're, uh, free to kick me out whenever. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable.” “Oh, don't worry about that. This is nice.” 

He sits beside you, close but not touching, shoulders tense like he’s trying not to take up too much space. The TV hums softly in the background, forgotten. After a moment, he relaxes, leaning back into the cushions. Your knee brushes his. Neither of you move it away.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

You don't quite know how it happens, but sometime within the past hour he falls asleep on your lap. His breathing is soft and even, with the occasional sleepy murmur slipping past his lips. It’s… cute. You don’t move, even when your leg starts to tingle. You just let him rest. After an hour he stirs. He blinks, unfocused, then stiffens when he realizes where he is. He sits up too quickly, mortified. You smile and giggle as he apologizes profusely. 

“Oh fuck, shit—I'm sorry. This is embarrassing. Were you bored?” 

You laugh gently. “No. I dozed off for a bit too, actually.” You shrug. “I think you needed the sleep."

He groans softly. “Yeah. Probably. Did I even get coffee today?”

“Nope.”

“Fantastic,” he mutters. “Maybe I should’ve. It’s been… kind of a day. And I fell asleep on you.” He winces. “Thanks for putting up with me.”

You reach over to rub at the bags under his eyes. 

You reach out without thinking, thumb brushing the dark circles under his eyes. “It might’ve helped,” you say quietly. “Even just a little.”

Your hand lingers longer than necessary. He notices—of course he does.

“Uh,” he says, voice tentative, “something on my face?”

“Yeah,” you reply. “Freckles.”

He snorts. “Not much I can do about that.”

“Good,” you say. “They’re cute.”

His face goes pink instantly, heat creeping up his neck. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, suddenly very interested in the far wall. You pull your hand back, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you are. You both ultimately lose your nerve and awkwardly space out on the couch. 

Robert clears his throat. “I'm gonna head home and feed my dog.” 

“Yeah, for sure.” 

“You working Monday?” 

“Yep.” 

“Great, see you bright and early.” 

You regret not making a move that night and beat yourself up about it all weekend. But it wasn't a big deal; Robert did the same thing, losing sleep over it even, poor guy. He asks you out again on Monday.

.•*•.

Inevitably you end up inviting him back to your place. You're braver now (and even more desperate for his touch). You're on your couch, both anticipating each other's movements. But he beats you to it. He leans in slowly, kissing you with a gentleness that ignites all your senses. Your heart soars and falls all at once, and you lean into him, blissfully thoughtless.

The next kiss is more hungry, and it steals the air from your lungs. You laugh softly against his mouth, a breathless sound, and he smiles into the kiss. When you pull back, it’s only far enough to rest your forehead against his. The room feels smaller, warmer, like the world has folded itself neatly around the two of you. 

“Wow, um, I really like you.” 

You giggle. “I really like you too, Robert.” 

“Do I need to take you out on another date, or can I ask you to go steady now?” 

“Go steady? What are you, 80?” You laugh uncontrollably. 

“Alright, alright.” 

“I wish you'd do both.” 

“Girlfriend, then another date? How does that sound?” 

“I like that.” You're still laughing till he pulls your face back to his and you melt into him. 

“I'm, uh, not the greatest at this kind of thing…” 

You blink. “I think you're a great kisser, Robert.” 

“I mean the whole dating thing. It's been a while, and I'm terrified of messing this up. I thought I ruined things with you after the first one.” 

“Well, I'm in the same boat. I'm surprised you even asked me at all…” You take his hand. “So let's take it slow, yeah?” 

He kisses you again, softer this time—like he’s sealing the promise instead of testing it. It’s slower, surer, his thumb brushing your jaw as if he’s committing the feeling to memory. When he pulls back, he exhales a quiet laugh. “Okay. Slow. I can do slow.”

“Good,” you say, smiling.

He shifts closer anyway, carefully, giving you space to stop him if you want to. You don’t. Instead, you tuck yourself against his side, your head fitting just under his chin like it’s always belonged there.

“Can I ask you something?” you say quietly.

“Anything.”

“Did you… want to kiss me the other night?” Your voice is tentative, like you already knew the answer but needed to hear it anyway.

He laughed softly. “So badly it was embarrassing.” He groans, tipping his head back against the couch. “I replayed that moment over in my head like a crime scene.”

“You fell asleep on me,” you tease.

“I felt comfortable, and I trusted you,” he says, mock-offended. Then softer: “I didn’t want to mess it up.”

You turn to face him, close enough now that your noses almost brush. “You didn’t.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’d really like to keep doing this.”

“Me too.”

He kisses you again—carefree, affectionate, the kind of kiss that lingers even after it ends. When you finally pull away, you’re both smiling like idiots.

“So,” he says, resting his forehead against yours again. “Girlfriend?”

You grin. “Boyfriend.”

His smile is slow and stunned, like he’s afraid if he moves too fast it’ll vanish. He squeezes your hand gently.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah. I like the sound of that.”

➽──────────────❥ ₊ ݁⟡ ♡

After a few dates, Robert is sure he can trust you and opens up a bit more. When he reveals that he's Mecha Man, you are honestly more shocked that he asked you to be his girlfriend. 

“I figured something was up,” you say slowly. “Some mornings you walked into the café like you got into a bar fight.”

“Well,” Robert exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, “I probably did.”

You blink. Once. “You say that like it’s normal.”

“It’s… occupational,” he offers. “Technically.”

“Okay,” you say, holding up a finger. “Pause. Are we talking illegal underground fighting ring, or a vigilante with questionable sleep habits?”

He winces. “The second one. Definitely the second one.”

You stare at him. He stares back, jaw tight, braced like he’s waiting for impact.

“…You’re Mecha Man,” you repeat.

“Yes.”

“The one who throws cars.”

“Sometimes.”

“And punches villains.”

“Frequently.”

You sit back, processing. “Huh.”

“Huh?” he echoes, visibly confused. “That’s it?”

“What, were you expecting screaming? Tears? A dramatic exit?”

“I was prepared for pepper spray,” he admits.

You snort. “Relax. I dated a guy once who collected taxidermy squirrels. This barely cracks the top five weirdest revelations.”

That gets a laugh out of him—short, surprised, and real. Some of the tension drains from his shoulders.

“So,” you continue, tilting your head, “does this mean the ear thing?”

He instinctively touches the notch taken out of it. “Yeah. Explosion. Long story.”

“Figures,” you say. “I was guessing shark.”

He smiles, softer this time. Then it fades, seriousness creeping back in.

“I didn’t tell you because I wanted to impress you,” he says quietly. “I told you because… if this goes anywhere, you deserve to know what you’re signing up for.”

You meet his eyes. Those same big brown ones that looked half-dead over a coffee cup months ago.

“And what exactly am I signing up for?” you ask.

He swallows. “Late nights. Missed calls. Worry. Me coming home hurt and pretending I’m fine.”

You nod. “I already clocked that.”

“And danger,” he adds. “Real danger.”

You consider that for a moment, then shrug. “Robert, I work morning shifts. I live off caffeine and bad decisions. I think I’ll survive.”

That earns him a quiet laugh—but his gaze sharpens when you reach across the table and take his hand.

“I’m more concerned about something else,” you say.

“Yeah?”

“You told me you’re Mecha Man,” you say gently. “But you haven’t explained why you thought that was less scary than asking me to be your girlfriend.”

He freezes.

“…Because I’ve been punched by tanks,” he says after a beat. that was somehow still easier than risking you saying no.”

Your chest tightens.

“Well,” you say, squeezing his hand, “for the record—superhero secrets aside—that might be the bravest thing you’ve done.”

He looks at you like he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“So,” he says carefully, “you’re not… running?”

You smile. “No.”

“… You’re sure?”

“Robert,” you say, leaning in, voice soft but steady, “if I can handle you ordering boring black coffee every morning, I think I can handle you being Mecha Man.”

The first time you two have sex is a complete accident. Well… it's like your 6th date or something, and you couldn't keep your hands off each other after a heavy makeout session. His hand accidentally squeezes your boob, and he immediately retracts it. 

“Fuck, sorry. Can I?” You frantically nod. “Thank you.” He enthusiastically fondles and squeezes. “Fuck, you're so soft.” You're pawing at each other's shirts, frantically pulling them off. 

The moment he unclips your bra, his mouth latches onto your tit. Kissing, licking, sucking, and your moans only spur him on. You fall back onto the bed, and he's pulling off your pants and panties in one go. “Please let me—” 

“Yes! Anything-! P-please!” Panting, begging him desperately. 

He spreads your legs and, with a quick kiss to your inner thigh, buries his face in your pussy. He's messy and sloppy, and you don't know who's groaning louder. It doesn't matter. He eagerly licks at your sensitive bundle of nerves, coaxing out your sweetest moans. 

“R-Robert! I can't!” Your head is spinning so fast you can't keep up with the feeling growing in your core. He pushes two fingers into you, and you come immediately. He cleans you up with his tongue and slurs. “I think I just found m’new favorite treat.” He says with a kiss to your thigh.

“Roberrrt,” you squirm. “Put it in, please—” you reach down to feel the spreading wet spot on his pants. “D-did you-” 

“Oooh yeah. I—I just need a minute, please…” He sounds drunk. “Shit, I don't have a condom.” 

“Forget it, I'm on the pill. I need you now.” 

“F-fuck, ok.” He sits you up, letting you position yourself above him. You're both groaning, letting out a string of expletives as you sink onto him. His grip is bruising on your hip, but you don't care. You rock your hips, throwing back your head as you take him deeper.

Robert is babbling on about how you take him so well and look like an angel. He thrusts up into you and slams your hips down, lost in you. You're soaking his lap; you might even see some drool on the side of his mouth. 

“M'close!” You cry out before Robert lets his thumb catch your clit, rubbing in quick succession till you seize up.

“Ah! Robert!” Your orgasm crashes over you, and you milk his cock, feeling him spill his hot seed into you. You drape over him, collapsing in his embrace.

“Fuck, that's not how I wanted that to go…” “Robert, I don't care. It was hot, and I loved it.” Sloppy, messy, passionate. He pulls out of you with a loud schlorp, and you leak everywhere. You lead him to the bathroom for a quick (not so quick) shower. 

When you finally get around to going to Robert's place, you gasp audibly at the lack of well… everything.

A chair? A pillow for Beef to lay on? This boy needs some help.

You take him to the mattress store the next day and promise to help pay for it as long as you help him break it in. Suddenly, he's very enthusiastic about mattress buying and becomes a connoisseur. 

“Nah, this one's too stiff... How does this one feel on your knees, baby?” You're fully blushing from head to toe when you ask for help from the sales assistant. 

You also had to convince him to get a bed frame and slapped him silly after he said he was undeserving of one. 

“Robert Robertson, you are not putting that new bed on the floor with no springboard or frame. Your apartment is already a peak male living space.” 

“You just hate that I can live comfortably with less stuff than you.” 

“Robert!” 

He sighs. “Yes, ma'am, whatever you like, ma'am...” Beef gets treated to a bigger bed as well. And some doggy steps you occasionally push up to the bed so he can climb up while you three nap.

The room is quiet in that soft, late-night way. You’re half-draped over Robert, your hand sprawled across his chest like it belongs there. Warm skin. Solid. Familiar now. Your fingers move slowly, tracing lines you didn’t put there—raised scars, thin ones, thicker ones, and some that curve strangely like they changed direction mid-story.

You pause at one, just below his collarbone.

“Those must have hurt.”

Robert exhales, the sound more tired than pained. “Some of them did.”

Not dismissive. Just honest.

Your thumb follows the edge of another scar, lighter than the rest, almost faded. “And the others?”

He shrugs beneath you. “Adrenaline’s a hell of a thing. You don’t usually feel it until later.”

You don’t reply. Instead, you lean down and press a kiss to his chest—soft, lingering. Then another. And another. You map him with your mouth the same way you do with your hands, slow and careful, like you’re trying to memorize where he’s been.

He stiffens at first, instinctive, like he’s bracing for impact instead of affection.

“You don’t have to—” he starts.

“I know,” you murmur against his skin, kissing a scar that cuts diagonally over his ribs. “I want to.”

That quiets him.

Your fingers trail lower, tracing the story his body tells without words. Some scars are jagged, angry. Others are neat, surgical, like someone tried to put him back together after the fact. You linger on one near his side, smaller but deeper.

“This one,” you say softly. “This one scared me when I first noticed it.”

He swallows. “Yeah. That one scared me too. The cut was pretty deep, and I lost a lot of blood. It opened back up a few times and almost got infected.”

You look up at him then. His eyes are on the ceiling, jaw tight, but he doesn’t pull away. “This is me being vulnerable. Please appreciate how uncomfortable I am.”

You press your palm flat over his heart, grounding both of you.

“You’re alright, Robert. You’re still here,” you say. “That’s what matters.”

He finally looks at you. Really looks at you. There’s something unguarded there, something raw.

“No one’s ever…” He trails off, then gives a quiet huff. “No one’s ever looked at them like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like they don’t make me broken or weak.”

You lean up and kiss him—gentle, patient. “They don’t,” you say. “They mean you survived.”

His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer, like he needs the weight of you there to believe it. You rest your head on his chest again, listening to his heartbeat, steady and real.

Robert feels safe.

You really fall in love with beef. How could you not? He's just a big, fat, affectionate lump of love. “Oh Robert… that poor dog. Let me walk him. What kind of diet do you have him on?” 

“See food diet.” 

“What?” 

“He sees food, and he eats it.” You glare at him threateningly.

Most times when you're holding Beef, you can feel the radiating glare from Robert across the room. “Are you jealous, Robertson?” 

“Well, maybe if you spent more time with me instead of Beef.” 

“Robert, come on, seriously?” 

“I'm your family too.” He huffs. 

“Of course you are.” You scruff up his hair. “I have two big babies to deal with now.” 

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄

“You remember when I would come into the cafe first thing in the morning when it opened? And I would catch you dancing around the counter?” 

“Yeah.” You raise your brow.  

“I was definitely checking out your ass. Respectfully.” 

“Oh, of course. Glad I could provide some entertainment.” 

“A good cup of joe and a good JO.” 

“Robert! You pervert!” 

“I was a little ashamed. But you look reeeally cute in your cafe uniform.” 

“Maybe I'll put it back on afterwards for some roleplay.” 

“Okay.” He shrugs nonchalantly.

“Robert!”

“What?? You offered!” 

“I'm going to punish you for being a perv.” 

“I probably deserve it. But you reeeeally have a nice ass.” 

“You can kiss it if you want.” 

“I thought you said you wanted to punish me?”  

“Fine, I'll wear a slick, sleek superhero suit instead.” 

“Again, I'm failing to see the punishment aspect.”

“I know, I can't make up my mind... I think I just want to fuck you.”

“That can be arranged.”

.•*•.•*•.•*•.•*•.•*•.•*•.

Another horrified gasp escapes you when he tells you his “diet.” He may be going to the gym, but he's not getting any gains with ramen and Twinkies. You soon take over, becoming his personal chef. Going as far as to meal prep for the both of you and Beef too. 

“Can you make me coffee?” 

“I'm not your barista anymore, Robertson.” 

“But it tastes better when you make it.” 

“You only want like a drop of cream and sugar now.” 

“And?” 

“Ugh, give me a second.” 

“Thank you, baby.”

You cook and clean for him? What did he ever do to deserve this? To deserve you?

.•*•.

You do try and get him to taste your coffee occasionally. “Come on, Robert, try it; it's soooo sweet.” 

“I think that would be considered torture under the Geneva Convention.” 

“This is one of the most delicious things in the world! You just can't appreciate it.” 

“Aww, honey. You are really committed to being wrong. That's dedication.”

.•*•.•*•.•*•.

One thing you come to learn about Robert is that he has an off switch.

You're there scratching his back when he makes a low groan. Or a purr? “You sure you're not a cat, Robertson?” 

“Mmh, keep going, please.” 

“Careful, keep being cute like that and I'll bite a chunk out of your other ear.” 

“Please don't.” 

“You gonna stop me?” 

“Not right now; I feel like I'm melting into your cute, scratchy fingertips.”

You successfully scratch him to sleep. 

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

You also learn a few more things about Robert~

“What do you mean you never watched Star Wars?! Or Lord of the Rings?!” 

“Never really had time to.” 

You proceed to sit him down to binge both over the next week. Went as far as to dress Beef as Princess Leia with the hair buns and everything.

.•*•.•*•.

“Really, Robertson, clowns? You're scared of clowns.” 

“You cannot look at that thing and tell me it's not creepy… Staring right through me with those creepy clown eyes.” 

“Are you sure you're Mecha Man?” 

He flips you the bird, making you laugh hysterically. 

.•*•.•*•.•*•.

Robert really likes eating you out. He would go as far as to say it's his favorite foreplay. He calls you his little rockstar because he swears he gets a boost of energy every time he eats you out. Has to get you off a few with his tongue before he even thinks about sticking his dick in you. He’d stay there for hours if you'd let him. Feasting on you like the starved man he is. He's addicted to the way you taste. All of a sudden he doesn't need coffee anymore.

And it goes without saying that he loves your ass and your boobs. “Yep, I could die here.” Robert murmurs from between your breasts, sighing happily. 

“Please don't.” 

“I might.” 

"I'll ban you."

"You wouldn't!" He gasps.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You show up to SDN one day with his forgotten lunch and a kiss to his cheek; the team gawks at you. 

“So did you uh, get a deal to pay an escort monthly or yearly?” Sonar looks you up and down. 

“With this budget? Nah, Robert musta had-ta pull some strings.” Prism adds. 

“Yeah, there's no way you pulled her, Bobby boy.” Sonar takes a bite out of his apple.

“First, this is my girlfriend, y/n; second of all, fuck you guys.” He pulls you to the side. “Honey, didn't we have a long conversation about never coming into the office?” 

“Come on, Robert, we're not gonna bite her.” Malevola rolls her eyes. 

“But you will scare her away, so leave.”

You smirk. “It's alright, baby. Besides, I had to bring you your lunch. When you don't eat right, you take it out on me in the bedroom, right? And I thought we could make love tonight for once.” You pout, swirling your finger around on his chest.

“Fack me, I like her.” Punch up adds. 

“Yeah, I think she fits in just fine.” Flambae stated. 

“Does this mean his dick is bigger than we think?” Invisigal sneers.

“Yeah, you definitely don't have a thing for micro peens, right y/n?” Sonar questions. 

“Can't say I do, quite the opposite in fact.” 

The team erupts into a howl of whistles and hollers, making Robert groan. He thanks you for the meal and gets Waterboy to show you out quickly in fear of an HR violation. He wishes you had waited until he brought you to work on his own but knew he was going to get teased either way. And when he gets home, he pounds you into the mattress anyway.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Beef has legs y’know. He's been walking fine.” 

“I know, but he's just so cute. It's fun to carry him around. Besides, it'll be good practice if we ever have kids.” 

Robert immediately does a spit take. “Sorry dear, I didn't mean to—i-is that something you want?” 

“Well yeah sure, I think it would be nice. We’d make good parents-” 

“Put the dog down, y/n.” 

“Ooookay.” You do so, and the second you do, Robert pounces on you. Kissing you deeply. 

“Do you want to practice making a kid- like right now?” 

“Really? You'd want to?” 

“Yes.” 

“You sure you're thinking with the right head, Robertson?” 

“Nah, not at all.” 

Robert proceeds to pound you silly for the rest of the night. 

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

And even now he still doesn't know what he did to deserve you. Or why you'd even want him. But you do. 

Robert has an album chock full of you and Beef sleeping together in your shared bed. Little does he know you have an album too, but it is mostly him and Beef sleeping and drooling. Like father, like furry son. 

It truly doesn't get any better than this. He's thankful for you every day. You're cuddling in bed one night, going on about how he saved you. He saved you? Nah, you saved him—and that's something he tells you on your wedding day through blurry vision. 

Both of your vows are less about grand promises and more about quiet truths. He says you saved him in all the ways that mattered. Not with heroics or fists or steel, but with coffee cups and patience. With staying. With seeing him when he didn’t know how to be seen without armor on. He thanks you for choosing him on the days he felt unchoosable.

You tell them he never needed saving—just someone who showed up. Someone to teach him how to rest. Someone who let himself be loved even when it scared him. You tell him he taught you what steady feels like. What safe feels like. What home feels like.

There’s laughter through the tears. There are pauses where neither of you can speak, and no one minds. When you finally kiss, it’s soft and familiar and full—like every night you ever fell asleep tangled together, like every morning coffee shared in quiet kitchens.

Later, when the room is empty and the day has finally caught up to you, you curl into him again. Same bed. Same warmth. Same man who once stumbled into your café half-awake and unknowingly walked into the rest of his life.

“You're a good man, Robertson.” “And you're a wonderful woman, Mrs. Robertson.” He says with a kiss pressed to your temple as you watched your grandchildren play. Robert was a tired man but happy and fulfilled nonetheless.

And it's then you both realize—neither of you were saved.

You were found.

Yeah, dating you? One of the best decisions he's ever made.

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

you cleaned yourself up slowly, got dressed, and left like he asked. the click of the lock behind you felt heavier than it should have.

for the next three days, nothing.

usually he was the one sending the messages: casual “come over?” at random hours, sometimes just a location and a time when he wanted to fuck or chill. sometimes no words at all, just an emoji or a photo of his bed.

but this time? radio silence.

no texts. no calls. no “i’m bored, get here.”

you told yourself it was fine. that it was better this way. that whatever this thing between you was, it was never supposed to last anyway. but every night when your phone stayed quiet, the ache in your chest got a little louder.

on the fourth night, after another long shift where you smiled through gritted teeth and poured drinks like a robot, you finally caved. sitting on the edge of your bed in the dark, still in your work dress, you typed the message with shaking fingers.

“are we okay?”

you hit send before you could overthink it.

it was delivered instantly.

you stared at the screen for almost twenty minutes, refreshing like it would change anything. nothing. just “delivered” mocking you in the quiet of your room.

that was when the spiral really started.

you told yourself you wouldn’t check again, but you did. every hour. every break at work. every time your phone vibrated, you snatched it like a lifeline, only to feel your stomach drop when it wasn’t him.

work became a mess.

you showed up late the next night. your makeup was a little off, your usual bright smile cracked at the edges. when a regular client tried to flirt and grab your waist like always, you flinched hard enough that he noticed. you laughed it off, but the damage was done. your manager pulled you aside after, asking if everything was fine. you lied through your teeth.

you started drinking more during shifts. not enough for anyone to call you out, but enough that the edges blurred. enough that when men said disgusting things, it didn’t sting as sharply. enough that you didn’t care if your laugh sounded fake.

one night you even let a customer tip you extra just to sit in the vip room and stare at your phone under the table, hoping satoru would finally reply. he didn’t.

suguru’s messages kept coming. sweet ones. the kind he used when he wanted something.

“missed you lately.” “where’ve you been?” “let me take you out this weekend.”

you read every single one.

and left them all on delivered.

you couldn’t bring yourself to reply. not when your head was so full of white hair and blue eyes and the way satoru had looked at you like you’d disappointed him. not when the ache in your chest felt bigger than anything suguru had ever made you feel.

every night you came home, took off the tight dress, washed the smell of smoke and cologne off your skin, and crawled into bed wondering why satoru’s silence hurt worse than suguru technically cheating on you.

you felt pathetic.

you felt addicted.

and worst of all — you missed him. not just the sex. you missed the way he used to look at you like he was trying to figure you out. even when it was cruel, at least he was paying attention.

now there was just… nothing.

you kept telling yourself it was temporary. that satoru was just busy — college life and all that shit you only ever heard about in passing. the kind of life that had schedules and deadlines and futures attached to it. a life you didn’t live.

maybe juggling classes really was harder than working nights. maybe he was buried in lectures and caffeine and barely had time to breathe, let alone text the girl he was just fucking. you tried to convince yourself of that on the good hours. it made the ache feel a little less personal.

on the bad hours, the thoughts turned sharper.

what if he was laughing about it with suguru?

the image wouldn’t leave your head. the two of them at some apartment, drinks in hand, satoru leaning back with that lazy smirk saying, “you won’t believe how fast she folded. still checking her phone for you though.” suguru chuckling like it was just another story. like you were the punchline they both saw coming.

you hated how easily your brain supplied the scene.

work stayed steady, but you moved through it like you were underwater. you smiled when you had to. laughed at the right moments. poured drinks with steady hands. but your mind kept drifting. during quiet stretches between tables, you’d slip your phone out just to stare at the delivered message. still no reply. still blue ticks that never came.

at home, you’d lie in bed replaying every second of that last night. the way he’d tossed the towel. the flat tone when he told you to lock the door. the way he didn’t even look back before disappearing into the shower.

you started doing small things to fill the quiet. cleaning your already-clean apartment. scrolling through old photos you had no business keeping. rereading suguru’s unread messages and feeling nothing but guilt for ignoring them. you didn’t reply to him either. not because you were strong, but because even the idea of talking to him felt like betrayal to whatever fragile thing you had with satoru.

pathetic, really.

you caught yourself wondering what satoru was doing at 2 a.m. while you were still in your work heels. was he asleep? studying? out with friends? with someone else?

the thought of him with another girl made your stomach twist, but you forced it down. you had no right to that jealousy. you never did.

by the end of the week, the spiral had settled into something quieter. heavier. a constant low hum under your skin. you still went to work. you still paid your bills. you still smiled when customers called you pretty.

but at night, when the apartment was too quiet and your phone stayed dark, you let yourself feel it fully — the missing, the shame, the fear that satoru had finally seen you clearly and decided you weren’t worth the trouble.

you wondered if he ever thought about you at all.

the next night, the club was the usual haze of dim lights, loud music, and expensive perfume. you were halfway through your shift, moving on autopilot, when you passed by the small staff corner near the bar. two of your co-hostesses were whispering, heads close together, giggling.

“the white haired guy’s in the vip again,” one of them said, fanning herself dramatically. “fuck, he’s so hot. like model hot. those eyes? deadly.”

“right? i saw him last time too. loaded as hell. tipped crazy. i’m fighting for that table tonight.”

your stomach flipped so hard you almost dropped the tray you were holding.

white haired guy.

vip.

there was only one person that could be.

satoru.

you stood there frozen for a second, heart suddenly hammering against your ribs. all the spiraling from the past week crashed into you at once — the unread “are we okay?”, the silence, the nights you spent convincing yourself he was just busy with college. and now he was here. in your club. in the vip room.

before you could talk yourself out of it, you walked over.

“hey,” you said, trying to sound casual even though your voice felt thin. “can i bring his drinks instead?”

your co-hostess blinked at you, confused. “wait, you know him?”

you forced a small smile. “kinda. we… have mutual friends.”

she narrowed her eyes for a second, like she was trying to read between the lines, but eventually shrugged. “sure, whatever. he’s in the big private room, table 9. order’s already going up — whiskey, the expensive one.”

you nodded quickly, heart racing as you grabbed the tray with his bottle and glass. your hands were shaking just a little. you smoothed down your dress, checked your reflection in one of the mirrored pillars, and headed upstairs.

the walk to the vip room felt longer than usual. every step made your chest tighter. what if he didn’t want to see you? what if he ignored you completely? what if he was here with someone else?

you paused right outside the door, took a deep breath, then pushed it open with your usual professional smile.

satoru was sitting on the leather couch, legs spread lazily, one arm draped over the backrest. his white hair was a little messy like he’d run his hand through it too many times. he looked good. unfairly good. the moment you stepped inside, his blue eyes lifted and locked onto you.

for a second, neither of you said anything.

you set the tray down carefully on the low table in front of him, pouring his drink with practiced movements even though your pulse was loud in your ears.

“good evening, mr. gojo,” you said softly. “your usual.”

he didn’t answer right away. just watched you. that same intense, unreadable stare that always made you feel stripped bare.

you straightened up, fingers gripping the edge of the tray a little too tightly.

“…hi,” you added, quieter this time. almost hesitant.

satoru leaned back deeper into the couch, eyes flicking over you once before settling on the glass you’d just poured. his expression stayed flat. no smirk. no sharp comment. no familiar spark of cruel amusement. just cold indifference.

he reached forward and took the glass without looking at you again.

“didn’t ask for you,” he said. voice low, casual, like he was commenting on the weather.

the words landed heavy in your chest.

you swallowed, forcing your professional smile to stay in place even as it felt like it was cracking.

“i know. i… offered.”

he took a slow sip, eyes drifting somewhere past your shoulder. the silence stretched. the low hum of the club music vibrated through the floor, but inside the private room it felt suffocatingly quiet.

“you can go,” he finally said, still not meeting your eyes. “tell the other girl to come back if she wants the tip.”

your throat tightened. heat rushed up your neck, a mix of embarrassment and hurt that made your eyes sting.

he was dismissing you. cleanly. coldly. like you were just another hostess. like the past month — the nights in his bed, the way he’d held you after, the way he’d looked at you like he actually saw you — had never happened.

you stood there for another second, hoping he’d say something else. anything. a jab. a mocking laugh. even anger would’ve been better than this nothing.

but satoru just swirled the whiskey in his glass, jaw set, like your presence was barely registering.

“…okay,” you whispered.

you turned to leave, tray clutched against your stomach like a shield. your legs felt unsteady as you walked toward the door.

just before you reached it, his voice cut through the quiet again. flat. detached.

“and close the door properly on your way out.”

no nickname. no teasing. no “baby.”

just that.

you didn’t look back. you couldn’t. you stepped out and let the heavy door click shut behind you, the sound echoing louder in your head than it should have.

you stood in the hallway for what felt like forever, back pressed against the wall, trying to steady your breathing. your eyes were burning but you refused to let the tears fall here. not at work.

then your phone buzzed in your pocket — a message from your co-hostess.

“hey, table 9 still needs someone. the other girls are all tied up with big groups downstairs. can u handle it? sorry.”

you stared at the text. of course. everyone else was busy.

you had no choice.

you wiped under your eyes quickly, fixed your expression into something that almost passed for calm, and pushed the door open again.

satoru was still in the same position — legs spread, glass in hand, staring at nothing in particular. when the door clicked shut behind you, his eyes flicked up. for a split second something crossed his face (annoyance, maybe), but it disappeared just as fast.

“the hell are you still doing here?” he asked. voice cold. flat.

you swallowed hard and stepped closer, tray still in your hands even though it was empty now.

“the other girls are all busy downstairs,” you said quietly. “big groups. i’m… the only one free right now.”

he let out a low breath through his nose, almost a scoff, and looked away again. he took another sip of whiskey, then set the glass down harder than necessary.

“great,” he muttered. “just what i needed.”

the words stung, but you stayed standing there, unsure what to do with yourself. you moved automatically — refilling his glass even though it barely needed it, adjusting the ice with the tongs, anything to keep your hands busy so they wouldn’t shake.

the silence was worse than anything he could’ve said.

you could feel him watching you now, but not in the old way. not with that sharp, curious intensity. this was colder. more distant. like he was looking at a stranger who was mildly inconveniencing him.

after a minute, you couldn’t take it anymore.

“satoru…” you started, voice barely above a whisper.

“don’t,” he cut you off immediately. his tone left no room for argument. “just do your job if you have to be here.”

he leaned back, eyes fixed on the wall instead of you.

“pour the drink. smile. pretend you’re happy to see me like you do with every other guy who walks in here. that’s what you’re good at, right?”

the casual cruelty in his voice made your chest cave in. it was the old satoru — the one who used to tear you down in front of everyone — but colder now. more exhausted. like he didn’t even have the energy to enjoy hurting you anymore.

you bit the inside of your cheek and nodded, forcing that practiced hostess smile back on your face even though it felt like glass.

“yes, mr. gojo.”

you poured his drink slowly, the amber liquid catching the low lights. inside, the spiral was loud again — louder than before.

he really didn’t want you here.

he didn’t even want to look at you.

and yet you were stuck in this room with him, heart pounding, wondering how much more of this you could take before you broke in front of him.

then satoru let out a short, bitter breath. he finally looked at you — really looked — and his eyes were colder than you’d ever seen them.

“you know what’s fucking pathetic?” he said, voice low and sharp. “you’re still waiting for him. even now, i’m guessing.”

your fingers tightened around the bottle.

he leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

“suguru treats you like disposable shit. fucks someone else right in front of you basically, sends you sweet little texts when he feels like it, and you still can’t let go.”

his voice rose just a little.

“meanwhile i—” he cut himself off mid-sentence, jaw clenching hard. for a split second his expression fractured, the cold mask slipped and you caught a glimpse of raw frustration, almost pain, flashing in his eyes. his throat bobbed like he was swallowing back whatever else he wanted to say.

he looked away quickly, running a hand through his white hair.

“i gave you the out,” he continued, quieter now, but the edge was still there. “i let you stay in my bed. i fucked you like you mattered. and the second i pull back, you’re back here looking at me with those sad fucking eyes like i’m the one who broke you.”

the tiny crack lingered for another heartbeat — his shoulders tensed like he was fighting himself — before he forced the cold mask back on.

“you really think he’s gonna choose you one day?” he added, voice flatter again. “that’s what you’re holding out for, right? while you let me do you and pretend it was some kind of revenge.”

he reached for the glass, knuckles white.

“just… stop looking at me like that,” he muttered, almost under his breath. “it’s annoying.”

you couldn’t stay quiet anymore. the words spilled out before you could stop them.

“i stopped replying to him,” you said softly, almost pleading. “to suguru. i haven’t answered any of his messages since… since that night.”

satoru stared at you for a long moment. then he let out a low, humorless laugh that sent a chill down your spine.

“for what? a few days?” he said, voice dripping with disbelief and sarcasm. “then what? the next time you’re in my bed again, you’ll be back to talking to him?”

he shook his head, leaning back against the couch with that cold, distant look returning full force.

“don’t bullshit me. we both know how this goes.”

you stood there, tray still clutched in your hands, chest aching. the confusion hit you harder than the sting of his words.

“i don’t understand why you’re acting like this,” you whispered, voice cracking slightly. “you were the one who told me to leave that night. you haven’t texted in days. and now you’re mad at me like i did something wrong?”

satoru didn’t reply. he just stared at the glass in his hand.

you took a shaky breath and stepped closer.

“tell me,” you said softly. “please. just tell me what’s going on.”

he stayed quiet for a long moment. the music from downstairs felt distant. the only sound in the room was the faint clink of ice against glass as he swirled it slowly.

then, without looking at you, he spoke.

“if i was sleeping with you…” his voice was low, almost detached. “and you found out i was still fucking with some other girl… would you like that?”

the words hit you like cold water.

you froze.

he finally lifted his eyes to meet yours. that tiny crack was back — wider this time — a mix of frustration, jealousy, and something vulnerable he was clearly trying to bury.

“would you be okay with it?” he continued, voice quieter but sharper. “knowing i was texting her sweet shit behind your back? letting you think you were the only one while i kept her around?”

“satoru…” you breathed, voice barely audible.

he looked away again, jaw tight, like saying it out loud had cost him something.

“doesn’t feel good, does it?” he muttered.

you stood there, the weight of his words sinking deeper with every second. the realization hit you in quiet waves — how you had kept one foot with suguru even while you were in satoru’s bed. the guilt settled heavy in your throat.

you went silent. completely silent. eyes burning, lips pressed tight as you tried to hold it together.

satoru noticed immediately.

his gaze sharpened on your face, and for a moment the cold mask slipped again. he exhaled sharply through his nose.

“don’t fucking cry,” he said, voice rough, almost annoyed. but there was no real bite behind it this time. it sounded more like a plea than a command. like he couldn’t handle seeing you break right now.

you blinked hard, looking down at the tray in your hands instead of at him. the tears were already threatening anyway.

satoru was quiet for a few seconds. then he leaned back, running a hand through his hair.

“what time does your shift end?” he asked, tone flatter but no longer completely detached.

you looked up, surprised.

“…two,” you answered softly.

he nodded once, eyes flicking away again.

“i’ll wait. i’ll drive you home after.”

he said it like it was nothing. like it didn’t cost him anything. but the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the glass told you otherwise.

you swallowed, heart twisting in a dozen confusing directions.

“you don’t have to—”

“i know,” he cut you off, voice low. “just… finish your shift. i’ll be here.”

the silence that followed wasn’t as heavy as before, but it was still loaded. something had shifted. he was still keeping his walls up, still cold in places, but he wasn’t pushing you away completely anymore.

you gave a small nod and quietly left the room to continue your shift, legs unsteady the whole way.

the rest of the night dragged. every minute felt longer knowing he was upstairs waiting.

the rest of your shift passed in a blur. you moved through the motions, smiling when required, but your mind stayed upstairs in that vip room. when two o’clock finally came, you changed out of your work dress as fast as you could and went back up.

satoru was already waiting by the entrance of the club, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. he didn’t say anything when he saw you. just pushed off the wall and started walking toward the parking lot. you followed quietly.

the car ride was silent at first.

he drove with one hand on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road. the city lights dragged across his face in streaks of neon. you sat in the passenger seat, hands clasped tight in your lap, stealing glances at him every few seconds. the tension from earlier still lingered, thick and heavy between you.

neither of you spoke for most of the drive.

only the low hum of the engine and the occasional sound of traffic filled the space. you wanted to say something — anything — but the words kept getting stuck in your throat.

then, as he slowed down and started to turn toward your usual street, you felt it hit you all at once. the thought of going back to your quiet, empty apartment. the same bed where you’d spent nights staring at your phone waiting for him. the loneliness that had been chewing at you for days.

your voice came out before you could stop it.

“satoru… wait.”

he glanced at you, eyebrows slightly raised, but didn’t turn the wheel yet.

“i don’t wanna stay at my apartment tonight,” you said quietly, almost embarrassed. your fingers twisted together. “i feel… lonely.”

the words hung in the air.

satoru didn’t answer right away. he kept driving straight for a few more seconds, jaw tight, like he was fighting with himself. the car slowed at the intersection.

you kept your eyes on your lap.

“you can just drop me off somewhere else if you want,” you added quickly. “or… nevermind. it’s stupid. i just—”

“stop,” he cut you off, voice low.

he didn’t turn toward your street.

instead, he drove past it, continuing straight. his grip on the steering wheel tightened for a moment before loosening again.

“you’re coming to mine,” he said flatly. no question. no warmth. just a simple statement.

you looked at him, surprised. his face stayed mostly blank, but you caught the way his throat moved when he swallowed. another tiny crack.

the rest of the ride stayed quiet, but it felt different now. heavier. like both of you knew something was about to shift again once you got to his apartment.

the drive ended too quietly. satoru parked in his usual spot under the building, killed the engine, and got out without a word. you followed him up to his apartment, the familiar hallway lights feeling strangely heavier tonight.

he unlocked the door and held it open for you. no teasing. no smirk. just a simple gesture.

“you can stay in my room,” he said flatly as he kicked off his shoes. “i’ll take the couch if you want.”

you shook your head quickly.

“no… i want to stay with you. in your room.”

he paused for a second, then gave a small nod. “fine.”

the apartment was dark and quiet, only the city glow coming through the tall windows. you both moved around silently — you going to the bathroom to wash your face, him grabbing water from the kitchen. when you finally stepped into his bedroom, he was already there, pulling an extra shirt from his drawer and tossing it onto the bed for you.

you changed into it while he turned his back, giving you privacy. then both of you climbed into his bed.

silence.

thick, heavy silence.

you lay on your side facing him. he lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. the space between your bodies felt like a canyon even though it was only a few inches. neither of you spoke for what felt like forever. you could hear his breathing, steady but not relaxed.

minutes passed.

you watched the way the city lights moved across his sharp jawline, the way his white lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks. the ache in your chest from the whole week — from his silence, from his coldness, from missing him — became too much.

slowly, carefully, you shifted closer.

you leaned in first and kissed him.

soft. hesitant. just lips brushing against his.

satoru went completely still.

for a few seconds he didn’t kiss you back. his body tensed like he was fighting it. then he pulled away slightly, turning his head.

“you need to rest,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “it’s late.”

you didn’t move away. your hand came up to rest lightly on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart.

“i want you…” you whispered against his mouth, voice barely audible. “please, satoru.”

another beat of silence.

you could feel him struggling — the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to touch you but was holding back. the way his breathing changed.

“you’re tired,” he said again, weaker this time. “and i’m still… fuck, i’m still pissed at you.”

but even as he said it, his hand slowly moved to your waist, gripping the fabric of his shirt you were wearing. not pushing you away. just holding.

you kissed him again, a little deeper this time. a little more desperate.

this time, he didn’t pull back.

his lips finally moved against yours — slow, almost reluctant at first, like he was still trying to convince himself this was a bad idea. but the longer you kissed him, the more the hesitation melted. his hand slid under the shirt, palm warm against your bare skin, pulling you closer until your bodies were pressed together.

the slow burn built between you. no rush. just heavy breathing, quiet sighs, hands exploring like it was the first time again. his kisses grew hungrier, but still controlled. like he was scared of giving in too fast.

“tell me to stop,” he breathed against your neck, lips dragging over your skin. “if you’re just doing this because you’re lonely… tell me to stop.”

you shook your head, fingers threading through his soft white hair.

“i don’t want you to,” you whispered.

you kissed him again, deeper this time, and satoru finally gave in.

his hand gripped your waist tighter, pulling you on top of him. the kiss turned intense fast — hungry, messy, almost desperate. he sucked on your bottom lip, tongue sliding against yours as his hands roamed under the shirt, squeezing your ass and pulling you down against his growing hardness.

“fuck,” he muttered against your mouth. “you’re really not gonna let me be mad at you tonight, huh?”

you ground against him, already wet and aching. he groaned low in his throat and flipped you onto your back, settling between your legs. he didn’t tease for long. he pushed his shirt up your body, mouth latching onto your neck, then your tits, biting and sucking hard enough to leave marks while two fingers slid inside you, curling roughly.

you moaned, back arching. he added a third finger, fucking you with them fast and deep, thumb pressing on your clit until your thighs were shaking.

“satoru—”

“yeah?” he breathed, voice rough. “this what you wanted?”

he pulled his fingers out, replaced them with his cock in one smooth thrust. you gasped at the stretch. he didn’t give you time to adjust — he started fucking you hard, deep, hips snapping against yours with wet, obscene sounds. every thrust pushed a broken moan out of you.

it was intense. almost punishing. like he was still angry but couldn’t stop himself from wanting you.

after a while he pulled out, breathing heavy.

“turn around,” he ordered, voice low.

you got on all fours, face pressed into the pillow. satoru knelt behind you, gripping your hips hard as he pushed back in. the new angle made you cry out. he fucked you deeper like this, one hand fisting your hair, the other slapping your ass once, twice, before holding you in place.

your phone was lying on the bed near the headboard. it started ringing.

the screen lit up.

suguru.

satoru saw the name immediately. his thrusts slowed down, turning into deep, lazy grinds, dragging his cock against your walls teasingly. he didn’t say a word. just kept moving slowly while staring at the screen.

you reached for the phone with a shaky hand, declined the call, then quickly went to his contact and blocked the number. you even deleted the chat.

when you looked back at satoru over your shoulder, he was smiling — that sharp, satisfied, dangerous little smile.

he snapped his hips forward hard and started fucking you faster. rougher. pounding into you mercilessly, the sound of skin slapping loud in the room. his grip on your hips turned bruising as he pulled you back onto his cock with every brutal thrust.

“for how long is he blocked?” he asked, voice low and mocking, still smiling as he railed you. “five hours? twelve?”

you shook your head quickly, moaning with every hard thrust.

“no… no—”

“when you’re back at your place,” he continued, panting slightly but still teasing, still arrogant, “you gonna talk to him again?”

you kept shaking your head desperately, tears of pleasure stinging your eyes.

“no— i won’t— i promise—”

he fucked you faster. rougher. pounding into you with renewed force, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. his grip on your hips was bruising as he pulled you back onto his cock with every thrust.

“fuck yes,” he groaned, voice rough with pleasure. “that better be true. fuck…”

you could barely think. every hard thrust made your eyes roll back, moans spilling out uncontrollably. satoru leaned over you, one hand sliding between your legs to rub your clit fast while he kept fucking you mercilessly from behind.

“mine now,” he whispered against your ear, biting your shoulder. “say it.”

“yours— satoru, nggggh— ‘m yours,” you cried out, clenching hard around him.

he groaned loudly, pace turning erratic as he chased his release. you came first, shaking and moaning into the pillow. satoru followed right after, burying himself deep and filling you up with hot, thick pulses, hips stuttering against your ass as he rode it out.

both of you collapsed onto the bed, breathing hard.

he stayed inside you for a while, arms wrapped around your waist, face pressed against the back of your neck.

You sat alone in your room, the dim light casting shadows on the walls. You couldn't shake the feeling of not belonging anywhere in life. It gnawed at you constantly, this sense that if you up and left for good, it wouldn't affect anyone at all. No one would notice. You wouldn't be a blip on anyone's radar. It wouldn't matter.

The weight of this realization pressed down on you, making it hard to breathe. You felt like a bystander to your own life, watching it pass by without being able to participate. Every time you tried to voice your opinion, people would either ignore you or brush you off as if you were a piece of lint. It was like you were invisible, and the more you tried to be seen, the more you faded into the background.

You thought about how much you longed to matter to someone, anyone. But the harsh reality was that you felt utterly insignificant, and that thought was almost too much to bear.

The days always seem to drag along. Slowly inching by as if time were a dying heart. Beating just barely. Just enough to get by. That's how you felt. You felt as though you were barely getting by.

It didn't matter what you did: surrounding yourself with people, taking large amounts of work that you knew you shouldn't, and even going so far as to hook up with someone random. None of it worked.

Your hookup wanted to become more of a regular in your life. He claimed it was casual. Simply a fix for the both of you. Anytime one of you may need it. At least that's what he had said. Of course you didn't mind. Anything to not be so alone.

So here you were, underneath the sheets with this brunette haired, blue eyed, greek god of a guy, and all you could do was fake some moans and an orgasm or two, hoping the experience would be over soon.

After he left, you showered. The piping hot water doing very little to soothe the ache in your heart. It felt like there was a gaping hole there instead of an organ. This void that would never be filled. This emptiness that you felt, it was consuming you. You were becoming it. The void. You were the void.

Months passed, and you were still with this fling of yours. Chris. Sure, you didn't mind being his ‘fix’ as he called it. Yet you didn't help but feel like you were still missing something. Like you were still alone.

Which, right now, you were alone. Your back pressed up against the headboard of your bed. Your knees bent and your fingers fisting through the roots of your hair, tugging and pulling as your mind raced. You begged yourself to calm down. Telling your mind that you'd be okay. That you were okay.

You weren't. You haven't been. Nothing seems to be okay. Not right now, not ever. It didn't matter. None of it did. You'd never be okay. This feeling. This feeling of being alone and empty. That's not okay. You weren't okay.

*I assume this is for Geriatric (canon) Kishibe. Also, I will not hold back on the Katana Dweeb slander!

W for Wet [How would they have sex in the shower?]

Kishibe:

Shower s3x is rare, since he doesn’t want to risk the chances of slipping and an embarrassing trip to the ER. Having a lil s0apland fun? Yes! He loves to relax as his (nude) partner pampers him by: drawing his bath & massaging him. He is down bad for the sheen of the soap accentuating the curves of his partner’s body. The warm sensation of the water also helps to enhance his endurance. This time is more focused on teasing & f0replay, there will be lots of touching: f*ngering & j*rking. Literally this is his top tier self care indulgence experience.

Katana Dweeb Man:

In short? No. He thinks s3x in the shower is very odd & contradicting to the purpose of a shower. He will allow his wife to tend to him during a bath, but it is not an expectation on his part. Wash his hair? Yes. Wash his back? Yes. Wait! You’re going too low! Keep your hands above the waist! He is honestly such a prude sometimes and you come to find it kinda…cute? If you happen to j*rk him, he will be helpless & endure it. But, beware, he will be lecturing you on decency and how inappropriate it was (despite how good it felt and how it will fuel his wet dreams for weeks).

Q for Quickie [How would they have sex if they’re in a hurry?]

Kishibe:

This man is all about taking all he could get: life is short and he is in a profession where every minute lived is a blessing counted. He is hedonistic, heavy on the self indulgence wherever whenever. He has casual arrangements spaced out evenly across metropolitan Tokyo because it will allow for a maximum outreach when he wants a “booty call”. When he calls, you better be available (or make yourself available). A brief trip to a love hotel. Dropping by your apartment. In his car. Anything goes. At this age, he doesn’t spend much time on foreplay and gets directly to the main course: one way ticket to POUND TOWN. When time is of the essence, he gets a little selfish when he focuses solely on his climax. S3x is straightforward, and it is right back to the regular day when it concludes.

Katana Dweeb Man:

He doesn’t like “quickies”. Strictly thinks it is disrespectful to his “wife” since their intimacy shouldn’t be taken so lightly. Having little-to-no experience in this department, he also prefers to take his time to get comfortable because he doesn’t want it to negatively impact his performance. Does he get suddenly h0rny & s3xually frustrated? Yes, but he will try to suppress it away. It is very rare, but he the only one he will allow near his family jewels is his lawfully recognized partner. When it becomes unbearable, his “wife” will relieve him with her mouth or hands…and he will feel awful about it since he equates this act as demeaning her to that of a common wh0re. Will most definitely return the favour materialistically: SHOPPING SPREE!

S for Sexy [What would they do/wear to turn on their partner?]

Kishibe:

Change himself to turn on his partner(s)? Ha! This GILF effortlessly gets b*tches. The beauty of Geriatric Kishibe is that what you see is what you get - he won’t necessarily disclose everything, but he also doesn’t hide anything. In typical old-fashioned pick up techniques, he will buy you a drink to convey his interest to you. He is normally in his work uniform (since he gets called in to work), but his usual attire is just a simple white dress shirt and dark slacks (mostly black). He won’t wear a tie (cuz he is not a frigid suit), he will loosen the top few buttons of his collar and roll up his sleeves to showcase his toned forearms. He may wear change up from leather to suede dress shoes if he is feeling extra. This man’s been in the game since the 60s, he’s still got game and he is all about the simplicity.

Katana Dweeb Man:

The thing about this guy is that he hypes himself up. He may appear to be confident, but secretly he is anxious about everything on the inside. He idolizes his grandfather and the legacy of the family leads before him so much to the extent that he lost his own individuality. Everything he does is meant to copy the his grandfather prototype, since that’s what he associates with as the ideal man. He’s become an old soul, where his attire and mannerisms resembles a blast from the past. S3xy? If he is following his grandfather’s example, then he is already doing things right. Will definitely think appearance wise, there is nothing for him to improve on. Will definitely pay for everything as a gesture that he thinks of you as his woman, he has that old fashioned attitude where men must be breadwinners or else he would be nothing but a failure.

D for Dirty [How do they dirty talk? What do they say?]

Kishibe:

Honestly, it’s not even dirty talk. This old man just be calling out instructions like a drill sergeant. It only comes off as s3xy because he is so shamelessly blunt with the things that comes out of his unfiltered mouth. “Oi, bend your back and perk your a.ss up more!” and “This sl*tty p*ssy is taking my d*ck real good.” are just effortless words to him. Sure he means what he says, but he doesn’t say it with the intention of turning you on.

Katana Dweeb Man:

Dirty talk? This pathetic virgin can’t even gaslight Denji of all people (yes, Denji who consistently falls victim to grooming and false narratives). He tries to dirty talk or at least he thinks he is doing dirty talk. He is so egotistic that he will try to be poetic about it. Will try to spew out a haiku that compliments his performance and libido, but it will sound awkward and ruin the mood. I can’t bs an example because I will literally LMAO & then vomit. Sorry.

A for Aphrodisiac [What always turns them on?]

Kishibe:

Personality-wise, he prefers a confident woman who is mature and levelheaded. He hates explaining and repeating himself, he needs someone who could hold a conversation with him and someone who could pick up his subtle tones. Physically, he secretly appreciates a beauty with a curvaceous body with luscious locks. Although, he claims he is not that picky when it comes to physical appearances, his “type” still mirrors the beauty icons of his youth.

Katana Dweeb Man:

Obedience and modesty. He is a traditionalist, well…that is just a nicer way of saying he is a misogynistic @.sshole. His father was absent for his childhood, so he grew up with his grandfather and picked up on the old man’s ways. He is such a try-hard that he is actually very foreign with his s3xuality; he spends his time learning how to lead the family organization rather than having his mind in the gutter. His grandfather never got the chance to go over the pleasurable aspects of s3x with him, so as far as he knows: s3x is a duty between the husband and wife in order to produce an heir.

C for Cuddling [How do they cuddle after sex?]

Kishibe:

Current canon Kishibe? No. He is at an age where he unconsciously fears & avoids any type of emotional intimacy. He sealed off his heart a long time ago. S3x is merely a physical option to relieve some stress, he doesn’t view s3x as a form of closure between two lovers. After the climax, he will usually light a cigarette, get a drink, shower before leaving. No cuddles (or good aftercare) from this old man…most you would get is “I’m going to get a drink/cigarette, you want one?”

Katana Dweeb Man

Although I described him as a misogynist @.sshole, this guy actually appreciates pillow talk & post-coitus cuddles. The only condition is that he must be the bigger spoon, cuz that’s the only manly thing to be. To initiate it, his partner “wife” must thank him for giving her a wonderful time and for allowing her to receive his seed (omg, I gagged so much writing this). The cuddles will only last as long as you are able to fan his ego.

A - Aftercare (what are they like after sex)

The first time you have sex, Levi needs a lot of comfort. He'd never been that vulnerable with someone before and it took a lot for him to open up like that, so aftercare for him is the priority. Once sex becomes more frequent and he gets used to everything, he's the one to clean you both up but he still needs more emotional reassurance than he'll admit.

B - Body part (fav body part of themselves/their partner)

He isn't a vain person, so he'd probably say his arms just because of how much you love them. He wasn't too fussed at first but because of all the attention you give them he's started growing fonder of them.

His favourite part of you is your neck and collarbones. He didn't even realize he had a thing for that until he met you, and whenever you wear chokers he can't take his eyes off you.

C - Cum (where do they prefer to cum?)

Levi prefers to cum on your stomach, purely because it makes it easier to clean up. (He's always very mindful of any mess.)

D - Dirty secret (self-explanatory)

It obviously couldn't happen because of his status, but it sends a shiver of arousal through him whenever he imagines you humiliating him in public. It's something he wants to try in private, though he's nervous to talk about it with you.

E - Experience (how experienced are they?)

Levi is a virgin, since he doesn't have sex with people he doesn't genuinely, 100% trust. You'll have to guide him through everything at the beginning, however he's a quick learner and picks it up pretty fast.

F - Favourite position (goes without saying)

He likes missionary a lot because it lets him feel close to you, and he'll melt if you wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. He also gets shy sometimes, so this position is perfect to hide his face in your neck.

G - Goofy (are they goofy or serious in the moment?)

Other than the odd sarcastic comment, he's generally serious. If he's in a vulnerable position then joking around doesn't calm his nerves at all.

H - Hair (opinions on grooming etc.)

Levi keeps his own hair neatly trimmed. He'd prefer if you keep yours vaguely under control but, as long as it's clean, it's up to you how you keep it.

I - Intimacy (how intimate are they during sex?)

It takes him a while to fully open up to you, but sex becomes one of the most intimate moments you ever share with Levi where he truly breaks down all his walls for you, just the two of you.

J - Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He doesn't tend to masturbate unless he's really desperate. Something about it just makes him uncomfortable, but he also has urges sometimes when you aren't available.

K - Kinks (again, pretty self-explanatory)

When you first started sleeping together, Levi had more of the control because he thought that was the way it was 'supposed' to be. However once you brought up the idea of him being submissive, your dynamic shifted. He was extremely hesitant at the beginning because he wasn't used to being in such a powerless position, though as soon as you managed to get him into a submissive headspace it became a regular occurrence.

Levi is a sub at heart who needs a soft dom more than anything. Some of the kinks you've explored that he likes are bondage, light impact play, praise, orgasm denial and marking (as long as the marks are hidden during the day.)

He also definitely has a bit of a humiliation kink but he's still working up the courage to tell you.

L - Location (favourite place to do the deed)

His favourite place is a tie between the shower and his desk. Sometimes when he's had a long day and doesn't want a full scene, he likes to have sex in the shower (also it makes clean-up easier). Although if he feels like subbing, as long as the door is locked, one of his favourite things is for you to cockwarm him while he's trying to work.

M - Motivation (what gets them going)

Showing skin is a sure-fire way to get him riled up. I personally headcanon Levi as demisexual, so he doesn't care when other people show skin, but if it's you? All you have to do is leave a couple buttons undone, expose your chest a little, and he is done for. Also, slipping casual praise into conversations will sometimes start pushing him into a submissive headspace, especially if you've done a lot of scenes with him recently because he starts responding to that tone of voice.

N - No (something they'd never do)

He doesn't like intense pain play - he's had enough pain the rest of his life so he needs you to be gentle with him. He also wouldn't want a harsh or strict dom, preferring to have you take care of him instead.

O - Oral (preference in giving, receiving etc.)

He enjoys both equally. Before you'd had sex you wanted to ease him into the experience carefully, so you gave him his first blowjob and he almost sobbed from the stimulation. Buuuuuuut alongside that he would also happily spend hours between yours legs - the praise you give him as he pleasures you and the feeling of you clenching around his tongue is almost enough to make him finish without any physical touch.

P - Pace (are they fast, slow, quick, rough?)

If it's just against the wall in the shower then it tends to be a bit faster, and on the odd occasion Levi feels more dominant he can get rougher, but he is usually perfectly content to let you decide the pace entirely.

Q - Quickie (opinion on quickies)

They're good sometimes, especially when you're both very busy with other duties. They're good to relieve basic urges, but Levi would never choose them over a full scene.

R - Risk (how open are they to risk?)

Levi is open to a bit of experimentation, but never anything exhibitionist. He can't risk the possibility of someone catching him in a compromising position, considering his importance in the military, so he insists that you keep all bedroom activities private.

S - Stamina (how long can they go for?)

As expected, at the start Levi had pretty low stamina since it was all so new and overwhelming. It gotten a little better since then but he also has a fairly quick recovery time to make up for it.

T - Toys (opinion on using toys etc.)

He doesn't particularly enjoy using toys on you, but adores when you use toys on him.

U - Unfair (how much do they like to tease?)

He'll only tease you a little when he's in a dominant mood and you've been doing something to piss him off, but the rest of the time it's not something he does at all. (He kind of likes when you tease him though.)

V - Volume (are they loud or quiet?)

Levi is cautious to control his volume so that other people don't hear, but his whimpers of pleasure can get quite loud sometimes.

W - Wild card (random headcanon)

During a scene once, while he was deep into subspace, he accidently called you mommy. When he realized what he said he was mortified, and almost started dropping. You had to quickly assure him that it was perfectly alright, that you weren't upset with him, and that you don't mind it if he wants to keep calling you that. He only uses that name for you when he's really, really submissive, and it's adorable hearing the tiny whimpers of "P-please mommy..."

X - X-ray (what's going on... down there?)

So many people seem to think that this man has a monster cock. He is 5'3 there is no way. He's a little smaller than average, in length and girth, but that just means you can hear him whine when you take his whole length into your mouth.

Y - Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

His sex drive is low most of the time. He has so many other things he has to focus on everyday, so sex doesn't cross his mind that much. Sex is more of a stress relief that he doesn't think too much about until it happens.

Z - Zzzzz... (how quickly do they fall asleep after?)