#ateez fluff

He’s posted at the middle of it all, a bottle of expensive liquor in one hand and a girl in the other. She’s whispering in his ear, probably promising him things people only say out loud when their inhibitions have been loosened by alcohol and the hope of being remembered. It’s a practised scene, and you can tell from the way Mingi’s eyes slide from her face to the crowd and back again that he’s already bored. He’s hunting, you realise, and the realisation leaves you faintly amused.

You’ve had classes with him before and found his intellect sharper than his reputation suggests, but he’s never bothered to speak to you directly, which is fine. You prefer it that way. You know exactly what happens to girls who mistake the man for the myth.

But tonight, for whatever reason, he looks right at you.

You don’t realise it at first; you’re half-listening to the rowers behind you, half-calculating the economic impact of the university’s new housing policy for the department group chat. There’s a lull in the noise, a momentary vacuum, and then his gaze lands like a physical thing. It takes you off guard—the pure concentration of it, as if he’s seeing you in high-definition while the rest of the house blurs into obscurity. His attention is so heavy, so absolute, that even the girl on his arm notices and goes rigid with annoyance.

Your instinct is to look away. But for some reason, you don’t. Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in your veins, maybe it’s the novelty of being the focal point in a room devoted to him, but you meet his eyes and hold them. Mingi’s mouth quirks, not into a smirk but something strange and speculative, and when he finally looks away, it feels less like defeat and more like a challenge accepted.

Within the hour, he maneuvers his way to your side of the party, the girl from before abandoned to the mercy of the crowd. He props an elbow on the countertop, leans in so dangerously close, “Didn’t think this was your scene.”

You arch an eyebrow, the response easy. “It really isn’t, my roommate dragged me out.”

He grins, all teeth and promise. “I have to thank her for bringing such a pretty girl to my party.”

You roll your eyes, annoyed but not surprised. The rest of the party moves around you in a kind of staccato blur. A game of beer pong erupts into a shouting match in the dining room; someone’s Bluetooth speaker dies mid-chorus, leading to a plaintive chorus of off-key singing. People bump into you, apologise, and then linger a beat longer than necessary to see if you’re still talking to Mingi. He doesn’t seem to notice, but you do. He asks what you’re studying, and you answer. You ask him what he wants to do after graduation, and he shrugs, but the gesture is so carefree yet careful.

“If this soccer thing doesn’t work out, I’ll intern at some start-up company,” he explained. “Or I’ll sell feet pics.”

You cringe at the image. The girl from before stalks past, her glare sharp enough to sever arteries. Mingi watches her go but his gaze falls right back to you. 

By midnight, the house dissolves into its constituent parts: the freshies, the clean-up crew, the drunk casualties. Mingi drifts away, then back again—at your side, across the kitchen, never quite out of reach. He offers you a drink at one point; you decline, still nursing the same seltzer. It doesn’t stop him. He keeps finding his way back, as if every conversation eventually leads to you.

You leave before he does. There’s no dramatic goodbye, no exchanged numbers or whispered invitations—just a passing nod, the kind that could mean anything or nothing at all. You don’t look back. By the time you’re out the door (your roommate long gone with a lacrosse player, leaving you to fend for yourself), the night already feels like it’s starting to blur at the edges. Whatever that was, if it was anything, you let it go.

Inside, though, Mingi doesn’t. He’s still watching the spot where you disappeared, gaze fixed a beat too long, like he’s waiting for you to reappear. The noise of the party swells back in around him, but he doesn’t move—drink untouched, conversation abandoned mid-thread.

A shoulder bumps into his.

“What’s with that look on your face?”

Mingi blinks, like he’s just been pulled back into the room. “What look?”

Yunho huffs a quiet laugh. “That look. You had heart eyes bro don't even play.”

Mingi scoffs, quick, automatic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His friend raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, following his line of sight to the now-empty doorway before glancing back at him. Mingi exhales through his nose, finally tearing his gaze away, dragging a hand over the back of his neck like he can shake it off. He should've definitely asked for your number.

══════════════════

Monday morning arrives with the kind of headache that has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with three consecutive all-nighters. Professor Kim’s Advanced Macroeconomic Theory is notoriously brutal, and you’ve spent the weekend buried under supply-demand graphs and inflation models. As you slide into your usual seat, you’re already mentally rehearsing your presentation on fiscal policy scheduled for next week.

Which is why, when Mingi strolls through the lecture hall doors at 8:58 AM, you momentarily forget how to function.

He shouldn’t be here. This isn’t his class, or at least it hasn’t been for the past six weeks. You’ve never seen him in this lecture hall before, despite it being nearly midterm. Yet there he is, wearing dark jeans and a simple white button down that somehow looks so irritatingly good on his frame, scanning the room with casual confidence. His eyes find yours immediately, as if it’s magnetised. The smile that follows is different from Friday night’s—smaller, more genuine, it was like he wanted to see you. Before you can process what’s happening, he’s navigating the row of seats, stepping over backpacks and laptops until he’s standing right next to you.

“This seat taken?” he asks, gesturing to the empty chair beside you.

You blink, thrown by the unexpected proximity. “I didn’t know you were in this class.”

“I’m full of surprises.” He drops into the seat, arranging his long legs in the cramped space. “So, how’d you find the party?”

The question is casual, but there’s something careful in his tone, as if your answer matters more than he’s letting on. You notice he pulled out a notebook AND a pen, this was definitely exceeding your expectations of him. Then again, what did you expect anyway? 

“It was... something,” you reply, deliberately vague. “Though I’m surprised to see you conscious before noon, much less in an 8 AM econ lecture.”

He laughs, the sound low enough not to draw attention but warm enough to settle somewhere beneath your ribs. “What, you think I spend all my mornings hungover?”

“The evidence suggested a statistical probability.”

“Maybe I’m an outlier.” He leans closer, close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne—smelling faintly of citrus and cedarwood. “Or I just needed the right motivation to show up.”

Thankfully Professor Kim walks in and begins the lecture, leaving you no time to tweak out over whatever the fuck he said. You expect Mingi to lose interest, to pull out his phone, or to doze off, like half the class inevitably does when the professor starts droning on about aggregate demand curves. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes focused on the presentation slides. Ten minutes in, when he introduces a particularly convoluted model, Mingi shifts slightly toward you.

“Hey,” he leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “If the Phillips curve is supposed to show the inverse relationship between unemployment and inflation, why is he saying it’s unstable in the long run?”

The question catches you off guard—not because it’s difficult, but because it’s astute. “Because expectations adjust,” you whisper back. “Workers anticipate inflation and demand higher wages, which shifts the curve.”

He nods, considering this. “So it’s only reliable as a short-term predictor?”

“Yeah, you got it.”

Throughout the next hour, Mingi continues to ask questions—thoughtful ones that reveal he’s not just listening but actively processing. Each time he leans in, you feel a strange flutter of... something. Not just attraction, though that’s undeniably there, but surprise. Mingi, the guy who supposedly once turned the campus fountain into a bubble bath during finals week, is engaging with macroeconomic theory like it genuinely interests him.

“The Solow model assumes diminishing returns to capital,” he murmurs at one point, frowning slightly. “Doesn’t that contradict what we’re seeing with tech companies? They seem to get increasing returns the bigger they get.”

You stare at him for a beat too long. “That’s... actually a good point. The model was developed before the rise of digital economies. Network effects change the math.”

A smile spreads across his face, pleased and slightly smug, as if he’s won something. “I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

The comment should be annoying, but delivered in a whisper while the professor drones on about growth rates, it makes you roll your eyes and bite back a smile instead. By the time class ends, you’ve had to recalibrate your entire perception of him. He’s taken actual notes. He’s asked intelligent questions. He’s made connections between concepts that some of your study group members still struggle with. It’s disorienting, like discovering your cat can suddenly understand what you’re saying. As you pack up your laptop, he lingers, watching you with that same intense focus from the party.

“So,” he says, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “I think I deserve some credit for showing up today. Maybe we could grab coffee, and you could explain more about that Phillips curve thing?”

The invitation is transparent—he doesn’t need your help understanding the Phillips curve—but there’s something almost endearing about his attempt.

“Is that your go-to line?” you ask, unable to keep the amusement from your voice. “Pretend to need academic help to get a date?”

“Only with the smart ones.” His grins unapologetically. “Is it working?”

You laugh, shaking your head as you stand. “No. Nice try, though.”

Rather than looking discouraged, his eyes light up with what can only be described as delighted challenge. He falls into step beside you as you head for the door.

“You know what this means, right?” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. “Now I have to come up with something better for Wednesday’s class.”

“Wednesday’s class?” You stop at the doorway, genuinely surprised. “You’re coming back?”

Mingi looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “Of course. I paid for this course, didn’t I? Besides,” he adds, his smile turning slightly wicked, “I’ve got a new reason to show up now.”

Before you can protest this presumptuous declaration, he’s backing away, walking backward down the hallway with that infuriating confidence.

“See you Wednesday,” he calls. “Maybe by then you’ll have reconsidered that coffee date.”

You watch him go, torn between irritation and a reluctant spark of interest. The worst part is, you already know you’ll be thinking about him for the rest of the day, analysing his questions, his attention, the way he looked at you like you were a particularly fascinating economic theory he was determined to master. Despite your best intentions, you’re already wondering what he’ll come up with on Wednesday.

══════════════════

True to his word, Mingi shows up to every single class over the next few weeks. Not just Macroeconomic Theory, but your shared Political Science workshop and even the optional Economics Department lectures that most students skip. Each time, he gravitates toward you like you’re the north to his south, sliding into adjacent seats with casual determination.

At first, you’re suspicious—waiting for the punchline, the reveal that this is some elaborate bet or another frat bro prank. The punchline never comes. Instead, he brings you coffee and snacks, asks thoughtful questions about the material, and occasionally makes you laugh with whispered commentary when Professor Kim goes on one of his tangents about his glory days at the Federal Reserve.

You find yourself slipping into a strange routine. He’ll wait for you after class, walking you to your next destination while debating fiscal multipliers or the ethics of quantitative easing. Sometimes his soccer teammates call out to him across the quad, and you watch the transformation—how he shifts into the boisterous, larger-than-life Mingi they expect, before settling back into the more thoughtful version when he returns to your side.

It’s Tuesday afternoon when everything shifts. The library is packed with students cramming for midterms, the air thick with desperation and the smell of overpriced coffee. You’ve claimed your usual table by the economics stacks when Mingi drops into the chair across from you, his expression unusually serious.

“I need to ask you something,” he says, no preamble, no charming smile.

You glance up from your notes, pen hovering. “Okay?”

He runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “I need a tutor.”

You stare at him, waiting for the joke. When it doesn’t come, you set down your pen. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve been getting the material just fine.”

“No, I haven’t.” His voice is lower now, stripped of its usual confidence. “I’ve been barely keeping up. The midterm’s in two weeks, and I’m—“ He stops, jaw tightening. “I need to pass this class with at least a B+.”

“You’ve been answering questions in class,” you counter, confused by this sudden admission. “You made that connection about endogenous growth theory that even Professor Kim said was insightful.”

Mingi’s laugh is hollow. “Yeah, after spending six hours the night before trying to understand it. Look—“ He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I’m not as smart as you think I am. Not naturally, anyway. I have to work twice as hard just to keep up.”

You study him, searching for signs of insincerity. “Why are you telling me this now? And why me?”

“You’re the smartest person in this class. I–I don’t know who else to ask…” His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable. “I think you might actually help me without making me feel stupid about it.”

Something doesn’t add up. You’ve seen him joke around with teaching assistants, charm his way into deadline extensions. “I don’t understand–”

Mingi glances around, then lowers his voice. “I’m on an athletic scholarship. Full ride, but I have to maintain a 3.5 GPA, or I lose it.” He runs a hand over his face. “My advisor warned me last week. This class is dragging everything down. If I don’t get at least a B+ on this midterm, I’m screwed.”

The admission hangs between you, reshaping your understanding of him. You didn’t expect him to be so honest, let alone be honest with you. You knew you were more than capable of tutoring him, you’ve tutored multiple students and peers in past. A part of you wants to deny him— to encourage him to try the other capable tutors in this course but something about his vulnerability made you hold back on that decision. 

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” you ask, softer now.

“Because it’s embarrassing?” He gives a self-deprecating smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “The dumb jock stereotype exists for a reason. I’ve been fighting it since high school.” He hesitates. “And maybe I wanted you to think I was smart enough to keep up with you.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. This is a different man than the one who struts across campus with practised nonchalance, who holds court at parties with effortless charm. This Mingi looks tired and worried, seeing him like this made your heart sink a little.

“I can’t afford a professional tutor,” he continues when you don’t immediately respond. “Most of my scholarship money goes to housing and food. I can pay you a tutor fee if you have one. Please.”

You should say no. You have your own exams to study for, your own GPA to maintain. But there’s something about seeing him like this—defences down, pride set aside—that makes it difficult.

“If I do this,” you say slowly, “there would be conditions.”

Hope flickers across his face. “Name them.”

“First, you pay me. My normal rate is sixty per session but considering your situation, I can lower the cost—this is work, not charity.” You hold up a finger. “Second, you actually put in the effort. No skipping sessions, no half-assing the practice problems I give you.” Another finger joins the first. “And third, no messing around. This isn’t a backdoor way to—I don’t know—whatever it is you might be thinking.”

“You think I’m using this as an excuse to hit on you?” For the first time, genuine amusement crosses his face. “That would be a pretty elaborate scheme, even for me.”

“I’m serious, Mingi.”

“So am I.” The smile fades. “I need this scholarship. Please.”

You sigh, already second-guessing yourself. “Fine. We start tomorrow. Six pm, here. Bring your textbook, all your notes, and any practice exams you can get your hands on.”

The relief that washes over his face is so raw it makes you uncomfortable. He reaches across the table, squeezing your hand briefly. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you warn. “I’m not going to go easy on you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” He stands, some of his usual confidence returning.

As you watch him walk away, shoulders straight but tension visible in the line of his neck, you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve just crossed some invisible boundary. This isn’t just coffee after class or witty banter during lectures. This is entangling yourself in his future, taking partial responsibility for his success or failure. You turn back to your notes, trying to focus, but your mind keeps drifting to the look in his eyes when he admitted he needed help. The vulnerability there was real—you’re almost certain of it. Almost. As you pack up your things hours later, doubt creeps in. You’ve seen how charming he can be, how easily he navigates social situations to get what he wants. What if this is just another performance? What if you’re falling for an act designed to manipulate you into doing his academic heavy lifting? The questions follow you all the way home, lingering as you prepare for bed. You set an alarm for tomorrow and added a reminder to prepare some preliminary materials for your first tutoring session. Despite your misgivings, you’re already mapping out a study plan, identifying the concepts he seemed to struggle with most.

Surely, this little arrangement you have going on won’t be a mistake… Right?

══════════════════

You arrive at the library fifteen minutes early to set up, spreading out practice problems and your own colour-coded notes across the table. You’ve been overthinking this all day—wondering if he’ll even show up, if this whole vulnerable confession was just an elaborate ploy to get you to do his work for him. The clock hits 6:00 PM. Then 6:05. Your suspicions start to crystallise into something like disappointment.

At 6:07, Mingi rushes through the library doors, slightly out of breath. He’s carrying a tray with two coffees and a small paper bag that smells suspiciously of baked goods.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, sliding into the chair across from you. “The line at the café was insane.”

You eye the coffee sceptically. “Is this a bribe?”

He laughs, quieter than his usual boisterous sound, mindful of the library setting. “No, it’s a thank you. Here, try this.” He slides one cup toward you. “Oh, and I got those almond croissants you mentioned the other day. Though honestly, I might have also gotten them because I’m starving.”

The fact that he remembered your drink order is surprising enough. That he recalled an offhand comment you made about pastries during a five-minute conversation between classes is something else entirely.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, but you accept the cup anyway, the warmth seeping into your palms.

“S’alright, I wanted to.” He pulls out his textbook and a surprisingly organised binder of notes. “So, where do we start?”

For the next hour, you walk him through the fundamental concepts of various economic principles, expecting his attention to wander, waiting for the inevitable check of his phone or glance at the clock. It never comes. Instead, Mingi leans forward, brow furrowed in concentration, asking questions that reveal he’s been paying closer attention than you gave him credit for. 

“So if technological progress is exogenous in this model,” he questions, tapping his pencil against the page, “then what actually drives long-term growth? Since capital accumulation alone has diminishing returns, right?”

“Exactly.” You can’t help the surprise in your voice. “That’s one of the model’s main limitations. It doesn’t explain where technological progress comes from.”

He nods, making a note in the margin of his textbook. “Which is why we need endogenous growth theory.”

You stare at him. “You’ve been reading ahead.”

A hint of his usual smirk appears. “Don’t sound so shocked. I told you I’m locked in for our sessions.”

“Reading ahead is a bit more than just locking in,” you point out.

“Maybe I’m trying to impress my tutor.” He winks, but there’s something different about his teasing now—less performative.

You roll your eyes, fighting back a smile. “Focus, Mingi.”

“I am focused,” he protests, gesturing to his detailed notes. “See? I’m being a model student.”

“A model student wouldn’t have waited until three weeks before midterms to ask for help,” you counter, but there’s no bite to your words.

“True.” He stretches, his arm brushing against yours as he reaches for another practice problem. The brief contact sends an unexpected jolt through you. “But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your company on a Wednesday evening.”

You ignore the flutter in your stomach. “Haha. Very funny.”

As the session progresses, you find yourself relaxing into a rhythm with him. He’s attentive, asking thoughtful questions and working through problems with determined concentration. When he gets stuck on a particularly tricky concept about crowding-out effects, he doesn’t get frustrated—instead, he listens carefully to your explanation, his eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that makes your cheeks warm.

“Like this?” he asks after reworking the problem, sliding his paper toward you.

Your fingers brush as you take it, and neither of you pulls away immediately. You study his work, acutely aware of how close he’s sitting, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the drinks between you.

“That’s...actually perfect,” you admit, surprised by the clarity of his work. “You got it exactly right.”

His smile is different from any you’ve seen before—not the practiced charm he flashes at parties or the competitive grin on the soccer field. It’s smaller, more genuine, edged with relief.

“I have a good teacher,” he says simply.

You clear your throat, suddenly finding the library too warm. “Let’s try another one.”

Two hours fly by faster than you expected. Mingi works through problem after problem, his understanding visibly improving with each explanation. When he successfully graphs a complex IS-LM model without assistance, the pride on his face is so unguarded it catches you off guard.

“See? Not just another dumb jock,” he says, but the joke doesn’t land quite right. You hear the insecurity beneath it.

“I never thought you were dumb,” you say carefully. “Unmotivated, maybe. But not dumb.”

He looks up from his notes, expression surprisingly vulnerable. “Most people don’t make that distinction.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” he agrees, studying your face. “You’re definitely not.”

The moment stretches between you, taut with something unspoken. You’re the first to break eye contact, shuffling papers with unnecessary focus.

“It’s getting late,” you say, glancing at your watch. “We should probably wrap up.”

Mingi begins gathering his things, but his movements are unhurried. “Same time Friday?”

You hesitate. You hadn’t planned on making this a regular thing, certainly not multiple times a week. But the progress he’s made in just one session is undeniable.

“You don’t have practice on Friday?”

“Not until seven.” He zips up his backpack. “Unless you’re busy.”

“No, I’m not busy.” The admission comes too quickly. “Friday works.”

As you pack up, he helps you organize your notes, handling the color-coded pages with careful precision. His fingers accidentally brush against yours again as he hands you a folder, and this time the contact lingers for a beat longer than necessary.

“Thanks for not giving up on me,” he says quietly, shouldering his bag. “Most people would have.”

The sincerity in his voice makes something twist in your chest. “You didn’t give me a reason to.”

You walk together to the library exit, the night air cool against your skin after hours in the stuffy study area. Campus is quiet, most students either out for the evening or locked away studying. Mingi pauses under a lamppost, its glow casting shadows across his features.

“I can walk you home,” he offers. “It’s dark.”

“I live in the opposite direction from you,” you point out. “It’s fine, I’ve been walking home alone for two years now.”

He grins. “Just being a gentleman.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Ouch.” He clutches his chest in mock pain. “You wound me.”

You laugh at his dramatic act. “Goodnight, Mingi.”

“Goodnight, Miss tutor.” He takes a step backward, still facing you. “Dream of fiscal multipliers.”

“That’s your homework, not mine,” you call after him.

His laughter carries on the night air as he walks away, and you stand watching him for a moment longer than necessary. It’s only when you’re halfway home that you realize you’re still smiling, the warmth in your chest having nothing to do with the coffee you shared.

You tell yourself it’s just satisfaction from a productive tutoring session. Nothing more. Certainly not the way his eyes crinkled when he finally understood a difficult concept, or how his hand felt when it accidentally brushed yours, or the genuine gratitude in his voice when he thanked you. Definitely not that.

As you unlock your apartment door, you find yourself already planning Friday’s session in your head, thinking of ways to explain concepts he struggled with, wondering if he’ll bring coffee again, if he’ll sit as close, if he’ll look at you with that same focused intensity. It’s purely academic help, you insist on yourself. Professional concern for a student who needs help. Even if you don’t quite believe it.

Your roommate is waiting when you get home, practically vibrating with curiosity. “So? How was tutoring Mingi? Did he make any moves?”

“It was just tutoring,” you say, setting down your bag. “He’s actually pretty smart, thought nothing was going on upstairs to be honest.”

Her lips thin out into a straight line, looking disappointed by your lack of gossip. “That’s it? No flirting? No rizz? Nothing?”

You think about the moment he challenged your explanation, the genuine satisfaction in his eyes when he understood a complex concept.

“Nope, nothing at all,” you deadpanned at your roommate.

As you lie in bed reviewing your day, you remember the intensity in his eyes when he thanked you. The way his smile changed when he was actually engaged with the material. The surprising depth of his questions. You wonder what other assumptions you’ve made about Song Mingi might be wrong.

══════════════════

The following Friday, you’re setting up the study materials when Mingi arrives five minutes early this time. You almost burst out in laughter seeing the way he was trying to balance two cups of coffee in his hand.

“Okay once you're done clowning me, you have to try this vanilla latte. It's really good.” He sets them down carefully on your side of the table.

You eye the offerings suspiciously. “Are you sure this isn’t supposed to be a bribe?”

“Hm? For what?” He looks genuinely confused as he takes his seat.

“I don’t know. Extra help? A better grade?” You push the coffee slightly away. “I can’t accept this, you’ve already bought me so much stuff the past couple of days.”

Mingi laughs, the sound unexpectedly warm in the sterile study room. “It’s just coffee, don’t sweat it. Consider it a thank you for the last session. I actually understood what Professor Kim was talking about yesterday.”

You hesitate before reluctantly pulling the coffee back. “Fine.”

His smiles. “If I wanted to bribe you, I’d need to do better than a coffee, doll. Consider it fuel for our session today.”

The nickname catches you off guard, heat rising unexpectedly to your cheeks. Mingi’s eyes flicker briefly to the colour spreading across your face, but he simply slides the coffee closer without comment. You accept the cup, fingers brushing his momentarily. It’s still hot, and exactly how you like it. The gesture is small but thoughtful in a way you wouldn’t have expected.

“Thank you,” you hummed, setting up your materials. “Don’t think this earns you any leniency on today’s session.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, already pulling out his completed homework—all of it done correctly, you note with surprise.

Over the next few sessions, a pattern emerges. Mingi has become significantly more punctual as your sessions progress, always bringing you coffee (though sometimes he switches it up with tea when you mention a sore throat), and always has his work prepared. The coffee becomes such a fixture that on the one day he arrives without it, you actually feel slightly disappointed.

“No liquid bribery today?” you quipped, trying to keep your tone light.

His face falls. “The line was insane, and I didn’t want to be late.” He runs a hand through his hair, slightly panicked. “I can go get some if you—“

“I was joking,” you interject quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll make it up to you next week,” he shrugs, as if that helps explains everything.

The following week, he brings not only coffee but also a small paper bag containing a blueberry muffin from your favourite bakery across town.

“Wha— Mingi, this is…” you marvelled, eyeing the bakery logo. “That place is twenty minutes from campus.”

He shrugs, focusing intently on opening his textbook. “My morning run took me that way.”

“Your morning run took you four kilometres out of your way?”

He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping. “I’m an athlete. You could say that I’ve got excellent... endurance. A little detour doesn’t bother me.”

You roll your eyes, you want to press the issue but are distracted when he pulls out the work you assigned him the previous session. He’s not only completed all the assigned questions but has tackled the bonus problems you included as an afterthought. His work shows an elegant approach to the material that makes you pause.

“This solution,” you point to his work on comparative advantage models, “where did you learn this method?”

“Oh,” he looks almost embarrassed. “I was reading this paper by Stiglitz that mentioned a similar approach, so I adapted it. Is it wrong?”

You blink at him. “You’re reading Joseph Stiglitz for fun?”

“God no, not for fun,” he says, looking uncomfortable with your scrutiny. “I was trying to understand why the models in class weren’t clicking for me. Sometimes I need to see the bigger picture.”

“You know,” you say slowly, “you might actually enjoy Behavioural Economics next semester. It challenges a lot of the classical assumptions.”

His eyes light up. “That’s the unit with Professor Ryu, right? I’ve been wanting to take that.”

“Wait, seriously?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That class is notoriously difficult.”

“So am I, apparently,” he scoffed, but there’s no bite to it. “At least according to my tutor.”

The sessions continue, and with each one, your perception of Mingi shifts. When discussing economic inequality, he brings up points about systemic barriers that show he’s thought deeply about privilege—including his own. During a session on game theory, he demonstrates an intuitive understanding of strategic thinking that surpasses most of your other students that you tutor.

“It’s like poker,” he explains when you comment on his grasp of Nash equilibrium. “Everyone thinks it’s about the cards, but it’s really about understanding people’s patterns and incentives.”

“You play?” you ask, imagining loud frat house games with red cups and shouting.

“My grandfather taught me,” he mumbled, something softer in his expression. “He was an economics professor, actually.”

The revelation hangs between you, another piece of the puzzle that is Song Mingi. You want to ask more but sense his reluctance to elaborate. Maybe another day, you hope.

══════════════════

As your midterm approaches, your sessions intensify. You meet three times in the final week, once in the campus coffee shop when the library study rooms are all booked. Mingi still insists on paying for your drinks and snacks.

“Okay hear me out, I’m applying economic concepts for when I order us coffee,” he announced before you can comment. “You’re providing a service, I’m compensating you beyond our agreed terms because the value exceeds the price.”

“That sounds suspiciously like something I said two sessions ago,” you point out.

“I told you, I pay attention,” he corrected, and something in his tone makes you look up from your notes.

He’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher—something more complex than what he shows the rest of the world. It makes your heart beat uncontrollably in your chest in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine. The night before the exam, you receive a text from him. Multiple actually.

The night before the exam, you receive a text from him: If monopolistic competition exhibits zero economic profit in the long run, why do firms bother entering the market?

You smile despite yourself and type back: Non-monetary incentives. Brand loyalty, market positioning, the satisfaction of seeing their competitors throw a bitch fit.

His response comes immediately: So spite is an economic motivator? They just like me fr.

You laugh out loud, drawing a curious look from your roommate.

“Is that Mingi?” she asks, eyebrows raised suggestively. “Just a last-minute economics question,” you answered, trying to sound casual.

“Mhmm,” she hums skeptically. “Smiling over econ, right…”

You ignore her, sending Mingi one final message: Get some sleep. Economics rewards the well-rested. His reply makes your heart do something complicated.

I will, doll. Thank you. 

On exam day, you spot him across the lecture hall. He catches your eye and gives you a small nod—no flashy smile, no charming wink, just quiet determination. For some reason, this affects you more than any of his rehearsed moves ever did that you observed in the past.

When Professor Kim calls time, you watch him hand in his exam with confidence in his posture that wasn’t there six weeks ago. As students file out, he makes his way to your seat.

“How’d it go?” you asked as you slowly gathered your things.

“I think,” he hums, “that Professor Kim might actually have to give me an A.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you scoff at his delusion, a small feeling of pride swells in your chest.

“Never,” he agrees solemnly, then ruins it with a grin. “I did crush that section on market failures. Turns out my experience with failed relationships was finally useful for something.”

You roll your eyes, slinging your tote bag over your shoulder. “And here I thought we’d made progress beyond that frat boy persona of yours.”

“Old habits,” he nudges you with his elbow, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom. “Seriously, thank you. I couldn’t have done this without your help.”

You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of how his stride has adjusted to match yours. It’s these small, unconscious accommodations that you find yourself noticing more and more lately.

“So,” he clears his throat, breaking the quiet as you cross the quad, “My frat is hosting our end-of-semester bash this weekend.” His tone is casual, but there’s an undercurrent of something else. “Saturday night, starting around nine.”

You keep your eyes focused ahead. “I’m sure half the campus is already going and planning their outfits.”

“Probably,” he agrees with a light laugh. “But I, uh, was wondering if you wanted to come?”

When you don’t immediately respond, he adds quickly, “As a thank you for helping me ace this exam. I mean, I’m pretty sure I aced it.”

You slow your pace, finally turning to look at him properly. “You’re inviting me to your party? Me?” The disbelief in your voice is unmistakable.

“Is that so hard to believe?” His expression is somewhere between amused and offended.

“Mingi, I don’t do parties.” You adjust your bag strap, uncomfortable with how this conversation is veering into territory you’ve carefully avoided. “You of all people should know that.”

He frowns, “Don’t you want to celebrate? You helped me pull off a minor academic miracle here.”

“I think you’re exaggerating your previous academic despair,” you hesitated. “Besides, I don’t think I’d fit in with your crowd.”

“My crowd?” He scoffs. “You’ve never even met my friends.”

“I’ve seen enough from a distance, I know enough.” You start walking again, faster now. “Thanks for the invitation, but I’ll pass.”

His long strides enable him to keep up with your pace. “Come on, just for an hour. You can leave if you hate it.”

“Mingi—” 

“One hour, doll” he repeats. “That’s all I’m asking. I’ll personally ensure no one spills anything on you and tries to bother you the whole night.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I know my crowd.” His smile is softer now, more genuine. “Please? I want you to see that there’s more to us—to me—than the stereotypes.”

You study his face, searching for the manipulation, But all you see is sincerity and hope. 

“Fine,” you groaned, not quite believing the words coming out of your mouth. “One hour. That’s it. I’m leaving the second someone tries to get me to play beer pong.”

His face lights up. “Deal. I’ll text you the details.”

As you part ways, you wonder what exactly you’ve just agreed to. You’ve spent nearly three years avoiding exactly this kind of social situation. Loud music, drunk students, the messy intersection of alcohol and attraction. Yet somehow, when Mingi asked, your carefully constructed refusal crumbled. 

Your roommate squeals when you tell her your weekend plans.

“You’re going to the end of sem party? With Mingi?” She clutches your arm dramatically. “This is basically getting an invite from the MET gala!”

“It’s just a thank you for the tutoring,” you explain, trying to sound casual as you sort through your closet. “I’m only staying for an hour.”

“Sure,” she drew out the word with obvious disbelief. “That’s why you’re trying on your fourth outfit.”

You drop the dress you’ve been holding up. “I just want to look appropriate.”

“Appropriate for what? Or is it for making mister Song Mingi realise what he’s been missing?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“For not looking like I’m trying too hard,” you correct her, settling on dark jeans and a simple top that manages to be both casual and flattering. “This isn’t a date.”

“Whatever you say.” She flops back on your bed. “By the way, you should know that Mingi doesn’t personally invite just anyone to these things. Especially not someone he’s been staring at across classrooms for months.”

“He hasn’t been—“ you begin, but stop when you remember all those times you felt his gaze on you in the library and the lecture hall.

“Oh honey,” your roommate giggles, “for someone so smart, you are so stupid.”

══════════════════

On the night of the party, you and your closet have declared war. What began as a gentle sifting through hangers two hours ago has devolved into a cyclone of black crop tops, frayed denim, and shoes you forgot you owned. Your roommate’s voice, pitch-perfect for the college musical she never auditioned for, belts a running commentary from the bed: “You look hot in that, but hotter in the other,” and, later, “If you don’t wear that skirt, I will.” For every option you parade, she offers a one-woman panel’s worth of praise, criticism, and lewd suggestions, but when you finally emerge from the pile in a black singlet and the aforementioned denim mini, she sits up so abruptly the bedsprings squeal.

“Yes,” she hollered, pointing both index fingers at you as if firing a pair of pistols, “That’s the one! Fuck you look good.”

You tug at the hem, self-conscious. The skirt is so short your thighs feel like they might spontaneously combust with the friction of walking, and the top is cut low enough to leave no room . The outfit is, by college standards, conservative. By your standards, the edge of a personal revolution. You pace, boots heavy and loud. You layer on a thrifted blazer, then throw it off, then drape it over one arm for insurance. You sit on the edge of the bed, stand again, cross the room to the mirror, assess your reflection from the most punishing angles. You practice smiling in a way that suggests effortless fun rather than “I’m in hell and wish I were home in the comfort of my bed.”

Your roommate paints your lips red, then wipes it off with a tissue, then reapplies in a shade closer to your natural colour.

“There,” she beams, “like you rolled out of bed looking like this.”

You try not to look at the clock, but it’s everywhere—on your phone, on the microwave, in the stomp of boots hitting the tile as you stalk the kitchenette looking for a cup to fill, then abandon. Your hands shake when you pour yourself a glass of water. You spill some on your wrist, wipe it away, then notice your palms are already slicked with sweat.

“Stop fidgeting.” Your roommate’s tone is gentle, but there’s a note of command you recognize from years of friendship.

She takes your hands in hers, holds them steady, and says, “You’re just going to a party. With a boy. Not even a date.” She squeezes your fingers and grins. “You should be more excited! There might be hook-ups, or at least drama. At the very least, there’ll be free food.”

You want to laugh, but your stomach is a tight fist. You’ve spent the last three years avoiding exactly this scenario—rowdy house parties, the unwritten social contract of collegiate fun, the humiliation of standing awkwardly in a crowd of people who all seem to know exactly how to move, talk, flirt. You’re not anti-social, not truly, but your preferred company is to be alone with your trusted circle of friends. The thought of plunging into a frat house, even for an hour, makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

And yet. There’s Mingi, the wild card. He’s never made you feel like a project, or an obligation, or a checkmark on a list of collegiate experiences. When he smiles at you, it isn’t the rehearsed, camera-ready grin you see him use on campus tour guides or in group photos. It’s something softer, quieter, reserved for moments when he thinks no one else is watching. You remember the way he said “please” when he invited you, the way his eyes didn’t leave yours even after you tried to look away. He made it sound like this party wasn’t just another party, but an extension of the strange, fragile thing growing between the two of you. You’re not sure you trust it, but you want, for once, to try.

You stall in the doorway, hand poised on the knob, running through possible disasters. Your roommate senses your hesitation, materializing at your side with a pep talk worthy of a sports movie.

“Remember,” she says softly, “you’re not obligated to like it. Just survive the hour, and if you hate it, I’ll be waiting with post-party ramen and a debrief.” She presses the blazer into your hands and shoves you gently toward the elevator.

You take the stairs instead, one flight, then another, legs trembling with anticipation. The campus is alive with spring: the air is thick with the cloying perfume of flowering trees, the distant thump of bass from speakers, the migration of students in clusters, each group moving toward its own temporary destiny. You keep your head down, hoping to avoid unnecessary conversation. You  find yourself counting steps, then counting heartbeats, and by the time you reach the block of houses that host the Greek life ecosystem, you’ve rehearsed twenty variations of how to say hello without sounding desperate. You pass a group of girls in matching pastel tank tops, their laughter ricocheting like pinballs off the sidewalk. You duck your head, wondering if they recognize you from Intro to Business Law, but they breeze past without a second glance. In the darkness, your reflection glances back at you from every window: a stranger, confident and composed, even as anxiety gnaws at your insides.

You approach the frat house, the lights already blazing, music leaking from every crack in the siding. In the front yard, a couple makes out with the desperation of people who know they’ll regret it in the morning. A boy in a toga sprints past, pursued by a girl wielding a pool noodle. The porch is a wall of bodies, some familiar, most not, and for a moment you consider walking straight past, circling the block, and returning to your dorm in defeat.

You almost do. You’re on the verge of turning around when your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a text from Mingi: Where are you? I’ll come out front.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. Before you can reply, the front door swings open and there he is—Mingi, framed in the doorway like some ridiculous cologne advertisement. He’s wearing dark jeans and a simple black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that make your mouth go inexplicably dry. His hair is styled differently tonight, swept back to reveal his forehead in a way that transforms his entire face.

He scans the yard, eyes skipping past you once before snapping back, recognition dawning. When his gaze lands on you properly, something shifts in his expression—his confident smile faltering, eyes widening slightly.

“Oh,” he says, just that one syllable hanging in the air between you. He clears his throat. “I—you—“ He stops again, seemingly unable to form a complete sentence.

You feel heat creeping up your neck, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of exposed skin. “Is something wrong?” you ask, tugging self-consciously at your skirt.

The question seems to snap him out of his daze. His trademark smile returns, but there’s something different about it—something genuine that settles in your chest in a way you don’t quite name.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he finally blurts out. “You just look... different.” He takes a step closer. “Good different I mean– Like really good different.”

You duck your head, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s just a skirt and top. Nothing special.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, and the sincerity in his voice makes your blush deepen. His confidence seems to grow in direct proportion to your bashfulness, and he extends his hand to you. “Come on. Let me introduce you to some people who aren’t total disasters.”

You place your hand in his, telling yourself it’s just to be polite, but the warmth of his palm against yours sends a current up your arm. He guides you through the crowded doorway, his body naturally creating a buffer between you and the jostling partygoers. You’re fully aware of his proximity, the cologne he’s wearing, the way his hand occasionally brushes against the small of your back as he leads you deeper into the house.

The living room has been transformed into a makeshift dance floor, furniture pushed against walls to make space. The kitchen beyond is crowded with people mixing drinks and laughing over red cups. Mingi steers you away from both, toward a slightly quieter corner where a group of guys are engaged in animated conversation.

“Hey,” he calls out, and seven heads turn in perfect unison. “This is my econ tutor, the one I’ve been telling you guys about.”

You’re suddenly faced with an assembly of some of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen in one place, each with a distinctive style that somehow works in harmony with the others. They regard you with varying expressions of curiosity and amusement.

“So you’re the one who got our Mingi to actually open a textbook,” a guy with sharp features and an even sharper smile walks up to the both of you. “I’m Hongjoong. House president.”

“Co-president,” Mingi corrects, rolling his eyes.

“Pfft whatever dude,” Hongjoong waves dismissively. “This is Seonghwa—“ he gestures to a tall, elegant-looking man who offers you a polite nod, “—Yunho—“ a friendly giant with dark hair raises his cup in greeting, “—Yeosang—“ a guy with delicate features and knowing eyes gives you a small smile, “—San—“ an energetic man with dimples deep enough to drown in waves enthusiastically, “—Wooyoung—“ a mischievous-looking guy with red hair winks at you, “—and Jongho.” The last member, compact but powerful-looking, gives you a respectful bow.

“Nice to finally meet the person who’s been occupying all our friend’s time,” Wooyoung whistles.

“And thoughts,” San adds, earning him a death glare from Mingi.

You shift uncomfortably under their collective gaze, but their smiles are genuine, lacking the judgment you expected from Mingi’s inner circle.

“Don’t believe anything they tell you about me,” Mingi says, leaning close enough that you can feel his breath on your ear. “Especially Wooyoung. He’s a pathological liar.”

“Nuh uh, that’s just not true!” Wooyoung protests. “I only lie on Tuesdays and public holidays.”

The group erupts in laughter, and to your surprise, you find yourself laughing along. There’s an easy camaraderie among them that feels inclusive rather than exclusive, drawing you in despite your reservations.

“Mingi says you’re top of the econ department,” Seonghwa mentioned, his voice calm and measured. “That’s impressive.”

Before you can respond, Yunho chimes in: “He wouldn’t shut up about how you explained game theory using poker analogies. Said it was ‘revolutionary’ or some shit.”

“I did not say revolutionary,” Mingi denies, but the pink tinging his ears tells a different story.

“You did,” Jongho confirms flatly. “Multiple times. Over breakfast.”

You glance at Mingi, oddly touched that he’s spoken about your tutoring sessions to his friends. “It wasn’t anything special. He’s actually really quick to grasp concepts once they’re explained properly.”

Mingi grins at the group. “See? I told you guys I’m not just a pretty face.” He sticks his tongue out at them, more out of habit than real offence.

“No one said you were just a pretty face,” Hongjoong replies, tone even. “We said you’re a pretty face that just so happened to be a little bit stupid.”

Mingi scoffs under his breath, but he’s smiling anyway. “That’s not better.”

“It’s accurate,” Hongjoong snorted.

The banter continues, and you find yourself relaxing into it, surprised by how comfortable you feel among them. They’re not what you expected—not the stereotypical frat boys you’ve spent years avoiding. They’re smart, funny, and surprisingly thoughtful in their questions to you.

After a while, Mingi leans in again. “How are you feeling? Do you want a drink? Or maybe some air?”

You nod gratefully. “Fresh air would be nice.”

He places his hand lightly on your back again, guiding you toward a set of French doors that lead to a back deck. The night air is cool against your skin, a welcome respite from the heat of bodies packed inside. The deck is strung with fairy lights that cast a soft glow over the wooden boards, and surprisingly, it’s empty except for a few potted plants.

“The secret balcony,” Mingi explains, seeing your questioning look. “Off-limits to regular party guests. One of the perks of being house leadership.”

“So I’m not a regular party guest?” you raise an eyebrow, leaning against the railing.

“Of course not, you are far from it,” he mutters under his breath that makes your breath falter.

You both fall silent for a moment, the bass from inside creating a muted heartbeat beneath your conversation. You can’t quite decide what’s more surprising—that you’re here like this, or that it’s with Mingi of all people. You settle on not thinking too hard about either.

“Your friends are nice,” you finally break the silence. “Not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” He leans next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.

“Loud, obnoxious frat bros talking about the typical one night stand and having the collective IQ of a houseplant.”

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Oh, they can be loud and obnoxious too. But they’re also the best people I know.”

He pauses, looking out over the dimly-lit yard. “We all have our reasons for being here, you know? Hongjoong’s parents expected him to join their firm right after high school, but he wanted to go to college first. Seonghwa supports his younger siblings through school. Jongho’s on a full academic scholarship.”

You turn to look at him, surprised by this glimpse behind the fraternity façade. “And you? What’s your reason?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice has lost its usual confident edge. “My grandfather, the one I told you about, He was the first person in our family to go to college. He wanted to see me graduate more than anything.” His fingers tap against the railing, a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “He passed away during my senior year of high school.”

“Oh I’m sorry,” you say softly.

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but...” He went on. “I promised him I’d make the most of college. Not just academically, but the whole experience. The brotherhood, the leadership opportunities, all of it.”

“Is that why you’re so determined to keep your GPA up? For your scholarship?”

“Partly,” he admits. “Mainly because I don’t want to just be the party guy, you know? I want people to realise I’m capable and somewhat intelligent.” 

Without really thinking about it, you close the remaining distance just enough for your hand to brush his. It’s tentative at first, almost accidental. When he doesn’t pull away, your fingers curl lightly around his. Mingi stills. For someone who’s always in motion, always talking, always performing, the sudden quiet in him is striking. His gaze drops to where your hands are joined, like he’s trying to process it, like this—you—is the one thing he never quite learned how to anticipate.

“It’s not a bad thing,” you say softly, your thumb brushing once, unconsciously, over his knuckles. “Wanting people to see more than what meets the eye.”

His hand shifts in yours, not pulling away—settling. Grounding.

“I know what it’s like,” you add, quieter now. “Being reduced to something simple. Convenient. Even if it’s… impressive on paper.”

That earns a small huff of laughter from him, but malice behind it. Just something tired, something honest.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess we’re both victims of stereotyping huh.”

You smile faintly. “I guess we are.”

And then it hits you. The warmth. The contact. The fact that your hand is still wrapped around his. Your fingers twitch slightly, awareness crashing in all at once, and you pull back—just a little too quickly to be entirely casual. The absence of him is immediate, the cool night air slipping into the space where his warmth had been. Mingi notices. Of course he does. Something flickers across his face, it was subtle but you saw it there momentarily. A small dip at the corner of his mouth, a hesitation like he almost reaches for you again before stopping himself. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced by something lighter, easier, like he’s filing the moment away instead of questioning it. He clears his throat, glancing out in the distance. 

“Careful,” he teases. “Keep doing that and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

You scoff, grateful for the shift. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Tragic,” he sighs dramatically. “Here I was, planning our future.”

“In your dreams.”

“Bold of you to assume you’re not already there.”

You roll your eyes, but a laugh escapes you anyway, the tension dissolving into something softer, more familiar. For a moment, you simply stand together in comfortable silence, watching the party unfold below. The fairy lights cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the angles you’ve studied during countless tutoring sessions.

“Can I ask you something?” he says finally, turning to face you.

“You just did.”

He rolls his eyes. “Why did you agree to tutor me? I asked some other people in our class and they said you turned them down.”

You consider the question, surprised by his awareness of your other rejections. “Honestly? You seemed desperate. Plus you actually pay me on time.”

“Ouch,” he winces, but his smile remains. “At least you’re honest.”

“Why did you ask me?” you counter. “There are plenty of other tutors on campus.”

He looks down at his hands, suddenly serious. “You were the only one who looked at me and didn’t see what everyone else saw.”

“And what’s that?”

“You know the usual stereotypes,” He shrugs, a gesture that carries more weight than it should. “Everyone thinks they know me because they hear all about my reputation.”

Something in his tone makes you pause, recognizing a sentiment that echoes your own experience. “I get that,” you say quietly. “People are like that with me too. They think what we are at face value is what we truly are.”

“Isn’t it?” His question is gentle, not challenging.

You shake your head. “No more than you’re just a frat boy who happens to look good in a button-down.”

He raises an eyebrow as his eyes meet yours, “You think I look good?”

“Don’t fish for compliments,” you scold as you bite back a smile. “Your ego is big enough already.”

“There you go again, humbling me.” His gaze softens as he steps closer. “I like that about you. You never let me get away with anything.”

You tilt your head, crossing your arms loosely. “Yeah? I know there’s a lot of things you like about me.”

His eyebrows lift, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you continue, feigning nonchalance. “My intelligence. My work ethic. My incredible patience for difficult students—”

“—woah, woah,” he cuts in, laughing. “When did this turn into a self-evaluation?”

“You asked,” you shoot back. “I’m just being thorough.”

He steps closer, close enough now that the teasing edge softens into something warmer. “You missed a few.”

“Oh?” you raise an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”

“The way you pretend not to care,” he responded quietly. “But still show up anyway.”

Your breath catches slightly, but you recover. “That’s not a quality. That’s just… basic decency.”

“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced. “And the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

You freeze. “I do not—”

“You do,” 

You swallow, your voice coming out just above a whisper. “What does that look mean, according to you?”

He studies you for a moment, like he’s debating whether to say it.

“Like you’re trying really hard not to like me.”

Your heart stumbles over itself.

“That’s a bold assumption,” you manage.

“Is it, doll?” 

There’s barely any space left between you now. You’re aware of everything. How close he was to you, the warmth radiating off him, the way his gaze drops briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. Your own breath feels too loud in your chest.

“This feels like you’re fishing for compliments again,” you say, but your voice lacks its usual bite.

“Maybe,” he admits easily. “Only from you, though.”

The honesty of it lands heavier than it should. Your fingers twitch at your side, like they remember what it felt like to hold his hand. Like they want to again.

“Mingi—” you start, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re going to say.

He leans in slightly. Not rushed. Not cocky. Careful. Like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t. Your eyes flick down to his lips for just a second—long enough for him to notice—and that’s all it takes. The air shifts, something unspoken settling between you as you both lean in, slow and almost hesitant—

“Yo! Mingi!”

The moment shatters. You both jerk back slightly as the deck door swings open. Wooyoung steps out, slightly breathless, eyes flicking between the two of you with immediate recognition—and absolutely zero subtlety.

“Oh shit,” he says, smirking. “Am I interrupting something?”

“What do you think?,” Mingi says flatly, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Tragic,” his red haired friend replies, not looking sorry in the slightest. “Hongjoong’s looking for you. Something about the DJ setup dying and you being ‘useless but still required.’”

Mingi closes his eyes briefly, exhaling. “Of course he is.”

Wooyoung gaze shifts back to you, smile softening. “Hey, you’re staying, right? It’s just getting good.”

You hesitate. And Mingi notices.

His attention snaps back to you, something apologetic in his expression. “I—give me ten minutes? I’ll come find you.”

You glance toward the house, the noise, the crowd, the overwhelming swirl of everything you’ve been holding at bay all night. Then back at him. At the almost-kiss still lingering in the space between you. By the way your chest feels too full, too tight, like you don’t quite know what to do with everything you’re suddenly feeling.

“I think…” you start, then pause, shaking your head slightly. “I should probably head out.”

His expression drops, just a fraction. “Already?”

“I stayed longer than I planned,” you say, offering a small smile. “I have an early morning.”

It’s a weak excuse. You both know it. But he doesn’t call you out on it. Instead, he nods slowly, stepping back just enough to give you space—even if he doesn’t seem to want t

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks for coming. I can walk you–”

“No need, I can see myself out,” you reply softly. “Thanks for inviting me, I had a really good time.” 

There’s a beat. Something unfinished is hanging between you.

“Get home safe,” he adds, quieter now.

“I will.”

You turn before you can overthink it. Before you can look at him again and change your mind and make your way back through the house. The music feels louder now, the lights harsher, the press of bodies more suffocating than before. By the time you step outside into the cool night air, your head is spinning. Not from the party. From him. From the way he looked at you like that. You exhale slowly, starting down the path back to your dorm, your fingers curling slightly at your sides.

Your key turns in the lock with a sharp click that echoes through the empty hallway. The walk back to your dorm passed in a blur. Your mind replaying those moments on the deck over and over, his face so close to yours, the almost-kiss that’s now branded into your memory as a question mark.

Your roommate looks up from her laptop, eyes widening when she sees you. “You’re back early! I thought—“ She pauses, taking in your expression. “What happened?”

You drop your bag and collapse onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I think I just made a huge mistake.”

“What did he do? Babe I swear if he tried anything—” She’s immediately on alert, sitting up straighter.

“No,” you shake your head, pressing your palms against your eyes. “The opposite. He was... perfect. His friends were really nice, funny too. The party wasn’t terrible. And we almost kissed, and then I—I ran away.”

“You what?” She scrambles off her bed and sits next to you. “Back up. You almost kissed him and then you left?”

“We got interrupted, and then I just... panicked.” You sit up, hugging your knees to your chest. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Your roommate studies your face, her expression softening into something you haven’t seen before—concern mixed with understanding. 

“Holy shit,” she mumbled. “You like him.”

“No,” you protest automatically, then trail off. “Maybe. Shit. I don’t know?” Your voice muffles as you bury your face in your hands. “This is so stupid. I’ve spent years avoiding guys exactly like him.”

“Except he’s not exactly like anyone, is he?” She nudges your shoulder gently. “Not if he’s got you this fucked up.”

You groan. “That’s the problem. He’s supposed to be this shallow frat boy who only cares about parties and hookups, but then he goes and talks about his grandfather and his friends and looks at me like—like—“

“Like what?” she prompts.

“Like I matter,” you cried out, wiping away the tears from your face. “Not just as a tutor or someone to boost his grade. Like he actually enjoys my company.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I’ve never seen you like this over anyone before.”

“That’s because I’ve never felt like this before,” you admit, the words coming out in a rush. “I’ve probably ruined it by running away like some character in a bad rom-com.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” she says firmly. “You got scared. Shit happens.”

“You don’t understand.” You get up, pacing the small space between your beds. “I had this whole image of him in my head…this whole narrative about who he was and what he wanted. It was so much easier when I could just dismiss him as just some guy. But he’s not, and now I don’t know what to do with that.”

“Maybe you could try, oh I don’t know, talking to him?” Your roommate suggests, her tone gently teasing you as she hands you a tissue.

“And say what? ‘Sorry I ran away when we were about to kiss, I’m just terrified because I might actually like you’?”

“That sounds like a start.”

You collapse back onto your bed with a groan. “I fucked up so bad.”

“Maybe,” she concedes, “but not irreparably.” She picks up your phone from where you dropped it and holds it out to you. “Text him.”

You stare at the phone like it might bite you. “Like now?”

“Yes, now. Before you overthink it even more than you already have.”

Your fingers hover over the screen, hesitant. “What do I even say?”

“The truth,” she says simply. “Or at least part of it.”

You take a deep breath and start typing, deleting, typing again. After what feels like an eternity, you hit send on a simple message: Sorry for leaving so abruptly. Ty for tonight.

The response comes faster than you expected, your phone buzzing in your hand almost immediately: All good. Did u get home safe?

Something in your chest loosens just slightly. He’s still talking to you, at least. You type back: Yea, made it back like 5 mins ago.

Three dots appear, disappear, appear again: Can I call you tomorrow?

Your heart does a strange little flip. “He wants to call me tomorrow,” you tell your roommate, your voice sounding strange even to your own ears.

She grins. “See? Not ruined.”

You type back a quick ‘Sure’ before you can second-guess yourself.

His response is just as quick: Good. Sleep well, doll.

Despite everything, you find yourself smiling at the nickname. Your roommate peers over your shoulder, reading the exchange.

“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” she says jokingly. “From the looks of it, so does he.”

“This is such a mess,” you sigh, but there’s less despair in it now. “I’m supposed to be the level-headed one. The one who doesn’t get caught up in... whatever this is.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why you need this,” she suggests, returning to her own bed. “When was the last time you did something just because it made you feel good, not because it was the smart, practical choice?”

You don’t have an answer for that. As you lie in bed, sleep eluding you, you replay the night in your head. The way Mingi looked at you on that deck, the warmth of his hand in yours, the honesty in his voice when he talked about wanting to be seen as more than his reputation. You think about how easily you could have stayed, how different the night might have ended if you had just stayed with him.

══════════════════

Morning arrives with harsh sunlight streaming through half-closed blinds and the persistent buzz of your alarm. The day crawls by in a strange haze. You go through the motions—catch up on any missed lecture notes, meet with your friends, grab lunch at the campus café—but everything feels slightly off-kilter. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket, conspicuously silent.

“He said he’d call,” you mutter to yourself during lunch, checking your notifications for the fifth time in an hour.

By mid-afternoon, anxiety has settled into a knot in your stomach. Was leaving the party abruptly really such a dealbreaker? Or worse—was the almost-kiss just another moment for him, easily forgotten once you walked away?

Your roommate finds you hunched over economics papers in your dorm, highlighter poised but motionless over the same paragraph you’ve been staring at for twenty minutes.

“Still nothing?” 

You shake your head, trying to appear more focused on your work than you actually are. “It’s fine. He’s probably busy with frat stuff.”

“He’s nursing a hangover,” she mused, flopping onto her bed. “Those parties don’t exactly end early.”

“Yeah, probably.” You force your attention back to your notes, determined not to care.

The sun begins to set, casting long shadows across your desk. You’ve moved on to grading papers for the professor you TA for, a task that usually requires your full concentration. Tonight, however, each essay blurs into the next as your mind wanders back to the deck, to Mingi’s face inches from yours. At 7:38 PM, your phone finally rings. You nearly knock over your coffee reaching for it, heart leaping into your throat when you see his name on the screen. Taking a deep breath, you answer with what you hope is casual nonchalance.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” His voice comes through warm and slightly hesitant. “Is this a bad time?”

“No, just grading some papers.” You lean back in your chair, trying to ignore how your pulse has quickened. “How was your day?”

“Long,” he admits with a soft laugh. “Had to deal with some post-party clean up that was... not ideal.”

“Sounds rough,” you say, picturing the chaos that must have followed after you left.

There’s a brief pause before he speaks again. “Listen, I was wondering if you’d want to grab some ice cream? There’s this place near the science building that stays open late.”

You glance at your half-finished work, then at the clock. “Now?”

“Yeah, if you’re not too busy. I just...” He hesitates. “I think we should talk. In person.”

Your stomach drops. Those words never precede anything good.

“Oh,” you manage. “Sure. I could use a break anyway.”

“Great.” The relief in his voice is palpable. “Meet you there in twenty?”

“Make it thirty,” you say, already mentally cataloguing what you’re wearing—sweatpants and an oversized university hoodie, not exactly what you’d choose for whatever conversation is coming.

After hanging up, you change quickly into jeans and a sweater that’s slightly more presentable, running a brush through your hair and dabbing on lip balm before you can question why you’re bothering. Your roommate watches with barely concealed amusement.

“Just ice cream, huh?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, grabbing your keys. “He probably just wants to clear the air so tutoring isn’t awkward.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Sure. That’s definitely it.”

The walk to the ice cream shop takes exactly twelve minutes—not that you’re counting. When you arrive, you spot Mingi immediately, leaning against the wall outside. He straightens when he sees you, his expression brightening in a way that makes your heart stutter.

“Hey,” he greets you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Thanks for coming.”

“For free ice cream? I’d be an idiot if I refused.” You aim for lightness, but your voice comes out slightly strained.

Inside, the shop is nearly empty, just a couple of students hunched over laptops in the corner. Mingi insists on paying despite your protests, and soon you’re seated at a small table by the window, a scoop of chocolate chip melting slowly in your cup. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You focus intently on your ice cream, hyperaware of his presence across from you.

“So uh,” he finally breaks the tension, setting down his spoon. “About last night.”

You look up to find him watching you, his expression more serious than you’ve ever seen it. “What about it?” you ask, playing for time.

He leans forward slightly. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t... misread things.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. “You didn’t,” you admit quietly.

Relief flickers across his face. “Then why did you leave?”

The directness of the question catches you off guard. You consider deflecting, making a joke, but something in his eyes—an earnestness you’re not used to seeing—makes you opt for honesty.

“I got scared,” you say simply.

His brow furrows. “Of me?”

“No.” You shake your head. “No this. Whatever is happening between us.” You gesture vaguely, as if that could dissolve it. “It wasn’t part of the plan.”

“The plan?” he echoes.

“My plan,” you clarify. “Graduate top of my class, get into a top-tier MBA program, no distractions.” You poke at your melting ice cream.

The words come easier than they should, like you’ve said them enough times to believe they’re ironclad. You scoop a fragile curl of choc chip into your mouth, watching it soften instantly, the chill doing nothing to settle the rest of you.

Mingi doesn’t look away. But something shifts in his expression—subtle, unreadable.

“You think this is a distraction,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the shape of the idea. There’s no bitterness in it, just a blunt apprehension that makes you want to fold in on yourself.

The words thud between you, heavier than any textbook you’ve ever carried. You set your spoon down, forced to confront the truth you’ve been working so hard to avoid: it would be much simpler if you could blame him. If the whole thing could be chalked up to a fluke in your otherwise disciplined trajectory: a blip, a party, a night on a deck that would fade with the semester. However, the real distraction is the way your mind keeps circling back to him even when he’s not there, the way your heart does that ridiculous stutter every time you see his name on your screen, the way—sitting here with him now—you feel some distant tectonic plate in your chest begin to shift. You hesitate. Then, because you’ve already started, you let it spill anyway.

“It’s not just that,” you admit. “I never planned on… this happening at all. And I definitely never thought you’d—” You stop yourself, exhaling a short, humourless breath. “Like, someone like me.”

His brow furrows slightly. “Someone like you?”

You gesture faintly, as if the words make sense on their own. “You know. You. Me. I just— I always assumed you wouldn’t go for someone like me. That you wouldn’t even look twice.”

The admission sits between you, heavier than you intended. Mingi leans back slightly, hands folding together, but not in his usual relaxed way. More like he’s trying to steady something. Then he lets out a breath—half laugh, half disbelief.

“I’ve been trying so hard to get you to notice me.” He says, shaking his head once.

You blink. “What?”

He looks at you properly now, like the answer should’ve been obvious all along. “You think I’m out of your league,” he says, almost incredulous. “I thought you were out of mine.”

That makes you go still. Before you can respond, he continues, voice softer now.

“You’re—” He stops, like the word itself isn’t enough. “You’re genuinely one of the most interesting people I’ve met. And you’re not just smart, you’re…” He exhales through his nose, like he hates how obvious it is. “You’re really fucking beautiful. And your brain? That’s honestly the most attractive part of you. I thought people were dramatic when they said intelligence was sexy, man I was so wrong.”

Your breath catches, and you hate that it does.

“I like what we are,” he adds, a little quieter. “The banter, the way you talk back to me, the way you don’t just—” He gestures vaguely, searching for the word. “Fold. It’s fun. It’s different. It’s… real.”

The honesty lands clumsily, unpolished in a way that feels impossible to fake. You look down at your ice cream before it fully melts.

“That’s… not what I expected you to say,” you admit.

“Yeah,” he says, a small, self-aware smile tugging at his mouth. “Join the club.”

“I know it’s unfair to judge you based on campus gossip, but...” You take a deep breath. “I’m scared of being just another story people whisper about in bathroom stalls.”

Mingi reaches across the table, his fingers hovering near yours without quite touching. “Can I?” he asks quietly.

You nod, and his warm hand covers yours, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

“Listen to me,” he says, voice low and serious. “I won’t pretend I haven’t made mistakes. I have. But I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you.” His eyes hold yours, unwavering.

“How can I know that?” you whisper, voicing the fear that’s been lodged in your chest since the moment on the deck.

“Let me prove it to you,” he says with such conviction that your throat tightens. “Not with words or promises, but with time. With consistency.” His grip on your hand tightens slightly. “I’m not asking you to trust me completely right away. I’m asking for a chance to earn that trust.”

You study his face, searching for any sign of the practiced charm you’ve seen him deploy across campus. All you find is raw sincerity that makes your heart race.

“What exactly are you suggesting?”

“Let me show you who I really am,” a small, vulnerable smile touches his lips.  “I promise I’ll put all those stupid rumours to rest. No pressure, no expectations.”

“If it doesn’t work out?” The practical part of your brain needs to know there’s an exit strategy.

“Then we go back to being tutor and student, friends if you want,” he says, though something flickers in his eyes that suggests it wouldn’t be that simple for him. “I think we at least owe ourselves the chance to find out.”

You look down at your joined hands, feeling yourself wavering on the precipice of something that terrifies and thrills you in equal measure.

“Okay,” you find yourself saying, the word slipping out before you can overthink it. “I’ll give us a chance.”

The smile that breaks across his face is nothing like his usual confident grin. It’s wider, brighter, almost boyish in its genuine delight.

“Yeah?” he asks, as if he can’t quite believe it.

“Yeah,” you confirm, a small smile forming on your own lips. “But I have conditions.”

He laughs softly, squeezing your hand. “Of course you do. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t have any.”

“We take it slow,” you say firmly. “For now, this is just between us. I’m not ready to tell everyone about us just yet.”

“Absolutely,” he agrees immediately. “What else?”

“If at any point I feel like this is becoming too much—“

“We reassess,” he finishes for you. “I understand.”

You nod, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders. “One more thing.”

“Name it.”

“No more surprise coffees during tutoring,” you let out a laugh, you hope that he doesn’t take this rule too seriously. 

He clutches his chest dramatically. “Wow. Mind you, those were gifts from the heart.”

“The heart doesn’t need caffeine to function properly,” you counter.

“Debatable,” he grins, then grows serious again. “I promise to uphold all the boundaries that you have. If at any point you want outs, just say the word and we can call it off.”

There’s something in his voice—a quiet determination—that makes you believe him, despite all your carefully constructed defences.

“So,” he wonders, leaning forward slightly, “now that we’ve established the ground rules... Can I walk you home?”

“That would be nice,” you smile, finishing the last of your now-soupy ice cream.

Outside, the night air is cool against your skin. Your campus is quiet at this hour, most students either at the library or locked in their rooms studying. Mingi walks beside you, close enough that your arms occasionally brush, sending little sparks of awareness through you each time. The conversation falls into a comfortable silence as you walk side by side through the moonlit campus. Your mind races with everything that’s just happened—the confessions, the promises, the beginning of something neither of you had planned. Mingi’s hand occasionally brushes against yours, each contact sending little jolts through your system, but he doesn’t try to hold it. True to his word, he’s letting you set the pace.

“So,” he says as you approach your dormitory, “I was thinking maybe we could get dinner? Whenever you’re free… O-of course.”

The earnestness in his voice makes your heart flutter. “I’d love to.”

You stop at the entrance to your building, turning to face him. The lamplight catches in his dark eyes, making them shine with something that looks suspiciously like hope.

“Thank you,” you mumbled quietly.

His brow furrows slightly. “For what?”

“For being patient and understanding.” You shift your weight, suddenly feeling shy. 

A smile curves his lips. “I’m full of surprises.”

“I’m beginning to see that.”

There’s a moment of hesitation. A breath where you both stand looking at each other, the air between you charged with possibility. You make a decision, stepping forward before you can overthink it. Rising slightly on your toes, you press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.

“Goodnight, Mingi,” you murmur, pulling back to see his eyes wide with surprise.

“Goodnight,” he coughs out, voice slightly rougher than before.

You turn quickly, swiping your keycard and slipping through the door before you can change your mind. Once inside, you can’t resist glancing back through the glass panel. Mingi stands frozen for a moment, hand raised to the spot where your lips touched his skin. Then, when he thinks you’ve gone, a transformation takes place. The cool, confident frat president dissolves into something entirely different. He pumps his fist in the air, does a little spin, and breaks into what can only be described as a victory dance—all limbs and unbridled joy, like a kid who just got exactly what he wanted for his birthday. He runs his hands through his hair, grinning so wide it must hurt, before composing himself and walking away with an extra bounce in his step. You press your hand to your mouth, stifling a laugh. Something warm blooms in your chest at the sight of him—campus heartbreaker, fraternity president, supposed player—celebrating a simple kiss on the cheek like it’s the greatest achievement of his life.

Maybe there’s more to him than you ever allowed yourself to see.

══════════════════

The following weeks unfold in a series of moments that feel stolen from someone else’s life. Mingi keeps his promise about taking things slow, but he finds other ways to show you he’s serious.

It starts with little things. A sticky note on your economics textbook when you leave it unattended for two minutes in the library: “Study Well!.” A cup of tea waiting for you before an early morning class, with honey already added the way you mentioned you like it once in passing.

Your tutoring sessions continue, but there’s a new undercurrent to them now. You maintain professionalism—mostly—but sometimes his fingers brush yours when you’re explaining a concept, lingering just a second too long to be accidental. Sometimes you catch him watching you with a softness in his eyes that makes your chest ache in the best way.

“Focus,” you scold during one such session, tapping your pencil against his notebook. “Our midterms are in coming up soon.”

“I am focusing,” he protests, eyes never leaving your face. “Just not on economics.”

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. “Looking at me isn’t going to help boost your GPA.”

“If it means looking at the prettiest girl in the room, it’s worth it,” he shrugs and the sincerity in his voice makes heat rise to your cheeks.

Walking with him after your brain numbing study sessions become so integral to your guys’ routine. It feels a little strange at first but when Mingi’s hand tentatively finds yours, all the stress melts away at his touch.

“You know,” he says during one such walk, “keeping you secret is killing me. The guys think I’ve gone celibate or something.”

You elbow him gently. “Your reputation could use the hit.”

“True,” he laughs, squeezing your hand. “For the record, this is the longest I’ve gone without posting on social media in ages.”

Mingi has been careful about keeping your relationship private. No Instagram stories featuring your coffee dates, no posts of your study sessions that sometimes devolve into conversations about everything and nothing. Just the two of you, learning each other in private moments stolen between classes and responsibilities.

One rainy Tuesday, he shows up at your dorm with takeout from your favorite Thai place and a stack of economics flash cards he made himself.

“I figured we could multitask,” he beams, setting up the food on your desk. 

Your roommate, who’s been watching this unfold with barely concealed delight, grabs her jacket. “And that’s my cue to give you two some privacy,” she announces, winking at you on her way out.

Once she’s gone, Mingi turns to you with a sheepish smile. “Too much?”

You shake your head, oddly touched by the gesture. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just not used to anyone doing this for me.”

His expression softens. “Well that's too bad, doll, start getting used to it.”

The study session is productive—mostly. At first, the two of you really do focus, perched shoulder to shoulder with a blanket across your knees, pencils poised as you quiz each other from the stack of flash cards. For a solid twenty minutes, you run through concepts, definitions, and theoretical graphs, congratulating each other with exaggerated fist bumps for every correct answer. Mingi is sharp, more so than you expected, but he keeps getting tripped up on the same three formulas, and each time he stumbles, you make him recite them from memory until he gets it right. By the fourth round, you’re both dissolving into laughter at his increasingly creative mnemonic devices.

Eventually, the flash cards are abandoned in favor of pad thai and mango sticky rice. You eat cross-legged on the floor, passing the container back and forth, chopsticks clacking as the conversation drifts from academics to childhood memories, to music, to the merits of various ramen brands. Mingi tells you a story about getting locked in a janitor’s closet during a fraternity scavenger hunt, and you laugh so hard you nearly spill sweet chili sauce all over your leggings. He grins, watching you with open affection, and you feel your defenses slipping a little more with each shared story, each easy silence.

You mean to get back to studying, really you do, but by the time your plates are empty, you’re both sprawled out on the rug, heads tipped together, trading lazy jokes and favorite movie quotes. The stack of flash cards lies forgotten somewhere behind you. Mingi stretches his arm behind your head, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. You’re acutely aware that you said you wanted to take things slow, but now, in the soft glow of your desk lamp, with rain pattering gently against the window, slow feels less like a rule and more like a suggestion.

At some point, you roll onto your side to face him. His hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions, and you resist the urge to reach over and smooth it down. He catches the look in your eyes and grins, that same vulnerable curve of mouth you saw outside your dorm, and you realize you’re not even sure what you’re waiting for anymore. The next hour is a blur of tangled limbs, whispered jokes, and the kind of laughter that leaves your ribs aching. You don’t kiss—at least, not on the lips—but you end up with your head tucked against his shoulder, his hand tracing idle, feather-light circles on your back as you drift in and out of half-sleep. The textbooks are forgotten, the only thing that matters is the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath and the way it syncs perfectly with yours.

You don’t let him stay the night but you walk him to the door at midnight, both of you lingering in the hallway far longer than necessary.

“Tomorrow again?” he asks, voice low.

“Tomorrow,” you echo, smiling so hard it almost hurts.

You close the door behind him and press your forehead to the wood, equal parts giddy and terrified at how easy this is starting to feel.

That’s how it goes, week after week. Study sessions that turn into late-night conversations, walks that stretch on for hours, endless cups of tea and takeout and inside jokes that no one else would ever find funny. You find yourself looking for him everywhere: in the crowd of the dining hall, in the hush of the library at midnight, in the flicker of lamplight outside your window when you can’t sleep. Every time he appears, it feels like a secret only the two of you share. You start to notice the little ways he tries to care for you. The umbrella he brings when the forecast calls for rain, the pack of your favourite pens he leaves in your backpack before a big test, the playlist he makes for your morning runs, even though he can’t stand three-quarters of your “motivational” music. You tell yourself not to read into any of it, but you do. You’re hopelessly, helplessly reading into every tiny thing.

The night before your economics midterm, you meet up in the library’s quietest corner, both of you vibrating with nerves. He brings snacks and a fresh stack of flash cards, all hand-written in his messy scrawl, and the two of you settle in for a marathon review. For once, you manage to stay on task, quizzing each other with increasing intensity until you’re both exhausted. When the clock chimes one in the morning, you start to pack up, but Mingi hesitates, his hand hovering over the pile of books.

“You’re going to ace it,” he says, voice unexpectedly earnest.

You shake your head, smiling. “Only if you don’t distract me during the exam.”

“That’s going to be impossible,” he laughs, but there’s something softer in his eyes. “I’ll try my best.”

You snort, shouldering your bag. “I sure hope so.”

As you walk him out into the silent quad, he reaches for your hand—not tentative anymore, not asking permission, just doing it. You let him. The campus is empty, the sky ink-black and starless, and it feels like the entire world has narrowed to just the two of you, hands entwined, hearts beating a little too fast. He stops at the steps of your dorm, pulling you in for a hug that lasts a few seconds longer than normal. You memorize the feeling: the way his arms wrap around you, how he smells like detergent and the faintest hint of aftershave, the way his cheek fits perfectly against your temple. He reminds you to get some sleep, even as he lingers like he has no real intention of leaving just yet. You echo the sentiment back to him, a quiet reminder about his final. There’s a brief pause—something unspoken stretching between you—before you part with a soft, almost reluctant goodbye, the kind that feels less like an ending and more like something paused.

══════════════════

The morning of the midterm arrives with an electric tension in the air. You walk into the lecture hall, scanning the rows of nervous students until you spot Mingi. He’s hunched over his notes, frantically reviewing formulas, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. When he sees you, his face brightens momentarily before anxiety clouds his features again.

“Doll, I can’t remember anything,” he whispers as you slide into the seat beside him. “It’s all just... gone.”

You reach over and gently close his textbook. “Hey, breathe. You know this material better than you think.”

“Easy for you to say.” His voice cracks slightly. “What if I blank? What if everything we worked on just disappears the moment I see the test?”

You take his trembling hand in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Look at me. You’ve put in the work. You understand the concepts. Trust yourself.”

He exhales slowly, eyes locked on yours. “I just... I can’t mess this up. Not after everything.”

“You won’t,” you say with such conviction that he almost seems to believe you. “Remember what you told me about game theory? It’s not about the cards, it’s about—“

“—understanding the patterns,” he finishes, a small smile forming. “The incentives.”

“Exactly. And you’ve got this. I know you do.”

Professor Kim enters the room, silencing the anxious chatter. As she distributes the exams, Mingi gives your hand one last squeeze before letting go. You mouth “good luck” to him before turning to your own test.

The exam is challenging, even for you. Two hours of intense concentration, complex problems, and theoretical applications that make your brain ache. Occasionally, you glance at Mingi. His brow is furrowed in concentration, pencil moving steadily across the paper. No panic, no hesitation. Just focused determination that fuels your own.

When time is called, you feel drained but satisfied. Mingi looks up from his paper, meeting your eyes across the room with an expression of cautious optimism.

“How’d it go?” you ask as you both file out of the lecture hall.

“I think... I think it went okay,” he says, sounding almost surprised. “That section on monopolistic competition? I nailed it.”

“See? I told you.”

He laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky just because you were right. Again.”

Three days after the exam, your phone lights up with his name: Grades are posted, lock in.

Your fingers fly across the screen as you log into the portal. There it is: Econ1000 - Final Grade: A+. Not surprising, but satisfying nonetheless. You’re about to text him back when another message comes through: Can we meet? I’m outside your building.

Your heart races as you rush down the stairs. Mingi is pacing outside, face unreadable. When he sees you, he stops, and for a terrible moment, you think he’s failed.

“Mingi? What happened? Are you—“

His face breaks into the widest grin you’ve ever seen. “I got an A, I did it!”

Relief and joy flood through you as he picks you up in a spinning hug that lifts your feet off the ground. “I knew you could do it!” you laugh, arms wrapped around his neck.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he says, setting you down but keeping his hands on your waist. 

“Hey give yourself some credit, you did all the work,” you counter, unable to stop smiling. “I just provided occasional guidance—“

“—And motivation, patience, and belief when I had none.” His expression grows serious despite his smile. “Thank you.”

You feel your cheeks warm under his intense gaze. “You’re welcome.”

He takes a deep breath, a flicker of nervousness crossing his features—something you’ve rarely seen from him. “So, I was thinking...” he begins, his hands sliding from your waist but not completely letting go, fingers lightly brushing against yours. “Maybe we could celebrate properly? Tonight?”

“What did you have in mind?” you ask, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest.

“Dinner,” he says simply. Then adds, with uncharacteristic hesitation, “At an actual restaurant with fancy ass menus and shit.” His eyes meet yours, surprisingly earnest. “A date. Just you and me.”

The word “date” hangs between you, weighted with meaning. These weren't the standard study sessions or casual hangouts anymore. He wanted to take you out to dinner.

“A date,” you repeat, testing how the words feel.

“Yes.” He nods, watching your face carefully. “I want to take you somewhere nice. To celebrate, but also because...” He pauses, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just want to treat you to a good meal, feels like the right thing to do.”

You laugh, the tension in your chest dissolving into something warm and bright. “In that case, yes. I’d love to go to dinner with you tonight.”

The smile that breaks across his face is incandescent. “Great! I’ll pick you up at seven?”

“Seven works,” you nod, already mentally cataloguing your closet, wondering what constitutes appropriate attire for an official date with Song Mingi.

As if reading your mind, he adds, “Wear something nice. I made reservations at Stellina.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. Stellina is easily the most upscale restaurant near campus—the kind of place parents take their children when they visit, or where professors celebrate tenure. Definitely not somewhere college students typically go for casual dinners.

“Stellina?” you echo. “That’s... wow.”

“Wait, do you not like Stells?” he asks, suddenly uncertain.

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just surprised.”

“Good surprised?”

“Very good surprised.”

He beams, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’ll see you at seven, then.”

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of anticipation. You text your roommate the news, which results in her immediately abandoning whatever plans she had to help you prepare. By six o’clock, your room looks like a boutique exploded—clothes strewn across both beds, makeup scattered across the desk, and your roommate critically assessing every option.

“This one,” she declares finally, holding up a simple black dress you bought for a cousin’s birthday last year but haven’t worn since. “Classic, elegant, but still says ‘I’m not trying too hard.’” You slip it on, the silky fabric settling against your skin. It’s more fitted than you remembered, hugging your curves before flaring slightly at the hem. Nothing flashy, but undeniably flattering.

“Perfect,” your roommate nods approvingly. “Now, shoes...”

By 6:55, you’re pacing nervously in front of the mirror. The dress looks good, your hair is cooperating for once, and your roommate has worked minor miracles with minimal makeup. Still, anxiety flutters in your stomach like trapped butterflies.

“What if this changes everything?” you ask, chewing your lip. “What if it’s weird or awkward or—“

“Or what if it’s amazing?” your roommate cuts in, adjusting a strand of your hair. “Stop catastrophizing and let yourself enjoy this. The man is taking you to Stellina, for god’s sake. He’s clearly serious about you.”

Before you can respond, your phone buzzes with a text: I’m outside.

Your roommate practically shoves you toward the door. “Go! And I want all the details when you get back!”

You take one last deep breath, grab your small purse, and head downstairs. The moment you step outside, you spot him immediately standing beside his car, looking almost unrecognizable in a tailored navy suit. His hair is styled away from his face, revealing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the intensity of his gaze as it lands on you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. His eyes widen slightly as they take in your appearance, moving from your face to your dress and back again with an appreciation so obvious it makes your skin warm.

“You look...” he starts, then shakes his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “I had a whole line prepared, but now I can’t remember it. You look incredible.”

“So do you,” you manage, taking in how the suit fits his broad shoulders perfectly. “I didn’t know you owned clothes like this.”

“Special occasions only,” he grins, stepping forward to offer you his arm. “Ready?”

The drive to Stellina is short but charged with a new kind of tension—anticipation mixed with awareness. Mingi keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking, and you catch yourself doing the same. When you arrive, he insists on opening your door, offering his hand to help you out of the car with an old-fashioned gallantry that would seem affected from anyone else.

Inside, the restaurant is everything you expected and more. Soft lighting from crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, the gentle clink of expensive silverware. The hostess greets Mingi by name and leads you to a quiet corner table partially secluded by a decorative screen.

“This is...” you begin, looking around at the elegant surroundings.

“Too much?” he blurted out in a panic, studying your face carefully as he pulls out your chair.

You shake your head, settling into your seat. “No, it’s beautiful. I’m just not used to... all this.”

“Neither am I,” he admits with a small laugh, taking his own seat. “I wanted tonight to be special.”

The waiter appears with menus and a wine list, addressing Mingi with practiced deference. You watch, slightly amused, as he navigates the wine selection with surprising confidence, asking questions about vintages and pairings that you wouldn’t have expected him to know.

“Since when are you a wine expert?” you ask after the waiter leaves to fetch your selection.

He grins, slightly sheepish. “I’m not. I spent an hour yesterday watching YouTube videos about how to order wine without looking like an idiot.”

The admission is so endearingly honest that you can’t help but laugh. “You’re crazy.”

“I wanted to impress you,” he shrugs, no trace of his usual bravado. “Is it working?”

“Maybe a little,” you concede, smiling.

The wine arrives—a crisp white that pairs perfectly with the appetizers Mingi suggests. As you sip and sample delicate bites of food you can barely pronounce, the initial awkwardness melts away. Conversation flows as easily as it always has between you, ranging from classes to childhood stories to dreams for the future.

“So,” he says as the waiter clears your appetizer plates, “now that we’ve conquered economics, what’s next on your academic hit list?”

“Advanced Econometrics,” you grimace slightly. “Not exactly light reading.”

“Sounds intense,” he nods. “Do you think you’ll need a tutor for that one? If so, I know a guy…”

The teasing question makes you smile. “I think I can manage. What about you? What are you taking next semester?”

He hesitates, something vulnerable flickering across his face. “Actually, I registered for that Behavioural Economics class you mentioned. And...” he pauses, “I’m thinking about adding a minor in Business Analytics.”

“Really?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That’s a pretty intensive program.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, trying to look casual but not quite succeeding, “someone made me realize I might actually be good at this stuff. When I’m not being a, what did you call it? ‘Stereotypical frat boy with the collective IQ of a houseplant?’”

You wince, remembering your harsh assessment from months ago. “I was wrong about that.”

“Not entirely,” he laughs. “I can be that guy sometimes. It’s easier, you know? To be what people expect.”

The honesty in his voice touches something deep in your chest. “You don’t have to be that with me.”

His eyes meet yours across the table, warm and sincere,  “I know.”

The main courses arrive—seared scallops for you, steak for him—momentarily pausing the conversation. As you eat, you notice how Mingi keeps finding excuses to touch you: his fingers brushing yours when reaching for the wine, his knee pressing gently against yours under the table. Each contact sends little sparks along your skin, building a current that hums just below the surface.

“Can I ask you something?” he says after a comfortable lull in conversation.

“Of course.”

“When did you start liking me?” The question is direct, curious rather than cocky. “I mean, I know you couldn’t stand me at first.”

You consider this, taking a sip of wine. “I think... it was during our third tutoring session. You spent twenty minutes arguing with me about income inequality and its effects on consumer behaviour.”

He looks surprised. “That’s what did it? An economics debate?”

“You were passionate,” you explain. “And knowledgeable. And you didn’t back down just because I disagreed. I was impressed.”

His expression softens. “For me, it was the party. That first night. When you looked at me and didn’t seem impressed at all.”

“Really? That early?”

He nods, a small smile playing at his lips. “You have no idea how refreshing that was. Everyone else was... I don’t know, wanting something from me. You just looked annoyed that I existed.”

“I wasn’t annoyed,” you correct him. “I was... intrigued.”

“Intrigued,” he repeats, smile widening. “I’ll take it.”

As dinner winds down, the restaurant gradually empties around you. Neither of you seems eager to leave, conversation flowing from topic to topic, punctuated by laughter and moments of surprising vulnerability. When the waiter discreetly brings the check, Mingi insists on paying despite your protests.

“This was my idea,” he says firmly. “My invitation, my treat.”

“At least let me cover the tip,” you argue.

He shakes his head, sliding his card into the leather folder. “Next time. You can plan the whole thing if you want.”

“Next time,” you echo, liking the sound of it more than you expected to.

Outside, the night air is cool and clear, stars visible despite the campus lights. Mingi takes your hand as you walk back to the car, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm.

“Thank you for tonight,” you say quietly. “It was perfect.”

He stops walking, turning to face you under the soft glow of a streetlight. “Thank you for saying yes.”

There’s a moment where neither of you moves. Then, slowly, as if giving you time to pull away, Mingi leans in, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. The moment his lips meet yours, everything else fades away—the restaurant, the streetlight, even the nervous flutter in your chest. His kiss is gentle at first, almost reverent, like he’s been waiting for this moment and doesn’t want to rush it. Your eyes flutter closed as you lean into him, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath your fingertips.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he murmurs against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.

You smile, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “What took you so long?”

Instead of answering, he kisses you again, deeper this time. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re pressed against him, the warmth of his body seeping through the thin fabric of your dress. Something shifts in the air between you—the careful restraint you’ve both been maintaining giving way to something more urgent, more honest.

Your hands slide up to tangle in his hair, messing up his carefully styled look. He makes a soft sound against your mouth that sends heat rushing through you, his fingers digging slightly into your waist as he pulls you impossibly closer. The kiss turns hungrier, months of tension finally finding release as his tongue brushes against yours, tentative at first, then with growing confidence when you respond in kind.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, pupils wide as he looks at you with undisguised want.

“I should’ve done this at the party ages ago,” he whispers, voice rough. “That night on the balcony. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”

You laugh softly, feeling dizzy and light-headed in the best way. “Better late than never.”

He grins, pressing another quick kiss to your lips like he can’t help himself. “Do you want to go somewhere more... private?” The question is careful, giving you an out if you need it.

The responsible part of your brain reminds you of early classes tomorrow, of the boundaries you set, of taking things slow. But the part of you that’s been dreaming of this moment for longer than you care to admit is already nodding.

“Your place?” you suggest, surprised by the boldness in your own voice.

His eyes widen slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to agree so readily. “You sure?”

In answer, you pull him down for another kiss, letting your actions speak louder than words. When you pull away, his smile is almost dazed.

“My place it is,” he says, taking your hand and leading you back to his car with renewed purpose.

The drive to his fraternity house is charged with anticipation, the air between you electric with possibilities. His hand finds yours across the center console, thumb stroking over your knuckles in a way that seems both soothing and maddening at once. At a red light, he can’t resist leaning over to kiss you again, quick but deep enough to leave you breathless.

“If you keep doing that, we might not make it to your place,” you warn, only half-joking.

His laugh is low and warm. “Worth it.” ══════════════════

When you arrive, the house is mercifully quiet—most of his frat brothers either out or already asleep. He leads you through the common areas with your hand firmly in his, up the stairs to his room on the second floor. Once inside, he closes the door softly behind you, and suddenly the reality of where you are—in Mingi’s bedroom, alone, after the most perfect date—hits you all at once.

His room is larger than you expected, and surprisingly neat. A double bed occupies one corner, made with actual matching sheets and pillows. Bookshelves line one wall, filled not just with textbooks but novels, economics journals, and what looks like a collection of vintage records. A desk sits beneath a large window, offering the promised view of campus, lights twinkling in the distance.

“So,” you say, turning to face him, “this is where the golden boy lives.”

He pushes off from the door, crossing to stand before you. “Disappointed that there's no mattress on the floor and it’s not covered in beer pong trophies?”

“A little,” you admit with a teasing smile. “Though I do see at least one trophy.” You nod toward a shelf where a single golden cup sits next to a framed photo of Mingi with an older man, both smiling widely.

“Economics award from freshman year,” he explains, following your gaze. “That’s my grandfather, the day I got my acceptance letter.”

You move closer to examine the photo, aware of Mingi following you, the space between you shrinking with each step. When you turn to face him again, he’s so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. Something shifts in his expression—the playful fraternity president giving way to something more raw, more honest. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip.

His fingers tremble against your cheek as he exhales shakily. “I’ve never been this terrified of messing something up,” he confesses, voice cracking slightly.

“Every time I look at you, I see everything I’ve ever wanted but never thought I deserved.” His eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your knees weak. “I keep pinching myself that you’re actually here, with me. You’re not just another person to me—you’re my person.” His thumb brushes your lower lip, reverent. “I adore everything about you. The way you laugh, how you challenge me, even how you roll your eyes when I’m being ridiculous.” He swallows hard. “I’m serious about us. So serious it scares me.”

The word hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You see it in his eyes, the battle between desire and fear. Fear that he’ll scare you away, that he’ll move too fast, that you’ll retreat behind those walls he’s spent weeks carefully dismantling. Your hands, almost of their own volition, drift upward to press against his chest. Under your palm, you feel the erratic thrum of his heart, each frantic beat echoing your own.

“Mingi,” you whisper, and the sound of his name—so soft, so certain—shatters the fragile barrier he’s been holding between you. For a suspended moment, your gazes lock, electric and trembling, and then he moves with a sudden, desperate clarity.

Mingi’s restraint snaps like brittle glass. He surges forward, kissing you with an intensity that’s as bright and blinding as a detonated star—no preamble, no hesitance, just pure want. His lips crash into yours, hot and hungry, arms banding around your waist so tightly you feel like you might dissolve into him. There’s nothing tentative in the way he holds you; he’s all-in, every muscle taut with reverence and longing. The kiss is a reclamation, a promise, and the culmination of every unspoken thing that’s hung between you for weeks.

You can only cling to his shoulders, overwhelmed by the seismic shift in energy. Your breath is stolen, your senses alight, your mind gone white-noise blank. The room could be on fire and you wouldn’t notice. Mingi kisses like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets up for even a second—like you’re the last oxygen left on earth and he’s learning how to breathe. And yet, underneath the urgency, there’s a trembling tenderness, as though every pass of his mouth is asking, Is this okay? Am I too much? Do you want me, too?

You answer with your body, arching into him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, jaw tilting to deepen the kiss. His hands slide up your back, mapping the length of your spine; one finds its way into your hair, cradling your head, the other splayed possessively at your hip. He tastes like citrus and hope and the sharp, metallic shimmer of anticipation. There’s nothing careful about it—your teeth clash, your lips bruise, and when you gasp for air, he only uses the opportunity to trail kisses along your jaw, your neck, the delicate hollow at your throat. This is messy, urgent, but it’s also so fiercely sincere you’re left raw by the force of it. When he draws back, just long enough to search your face, his breathing is ragged, his eyes dark with wonder and disbelief.

“God, This might be better than the first time we kissed,” he pants, chest heaving as he regains control of his breathing. He brushes your hair away from your face, fingers gentle where his grip had been bruising. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

You shake your head, already chasing his mouth again, needing to erase the words and replace them with more—more of him, more of this. He laughs against your lips, the sound reverberating through your bones. You feel untethered, weightless, every nerve ending singing. You’re dimly aware of your back pressing up against the closed door, Mingi pinning you there in a cocoon of warmth and want. Every inch of you is alive, hypersensitive to the slide of his hands, the brush of his breath against your skin.

He kisses you again and again, in greedy, overlapping intervals, his self-control disintegrating the longer you let him. But even as the kiss turns molten, there’s nothing careless in the way he touches you—no sense of entitlement, just awe and gratitude, as though he still can’t believe you’re real, you’re here, you’re choosing him. When he finally slows, his forehead drops to yours, both of you panting, foreheads and noses pressed together, steadying yourselves against the aftershocks.

His lips find the corner of your mouth, then the line of your jaw, then your ear. “Sorry,” he whispers, not sounding sorry at all. “I got carried away for a second.”

You laugh, shaky and breathless. “It's okay, it was kinda cute.”

He smiles, teeth grazing your earlobe. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“I learned from the best.”

He laughs again, quieter this time, and it morphs into something softer, more vulnerable. “The student becomes the master now, huh?”

You step back, just enough to create a sliver of space between your bodies, and meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but there’s hesitation there too—a question. You answer by taking his hand and leading him toward the bed, your heart hammering against your ribs. When his legs hit the edge of the mattress, you place your palms on his chest and gently push. He sits immediately, looking up at you with such reverence that it steals your breath. For a moment, you simply stand between his parted knees, admiring how beautiful he looks like this—waiting, wanting, completely focused on you.

“Can I?” you ask softly, fingers playing with the top button of his shirt.

He nods, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Of course. Whatever you want, doll.”

You take your time undressing him, savouring each new inch of skin revealed. His breathing grows more ragged with each button you slip free, with each brush of your fingertips against his heated skin. Your hands drift lower, finding the buckle of his belt. His eyes never leave yours as you work it loose, the metal clinking softly in the quiet room. There’s something intoxicating about the way he watches you—patient yet desperate, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. When you pop the button of his pants, his hands grip the edge of the mattress, anchoring himself down.

“Lift your hips,” you instruct softly, and he complies immediately, allowing you to slide his pants down his thighs. The fabric pools around his ankles, and he kicks them away, leaving him in just his boxers.

You take a moment to admire him like this—the strong lines of his thighs, the subtle definition of muscle beneath smooth skin. Mingi has always seemed larger than life, but here, partially undressed and vulnerable before you, he’s beautifully human. When you trace a finger along the waistband of his underwear, he shivers, a small sound escaping his throat. He tries reaching for you, but you catch his wrists. 

“Not yet,” you murmur, and he immediately stills.

“‘M Sorry,” he breathes, letting his hands fall to his sides. “I’ll be good.”

Something about the way he says it—like he’s never had to wait before, like he’s never been the one following someone else’s lead—makes the heat pool low in your belly. You lean down and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, rewarding his patience.

“Lie back, let me take care of you,” you instruct, and he complies without hesitation, shifting up the bed until his head rests on the pillows. 

You take your time undressing yourself, hyperaware of his hungry gaze tracking every movement. When you finally stand before him in nothing but your underwear, he lets out the sweetest whimper that’s graced your ears.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice strained. “You’re so beautiful. I—“

He cuts himself off, holding back a moan as you climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. His hands hover uncertainly at your waist, waiting for permission.

“Go ahead, you can touch me,” you grant, and his hands are on you instantly. Feeling the warmth of his hands as they trace the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine.

You lean down to kiss him properly, deep and slow, savouring the taste of him. His lips part eagerly beneath yours, letting you set the pace, following your lead with a pliancy that’s intoxicating from someone normally so in control. You begin grinding against him for friction and he reciprocates. He groans into your mouth, mumbling curses under his breath. You felt his boner poking your ass while you both humped each other so so desperately. His bedroom is filled with the harmony of your heavy breathing, his whines, and the wet sounds of your lips crashing.

“Please,” he gasps. “I need—I want—“

“What do you want, Mingi?” you ask, pulling back slightly to watch his face.

“Need to feel you,” he says immediately, no hesitation. “Don’t want to—haah—cum in my pants like a fucking virgin.”

You giggle at his admission, you slowly reach behind you to squeeze his bulge, feeling it twitch in the palm of your hand. Mingi’s head tips back in bliss, growling at the sensation. The rawness in his voice makes your chest tight. You press soft kisses down his throat, across his collarbones, feeling his pulse race beneath your lips. His hands slide up your back, tangling in your hair, but he doesn’t push or pull—just holds on like you’re his anchor in a storm.

When you finally strip away the last barriers between you, his whole body trembles with anticipation. You wrap your fingers around his shaft, feeling the velvet skin slide beneath your touch as you position his flushed tip at your entrance. His eyes lock with yours—dark pools of need and surrender. You lower yourself with deliberate patience, savouring the stretch as his thick length fills you, watching his full lips part and his lashes flutter against flushed cheeks.

Mingi whines the second you ease down on him completely, hips trembling beneath you. His hands fist in the sheets, as if he’s physically restraining himself from thrusting up into you.

“Fuck, baby—“ he gasps, head tipping back against the pillows, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful as he struggles for control. “Feels so good around my cock, shit—“

You lean down, hushing him gently, both palms cradling his flushed face. You treat him like something precious, something to be cherished as you press your lips to his in a slow, deep kiss. Your tongue curls against his languidly, unhurried, as if you have nowhere else to be but here, joined with him in this perfect moment.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” you murmur between kisses, your voice soft and sweet and infinitely patient. Your forehead rests against his, noses brushing, sharing the same heated breath. “You’re doing so good for me.”

He moans at your praise, his entire body shuddering beneath yours. He’s all muscle and barely contained strength under you, his powerful frame completely at your mercy. You can feel how desperately he wants to move, to take control, but he surrenders to your pace instead, letting you have him exactly how you want him.

You remain still, just sitting there with him buried deep inside you, feeling the way your cunt pulses around his length. The sensation must be overwhelming for him because his eyes squeeze shut, his breathing ragged and uneven.

“Is it too much?” you cooed, reaching to brush damp strands of dark hair from his forehead, your touch gentle and soothing

He shakes his head frantically, his grip on your waist tightening. “N-no,” he whines with a soft, shattered sound. “Just—fuck, just need a s-second—feels too fuckin’ good—can’t think—“

Sweat beads at his hairline, eyes squeezed shut in some primal effort to hold himself together, chest heaving under your hands like he’s afraid his ribs will break apart from the force of it. You melt a little at the sight of him—a six foot force of raw sex appeal—now reduced to a mass of shaking limbs and shattered breath, undone and writhing beneath you. There’s something intoxicating about the way he trusts you to see him like this, about the way he lets himself be taken apart so openly, without armour or artifice. You savour it, every trembling, helpless second, and you want to draw it out forever.

You lean down, brushing your lips to his cheek in a soft, featherlight kiss. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t flinch away. Instead, he turns his head, chasing your mouth with a need so naked it nearly undoes you. You let him catch you, let him press his lips to yours—not in a kiss, exactly, but a silent plea, a lifeline. You answer by kissing him deeper, slower, letting your tongue trace the seam of his lips, coaxing him open, coaxing him back to the surface. His hands slide up your back, frantic but reverent, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you by touch and touch alone. His heart beats wild under your palm, a frantic semaphore that reads: I want you, I want you, I want you. You press another kiss to the corner of his mouth, then to his jaw, then down the delicate line where his pulse hammers beneath thin skin. He shudders, his whole body rigid and shivery. You thread your fingers through his hair, stroking the side of his face 

“Hey,” you murmur, voice as gentle as you know how to make it, “Relax, I’ve got you. Can you do that for me?” 

He nods, so obedient and desperate it makes something deep in your chest ache with tenderness. One breath, then another, and you feel the tightness in his body begin to unravel—incremental, but real. You rock your hips slowly, experimentally, watching his face for every flicker of sensation, every micro-expression. His lips part in a helpless moan, but his eyes finally flutter open, dazed and shining. He tries to say your name but it comes out as a whimper, half-beg, half-blessing.

“That’s it, baby” you praise, kissing him again, softer this time. “You’re doing so well.” 

The words seem to go straight to his core—he clings to them, drinking them down like water in the desert. You keep up a steady stream of encouragement, every whisper and touch meant to anchor him, to let him know you want him just like this: open, needy, trembling with the effort of holding back.

You draw the next movement out deliberately. The slow, aching drag of your hips, the way you squeeze around him with every tiny shift. Mingi’s hands grip your thighs like lifelines, fingers biting into your skin, but he doesn’t dare take back control—the restraint is exquisite, painful to watch. He’s at your mercy and loving it, if the way his eyes keep darting to your mouth, your chest, your hands, is any indication.

“Gonna let me do what I want, yeah?” you crooned, savoring how your voice makes him flinch with anticipation. “Keep being good for me.” 

He nods, lips trembling as he struggles to keep his composure “Fuck. Yes—pl-please, ‘m yours.”

You build your rhythm, slow and steady, each grind calculated to wring the maximum shudder from him. Sometimes you pause, letting him throb helplessly inside you, watching his jaw flex and his throat work as he swallows the urge to move. Sometimes, you bring yourself up just enough that only the tip of him is inside, and let him feel the loss, the emptiness, right before you sink down again in one slow, molten pulse. Every time you do it, Mingi’s head tips back, a sound escaping his throat that’s closer to a sob than a moan. You let the building friction wind both of you higher, but you don’t let yourself get lost in it; you want to see him come apart, to savour every second of his surrender.

You pick up the pace, just enough to make it impossible for him to stay silent. The bed frame squeaks softly beneath you, his hands finally dragging up your ribs, desperate for anything to ground him in this sinful reality. He reaches up and cups one of your tits, rolling and squeezing your nipple until it hardens against his warm touch. Your eyes shut at the sight, your body starts to falter under his grasp. Every inch of him is trembling too, his body strung tight as wire. His thrusts are growing more desperate, cockhead now slamming into your weakest spot, ripping a pornographic moan from you. 

“Please, doll,” he rasps, voice gone rough and wild. “Please, can I—?”

You lean in, your lips at his ear, your breath hot and deliberate. “You want to cum?” you hum, rocking down hard and slow, grinding your hips just the way he likes. “You want to fill me up?”

He makes a strangled sound that could be your name, or a prayer, or both. “Pleasepleaseplease,” he says again, as if the word is being pried out of him, as if he’s never begged for anything in his life.

You decide he’s earned it.

“Do it,” you cooed. “Cum for me, Mingi. Wanna feel you cum inside me.”

The effect is immediate. He bucks up into you, helpless, his face contorting with pure, blissful pleasure. His hands drag you down against him, holding you in place as he comes deep inside you, the force of it making his whole body shudder. Your juices drip down his balls and your gummy walls clamp down hard on his sensitive length, throwing into his orgasm and washing his vision white. You feel his warmth spreading in your insides, creamy ropes of cum making you feel fuller than before. You ride him through it, slow and greedy, squeezing him with your cunt until he’s wrung out and gasping, eyes rolling back as he drowns in sensation. His chest trembles under his shaky breaths as he pulls his half-hard cock out of your sticky heat, looking up at you through dampened lashes. You press your lips to his damp temple, stroking his hair until the aftershocks fade. For a moment, the world goes silent save for the hammering of both your hearts, the heat of your bodies, the sweat cooling on your skin.

All of a sudden, the equilibrium tilts.

Mingi comes back to himself by degrees, eyes still glazed but mouth already curling into a grin that’s all sharp canines and mischief. You’re still trembling, the aftershocks ricocheting through your bones, but the way he’s holding you now—possessive—is different from before. There’s a shift in the air, a gathering of purpose behind the lazy drag of his palm up your spine.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” he rasps, voice rough with spent desire, “my turn.”

Suddenly he’s moving, rolling you onto your back in a single, fluid motion. His hands are everywhere—kneading your ass, your thighs, greedy in their hunger. His body covers yours, heat and weight and muscle, and you realise that he’s been biding his time, letting you have your way only so he could give it back to you tenfold. 

“Did you really think you had all the control, doll?” he drawls, the words fiery and playful at once, goading you with the memory of your earlier dominance—all while letting you know it was only ever on loan.

His hands bracket your hips, fingers splayed and greedy, and you feel the faintest quiver in his arms as he holds himself over you, like a predator savouring the moment before the pounce. His eyes never leave yours as he takes himself in hand, his cock already hardening again. You feel the blunt head of him brushing against your sensitive folds, teasing at your entrance. He drags it slowly up and down your slit, still slick with his cum and your arousal, circling your clit with deliberate pressure that makes your hips buck involuntarily.

“So responsive,” he murmurs, eyes darkening as he continues to tease you, tapping his tip against your cunt with feather-light touches. “Look at how eager you are f’me.” You moan as he continues his torturous teasing, rubbing his hardening length against your swollen lips, gathering your shared wetness along his shaft. Your hips buck involuntarily, chasing the fullness you crave. Mingi just chuckles, keeping his movements shallow, the head of his cock just barely dipping inside before retreating. The emptiness is maddening.

“Use your words,” he commands softly, continuing the torturous tapping against your entrance. “Tell me what you need.”

“I— ohmygod... I need—,” you try to answer, but the question melts on your tongue. 

His smile is triumphant as he finally, finally pushes forward, sinking into you with one smooth thrust. He buries himself deeper, hips rolling with a languid, relentless power. Every inch of him fills you, presses you open, makes you ache. He fucks up into you with a slow, devastating grind that leaves your toes curling and your nails digging into his biceps for purchase.

“So fucking tight,” he groans, nipping at your pulse point, tongue flicking over sweat-salted skin. “So wet for me. You like being stuffed by my cock don't you?”

“Oh fuck.. yes!” You whimper, and he grips your jaw, thumb pressing into your lower lip, enticing you to be louder.

“Let me hear you,” he growls, eyes burning into yours. “Fuck—let the whole dorm hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He fucks you like he has nowhere to go and nothing else to do but ruin you, each punishing thrust deliberate and deep, perfectly tuned to hit every trembling, oversensitive sweet spot inside you, drawing out increasingly desperate sounds that seem to fuel his hunger. The room is a riot of sensation: the slap of skin on skin, the obscene squeeelch of your own arousal, the sweat that drips from his brow onto your collarbone as he leans in to bite at your shoulder.

He laces his fingers through yours, pinning your hands above your head, and the new angle is exquisite—he’s so deep you can barely breathe, so intense you can’t manage a sound. He’s watching your face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure and pain, cataloguing the way your body arches and clenches around him.

“Look at you,” he pants, fucking you harder now, the headboard rattling with each thrust. “You look so pretty like this—spread out for me, fuck. This is what you wanted, right?”

You feel the weight of him first, that heavy press of Mingi’s body pinning you down against the sheets, his hips grinding slow and deliberate as he sinks deeper. Every inch of his cock stretches you wide, the burn mixing with that sweet ache that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch. Your hands claw at his back, nails digging into the scarred skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He just growls low in his throat, pushing harder, stuffing himself in until there’s no space left between you. All you can feel is him, that thick length buried deep, pulsing against your walls as he drives in again and again. a whimper escapes your lips, broken and needy, your body arching up to meet him even as the overload makes you want to pull away. Mingi notices immediately. his hand shoots up, fingers tangling rough in your hair, yanking your head forward with just enough force to make you gasp.

“Look at me,” He rasps, voice strained like he’s fighting through something sharp and brutal.

His grip tightens, holding you steady so your eyes lock onto his. Yours are wide now, pupils blowing out wide and dark, swallowing the colour until there’s just that hazy black stare reflecting back at him. He watches it happen, the way they dilate under the dim light, pulling him in like you’re lost in the haze of it all. His sounds get louder, desperate almost, grunts turning into these deep, guttural moans that vibrate through his body into yours.

“Fuck—I'm gonna lose my mind,” he groans, the word dragging out low and pained, like the pleasure is edging on torture. his free hand digs into your hip, bruising as he pulls you closer, slamming in one last time. “Your perfect cunt was made for me wasn't it?”

You nod, frantic, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming fullness. He slows, just enough to let you catch your breath, then leans in, capturing your mouth with his in a kiss that’s as much a challenge as comfort. His tongue is rough, demanding, and he swallows every helpless sound you make. 

Then, in a cruel twist of fate, he pulls out entirely, leaving you empty and clenching at nothing. Before you can beg, he’s flipping you onto your stomach, hands manhandling your hips up until you’re on your knees for him, face pressed into the pillows. He lines himself up behind you, the heat of his cock nudging at your entrance, and you whimper in anticipation.

“You're gonna let me fuck you sooo good, right baby?” he promises, voice gone dark and needy, and then he slams back into you in one brutal, beautiful stroke. The sound you make is sweet, involuntary, a sob torn from deep in your chest. He gives you no quarter, hips pistoning relentlessly, the flat of his hand coming down on your ass with a sharp crack that sends you clenching around him.

“So beautiful,” he purred, running his palm over the stinging flesh.

With every thrust he drives the point home, each one punctuated by a filthy litany—mine—until you can feel the word burning into your skin. He grabs a fistful of your hair, jerks your head back so you’re forced to arch, to present yourself to him, to let him see how utterly, beautifully ruined you are.

“Say it,” he orders, voice raw. “Tell me who you belong to.”

You gasp, barely able to form words. “You! Mingi. I’m all yours—“

He rewards you with devastating thrusts, so deep your vision starts turning white.

“That’s”—thrust!—“right”—thrust!—“all”—thrust!—“mine.”

You can feel yourself unraveling, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. He’s relentless, fucking you through your first orgasm and into a second, not stopping even when you collapse boneless onto the mattress. He kisses your spine, your shoulder blade, every vertebrae, as he keeps you pinned and takes you, over and over, until your vision blurs and you forget your own name. 

“M-mingi! M’ so close, gonna cum—“

“Gonna cum inside you again,” he promises, voice shaking with how close he is, hips stuttering. “You gonna take it for me? Gonna let me breed this perfect pussy?”

“Yesyesyes—fuck!”

The words rip something out of you. You nod, desperate, grinding back against him, greedy for his release.

“That’s my girl, c’mon cum with me baby.”

He bites down on your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and fucks you through his own climax, cock pulsing inside you as he fills you up again, so much it slicks out around the edges and paints the inside of your thighs, messy and obscene.

You collapse together, his arms locked around your waist, breath ghosting warm across your neck. He stays inside you, softening only a little, like he can’t bear to let you go yet. You lie there, bodies tangled and sticky, sweat cooling on your skin, and you feel the heat of him still throbbing inside you, a silent claim.

Neither of you moves for what feels like hours, your breathing gradually slowing to match each other’s rhythm. Mingi’s weight on top of you is heavy but comforting, his cock still nestled deep inside you despite having softened slightly. The gentle pulsing of him against your walls sends occasional aftershocks through your system, little reminders of the intensity you just shared.

“Stay like this,” you whisper when he finally stirs, your hand reaching back to keep him in place. “Just a little longer.”

He makes a soft sound of agreement, pressing his lips to the nape of your neck. “You like feeling me inside you, don’t you?” His voice is a gentle rumble against your skin. 

You nod, feeling strangely vulnerable in your admission. There’s something deeply intimate about this—more so, somehow, than the passionate sex you just had. Mingi seems to understand, adjusting his position slightly so he’s not crushing you but remains connected, his chest pressed to your back, one arm draped possessively across your waist.

“This okay?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.

“Perfect,” you sigh, melting into the mattress beneath his weight.

The room falls quiet except for your mingled breathing and the distant thrum of music from downstairs. The party continues without you, but at this moment, the world outside this room might as well not exist. Mingi nuzzles against your shoulder, pressing lazy kisses to the marks he left earlier.

“I’ve never done this before,” he confesses quietly.

“What, sex?” you tease, knowing full well that’s not what he means.

He laughs softly, the vibration traveling through both your bodies. “No, smartass.” His arm tightens around you. “This,” he clarifies, fingers drawing gentle patterns on your skin. “Having someone stay over.”

You twist your neck to look at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Wait, seriously? But you’re—you’re you. How—”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah I know…I don’t bring people here. Ever.”

“Ever?” You shift slightly to face him better, wincing as you feel him slip out of you. The loss is immediate, leaving you empty in a way that makes you want to chase the connection again. He reaches for tissues from his nightstand, cleaning you both with surprising tenderness before settling back beside you. His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable.

“Never,” he confirms, voice soft. “This room is... I don’t know. It’s mine. My space. I don’t share it with just anyone.”

The implication hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You’re not just anyone. You’re someone he wants in his private world, someone he’s letting see parts of himself that others don’t.

“But all those stories about you...” you begin, confused.

He shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. “Not saying I’ve been a saint. But those hookups? They happened elsewhere. Never here. Never in my bed.” His fingers trace your cheekbone with careful precision. “Never like this.”

Something warm blooms in your chest, spreading outward until your whole body feels flushed with it. You’ve been the exception to so many of his rules already—the girl he studied for, the one he took to Stellina, the one he waited patiently for. And now this—being the only person he’s ever brought to his most personal space.

“I didn’t know,” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say.

“How could you?” His smile is small but genuine. “I’ve spent a lot of time making sure everyone sees exactly what they expect to see.”

You reach up, touching his face with gentle fingers. “And what am I seeing right now?”

“The real me,” he says simply. “The one who’s terrified of messing this up. The one who thinks about you constantly. The one who...” he hesitates, taking a deep breath before continuing, “the one who wants you to be his girlfriend. Officially.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. Despite everything that’s happened between you—the tutoring, the dates, the incredible sex you just had—hearing him say it out loud makes it suddenly, overwhelmingly real.

“Mingi...” you start, uncertain how to respond.

His face falls slightly, but he quickly masks it. “I’m rushing things, aren’t I?”

“No, it’s not that,” you say quickly, not wanting him to misunderstand. “It’s just—this is all happening so fast. A few months ago I couldn’t stand you, and now...”

“And now?” he prompts when you trail off, eyes searching yours.

“Now I can’t imagine not having you in my life,” you admit. The truth of it surprises even you. “I just need a little time to process everything. Can I... can I give you an answer tomorrow?”

Relief washes over his features. “It’s not a no?”

You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. “Definitely not a no.”

He pulls you closer, wrapping you in his arms like he’s afraid you might disappear. “Tomorrow it is. I can wait.”

You fall asleep like that, tangled together in his sheets, his heartbeat steady against your back, his breath warm on your neck. For the first time in years, you don’t worry about your schedule or your plans or what comes next. You just let yourself exist in this moment, with him.

═══════════════════

Sunlight streams through the gap in the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. You stir slowly, your body pleasantly sore as consciousness creeps in. For a moment, disorientation clouds your mind—this isn’t your dorm room. All of a sudden, rapid flashbacks enter your mind from the events of last night. Mingi is gone, the sheets cool where he should be. For one terrible moment, panic seizes your chest—did he regret last night? Did he change his mind about wanting you as his girlfriend?

Then you hear footsteps in the hallway, the door handle turning. You sit up, clutching the sheet to your chest, heart pounding.

Mingi backs into the room, hands full. He’s balancing a tray of coffee cups, a small box of chocolates tucked under his arm, and—your breath catches—a bouquet of lilies and hydrangeas cradled against his chest. He hasn’t noticed you’re awake yet, too focused on not dropping anything as he nudges the door closed with his foot.

When he turns and sees you watching him, his face breaks into a smile so bright it rivals the sunlight streaming through the windows.

“Morning,” he says, suddenly looking shy. “I was hoping to be back before you woke up.”

“What’s all this?” you ask, unable to keep the smile from your voice.

He approaches the bed, carefully setting down the coffee cups on the nightstand. “Well, I figured your answer might depend on how convincing my case was.” He hands you the flowers, the stargazer lilies’ pink-speckled petals unfurling beside clusters of blue hydrangeas that catch the morning light. “These reminded me of you.”

You bury your nose in the blooms, inhaling their sweet fragrance. “They’re perfect.”

“There’s more,” he says, offering you the box of chocolates. “Your favourite, right? The ones with the salted caramel centers?”

You blink in surprise. “How did you know?”

“You mentioned it once, when we were studying for the midterm. Said they were your stress food.”

The fact that he remembered such a small detail makes your heart swell. He passes you one of the coffee cups, the rich aroma of your preferred brew wafting up as you take it.

“And this…” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small envelope. “This is the most important part.”

You set the coffee aside and take the card with trembling fingers. The envelope is simple, your name written on the front in his familiar handwriting. Inside is a handmade card, decorated with what appears to be hand-drawn economic graphs and formulas. You open it, and a laugh bubbles up from your chest as you read the message:

According to my cost-benefit analysis, being with you yields the highest returns on investment. Our relationship has increasing marginal utility—the more time I spend with you, the more valuable each moment becomes. Will you be my girlfriend and help me maximize our happiness and love function?

It’s nerdy and sweet and so perfectly him that tears spring to your eyes. When you look up, he’s watching you nervously, waiting for your response.

“Soooo?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You set the card aside carefully and reach for him, pulling him down until he’s sitting beside you on the bed. “You're so stupid,” you say, cupping his face in your hands. “Of course I'll be your girlfriend”

The relief and joy that wash over his features are almost painful to witness. He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s somehow both gentle and fierce, like he’s trying to pour every emotion he’s feeling into this one perfect moment.

When you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if he’s committing this to memory.

“You know,” you say, threading your fingers through his hair, “for someone who was failing economics a few weeks ago, that was a pretty impressive application of the principles.”

He laughs, the sound vibrating through both of you. “What can I say? I had an excellent tutor.”

“Damn right you did,” you tease, pulling him in for another kiss.

Outside, the campus is waking up. Students are heading to class, professors are preparing lectures, life is continuing as it always has. But in this room, wrapped in each other’s arms, you and Mingi have created something new—a world that belongs just to the two of you, built on unexpected connections, shattered assumptions, and the courage to see beyond the surface. As his lips find yours again, more insistent this time, you let yourself sink into the certainty that some economic theories are universal: the most valuable things are often the ones you never saw coming, and the greatest returns come from the investments you make not with your head, but with your heart.

y/n:

hey, it's san, you already know that. okay, you know i'm bad at this, so i'm sorry in advance. there might be a right way to write this and i don't think i know it, but for you i'll try. please don't judge the handwriting too much. or the wording, or how short or long it is. i rewrote the first part four times and it still feels bad. anyway, i'm sorry, here's the letter. i guess i should start from the beginning, no? is that stupid? i don't know. [scribbled] the first time i saw you was in that class we both didn’t want to be in. i don’t even remember what the professor was saying, but i remember you. you were leaning over the desk, hand on your cheek, resting your head. i remember thinking you looked easy to be around. i don’t know why, but it did. this is embarrassing but i think i knew i wanted to marry you way earlier than i probably should have. i didn’t say it, obviously, that would've been creepy. i just knew you looked so so pretty and now that i know you, you became so beautiful. not that you weren't beautiful before being with me, you always were, i'm just saying from my perspective just how mesmerized you had me from the start, you know? you are just so smart, so creative, so diligent. [scribbled] it's like when you balance numbers and they finally add up the way they’re supposed to, that's what it kind of felt like, but in the romantic way. i'm sorry i'm not good at expressing my feelings and all that, you know that better than anyone else. but i want you to know that choosing you has never felt like a decision i had to force myself into. i want this more than anything, with you. we have this apartment now. it’s small and the walls are kind of thin and the kitchen light flickers sometimes, but it’s ours. i keep thinking about how this is the place where everything will start. mornings, dinners, normal days, hard days, all of it. and i like knowing you’ll be here at the end of the day. i like knowing i get to come home to you. i promise i’ll take care of you. i promise i’ll work hard. [scribbled] i know i don’t always say what i’m thinking, but i feel things even when i don’t show them right. does that make sense? well, [scribbled] i’m really proud to be your husband. that still feels strange to write, but in a good way. i hope we grow old together. i hope we don’t stop choosing each other, even when life gets busy or complicated. i hope you always know that you’re my favorite person in the world, even if i forget to say it out loud sometimes. i’ll always try to try, even if i’m bad.

i love you.

san

tucked beneath the neatly folded cashmere sweaters, exactly where you left it. lace covered box, meant for letters he had promised to fill with, yet a year and a half later, only the first one stood alone. you weren't angry, not even sad. it actually made you chuckle a little. just a quiet grief for what had been started to root deep inside, for the vibrant colors that had softened into pastels, for the soft reverence in his eyes that had slowly faded into habit. you often found yourself staring at the box, a wry smile touching your lips.

the paper, once crisp, now yielded to countless revisits. you knew every word by heart, the rhythm of his awkward sincerity etched into your memory. you traced the faded ink. his handwriting, usually neat in ledgers, was a little clumsy here. each letter formed with an almost painful deliberation. it was short, a simple promise. a quiet declaration of his intent to build a life with you, to be your home. no extreme pronouncements of undying passion, but a solid foundation of devotion. san had never been one for grand gestures, at least not in words. his love manifested in the certainty of his presence, the steady rhythm of his life intertwined with yours. in fact, you had asked for the letter in the first place, at that diner right before receiving the keys to the apartment.

"a letter?" he'd shifted on his seat, a blush creeping up his neck. "i'm not... good with words, y/n."

you shook your head with an endeared smile. "you don't have to be shakespeare sannie, just you."

he seemed in thought for a moment, trying to resist looking at your puppy eyes asking pretty please before straightening his back, accepting the challenge. and he did. pen clutched tight, brows furrowed in concentration. you’d watched him, your heart swelling with a love so potent it felt like a physical ache. then when he finished, he slid it across the booth table, eyes avoiding yours with his shy offering.

now, the paper, soft as old linen, whispered between your fingertips. you didn't rush. each sentence, each carefully chosen word, you read them slowly, precious memory reexperiencie. tasting the hope, the fresh promise of that day when he later bought you the box, saying he'd get better at it and you'd have it spilling out with his loving written words. you ran your fingers over the intricate patterns of the lace, delicate threads contrasting the hollow space.

you folded the letter along it's original creases, the paper folding easily, and placed it back before checking your thight bun in the mirror, perfect posture, every single hair placed where it was meant to be. he still looked at you, of course, but the spark, the raw wonder, had dimmed. it wasn't his fault. life had a way of sanding down the sharp edges of infatuation, leaving behind the smooth, enduring stone of work life.

silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant city chorus. you tell yourself he just forgot. got busy, or thought one was enough. you're good at explaining things away. but when did trying turn into remembering? when did the promise of a future become the past?

the aroma of roasted chicken and rosemary filled the air, a comforting scent that tonight told a solitary performance. table was set, candles unlit, everything waiting for a moment that kept getting delayed. the antique clock sat on the mantelpiece. seven thirty, again. you waited for the familiar click of keys in the lock, the sound that usually signaled the end of day and the beginning of us.

when he comes in your head lifts before you even realize. smoothing your dress automatically, fingers brushing over fabric that was never wrinkled in the first place. a small smile already forming, reserved for him. san already halfway out of his shoes, shoulders slumped, a dark suit jacket draped over his arm. he didn’t glance at the table set for two, but knows everything looks exactly as it always does.

"hey," his voice tired, worn down. like business of the city still clung to him.

"hi," you answer, softer.

he leans in, presses a quick kiss to your temple. familiar, practiced.

"sorry i’m late," he adds, already loosening his tie as you walked towards the dining table. "we had to redo part of the quarterly report because... how do i put this- there was a discrepancy in one of the ledgers, and it threw off the whole reconciliation process. so we had to go back and..."

pulling out his chair. the heavy oak scraped across the polished floor. he loosened his tie, then unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. "had to redo a section. whole damn thing.” he ran a hand through his hair, already tousled from the day. “hours. just… hours.”

you watched him, spooning roasted vegetables onto his plate. you pushed his plate closer, then sat across from him. "must be frustrating," you offered, a soft murmur.

he picked up his fork, turning the chicken over. "frustrating doesn’t begin to cover it. the whole team, scrambling. for a single misplaced figure." he took a bite, chewed slowly. "it’s done now. mostly."

he keeps talking about work, deadlines, numbers, something about a client. you listen, always do. you don't understand every word, but you understand him in the way he talks when he’s tired. the slight edge in his voice, the way he explains things like he’s still in the middle of solving them. it’s easier for him to talk about numbers than about how his day actually felt.

nods at the right moments. hums of acknowledgement. small "and then?" once in a while, just to keep him going.

"…where did those come from?" he signals behind you at the counter. a faint lift of an eyebrow. a hint of a smile, almost.

you glance back, even though you know exactly what he’s looking at. the vase sits neatly by the sink, filled with fresh flowers. soft colors, carefully arranged.

"oh," you say, turning back to him, a warmth creeping up your neck. "mrs. jones gave them to me. i brought her some brownies earlier."

he paused, fork halfway to his mouth and exhales a small breath through his nose in genuine bewilderment.

"y/n," he says, setting his fork down for a second, "you need to stop baking so much."

you blink at him. "why?"

"i don't know, it's just..." he gestures vaguely, like the answer should be obvious. "it's every day. there's always something new. brownies, cookies, that cake from yesterday. the whole building must be swimming in your desserts." he didn’t sound angry, just... resigned.

"i like baking," your voice still gentle, picking at a loose thread on the tablecloth

"i know, i know," he says quickly. "i'm just saying… it's a lot, isn't it?"

a small pause settles and you shrug, barely lifting your shoulders. "it keeps me busy."

he reached across the table, covering your hand with his. his palm was warm, calloused. "tell you what. how about i book you a day at that salon you like? the one on fifth street. hair. nails. the works. i can tell my sister to join you."

"what? am i starting to look like a hag?" you managed a weak laugh.

his grip tightened slightly. his eyes, usually so guarded, held yours with an intensity that surprised you. "you know that’s not what i meant." his voice was firm, no trace of humor.

the small joke withered and you nodded, slowly. "okay." you swallowed. "okay, that sounds... nice."

the candle flickered, casting dancing shadows across his face. he picked up his fork again, the brief moment of connection already fading.

later, the apartment settled into it's nightly quiet. you lay in bed, the soft glow of your reading lamp illuminating the pages of a novel you couldn't quite focus on. normal people by sally rooney, but the words blurred. beside you, san lay on his back, eyes fixed on the small screen in his hands. the blue light painted his face in stark contrasts. his thumb scrolled, scrolled, scrolled. numbers, probably. reports. another discrepancy.

you watched the subtle movements of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brow. he was so focused, so far away. still, you reached out, tentative touch to his forearm. his skin was warm beneath your fingers.

he didn’t stir, didn’t look up. his thumb kept scrolling.

you moved your hand, gently, up his arm, over his shoulder, until your fingers brushed the nape of his neck, then threaded into his hair. soft, dark strands. you leaned closer, your breath stirring the air near his ear.

a soft sound escaped him and it almost seemed like he was leaning into it. a yawn. deep, stretching. he lowered the phone, placing it face down on the nightstand. his eyes, heavy lidded, met yours. fleeting moment, again.

"long day," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. he gave you a quick short peck on your cheek then turned onto his side, facing away from you, the duvet pulled higher. "good night."

lamp clicked off. darkness enveloped the room, thick and immediate. you lay there, listening to the soft, even rhythm of his breathing, soon turning into soft snores. beside him but alone in the quiet. the book lay open, unread. words still blurred.

୨୧

acetone and something floral, both sharp and comforting. hum of dryers and low chatter fills the space, blending into a steady background noise that makes everything feel easy. normal.

you sat in the middle chair, hands resting neatly on the small cushion in front of you, fingers relaxed but still. a sigh escaping your lips before you could stop it. the manicurist, a young woman with a bright, knowing smile, took your hand, her touch cool and precise. she filed your nails into neat, elegant ovals. you picked a soft, clean color without much thought. something simple, safe, that goes with everything.

across from you, two of your friends leaned into each other, their overlapping voices a stream of gossip. too loud and uncaring. the others chime in, voices overlapping. one of them threw her head back, a peal of laughter echoing, the other one nodded, eyes wide with feigned shock. they talked about a mutual acquaintance’s recent engagement, the scandalous details of a breakup, the endless parade of societal expectations.

"he actually said that?"

"no, stop-"

"i'm serious, i swear-"

to your left, rhythmic snip of scissors. noeul, san's older sister listened quietly, sat under a cloud of foil, her head tilted back as a stylist worked through her dark hair. but her attention drifts back to you more often than not. she owned a warm, reassuring glint. offering a small, conspiratorial smile whenever you caught her gaze in the mirror, silent acknowledgment of the shared escape.

a few chairs down, a woman with kind eyes spoke in hushed tones to her stylist. "she just graduated middle school with the highest scores," her voice, thick with a mother’s proudness, drifted over.

the stylist hums a singing note. "you must be so proud."

"oh, more than that" the woman exhales. "she's even already thinking about what she wants to study after high school."

she spoke of her daughter, a girl she’d poured her heart into.

your fingers still for a second on the cushion. the stylist murmurs something gentle back, and the conversation folds into the background. but it lingers.

your gaze drifted from the woman’s satisfied face to the neat row of polish bottles, then to your own hands, at the careful brush of polish gliding over your nails. you imagined those hands, smaller, softer, reaching for yours. a child. a son, perhaps, with san’s dimples and your own tendency to blush when surprised. or a daughter, with san’s quiet strength and your expressive eyes. the thought bloomed in your mind like a fragile hothouse flower.

you try to picture it. years stacked quietly on top of each other. a child in your apartment. toys where there are now empty surfaces. noise where there is now silence. san, coming home from work. would he pick them up? would he be too tired? would he talk to them the way he talks to you now, half there, half somewhere else? or would it be different? the thought catches you off guard. unfamiliar.

because you've never talked about it. not seriously. not beyond passing comments, vague things people say because they’re supposed to. someday. eventually. no timelines, no plans, no want or don’t want laid out clearly between you.

you don't even know if he wants kids. and for a second, that realization feels heavier than it should. there’s a whole future on a limbo sitting out of reach. not because it’s impossible, but because it’s never been named.

"y/n? you’re miles away!" the brightness of your friend's voice cut through your reverie.

the other leans forward slightly, "how’s married life treating you?"

you don't look up right away, only tilting your hand slightly when the nail tech asks you to. a practiced tug at the corner of your lips masked the tremor beneath.

"it's good, really good." you offered, voice light and airy.

"ugh," someone groans playfully. "of course it is. you guys were always like... perfect for each other."

you let out a soft laugh. "thank you, emma."

"it is," the friend grins. "seriously though, what have you guys been up to lately? anything fun?"

there’s a pause. you glance up for just a second, like you're checking your memory for something recent, something worth telling. "not really," tone still light. "just... normal stuff."

"that's adorable," another friend says, laced with genuine admiration. "no drama or chaos. must be so peaceful to marry an office guy."

"yeah," you nod, smile a little wider. "exactly."

the conversation shifts easily after that, flowing like a meandering river to other topics, someone starts talking about a coworker, someone else about a trip they want to take, and you listen, add comments here and there, smile when you're supposed to. their voices rising and falling in a comfortable rhythm. you watched them, their easy camaraderie, the way they finished each other’s sentences, and a familiar pang of loneliness pierced through the carefully erected wall around your heart.

noeul’s voice, soft but firm, cut through the din. she leaned closer, her perceptive eyes, meeting yours.

"how’s he been?” she asks.

you turn slightly. "san?"

a small nod. "yeah."

your smile didn’t falter. it felt glued on now, a permanent fixture. "he’s good," you say. "just busy with work, you know how he is." the words came out a little too quickly, a little too smooth. you avoided her gaze, focusing instead on the manicurist applying the top coat, making sure each nail was perfectly glossy.

noeul scoffs and tilts her head. "i do." a faint, wry smile touched her lips. "you know, i’ve known my brother a long time. longer than you, even." she paused, letting her words hang in the air. "i know how he gets. when things pile up and he forgets the rest of the world exists."

for a second, the façade threatened to crack. the truth, the bitter, stinging sensation, rose in your throat. you wanted to confess, to unburden yourself, to say, he’s not here, noeul. even when he’s here, he’s not here. i’m so lonely. i feel like i’m drowning in this calm. but the words remained trapped. fearful of conflict, ingrained habit of presenting things softly. you forced a small, reassuring nod. "yeah, it's nothing." the lie tasted like ash.

she watches you for a second longer, like she’s weighing something, then hums lightly and looks away, letting the moment dissolve back into the room. as the conversation drifts away again, your gaze lowers, unfocused.

the manicurist finished, buffing your nails to a high shine. she applied a cuticle oil, the scent of almond and rose a delicate perfume. your hands, now impeccably groomed, felt foreign.

"all done, dear." she announced, her smile bright.

you lift your hands slightly, turning them under the light. they’re perfect. smooth, even, untouched.

"thank you," you say, smiling.

for a moment, you imagine asking him. should be simple. do you ever think about kids? it doesn’t feel like a big question. it's not.

and yet, you can’t picture the moment clearly. when you'd ask, how he’d answer, whether it would feel natural or out of place, like introducing a topic that doesn’t belong in the quiet shape of their life. so you let the thought go.

you reach for your phone absentmindedly. no new messages. thumb hovers over the screen for a second, like you might type something, then you lock it instead and set it back down.

"do you guys want to grab something after this?" a girls asks. "coffee?"

"perfect! i’m craving that new lavender latte."

"oh, i can't," you say quickly, forcing another regretful smile. "i really should head home. dinner, you know." you gestured vaguely, as if the very concept of an empty fridge was an urgent, looming threat.

"alright, wifey," someone teases.

you simply smile again in a thin line as you stand, smoothing down your dress out of instinct and reach for your bag. giving everyone a small goodbye hug. as you pass behind noeul, there’s a brief brush of hands, intentional to pause you.

"hey, if it’s ever not nothing," she says quietly, a hint of concern still lacing her words. "you can tell me."

you hold her gaze for a second. then you smile. soft, reassuring, effortless. "i know." and you mean it, you just don't use it.

blur of city sounds and hurried footste. you stepped out, the cool afternoon air a sharp contrast to the salon’s warmth. rose scented oil on your nails, faint blush of pink, it felt like a disguise. you walked, footsteps echoing on the pavement, toward the quiet of the apartment, toward the silent kitchen, toward the dinner you had to make. the thought of it, a weight in your stomach, settled in with the dull ache of loneliness. the calm awaited.

୨୧

the last of the suds swirled down the drain, taking with them the faint scent of tonight’s braised short ribs. you wiped down the counter, movements precise, methodical. the clinking of ceramic plates against the drying rack was the only sound in the kitchen. you dried your hands on a towel, folding it neatly over the edge of the sink when you're finished. dishes done, kitchen clean again.

san's in the living room, laptop open, the soft glow of the screen lighting his face. he's not typing much. just staring, scrolling, thinking. you paused at the archway, shoulder pressing lightly against the cool plaster. the conversation from the salon, a snippet of motherhood, rang in your mind. it had all been a gentle nudge, a question mark in the back of your thoughts all afternoon. you hadn't realized how much space the idea of a child, of your child, could occupy until that moment.

the future, once a vibrant tapestry you and san wove together with eager hands, now a blank canvas. you’d painted the college days in bright, bold strokes, the wedding vows in shimmering gold. but the years beyond, the ones stretching into a quiet domesticity, remained unsketched. you found yourself wondering if san even saw that canvas anymore, if he still held a brush.

you watched the muscles in his forearms flex as he began typing, the subtle ripple beneath his shirt. his dark hair, a little longer than you usually liked, fell across his forehead. he didn’t look up, his focus absolute, a tunnel vision you’d come to recognize.

"still have a lot to do?" you asked, your voice softer than you intended, a whisper against the keyboard’s clatter.

his fingers stilled for a beat, then resumed their pace. "almost," he murmured, eyes still fixed on the screen. "just finishing up these projections for the morning."

a breath, deep and slow, air cool in your lungs. you watch him for a second. the way his brows pull together slightly, the way his attention narrows into whatever’s on the screen. focused. distant. the question, the real question, the one that had been brewing since you left the salon, fell heavy on your tongue. it wasn't just about kids. it was about us. about the unspoken, the unasked, the growing chasm of silence. you wanted to ask if he ever thought about them, about a future that wasn’t neatly tied to quarterly reports and spreadsheets. you wanted to ask if he still saw you, really saw you, beyond the perfectly made bed and the carefully planned dinners. maybe, just maybe, this question could be the key, a small crack. it could lead to an actual conversation, a real one, not just about work or groceries or the weather. your heart beat a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

"hey," you start.

he hummed, signaling acknowledgement without breaking concentration. his head tilted slightly, silent invitation to continue.

do you ever think about kids?

words once so clear in your mind, so simple in your head, at least, suddenly tangled. they became a knot in your throat, a lump of unspoken fears and resentments. the image of him, so engrossed, so far away, solidified the doubt. what if he says no? what if he doesn’t want them? what if he thinks it’s a silly question? the fear of that disappointment in his eyes, was a known, suffocating weight. you’d spent years perfecting the art of soft landings, of avoiding any ripple in the calm surface of your shared life. to shatter that now, to introduce a potential disagreement, felt like a betrayal of your own carefully constructed peace. the question of children, of your future, of his love, dissolved into a vague, unformed anxiety.

"do you…" you began, then faltered, sentence dying on your lips. "do you want some tea?"

he looked up then, slanted brown eyes meeting yours, a faint smile touching his lips. the blue light softened the edges of his face, highlighting the dimples that appeared only when he was genuinely pleased. "yeah," he nodded. "sounds nice."

and just like that, the moment passed. the opportunity vanished. you offered a small, tight smile in return, then turned and walked back into the quiet kitchen, already reaching for the kettle. behind you, the quiet settles back into place. the question dissolves somewhere between the sink and the stove, blending into the rhythm of water filling, mugs being set out, something warm being made and offered instead of something uncertain being asked. by the time the kettle starts to hum, you can’t even tell if it would’ve been the right moment or if there would ever be one.

୨୧

the supermarket was colder than you'd expected when the automatic doors whispered open, spitting out artificial chill. paused just past the entrance, adjusting your grip on the heavy cart as the air settled unwelcome against your skin. for a moment, you just stood there, letting the quiet hum of refrigerators and distant chatter fill the space around you. a shiver traced it's way down your spine, cold reminder that you had to move, and so you pushed the metal basket forward as it's wheels squeaked faintly.

there was no reason to rush. you followed the aisles in a pattern you didn’t have to think about anymore. chicken first, hand reaching for the familiar white tray. then the vegetable section. flour, again. sugar, constant drain on the pantry, always seemed to run out faster than it should. everything found it's place in the cart without hesitation, each item chosen with the same steady certainty. each line on your shopping list crossed off with a decisive stroke of the pen. at some point, you realized you had already walked down the same aisle twice.

nothing missing, nothing forgotten. the necessities secured, a small indulgence felt earned. you slowed, then stopped altogether at the snack aisle. eyes drifted over the shelves, lingering on things you didn’t need. brightly colored packaging, a mental tally forming: which ones you wouldn't you buy, which ones would san wrinkle his nose at? the familiar ritual offered a brief, quiet comfort. you imagined his polite imperceptible nod of approval when you presented his favourite chocolate covered crispy biscuits, or the slight, teasing lift of his brow if you dared bring home something too exotic.

"y/n?" the voice came from behind, uncertain but enough to make you turn, the cart creaking in protest. you couldn’t place him until the crooked smile appeared and recognition settled in.

seonghwa.

he stood a few feet away, a half basket hooked over his arm. the boy you remembered, all sharp angles and adolescent angst, had softened around the edges, but the core was undeniably him. the piercings that once studded his ears and lip were gone, leaving only ghost like indentations. but new ink snaked up his forearms, dark tendrils against his skin, a testament to a life lived beyond high school hallways. his wolf cut, a shaggy, artfully dishevelled frame around his face, was longer, wilder than you remembered. his round eyes, still piercing, held a glint of surprise, then something else, something assessing.

"oh...hi," you said, a small, surprised smile breaking through. "wait, hi."

"wow, it's really you." he smiled back, a little wider, like he’d been more sure of it than you were. "i almost didn't recognize you. you... look good, exactly the same," he added, almost as an afterthought.

you let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "that’s not true."

"it is," he said lightly. "just... older. in a good way."

you smiled again, more out of politeness this time, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as if to give your hands something to do.

"what are you doing around here?" he asked. "do you live nearby?"

"yeah," you nodded. "not too far. i just came to... groceries."

"right," he said, glancing at his own cart. "same."

there was a brief pause, the kind that should have felt awkward, but didn’t quite. not yet.

"so... are you still in touch with... what was her name? sarah? no- samantha?”

you smiled faintly. "no."

"right, yeah," he said quickly, waving it off with a small laugh. "i always mix those up."

you didn’t correct him. his gaze shifted then, catching on your left hand, lingering for a fraction on the thin band around your ring ringer. you followed his eyes, as if you hadn’t noticed it until that moment.

you offered a practiced smile, a smooth, well rehearsed performance. "oh, yeah. met him in college." the words came out light, airy, almost dismissive of the years of shared history, of the dreams whispered in dorm rooms, the silent promises.

"college, huh? that's nice," he said, and it sounded genuine.

"it is," you replied, too quickly. "his name is san, he's an accountant." the description felt flat, inadequate, a pale shadow of the man you loved.

"an accountant. fancy." he chuckled. "so, what have you been up to? still arguing about about freud versus jung for fun?"

"no, not really." you corrected gently. "i mean, i got a psychology degree but i'm… i'm a stay at home wife now." the phrase almost felt embarrassing on your tongue.

his eyebrow shot up. "huh... i always pictured you, like, running a therapy practice, saving the world from going insane."

you shrugged. "well, it’s nice, though. i get to... manage the house. bake. plan meals. save him from going insane, you know?" the words hollow, even to your own ears.

"i bet san’s a lucky man. always coming home to fresh cookies." he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

small, tight knot formed in your stomach. you baked when you were anxious, yes. but san rarely came home early enough for the cookies to still be warm. and most of them, you gave away to the neighbours, offerings of surplus comfort. "something like that," you murmured, deflecting. "what about you? still making music?"

his face lit up, a genuine, unadulterated passion sparking in his eyes. the words lingered between you for a second before dissolving into something lighter. you talked after that. nothing important, nothing that would be remembered in detail later. work, vaguely. life, in broad strokes. the kind of conversation that filled space easily without asking too much of either of them. he asked questions and waited for the answers. reacted in the right places. kept things moving without letting them settle too long in any one place. you found yourself talking more than you expected to.

"a few of us get together sometimes," he said, almost casually. "nothing big. just... hanging out. you should come, we’re going to a friend's house next week. old times' sake."

you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, but because you did. your mind immediately conjured a mental checklist: the laundry basket overflowing in the utility room, the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun on the living room floor, the intricate dinner you had planned for san, a quiet attempt to reignite a spark that felt increasingly dim. the thought of all those small, domestic duties, waiting patiently for your attention, made a familiar pang of guilt twist in your gut.

"i don’t know," you said lightly, automatic refusal on your lips. "i might be busy."

"with what?" he asked curiously.

you searched for something immediate, something obvious.

"just… stuff," you said instead, smoothing it over with a small smile.

he nodded, accepting it without question.

"well," he added, "if you’re not, you’re welcome. it’d be nice to catch up properly. it’s good to break free sometimes and let loose, you know?"

a small yearning stirred within you. the idea of an afternoon free from chores, from the quiet hum of your own thoughts, from the subtle ache of loneliness, held an unexpected appeal. "okay," you said, the word simple.

"yeah?" his eyes amused.

"yeah."

you exchanged numbers. nothing ceremonious about it, a small addition, barely noticeable in the moment. "well, it was good running into you, y/n. don’t be a stranger." he offered a quick, easy smile, then turned, his basket still hooked over his arm, and disappeared down the aisle towards the dairy section.

that night, you work through the knots in your hair in front of the vanity mirror. each stroke of the brush pulls a small discomfort. the rush of water from the tap in the en suite bathroom ceases. the door creaks open and san emerged, a towel draped low around his waist. water still clings to the dark hairs on his chest, glistening under the low light. he moves with a quiet efficiency, his broad shoulders filling the doorway for a moment before he crosses to his side of the bed, carrying the clean scent of his soap. he doesn’t look at you, not directly, as he peels the towel away, letting it drop to the floor. your gaze, however, finds the smooth expanse of his back, the hard lines of his muscles shifting as he reaches for the pajama drawer. you note the way his bicep flexes, the familiar curve of his neck, the slight slump of his shoulders that wasn’t there when you first met him.

you continue brushing, rhythmic scrape of bristles against scalp filling the silence. your heart a persistent bird, flutters.

"i ran into someone today," you say, your voice almost lost in the rustle of san pulling on a shirt.

a low hum sound from inside the fabric, he pulls the shirt down, smoothing it over his chest. he turns then, his eyes, dark and heavy lidded, finally finding yours in the mirror. a flicker of something unreadable passes through them before settling into a tired affection.

"at the market?" he asks as he pulls back the duvet on his side of the bed.

you nod, watching his reflection as he settles onto the mattress, propping himself up against the headboard. "an old friend. from high school." you pause, the brush still in your hand, it's bristles splayed. "apparently some of them still hang out, and i was invited."

the bed dips as he adjusts the pillows. "that’s good. you should go." his voice is calm, even. he picks up his phone from the nightstand, it's screen glowing blue for a moment before he sets it back down.

you turn fully then, the brush forgotten on the vanity. your bare feet touch the cool wood floor. "really? you don’t mind?" you walk to your side of the bed.

he looks up, his brows furrowed slightly. "why would i mind? it’s good for you to see people. you’re always here." his gaze sweeps around the room, then back to you. "you should get out more."

the words, meant to be reassuring, land with a surprising weight. always here. a small, sharp ache begins in your chest. you climb into bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin. the sheets, cool against your skin, feel vast tonight.

"i mean," you start, choosing your words carefully, "i haven’t seen them in years. since graduation, probably." you watch his face, searching for something, a hint of curiosity, a flicker of concern.

he just nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "people change. that’s okay. it’ll be nice to reconnect." he reaches over, his hand finding yours under the duvet. his fingers, warm and strong, intertwine with yours, a familiar comfort. "you’ve been cooped up. it’s good to have plans."

his thumb strokes the back of your hand, it’s a connection, yes, but one that feels practiced, automatic. you want to tell him more, to say, it was seonghwa, the boy with the emo hair, the one who used to draw skulls in his notebook during history class, but the words catch in your throat. the moment feels too delicate, too easily broken.

"i guess so," you murmur, your voice barely a whisper. you squeeze his hand, a silent plea for more, for him to ask, who was it? what did you talk about?

soft exhalation that sounds like relief escapes him. he leans over, his head dipping. his lips, warm and soft, brush your forehead, then your temple, then your mouth. it’s a brief, chaste kiss, a familiar closing to the day. his lips taste faintly of mint. he pulls back, settling deeper into his pillow.

"good night, y/n," he says, his voice already thick with sleep.

eyes closing and breathing deepening almost immediately. the rhythm of his breath fills the room, steady and even. his hand, still holding yours, loosens it's grip. fingers, heavy with sleep, slide away.

darkness pressed in as you layed there, the silence amplifying the quiet hum of the city outside. your eyes trace the familiar contours of his face in the dim light. his eyelashes, thick and dark, rest against his cheekbones. faint smile, ghost of a dream, plays on his lips. he looks peaceful, untroubled.

he hadn’t asked. he hadn’t asked anything beyond the most superficial. he hadn't asked who. he hadn't asked if you wanted to go. he just assumed.

you turn onto your side, facing away from him, pulling the duvet tighter around you. the warmth of the blankets does little to chase away the chill that has settled deep within you. still, you tried to push the thought away. it’s not fair. san is tired. he works hard. he provides. this is what you agreed to. this is the life you built. you chose this, to be here. for him. but the loneliness curls around your heart. the perfection of the bed you made this morning, the carefully planned dinner, the unspoken anxieties baked into the pastries you gave away, all of it feels like a silent scream swallowed by the vast, quiet expanse of your days.

tears won’t come even if the knot in you throat screams for a cry. instead, your mind drifts to the closet, to the neat rows of clothes, the perfectly folded sweaters. tomorrow, you think, you’ll reorganize the winter section. it needs it. you need it. a small, manageable task to fill the endless hours.

y/n choi: hi, it's y/n from the store. i think i'm free that day if the invite still stands

seonghwa park: hey!

seonghwa park: yeah of course 😉

seonghwa park: glad ur coming, heres the address

seonghwa park: [location]

୨୧

the building wasn't what you expected. grimy canvas of faded brick and peeling paint that slightly unnerved you. you pulled your phone from your pocket a third time, checked the address, then glanced up at the entrance like it might correct itself if you stayed waiting long enough.

no, this was it.

bass vibrated through the pavement, pulse beneath your feet. for a second, you consider leaving, then you adjust your grip on the small container in your hands and step inside. the hallway swallowed you whole, narrow canyon that smell suspiciously of gasoline. when you reach the graffiti painted door, it was already slightly open. you knocked anyway.

there's a small shuffle inside before seonghwa emerges, his grin a flash of white teeth.

"y/n! thought you weren't gonna make it." he stepped aside, his arm sweeping an invitation.

you offered a small, polite smile, stepping into the room. the air hit you first, thick with a cloying sweetness you couldn't recognize and the acrid bite of stale cigarettes. the apartment was a controlled chaos. art adorned every available surface, canvases leaning against walls, sketches tacked to corkboards, a half finished sculpture draped in cloth in a corner. the room swam with bodies. girls, their midriffs bare, navel piercings glinting under the strung fairy lights. men, their arms drawn with ink, sprawled on beanbags or perched on the worn, leather couches. they moved with an easy, unhurried rhythm, as if the space molded itself around their presence. your modest linen shirt, a soft ecru, felt suddenly like a costume, an ill fitting disguise.

"hey everyone, this is y/n, from high school." seonghwa’s voice cut through the haze, a casual announcement.

a few heads turned, a couple of languid nods, but most remained immersed in their conversations, their laughter echoing off the high ceilings. your gaze swept across the room, searching for a familiar face, a flicker of recognition. nothing.

"it’s... nice to meet you all," you murmured, voice a little too soft, a little too formal for the raucous atmosphere. you clutched the clear container in your hands, the weight of it suddenly grounding.

a girl with a constellation of tiny tattoos climbing her neck, her hair a violent shade of fuchsia, pointed a perfectly manicured finger at your hands. "what’s that?"

you felt a blush creep up your neck. "oh. cookies. i made them." you held the container out, a silent offering.

a woman with striking, dark eyes and a generous smile detached herself from a group near the window. she wore spiked hair and her eyebrows seemed to be gone, but her presence offered a quiet anchor. "cookies! how cute. anna, by the way." she extended a hand, her grip firm and warm.

"y/n." you returned her shake, a surge of relief washing over you.

"i didn't know this was a bake sale," a gravelly voice grumbled from a corner, followed by a snort.

anna turned, her dark eyes narrowing playfully at the fat guy with a mohawk. "shut up, mark. you never bring anything." she gave his arm a quick, sharp shove. despite his joke, he came up as well.

a fresh wave of embarrassment hit you, cheeks burning as you began to stammer, "i just thought, you know, as a... a thank you for inviting me..."

anna waved your apology away. "no, it’s great! we love snacks. what kind?" she peered into the container, her eyes sparkling.

"chocolate chip. with sea salt." you offered, a small smile tentatively forming.

the lid popped open with a soft click. the aroma of warm chocolate and vanilla wafted through the air, momentarily cutting through the other scents. it was like a siren song. suddenly, a small crowd materialized around you, drawn by the scent. hands reached in, fingers deftly plucking cookies from their neat rows.

"someone brought cookies?"

"wait, i want cookies."

"no way, cookies?"

"save me one. i said save me one!"

the conversation dwindled, replaced by the soft sounds of chewing and contented murmurs. a lanky guy took the last cookie, giving you a between apologetic and grateful look and you laugh it off. within minutes, the container lay empty, a few crumbs clinging to it's clear sides. you felt a genuine smile spread across your face. the tension in your shoulders eased. "i’m glad you liked them."

for a moment everything was filled with overlapping conversations and easy movement, people drifting in and out without much structure. you sat at the couch with anna and mark. being spoken to, responded to, included without having to work for it. she asks you what else you like to bake. he asks where you live. the questions aren’t deep, but they come one after another and you answer, laugh and nod. the silence you've been carrying around doesn’t follow you in, it stays somewhere outside the door you walked through.

after a while, when the rhythm starts to feel harder to follow and topics shift quickly, you find your way back to seonghwa in the kitchen. he’s near the counter, talking to someone, but he glances over when you approach, like he’s been keeping track of where you are.

"hey," he says, turning slightly towards yo.

"hi," you answer before a small pause, then casually, "are any other people from our school coming?"

he doesn't hesitate. "nah," he says, shaking his head. "couldn't come."

"oh," you felt a pang of disappointment, small knot tightening in your stomach. you’d envisioned friendly faces, shared anecdotes, a comfortable bridge to this unfamiliar landscape. "okay."

"why?" he adds. "were you expecting someone?"

"no,no. i just thought maybe-" before trailing off, you shake your head lightly. "it's fine."

he watches you for a second, then nods once, like that’s enough.

"you’re good," he says. "don’t overthink it. come on, let’s get you a drink." seonghwa grinned, his hand briefly brushing your lower back as he steered you towards a cooler overflowing with ice and bottles.

you chose a sparkling water, the chill of the can a welcome sensation against your palm. you gravitated towards anna, who was now engaged in a lively discussion with mark about a band you’d never heard of. you hovered at the edge of their circle, listening, slowly piecing together fragments of their world. they spoke of gigs, of art installations, of obscure films, their words painting a vibrant, chaotic picture of lives lived on the fringes of convention.

as the evening continued it's slow, winding course, the hours passed by without warning, suddenly, it was later than you thought. through the subtle buzz in your veins and lightness you hadn't realized you were missing, the image of san already in bed, alone, stirred something in you. your small bag and empty container already in your hands.

"you can come in anytime, even if seonghwa isn't here." anna said before hugging you goodbye.

as you made your way towards the door, seonghwa intercepted you. "leaving already? come on, just one more drink." his voice was persuasive.

"i really should go. it’s getting late." you offered a polite, but firm smile.

he stepped closer, his hand briefly touching your arm. "you know, you’re really something, y/n. a real breath of fresh air." his eyes held yours, flicker of something unreadable in their depths.

"thank you, seonghwa. for inviting me." you pulled your arm away subtly.

"anytime. seriously. we should hang out again, just us two." his voice dropped, a low murmur intended only for your ears.

you felt a shiver, a faint unease prickling at your skin. "maybe," you said, voice noncommittal, then slipped out the door, back into the cool night air.

the street was quieter now, the bass from the building still a faint thrum in the distance. you walked and thought of the laughter, the music, the easy camaraderie, and a strange sense of longing settled in your chest. it was a world so different from your own, a world where boundaries seemed to blur, where emotions were worn on sleeves, where life felt raw and immediate.

stale cigarette smoke clung to your clothes, a new perfume you hadn't anticipated, but somehow, it felt less offensive than the lingering scent of dish soap from your day to day. your sensible sedan, parked a block away, seemed almost out of place among the battered vans and motorcycles. once you got in safely, you pulled out your phone, the screen illuminating your face with a single text from san from an hour ago: 'home. have a good time, night.' short, efficient, just like him. you stared at it and felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to talk to him, to tell him about the fuchsia hair, the tattooed arms, their reactions to your cookies, the melancholic music, anna’s kind eyes. but you tucked your phone back into your purse, the small, bright screen now dark.

you unlocked the apartment door, the click echoing in the silent space. the air inside was still, heavy with the scent of your carefully chosen strawberry cake diffuser. a half eaten bowl sat on the kitchen counter, remnants of the chicken stir fry you had prepared earlier, the pan still on the stove, a few grains of rice clinging to it's surface. a small sigh of relief escaped your lips. he had eaten. the simple act, a confirmation of your effort, brought a satisfaction to you. you moved through the kitchen, the soft clink of ceramic and metal as you rinsed the bowl, scrubbed the pan. it was a mindless task, your hands working on autopilot, while your mind drifted back to the vibrant chaos of anna's house.

the bedroom was a hushed darkness. san lay sprawled on his side of the bed, a rumbling snore escaping his lips, his face buried in the pillow. the sheet, pulled up to his waist, outlined the broad expanse of his back, the familiar curve of his spine. a sight you knew intimately, a tableau repeated almost every night. he worked hard, you reminded yourself, always.

you untangled your hair from the neat french twist, the pins scattering like tiny metallic insects onto the polished wood of your dresser. soft fingers massaged your scalp, releasing the tension that had gathered there throughout the day. you stripped off your clothes replacing them with silk pajama shorts and a matching camisole. teeth brushed and bathroom light off, the bed dipped slightly as you eased yourself in, careful not to disturb san. he remained a dark, unmoving mass beside you, his breathing deep and even.

sleep, usually a welcome embrace, felt elusive tonight. your mind buzzed, a kaleidoscope of new faces, loud music, and unfiltered laughter. the freedom of it all, the raw, unpolished authenticity, contrasted sharply with the quiet, ordered life you had carefully constructed.

shifting restless, silk rustling against the sheets. the image of the girl's fuchsia hair, defiant and vibrant, flashed in your mind. her confident stride, her easy smile. what did she worry about? did she ever feel this profound, aching quietness? you turned your head, watching the gentle rise and fall of san's back. the moonlight, filtering through the gap in the curtains, painted a silver line along his broad shoulder, the muscle defined even in repose. he was strong, reliable, your rock. yet lately, the rock was a mountain you couldn't climb.

a pang of something sharp, something akin to longing, twisted in your gut. you wanted to feel. you wanted to be seen. not just as the wife who kept the house, who cooked the meals, but as you, again. the you who had laughed tonight, unburdened. the one you knew san had fallen in love with.

your hand, almost without conscious thought, slipped beneath the silk of your pajama shorts. the fabric parted, your fingers, tentative at first, found the soft mound of your grown pubic hair, then the slick, warm folds beneath. a small gasp escaped your lips, swallowed by the quiet room. your core, already sensitive, pulsed beneath your touch. you stroked, slowly, deliberately, soft pressure building.

subtly, your hips began to tilt, involuntary movement, pressing into your palm. your fingers worked with a quiet urgency, tracing the delicate ridges, circling the peak of your clitoris. a moistness spread, warm, slick rush that dampened the silk shorts beneath your hand. the sensation intensified, a delicious ache blooming deep inside you, spreading through your belly. your breathing hitched, growing shallow, ragged.

wake up, i'm here.

you closed your eyes, a torrent of images flashing behind your eyelids. san, the warmth of his touch, a vague, undefined hunger. you pressed harder, your thumb finding a rhythm, a steady, insistent pressure. a low moan, barely audible, escaped your throat, a sound of pure pleasure. your whole body tensed, arching slightly into your hand. the climax a sudden, exquisite release, wave of heat that cascaded through your limbs, leaving you trembling, breathless.

୨୧

the shrill ring of the alarm ripped you from a dreamless sleep. your eyes fluttered open, the room still shrouded in pre dawn gloom. a glance at the clock sent a jolt of panic through you. 6:45 am. san left at 7:30. you had overslept.

you scrambled out of bed, the silk shorts clinging briefly before you shed them. the floor was cool beneath your bare feet.

"san, wake up," you whispered, nudging his shoulder. he grunted and slowly, reluctantly, stirred.

you moved with practiced efficiency, a whirlwind of motion in the quiet kitchen. the scent of brewing coffee began to fill the air, mingling with the sizzle of eggs in the pan. toast popped, butter melted, and the rhythmic thud of a knife chopping fruit filled the space. san emerged from the bedroom, showered and dressed, his black hair still damp, clinging to his forehead. he looked tired, his eyes still holding the remnants of sleep, but his movements were precise, methodical.

"morning," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. he poured himself a mug of coffee, the steam curling around his face.

"morning," you replied, already assembling his lunch. a neat stack of sandwiches, a small container of cut fruit, a handful of almonds. you wrapped it all meticulously, fitting it into his lunch bag.

"did you sleep okay?" he asked, taking a sip of his coffee. he leaned against the counter, watching you.

"yeah, eventually," you said, trying to keep your voice light. you packed a small thermos of tea. "i went to that thing last night, you know, the hangout thing?"

he nodded before picking up a slice of toast, spreading jam onto it. "how was it?"

"it was...different," you began, a small smile playing on your lips. you wanted to tell him everything, about the fuchsia hair, the tattoos, the unexpected warmth. "it was in this old building, kind of grungy, but everyone was so nice. there was this girl, sally, she had the most incredible hair, like, bright pink and her face was like a strainer, filled with piercings, it was so cool. and then i met anna, she had these dark intimidating eyes but she was actually really sweet. she’s a photographer for bands."

he turned to you with a slight frown. "y/n?"

"yeah?" you cleaned your hands with a kitchen towel.

"you're not... getting into anything dangerous, are you?"

you tilted your head, looking at him confused. "what? no, no. they were really nice people, they had this energy, like they just didn't care what anyone thought. it was kind of... inspiring."

"hmm..." he took a bite with a raised brow. "be careful y/n, you know how those types can be."

the warmth you’d felt, a flicker of shared experience, began to cool. "i am. but listen, there was also music, not like the music we usually listen to, more like a band sound," you continued, a little more emphatically, trying to inject some of the excitement you had felt into your words. "there was this guy, he had these huge arms filled with tattoos and he had a mohawk, i'd never seen one of those in real life."

he looked away again, finished his toast and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "just don’t get into anything foolish." he reached for his briefcase and lunchbox, already moving towards the door.

your shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly, there was so much you still wanted to tell him. but there was also no time, you knew. there never was. he was already halfway out the door, his hand on the knob.

"i'll make your favorite soup for dinner tonight," you offered, a last ditch effort to connect, to anchor him for just a moment longer.

he paused, turning his head slightly. a small, tired smile touched his lips, revealing the faint indentations of his dimples. "thanks, that sounds great, i'll try not to be too late. love you."

"love you," you mumbled as the door shut and he was gone, the click of the lock echoing in the now silent apartment. you stood in the kitchen, surrounded by the lingering scent of coffee and eggs.

y/n choi: hi, it's y/n, i had a really good time yesterday.

seonghwa park: hey, me too

seonghwa park: everyone loved u btw, they were all talking about how sweet you were when you left

y/n choi: really? that's so nice to hear

seonghwa park: ur coming next week, right?

y/n choi: again?

seonghwa park: yeah

seonghwa park: we hang out every weekend

seonghwa park: always at annas

seonghwa park: come ooon, ull have t come

seonghwa park: ur a part of the group now

the words, simple and direct, landed like a soft blanket on your exposed nerves. a part of the group now. the phrase resonated, a balm to the quiet ache san’s rushed departure had left behind. it wasn’t profound, not a declaration of affection, but it was an invitation, a recognition. it felt like a small hand reaching out in the growing expanse of your solitude.

y/n choi: i’d like that, thanks seonghwa.

the next week crawled by, each day a slow, methodical march of chores and quiet anticipation. the perfect bed, the planned dinners, the reorganizing of the linen closet. each task a meticulous attempt to fill the hours, to ward off the encroaching loneliness. but seonghwa’s words, hummed beneath the surface.

a part of the group now.

as saturday evening approached, nervous flutter stirred in your stomach. you pulled out a simple, soft cotton t-shirt, one you usually wore for lounging. then, a pair of well worn dark jeans. your fingers went to your hair, letting it fall, then found a simple black velvet hairband, pushing back the front strands.

the grungy building loomed, a concrete behemoth adorned with a tapestry of peeling posters and vibrant graffiti. the door stood ajar again, inviting light spilling onto the cracked pavement. but politeness, ingrained deep within you, compelled your knuckles to tap softly against it.

the door swung open further, revealing anna. her spiked hair, dark halo around her face, seemed to defy gravity. thicker eyeliner from the last time, you noticed. a cigarette dangled from her lips, thin wisp of smoke curling lazily into the air.

"well, look who it is," anna’s voice, raspy like gravel, held a surprising warmth. a slow smile spread across her face, revealing a glint of metal in her upper teeth. "you bring cookies this time, wifey?"

you laughed, unforced sound that surprised even yourself. "i didn’t, i’m afraid." faint blush touched your cheeks.

anna leaned against the doorframe, taking a drag from her cigarette. "shame. your hair looks good though, so i'll let you in." she winked, a playful glint in her dark eyes.

you stepped inside murmuring a small "thanks." she led you into the living room as seonghwa, who was meticulously cleaning something that looked like a round bottom flask, rose from the couch.

"hey, you. where's my hug?" he grinned, a flash of genuine pleasure in his expression. he offered a thight hug, quick squeeze that felt surprisingly comforting. "glad you came back."

"come on, i’ll show you my current obsession." anna, having stubbed out her cigarette in a makeshift ashtray, clapped you on the shoulder and led you to a corner of the living room, where a makeshift studio was set up. a flash unit sat on a tripod, and a black backdrop hung from a makeshift frame.

she showed you her new lighting techniques, her raspy voice softening as she spoke about her craft, explaining each of the series of prints tacked to the wall. the subjects, all punk, stared out with an intensity that pulled you in. low groan emanated from the other side of the room. mark, with his pants that perpetually threatened to slide off his ample frame, was getting another tattoo. the machine buzzing like an angry bee.

you watched, a strange mix of fascination and unease stirring within you. the raw intimacy of the moment, the deliberate pain, the permanent mark being etched into skin. it was so far removed from your carefully ordered world. visceral, unapologetic. you thought of san, of his disciplined body, his aversion to anything that might disrupt his carefully constructed order. a tattoo, to him, would be an act of reckless abandon, an unnecessary defacement.

anna exchanged a few words with the tattoo artist and you followed seonghwa and sally into the kitchen.

"tacos?" you asked, a sudden urge to ground yourself in something familiar, something productive.

"attempting to," seonghwa repeated, a wry smile playing on his lips. sally, armed with a knife, was making a valiant but clumsy effort to chop an onion. tears streamed down her heavily made up face.

"this is harder than it looks," she sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing eyeliner.

"i don’t even know if this is cooked enough. it still looks… pink."

you stepped forward with quiet confidence. this, you knew. this was your domain. "let me help," you offered, already reaching for the cutting board. you gently took the knife, demonstrating a quick, efficient chop that produced even dice.

you moved with an easy grace, hands finding their rhythm. chicken seasoned, a blend of spices from the overflowing spice rack that seemed to surprise even seonghwa. you showed sally how to properly dice tomatoes and shred lettuce, your voice soft but instructive. the kitchen, which had been a scene of mild culinary disaster, slowly began to transform into an efficient workspace.

"wow," sally beamed, her fuchsia hair bouncing. "seriously, my mom just nukes everything."

it was a simple thing, a small act of connection, of contribution. but you felt useful, appreciated. the feeling was a pleasant counterpoint to the quiet solitude of your own kitchen at home, where your culinary efforts often met with san’s polite, but often silent, approval.

the group gathered at the living room again, something being passed from hand to hand. you saw it before you recognized it, it wasn't tobacco.

the joint made it's rounds, anna took a long drag, her eyes closing in apparent contentment. seonghwa inhaled deeply, then exhaled a plume of smoke that dissolved into the dim light. sally giggled, her eyes a little brighter, her movements a little looser.

then, mark’s hand, big with his new tattoo, extended towards you, holding the burning joint. the tip glowed orange, small pulsating ember. a hush fell over the group, subtle, expectant. no one said anything, but their gazes, soft and encouraging, rested on you.

your breath hitched. your mind, usually so clear, swam with conflicting thoughts. weed. the word echoed in your head, sharp and disapproving. san’s voice, clear as day, cut through the hazy atmosphere.

disgusting. it’s not a gateway. it destroys lives.

his lectures, delivered with a quiet intensity, about the dangers of drugs, of anything that clouded judgment, that compromised control. he hated it. he hated all of it. smoking, drinking to excess, any form of escape that wasn’t productive, wasn’t measured.

your gaze flickered to mark’s hand, then to seonghwa, who offered a small, reassuring nod. a strange defiance, a tiny spark of rebellion, ignited within you. san, with his rigid rules and his unspoken expectations, felt miles away, a distant, fading echo. here, in this room, with these people, there was an unspoken permission, an acceptance of difference.

you thought of the quiet mornings, the unasked questions, the emotional chasm that had grown between you and san. you thought of the lingering loneliness, the slow, insidious fading of sparks. you thought of his hurried goodbye, his preoccupation, his casual dismissal of your small joys.

a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped your lips. it wasn’t about wanting to get high. it was a quiet protest. a moment of reclaiming a sliver of yourself that felt lost, submerged under layers of wifely duty and unspoken disappointment. it was a fleeting, irrational thought, but it felt powerful in it's simplicity.

trembling fingers, usually so steady, reached for the joint. your eyes met seonghwa’s, then anna’s. they offered soft, almost imperceptible smiles.

the joint touched your lips. the paper felt rough against your skin. the smell, pungent and earthy, filled your nostrils. you hesitated for a fraction of a second, a silent battle raging within. then, you inhaled.

the smoke, harsh and acrid, scraped your throat. you coughed between involuntary gasps. tears sprang to your eyes. the group chuckled softly. your lungs burned, heat spread through your chest, then a dizzying lightness in your head. it wasn’t pleasant, not yet. but as the initial shock subsided, a curious sensation began to bloom. a loosening. a letting go.

the world around you, already vibrant, seemed to soften at the edges. the music, a low thrumming before, now seemed to pulse with a deeper rhythm. the faces around you, previously distinct, now blurred into a warm, accepting tableau.

you exhaled, a shaky, uneven breath. the smoke drifted upwards in a cloud, carrying with it a rebellious whisper.

the taco shell crumbled in your fingers, a warm, messy embrace of seasoned chicken and melted cheese. a laugh, sharp and high, tore from your throat. it wasn’t your laugh, not really, but it escaped anyway.

"y/n, these are..." sally kissed the tips of her fingertips at once. a piece of tomato, vibrant red, clung to her chin. you watched it, mesmerized, as it wobbled precariously. like a tiny significant event.

"no, for real. this is the best shit i've ever eaten," someone grunted as they took another bite, cheeks bulging. the sound of their chewing a symphonic rhythm, wet crunch that filled the room.

you smiled, you think, a wide, unbidden thing that stretched your face. your cheeks felt warm and tingly. the praise, usually a balm, now felt like a spotlight, too bright, too focused. you didn't need to respond. the air itself seemed to hum with approval.

seonghwa leaned in, his hair brushing your shoulder. the scent of his cologne filled your nostrils. it was a new smell, suddenly potent, a story in itself.

"you have to come over more often," he murmured. his words were slow, stretched out, like taffy. "we’d starve without you."

you nodded, or thought you did. the room swirled, a gentle eddy of color and sound. the soft glow of the fairy lights strung across anna’s living room became individual, shimmering points, each one a tiny sun.

anna, perched on the armrest of a worn armchair, watched you, her eyes unblinking. she held a half eaten taco, but she wasn’t eating. she was just watching. a flicker of concern crossed her face, or maybe it was just the way the light caught her smudged makeup.

you turned your head, the motion slow, deliberate, like moving through thick syrup. seonghwa’s face was inches from yours. his eyes liquid and half lidded. a tiny mole, small and innocent on his ear. you had never noticed it before.

"you know," he began, his voice dropping, a conspiratorial whisper meant only for you, "i actually lied to you."

the words themselves were like individual pearls, strung together on an invisible thread that made your breath hitch.

"about what?" you managed a reedy whisper. it sounded like someone else speaking.

he chuckled like it was obvious. "about keeping in touch with people from high school. i don't. not really. i just... wanted you to have a reason to come."

the confession ignited a fresh burst of laughter. bubbled up from deep inside, unrestrained, joyful. it felt like a new sensation, a freedom you hadn't known existed. the idea of him lying, out of all things, struck you as profoundly hilarious.

he smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips as his hand, warm and calloused, covered yours on the couch cushion. his thumb traced a slow, hypnotic circle on your skin. it wasn't unpleasant. it was just... there. a sensation.

"y/n, i know you’re unhappy."

unhappiness? that was a concept. right now, there was only the incredibly soft fabric of the couch, the taste of spices on your tongue, the intricate pattern on anna’s rug.

"you deserve so much more," he continued, voice thick and low, "than whatever you’re settling for."

you blinked. his face, so close, seemed to waver, like a reflection in water.

"i want you so bad," a whisper you didn't caught on the movements of his lips, his grip tightening on your hand. "i want to make you happy."

you don't know why he kept making sounds with his mouth. the words drifted past, like smoke. meaningless vibrations in the air. your mind, untethered, floated above them, observing.

then, the world tilted. a wave of warmth, heavy and comforting, washed over you. the trip slowed, the colors blending into a soft, indistinct haze. the universe faded into a gentle lullaby.

୨୧

rough wool blanket against your cheek, smelling faintly of incense and something vaguely sweet, covering you. your eyes fluttered open. the room was bathed in a dim, pre dawn light, a pale grey filtering through the blinds. you blinked, trying to orient yourself. the couch. anna’s couch.

a low snore rumbled from the floor. you peered over the armrest. mark, a lumpy silhouette, was sprawled on a pile of blankets, his mohawk flattened. sally was curled up near him, a splash of fuchsia against the muted tones. anna was nowhere in sight. seonghwa? you scanned the room. no.

dull throb resonated behind your eyes. your mouth felt like sandpaper. you pushed yourself up, the blanket slipping to your lap. the memories of the night were a jumbled mess, like a deck of san's numbers scattered on the floor. flashes of laughter, the taste of tacos, the feeling of warmth. but specific words, specific moments, they were gone, swallowed by the haze.

you fumbled for your purse, slung precariously over the back of the couch. chocolate. a small, dark bar, your emergency comfort. you tore off a piece, the rich, bitter sweetness a welcome shock to your tongue.

you pulled out your phone. three forty seven a.m.

your heart gave a sharp, painful lurch. san. you could almost hear the silence of your apartment, the empty space beside him in bed. a wave of guilt, cold and sharp, washed over you, chasing away the last vestiges of the warm fog.

as careful as you could be, you rose quietly to not disturb the sleeping figures. your movements quiet, deliberate.

the drive home was a blur of streetlights and silent roads. each turn of the wheel felt like a small act of atonement. the city was asleep, a vast, dark canvas. then you finally pulled into your parking spot, the apartment building quiet and imposing.

apartment dark, save for the faint glow from the digital clock on the microwave. you slipped off your shoes, the sink. a plate, crusted with dried sauce, sat precariously on the edge, a half empty mug beside it. san. he had eaten, gone to bed. done.

straight to the bathroom, you stepped under the spray, letting the hot water cascade over your skin. it wasn’t just the smell, but the night itself. the laughter, the forgotten words, the unsettling intimacy. you scrubbed, hard, as if you could scour away the memory, leaving your skin, and your mind, clean and blank once more. you wanted to emerge, refreshed, as if the night had never happened. as if you hadn’t tasted that strange, momentary freedom.

୨୧

the sound pulled at your teeth. tremor in the soles of your new sneakers, premonition of the chaos within. this weekend, anna's apartment building pulsed with an unholy rhythm. this wasn't the hazy, languid hum of last week. this was a beast unleashed.

seonghwa’s band, the ruptured veins or something like that, thrashed in the living room. how they’d squeezed a drum kit, a full amp stack, and three guitarists into the already cramped space remained a mystery. mark, sweat plastering his mohawk to his skull, pounded the drums with a primal ferocity that threatened to crack the plaster. sally contorted over her bass, each pluck a sharp jab to your eardrums. seonghwa, all flailing limbs and guttural shouts was at the center. the sound wasn’t music. it was a wall of noise, an excuse of distorted guitars and ear splitting percussion that clawed at your sanity.

bodies, too many bodies, swayed and thrashed in the dim light, a sea of black leather and ripped denim. you felt like an alien even if you tried dressing in your darkest clothes. a hand, sticky and warm, brushed your arm, offering a glass. you instinctively recoiled, the smell of cheap beer and something cloyingly sweet, making your stomach churn.

seonghwa’s eyes flashed you a grin across the room, a feral baring of teeth, and gave a thumbs up. you forced a weak smile back, the corners of your mouth feeling stiff and unnatural. the volume intensified, a new wave of sound washing over you, drowning out thought, drowning out everything.

a bong, you learned, it's glass bulb milky with smoke, appeared before your face. a girl with tangled dreadlocks and eyes that swam in their sockets pushed it closer.

"hit it, y/n!" she slurred a shout, her voice a gravelly whisper against the roar.

you shook your head, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "no, thanks!"

she shrugged, apathetic, and passed it to the next person. another, a lean guy with a spiderweb tattoo crawling up his neck, who had earlier complained about the brownies you brought not being the "fun ones."

the words felt like pebbles in your throat. you had enough, you needed quiet, needed to escape the relentless assault on your ears. you navigated the throng, each step a battle against jostling elbows and oblivious revelers. you reached the bathroom and pushed open the door for the now muffled sound to lower, then you saw her.

sprawled on the cracked linoleum, half hidden by a discarded shower curtain, lay a woman. her head rested at an awkward angle against the toilet bowl, a thin stream of saliva tracing a path down her chin. she looked older than the others, perhaps in her early thirties, though the lines etched on her face spoke of a life lived hard, not necessarily long. two distinct scars stood out against her skin. her face, even in repose, held a weary resignation, map of battles fought and lost. she wasn't breathing right. shallow, ragged gasps punctuated the silence, each one a struggle.

panic seized you. you knelt beside her, your fingers fumbling for her pulse, finding a weak, thready beat at her neck.

"hey," you whispered, shaking her shoulder gently. "hey, are you okay?"

no response. her eyes remained closed, her lips slightly parted. this wasn't a drunken nap. this was something else, something far more sinister.

your hand instinctively went for your phone, pulling it from your pocket. 911. ambulance. you needed to call an ambulance. your fingers, trembling, navigated the screen.

"i wouldn't do that if i were you."

a hand, heavy and surprisingly strong, clamped around your wrist. your breath hitched. you looked up, startled. a man stood over you. he was burly, with a shaved head and a face like hammered iron. his eyes, dark and flat, bore into yours.

"unless you wanna be trouble," his voice cut through the residual band noise. it wasn't a suggestion. it was a command, heavy with unspoken threat.

your heart hammered against your ribs. you tried to pull your wrist free, but his grip was unyielding, almost bruising. "she needs help," you managed barely a squeak. "she’s not breathing right."

mirthless chuckle rumbled in his chest. "she’s fine. just had a little too much fun." his gaze flickered to your phone. "you call anyone, you’ll regret it."

the warning hung thick and menacing. you met his stare, a shiver running down your spine. the flat emptiness in his eyes, the casual cruelty in his tone, left no room for doubt. he meant it.

slowly, reluctantly, you let your hand drop, your phone clattering softly against the tiles. his grip loosened, then released. you scrambled backward, away from him, away from the unconscious woman, from the suffocating threat. he watched you, unsettling smirk playing on his lips, then turned his attention back to the woman, nudging her with his foot.

you burst out of the bathroom, the music now a mocking roar. you needed anna. anna would know what to do. anna would understand. you pushed through the bodies, eyes scanning the faces, a frantic desperation clawing at your throat. "anna!" you shouted, the word swallowed by the sheer volume. "anna!"

no one heard you. no one even seemed to notice your distress. they just continued to push each other, lost in their own discordant revelry. you spotted a doorway, half hidden behind a towering speaker, and instinctively veered towards it, hoping to find a quieter space, a less crowded corner where anna might be.

it led to a short, narrow hallway, mercifully less populated. at the end, another door, slightly ajar, spilled a soft, yellow light onto the floor. you pushed it open, a desperate plea for help forming on your lips.

the room contrasted to the chaos outside. a single, bare bulb cast a warm glow over a small, unmade bed. and there, on the floor, surrounded by a haphazard collection of worn stuffed animals and bright plastic blocks, sat anna, but she wasn't alone. a small figure, no older than five, sat nestled against her side, a book with brightly colored illustrations open in it's lap. the child, a boy with a shock of dark hair and wide, innocent eyes, looked up as you entered.

"mommy, who’s that?" his voice, clear and sweet, pierced the lingering noise in your ears like a needle.

mommy.

the word echoed, reverberated, then shattered something fragile inside you. anna’s head snapped up, her eyes widening in surprise. a flicker of something, guilt? embarrassment? crossed her face before she quickly composed herself.

"y/n," she said, her voice lowered as she gently pushed the boy behind her. "everything alright?"

everything alright? the irony tasted heavy. now, a child. her child, in this suffocating place. the realization hit you with the force of a physical blow. this wasn’t just a party. this wasn't just a group of friends messing around. this was a life. a harsh, brutal, unforgiving life that you had no part in. the music, which had been an unpleasant background noise, now felt like a blaring siren, screaming the truth. you didn't belong here. not even close. this wasn't edgy. this wasn't rebellious. this was dangerous. this was real.

you shook your head, unable to speak, your throat tight with unshed tears. the image of the passed out woman, the man’s cold eyes, the innocent child, all swirled in a sickening vortex.

"i..." you started, then stopped, the words catching. you didn’t need to explain. anna, with her sudden shift in demeanor, her protective stance over the child, understood.

you turned, a silent retreat, your feet moving on their own accord. you didn't say goodbye. you didn't look back. the door clicked shut behind you, a soft thud against the relentless thrum of the bass.

you navigated the hallway, then the living room, a ghost moving through the throng. no one noticed your departure. the band still roared, seonghwa still shrieked into the mic as he kicked the audience in the face in a blur of motion. you pushed past the last lingering bodies near the door, the cool night air hitting your face like a lifeline.

the street was alive with a different kind of noise. the band’s sound, though fainter, still pulsed through the asphalt, relentless reminder of what you were leaving behind. a group of figures huddled under a flickering street lamp, their movements jerky, unnatural. as you approached, their eyes, glazed and vacant, fixed on you.

"hey, pretty thing, all alone?" one slurred, his voice hoarse, lewd grin spreading across his face.

"where you going in such a hurry?" another whistled, a long, drawn out sound that made your skin crawl.

you kept walking, pace quickening, eyes fixed straight ahead. don’t look. don’t engage. don’t acknowledge. your heart hammered a frantic drum against your ribs. you felt exposed, vulnerable, felt the harsh reality of the street.

your car door shut like a beacon of safety at the end of the block. you fumbled for your keys, fingers clumsy with fear, gripping the steering wheel with knuckles white the whole drive back home, breath coming in ragged gasps. not daring to glance in the rearview mirror once. you drove faster than necessary.

this was not your world. this was not where you belonged. you would never come back. you promised yourself that, a vow whispered into the empty, echoing space of your car, a promise etched in the raw, aching fear still thrumming beneath your skin.

the click of the lock echoed. inside, the air heavy with scent of instant noodles and something sweet, like canned peaches. a white plastic container sat on the kitchen counter, half-eaten, a pair of chopsticks resting beside it. san had takeout. a cold knot tightened in your stomach. you forgot to make him dinner earlier. another layer to the evening’s sour taste.

san, shirtless, was just shrugging out of his work trousers when you entered the room, his back to you. he paused, one leg still in the pant leg, turning his head at the sound of your entrance. his brown eyes, warm and steady, widened slightly.

"you’re back early," he said, the words a quiet murmur in the hushed room. a flicker of surprise crossed his face. he finished pulling off his pants, tossing them onto the laundry hamper with an easy flick of his wrist.

you managed a weak nod, the muscles in your face protesting the effort, too tired to feign a smile. your gaze slid past him, landing on the bathroom door. escape. you moved towards it.

"y/n." his voice stopped you mid stride. you looked over your shoulder, hand hovering over the cool brass doorknob.

"what’s that smell?"

you didn't turn around, the lie already forming on your tongue, bitter pill. "i... i fell into a puddle earlier."

a beat of silence stretched, taut and thin. you watched him, standing there, his brow furrowed, processing your words. you waited for the follow up, the gentle probing, the concern that used to laced his questions. but it didn’t come.

"oh," he said, the single syllable flat, devoid of inflection. he picked up his shirt from the bed, pulling it over his head, then pulled back the covers.

you finally turned, gaze fixed on his retreating back, already settling in. your eyes traced the strong line of his shoulder, the curve of his neck. he was there, and he wasn't. is that all you’re going to ask? the words hovered on your tongue, sharp and desperate. you wanted him to push, to see through your flimsy lie, to demand more. you wanted him to care enough to unravel the carefully constructed facade. almost, you wanted him to know. to know about the music, the drugs, the woman, the fear, the suffocating loneliness that had driven you there in the first place.

"is that all you’re going to ask?" you heard yourself say.

he paused, his hand reaching for the bedside lamp. "is there something else i should know?'

your heart hammered against your ribs. this was it. the open door. the invitation. a single word, a sigh, a broken sentence, and the truth would spill out. you needed to test the boundaries, to see how far he would go, how deep he would dig.

"no," you said, the lie tasting like ash. your gaze held his, searching for a flicker of doubt, a hint of suspicion, anything that would tell you he wasn’t buying it.

he held your gaze for a moment longer, then his lips curved into a small, almost imperceptible smile. "okay then." he reached for the lamp, plunging the room into near darkness. he shifted, settling deeper into the pillows.

a choked sound, a low groan of frustration, escaped your lips. he hadn’t pushed. he hadn’t questioned. he hadn’t cared enough to look beyond the surface. you turned abruptly, stalking towards the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind you with a satisfying thud. the sound echoed, a punctuation mark on your silent fury.

san lay in the sudden darkness, his eyes wide open. the faint aroma of something acrid you brought and he couldn't quite place, still lingered in the air. a puddle, he thought. she fell in a puddle. it sounded plausible enough. you were clumsy sometimes, always lost in your own thoughts. he trusted you. he trusted you completely. a small smile touched his lips. it was good you were out, seeing old friends. you needed that. a small part of him felt a pang of guilt for not being able to provide more excitement, more spontaneity in your life. but he was working for your future, for your stability, to provide for you. he believed that was love, that was care. he rolled onto his side, pulling the duvet up to his chin. he heard the shower running, the sound a soft, comforting hum. he closed his eyes, his mind already drifting to tomorrow's spreadsheets, the complex equations that made perfect sense in a world that often didn't. everything was fine. you were having fun. it was okay if you forgot dinner sometimes. you could always order takeout. he was happy. he assumed you were too.

the next morning, the apartment hummed with the usual rhythm of your routine. you woke before him, the first rays of dawn painting the bedroom walls a soft grey. you made the bed, pulling the sheets taut, plumping the pillows with practiced ease. the scent of freshly brewed coffee soon filled the air, followed by the sizzle of eggs in the pan.

san emerged from the bedroom, showered and dressed in his crisp white shirt and specifically tailored pants. he kissed your cheek, a soft brush of lips, and then sat at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone.

it became a monotonous cycle of routine.

you'd have your small talk, watch him eat, his movements precise, efficient, and then he was out the door. then, you'd wander into the bedroom, the perfectly made bed an ironic symbol of your life. you'd pick up your phone, cold blinding glass, and scrolled through social media. endless stream of meaningless shorts of nothing. you'd sink yourself in bed and let the hours melt. youtube videos, a reality show you cared about for two hours, articles about celebrity gossip. anything to fill the void, to drown out the insistent whisper of your own thoughts.

you woke him, prepared his meals, vaguely cleaned what was obvious. but the moments in between stretched, vast and empty. you spent them in bed, phone in hand, the world outside shrinking to the confines of your screen. at night, you wouldn't sleep. every shadow twisted into a threat, every creak of the floorboards a reminder of unspoken dangers. san had simply mentioned you seemed a little tired. you’d blame it on a bad dream, a headache. anything but the truth. the vibrant, productive life you once shared with san, the shared dreams, the late night conversations, they felt like a distant memory, replaced by this quiet, isolated existence.

one evening, san’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, the familiar jingle of his keys preceding his entrance. he walked into the kitchen, his briefcase thudding softly onto the counter. he paused, his eyes scanning the immaculate space. the stovetop was clean, the counters clear. no scent of cooking, no simmering pots.

"i ordered pizza," you said, voice flat, emerging from the living room where you sat on the sofa, scrolling through your phone. the thought of cooking, of meticulously chopping vegetables and stirring pots, felt like an insurmountable task. the effort, the pretense of normalcy, was too much. you simply couldn’t.

"okay," his voice quiet. you couldn't decipher his tone, surprise? confusion? whatever.

for once, he didn't immediately take his laptop. he watched you, his expression unreadable. he picked up a slice, silence punctuated only by the soft chewing sounds.

"i spoke to noeul today," he said, cutting through the quiet.

you froze, a slice of pizza halfway to your mouth. "oh?" you asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but your voice came out a little too sharp.

"she was wondering why you stood her up for lunch," he continued, took another bite of pizza, his eyes still fixed on you.

"i... i wasn't feeling well," you swallowed, the pizza suddenly tasting like cardboard.

he paused, chewing slowing. his dark eyes, usually so placid, held a new depth, a subtle intensity. he studied your face, his gaze searching, probing.

"is everything okay, y/n?" he asked, the question soft, gentle, yet it hit you with the force of a blow. this was the first time in weeks, months even, that he had truly looked at you, truly asked.

you felt a wave of conflicting emotions wash over you. relief that he was finally seeing, finally asking. fear that he would see too much. anger that it had taken him this long. a desperate, clinging hope that he might actually understand.

you opened your mouth, but what could you say? no, san. everything is not okay. i’m lonely. melancholic. i’m lost. i’ve been hanging out with people who smoke weed and threaten me. i lied to you. i don’t know who i am anymore. the truth felt too vast, too overwhelming, too ugly to articulate.

you closed your mouth, nodding slowly. "yes," you whispered, the lie a refuge. "everything’s fine."

he didn’t push further. he simply nodded, a slow thoughtful movement. he finished his pizza in silence, his eyes occasionally flicking towards you. he didn't know what to do. he thought he was doing everything right, providing stability, working hard. but he felt that something wasn't actually right. he could feel it. and for the first time, the thought that his stability might not be enough began to gnaw at him.

୨୧

"well, well, well," you couldn't see seonghwa's face through the phone but you just knew a smile stretched across his face, all teeth and charm. "look who finally decided to give signs of life."

you took a breath, "i’m sorry about that. i felt a little... overwhelmed."

"overwhelmed?" he chuckled a sound that grated. "we had a blast, though. sally was asking where you went."

a forced light laugh came out of you. "i'm sorry, it's just... don't take this the wrong way but, i don't think it's my scene."

the seconds of silence made you more nervous than you liked to admit. "oh? why’s that? did anna scare you off? she’s all bark, no bite, you know."

"it’s not anna." you walked to the window, staring out at the streets. "it’s just not... it’s not for me." you chose your words carefully.

"not for you, huh... too much for the perfect little housewife?"

you didn't know what to say, or even if you should reply. this is not the way you had wanted to come off.

"come on, y/n. " his tone shifted again, becoming almost playful, seductive. "you can’t just ditch us. we were just getting to know you. and you, me, we had a connection, didn’t we?"

you closed your eyes and sighed. "i appreciate the invitation, seonghwa. but i really don’t think it’s a good idea."

"wait, wait, wait." his voice was quick, slightly desperate. "don’t hang up. this saturday. it’ll be different. i promise."

"different how?"

"no loud music. no... overwhelming crowds." he mimicked your earlier word with annoyance. "it’ll be at my place. daylight. we’ll just chill. listen to some records. maybe sally will bring her new bass. anna her camera, snap some pictures. it’ll be... a real hangout. no pressure. just us."

a day hangout. at his place. no crowds. the thought of seeing anna, of making sure she was okay, flickered. and sally. you’d genuinely liked sally. you chewed on your lip, disappearing without a trace, even from people who were clearly not good for you, felt... rude. you were not rude. you prided yourself on your manners, on leaving things tidily. this would be your last clean exit. a proper goodbye.

"it'll be calm? no substances?" you asked with a small voice.

"yeah. we'll just chill."

you sighed, a long, slow release of air. "fine. but if it gets crazy, i’m leaving."

"deal!" his voice triumphant. "i’ll text you the address. saturday. two o’clock. don’t be late, y/n."

you hung up on him, the silence of the kitchen pressing in on you. a mistake? probably. but you had to make things right. you had to say goodbye. properly.

the next few days were a flurry of quiet preparations. you found a well loved cookbook at a second hand store, it's pages dog eared and stained with flour. sally had seemed genuinely interested in your chicken tacos, you remember her bouncing as she peered over your shoulder. a small childish bunny stuffed animal, soft and grey, caught your eye in a boutique window. anna’s son. he deserved a little softness in a world that seemed so hard. you wrapped the gifts carefully, a futile attempt to infuse them with the warmth you wished you could offer.

saturday afternoon, the sun bright in the sky. you drove, the directions seonghwa had texted leading you through unfamiliar streets, past industrial parks and forgotten warehouses. the address finally brought you to a hidden nook, tucked away behind a row of dilapidated auto shops. a trailer park. a small, unexpected community of metal boxes, each with it's own patch of scraggly grass and faded plastic lawn ornaments. you hadn’t known such a place existed in the heart of the city.

seonghwa’s trailer, a faded blue, stood at the end of a gravel path. your stomach twisted. you clutched the gifts tighter, the paper rustling. you knocked, a soft tap that felt too polite for the setting. the door creaked open, revealing him. his hair looking a little disheveled, as if he’d just woken up. a faint smell of something herbal, not entirely unpleasant, wafted from inside.

"oh, you actually came." he grinned as he rubbed the weariness out of his face.

"i said i would." you offered a small smile, trying to ignore the sudden awkwardness that settled between you. "i brought some things." you held up the wrapped gifts.

"oh, for me?" he reached for them, but you pulled back slightly.

"no. for sally and anna’s son."

his hand dropped, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "right. well, come on in. you’re the first one here."

the trailer was small, surprisingly neat but dim. a worn couch, covered in a faded floral sheet, dominated the living area. a small television flickered silently in the corner, displaying a nature documentary. a guitar leaned against the wall. it felt... lived in.

"make yourself at home," he gestured vaguely at the couch. "the others should be here any minute. mark’s always late. sally said she had to pick up some new strings. anna… well, anna’s anna." he laughed, a short, nervous sound.

you sat on the edge of the couch, placing the gifts carefully beside you. the cushions sagged beneath you, smell of old fabric rised to meet you. the silence, punctuated only by the chirping of unseen birds on the television, was deafening. you felt a sudden urge to fill it, to chatter, to ask about his band, about anything. but you couldn't.

"want something to drink?" he asked, already moving towards a small, cluttered kitchenette.

"just water, please." you watched him, his movements surprisingly graceful for someone so wiry. he pulled out two glasses, poured a clear liquid from a plastic bottle into one, and then, to another one that was already sitting on the counter. he didn’t seem to notice your gaze.

a tiny, insistent voice in the back of your mind, screamed. you took the glass, your fingers brushing his, skin rough. you brought the glass to your lips, pretending to take a sip, letting the rim touch your mouth, but not letting any liquid pass.

"so," he said, settling beside you on the couch, much closer than you would have preferred. "how’s... housewifing?"

you stiffened. "it’s good. i like it."

"yeah? seems a little... boring for someone like you." he leaned back, his arm brushing yours. the contact made your skin prickle.

"it’s not boring,”°"you said, maybe a little too quickly. "i like taking care of things. taking care of san."

"san." he said the name slowly, like tasting it. "busy guy, huh?"

"he works hard," you defended automatically. "he provides for us."

"yeah, i bet." he turned his body fully towards you, knee touching yours. his gaze dropping to your hands, clasped tightly in your lap. "but does he... pleasure you?"

you looked at him in shock, offended. your cheeks flushed crimson, a wave of heat rushing through you. shock, outrage, and a deep, mortifying embarrassment tangled together. you stared at him, mouth agape, unable to form a single word. the flickering television, the stale air, his proximity, it all coalesced into a suffocating pressure. "what did you just say?"

he didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. his eyes held yours, unwavering. "i mean, you’re bright, y/n. you’re smart. you’ve got this... spark. yet you spend your days fucking, polishing silverware and waiting for some suit to come home. does he ever even make you feel good?"

your heart hammered against your ribs. "i like polishing silverware. i like making a home."

"do you?" he reached out, his fingers tracing a pattern on your arm, just above your elbow. "or do you just tell yourself that because it’s what you think you’re supposed to do?"

you flinched, pulling your arm away. "i don’t appreciate that, seonghwa."

"just being honest. that’s what friends do, right?" he leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.

the small, dusty clock on the wall pointed at four, you glanced at it, then at the door, wishing that your eyes could pierce a hole and reveal other people, anyone. yet no one else had arrived. the pit in your stomach deepened. "maybe i should call sally. or anna."

"nah, don’t bother." he waved a dismissive hand. "they probably won't even come. you know how it is." he paused, a predatory glint appeared in his round eyes. "guess it’ll be just us."

the words rang heavy and suffocating. it clicked. a cold, sickening realization washed over you. there was never "others." you had been tricked. the gifts, the polite goodbyes, all of it a naive delusion.

"oh." you stood up abruptly, the movement jarring. "i... i think i should go. maybe i should come back when the others arrive." your mind raced, scrambling for an excuse, anything to get out. you tried to infuse your voice with a calm you didn’t feel, to make it sound like a reasonable suggestion, not a desperate plea.

"don’t be stupid, y/n. you just got here." he stood and pulled you towards him. the close proximity of his body, the insufferable smell of weed making you almost gag. "you’re lonely, aren’t you? i see it in your eyes. the way you just exist and he doesn't even notice."

"i don’t know what you mean." your voice trembled.

"why? you don’t want to admit it?" he leaned closer, breath warm against your ear. his insidious words pricked at the spots. the truth of them, despite the venomous delivery, stung. but the way he was using them, twisting them, made your skin crawl.

you tried to push past him, a surge of adrenaline making you bold. “let me go.”

he grabbed your arm, his fingers tightening around your wrist. "no." he pulled you back, hard, sending you stumbling onto the couch. the gifts clattered to the floor. he pinned you there, his face inches from yours. "i know you don’t love him. you're goddamn pathetic with him and everyone sees it."

you felt a surge of adrenaline, a pumping desperate need to escape. “you don’t know anything about me. or san.” you pulled harder, twisting your body, trying to create distance.

he didn’t let go. instead, his other hand came up, resting on your arm, his thumb stroking your skin. "i know you don't love him. i know you’re unhappy." the accusation, so utterly false, ignited a furious spark within you. "why else would you keep coming back here?"

"you’re wrong!" sharp and venomous, your voice cut through the fear. "you’re completely wrong. i love san. i love him more than anything. and i would never, ever be unfaithful to him. especially not with... with someone like you!" the last words, raw and unfiltered, spilled from your lips. the thought of betraying san, of allowing this man to even suggest such a thing, filled you with a righteous anger.

a vein throbbed in his temple. for a terrifying moment, you thought he might strike you. his face contorted, a mask of rage. primal scream ripped through your mind, though no sound escaped your lips. a sudden, visceral revulsion surged through you, a raw, untamed force you hadn’t known you possessed. you didn’t think, you reacted. with a guttural cry that was more gasp than sound, you twisted your body, yanking your arm free from his grasp with a strength born of pure terror. you stumbled back, tripping over your own feet, but you caught yourself, your eyes wide, fixed on him.

"hey, y/n, calm down. let's talk-" his face a mask of something ugly. he took a step towards you, his hand still outstretched.

"don’t you touch me!" you shrieked, the words finally tearing free holding a fierce conviction.

with a desperate lunge, you pushed past him and found the doorknob, fingers clumsy with terror and heart pounding against your ribs. please, please be unlocked. the knob turned protesting a squeal. a small miracle. you yanked it open, the weak sunlight blinding you for a moment.

you didn’t look back. you ran. the gravel crunched under your shoes, the faded blue trailer shrinking behind you. you didn’t stop until you reached your car, fumbling with the keys, your hands shaking so violently you could barely push the button. you threw yourself inside, locking the doors, lungs burning. the engine roared to life, and you sped away, leaving the trailer park, the sickly rose bush, and the terrifying encounter in a cloud of dust. the gifts lay forgotten on the floor of the trailer, naive hope, now shattered.

୨୧

"i ran into someone today."

"at the market?"

"an old friend. from high school. apparently some of them still hang out and, i was invited."

"that's good, you should go."

"really? you don't mind?"

"why would i mind? it's good for you to see people, you're always here. you should get out more."

"i mean... i haven't seen them in years. since graduation, probably."

"people change, that's okay. it'll be nice to reconnect. you've been cooped up, it's good to have plans."

"i guess so."

knees drawn to your chest, the phone thrown to the cushion next to you. you had to call him, you really had to, and he did leave. cheeks damp, tiny ragged sobs caught in your throat, you barely registered when the door swung open. he stood at the doorway, crisp button down now slightly rumpled, his tie loosened. his eyes scanned the room, then landed on you. he didn't say anything, just kicked the door shut with his heel and moved towards you deliberately.

"san," you choked out a fragile whisper, "i'm so sorry. i'm so, so sorry i made you come home."

he didn't answer with words, simply sunk onto the couch beside you, the springs protesting faintly. his strong arms wrapped around your shaking shoulders, pulling you into his chest. the clean, subtle cedar scent of his cologne filled your senses, chasing away the lingering stench of smoke and fear. you buried your face in his shirt and let the dam break.

hot and stinging tears streamed down your face, soaking into his shirt. each sob tore through you, tearing sounds you hadn't realized you were holding back. his hand moved to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you close. he didn't try to stop the tears, didn't offer empty platitudes. he just held you, a silent comforting presence.

"it’s okay," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear, "it's okay, y/n. i'm here."

fingers fisted in his shirt, the fabric stretching taut. the world outside the circle of his arms ceased to exist. there was only the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his body, the gentle rhythm of his breathing. time stretched and blurred. you cried until your throat ached, until your eyes felt swollen and raw, until the tremors in your body slowly began to subside.

when the sobs dwindled to quiet sniffles, you pulled back slightly, your head still resting against his shoulder, your gaze fixed on the intricate weave of his shirt. a deep, shuddering breath hitched in your chest.

"i… i need to tell you something," you whispered.

he squeezed your shoulder gently. "take your time."

the silence stretched, heavy with unspoken things. you needed to say it, all of it. the truth, ugly and raw, demanded to be set free.

"i haven’t been... i haven’t been doing well, san," you began, your voice still hoarse. "not really. i mean, i love being home. i love our apartment, i love cooking for you, taking care of everything. i really do. but" you carefully searched for the right words, the words that wouldn’t sound like an accusation. "it got... lonely. really lonely."

at his arm tightening around your waist, you glanced up at his face. his brow was furrowed, his eyes filled with a deep, quiet concern, but no judgment.

"i know you work hard," you continued, rushing the words out before you could lose your nerve. "i know you do it for us, for our future, and i appreciate it, san, i really do. sometimes, i just... i just want to talk. to someone. about anything. about my day, about a stupid show i watched, about a new recipe i found. just... to talk. and you're not there."

he didn’t interrupt, just listened, his gaze steady on your face.

"and then… i met seonghwa again."

the name plastered, foreign and sharp. san’s head tilted slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his features.

"seonghwa?" he repeated, the name unfamiliar on his tongue. "who is... i thought you said you were meeting anna? your old classmate?"

your heart sank at his innocence, at how you had let him assume with unclear conversations.

"no, anna is... seonghwa’s friend,” you explained, the words tumbling out. "she’s part of his group. he was my classmate in high school. not a close one, but... yeah. he’s the one i ran into at the supermarket."

san’s placid eyes held a hint of something unreadable. he still didn’t speak, just waited.

"i didn’t mean for any of it to happen," you confessed, your voice cracking again. "i just... i just wanted to be included. to feel like i was part of something. they seemed so... free. and easy. and i was so lonely." you paused, drawing a shaky breath, preparing for the hardest part. "at first it seemed harmless. they were just... different than me, something new. but then it escalated. the parties. the noise. the... the smoke.” you hesitated, then forced yourself to say it. "i... i smoked weed, san. once. i know, i know it was stupid. i’m so sorry."

tears welled up again and you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for his reaction. but he still didn’t say anything, just held you closer, so you continued and everything spilled. the memories flooding back, sharp and vivid. from the hazy afternoons to the girl, her unnatural stillness and anna's so, so young son yet already involved into such a chaotic world. your voice broke with the image behind eyelids. then today, at seonghwa's. reliving the terror, the helplessness, made you shiver with a torrent of fear and disgust and self reproach.

you dissolved into fresh sobs, the weight of the confession crushing you. you waited for anger, for disappointment, for the distance to grow between you even more. but instead, his arms tightened around you, pulling you even closer.

"y/n," he said, his voice deeper than usual, a quiet intensity in his tone. "look at me."

you reluctantly lifted your head, tear streaked face meeting his gaze. his eyes were now clouded with a raw pain that mirrored your own.

"you have nothing to be sorry for," he stated, his voice firm, unwavering. "not for feeling lonely. not for wanting connection. and not for trying to find it." he paused, his thumb stroking your cheek, wiping away a tear. "i’m the one who should be sorry. i let you feel that way. i let you feel so alone that you had to look for it somewhere else. i was so caught up in work, in making sure we had everything we needed, that i forgot to give you what you actually needed. me."

fresh tears pricking your eyes, you shook your head. "no, san. that’s not fair. you work so hard. you provide everything. i should have just told you. i should have talked to you. i just... i didn’t want to cause conflict. i didn’t want to seem ungrateful."

"conflict is part of a relationship, y/n," he countered softly. "it’s how we grow. and you are never ungrateful. i know you. i just... i wasn’t listening. i wasn’t seeing. i was so focused on building a future, i forgot to live in the present. with you." his gaze was intense, full of regret. "i saw you, every morning, making the bed perfectly. i saw the dinners you planned. i saw the baked goods you made, and gave away. i thought... i thought you were happy. i thought that was just you, being you. i didn’t realize it was... a symptom. i thought stability meant happiness. i thought if i provided for everything, you wouldn’t have to worry. i thought that was how i showed you i loved you. but i forgot to show you i loved you with my time. with my presence. with my words."

"but i should have said something," you insisted, your voice still thick with guilt. "i let it fester. i bottled it up. i smoked weed behind your back. that’s not okay, san. that’s not okay."

"and it’s not okay that i left you feeling so emotionally neglected that you felt like you had to," he countered, his voice gentle but firm. "we both made mistakes, y/n. mine was in being absent. yours was in not speaking up. but none of that changes how much i still love you."

he pulled you back into his embrace, holding you tightly, his chin resting on the top of your head. you could feel the steady beat of his heart against your ear. a comforting, familiar rhythm.

"i love you, y/n," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "more than anything. and i am so, so sorry that you went through all of that. that you were scared. that you were hurt. that you felt alone. i promise you, you will never feel that way again. not with me."

you clung to him, tears still flowing, but these were different. these were tears of relief, of release, of a profound love finally understood. you felt the tension that had been coiled in your chest for months slowly unwind, dissolving into the warmth of his embrace.

"i love you too, san," you sobbed, the words muffled against his shirt. "i love you so much."

held for a long time, the only sounds the quiet sniffles, the soft rustle of clothes, the steady rhythm of two hearts beating in unison. the city outside grew darker, the streetlights casting long, pale shadows through the window. but inside, in the circle of his arms, a fragile light had begun to glow. it wasn’t a solution, not yet. but it was a new beginning.

୨୧

morning rays painted stripes across the duvet. you stirred, the warmth beside you a comforting anchor. san’s arm, heavy and solid, rested across your waist. his breath, slow and even, feathered against your neck. you turned your head, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. the memory of yesterday, the raw vulnerability, the shared tears, a fragile precious thing.

quiet sigh escaping your lips, you stretched with a yawn. the bed felt different today, lighter, like a burden had lifted. you eased yourself from his embrace, careful not to wake him, and padded into the kitchen. the choreography of making coffee began. the gentle hum of the machine, the rich aroma blooming in the air. you poured two mugs, placing san’s on his bedside table before returning to your side of the bed, he still slept.

you traced the line of his jaw with your finger, the slight stubble rough beneath your touch. his eyelashes, thick and dark, rested against his skin. a small, almost imperceptible smile touched your lips.

"morning," his voice, deep and gravelly with sleep, startled you. his eyes slowly opened, finding yours.

"morning, sannie," you whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his temple.

he stretched, his big arms flexing, the muscles taut beneath his skin. he reached for you, pulling you closer until your head rested on his shoulder. "i’m not going to work today."

you blinked, pulling back slightly to look at him. "what?"

"i said, i’m not going to work today," he repeated, his thumb stroking the skin of your arm. "or tomorrow. i took the weekend off."

a small, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of you. "you did not. you never take the weekend off. you have that big report due monday."

he shifted, propping himself up on an elbow, his gaze steady. "i called lee at like 3 am. he’s covering. the report can wait. we can’t."

your heart gave a small, hopeful flutter. the words, simple and direct, resonated deep within you. you reached up, cupping his cheek. his skin felt warm against your palm.

"really?" you asked thin with emotion.

he nodded, a soft smile gracing his lips, revealing the faint indentations of his dimples. "really."

the weight that had pressed down on your chest for so long began to ease, replaced by a lightness you hadn’t felt in months. you leaned into him, burying your face in his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his skin, a mix of sleep and his subtle leftover cologne.

"what are we going to do?" you murmured, the question laced with a hesitant joy.

he held you tighter. "whatever you want. show me your world, y/n."

a lump formed in your throat. you pulled back, a small, genuine smile blooming on your face. "okay," you breathed. "okay."

the morning unfolded slowly for once, no rush to get ready, no frantic dash for him to find a parking spot. you made a more elaborate breakfast than usual, eggs scrambled with herbs, crisp bacon, and slices of avocado. he watched you, perched on a stool at the kitchen island, his phone conspicuously absent. he simply watched, gaze attentive, as you moved with a quiet efficiency.

he ate with a quiet appreciation, savoring each bite. the silence between you was no longer heavy with unspoken words, but comfortable, filled with the soft clink of forks against plates, the distant chirping of birds.

after breakfast, you led him to the bedroom and demonstrated your bed making routine, movements precise and practiced. he watched, his head tilted, an expression mixed with amusement and curiosity.

the hours melted into a gentle rhythm. you showed him your small rituals. the way you organized the pantry, grouping spices by frequency of use. the careful sorting of laundry, whites, colors, delicates. the methodical scrubbing of the bathroom, each surface gleaming. he followed you, your silent observer, occasionally offering a helping hand.

you found yourself talking more than you had in months, explaining the logic behind your choices, the small satisfactions you found in these mundane tasks. he listened, truly listened, his eyes never leaving your face. it was no longer how are you? but why do you do this that way?

lunch was a rather simple affair, sandwiches and fruit, eaten at the kitchen counter. you found yourself telling him about a new recipe you wanted to try, a complicated japanese stew you’d been researching. he listened, asking questions about the ingredients, the cooking process. it felt like a real conversation, not just a series of perfunctory exchanges.

as dusk began to settle, casting a soft, blue hue through the apartment, you found yourselves in the living room. you moved the large, plush couch, pushing it closer to the wide window that overlooked the street below. the city lights began to twinkle a distant murmur from the streets.

you sat side by side, the comfortable silence settling around you once more. he reached out, his hand slowly finding your arm. his fingers traced a gentle path from your wrist to your elbow, a soft reassuring touch. you leaned your head against his shoulder, inhaling his scent, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your ear.

the silence stretched, not empty, but full of unspoken emotions, of rediscovered intimacy. you watched the cars pass below, their headlights cutting through the growing darkness.

after a long while, he stirred. his hand tightened on your arm, then he slowly, gently, pulled you onto his lap. your legs tangled with his, your body molding against his hard frame. he shifted, adjusting you until you were nestled perfectly, your back against his chest. his lips found your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss, then moving to the delicate skin of your neck. a shiver ran through you, a small, involuntary gasp escaping your lips. he kissed the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, and a soft giggle bubbled up from your chest.

"you okay? is this okay?" he murmured.

you nodded, your head resting against his shoulder. "more than okay."

he pulled back slightly, turning you so you faced him, his hands resting on your hips. his brown eyes held a tenderness that made your breath catch.

"y/n," he began, his voice soft, almost hesitant. "do you... do you ever think about kids?"

୨୧

effortlessly, he laid you gently on the bed, following you down, his body a warm weight against yours. his lips found yours, soft at first, then deepening, hungry desperation underlying the tenderness. your mouth opened beneath his, inviting him in. his tongue tangled with yours, a slow, sensual dance, tasting of coffee and him.

"mine," he murmured against your mouth, pulling back just enough to whisper the word. "you’re mine, y/n. no one else’s."

his hands, large and strong, moved to the hem of your shirt, slowly, deliberately, pulling it up and over your head. the cool air brushed against your skin for a moment before his hands were there, warm and firm, stroking your sides, your ribs, the soft skin of your belly.

you arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your throat. you reached for his shirt, fingers trembling slightly. he helped, peeling the fabric from his broad shoulders, revealing the taut muscles of his chest before he reached around, touch gentle, unfastening the hook of your bra. the lace fell away, revealing your breasts, full and soft in the dim light. he stared, his gaze lingering and before you knew it, he leaned down, lips closing over one nipple, drawing it into his mouth. a jolt of pure pleasure shot through you. he sucked, softly at first, then harder, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. your breath hitched, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, holding him closer. he moved to the other breast, suckling with equal fervor, his free hand stroking your side, making goosebumps rise on your skin.

"so beautiful," he breathed, pulling back to look at your flushed face. "so fucking beautiful."

rough with desire, igniting a fire deep within you. you reached for the button of his jeans, eager to shed the remaining barriers between you, pushing them down his hips, along with his boxers. his cock sprang free, already hard and engorged, glistening in the dim light. you reached for him, your fingers wrapping around his heat, stroking the soft skin. he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.

"baby," he gasped, his voice strained. "god, y/n."

you continued to stroke him, feeling the pulse of his arousal against your palm. your own desire mounted, a burning ache between your legs. he reached for your shorts, pulling them down with your panties. the cool air kissed your bare skin, a fleeting sensation before his hand was there, warm and knowing, finding the wetness between your thighs.

his fingers parted your folds, gently, slowly, exploring the slickness, the delicate curves of your clit. you gasped, your hips arching instinctively. he dipped a finger inside you, then another, preparing you. you were already so wet, your body aching for him. a soft squelching sound accompanied his movements, a wet, intimate symphony.

"so wet," his voice husky, eyes never leaving yours. "for me."

he watched your face, gauging your reactions, thumb circling your clit, drawing out whimpers and soft cries from deep within your throat. you writhed beneath his touch, your body trembling, on the precipice of release.

"please," you pleaded, your voice hoarse. "san, please."

he shifted, kneeling between your legs. his heavy cock, slick with your wetness, brushed against your opening. you gasped, a desperate sound. he hesitated, looking into your eyes, a possessive fire burning in his gaze.

"say..." he whispered, slightly overwhelmed already. "say you’re mine."

"yours," you choked out, tears stinging your eyes, a heady mix of pleasure and raw emotion. "i’m yours, san. only yours."

he entered you then, slowly, pushing past the soft resistance, filling you completely. a deep groan rumbled in his chest as he buried himself within you. you cried out, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. he paused, letting you adjust, letting your body stretch and encompass him. the feeling was overwhelming, profound sense of fullness, of belonging.

he began to move, slow, deliberate rhythm at first, his hips rocking against yours. the friction was exquisite, the sound of your bodies joining, a wet, rhythmic shlicking. he pulled back almost completely, then drove back in, deep and hard, a sigh escaping his lips. your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him deeper.

"mine," he repeated, each thrust punctuated by the word. "no one will ever... have you like this, only me."

the pace quickened, becoming more urgent, more primal. he pounded into you, each stroke sending waves of pleasure through your core. your nails dug into his back, leaving faint red marks on his tanned skin. your hips rose to meet his, matching his rhythm, your bodies a blur of motion in the dim light. the bed creaked beneath you, a testament to the intensity of your passion.

he leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue plundering yours, tasting your desire, your cries muffled against his lips. your climax built, a tight coil in your belly, spreading outwards, consuming you. you bucked against him, your body convulsing around his cock. a guttural cry tore from your throat as you shattered, waves of pure bliss washing over you.

the thrusts got deeper, harder, his own climax building quickly on the heels of yours. groans and bodies tensing, hips slamming into yours one last time as he emptied himself deep inside you. his hot cum flooded you, warm thick rush that made you gasp.

collapsed and slick with sweat, your legs were still wrapped around him, intimately entwined. he buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

"mine," he whispered the promise again. "forever."

fingers tangling in his damp hair, you held him close. the noise outside, the loneliness, the fear, all faded away, replaced by the overwhelming presence of him, of this rediscovered connection. you felt utterly safe, utterly loved, utterly his.

he shifted, pulling back slightly, propping himself on his elbows, his eyes soft, heavy lidded. he kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, a tender exploration.

"i love you, y/n."

the words, so rarely spoken, so deeply felt, resonated through you. a fresh wave of tears pricked your eyes, but these were tears of joy, of relief, of a profound sense of peace.

"i love you too, san," you whispered back. "more than anything."

a new chapter had begun. a chapter filled with soft reassurances, intentional conversations, and a love that, though tested, had found it's way back home. the question of children lingered, a new seed planted in the fertile ground of your renewed intimacy, a promise of a future you could now, finally, envision together.

each day a thread re-stitched into the fabric of your life together. no longer a frayed edge, but a strengthening seam. the silence shedding it's heavy cloak of unspoken expectation. now, it held the hum of shared understanding, a quiet comfort that didn't demand filling. some days you still spent less time together than you'd wanted, yet, even then, the goodbye no longer felt like a hurried escape.

you learned to speak your needs, not with the tremor of a plea, but with the steady beat of a declaration. he listened, brow furrowing in concentration, his eyes soft with an empathy he’d struggled to articulate before. you saw the effort, the conscious wrestling with words that didn’t come easily to him. it was a language you were both learning, halting at first, then gaining fluency with each shared vulnerability. he’d ask about your day, not as a formality, but with genuine curiosity, sometimes even calling during his lunch break, a rare occurrence that made your heart do a little skip. love rediscovered, a future being built, one honest word, one tender touch, at a time.

your phone still buzzed with notifications from instagram. you scrolled past anna’s stories, a flurry of candid shots from her son’s fifth birthday party. a lopsided cake, sticky fingers, a wide, gap toothed grin. you tapped the little heart icon, then saw sally’s latest transformation, her hair now a vibrant neon green. she’d posted a picture of a sizzling pan, tagged with a question about your secret to perfectly crisp tofu. you sent back a detailed message, outlining marinades and pan temperatures, a smile touching your lips. you knew, and they knew, that the physical space between your worlds had widened, perhaps irrevocably. there was no expectation of meeting up, no casual invitations to late night gigs. seonghwa’s shadow still stretched too long, too dark, across that part of your memory. the thought of stepping back into that haze, even for a moment, made your stomach clench. you had found your way back to the light, and you were fiercely protective of it.

this morning, however, began with no alarms. skin to skin, a perfect fit. he had begged for five more minutes and how could you say no when his mouth was already moving in between your thighs? lazy swipes, you felt your muscles tense slightly, then relax, his hand finding your hip, drawing you closer, before moving your legs over his shoulders. his tongue stroked the soft skin of your pussy, a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

time dissolved. the soft rustle of sheets, the faint thumping of your heart against his. the world outside your bedroom, outside this intimate cocoon, ceased to exist. you were just two bodies, intertwined, rediscovering a forgotten language.

when your third orgasm of that morning alone hit, you pulled your head back, accidentally looking at the clock and freezing, a gasp escaping your lips. he pulled back slightly, his eyes still clouded with passion, then clearing with the dawning realization. a groan, this one of frustration, escaped him.

"shit, shit, shit," you cursed under your breath. "oh, san. you're going to be late."

a deep sigh, rueful sound laced with disappointment escaped him. you pushed yourself up, pulling the sheet with you, a sudden chill striking your skin. he ran a hand through his hair, dishevelled from sleep and your shared passion. "i know." he sat up, stretching, his muscles rippling, a sight that still made your breath catch. he threw his legs over the side of the bed, the sheet falling away, revealing the strong lines of his back, the curve of his shoulders and his half erect dick.

"go, go," you urged, though a part of you wanted to pull him back, to steal a few more precious minutes. you threw off the covers, padding naked to the closet, already mentally planning his lunch.

he glanced back, a wry smile on his face. "you’re not exactly helping." his eyes lingered on your retreating figure, a spark of lingering desire in them.

"i’m making your lunch. that’s helping." you laughed shyly, a clear sound before pulling out a crisp white shirt, a dark tie, laying them out on the bed for him.

when the sound of the shower starting grounded you, you moved with purpose, opening the fridge, pulling out containers. yesterday’s leftover bulgogi, a side of kimchi, some fresh fruit. you packed it all neatly into his bento box, arranging the colours, making it appealing.

now dressed in his dark suit trousers, he emerged from the bathroom, his shirt still unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of his chest. his hair was damp, slicked back, making him look even more handsome, more put together. he came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you back against his solid frame. chin rested on your shoulder, breath warm against your ear.

"i love you," he murmured, the words no longer feeling forced, but a natural outflow.

you leaned into him, closing your eyes for a moment. "i love you too," you replied, your voice thick with emotion.

he squeezed you gently, then released you, picking up his jacket. you followed him to the doorframe, a familiar ritual, but one that now held a deeper significance. he turned, his eyes searching yours, then he leaned down, his lips finding yours in a deep, lingering kiss. it was a kiss that spoke of hurried passion, of regret for lost time, and of promises for the future. his hand found your butt, giving it an extra, firm squeeze, a playful, intimate gesture that made you giggle.

"sannie, you have to go." you laughed against his lips.

"i know, just let me-"

he pulled you back in, tongues dancing against each other as he opened the door.

"you gotta... go... leave..." despite your protests, you were leaning into the kisses as well.

finally, when he pulled back, a wide grin appeared on his face, those dimples on full display. "i left something for you on the counter." his eyes twinkled.

your eyebrows rose in surprise. "oh?"

he just winked, then stepped out into the hallway. "have a good day," he called over his shoulder, already halfway down the corridor.

"you too." you watched him go with a warmth spreading through you, chasing away the morning chill. your cheeks burned pleasant blush. you closed the door, leaning against it for a moment, the echo of his kiss still on your lips.

a curious smile played on your lips. you turned, walking back into the kitchen, your eyes scanning the clean, uncluttered surface. amidst the neatly stacked mail and the fruit bowl, an envelope lay, pristine white, tucked beside the coffee maker.

your heart gave a little flutter. you picked it up, fingers tracing the simple, elegant script of your name. you recognized his handwriting, though it was slightly more rushed than usual, a testament to his morning scramble. you glanced back at the lace box that sat on your dresser. finally, a new companion piece awaited. you carefully tore open the seal, your breath held in anticipation.

you pulled out a single sheet of paper, folded neatly. it wasn’t a thick expensive stationery, but a page torn from a small, spiral bound notebook, perhaps one he kept for jotting down notes at work. the paper felt thin, slightly rough urough under your fingertips. the words were penned in his familiar, slightly cramped hand, some of them a little smudged, as if he’d written it quickly, probably during a stolen moment on his break.

you began to read, a soft smile blooming on your face.

my y/n:

you know how i am with words, they get stuck somewhere between my heart and my mouth. it’s frustrating. for both of us, i know. i think about that first letter i wrote you. it was bad. really bad. i cringed just thinking about it. but i tried, i guess, even if it doesn’t look like it. these past few weeks... they’ve been good, better. i hope it's the same for you. seeing you smile again, truly smile, it’s like the sun coming out after a long winter. i never want that winter to come back. i never want you to feel that coldness again. i was so blind. so stupid. i thought providing was enough but i was wrong. you taught me that. you always teach me things, even when you don’t mean to. i want to be better. for us. for you. i want to learn how to say these things out loud, not just write them down when no one’s looking. i’m sorry for the pain i caused. i’m sorry i let you feel alone. i promise to keep trying. to keep learning. to keep loving you, in all the ways you deserve. you are my home, y/n, my everything, my wife, and i will never ever let another man think they got a mere chance with you, never again. you're mine and i'm yours.

you're stuck with me, always.

san.

୨୧

Just that one word. Quiet. Heavy. And somehow louder than your shouting could ever be. Your mother was standing near the window, arms folded like she was cold even though the room was warm. She didn’t speak. She never did, not in front of him. Just stood there looking outside, twisting her rings like she could disappear into the carpet if she tried hard enough. You hated that you weren’t even surprised.

“This marriage will benefit this family,” your father continued, smoothing his sleeves like this was some business meeting. “We’ve built this name for generations. And you will protect it.”

You clenched your fists tighter, nails biting into your palms. “Your reputation doesn’t mean anything outside this stupid town.”

It slipped before you could stop it, but you didn’t regret it. You meant it. All these formal dinners, these family events, these endless talks about legacy— all of it felt empty. Like a dying empire pretending it was still a kingdom.

“This family has survived longer than you’ve been alive,” your father shot back, finally meeting your gaze with steel in his eyes. “And you’ll do your part to make sure it stays that way.”

You could feel the walls closing in. You could feel your freedom shrinking, curling in on itself, suffocating before you could even scream.

“Kang Yeosang.”

The name hit you like a slap. Sharp. Direct. Cold. You knew that name. Everyone did. Not because he was some loud, reckless criminal—no, worse than that. He was dangerous in a way that didn’t make noise. Dangerous in the way silent oceans are. You don’t notice how deep they are until you’re already halfway sunk.

“Why him?” you asked, throat dry.

Your father barely blinked. “Because his family’s name will keep ours alive.”

Alive. Like this was survival. Like marrying you off to someone you didn’t even know was a favor. Like it was a gift. You hated how calm he was about it. You hated how your mother still hadn’t said a single word. You hated how small you felt in that moment, standing in a house you used to believe was home.

“I’m not going to his house,” you muttered finally, stubbornness flaring even when your heart was hammering in your chest. “You can make me marry him, but I’m not moving in with some— some stranger.”

For a second, you thought maybe—just maybe—that would get a reaction. That something in him would soften, crack, break.

It didn’t.

Instead, he stood. Calm. Slow. Adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with careful precision, like he was bored of the conversation already. “You will,” he said softly. “You’ll go to his house, you’ll be his wife, and you’ll do what’s expected of you.” “And if I don’t?” you pushed, lifting your chin like you weren’t breaking inside.

His gaze sharpened just enough for the threat underneath to show, sharp and cold as glass. “Then I’ll handle it my way.”

You knew what his way meant. Not blood. Not mafia violence. But ruin. Reputation torn apart. Family turned against you. Friends pushed away. He knew how to break you the polite way, the respectable way. Quiet destruction in the form of shame.

You swallowed thick, hot air that didn’t want to go down.

“I hate you,” you breathed.

But your father was already walking away, steps quiet against the polished floor.

“I can live with that.”

Your throat burned with all the things you wanted to scream, but only one thing came out. “What about my studies?”

It sounded small. Weak. But it was the only lifeline you could grab onto in that moment. Something that was yours. The one thing you had left that wasn’t part of their family dinners, or reputation games, or polite handshakes pretending to be alliances.

University was supposed to be your escape. Not glamorous. Not perfect. But it was freedom in its own, small way—early mornings, long commutes, paper deadlines, friends who didn’t care about who your father was.

Your father barely reacted.

“You can continue after the wedding,” he answered flatly, as if you were asking if you could have dessert after dinner.

You stared at him. “After?”

“Yes. You’ll still attend.”

But you knew what that meant. You knew the weight behind those words. After the wedding. After moving into a stranger’s house. After taking his last name. After your life wasn’t yours anymore. Technically, sure—you could go back. Physically, you could sit in the same classrooms, scribble in the same notebooks. But it wouldn’t be the same. Not with whispers curling behind your back. Not with people watching you like you were an exhibit. “That’s her—the girl who married into them.”

It would hang on you like invisible chains. Dragging behind you everywhere you went.

And worst of all—you wouldn’t be able to come home. Not really. Not to this family. Not to your old life. You’d have a new last name, a new house, a new set of rules written by someone else’s hand.

The walls of the study felt like they were closing in.

“I don’t want this,” you said, quieter this time. No yelling. Just raw honesty, like a last ditch effort to claw your way out. “This isn’t my life.”

Your father looked at you the same way he looked at accounts on paper. Math. Numbers. Problems to solve, not feelings to fix.

“It is now.”

Simple. Unforgiving. Final.

You could almost feel the weight of your choices shrinking down to nothing. Every dream you used to picture folded neatly into a little box, pushed aside for family names and legacy dinners with strangers in pressed suits. Your stomach twisted. Hot. Cold. Rage and panic mixing together until you couldn’t tell which was worse.

You wanted to shout, wanted to break something, wanted to drag this perfect little empire down brick by brick just to prove you could—but you stood there frozen, fists clenched, staring at a man who would never, ever see you as anything but his tool first.

Come to the house.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Yeosang sighed, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “Alright. Be there in twenty.”

It wasn’t unusual—getting called over like this. His father didn’t waste words, didn’t waste visits. If he was calling, it meant something needed handling.

By the time he got to the mansion, the gates were already open like they always were when they expected him. The house was quiet, the same way expensive places are—grand, but not loud about it. Just old money tastefully sitting in every piece of polished wood.

His father was already in the study when Yeosang stepped inside, standing by the window, one hand in his pocket like it was muscle memory by now. Glass of whiskey in the other. Of course.

“You’re early,” his father said without turning around.

“You said now.”

His father finally looked over, gave him that familiar once-over like he was assessing a report. “Fair enough.”

There was a beat of silence. Not tense. Just quiet.

Then—

“There’s going to be a wedding.”

Yeosang blinked once. “Yours?”

His father gave him a flat look, one eyebrow raising the way it always did when Yeosang was being difficult on purpose. “Yours.”

Yeosang huffed a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, stepping further into the room. “That supposed to be funny?”

His father didn’t smile. “I’m serious.”

Yeosang stood still for a second, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Is that what you dragged me here for? Could’ve sent a text.”

“This isn’t a text conversation.”

“You’d be surprised what can be said over text these days.”

That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of his father’s mouth. Approval, maybe. Maybe not. Hard to tell with him.

“It’s arranged,” his father said, cutting through Yeosang’s deflection cleanly. “Her family’s name still matters in this town. Not rich, not influential in our way, but solid. Traditional. The kind of people who care about reputation more than their own comfort.”

Yeosang tilted his head slightly. “So… charity work?”

“Strategy,” his father corrected smoothly. “They need stability. We don’t need much from them, but it keeps everything clean.”

“Clean,” Yeosang repeated under his breath. He crossed his arms, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. “And I’m guessing I don’t get a vote?”

“You get an understanding. That’s enough.”

Yeosang didn’t argue. Not because he agreed, but because he knew there was no point. This was how it worked. Give and take. Favors. Names. Quiet deals behind closed doors.

He exhaled through his nose. “Who is she?”

“Y/L/N’s daughter.”

Yeosang’s brow ticked. “Didn’t know they had one.”

“Not surprising. They keep her out of sight. Books, classes, family dinners. But they need her to secure their name before it fades.”

Yeosang thought about that for a second. Reputation marriages were common enough. Boring, mostly. People shaking hands over other people’s futures like it was stock trading.

“You’ve met her?” he asked.

“Briefly. Enough to know she’s going to fight it.”

“Great.”

His father glanced at him then, sharp. “Not your job to like it. Just your job to make it work.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” Yeosang muttered, rolling his jaw. “I’m just saying… if she’s gonna be difficult, it’s gonna be annoying.”

His father’s gaze didn’t soften, but there was a certain understanding there. “You’ll handle it.”

Yeosang let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah,” he said, pushing off the doorframe. “Guess I will.”

As he turned to leave, his father added quietly, “This isn’t punishment.”

“I know.”

And he did. This was just how things worked. Fair or not—his life wasn’t completely his own anymore. Yeosang sat behind the wheel, thumb tapping against the steering wheel as he pulled out of the driveway. Headlights cutting clean lines through the dark street, smooth turns, muscle memory driving him home while his mind drifted elsewhere.

Marriage. Arranged.

He scoffed quietly to himself, shaking his head once. What was he supposed to do with someone else’s family name attached to his life?

Some sheltered daughter of a traditional family, probably the kind who spent too much money on handbags and complained when the AC wasn’t cold enough. He could already hear the whining. Could already see the way she’d expect to live in his place, treat it like a hotel, float through his routine like an expensive perfume he didn’t ask to wear.

No, that wasn’t happening.

Maybe he’d buy her an apartment somewhere else. Nothing fancy, but decent enough. They could do the whole photo ops thing, wear the rings, play nice for the public, then go back to separate lives. Paper marriage. Clean. Or worse—she could be one of those girls who latched on for money. Gold digger. Probably already imagining his credit cards with her initials on the back.

He pressed his tongue to his cheek in irritation. God, he hated gold diggers.

Maybe she’d show up to the first meeting with some designer bag acting shy, but batting lashes like she knew exactly how to play the game. All wide eyes and fake humility. Great. Just what he needed—another headache in heels.

And the name—YN.

It felt familiar. Couldn’t place it, but the reputation was old enough to echo through town. Traditional. Reputed. The type of family that prided themselves on manners but ate each other alive behind closed doors.

The kind that smiled with their teeth.

He drummed his fingers once more, sharp taps on the leather, jaw set.

Alright.

If he was going to be stuck with this arrangement, he might as well know what he was dealing with. And he wasn’t about to walk into it blind. He had resources. Skills. Connections that didn’t come from LinkedIn profiles or polite family dinners. If they thought he was going to just sit back and play along without checking her first, they clearly didn’t know him well enough.

Fine. If she was going to be part of his life, even on paper, he’d find out exactly who she was—before she even stepped in the same room as him.

He flicked his blinker, turning toward his penthouse, already thinking about who to call first.

Let’s see what Miss YN was hiding.

By the time Yeosang finished, he knew more about her than her own family probably did.

University—small, local, nothing flashy. Biology major. Not exactly the typical rich family trophy daughter. No branded handbags, no influencer lifestyle. Her socials were barely active. Private, even. Most of her posts were old, nothing more than the occasional picture of a sunset or food she cooked. No thirst traps. No fake aesthetic feeds.

She liked drawing. Had an old art account that hadn’t been touched in months—messy sketches of flowers and animals, all pencil or black ink. Crochet too. Random photos of half-finished scarves stuffed in a drawer. Cooking—simple recipes, home stuff, not the kind of thing you post to show off, just to remember.

Her friends? A few from university. Small group chats. Normal conversations. Mostly about classes, complaining about assignments, nothing interesting. No clubbing pictures. No vacation shots with secret boyfriends tagged under fake accounts.

The further he dug, the more it annoyed him—not because he found anything bad, but because he didn’t. No scandals, no secret plans to social climb, no hidden motives that screamed gold digger or spoiled brat.

She was just… boring.

Boring in the way people are when they’re not trying to be noticed. And for some reason, that irritated him more than if she had been a problem.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, tossing his phone on the table. Elbow propped on the armrest, hand running through his hair, frustration curling at the edges of his jaw.

Great. Now he was stuck marrying some quiet, awkward, crochet-making biology nerd who probably spent more time reading textbooks than thinking about designer clothes. Not exactly the chaos he was expecting.

But that was fine.

Boring or not, it didn’t change the situation. Didn’t change the fact that she probably didn’t want this marriage any more than he did. Didn’t change the fact that, like it or not, she was about to become his problem.

The small cafe tucked between two old bookstores smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso, the kind of place you’d miss unless you were looking for it. Y/N liked it that way—quiet, steady, familiar. No loud music, no influencers with tripods. Just people who liked good coffee and minding their own business.

She stepped up to the counter, eyes scanning the pastries before glancing at the girl behind the register. “I love your hair,” she said softly, a small smile pulling at her lips. “That color looks really good on you.” The girl blinked, caught off guard, then smiled wide. “Oh! Thank you—I just dyed it last week.”

Y/N nodded, pleased. Compliments were easy. They made people softer. And the girl was pretty, her pastel blue curls tucked behind her ear like she wasn’t sure yet if she liked them. Little things like that made the world feel less sharp.

She ordered her coffee, tucked herself into the corner seat like she always did, pulling her notebook out of her bag. Pages filled with messy diagrams, doodles in the margins, recipes scrawled sideways between molecular structures.

What she didn’t notice—what no one noticed—was the man sitting at the table near the window, fingers idly circling the rim of his untouched cup, black baseball cap low over his brow.

Yeosang watched all of it with that same steady, unreadable expression he always wore when he was thinking too much. He wasn’t even sure why he was there. Habit, maybe. Curiosity. Boredom. The fact that the more he found out about her, the more it didn’t add up with what he expected. Normal girls didn’t compliment strangers just because. Normal girls—especially daughters of families clawing for reputation—were supposed to be fake polite. Smile, nod, move on. But she meant it. He could tell. You didn’t fake that kind of tone.

He watched the way she curled into herself, scribbling in that notebook like the rest of the world didn’t exist, lips pressed into a soft frown of concentration.

Just a quiet girl who looked like she was holding herself together with coffee and stubbornness.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee, jaw ticking once. This was going to be annoying in a completely different way. Y/N didn’t notice him when she left.

He watched her go, watched the way she shrugged her bag higher onto her shoulder, thumb absentmindedly rubbing at a little ink stain on her wrist from writing earlier. She moved like someone used to being unnoticed, like she liked it that way. The door chimed behind her, soft and forgettable.

Yeosang waited a beat, then stood, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as he stepped out onto the street. He wasn’t planning to follow her. Not really. That wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t the lurking type. But something about the whole thing felt unfinished—like he’d walked into a movie halfway through and now he needed to know how it ended, even if it was boring. Especially because it was boring.

She turned down one of the smaller streets, familiar paths clearly mapped in her head. She didn’t hesitate. Not once. Like she’d walked this way so many times her feet didn’t need permission anymore.

Normal. Predictable….Except for the part where, in a few weeks, her life wouldn’t be.

That was the thing gnawing at the edge of his mind. She didn’t know yet. Not fully. Probably knew about the arrangement, sure, but she didn’t know what marrying into his family meant. What marrying him meant. She looked like she still had hope things would be fine. Like she still thought she could negotiate her way out of it if she used the right tone with her father.

Cute.

He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t the type to tear down someone just because he could. But he wasn’t about to let someone walk into his life acting like it was optional.

This marriage was happening. She was going to be his. And the sooner she realized that, the easier it was going to be for both of them.

Yeosang sighed, pulling his cap lower as he turned the opposite direction, heading back toward his car. No point in being seen. Not yet. He’d play it properly, like he always did—let the introductions happen the way their fathers arranged, act like this was his first time seeing her. Civil. Normal.

For now, she could keep her quiet cafes and notebooks full of diagrams.

Soon enough, she’d be sitting across from him at a dinner table pretending she wasn’t thinking about escape routes.

And when that time came—

He’d enjoy watching the fight leave her eyes when she realized there weren’t any.

The dining room was too polished. Everything in it felt like it belonged in a magazine—heavy chairs, polished forks, crystal glasses that didn’t belong to people who used them often. It smelled faintly like expensive old wood and control.

Y/N sat straight, shoulders set, jaw locked like she’d been preparing for this her entire life. Polite daughter. Obedient. Chin slightly tilted up—not too much to look rude, just enough to show she wasn’t going to shatter on command.

Across the table, Yeosang sat with his elbow resting lazily on the armrest, fingers tapping slow against the tablecloth. His gaze was on her, not in the obvious way, not wide-eyed or curious—more like someone reading a file they already memorized but going over it again for fun.

“So,” his father started, formal tone sharp around the edges, “this is long overdue.”

Her father chuckled lightly, already halfway sunk into the leather chair like this was a golf meeting. “We’ve been meaning to sit down properly.”

Yeosang barely blinked. “Mm.”

Y/N didn’t look at him at first. Her eyes were trained on her plate, expression soft but unreadable, like she’d pulled politeness over herself like armor. When she finally did glance at him, it wasn’t shy—it was calculated. Brave. Probably spent the last week practicing it in the mirror.

Didn’t matter.

He knew everything already. Biology major. Draws on the side. Probably keeps her yarn stuffed in a drawer somewhere in that tiny bedroom of hers. Ordinary, and for some reason, that irritated him more than anything else could have.

Their parents carried the conversation like businessmen. Deals, family names, subtle remarks about strengthening ties. It wasn’t a dinner—it was a contract, disguised in roast chicken and overpriced wine.

Yeosang’s eyes didn’t leave her.

Y/N shifted her grip on the napkin under the table, folding it tighter in her palm. Eyes stayed low—not on purpose, not because she was scared—but because eye contact always felt like permission for people to ask more questions. And she wasn’t in the mood to explain herself to anyone at that table.

Yeosang sat across from her, speaking with her father like he wasn’t being sized up for marriage. Confident. Comfortable in a room full of expectations. His voice was steady, like someone used to being listened to, used to having the final word in a conversation. The kind of steady that didn’t need raising.

His father said something about ties between families. Her father hummed in agreement. Someone poured more wine. The edge of Yeosang’s gaze cut toward her briefly. He didn’t stare. Just checked. Like someone glancing at a watch to see how much longer they had to stay.

“So,” his voice finally reached her side of the table, low, smooth, without decoration, “biology.”

Her fork hovered, not quite raised, not quite lowered. “Yeah.”

He waited. No explanation followed. No polite rambling about how she got into it, what she wanted to do with it, how hard it was balancing studies with life. Just that quiet confirmation, like she wasn’t going to give him more than that unless dragged.

Something about that pulled a faint curve to the corner of his mouth—not a smile, not even close, just interest. Her fingers folded the napkin tighter.

“You gonna finish that?” he asked, eyes flicking to the untouched half of roasted potatoes on her plate.

Finally, her eyes met his. Not soft, not flirty—flat. Careful. “Do you want it?”

He shrugged once. “Didn’t think you were shy about eating.” “I’m not.”

He raised an eyebrow, mildly amused. “Good.”

Silence again, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just two people used to not needing to fill it. Her father started speaking about how she could continue studying after marriage, casual, like saying we’ll paint the guest room next week. She didn’t bother correcting him, though the heaviness in her chest said she wanted to. No way it would actually work that easily.

She didn’t say anything else for the rest of the meal. Yeosang didn’t, either.

He just watched her, like a lion watching something small—not because he wanted to pounce, but because he was curious if it was going to run. Neither of them moved first.

Yeosang watched the way her fingers kept folding the napkin tighter and tighter, like if she could just make it small enough, she could disappear into it. But her expression didn’t match the tension in her hands. She didn’t look flustered. Didn’t look desperate. Just… controlled. Like someone who’d been living with locked doors their whole life and knew better than to jiggle the handle too loud. Interesting.

“Do you usually not talk,” he murmured, cutting into the silence, “or is that just for me?”

The faintest breath of humor pulled at her nose before she could stop it. “Depends.”

“On?”

She let her gaze flick up—not to his eyes, just above them. “Whether or not the person across from me deserves it.” His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, and for a second, he almost laughed. Almost. This wasn’t what he expected. Spoiled daughters didn’t sit at tables folding napkins into perfect squares like they were holding knives in their laps.

And she didn’t look at him properly, not even once. Not because she was scared. Because she didn’t care. But she would.

Not in the way girls cared about him normally. Not wide-eyed or hopeful. No, she was going to care when she realized exactly how much of her life was about to be decided for her whether she folded napkins or full pages of essays. And the funny thing was—he didn’t want to break her. He just wanted to watch how long she could hold that line before she blinked first.

After the dinner dragged itself to its dull, polished conclusion, with the adults shaking hands over dessert like they’d just signed a treaty, Yeosang leaned back in his chair, elbow resting against the polished wood, fingertips brushing his jaw like he was thinking something over. And maybe he was. But the look in his eyes said this was calculated.

“So,” he said casually, but with the kind of weight that immediately drew the attention of both families, “how about next Thursday?”

The words dropped into the space between them with a deliberate softness, like a stone hitting still water. No one moved. His father raised a brow slightly, clearly pleased with the display of initiative. Her father smiled, the kind of smile fathers wear when they think their daughter’s life is finally falling in line. And Y/N—Y/N kept her fingers on the edge of her plate, eyes flickering up to Yeosang, finally, properly, but only for a second.

“Thursday?” she echoed, like she needed to make sure she heard him right, even though she absolutely had.

He nodded once, slow, composed. “Next week. You’ll be free, won’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. Not with the way every eye at that table turned toward her, expectant, waiting for her to be agreeable. Marriage was already settled like property; a casual dinner date wasn’t going to shake the foundation of that, but somehow, this felt worse.

Her jaw tensed before she could stop it, irritation curling hot under her ribs—not because she didn’t expect him to test her, but because he chose Thursday. Her only weekday off. Her only breathing space. Her only time where nobody expected her to be anything, say anything, do anything. She studied late on Thursdays, sometimes sat in the library doing nothing but scribbling messy notes on scrap paper that didn’t mean anything, just because she could. And now he was looking at her like he knew that. Like he’d planned that.

“I suppose,” she muttered, voice clipped, polite, lined with quiet annoyance that no one but him seemed sharp enough to hear. “Since you’ve already picked the day for me.”

Their fathers chuckled, pleased at the display of future marital bliss like they were in on some great joke. His father gave him that approving glance—the good, take responsibility look that was passed between powerful men in rooms like this. But Yeosang wasn’t watching anyone else. Just her. Measuring. Testing. Curious how far she could fold before snapping.

“You’ll like it,” he said simply. No tease. No apology. No smile.

She didn’t respond. Just folded the napkin in her lap one more time before setting it neatly on the table like she was handling something fragile. She didn’t look at him again, not because she was shy, but because she knew better. If she did, it’d feel like she was giving him something.

And right now, she wasn’t in the mood to give him anything. But she was curious now. Why Thursday?

Yeosang saw everything. He wasn’t sitting there with that calm posture and steady gaze for show—he was trained for this, raised on discipline sharper than any blade, molded under the expectation that one day he would carry the weight of something much heavier than family name. He was observant. Always. And while everyone at that table was busy patting each other’s backs over the success of an arranged marriage neither party asked for, Yeosang was watching her like a map he was learning by memory.

It was the way she folded the napkin—not once, not twice, but over and over. Each time, pressing it smaller, sharper, tucking corners like she wanted it neat but not too neat, controlled but never pristine. People who folded things that many times weren’t trying to fidget—they were trying to manage something they couldn’t put words to. He’d seen it in tense meetings, watched rival leaders smooth the edges of cufflinks or touch their watches repeatedly when they were hiding nerves or holding in words they couldn’t say aloud.

And she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

But that wasn’t the only thing. He caught the tiny shifts in her posture whenever her parents leaned too close, a subtle lean away—not disrespectful, not obvious, just barely enough to create distance like muscle memory. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t recoil. She managed it. As if that small separation was the only thing keeping her breathing steadily through this whole suffocating display of family pride.

Then there was her food. The careful way she pushed it around her plate, not because she was picky or entitled, but because eating under watchful eyes wasn’t the same as eating alone. Separating textures, shapes, colors, almost like categorizing parts of herself she wasn’t ready to share yet. It wasn’t disinterest—it was control. She was being studied, so she gave them nothing. Not even in the way she chewed.

Most people didn’t notice these things. Hell, most people didn’t even know they did them. But Yeosang saw it all like someone reading subtitles under a movie no one else could hear. And with every fold of that napkin, with every subtle lean of her shoulder, with every glance that never quite met anyone else’s fully, he knew one thing for certain—

She was no ordinary girl.

No spoiled daughter. No meek little thing waiting for a husband to save her from some sheltered life. There was something under that careful silence, something sharp, something waiting. Not the loud kind of defiance—but the quiet kind that made revolutions possible if left alone too long.

Yeosang didn’t know what that thing was yet. But he wanted to. Not to break her. Not to tame her. Not even to get under her skin. He just wanted to see what would happen if someone finally pressed back. And he was more than prepared to be that someone.

But he was no saint, either. Sure, Yeosang was observant. Sure, he was sharp, disciplined, raised on a steady diet of politics, violence, and strategy—but he was also his father’s son. And that bloodline came with one very particular curse: the chronic, unrelenting need to poke at things just to see what sound they made when they cracked. It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even personal. It was just in his bones.

And she—sitting there with her neat napkin folding and careful glances and that stubborn refusal to give him anything—was basically gift-wrapped for that exact kind of cruelty.

Admit it. He was intrigued by her, sure. But more than that, there was an itch under his skin when he looked at her, this annoying, bratty curiosity that made him want to press buttons just to see what she’d do. Not because he wanted to humiliate her. Not because he wanted to watch her fall apart. No, it was because she didn’t flinch. And that was interesting. Different. Everyone flinched eventually—but she just… adjusted.

And she looked cute annoyed.

Not the whiny, spoiled kind of cute. Not the bratty, helpless kind. The kind of cute that made him want to lean closer, just to see if her voice would crack the same way her napkin did under her fingers.

He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t even be here, technically, wasting brainpower on reading into a girl he was being forced to marry by family names he didn’t even particularly respect. But here he was, running mental diagnostics on someone’s napkin folding like it was part of a case file, and liking it more than he should.

And if he was going to be dragged into this circus of arranged happiness, he might as well have fun while he was at it.

Testing her? It wasn’t just strategy anymore. It was entertainment. Annoying her? That was just hereditary.

She really didn’t want to go.

Like—borderline, jump-off-the-balcony level of not wanting to go. Not because she thought it would fix anything, not because she was dramatic, but because the sheer dread of giving up the one day that belonged to her made her stomach twist. It was Thursday. Thursday was hers. Her one breath in a week full of held ones. Her one clean, unclaimed square of time where no one asked her to smile, or marry, or fold herself into something palatable.

But she didn’t jump, because that wasn’t how good girls act.

Her mother’s voice echoed in the bathroom as she brushed mascara through her lashes. ‘Be agreeable, Y/N. Don’t embarrass us. You’re not going to be one of those girls with tantrums and police reports. You’re better than that.’

Better. Whatever that meant.

So she got dressed. Pulled on clothes that said I didn’t try but I still look good because if she was going to be dragged into this, she was going to do it on her terms. She tied her shoes like she was tightening a tether around her own ankles. Did her makeup—not too much, not too little, just enough to look alive, to hide the exhaustion that simmered under polite nods and family dinners.

And when she finally looked at herself in the mirror, it wasn’t vanity staring back. It was survival. Thursday. Her Thursday. And now she was about to spend it across from him.

That annoying Yeosang with his sharp eyes and careful words, with his I’m watching you energy and the quiet smugness that didn’t need smiles or stupid flirting to make itself known. She could already hear his voice in her head, perfectly even, perfectly annoying.

And yet—she still tied her hair the way she liked it. Still put on her favorite necklace. Not for him. For herself. Because if she was going to war, she might as well wear armor.

She went down the stairs like muscle memory, footsteps light but steady, not really registering anything around her. Her parents said something—maybe a wish, maybe a warning, maybe one of those sugary “be good” reminders her mother loved so much. But it was all white noise, just the hum of life happening in the background of a mind that was already somewhere else entirely.

She didn’t ignore them on purpose. She was just zoned out. The kind of zoned out where you don’t even realize your keys are already in your hand, or that you locked the door behind you without thinking about it. Automatic. Like when you’re walking to class with music on and suddenly you’re already at the building, but you don’t remember crossing the street.

She didn’t remember leaving the front door. Didn’t remember if she’d even said goodbye, or if her mom had tried to fix the fold of her sleeve one last time like she always did. And she definitely didn’t see him until she stepped out onto the pavement and felt him.

There’s a specific kind of awareness that happens when someone’s eyes are already on you before you’ve noticed them. Like a silent tap on the shoulder. She glanced up—

—and there he was.

Leaning back comfortably in the driver’s seat of a sleek black car, windows down just enough to catch the breeze, one hand draped over the steering wheel like he had all the time in the world. Rap music playing in the background, not quiet but not obnoxiously loud. And that expression—not quite a smile, definitely not a grin, just that irritating curve of satisfaction people wore when they’d predicted something exactly right. Smug wasn’t even the word for it. It was too clean. Too Yeosang. Of course he was already here.

Of course he was watching her like he knew she wouldn’t have noticed him until now. She blinked once, slow, lips pressed in a thin line, and then kept walking. Didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t offer a greeting, just moved like she was late for something even though she wasn’t.

He leaned slightly forward as she approached, tapping his fingers once against the steering wheel, eyes glinting with that silent, irritating amusement.

You walked towards the car, your steps slower than usual, annoyance bubbling up at the sight of him sitting there, looking far too comfortable. You crossed your arms and leaned slightly against the door, giving him a flat look.

“I wasn’t aware you were picking me up,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral. It came out a little sharper than intended, but you couldn't help it. This whole thing felt off, like you were being dragged into a game that you hadn’t agreed to play.

Yeosang just looked at you with that annoying, cocky expression, the one that always made your blood boil, and shrugged a shoulder. "Well, you should've been. It’s not like you had many options."

You felt a flicker of irritation, but it quickly settled into a calm mask. You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of showing how much he got under your skin. Moving towards the backdoor, you reached for the handle, ready to slide in and get this over with.

Before you could even touch it, the car locked with a loud click.

You froze.

What the hell?

You looked up at him, surprised. He just sat there, still with that casual air, his eyes gleaming as if he was waiting for a reaction.

“Excuse me?” you said, narrowing your eyes.

Without missing a beat, he simply pointed to the passenger seat with an almost lazy gesture. "Sit there."

You blinked at him. You were about to say something—probably something rude—but you stopped yourself. There was no way you were going to let him mess with you like this. Still, you didn’t argue. You didn't have the energy to fight him over something so trivial. The car door opened with a quick swipe, and you slid in, your gaze still sharp but subdued.

Yeosang didn’t speak again as you buckled your seatbelt, his attention shifting to the road as he put the car in drive. The silence between you felt heavy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break it. It was better this way. Better not to engage, better to keep things surface-level.

The ride was awkward. Well, for you, at least. Yeosang didn’t seem to feel it. His posture was relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear, like he was driving down to the beach with friends and not chauffeuring his future wife to some forced date neither of you wanted.

But you sat there, arms crossed, eyes out the window, chewing the inside of your cheek. And then it hit you. Wait. Is that Kendrick Lamar’s Reincarnated playing?

You blinked, eyes flickering toward the dashboard like you could confirm it with just a glance at the stereo. The beat was unmistakable, that heavy bass, sharp snare, and those layered vocals riding smooth over the instrumental. Of all the people to be playing Kendrick Lamar at full volume—it had to be him.

The irritation in your chest shifted slightly, replaced by something… warmer. Familiar. For a second—just a second—you forgot you were on your way to spend your Thursday afternoon with the most annoying man alive. You knew this song. Knew it.

Mentally, you started mouthing the lyrics in your head, matching every bar, every breath, every sharp flip of cadence like muscle memory. Word to word. Clean. Like second skin. It wasn’t loud in your expression, but your mind was in full concert mode, rapping like you’d been waiting for this exact song to save you from the awkwardness.

And for the first time since you sat in that car, you didn’t feel bored.

Without even realizing it, your fingers had started tapping against your thigh, following the beat with this natural kind of ease that only happens when something feels right. The awkwardness melted just slightly—not completely, but enough that you didn’t feel like throwing yourself out of the moving car anymore.

But then—

The song ended, and before you could even mourn the silence—another Kendrick song started playing. Different album. Same vibe. Same unmistakable energy. You frowned slightly, eyes flicking to the stereo now like it had betrayed you. Two Kendrick songs in a row? Coincidence?

You sat there for a second, staring ahead, lips pressing into a thin line as your brain worked overtime. Sure, it could’ve been a coincidence. Everyone liked Kendrick, right? But this felt… deliberate. Like someone had put it on a playlist. Was he doing it on purpose? Is he a fan too?

You glanced at him, cautious, like you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of catching you interested—but curiosity was starting to override irritation. He was just driving like usual, one hand lazily adjusting the volume like it was background noise to him. But something about how casual he looked felt rehearsed.

It didn’t sit right with you. Could’ve been random. Could’ve been a setup. Or… could’ve been both. But either way, you weren’t about to ask first. Nope. Not happening.

You just leaned back against the seat, eyes steady out the window, tapping your fingers again, this time not just because of the beat—but because you were thinking.

Yeosang was way too pleased with himself.

Not that he showed it outwardly—no smug grin, no teasing comments just yet—but inside? Yeah. He was damn near proud. Everything was going exactly how he wanted. Calculated. Controlled. Planned with the kind of precision that came from years of watching, learning, and frankly—being too damn good at reading people.

He knew everything he needed to know about you. Hell—he probably knew more about you than you did. He knew Thursday was your free day. Knew how you carved it out for yourself like it was holy ground. That’s exactly why he chose today to drag you out. Not because he wanted to ruin it. No—because it would be the one thing you couldn’t say no to. You’d either have to cancel your only peace of the week or face him—and he knew you’d pick facing him. Pride. Predictable.

He knew you didn’t like going out—not with family, not with friends, barely even by yourself. So, he came to you. Made it easy. Familiar car. Private. No excuses to back out last minute because “I didn’t feel like taking a cab” or “the bus was crowded”. Nah. He had you cornered, comfortably.

And the music? That wasn’t a coincidence, either. He’d seen the playlist. Hell, he’d memorized the damn playlist. Kendrick Lamar was your favorite in the rap genre, and it just so happened Kendrick was on his heavy rotation too, so it didn’t even feel forced. Just enough familiarity to make you settle in, just enough to make your fingers tap without realizing, to get you thinking maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.

He didn’t need to ask you what you liked. He knew what you liked. Yeosang’s father didn’t raise fools—and Yeosang wasn’t about to start disappointing now.

He kept his eyes on the road, face clean of expression, like he didn’t know exactly what you were thinking. Like he hadn’t already played this scene out in his head a dozen times. You were stubborn, yeah—but he was patient. And precise.

He didn’t want to break you. Nah. That was boring. He wanted to watch. Watch how long you could act like you didn’t care. Watch how long you could pretend you weren’t curious. Watch how long it took before you realized—you weren’t the only one with sharp edges.

And yeah, he liked rap too. Lucky you.

The car rolled to a smooth stop, the hum of the engine cutting off and leaving behind the faint echo of Kendrick’s verse lingering in your head. You looked around, blinking slowly. Parking lot.

What kind of parking lot? You didn’t know. Big building, a few cars around, that slightly industrial vibe, but nothing familiar. You didn’t go out enough to tell which part of town this was, and frankly—you didn’t care. You just wanted to get this over with.

With a sigh, you reached for your seatbelt, pressing the button to unclip it…Nothing.

You pressed it again, harder this time, like maybe the extra force would convince it to listen to you. Nothing moved. “Oh, come on—” you muttered under your breath, tugging at the strap now with growing frustration. Typical. Typical. Of course this was happening. On today of all days. And the last thing you wanted to do—the very last—was ask him for help. But pride had limits, and you’d already used up most of yours agreeing to this disaster of a “date.”

You glanced at him reluctantly. “It’s stuck.”

He didn’t even pretend to be surprised. Didn’t flinch, didn’t chuckle—just leaned slightly toward you, unbothered, one hand moving with irritating ease to the buckle. The button clicked effortlessly under his fingers like it had just been waiting for him to do it.

“See?” he murmured, voice low, that smug little undertone threading beneath it. “I knew you’d need me eventually.”

Your jaw clenched, and you shot him a look that could’ve killed a weaker man on the spot. “It was broken.”

“Of course it was,” he replied, tone dripping with mock sympathy, before pushing his door open and stepping out like nothing just happened.

You sat there for a second, heat prickling at the back of your neck, wishing the ground would swallow you whole—but no such luck.

Fine. Whatever. You pushed your door open too, standing straight, brushing down your clothes like you hadn’t just been humiliated by a seatbelt. You wouldn’t let him have the last word. Not yet. Not ever.

You followed him, not knowing where you were going, but very aware of two things:

1. This was going to be a long day.

2. You hated how nice his stupid cologne smelled when he walked ahead of you.

But you had no intention of making this easy for him.

So, as soon as you both started walking, you slowed your pace—not obviously, not dramatically—just… enough. Enough to make it mildly irritating. Enough to make him notice. You weren’t even really doing it on purpose; he was just tall, and apparently, tall people had no concept of walking like normal humans. His strides were three of yours combined, and you refused—refused—to jog after him like some lost puppy.

If he wanted to drag you around, he was going to work for it. But the irritating thing? He didn’t say a word. Didn’t huff, didn’t throw a glance over his shoulder, didn’t tell you to hurry up like you half expected. He just walked, silent, hands in his pockets like this was the most casual thing in the world.

Until suddenly, about ten steps ahead, he stopped. Just stood there.

You narrowed your eyes, fully prepared for some passive-aggressive remark or maybe a sarcastic clap. You were ready for it. Bring it on. But instead—he just turned around and… held out his hand. You stared at it like it was something you didn’t understand.

The hell was that supposed to mean?

Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for the usual sharp comment or hidden smirk—but nothing. He just stood there, hand out, expression unreadable but steady. “Grab on,” he said, like it was obvious. You blinked, caught between being offended and… genuinely confused. “What?”

“You’re slow,” he said simply, like he was pointing out the weather. “So grab on.”

You stared at his hand, then back at his face. “I’m not slow. You’re just fast.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he said under his breath. “Now grab on before I make you.”

You didn’t move for a second. Pride screamed no, but practicality… well, it was tired of jogging every five steps to keep up. And something about the way he said it—firm, low, steady—not mocking, not playful, just… expecting—it made that prickling nervousness crawl up your spine again. You hated that tone.

But your hand moved anyway, slipping into his, your fingers curling awkwardly, like you didn’t know what to do with yourself. His grip was steady, firm—but not crushing. Not controlling. Just… leading.

Without another word, he started walking again, pulling you gently but efficiently alongside him, adjusting his pace—not entirely slowing down, but enough that you didn’t have to scramble. You hated how… easy it felt. Hated it more that your hand stayed there.

The deeper you both walked, the clearer it got—it wasn’t just some random building or a casual cafe. It was a restaurant. A fancy one.

Not just white tablecloth fancy, but crystal glasses, piano music playing softly in the background, waiters dressed better than your uncles at weddings kind of fancy. And honestly? It was too much.

Your dad never took you to places like this. Never. Said restaurants were a scam, said home food was better, cheaper, cleaner—but you knew better. You’d seen the unpaid bills, the receipts stuffed into drawers, the phone calls with that low, desperate tone he didn’t think you could hear. Gambling debt didn’t leave room for filet mignon or imported wine. You’d spent your life quietly excusing it, brushing it off, pretending you didn’t want this kind of thing anyway.

But standing here now, in this giant pristine place with soft golden lighting and tables spaced way too far apart, you felt like an imposter. Like you were wearing someone else’s shoes in a room you didn’t belong in. It was overwhelming. Too bright. Too clean. Too silent. Everyone here looked like they belonged. And you—you didn’t even know which fork to use first.

You hadn’t realized it at first, but your body did. Instinctively, without even thinking, you found yourself scooting closer to him. Not dramatically—not enough to look weird—but just enough that the space between you narrowed. Like proximity alone could make you smaller, safer, less obvious. The worst part?

It felt natural.

You hated that. Hated that the man you were mentally arguing with for the past hour was now also the one person here who felt vaguely familiar.

Yeosang noticed, of course he did. The tension of your shoulder brushing barely against his arm, the shift of your body tilting slightly toward his—he clocked it instantly. But he didn’t comment. Didn’t give you that teasing remark you were bracing for. Instead, his fingers adjusted slightly around yours, like he was anchoring you there. Silent. Steady. Just a solid presence beside all the marble floors and velvet chairs.

He didn’t say a word. But you felt it anyway. ‘I got you.’

Some guy—manager, waiter, whatever—showed up then, all polite smiles and expensive cologne, greeting Yeosang like they were long-lost friends or something. Said something about the table being ready, offered some words you didn’t really catch because your brain was too busy buzzing with nerves.

You weren’t listening. Didn’t want to. Everything felt too sharp around the edges. Before you could even process it properly, Yeosang had your hand again, guiding you forward with that same casual grip, not giving you the chance to hesitate. It wasn’t forceful, just… confident. Like he already knew you’d follow.

And you did.

He led you through rows of softly murmuring people until you reached a table—not entirely private, but tucked into a little alcove, partly hidden by frosted glass panels and low plants. Enough separation that you didn’t feel like fish in a tank, but not so hidden that it felt awkward. It was nice. Comfortable in a way you hadn’t expected.

Yeosang didn’t miss a beat. He stepped around you and—of course—pulled out the chair. You hesitated for half a second, eyes flickering up at him. No teasing expression. No sharp remark waiting. Just a simple gesture, like this was routine.

You sat down, the chair gliding smoothly beneath you, and he pushed it in with practiced ease. For a brief second, you hated how nice that felt. Not because of him. But because no one had done that before. Not dates, not family, not anyone.

You adjusted your sleeves awkwardly, trying not to fidget, while he walked around and took his own seat, leaning back with that effortless comfort like this was his living room and not a restaurant with menus you probably couldn’t even afford to read.

He picked up the menu with one hand, flipping through it casually like this wasn’t his first time here—which, judging by how the staff greeted him, you were sure it wasn’t. His eyes scanned the pages, sharp and focused, while the other hand rested lazily on the edge of the table. After a moment, he looked up, right at you. “What do you want?”

It shouldn’t have been a complicated question. Normal people would just… answer. Say pasta, steak, whatever. But for some reason, your throat tightened. It wasn’t nerves—not exactly. Just… indecision.

All your life, someone had chosen for you. Your mom, mostly. Always ordering for you at restaurants—never asking, just assuming. Always brushing off your opinions as “It’s not good for you,” or “You won’t like it.” Somewhere along the line, you stopped bothering to decide. It felt easier that way.

So you did the only thing that felt natural, default almost. “Whatever you’re having.” Yeosang paused.

His jaw ticked slightly, almost like he was holding back a sigh—but not in frustration. More like… patience. “That’s not how this works,” he said, voice lower, steady, like someone reasoning with a kid who was trying to eat candy for breakfast. “You don’t just copy.”

You shrugged, defensive, staring at the polished wood of the table. “I don’t know what’s good.”

“It’s not that deep,” he finished for you, lips twitching slightly—but not in mockery, just amusement. “It’s just food. Pick what you want.”

The thing was… no one had ever given you choices like that. Not explained them patiently. Not acted like your opinion actually mattered, even in something as small as dinner. It made your chest feel weirdly tight. Like you wanted to be mad, but couldn’t quite find the reason.

Yeosang didn’t press further. Just leaned back again, waving over the waiter with a lazy flick of his fingers, like this was the most normal thing in the world. But you sat there with the menu still open in your hands, staring at it…

That’s when it hit you—the slow, creeping embarrassment settling in the pit of your stomach.

You didn’t know how to read menus.

Not like literally not knowing how to read, but… you didn’t know how to understand them. Fancy restaurant menus weren’t in normal language—they were in that rich people language. Words like confit, beurre blanc, something-something reduction—you didn’t even know if you were ordering food or furniture. The more you stared at it, the worse it got. Everything blurred together until it just looked like noise on paper.

Your hand twitched slightly on the edge of the menu, the corners of it curling under your fingertips. You didn’t even know how to begin. Finally, you gave up. Quietly. Awkwardly. You placed the menu down and looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time all evening. Gone was the irritation, the stubborn defiance. Instead, it was something softer. Not defeated, but pleading.

“Can you just… choose?” you asked, voice low, almost hoping he wouldn’t make a scene about it.

For a second, he just stared at you. No teasing, no smug smile—just studying you. Calculating. Then, instead of making a big deal about it, he nodded once, sharp, like this was all perfectly normal. “Alright,” he murmured. “But you’re still gonna have choices.”

And then, like it was muscle memory, he listed things off. Simple. No complicated words, no long-winded chef specials.

“Do you want red sauce or white?”

“Chicken or beef?”

“Want dessert or not?”

Just basic questions, no extra fluff. Like someone breaking down rocket science to math tables. By the time he was done, it actually sounded like a meal, not a puzzle.

And without realizing it, you’d started folding the cloth napkin again. Neatly. Sharply. Fold, unfold, fold, unfold. It was muscle memory at this point—your fingers always needed something to do. Something to control, even when nothing else made sense.

Somewhere along the way, he’d passed you his napkin too. You didn’t even notice it. Just that at some point, your hands had another one to work with. Your mind didn’t register it; your body just accepted it, thankful for the extra fabric to keep you grounded.

It was quiet. Subtle. No words, no glances, no gestures. And while you kept folding and unfolding that napkin like your life depended on it, he just sat there across from you, arms resting lazily on the table, ordering both your meals in that steady voice like this wasn’t even a thing.

He didn’t act like he was helping. And you didn’t notice you were being helped.

While you were busy poking at the carefully cut chicken on your plate—eating but not really tasting—Yeosang sat across from you, trying not to lose his mind.

Cuteness aggression. That was the only way to describe it. Like he wanted to bite something or hit the table—not out of anger, but because you were just too much.

It wasn’t just the way you’d quietly surrendered, letting him order for you like it was nothing. It wasn’t just the way your fingers kept working that napkin like you didn’t even know you were doing it. It was the whole picture—the you of it all. Sitting there, looking like the softest thing in the sharpest world.

And that cardigan you were wearing? Please. He could tell by the stitching it was handmade. Probably by you. The unevenness of the cuffs, the slightly imperfect patterns—no brand could fake that kind of charm. You didn’t even know how much that cardigan was giving you away, how much of you was stitched into every row.

It made something in his chest tighten, like he wanted to tuck you somewhere safe. His pocket. A drawer. Somewhere you couldn’t get overwhelmed by menus and loud places and useless fathers.

But he still played it cool, leaning back a little, eyes glinting as he ran his thumb along the edge of his fork like he wasn’t thinking borderline insane things about a girl he just met. He glanced at the cardigan, then back at you, voice dropping casual but knowing.

“You make that?”

You blinked, pausing mid-bite. “What?”

“That cardigan,” he said, tone light, like they were talking about the weather. “You made it?”

You hesitated. Not because you were embarrassed—more because no one really noticed that kind of thing. Definitely not guys like him. But… you nodded. “Yeah.”

A lazy grin, sharp but not mocking, pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Figured. Looks like you.”

That sentence alone made your stomach flip in ways you didn’t have the energy to process. You didn’t even know what that meant. Looked like you? Quiet? Crocheted? Awkwardly stitched together? You didn’t ask. You just looked back down at your plate, busying yourself with another bite, folding that second napkin again like it was holding the fabric of your nerves together.

Meanwhile, Yeosang sat there, feeling way too satisfied with himself. You were dangerously cute. And he was dangerously aware of it.

He dropped you off, making sure you got to your front door before pulling away. You didn’t say much—a quiet “thanks,” barely audible—but you didn’t run away either. Progress.

But by the time he pulled into his father’s estate, parked the car, and stepped into the over-polished marble entrance, he was losing it. Hand over his mouth. Jaw tight. Muscles flexing like he was holding in a scream or something equally embarrassing. What the hell was that?

That wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be annoying. Spoiled. Bratty. Some daddy’s princess with acrylic nails and too much perfume. You were supposed to be the type he could dump in a nice apartment and visit once a month with gifts so you’d stay quiet about the whole arrangement.

But you weren’t. You were a mess. An organized, pretty, cardigan-wearing mess.

And worse, you didn’t even know you were cute. You weren’t even trying. You just sat there in that chair at that fancy-ass restaurant, folding napkins like they were some secret escape plan, wearing that handmade sweater like it wasn’t making him feel like an insane person.

And now? Forget that whole buying-another-place plan. That idea was dead the moment he saw how small you looked sitting across from him. No way. You were staying where he could see you. Reach you. Annoy you on purpose if he felt like it. Which he did.

He stood in the foyer of his father’s mansion, hand dragging down his face, pacing a little in his boots.

God. He felt like squealing. Like actually kicking something, or punching the air, or rolling on the expensive carpet like a twelve-year-old with a crush.

“This is insane,” he muttered to himself, like saying it out loud would make it make sense. It didn’t.

You were in his head. Neatly folded like that stupid napkin you kept twisting around your fingers. And for the first time in a long time, Kang Yeosang didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh, scream, or marry you right now.

The moment Yeosang stepped further into the house, hand dragging down his face, muttering like a lunatic, he heard it—the unmistakable voice of his old man echoing from the sitting room. “Why the hell do you look like a teenage girl who just got her first crush?”

Yeosang didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even stop pacing. Just waved his hand dismissively, as if to say don’t start. His father stood there in his usual crisp shirt, whiskey glass in hand like always, giving him that unimpressed look fathers reserve for sons who don’t follow in their exact footsteps.

“I’m serious,” his father huffed, stepping forward. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Why are you here anyway? Thought you liked hiding in that overpriced shoebox you call an apartment.”

Yeosang finally dropped his hand from his face, side-eyeing him, unimpressed. “Renovation,” he grumbled. “It’s getting fixed up. You want me to sleep on the street?” His father scoffed, taking a sip of his drink, shaking his head. “You could’ve stayed at one of the hotels we own.”

“Right. And let everyone think I’m homeless now. Good look for a mafia heir.” The older man narrowed his eyes, recognizing that tone. That annoying tone Yeosang always used when he was about to get smart-mouthed. “So why are you pacing around here like some lovesick idiot?”

Yeosang clicked his tongue, glaring at the floor like it personally offended him. “It’s your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You’re the one that set me up with her.”

His father’s brow lifted. “Did she bite?”

“She didn’t even blink.”

That made his father laugh. Really laugh. Like belly laugh, hand pressed to his chest, deep and loud in that expensive, echoey house.

“God,” Yeosang muttered under his breath. “You’re actually enjoying this.”

“Of course I am,” his father smirked. “Finally met someone who doesn’t fall apart under your pretty-boy nonsense. Good. You needed that.”

Yeosang rolled his jaw, annoyed beyond belief, but honestly? His dad wasn’t wrong. His father waved his glass toward him. “What’s the problem, then? I thought you were going to dump her in a penthouse and get on with life.”

“Yeah, that plan’s dead.”

“Why?”

Yeosang just stood there, defeated. “She’s too—”

“What? Petty? Weird? Mean?”

“…Soft.”

His father blinked, confused. “Soft?”

Yeosang didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to. Soft in a way that made him want to ruin someone’s life if they made you cry. Soft in a way that made him want to drag you closer by the wrist when you got overwhelmed. Soft in a way that pissed him off because he liked it too much. His father just shook his head, amused, like he knew exactly what kind of hell Yeosang was walking into. “Good luck with that, Romeo.”

“Shut up.”

You did not expect this. A casual text? Fine. Him calling you just to “check in”? Annoying, but tolerable. Even him dragging you out on those stupid dates now and then—you could live with that. But this? Showing up to your university?

What the actual hell was wrong with him?

It wasn’t even subtle. Of course it wasn’t subtle. Not with that stupid black car of his parked right at the entrance, shining like a beacon of unwanted attention. Not with him leaning against the door like he was shooting a damn commercial, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses pushed into his hair, looking like every other man’s nightmare and every other woman’s distraction.

And people noticed. Oh, they noticed. Girls whispering, eyes widening, phones coming out to take sneaky pictures. A group of guys near the library basically breaking their necks trying to get a better look. And you?

You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. He had the audacity to wave at you. Like this was normal. Like this wasn’t blowing up the very careful life of low attention, quiet exits, don’t talk to me I’m just here to graduate you had built for yourself.

You speed-walked. Not even pretending anymore. Walked up to him so fast it looked like you were about to commit a crime. “What the hell are you doing?” you hissed under your breath, shoving at his shoulder, eyes darting around like you were being followed by paparazzi.

“Picking you up,” he said, casual as you liked, like this wasn’t the most embarrassing moment of your life unfolding in real time.

“Get in the car,” you snapped. “Now.”

And, the bastard, he laughed. Laughed like this was a game.

Still, he obeyed, sliding into the driver’s seat like he was doing you a favor. You yanked the passenger door open, practically diving inside, head ducked like you were avoiding a sniper.

The moment the door shut you rounded on him. “Are you insane?”

“I missed you,” he said, like that explained anything.

“You could’ve— texted me or something! I don’t need the whole uni thinking I’m with someone rich”

“You are with someone rich,” he corrected, one hand casually gripping the wheel, the other resting over the gear like this was a Sunday drive.

The car came to a stop in front of this sleek-looking storefront, all black glass and warm lighting, like one of those places you only see rich people walk into on TV shows. And because your life apparently wasn’t embarrassing enough, Yeosang parked like he owned the building.

You looked at the place, then at him. “What is this?”

“Jewelry,” he answered flatly, already stepping out of the car. Jewelry. Jewelry. As if that explained anything.

Before you could argue or even think, he came around, opened your door, and like a villain from a drama, dragged you inside by the wrist—not harsh, but determined. The cold from the street clung to your clothes, your boots crunching against the salted sidewalk, but the moment you stepped inside—it was warm. Not just warm, but that kind of luxury warm, where the air smells faintly of expensive perfume and everything feels soft, even though nothing should be.

And you? You immediately felt your whole body loosen, just a little. It wasn’t even intentional. The cold had been biting, sharp against your ears and the tip of your nose, and this? This was dangerous. Comforting. You could rot here, honestly. Just melt into one of the velvet chairs and stop existing.

Yeosang noticed.

Of course he noticed. He didn’t miss anything about you. The way your shoulders relaxed. The way you almost—almost—let your head drop forward like you could fall asleep standing there.

He wanted to bite you. No, seriously. Bite. His jaw clenched just thinking about it. You looked too cute. With your knitted cardigan, snow-dusted boots, fidgety fingers already tugging at the sleeves. It was criminal. Illegal. Someone should lock you up for being this dangerous in public.

But he was strong. Barely. Barely holding himself back from grabbing you by the face and just—squishing. Maybe even kissing that stupid annoyed expression off of you. Would’ve been worth it. You were too busy shaking the snow from your sleeves to notice him battling for his sanity two feet away.

An employee walked over, all smiles and professional greetings, asking what you both needed today. You blinked at her like a deer caught in headlights.

Yeosang spoke first. “Rings.”

You snapped your head to him. “What?”

“For the engagement,” he said calmly, like duh, obviously. Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “You dragged me here for that? You could’ve warned me—”

“And ruin the surprise of watching you panic in real-time? No thanks.” You glared daggers into his skull, wishing you could teleport out of your own skin. “You’re evil.”

“Mm,” he hummed, eyes lazily drifting over the display cases. “Yours?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Ring size.”

“I—I don’t know!”

His lips quirked—not a smirk, you banned those, but just that annoying, knowing twitch that told you he was enjoying this too much. “Figures. Guess we’ll find out together.” You honestly might combust right there on the jewelry shop floor.

Yeosang walked toward the counter with the same energy as someone about to close a business deal. Calm. Focused. Casual power.

You stayed frozen for a beat, still stunned at the whole situation, until your feet moved on their own. Before you realized it, you were right beside him, eyes locking onto the display.

And that’s when it hit you. The rings. They were gorgeous. Not just shiny-for-the-sake-of-shiny—but delicate, beautiful. Rings with elegant stones, simple but detailed bands, not the overdone flashy stuff but the kind that made you think: if I wore that, maybe I wouldn’t feel so small.

You leaned in without realizing, gaze scanning over each one like a kid at a candy store—but also a little sad. You never let yourself want things like that. What was the point? Your parents could never buy you things like this. You grew up being handed the practical, the necessary. Wanting was a waste of time.

But Yeosang saw it. All of it.

The way your fingers twitched at your sides like you wanted to reach out but didn’t. The slight glassiness in your stare—not tears, but that lost look people got when they wanted something badly but were too used to swallowing it down.

To him? Your eyes were sparkling. Bright, full of that light people only showed when they forgot to hide. He couldn’t stop looking at you. The whole room could’ve caught fire, and he wouldn’t have noticed.

He leaned closer, voice lower. “See something you like?”

You snapped out of it, blinking up at him like you’d just been caught stealing. “I—I was just looking,” you muttered, instantly defensive, shoving your hands into the sleeves of your cardigan. “Didn’t say I wanted anything.”

But Yeosang wasn’t even listening to the words coming out of your mouth. He was too busy cataloguing everything you didn’t say. The spark. The hesitation. The soft way your lip pressed against your teeth when you held back from speaking. You weren’t loud, weren’t clingy, weren’t bratty like he thought you might be—you were quiet. Observant. Someone who shrank herself just to survive.

Yeah, no. You weren’t leaving his sight ever again. “Good,” he said, nonchalantly signaling to the employee. “Because we’re not leaving until you try some on.” You shot him a glare. “What is this, Pretty Woman?” “More like Pretty Annoyed Fiancée.” His eyes flicked down to you, sharp and amused. “C’mon. Humor me.”

You stared at the rows and rows of rings like they were mocking you. Every shape, every color, every shine — how the hell were you supposed to pick one? Your fingers hovered over the glass, not touching, just hovering, like maybe the right one would start glowing or something. But nothing did.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like them. It was that you liked all of them, and also none of them, because your brain kept whispering, what if you pick the wrong one? What if you regret it? You didn’t get choices growing up, not real ones. Every decision was always someone else’s to make for you — your clothes, your food, even your damn hair. The few times you got to choose something, it was met with criticism or disappointment. No wonder your chest felt tight standing here.

“I can’t,” you muttered under your breath, frustrated. “They all look… I don’t know.” Yeosang watched, hands tucked in his pockets, silent. But not with judgment. More like studying. He could see it happening—the way you kept retreating into yourself, that familiar shrinking posture like you were bracing for someone to yell at you for being annoying or difficult.

He didn’t like that. Not one bit.

Without warning, he stepped closer, leaning down near your ear, voice lower, firmer. “We’re not doing that here.” You blinked up at him. “What—” “We’re not doing that thing where you act like you’re a burden for existing,” he continued, tone steady but not harsh. “You like something, you say it. You don’t like something, you say it. You don’t have to know what you want right now, but don’t stand here apologizing for breathing.”

Your throat went dry. No one’s ever talked to you like that before. Not mean. Not fake sweet. Just… steady. Like he meant it. Like he wasn’t going to move until you heard him. “I’m not apologizing,” you finally muttered, defensive. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re folding into yourself like someone’s about to slap your wrist.”

Your jaw tightened. “That’s just how I stand.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, not convinced for a second.

You wanted to shove him. You also wanted to crawl under the display case and disappear. But somewhere deep down, embarrassingly deep, you also wanted to grab his sleeve and lean into him like a tired stray cat. But instead, you just shoved your sleeves up higher and looked at the rings again. “Fine. I’ll try some.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, barely loud enough to catch, but you caught it. And you hated that you liked how it sounded.

You picked up one of the rings, delicate and shimmering with tiny embedded stones. It wasn’t flashy in the way rich people wear things—it was pretty. Simple. Something you could see yourself wearing every day.

But then it hit you like a slap. The price. What the hell were you doing? Just choosing whatever looked nice like you weren’t broke half your life? Like your mom didn’t yell at you for picking snacks that were ₹20 more expensive than the local brand?

You started searching the display, eyes darting, looking for price tags like a madwoman. But it was one of those places. No prices on anything. Which only meant one thing—if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

Panic started tightening in your chest. You weren’t stupid. You knew this whole setup was expensive. Expensive coat racks, expensive chairs, expensive air. And here you were like some idiot playing dress-up, picking rings you couldn’t afford in three lifetimes. “Uh… what’s the price on these?” you asked quietly, almost hoping he didn’t hear you.

But of course he did.

Yeosang, standing beside you with his annoying posture of “I own everything I touch,” just glanced down at you, one brow raised. “Why?” You gave him a look. “What do you mean why? They’re probably… crazy expensive. I don’t wanna-” “You think I brought you here to worry about prices?” he interrupted, eyes sharp now.

You blinked. “Well, yeah? This isn’t a grocery store, I can’t just-” “Do I look like the kind of man who’s going to let you think about numbers right now?” His tone wasn’t harsh. But it wasn’t soft, either. It was just… Yeosang. Calm, slightly amused, slightly annoyed, fully in charge.

You hated how warm your ears felt.

“I don’t—”

“I said pick.”

His voice was low this time. Not rude. Not cold. Just that tone that slides down your spine and makes your stomach clench in the weirdest way. Firm. Dominant, even. But not because he was trying to be macho—it was just who he was. You stood there frozen for a second before whispering, “They don’t even have prices on them—”

“They don’t have prices,” he cut you off, leaning closer so only you could hear, “because the people who shop here don’t need to ask.”

You swore your knees nearly gave out.

“And right now,” he added, hand lightly brushing your lower back as if guiding you forward, “you’re with me. So that makes you one of those people. Pick.” You swallowed hard, looked down at the rings, then up at him.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Or,” he added, eyes glinting, “do you want me to choose for you again?”

God help you—you almost said yes.

The wedding was hectic.

Not in the “fun chaos” way you saw in movies—no, this was suffocating. Your cheeks hurt from fake smiling at people you didn’t even know. The scent of flowers was so strong it made you lightheaded. The jewelry was heavy, and the outfit? Beautiful, yeah, but you could barely breathe.

After the ceremony, when the music was loud and people were starting to eat, you sat in a corner. Just existing. You were chewing blandly on some sweet, not even tasting it. The small cushion under you was probably worth someone’s rent, but you sat like you were at some boring family reunion.

Yeosang did ask you last month if you wanted to invite your friends. You had been fixing your cardigan sleeve at the time and barely looked up. “Don’t really… have any.”

It wasn’t sad when you said it. Just a fact. You said it the way someone says, “Yeah, I don’t like tea,” or “I’ve never been to Goa.” Just plain. But you felt it sting more now, seeing his friends—8 of them—laughing on the other side of the venue like this was just some party.

Meanwhile, you sat with your cousin. The only one in your family who didn’t belittle you constantly or make subtle comments about you being “too old to be unmarried” or “too quiet for your own good.” He didn’t say much either. Probably didn’t even care. But you preferred that. Quiet company was better than company with sharp tongues.

Your eyes wandered across the room. Yeosang was standing with his friends, of course. One of them threw his arm around Yeosang’s shoulder, laughing about something. And then Yeosang glanced at you. It was brief—but he looked. And when his gaze met yours, it wasn’t pity, or amusement, or even awkwardness.

It was… knowing.

Like he knew you didn’t want to be there. Like he understood exactly what it felt like to be surrounded by noise and not feel like you belonged in it. And for a moment—just a second—you didn’t feel alone in that room. Of course, the moment passed when your cousin nudged you and asked if you were going to eat your chicken.

You gave it to him without a word, gaze still lingering on the man across the room who, apparently, now belonged to you.

The ride home was torture. Your jewelry felt like chains, the embroidery on your dress scratched at your skin with every small shift, and your hair—oh god, your scalp was screaming. You sat awkwardly, pressed up against the door, knees at an angle because the fabric wouldn’t let you sit properly.

And Yeosang? He just drove like it was a normal day. Relaxed hand on the steering wheel, other resting against his thigh, occasionally glancing your way. He didn’t say anything, but you knew he noticed you shifting every two minutes like you were sitting on needles.

By the time the car pulled up at the apartment complex, you were two seconds away from just tearing the sleeves off like some dramatic soap opera character.

It was late—too late for nosy neighbors or anyone else to be hanging around. The whole building was quiet except for the low hum of the elevators. You followed him silently, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. And when the elevator doors opened to his place—

Yeah. Pinterest board aesthetic.

It wasn’t over-the-top, but it was intentional. Clean lines, warm lighting—not those harsh white bulbs like your home had. The couch looked like it cost someone’s college tuition, blankets folded neatly on the armrest like it was straight out of a home decor photoshoot. Shelves with actual books. Art that wasn’t mass-produced prints. Little ceramic things on the side tables that you didn’t know the use of but looked expensive anyway.

It didn’t smell like dust or old carpet or fried onions like your house did after your mom cooked. It smelled like sandalwood and something slightly musky. Like him.

You just stood there by the entrance like a misplaced sticker on a clean page. He casually dropped his keys in a tray by the door and started undoing the buttons on his sleeves, rolling them up forearms first. “You wanna change?”

Did you wanna change? You were two seconds away from climbing out of your own skin. You nodded silently.

Without a word, he pointed to a hallway. “Third door. Closet’s in there. Pick whatever. Bathroom’s attached.” As if it was nothing to offer someone full access to his wardrobe. As if he hadn’t just brought his brand new wife into his home like someone bringing home takeout. You shuffled off like some fancy-dressed raccoon, already planning which oversized shirt you were gonna steal first.

You padded out of the bathroom, freshly freed from that suffocating dress, now wearing a soft oversized t-shirt that smelled like detergent and someone else’s cologne, paired with pajama pants that pooled a bit at your ankles. Your hair was a mess, makeup slightly smudged from your tired hands rubbing your face. But you couldn’t care less. Comfort first.

Yeosang was already lounging on the couch, changed into a black t-shirt that hugged his shoulders just right and grey sweatpants, one ankle lazily crossed over the other. Casual. Comfortable. Infuriatingly attractive. You stood there, awkward, arms crossed, twisting your fingers like you always did. “Where… where am I supposed to sleep?”

He didn’t even hesitate. Just pointed with two fingers toward the hallway. “Second room on the right.” You nodded and started walking, but something tugged at you. A gut feeling. Something wasn’t right. Second room…

Curiosity dragged you to peek, and when you opened the door, your stomach dropped. Black sheets. Black pillows. Black walls. Not pitch dark, but matte—sleek. Expensive. His room. You didn’t need to ask. That man screamed black-on-black energy. You stormed back into the living room, eyes narrowed. “That’s your room.”

He looked up from his phone slowly, mouth twitching—not into a smirk, just that faint amusement he always wore when he knew he was pushing your buttons. “Yeah. I know.” You stared at him, blinking. “Why did you point me there?” He set his phone down like this was about to be a full conversation. “We’re married now. Married people share a bed.”

You gawked at him. “That’s not a rule.”

“It is now.”

God, you hated that. That casual dominance. Not loud, not aggressive. Just matter of fact. Like he said it, so it’s law now.

“You’re annoying.”

“You married me.”

“We were arranged.”

“Same thing.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they almost got stuck, turning on your heel to storm back to the room. And yet… you didn’t really argue more, did you? Because deep down, under the irritation, you couldn’t help but feel that same stupid warmth creeping up your neck.

If he wanted to be cocky, fine. Two can play that game.

You marched back to his room like you owned the place, plopped yourself dead in the center of the king-sized bed, limbs spread like a starfish, sinking into the expensive sheets like you were born for this. If he wanted drama, you were going to give him cinema. Moments later, the door creaked open, and you heard his footsteps approaching. You didn’t look. You just knew from the way the air shifted, from the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint smell of fabric softener on the bedding.

Silence for a second. Then—“Really?”

You cracked an eye open. He was standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, the faintest curve on his lips—not quite a smile, not quite mockery. “You’re gonna starfish in my bed?”

You yawned, stretching even further like a cat on a sunny windowsill. “You said it was our bed,” you said pointedly, throwing his own words back at him with venom-laced sweetness. “I’m just following instructions.”

He looked at you for a beat longer. Then, very slowly, very annoyingly, grinned. “Fine,” he said, voice deep and lazy. “But if you stay like that, I’ll just sleep on top of you.” Your eyes snapped open fully, heart jolting so fast it almost echoed in your ears. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.”

It wasn’t even a threat—it was a promise. That calm tone, that glint in his eyes—he meant it.

You groaned and scrambled to your side of the bed, flustered beyond measure, hating him more with every second and somehow hating yourself for feeling heat crawling up your neck. “You’re insane,” you muttered, adjusting the pillow aggressively.

Behind you, you could practically hear his satisfied smirk, even though you weren’t going to turn around to give him the satisfaction of seeing your face.

“Married life, sweetheart,” he murmured, climbing in on his side, making the mattress dip. “Welcome to it.”

You didn’t know what devil possessed you to say it, but the words just slipped out, dripping with faux innocence as you looked straight at him.

“I have weird sleeping habits,” you murmured casually, adjusting the blanket like it was the most normal conversation. “Like… I’ll keep rubbing my leg on yours until you put your leg on top of mine.”

Silence.

You didn’t dare look at him yet, but you could feel the way his posture stiffened beside you, like your words short-circuited something in that annoyingly sharp brain of his. Then—softly, almost too casual—came his voice, deep and quiet, “Is that a threat or a promise?”

You slowly turned your head to him, blinking, pretending to be confused. “What do you mean?” His jaw tensed slightly, like he was holding back a laugh—or something else. “I mean—” he leaned in just a bit, enough for his voice to drop that octave lower that made your stupid heart stutter, “—if you keep talking like that, I’m gonna start wondering if you want me to put my leg over yours.”

You hated that heat crawling up your skin, hated that he was good at this stupid game, hated that he was better at it than you, hated that you wanted to keep going anyway.

So you did.

“Why would I want that?” you shot back, voice steady, gaze sharp but your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “It’s just a habit.”

“Right,” he said, laying his head on the pillow now, one arm tucked behind his head, looking absolutely unbothered. “Just a habit.”

You laid down too, facing the other way, stubborn. The tension between you two was thick, and you both knew it. Then, after a beat, you felt it—the slow weight of his leg draping lazily over yours. “I’m just helping with your habit,” he murmured, so close you felt the warmth of his breath by your ear.

“I’m serious,” you said, voice flat, not backing down. “It’s true. I can’t sleep unless someone’s leg is over mine. And I always hug something too. It’s like—comfort or whatever. Dunno. Been like that since forever.”

Honestly, you thought that would be the final straw. That he’d roll his eyes, scoff, maybe throw a pillow at you and head to the couch like any sane person would. Maybe you were hoping for that. Maybe you didn’t want to admit how weirdly safe this felt. Either way, you braced yourself for irritation, for that cocky remark, for something.

But nothing came.

Instead—you missed it—the way Yeosang stared at you like he was physically restraining himself. Like some internal monologue was yelling don’t say it, don’t call her cute, don’t ruin it, don’t scare her off. But how could he not? You? Looking like that? Saying stuff like that? In his bed? Wrapped in his blanket, in his shirt? Talking about hugging things like you weren’t already curled up like a goddamn kitten?

He was having a crisis.

“Okay,” he finally said, calm. Too calm. Suspiciously calm. You frowned, glancing back at him. “Okay?” “Yeah.” He adjusted slightly, the mattress dipping with his weight. “Leg’s already over yours. Go ahead. Hug something.”

You glared at him. “I don’t have anything to hug.” His lips quirked slightly at that. Barely. But you caught it.

“You’ve got two arms, don’t you?” You wanted to slap him. Genuinely. But also—not really.

Fine. FINE.

You stubbornly grabbed the pillow, hugging it tight to your chest and trying to sleep. Silent. Annoyed. Flustered. All of it. And Yeosang? He laid there, eyes on the ceiling, teeth sinking into his lip just to physically restrain himself from smiling like an idiot. If only you knew how close he was to dragging you into his chest just to see how flustered you’d get then.

Cute. Way too cute. He was so screwed.

You were out. Completely gone, knocked out like you hadn’t had proper sleep in weeks. Leg tucked neatly under his like you said you would, hugging his pillow like your life depended on it, your face mushed against the fabric, lips slightly parted in a soft pout you didn’t even know you had.

Yeosang was having a spiritual crisis. What was this? What was this feeling? Cuteness aggression? Probably. He felt like he could actually bite you. Not to hurt you—god no—but just to—argh—because how could one human look that cute doing absolutely nothing?

His jaw flexed, teeth grinding softly as he stared at you, eyes darting between the way your fingers curled into the pillow, to the little crease forming on your cheek from the way you were pressed against it.

It wasn’t fair. It shouldn’t be allowed. He felt like punching the wall just to let some of the weird, frustrated fondness out of his system. The urge to squeeze you like some plush toy was nearly overwhelming.

And the worst part?

You didn’t even know.

Didn’t know the way you’d completely tangled yourself around his leg without a second thought. Didn’t know how absolutely tiny you looked curled up in his bed. Didn’t know how soft your breathing sounded in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

Yeosang stared at the ceiling for a good minute, breathing slow, eyes closed, fighting the very cellular urge in his bones to scoop you up and just—keep you. Like, forever. Pocket you. Protect you. Instead, he carefully shifted, tucking the blanket around you a little tighter, letting your leg stay right where it was. He glanced at you one last time before shutting his own eyes.

Completely, utterly ruined by the universe. Absolutely smitten. And you? You just drooled a little on his pillow.

Perfect.

Morning light spilled through the sheer curtains, soft and annoyingly gentle. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the brightness—and then it hit you.

You were holding something warm. Something that breathed. It wasn’t a pillow. It was him.

Your heart stopped for a solid second. Somewhere between falling asleep and now, the pillow had betrayed you—replaced by Yeosang. Your arm was across his torso, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt. Worse, one of your legs had completely decided that boundaries were optional and had hooked over his, practically hugging him like some oversized teddy bear.

What the actual—

You moved so carefully, like one wrong twitch would make the earth explode. Slowly untangling yourself, your breath hitched when you saw his hand resting lazily over your arm, like he’d pulled you closer in his sleep. That just made it worse.

Finally, finally, you untangled yourself, slipping out of bed like a secret agent on a stealth mission. The floor was cold beneath your feet, but your entire body was flushed with embarrassment anyway. Without sparing him another glance, you practically ran into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.

The second you were alone, you let out a silent scream, face buried in your hands. God. Why. Why you. You turned the shower on, letting the sound of running water drown out your embarrassment. Maybe you could drown in it too while you were at it.

Meanwhile, back in the bedroom, Yeosang cracked one eye open, staring at the ceiling with the smallest ghost of a grin.

“Thought so,” he whispered to himself. That damn pillow never stood a chance.

Yeosang lay there, staring at the ceiling like it had all the answers to life’s greatest mysteries. His hand absentmindedly touched the part of his shirt where your hand had been curled into just moments ago. The warmth was gone, but the imprint of it — of you — stuck like some permanent tattoo on his chest.

What the hell was this feeling? No, seriously, what was this feeling?

He had always thought love was supposed to be a slow thing. Like aging whiskey. Like taking your sweet time to ruin someone in a chess game. But this? This felt like a truck hit him. A small, anxious kitten-shaped truck with pouty lips and messy hair in the morning.

It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. You were barely in his life for what? Few months? And yet here he was, already thinking like some washed-up romantic lead in a drama. It wasn’t even funny anymore.

He dragged a hand across his face and groaned softly, staring at the bathroom door where steam was now rolling from the gap under the frame. The thought of you in there — wearing that sleepy pout, probably muttering under your breath about your parents or about how annoying he was — it made his chest feel tight in the weirdest, most annoying way.

Was this how his dad felt about his mom? Cause that man always did dumb shit just to annoy her, but never went a day without holding her hand.

He was whipped. Fully, entirely, embarrassingly whipped. And he wasn’t even fighting it anymore. Hell, he was enjoying it. “I swear to god,” he muttered to himself, eyes shutting like he was trying to meditate through the emotional breakdown, “if she ever figures this out, I’m finished.” But knowing you? You wouldn’t. You were too busy folding napkins, avoiding eye contact, acting like you weren’t the most precious thing to ever annoy the hell out of him.

And god—he liked having a wife. A wife.

He let that word roll around in his head like a marble, both terrifying and oddly satisfying. If you stayed in that shower any longer, he might just combust. And honestly? He’d die smiling.

You came out of the bathroom with damp hair sticking slightly to the sides of your face, the oversized t-shirt hanging loose on your frame, sleeves falling a little off your shoulders, pajama pants riding up slightly at the ankles. You rubbed your hand against your face, trying to wipe off the last remnants of sleep, but honestly, your head was still foggy. You weren’t even fully functioning yet.

And there he was. Still in bed.

Liar. You could tell he wasn’t sleeping anymore. Before, he was on his back, legs spread out like some rich brat on vacation. Now? He was on his side, perfectly composed like he was acting asleep. And he was good at it. But not good enough for you.

With irritation bubbling up — mostly because you were up, and why should you be the only one awake suffering in awkward new-wife-land — you stomped over to the bed and stood over him with crossed arms. You stared at the messy strands of hair falling into his stupidly handsome face. His lashes were thick, unfairly so. And his lips slightly parted like he wasn’t living rent-free in your nerves already. He looked expensive even while pretending to be unconscious. Ugh.

Annoyed, you bent down and gave his shoulder a shove. “Wake up.”

No response. Another shove. Harder this time. “Wake up.” Finally, his eyes opened. Lazy, slow, like he was waking up from a peaceful dream of girls feeding him grapes or something. His voice was rough from sleep, deep in that way that made your brain short circuit for a second. “What?” he rasped, like you were disturbing his peace.

Your mouth opened, about to say something snarky, but then you paused. Why was he hot like this? Who gave him permission to be hot right after waking up? Hair a mess, voice low, sleep still hanging off his features like a silk sheet draped across expensive furniture. You forgot what you were gonna say for a second. Caught yourself blinking at him like an idiot.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. A smug little grin spread on his lips, lazy and cocky at the same time, like he was the main character in every stupid romance movie. You cleared your throat and stood up straight again, brushing invisible dust off your pants. “What… what do you want for breakfast?”

You hated how quiet you sounded. Like you were suddenly soft just because he was attractive. Which — you were soft, but he didn’t have to know that. He sat up properly now, running a hand through his hair like he was in a commercial. “You’re making breakfast?” he asked, raising a brow.

You shrugged. “What else am I supposed to do? I’m awake.” He leaned back on his arms, eyes not leaving you for a second. “I didn’t marry a housewife, you know.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not—” you stopped yourself. “I’m just making breakfast because I’m hungry.”

“Yours?” he said suddenly, tilting his head.

You blinked. “What?”

“Breakfast. Yours or mine?”

You frowned. “...What’s the difference?”

He grinned, teeth showing this time. “Yours is probably, like, toast or boiled eggs or something. Mine’s pancakes, bacon, syrup. Fancy shit.”

You deadpanned. “Who the hell eats pancakes on a weekday?”

“I do,” he answered smoothly, without missing a beat. “I’m rich, remember?”

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your own brain. “Fine. Yours. Whatever. Pancakes.”

Yeosang stepped into the bathroom, the door creaking softly behind him as he entered the faint warmth she left behind. The mirror was still fogged at the corners, drops of condensation trailing down lazily like the room itself hadn’t quite woken up yet. The air smelled faintly of her—something floral, something sweet, and something unfamiliar but weirdly comforting.

He exhaled through his nose, steady and controlled, walking up to the sink. His eyes automatically landed on the toothbrush holder. His black toothbrush standing tall, firm, exactly where he always kept it.

And beside it… her pink one.

Smaller, softer looking, like it didn’t belong. But it did. It really did. He stared at them both for a second, lips slightly parted, eyebrows drawn faintly together—not confused, but thoughtful. Something about seeing them together in the same cup twisted something warm in his chest. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t fireworks or explosions or heartbeats racing so fast he couldn’t breathe. It was… steady. Fulfilling. Quiet in the most dangerous way.

He loved it.

Not the pink color or the softness of it. He loved what it meant. Her using his things like they were hers now. The shared space. The toothbrushes leaning like companions. It was stupid—something small, something everyday—but it was theirs. And for someone like him, someone who always knew how to calculate every move, who always knew how to observe and stay steps ahead, this feeling was something he couldn’t predict.

He picked up his own toothbrush, fingers brushing against the handle of hers. He stared at that pink brush for a second longer, a lazy grin curling on his lips before shaking his head at himself. Who the hell gets soft over a toothbrush?

Apparently, him.

He started brushing his teeth, leaning over the sink, letting the familiar minty sting wake him up properly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought—he could get used to this. He wanted to get used to this. Her hair clogging the drain, her random skincare bottles invading his shelves, her leaving the bathroom all steamy and warm like this every morning.

It was stupid. Domestic. And yet… it felt like power in the quietest, most dangerous form. And Yeosang was nothing if not addicted to power. Especially if it looked like her.

He came down wearing a black fitted turtleneck, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, paired with tailored dark slacks that hugged his waist just right. His silver watch gleamed faintly against his wrist, hair slightly messy from towel-drying but falling just perfectly like it was meant to. He didn’t put in effort—but somehow looked like he walked straight out of a photoshoot. Sharp jawline, long legs, expensive cologne that smelled like trouble and money.

And then—that smell hit him.

Pancakes. Sweet, buttery, thick in the air like a hug you didn’t know you needed. Warm vanilla mixed with something fruity. And then, there she was. (Do pancakes even have scents? Idk)

Hair tied up lazily, a few strands falling loose, wearing one of his black aprons that looked like it was made to fit her. Bare feet padding softly on the kitchen floor, navigating his sleek, modern, borderline cold kitchen like she’d been living there her whole life. She didn’t hesitate with the drawers, the utensils, even reaching up to grab plates from his overhead cabinets with a little difficulty like she knew where everything was. Like she belonged.

He leaned against the wall for a second, arms folded, watching her. His kitchen was matte black, sharp edges, minimalist design, way too clean for someone who actually lived here. It was the kind of kitchen that screamed money but not home. Until now.

Until her.

Now it felt warm, felt used. And for some reason, that domestic image made something stir in his chest. Not in a soft, sentimental way—no, Yeosang didn’t do sentimental. It was more like—possession. Admiration. Like—yeah, that’s mine. His quiet, irritating, soft-voiced girl, right there, using his kitchen like she owned it. And she didn’t even realize how good she looked like that. The apron tied at her waist, sleeves rolled up as she worked carefully over the stove, flipping pancakes with precision.

How the fuck did she even know where everything was? He barely cooked. Eating out was his thing. Restaurants. Friends. Loud tables. Fancy places. But this? This made him crave home-cooked meals in a way he didn’t know he could. Made him crave coming home to something like this. And the worst part? He didn’t know whether he wanted the pancakes more or her. Probably her.

Definitely her.

He didn’t even realize she’d caught him staring. Sharp reflexes, top of his class, trained to pick up on the tiniest shit—and yet here he was, caught like some lovesick loser at the doorway of his own damn kitchen. She didn’t make a big deal out of it though. Just glanced over her shoulder, flipping another pancake like it was routine. “Oh, you’re here. Sit down or something.”

He blinked for a second, caught between embarrassment and awe, and then muttered under his breath, “Yes, ma’am.” Low enough that she wouldn’t catch it. Good. His pride was intact. Barely.

When she finished, she casually served two plates—one in front of him, one in front of her. No big presentation, no waiting for him to start first like those rich girls he was used to. Just sat down, scooted her chair in, and started eating like it was another regular morning. Like they’d been doing this for years. God, why did that feel nice?

The pancakes were good. Like, scary good. Slightly crisp on the edges, soft in the middle, syrup on the side, not drowned in it like an amateur. She knew what she was doing. Each bite made him feel weirdly cared for, and he didn’t like that one bit. It felt… vulnerable. Exposed. He wasn’t used to this shit. Halfway through, she lifted her gaze to him. Not fully—just under her lashes, barely holding eye contact before glancing away again.

“I’ve been meaning to ask…” she said softly, cutting into her pancake with that annoying, neat little precision of hers. “What do you actually do? Like… all day?” He chewed slowly, buying time. No one ever asked him that. Not seriously. Everyone just knew who he was. Son of that family. Part of that business. It was understood. Expected. Even his friends didn’t bother asking.

But her? She didn’t care about any of that. She genuinely didn’t know—or maybe she did but wanted his version of it. Wanted to hear it from him, not just whispered behind closed doors or Googled with a headline next to his face. So, he swallowed, set his fork down carefully, leaned back slightly in the chair.

“What do I do?” he repeated, eyes glancing over her face like he was trying to decide how much of himself he wanted to give her. “I manage the boring rich guy stuff, apparently. Assets. Investments. Real estate. Help with family business bullshit.”

She hummed softly, almost dismissively. “Sounds annoying.” That caught him off guard. He huffed a laugh through his nose. “It is annoying.”

They sat in silence for a second, just the quiet sounds of cutlery scraping against plates.

Then she added, still not fully looking at him, “Sounds lonely too.”

That made something sharp twist in his chest. Annoyingly accurate. He stared at her, at the little crease between her brows as she focused on cutting another piece, at the way she subtly folded the napkin next to her hand without thinking about it. Always fidgeting, always folding.

She didn’t even mean it like that. It was supposed to be just a question. A throwaway thought while she was chewing, cutting another bite, syrup glistening against the fork like she was focused on literally anything else except him. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t going to completely rearrange the wires in his damn brain. “After I graduate… can I see your office or something?”

Just that. Simple. Plain. Like she was asking to borrow a pen.

But Yeosang? Yeosang heard that in HD. Dolby Atmos. Surround sound. Can I see your office echoed through his skull like she’d just proposed marriage again or something. Why was that affecting him so much? Why was his immediate internal response Yes. Yes, of course. Come sit on my lap in the stupid leather chair. Take over the entire desk, I don’t even like working, I’ll retire now, I’ll build you a whole new office, you can have my whole name—

He blinked. Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous. She didn’t even know what she’d done. But he couldn’t just say all that, obviously. He couldn’t wrap her up in a blanket and tell her she was the cutest thing alive for wanting to be in his space, in his world. He couldn’t tell her that no one—no one—had ever even bothered to ask about that part of his life. His office. His work. His real world outside of the titles and money.

So, he kept it cool. Cool and bored. Always the bored one. Mr. Nothing Affects Me.

“Sure,” he said, cutting another piece of pancake, stabbing it with his fork, stuffing it into his mouth like that would hide the feral urge he felt to grab her face and kiss the absolute life out of her. “Really?” she asked, finally glancing at him properly this time, eyes sharp and unreadable. “It’s not like a private office?”

Private office? Private office? Woman, you’re in my home. You cooked in my kitchen. You slept with your entire leg tangled around mine. And you’re asking about privacy?

He swallowed. “It’s my office. I decide what’s private.”

Another bite. Another casual shrug. Another act like he wasn’t two seconds from folding completely. Folding like the damn napkin she kept playing with next to her plate. “Sure,” he said again, this time softer. Almost like a promise. Almost like anything you ask me, ever—I’ll give it to you.

You both didn’t know one thing. You both were falling.

Maybe Yeosang knew it. Kinda. Somewhere in the background of his usually sharp, calculating mind — the same one trained to notice weaknesses in deals and flaws in contracts — there was this soft hum, like static turning into a love song. He knew something was happening. Maybe not fully, maybe not yet in words, but the pull toward you was starting to feel less like curiosity and more like instinct. Breathing. Natural. Familiar in a way nothing else had ever been.

But you? You didn’t know. You didn’t realize what was happening. You didn’t realise that while you sat here with syrup on your fork and pancake crumbs on your fingers, you were starting to heal something that he didn’t break.

Yeosang didn’t grow up with softness. His mother was the only person who offered that to him, that kind of gentle warmth that made a person feel safe, and when she left—so did that warmth. His father tried to raise him with ambition and success, not comfort. Not home. Yeosang had everything: wealth, education, sharp looks, friends who could buy out entire hotels on a dare—but not this. Not this thing he was starting to feel around you.

And you didn’t realize that you were going to get something you never thought possible, either. That here, you were healing too. Because all your life, you were raised in pieces. Your parents clipping parts of you before you could even grow. Told that your interests were silly. That your opinions didn’t matter because you were a girl. Always “too much” or “not enough.” They called it upbringing. Respect. But it wasn’t. It was shrinking. You adjusted. You bent around it like vines climbing a crumbling wall, finding space wherever you could, making a way even when there wasn’t one.

But here?

Here, no one was going to call you too much. Here, no one was going to shrink you down into something manageable. Here, no one was going to make you feel small for having hobbies or dreams or random thoughts that didn’t make sense. Here—you weren’t going to adjust anymore. You were going to thrive.

And you didn’t even know it yet.

Days blended into something that almost resembled normal life. Morning routines settled. Nights had their own rhythm. You handled your stuff—university lectures, deadlines, notes scribbled on the backs of receipts when you couldn’t find proper paper. He handled his—meetings, calls, those frustrating dinners where people tried to get on his good side for favors he never planned to give.

The two of you orbiting each other like satellites, not colliding, not quite distant either. Somewhere between strangers and something else you both refused to name yet.

But then there were nights like this.

Nights where assignments piled higher than your patience. Nights where caffeine felt like medicine, where eye bags were unavoidable, and sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with books spread around you felt like survival mode. The glow of your laptop screen threw harsh shadows across your face, highlighting the slight furrow between your brows, your bottom lip caught lightly between your teeth as you tried to figure out whatever academic nonsense your professor thought was appropriate for midnight.

Yeosang came home late that night. He had texted you. ‘Running late. Don’t wait up.’

He didn’t expect much. Maybe you’d already be in bed, curled up, hair a mess, hugging that ridiculous pillow you’d claimed as yours. Or maybe you’d be curled on the couch, knocked out with some random video playing softly in the background. But no.

He walked in, loosened his tie, and paused.

You were awake. Awake and working. Glasses slipping down your nose. Notebook covered in tiny handwriting, pages curling at the corners. For a split second, irritation sparked in him. Not at you—at himself. Why were you still up? He told you not to wait. And yet—

Then he saw it. The laptop open to some assignment, words scrolling by, academic jargon that even he didn’t have the mental energy to pretend to understand. You weren’t waiting for him. You were fighting a deadline.

Silently, he toed off his shoes, rolled up his sleeves, and went to the kitchen.

The machine hissed softly as the coffee brewed. The comforting, bitter scent filling the sharp black lines of his modern kitchen again. This time, coffee. Warm, grounding, familiar. He made it just the way you liked—two spoons of sugar, a splash of milk. Not too sweet, not too bitter. Balanced. Like you.

He poured one cup for you, one for himself, and padded back across the living room, setting the mug down next to your scattered pens and half-crumpled sticky notes.

You barely noticed at first, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you,” eyes still on the screen.

But Yeosang? He just stood there for a second, hand in his pocket, watching you. Watching how you stubbornly refused to give up, even with dark circles forming under your eyes, even with your knee bouncing from stress, even with your exhaustion creeping in like slow fog.

“Can I help?” His voice was soft, breaking through the quiet hum of the laptop fan and your messy thoughts. You blinked, finally tearing your eyes away from the screen to look at him properly.

Help? You weren’t used to that word being offered like that. Especially not for things like your work. No one really asked if they could help—you were always expected to figure it out yourself, get through it, push harder. Alone. You stared at him for a second, eyebrows furrowed slightly like you were trying to figure out if he was joking or being sarcastic. But he just sat there, leaning forward, coffee resting on his knee, expression neutral but serious. Waiting.

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want help. Just… it felt weird. Someone wanting to take on something with you instead of at you or despite you. But you were tired. And behind all your stubbornness, you knew you could use it.

“…You can help with a couple things,” you murmured, barely above your breath.

His lips twitched slightly at that—almost a smile, almost—but he didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. Just sat up straighter, pushed his coffee aside, and motioned for you to show him.

It wasn’t even difficult stuff. Mostly organization. Proofreading. Finding references. And Yeosang, for all his cocky behavior and sharp-tongue antics, was ridiculously smart. He picked up on things quickly, helping you untangle confusing parts, correcting small mistakes you didn’t even notice you were making in your sleepy haze.

With him there, the work didn’t feel like a mountain anymore. It felt doable. Manageable. Like he was one more set of steady hands holding up the mess before it could collapse.

You didn’t talk much. Just handed things to him, pointed at the screen when you needed help cross-checking something, let him scroll through research tabs while you typed furiously to finish the parts only you could write. By the time you reached the end, you realized it had gone faster than you expected.

And… it didn’t feel heavy anymore.

As you saved the file and finally let yourself lean back against the cushions, stretching your aching fingers, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His sleeves were still rolled up, tie loose, hair falling slightly over his forehead. He looked relaxed. Like this wasn’t a burden. Like he didn’t mind being here at all.

“Thanks,” you said finally, voice quieter than before.

He just hummed, reaching for his now slightly-cold coffee again. “Told you,” he muttered, taking a sip, “I’m not just here to look pretty.”

You rolled your eyes at that, a small breath of laughter escaping despite yourself. And for the first time in a while, the stress didn’t feel suffocating. For the first time, you didn’t feel like you were carrying everything alone.

But now you didn’t want to move. Not even a little. Your body felt like it weighed triple, bones filled with sand, limbs heavy from the hours of grinding through assignments, deadlines, typing until your knuckles hurt. The soft hum of the laptop fan was starting to blend with the background noise of the apartment—the occasional creak of the walls, the soft ticking of the clock. So you just laid down right there on the couch, curling slightly onto your side, pressing your cheek into the cushions like they could swallow you whole.

“You shouldn’t sleep here,” his voice broke through gently. Not nagging. Not demanding. Just a low, careful suggestion. “It’s bad for your back.”

“Yeah…” you mumbled. You knew. Of course you knew. But knowing and moving were two different things. The soft, tired sound of your own voice felt distant to you, like it was coming from somewhere underwater. “M’fine… Just…gimme a minute…”

And then, you felt it. Arms sliding under you, one beneath your knees, the other curling easily around your shoulders. The couch shifted beneath you as he moved, and suddenly, you were moving too. Your eyes snapped open halfway, heavy-lidded with exhaustion but sharp with shock. What the—

He picked you up. Like it was nothing. Like you weighed absolutely nothing. Effortless. Smooth. As if this was something he did on a daily basis, as if you weren’t dead weight with tangled limbs and messy hair and exhaustion practically dripping off your skin.

You knew he worked out. You’d seen his arms, the way his shirts sometimes hugged his shoulders, the way his forearms tensed slightly when he rolled up his sleeves or carried grocery bags with one hand like they were weightless.

But this? This was a whole new experience.

You blinked up at him, groggy but vaguely scandalized, too drained to fight him on it but still indignant enough to grumble, “I can walk, you know…”

“Doesn’t look like it,” he muttered back, voice lazy but steady, gaze fixed ahead as he carefully maneuvered you toward the bedroom. His jaw was set, clean lines of his face shadowed by the low lighting, and that stupid, faint grin on his lips—like he was enjoying this a little too much.

You were too tired to argue more, head lolling lightly against his shoulder, his cologne filling your nose. Clean, sharp, warm.

“Put me down,” you murmured weakly, only half meaning it.

“No.”

That’s all he said. Just no. Simple. Firm. No teasing this time. Just—no. Because you were tired, and because he wanted to carry you. Because whether you liked it or not, this was part of who he was now—your husband. And part of that role, apparently, included picking you up like a princess when you worked yourself to exhaustion doing university assignments at midnight.

You didn’t realize when your eyes slipped closed again, but the warmth of his hold and the soft shift of the apartment around you made it easier.

He set you down gently on the bed, the mattress dipping softly under your weight. The second you hit the covers, your whole body sighed in relief, muscles unraveling like thread, tension slipping out of your shoulders as your eyelids fluttered heavily.

You barely registered him leaving, the soft rustle of fabric as he changed, the faint clink of his watch being set down somewhere on the nightstand. The apartment was quiet except for those soft, everyday sounds—the kind that made a space feel lived in. Real. And then the bed dipped again, the warmth of him close, his scent following like gravity itself. Before you could fully register it, his arm snaked around your waist, firm but not rough, and he pulled you in.

Your eyes opened halfway, brows pinching lightly. “Yeosang…”

“No complaining,” he murmured, voice low, brushing near your ear. “I know you need it.”

That shut you up real quick—not because he was being cocky, but because… he was right. You did need it. And that annoyed you more than anything, how well he was starting to read you without effort. Like this connection was some secret language only he could pick up on while you were still figuring it out. You wanted to argue. Maybe just out of habit. Maybe because that independent part of you hated the idea of needing someone this badly. But… God, it felt good. It felt safe. Not like being trapped, not like obligation—but like comfort. Like warmth. Like someone saying, It’s okay. You don’t have to hold everything up alone tonight.

So you didn’t say anything after that. Just let yourself sink into the pull of his chest against your back, his hand splayed warm over your stomach, his steady breathing brushing against the back of your neck. Everything fit a little too perfectly, like puzzle pieces you didn’t even know belonged to the same set.

And that night… that night, you both slept better than you ever had since this whole marriage thing started. No weird dreams. No uncomfortable tossing and turning. No stress lingering sharp at the edges of your thoughts.

Just… sleep.

You didn’t know how it happened, but somehow, somewhere in the middle of the night, your body betrayed your stubbornness. You woke up curled against him, face pressed gently to his chest, his scent filling your lungs like something you’d been secretly addicted to. His arm—God, his arm—was draped around you, hand cupped protectively over the back of your head like instinct. Like he was shielding you, even in sleep. And it wasn’t awkward. That’s what surprised you most. It felt natural. Not forced, not weird, just… like safety.

You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, hear the soft, even rhythm of his breathing. And as much as you hated to admit it… he looked pretty like this. No, scratch that—annoyingly pretty. Long lashes resting against sharp cheekbones, lips slightly parted, hair tousled from sleep in that effortless way guys pull off without even trying.

Gross. Beautiful. Disgusting. Infuriating.

You blinked a few times, brain slowly booting up for the day, before carefully untangling yourself like a thief in the night. His arm loosened its grip like he was reluctant even in his sleep, but eventually let you go. You got up, showered, got dressed, doing your whole morning routine as quietly as possible. University wasn’t going to wait for you to bask in your soft domestic crisis. And you definitely weren’t about to stand there and gawk at his stupidly handsome sleeping face for too long. Absolutely not.

By the time you were adjusting the strap of your bag, tying your hair properly, you heard movement from the bedroom. A few minutes later, Yeosang walked out, freshly showered, damp hair pushed back, wearing that clean, crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled just enough to make you want to scream into a pillow. Grey slacks, black watch, rings back on his fingers, that usual lazy confidence laced into his posture.

He looked at you, eyes dropping down briefly to your outfit, then meeting your gaze again like it was nothing.

“I’ll pick you up later,” he said, fixing one of his cuffs. “After uni.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Date,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “We deserve one.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it, unsure of what reaction you were supposed to give. A part of you wanted to roll your eyes, say something sarcastic—but another part… another part felt weirdly happy about it. Happy in that annoying, fluttery kind of way you weren’t ready to admit yet. So you settled for a quiet, “Okay,” adjusting your bag again, looking at the floor to hide the small smile trying to creep up on your lips.

“Good,” he said, smirking now—but this time it wasn’t cocky. It was something softer, warmer. “I’ll see you later, then.” And as you left the apartment, the weight of the day felt lighter somehow. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t dreading things as much anymore.

Yeosang sat in the car, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel, the other tapping faintly against his thigh. The sun was starting to dip, casting that golden hour glow over the edges of buildings, making everything look softer, warmer, like a scene out of some movie. But Yeosang wasn’t paying attention to the scenery. Not really.He’d had a day. Meetings that dragged. Calls that felt like someone was reading tax documents aloud just to torture him. Endless signatures, fake smiles, the whole act. All he wanted right now was peace. Quiet. A good meal. And you.

A proper date with his cute wife, nothing more, nothing less. Just you sitting across from him in that way you always did—half avoiding eye contact, sleeves of your cardigan slipping past your wrists, probably fidgeting with your napkin again. That was the peace he wanted. Not luxury. Not power. Just that.

But then…

His eyes narrowed. He saw you. And you weren’t alone. There was a guy. Some nobody. Same-age, maybe older, walking beside you, too close for Yeosang’s liking, talking like he knew you well. And you—God—you were smiling. Not the full kind, not the ones Yeosang secretly hoarded like precious stones, but still smiling. Like you were comfortable. Yeosang’s jaw tightened. His fingers, the ones tapping against his thigh, stopped moving. What pissed him off wasn’t just the guy talking. It was the way he was talking to you. That casual, easygoing posture, like he thought he was funny. Like he thought he was charming. Like he thought he deserved to be walking next to you, making you smile like that.

And maybe you didn’t even realize. Maybe you were just being polite. But Yeosang saw it all. The way the guy leaned slightly in when he spoke. The way his hands moved while explaining something, animated like he wanted your full attention on him.

Yeosang didn’t like it. Not one bit.

The expensive black car, polished to perfection, stood out like a punch to the face in front of the university gates. People kept throwing glances, some doing double-takes, whispering. Whose car is that? Who’s that guy? But Yeosang didn’t care. Let them look. Let them talk. His gaze stayed locked on you and that idiot next to you. Calm on the outside. A storm brewing underneath. You didn’t know it yet.

You spotted him the moment he stepped out of the car. Yeosang wasn’t the type to make a show of himself, but somehow—he did. Maybe it was the way he stood, sharp lines of his suit catching the light, hair pushed back neatly, expression unreadable. Maybe it was the car behind him, polished black, practically humming money and influence. Maybe it was just him. Either way, heads were turning, eyes flicking between him and you like something wasn’t adding up.

You swallowed, nerves prickling up your spine. Before you could react, before you could even introduce anyone properly, he was already moving. His hand found yours—firm, warm, possessive without being rough. It startled you. Not because of the touch—you were used to that by now—but because of the timing. Calculated. Precise. Like everything he did. “This your friend?” he said calmly, looking not at you, but directly at the guy.

Before you could speak, Yeosang gave the poor guy a small, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nice to meet you,” he said smoothly, tightening his grip on your hand just slightly. “I’m her husband.”

And then, for good measure, he added his name. Kang Yeosang.

You could see the shift instantly. The recognition behind the guy’s eyes. The flicker of panic mixed with surprise. Everyone in this city knew that name—or at least the ones who mattered did. Not just because of the wealth, but because of what that name meant in certain circles. Reputation. Power. Authority. Not just a businessman—something more. Something sharp underneath the polished surface.

“Oh,” was all the guy could manage, awkward, unsure of where to put his hands now, stepping back half a pace instinctively. “Yeah,” Yeosang finished softly, expression pleasant, dangerous in its restraint. “Good talk.”

Without another word, he guided you toward the passenger seat, opened the door like a gentleman, helped you in, and shut it carefully behind you before rounding the car and getting in himself. He didn’t look at you at first. Just started the engine, pulled out of the lot with practiced ease.

What you didn’t see, however, was the slight tilt of his head down as he flicked open his messages. His fingers moved swiftly, effortlessly, typing out the guy’s name, sending it to an unknown number. No emojis. No fluff. Just a clean instruction.

A name and a dot. That’s all it took.

Then the phone slipped back into his pocket like nothing happened.

He glanced at you finally, features softening just slightly now that the irritation had passed, hand casually resting on the gear shift..

"You ready?” he asked, like none of that had just happened. You didn’t answer immediately. Your heart was still somewhere between confused, flustered, and maybe—a little impressed. And Yeosang?

He was perfectly at ease. Because no one touches what’s his.

The date itself was simple, nothing extravagant—just the way you liked it. Dinner somewhere not too loud, warm lighting, food you could pronounce, chairs that didn’t make your back ache. He didn’t drag you to some elite chef’s private villa or a high-rise with twelve spoons and seven forks. Just… normal. Comfortable.

But of course, it wasn’t normal, not with him sitting across from you like that. Rolling up his sleeves just enough to show off the veins in his forearms, leaning forward slightly when you spoke, giving you that attention that made your stomach twist in a way you’d pretend was annoyance—but you knew better now. You were far too aware of his every move, his subtle glances at your lips when you talked, his faint smile whenever you fidgeted with the sleeves of your cardigan or neatly arranged your utensils.

And he was losing it.

Internally.

Watching you talk softly about nothing—ordering dessert, choosing between tea or coffee, or even just adjusting your bracelet—like it was the most adorable thing in the world. You didn’t even have to try. That’s what drove him crazy. You could breathe and he’d be on the verge of melting into his seat like some fool.

But what really started creeping under your skin wasn’t the food or the conversation or even the comfort of the evening.

It was after.

Back in university, you started noticing something odd. The guy—the one from the parking lot—gone. No hellos in the hallway, no passing glances, no awkward waves after that weird encounter with Yeosang. Vanished. Just… gone.

You weren’t naïve. You noticed patterns. You noticed behavior. You might’ve been quiet, but you weren’t stupid.

So, you asked him. One evening, after he’d made both of you coffee, when the room was quiet and warm, you just casually dropped it like spare change on a counter.

“By the way… that guy I was talking to last week? Haven’t seen him around.”

His reaction was instant, which already gave him away. That sharp, barely-there twitch of his lips. His fingers curling ever so slightly around the mug handle.

And then—he laughed.

That annoying, deep, pretty laugh that was all throat and no apologies.

“Don’t know,” he said with a shrug, voice lazy, too smooth to be true. “Weird, isn’t it?”

Liar. Absolute liar.

And that’s what did it. That’s what made you fall.

Not the expensive car. Not the handsome face. Not even the whole husband thing.

It was that. That dumb, cocky, lying laugh paired with the soft way he helped you out of your coat or refilled your water glass without saying anything. The combination of someone who could ruin a man’s whole life in one text but still remember that you liked your toast slightly burnt.

It wasn’t fair.

And maybe, just maybe, you found yourself falling.

Not all at once. Just—a little more.

Dangerous. Warm. Annoying.

Yours.

Taglist: @jujusreader @nkryuki @lover-ofallthingspretty

You follow him past the treadmills and weight racks, doing your best not to stare at his shoulders. He explains everything patiently, tells a few silly jokes, and never makes you feel out of place.

By the time you get to the free weights, your heart is racing. You came for a revenge body, but ended up with a crush instead.

After the tour, he leads you back to the front, where you tell him you’re getting the membership.

You stand there, debit card in hand, nails pressing into the plastic as the gym buzzes around you. Weights clank in the distance. The music thumps quietly, a beat you haven’t caught up to yet. Your hoodie feels too warm, and your leggings feel tight in all the places you try not to think about.

San leans against the counter, clicking through the computer screen with a focused look as he enters your basic information.

“Okay,” he says, tapping the screen and turning it slightly toward you. “This plan gives you full access, group classes if you feel brave enough, and a complimentary trainer for your first week.”

You blink. “Free?”

“Mhm. No traps. No surprise charges. No ‘gotcha’ moment.” He grins. “We’re not completely evil.”

That pulls a laugh out of you before you can stop it.

He walks you through the paperwork, explaining everything clearly and never rushing. If you pause on a screen, he stays quiet. If you hesitate before signing, he looks away. He gives you space without making it awkward.

“So,” he says casually, folding his arms on the counter. The black T-shirt pulls across his chest so nicely that you have to avert your eyes. “For the trainer week, you can pick anyone you want. We’ve got a few really great ones.”

He scrolls through a list, pointing as he goes. “Jihyun’s amazing with beginners. She’s terrifyingly strong. Like…casually deadlifts your body weight strong.”

Your eyes widen. “That’s horrifying.”

“She smiles while doing it too,” he adds, dead serious. “Honestly, most of our female trainers could destroy the men. It’s very humbling.”

You snort before you can help it, covering your mouth as heat creeps up your cheeks. “Good to know.”

He glances up at you, amused, clearly pleased he made you laugh again. “I’m just saying. If strength is the goal, they’re your safest bet.”

“And you?” you ask before thinking.

He tilts his head, pretending to consider it. “Me?” A beat. Then, with mock confidence, “I might be the best. Possibly. Allegedly.”

You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “Of course you would say that.”

“Hey, I said might,” he laughs. Then his tone softens, more grounded. “But seriously, no pressure. You can choose anyone. Or switch later. Or never train again after the week. Totally your call.”

You look at the screen again, reading the names. You catch your reflection in the shiny surface—small, soft in places you wish you weren’t—standing next to someone who looks like he was made to be here.

Training with him would mean being seen at your sweatiest and most awkward.

“I don’t really…” You trail off, fingers tightening. “I don’t want to feel…worse about myself.”

San’s smile fades, just a little. Not gone, just gentler. “Hey,” he says quietly. “I’m very professional. And respectful. That’s kind of my whole thing.”

He gestures vaguely behind him. “You can ask literally any of my clients. I won’t be offended if you don’t pick me. I just want you to feel comfortable.”

He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t persuade. Just waits.

The choice weighs on you.

You swallow, then nod. “Okay,” you say, surprising yourself. “We can try.”

His smile returns, slow and bright, dimples carving themselves deep into his cheeks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

San taps your name into the system. “Cool. Then I’ll take extra good care of you.” A pause. “Gym-wise,” he adds quickly, laughing.

You laugh too, feeling nervous and your heart beating fast.

The consultation room is quieter than the rest of the gym, tucked away behind frosted glass and muted walls. The bass of the music outside fades into a distant thrum, like something happening in another life. There’s a small table, two chairs, and a clipboard resting neatly on top. It feels intimate in a way you didn’t anticipate. Less gym, more confessional.

San is already there when you step in.

Black joggers again. A fitted charcoal hoodie this time, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose forearms that look insane. His hair falls in his eyes slightly, parted near the bridge of his nose. He looks great.

“Hey,” he says, standing as you enter. Warm smile. Dimples. Perfect white teeth.

“Hi,” you manage, voice softer than you intended.

He gestures for you to sit and takes the chair across from you instead of next to you. It feels professional and thoughtful. He opens the clipboard but doesn’t look at it right away.

“So,” he begins, tone easy, unhurried. “This is just a vibe check. No pressure. I want to know why you’re here and what you want out of this.”

You swallow. “Well,” you start, defaulting to something rehearsed, something safe. “I just want to get healthier. Stronger. You know. Routine. Consistency.”

San nods patiently, but his eyes stay on your face. They’re sharp but kind, as if he can see what you’re not saying.

“Mhm,” he hums. A pause. Then gently, “That’s the brochure answer.”

Your mouth twitches. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little,” he admits with a soft smile. “But that’s okay. You don’t owe me the real one if you’re not ready.”

He finally looks down at the clipboard, giving you space. The room goes quiet. You stare at your hands in your lap, fingers twisting together.

“I can’t help you properly if I don’t know what’s really going on,” he adds quietly. “And whatever it is, this room’s safe.”

The way he says it makes your chest hurt.

You inhale, then exhale slowly. “My ex cheated on me.”

San’s pen stills.

You keep going before you can stop yourself. “I know it’s not my fault. I know he’s the one who messed up. Everyone keeps telling me that. But…” Your voice wobbles despite your effort. “I can’t stop wondering why.”

You finally look up at him, eyes burning. “Was I not enough? Did I let myself go? Was there something missing?”

You laugh weakly. “He said it ‘didn’t mean anything.’ Like that makes it better.”

The words spill out now, months of quiet insecurity finally finding air. “I feel inadequate. Like, no matter how hard I try, there’s always someone better.”

San doesn’t interrupt once.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rush you, doesn’t try to fix it mid-sentence. He listens like this matters. Like you matter. When you finish, the room is silent again, but it feels different. Lighter.

He takes a slow breath, clearly choosing his words carefully.

“You are enough,” he says, voice firm but gentle. No hesitation. 

Your throat tightens.

“What your ex did says everything about him and nothing about your worth,” he continues. “People don’t cheat because their partner isn’t enough. They cheat because they don’t know how to sit with themselves.” He pauses, then continues. “Curiosity isn’t an excuse. It’s a character flaw when it hurts someone else.”

He leans back slightly, still keeping a respectful distance. “It wasn’t fair. And it wasn’t okay.”

Then, more casually, as if it’s obvious, he says, “And for what it’s worth, you’re gorgeous.”

Heat floods your face instantly. “San,” you protest, half laughing, half mortified. “Is that professional?”

His grin is immediate, boyish, devastating. “Absolutely not.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“My job,” he says, tapping the clipboard, “is to help you see what’s already there. Strength isn’t just muscles. It’s confidence. And you have more potential than you think.”

Your heart stutters.

“We’ll take this one step at a time. I’ve got you.”

San stands first, the chair legs scraping softly as he reaches for a tray of locker keys by the door. They clink together, the sound grounding you after everything you just shared.

“Alright,” he says, lighter now, like he’s intentionally easing the air. “Logistics.”

You watch him sign a number onto your file, neat handwriting, practiced motions. When he hands the key to you, his fingers brush yours briefly.

“So,” he continues, walking toward the door and holding it open for you, “fitness goals.”

You trail after him, heart still fluttery from the conversation. “I don’t really know what I’m supposed to say.”

“That’s fine,” he replies easily. “Some people come in with spreadsheets. Some people come in with vibes.”

You huff a laugh. “I’m definitely vibes.”

He laughs and nods approvingly before continuing. “Common reasons are strength, endurance, flexibility, and body composition. Sometimes all of the above.”

You chew your lip as you think, the hallway to the locker rooms echoing softly. “Okay. Um. Honestly?”

He glances at you. “Always.”

“I want to be skinnier,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can soften them. “I want to feel confident. And maybe…grow my ass in the process?”

The words linger in the air.

San slows down before stopping.

He looks at you, expression unreadable for half a second, then his mouth curves into something amused and dangerously calm.

“You already have a nice ass,” he says, conversationally. Like he’s commenting on the weather. “Doesn’t really need growing. Maybe toning, if that’s what you want. But it’s your body.”

You nearly trip over your own feet.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, heat flooding your face. “What?”

He keeps walking, as if nothing happened, utterly unbothered. “You heard me.”

No. No, surely not.

You scramble to keep up. “San.”

“Mhm?”

“Can you repeat that?”

He stops again, turns fully this time. Same relaxed posture. Same warm eyes. Same devastating composure.

“You have a nice ass,” he repeats evenly. “And we’ll train based on what you want and need.”

Your brain short-circuits.

He laughs then, low and genuine, dimples flashing. “I’m professional,” he says. A pause. Then, with a shrug, “For the most part.”

Your eyes widen.

“But,” he adds smoothly, “I’m still a man. With eyes.”

He winks.

You stand there, the locker key digging into your palm, your heart racing, wondering if this gym membership comes with hazards you're not emotionally prepared for.

The scale sits in the corner of the assessment room, silently mocking you.

San pulls the privacy curtain halfway closed, not because it’s required, but because he notices the way your shoulders tense the second you see it. He gestures toward it with an easy hand.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says gently.

You slip off your shoes, suddenly hyperaware of everything. The softness of your stomach. The curve of your hips. The way your thighs touch when you stand still.

You step onto the scale, eyes fixed firmly on the wall instead of the numbers lighting up beneath your feet.

San doesn’t react. He writes the number down calmly, like it’s just another data point in the world.

“These,” he says gently, motioning to the clipboard, “are just numbers. They’re not a grade. They’re not a judgment.”

He moves to take your measurements next, tape cool against your skin. He asks before each one. Arm. Waist. Hips. Thigh. His touch is professional, careful, never lingering longer than necessary.

“You don’t need to feel shy,” he adds quietly, as if reading your thoughts. “Not around me. Not around anyone here. My coworkers included.”

You swallow. “It’s hard not to.”

“I know,” he says. “But this is just a starting line. We take these now so later we can look back and say, ‘Wow, look how far you’ve come.’ Or even just, ‘Wow, I feel better.’ That part matters more.”

He steps back, meeting your eyes. “Strength is important. And obviously, health is most important. But mental health is part of that—I want you to leave feeling good in your skin.”

You feel a little more at ease.

You hesitate, then admit softly, “I’ve always been…thicker than everyone else in my family. They’re all small. Petite. I kind of stuck out.”

San glances at your hips, then back up, smiling warmly. “Well,” he says, “people are built differently.” He taps the clipboard. “And some people are lucky to have a little extra.”

Your face goes hot instantly. “San.”

“What?” he asks innocently, dimples deepening. “Nothing wrong with having something to hold onto.”

You laugh, a little flustered, but also more comfortable around him.

The first week is hell.

There’s really no other way to describe it.

You learn this the moment you catch your reflection in the locker room mirror, tugging at the hem of your athletic wrap top. The outfit is new, carefully chosen.

Black leggings, a black sports bra, and a wrap that hugs your waist just enough to help you feel secure. Black hides sweat and shadows. Still, you look cute.

San notices immediately.

You’re halfway through stuffing your things into the locker when he stops short behind you and lets out a low whistle.

“Well,” he says, impressed and entirely unashamed. “Someone understood the assignment.”

Your head snaps up. “San!”

“What?” he asks, hands up, dimples showing. “You look good. Gym fashion matters.”

You feel heat bloom across your chest and neck, laughing as you shut the locker a little too hard. “You’re distracting.”

“It comes with the job,” he says with a grin. “Ready?”

Fifteen minutes on the treadmill nearly convinces you to quit on day one.

San matches your pace beside you, chatting casually while you struggle to keep up. Your legs ache, and sweat forms at your hairline almost right away.

“Warming up,” he says cheerfully. “Gotta wake the muscles.”

“They were asleep for a reason,” you gasp.

He laughs.

Then you stretch on the floor. Mats, slow movements, deep breaths. San shows each pose with ease, correcting you gently and always asking before he helps. He explains why each move matters.

And then he introduces the workout.

“It’s beginner-friendly,” he promises.

It is, technically. But beginner-friendly does not mean painless.

Squats that make your thighs scream. Push-ups that feel personal. Core exercises that you swear are invented by cruel people with vendettas. San counts your reps, encouraging and praising you, never letting you give up, but never forcing you past your limit either.

“Breathe,” he reminds you. “You’re doing amazing.”

By the end of the hour and a half, you’re drenched, legs shaking, and drinking water as if you haven’t had any in days. San crouches in front of you, eyes bright, still full of energy.

“You crushed that,” he says. “Seriously.”

You groan. “I think I saw my life flash before my eyes.”

“And yet,” he grins, “you survived.”

The rest of the week follows the same pattern.

Pain. Sweat. Soreness in muscles you didn’t know you had. Stairs are tough. Sitting down takes effort. Have you ever had to grab the sink basin for support just to sit on the toilet? It was that bad.

San’s constant positivity is almost annoying at first, always upbeat and encouraging. But somewhere between the soreness and the sweat, something changes. You start to feel good—capable and proud.

By the end of the week, when San asks if you want to keep training, his enthusiasm is already there before you answer.

“Absolutely,” you say, smiling.

He grins right away, looking proud. “Knew it,” he says. “This is just the beginning.”

Three months in, the mirror tells a different story.

It’s not a dramatic change or a movie-style transformation. It’s real progress. Your body hasn’t become unrecognizable. It’s still yours, still soft in places, but now there’s muscle underneath. You feel stronger and more grounded.

Your habits have changed before you even noticed. You wake up earlier, drink more water, and stretch when your body needs it. Now you want to move, not to punish yourself, but because it clears your mind and makes you feel stronger. That change alone feels huge.

San did that.

Well, not exactly. He guided, nudged, and helped you change.

You remember the first time you told him you wanted to go into a calorie deficit, how casual you were about it. Like it was obvious.

“That’s all I know,” you’d shrugged. “Eat less. Count everything.”

San had frowned, concerned. “You don’t need to eat less,” he’d said patiently. “You just need to eat better.”

And then he dismantled everything you thought you knew. Explained food like fuel instead of calories entering your body. Taught you to stop demonizing meals and start building them. Protein. Fiber. Real food. He laughed when you complained about cutting dairy.

“Why are you drinking cow milk,” he’d said, deadpan, “if you’re lactose intolerant?”

You hated that he was right.

Somewhere in that first week, you’d exchanged numbers. Strictly practical, he said. So you could send him photos of your meals. Proof you were sticking to the plan.

That lasted about four days. Now you text constantly.

Memes, random thoughts, updates about your day. He sends you gym jokes and terrible puns. You send him screenshots of design projects and ask if the colors look good. One night, you had to drive two hours to your parents’ for an emergency, and he asked you to share your location.

“Just so I know you’re safe,” he’d said casually.

It shouldn’t feel this intimate. It definitely isn’t professional.

But you love it.

You love that he checks in on rest days. That he celebrates your non-scale victories harder than you do. That he notices when you’re tired. That he still hypes you up like day one.

Sometimes he flirts.

A comment about how strong you’re getting. A look held a second too long. A teasing remark that makes your stomach flip and your brain scramble for explanations. Is this confidence boosting? Trainer encouragement? Or is this a man flirting with a woman he’s interested in?

You’re not sure.

What you do know is that you’re healthier. Happier.

Six months changes things in quiet, dangerous ways.

You don’t realize how much until you walk through the gym doors wearing pink.

Not muted blush. Not dusty rose. Pink pink. Leggings that hug your figure perfectly, a matching sports bra that leaves your shoulders bare, your midriff unapologetically visible. No wrap. No safety layer. No oversized hoodie clutched like a shield.

Now you do the pump cover thing. Oversized shirt on the way in, hoodie tied around your waist. You shed it once the heat builds, once your body warms, once you remember that you’re allowed to exist like this. You’re not fully confident. Not bulletproof. But you know, deep down, that you look good.

Your waist has cinched in naturally, like it finally remembered its shape. Your stomach lies flat, especially after San stopped gatekeeping his debloating tea, leaning in close one morning as if he were sharing state secrets.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he’d whispered, glancing around dramatically before murmuring the name.

The gym is quiet today. Too quiet.

You slow near the front desk, fingers brushing the counter as you look around. No clanking weights. No treadmills humming. Just the shitty gym music thumping through the speakers.

You frown. “Hello?”

And then, like he’s been summoned by the sound of your voice, San pops out from behind the hallway with a grin that hits you square in the chest.

Pink suits him too, apparently, because his eyes drop for half a second before snapping back up, dimples carving deep into his cheeks.

“Wow,” he says, not subtle at all. “You’re glowing.”

Your cheeks warm instantly. “You’re staring.”

“I am appreciating,” he corrects.

You cross your arms, pretending not to love that. “Where is everyone?”

“New Year’s Eve,” he replies easily. “Everyone’s either getting ready to go out or already starting parties.”

“Oh,” you say, glancing around again. “That makes sense.”

Then it hits you.

“You’re here,” you point out.

He hums, stepping closer, hands tucked casually into his jogger pockets. He looks relaxed. Very much not in trainer mode.

You haven’t quite adjusted to that yet.

Last week still feels surreal.

When the program ended, you’d panicked. Told him immediately you wanted to extend. That you weren’t done. That you still needed him.

He’d laughed, pulled you into a hug without hesitation, arms warm and familiar around you.

“You don’t need me like that anymore,” he’d said fondly. “Besides, you could train me now.”

You’d laughed, but the fear had lingered. That you’d become just another success story. That he’d give someone else the same attention, the same care. That he’d share locations with new clients. Send them memes. Check in like he did with you.

It had made your stomach twist.

San must see something on your face now because his smile softens. “C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the treadmills. “Let’s warm up.”

You fall into step beside him.

“So seriously,” you ask, trying for casual. “Why are you here if it’s dead?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Because you are.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“Oh,” you manage, voice betraying you entirely.

He grins, glancing sideways. “Relax. You’re stuck with me.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah,” he says, amusement laced with something deeper. “You’re my gym wife. You don’t get rid of me that easily.”

You scream internally.

You step onto the treadmill beside him, pulse racing, the empty gym suddenly feeling charged with possibility. New year. New body. New rules.

You both start your machines, walking side by side, arms swinging loosely, conversation drifting without effort. San talks about a client who tried to deadlift in jeans. You complain about a design project that refuses to cooperate.

Then he bumps the speed up.

“Light jog,” he says.

You groan, but comply, breathing evenly as your ponytail sways behind you. He keeps talking like this is nothing. A minute passes. Then two. Then he grins at you and taps the console again.

“Sprint.”

“What—San!”

But you’re laughing as your legs pump faster, heart racing, lungs burning. He matches you effortlessly, glancing over with that maddeningly calm expression, counting under his breath.

“Ten more seconds.”

You survive. Barely.

Jog again. Then sprint. Then jog. Over and over, until sweat slicks your skin and your muscles sing with effort. By the time he finally slows you down, your chest is heaving, legs trembling, a wild, exhilarated smile on your face.

“That,” he says proudly, “was beautiful.”

You flip him off affectionately.

Since the gym is empty, he connects his phone to the speakers. His playlist fills the space instantly, bass-rich, energizing, so much better than the generic gym loop. You stretch together on the mats afterward, San correcting your form with touch instead of words now, hovering close.

Then it’s squat time. Leg day for him. Glute day for you.

You grab your water bottle and phone, bending to set them down beside your rack. You feel his gaze before he says anything. When you glance over, he’s mid-warm-up, bar resting across his chest, eyes very much on you.

“Yeah,” he says casually. “You can definitely tell.”

You blink. “Tell what?”

“The difference in your glutes,” he adds, nodding toward you. “Especially in that pink set.”

Heat rushes straight to your face. “You’re flirting again,” you accuse. “And staring.”

He shrugs, dropping into a front squat with effortless depth. “I’m not your trainer anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean you stop being a gentleman,” you counter, folding your arms.

He rises smoothly, racking the bar, eyes bright with amusement. “I have my limits,” he says simply. “Especially when it comes to you.”

Your laugh comes out nervous, breathy.

He grins at the sound, clearly enjoying your reaction, then turns his focus back to his workout like he didn’t just unravel you with a sentence.

You grip your bar, heart racing, very aware that something between you has shifted again.

You eye the plates for a long second before you speak. Your bar is loaded heavier than usual.

“Hey,” you say, glancing over at San. “Can you spot me?”

His eyebrows lift, impressed before he even answers. “Going for a PR?”

You nod, nerves buzzing. “Last set.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Always.”

You kick off your shoes first, nudging them aside with your foot. The rubber soles thud softly against the floor. Bare feet feel better. More control. You learned that from him. The bar rests heavily across your shoulders as you step under it, grip tightening, breath slowing.

And then San is behind you. Not touching yet. Just there.

You are suddenly acutely aware of everything. The heat of the room. The sheen of sweat on your skin. The way his chest rises behind you as he mirrors your stance, knees bent slightly, ready. The mirror in front of you reflects it all. Your focus. Your strain. Him, solid and steady at your back.

“Alright,” he murmurs near your ear. “Deep breath. I’ve got you.”

You squat slowly. Controlled. Your hamstrings and glutes burn immediately, muscles protesting as you sink deep. San follows your movement instinctively, his body lowering with yours, close enough that you can feel him without being touched.

“Good,” he encourages softly. “Stay with it.”

You push up with a strained exhale, core tight, jaw clenched. The bar moves, slowly, heavily. But it moves.

Again.

Your legs shake this time, breath turning ragged. You catch your own expression in the mirror. Determination stares back.

“Come on,” San urges, voice firmer now, breath warm against your neck. “You’re strong. Push.”

You drop into the last rep, muscles screaming, lungs on fire. For a split second, you think you might fail, then you hear him.

“Up. Up. You’re right there. Don’t quit on yourself now.”

You grunt, every muscle firing, and rise.

The bar clears. You lock out. Hands shaking, you re-rack the weight with a shaky clank and stagger forward, breathing hard, a soft, involuntary whimper slipping out as the tension finally releases.

Before you can process it, San is cheering.

“Oh my god!” he shouts, bouncing on his toes like a kid. “You did it!”

He pulls you into a hug, arms tight around you, energy vibrating off him. You freeze for half a second.

“Wait,” you laugh breathlessly, hands hovering awkwardly. “I’m sweaty.”

“I don’t care,” he says immediately, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes bright. “That was insane. That was clean.”

His excitement is contagious. You feel it bloom in your chest, pride rushing in where doubt used to live.

“I can’t believe I did that,” you say, still panting.

“You did that shit,” he insists.

And then you’re both laughing, jumping up and down, celebrating like idiots in the empty gym. Your heart is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the weight anymore.

You find San again at the treadmills, both of you drifting back to the same place. Your legs are tired in that deep, satisfying way, muscles humming instead of screaming.

You step onto the treadmill beside him and set it to a slow walk—cooldown pace. Breathing evening out, sweat cooling against your skin.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then you glance sideways. “Hey, thanks again for spotting me earlier.”

San waves it off like it’s nothing, eyes forward. “You did all the work. I just existed behind you.”

“You existed very helpfully,” you counter.

He laughs, shaking his head. “That was your strength. All you.”

You smile at the console, chest warm in a way that has nothing to do with exertion.

A minute passes. Your steps fall into rhythm again.

“So,” you say casually, maybe a little too casually. “How are your other clients doing?”

He hums, considering. “Good, mostly. Progress all around.”

“All girls?” you tease.

He snorts. “Obviously.”

You laugh. “Of course.”

Then he hesitates. It’s subtle, barely there, but you’ve learned him well enough to catch it. There is a slight pause before he speaks again. The way his jaw tightens just a fraction.

“I actually had to cancel a program recently,” he says finally.

You glance over, surprised. “Why?”

He exhales. “One of them kept asking me out, wouldn’t let it go. Made things uncomfortable.”

Your steps falter just a bit. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he adds quietly. “Just wanted to help her. Sucks.”

There’s no bitterness in his voice, just tired honesty.

You feel something twist in your chest. Sympathy, anger on his behalf, because you remember that first week. How careful, intentional, and genuinely kind he was.

Like that day a few months back, when you were cooling down after your session, and he’d drifted away briefly. You’d watched him approach a teenage girl on the stair master. Plus size. Nervous. Clutching the rails and pushing herself despite her anxiety screaming at her to leave.

You remembered his smile then. Big and encouraging.

“Hey,” he’d said to her, holding out a water bottle. “Hydration check.”

She’d taken it, cheeks burning red as he playfully scolded her. “I don’t wanna see you in here without water again, okay?”

She’d nodded furiously, glowing under the attention, and you’d felt something settle in your chest watching it.

San had never been just his body. Or his face. Or the way people looked at him like he was a prize to win. He was this.

You reach the end of your cooldown and hit stop. Without thinking too hard, you reach across and stop his treadmill too.

“Hey,” he says, confused. “I wasn’t—”

You don’t answer. You step off your machine, cross the small gap between you, and climb onto his treadmill. He barely has time to react before you wrap your arms around him.

He stiffens for half a second. Then he hugs you back tightly. Like he needed it more than he realized.

Your cheek presses against his chest, heartbeat steady beneath your ear. “I see you,” you murmur. “All of you.”

His arms tighten just a little more, breath leaving him in a slow exhale. For a moment, the empty gym fades away entirely. The hug lingers with him long after you let go.

San stands there for a second longer than necessary, arms slowly dropping back to his sides, chest warm where you pressed against him. Your words echo loudly.

I see you.

It lands deeper than any compliment ever has.

He’s felt attraction before; he’s not naïve. He knows what it’s like to be wanted for his body, for his face, for the idea people build in their heads the moment they look at him. That part of life has always been loud.

This is different.

He knew it early. Earlier than he probably should’ve admitted to himself. That first week, when you stood at the front desk looking like you might bolt at any second, eyes darting around, shoulders tight, pretending you didn’t need help while absolutely needing it. He remembers thinking, immediately, dangerously: God, she’s beautiful.

Not in a trying-too-hard way. In a soft, real, devastating way. Curvy, pretty face, expressive eyes, a laugh that snuck up on him. A combination that would’ve undone him even if you’d never lifted a single weight. He would’ve taken you exactly as you were.

But he respected you too much not to respect your goals.

And then you started changing, not just physically. You stood taller, looked at yourself differently, and wore less of your old defenses. Confidence grew slowly, almost without you noticing, and that’s when it really felt unfair.

Beautiful. Curvy. Confident. Triple kill.

And yes. That ass.

He’s not blind. He’s not a saint. He noticed the difference the lifting made. The way your body responded to routine. Rounder. Firm in a way that made him have to actively remind himself to look away.

Professional. Be professional.

San knows who he is. He knows he’s handsome. He knows his smile disarms people, knows his body turns heads. He’s never pretended otherwise. But whenever someone compliments his face, he always laughs and says it’s his mom’s doing. That part isn’t his.

His body, though? That’s his work. Years of discipline. Of consistency. And still, none of it compares to how he feels when you smile at him like you trust him.

He’s trained plenty of women. He knows why most of his clients are female. He’s dealt with the awkwardness, the crushes, the crossed lines. He never wanted them.

You’re different. Not because you’re prettier, but you are. Not because you’re kinder, but you are. It’s the way you see him. The way you notice the things no one else does. The way you hug him without wanting anything in return.

He wants to treat you so well it scares him.

He wants to buy you things just because you mentioned them once. Take you places you’ve never been. Hold your hand absentmindedly while you talk. Kiss you slowly like he has nowhere else to be. Wrap you up in his arms and make the world smaller around you.

He even thinks, fleetingly, irrationally, about your ex. About finding him. About explaining, very calmly, what happens when you fail to cherish something soft and rare.

San exhales, shaking his head at himself. Down bad doesn’t even begin to cover it. In his head, quietly, carefully, he already calls you his.

When you finally pull away, the absence hits him immediately.

His cheeks are warm. Too warm. He’s painfully aware of it, the heat blooming under his skin, the way his ears probably match.

You notice. Your eyes flick up to his face for just a second longer than usual. He sees the recognition spark there. The pause. The choice you make not to say anything.

God. That might undo him more than the hug itself.

He clears his throat, rolling his shoulders back, forcing himself into something that looks normal. “Uh,” he says lightly, gesturing vaguely. “Cooldown accomplished.”

You laugh, mercifully playing along. “Barely survived.”

“That’s a win,” he grins, relief loosening his chest. “Still alive.”

You both move around each other easily now, picking up water bottles and phones, tossing towels into bins. The tension doesn’t go away, but it becomes something softer and more familiar. It’s comfortable, like you’ve crossed a line but aren’t ready to talk about it yet.

He cracks a joke about your playlist-stealing privileges next time. You fire back that his taste in music is elite, and the gym doesn’t deserve it.

At the front desk, Yeosang is leaning against the counter, scrolling on his phone. San lifts a hand automatically.

“Later,” he calls.

Yeosang looks up, smirks, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Later,” he replies, tone knowing in a way that makes San suddenly very interested in the exit.

The cold evening air hits as you step outside, a sharp contrast to the warmth inside. San exhales, shoulders relaxing as the gym doors close behind you.

This is usually where it ends. A wave. A casual “text me when you get home.” A routine goodbye. You turn toward him, stepping closer, arms already lifting.

San’s heart stumbles.

He opens his mouth before he can overthink it. “Hey—”

You pause, looking up at him.

His brain scrambles. 

Say it. 

No, don’t say it. 

He rubs the back of his neck. “Do you,” he starts, then stops, breath hitching, then tries again. “Do you want to maybe have dinner later? At my place?”

The words hang there, fragile.

You blink. Once. Twice.

“Oh,” you say, surprised. Then you smile, softer. “Yeah. Sure.” Friendly dinner, you assume.

“Really?” he asks, grin breaking through before he can stop it.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His face fully brightens, boyish and unguarded. “Cool. Cool. I’ll text you.”

You hug him then, quick and easy this time, and wave goodbye as you head to your car.

San stands there for a second longer after you leave.

Dinner. At his house.

Oh shit. 

Dinner at his house.

He sprints to his car, realizing he needs to start cooking.

The drive over feels longer than it actually is.

Your hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary as you pull into his apartment complex, headlights washing over neat rows of parked cars. You’re dressed casually but intentionally. Jeans that fit just right, a nice top that you stood in front of the mirror debating for far too long. Comfortable enough to feel like yourself. Pretty enough.

Your stomach flips.

Why was he nervous earlier?

That question circles your head as you park and cut the engine. San doesn’t get nervous. San is composed. The kind of man who knows exactly where he stands in a room. And yet earlier, he’d stumbled.

And now you’re here at his place.

You know, with absolute certainty, that he doesn’t do this with clients. Or former clients. You’ve seen the lines he draws. How careful he is. That’s part of why this feels so significant, so loaded with meaning it makes your chest buzz.

You take a breath, step out of the car, and walk up to his door.

Knock. Knock.

The seconds stretch just long enough for doubt to creep in.

Then the door opens.

San stands there like he hasn’t seen you in months instead of a few hours. Big smile and crinkled eyes. Hair slightly tousled, like he’s run a hand through it one too many times. He looks comfortable in his slightly baggy jeans and T-shirt.

“Hey,” he says, bright and genuine.

Your heart trips. “Hi.”

He steps aside immediately. “Come in.”

His apartment is warm, clean, and lived in. Something savory and delicious fills the air, making your stomach ache in a good way. Shoes sit by the door, and a jacket is tossed over a chair.

He gives you a little tour, pointing things out with easy enthusiasm. Living room. Kitchen. Bathroom. Then the spare room.

“And this,” he says, opening the door with a sheepish grin, “is where I keep my problem.”

You step inside and stop short.

Plushies. A collection of them: big ones, small ones, and everything in between. Carefully arranged on the shelves.

Your hand flies to your mouth. “Oh my god.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t judge me.”

“Judge you?” you gasp. “San, this is the greenest flag I’ve ever seen.”

His ears turn pink. “I win them at festivals,” he admits. “And I can’t throw them away.”

You stare at him, heart swelling. Big gym bro, killer body, and a plush collection.

I want to marry him, you think while looking at each one.

He guides you toward the kitchen before your brain can spiral further. The counters are occupied. That’s when it hits you. Dinner. You’re here for dinner. Not to mentally plan a future with this man. Not to imagine him folded into your life. Not to fall in love.

Too late, whispers something traitorous in your chest.

You clear your throat and look down at the food.

San glances at you, amused. “You okay?”

You nod quickly, cheeks warm. “Yeah. I just—wow.”

He smiles, pleased. “Sit. I’ll grab bowls.”

As he turns away, you watch him for a second longer than necessary before sitting at the table, heart loud, thoughts tangled.

You came here for dinner.

But standing in his kitchen, surrounded by warmth and care and something that feels dangerously close to affection, you’re not sure you’re leaving with just that.

He sets the bowls down carefully, and steam curls upward immediately, carrying the deep, rich scent of kimchi jjigae through the kitchen. It’s warm and spicy and comforting all at once, the kind of smell that settles into your bones before you even take a bite. The pot sits between you, still gently bubbling, red broth catching the light.

“Kimchi jjigae,” he says, almost shyly. “It’s kind of my thing.”

Your eyes light up. “You made this?”

He nods, rubbing the back of his neck like he suddenly feels exposed. “Yeah. I make it a lot. For my family. Friends. Me.” A small smile tugs at his lips. “I’m a Namhae boy. We take our food seriously.”

You grin. “I’ve heard.”

“Oh, Namhae is the best county in South Korea,” he says immediately, pride blooming in his voice without a trace of arrogance. “Best food. Best people. Best views. No competition.”

There’s something about the way he says it—so certain and full of love. Everything he talks about feels cherished, not boastful. You realize how much he appreciates his roots, his family, his job, his home, and the life he’s built here. He never takes anything for granted.

You lift your spoon and take a bite, and nearly die.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, eyes widening. The flavor is insane. Spicy but balanced. Rich without being heavy. Comfort in liquid form. You hum involuntarily and take another spoonful immediately, not even trying to hide it.

San watches with bated breath. “Is it good?” he asks, voice hopeful, eyes searching your face.

You nod vigorously, mouth still full. “San, this is so good.”

He laughs, cheeks flushing, ducking his head like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the praise. “Really?”

“Yes. I might cry.”

That does it. His smile spreads slowly and bright, dimples cutting deep, happiness written all over his face. He eats too, more relaxed now, watching you enjoy it like that’s the best compliment he could’ve received.

Conversation flows easily after that. Stories about each other’s childhoods and work. Laughing over small things, teasing each other gently. The kind of talk that doesn’t need effort, just presence.

When the bowls are empty, you stand instinctively. “I’ll wash the dishes.”

He shakes his head immediately. “Nope.”

“I insist.”

He reaches out, catching your wrist lightly. “I’ll do them later.”

And before you can protest again, he tugs you gently toward the couch, presses the remote into your hand, and says, “Find something good.”

You blink. “You’re not…?”

“Wine,” he says over his shoulder, already heading back toward the kitchen. “Give me a second.”

Okay. Wow. This is not at all what you expected.

You sink into the couch, heart racing, the remote warm in your hand, and realize you’re smiling without even thinking about it.

You scroll through the options longer than necessary, thumb hovering as trailers auto-play silently in the background. Your instinct pulls you straight toward horror. It always does. Something about the tension, the adrenaline, the way it makes your heart race.

But then you remember him.

The way he’d laughed once, almost embarrassed, admitting he scares easily. How he said it, like a confession, as if he expected to be judged for it. You’d found it endearing then. Still do now.

So you settle on an action movie instead. Explosions. Fast cars. Something loud enough to be exciting but not enough to send him hiding behind a pillow.

You’re just settling back when you hear footsteps.

San reappears from the kitchen with two wine glasses balanced carefully in his hands and the bottle tucked under his arm. He looks relaxed. Soft around the edges in a way that makes your chest ache. His smile is bright, easy, pure golden retriever energy as he hands you a glass.

“Here,” he says. “Tell me if it’s too dry.”

He glances at the screen just as the opening credits roll, and his brows knit together in confusion.

“…That’s not horror.”

You freeze for half a second. “Oh. I just—” you shrug, suddenly shy. “You said you get scared easily. I didn’t want to freak you out.”

He stares at you. Then his lips pout. Actually pout.

“I wanted to get scared,” he says. “I wanted you to hold me during the scary parts.”

“I—what?”

Your face burns instantly as you scramble for the remote, suddenly very invested in finding literally any horror movie. “I mean, if you want—I can change it—I just thought—”

He laughs, loud and warm, eyes crinkling so deeply it makes your stomach flip. “I’m kidding,” he says gently, dropping down onto the couch beside you.

Not touching, but close. So close you can feel the heat of him through the fabric of your clothes. His thigh just barely brushes yours when he shifts. He pours the wine carefully, handing you your glass before setting his down.

You put a scary movie on anyway.

You giggle suddenly, nerves bubbling over, and stand up. “Wait.”

He watches you with curiosity as you cross the room and flick the lights off. The apartment dims instantly, shadows stretching, the TV glow suddenly brighter.

When you sit back down, San makes a small, very real whining sound.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he murmurs.

But he scoots closer anyway. His arm brushes yours now. You pretend not to notice how your heart starts racing again, how the couch suddenly feels smaller, how the space between you disappears inch by inch.

The movie starts in earnest. Music swelling low and ominous. San leans in just a little more.

You thought he was exaggerating, you really did.

At first, you think the way San edges closer and his arm brushes yours again and again is on purpose. Maybe he’s flirting, using fear as an excuse to get closer. You tell yourself he knows exactly how charming he is.

Then the first real jump scare hits.

A shrill sound cuts through the room, and San yelps. He jerks so hard his knee knocks into yours, and he nearly launches himself off the couch.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, startled more by him than the movie.

He grabs the blanket in a panic, yanking it up and throwing it over both of you like it might save his life. His heart is pounding. You can feel it. Fast and frantic against your arm.

“You’re kidding,” you whisper, half-stunned.

Another tense moment builds on screen. You brace yourself, but San does not. He screams again, higher this time, and clutches your sleeve like you’re a lifeline. His whole body jumps, shoulders up near his ears, eyes squeezed shut as he peeks over the blanket like a terrified child.

You try, you really try. But when he jumps so hard he nearly slips off the couch, a small snort escapes you.

Silence.

Slowly, he turns to look at you, eyebrows creased, lips pushed into the softest pout you’ve ever seen. He looks embarrassed and slightly betrayed.

“That wasn’t funny,” he whines.

You cover your mouth. “I’m sorry,” you laugh quietly. “I just—I didn’t think you meant it like this.”

He huffs, then reaches for you with zero hesitation, grabbing your arm and throwing it over his broad shoulders. He shifts closer, tucking himself against your side, big body pressing into you for comfort.

“Hold me,” he mutters. “It’s scary.”

Your heart absolutely loses its mind.

You should feel bad. He’s genuinely frightened. He’s clinging to you for safety, not seduction. But you don’t hate it. Not when his head dips closer. Not when his arm wraps securely around your waist. Not when the warmth of him sinks into you like he’s made to fit there.

The wine bottle on the coffee table is nearly empty now. He’s clearly more relaxed because of it, movements looser, voice softer, fear less filtered. He reacts dramatically to every sudden noise, burrowing closer each time, hiding his face against your shoulder before peeking again.

“I hate this movie,” he mumbles, voice muffled.

“You wanted scary,” you tease gently.

“Hmph.”

You laugh quietly, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt without thinking, steadying him when the tension spikes again. He sighs contentedly at the contact, melting into you completely.

Still not complaining, you think. Not even a little.

A little while later, he gets up to use the bathroom.

The door clicks shut behind him, and a minute later, you hear the sink run briefly. You stretch your legs, adjusting the blanket over yourself, your eyes flicking to the faintly glowing screen paused in the dark.

Then suddenly—

Footsteps. Fast ones.

San sprints down the hallway like he’s being chased, socked feet slapping against the floor before he all but launches himself back onto the couch beside you. He lands hard, breathless, blanket flying as he scrambles to tuck himself against your side.

“What happened?” you laugh, startled.

He clutches his chest dramatically. “I forgot the lights were off,” he says, voice a little too loud, a little too breathy. “I stepped out, and it was just darkness.”

You laugh harder now. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I hate it,” he mutters, already reaching for the blanket and pulling it back up like armor.

An hour later, the next part of the series auto-plays before either of you can stop it. The opening music hums low and ominous, and San stiffens immediately.

“I can change it,” you offer, thumb hovering over the remote. “We can watch something else.”

He shakes his head quickly, then pauses, correcting himself slower, more deliberately. “No. It’s fine.”

You glance at him. His eyes are glued to the screen, jaw set like he’s psyching himself up for battle.

“I can be brave,” he adds, quieter. “Besides…” He trails off, cheeks faintly pink, and shifts closer. His thigh presses fully against yours now. His arm sneaks around your waist again. The wine has definitely loosened him and made him softer, less guarded. He’s clingy now, unapologetically so, warmth radiating from him as he leans into you.

You don’t move away. If anything, you tug him closer, your fingers brushing his arm, your body accommodating his without thought. Earlier, during the second half of the first movie, you’d laughed at one of his over-the-top reactions and absentmindedly threaded your fingers through his hair to calm him.

He hasn’t forgotten.

He shifts again, this time fully curling into your side, knees tucked slightly, broad shoulders fitting surprisingly well beneath your arm. He pulls the blanket up to his chin, peeking over it at the screen, then reaches up and gently places your hand on his head.

No words. Just a quiet request.

Your heart stutters.

You hesitate for half a second before your fingers move, sinking into his hair again. It’s soft. Warm. He sighs immediately, melting into the touch like he’s been waiting for it, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment before snapping back to the movie.

There’s a jump scare. He flinches, but this time, instead of yelping, he presses his face into your shoulder, his fingers gripping your shirt, while you run your hand through his hair again, soothing, grounding.

“See?” you whisper, teasing gently. “So brave.”

He hums against you, not arguing, not pulling away. The screen flickers with shadows and sound, but his focus is elsewhere now. On your hand. Your warmth.

A sudden crack, sharp and close enough that both of you jolt at the same time. You gasp, San yelps, and for a split second you’re both frozen, hearts racing, staring at each other like you’re in the movie.

Then another boom rolls through the air, deeper this time, followed by a cascade of pops and whistles.

Fireworks.

“Oh,” you breathe, realization blooming. You glance at your phone. “It’s midnight.”

San blinks, then laughs softly, almost incredulous.

You pause the movie without thinking, and the room falls quiet again, except for the distant noise outside. Together, you stand, movements a little clumsy from sitting so long, from wine, from nerves. He reaches for the blanket automatically, draping it around his shoulders before tugging you closer and wrapping it around both of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s watch.”

The balcony door slides open, cool night air rushing in, crisp and sharp against your skin. You shiver instinctively, and San tightens the blanket, his arm coming around your shoulders, anchoring you against his side. The city stretches out before you, lights glowing, and above it all, the sky erupts in color.

Red blooms first. Then gold. Then brilliant whites that crackle and fade, one after another, reflected in windows and glass and eyes.

You tilt your head back, watching in quiet awe.

San does too, at first. Then his attention drifts.

He looks down at you without realizing it, the fireworks lighting your face in shifting colors. Gold flashes in your eyes. Soft light catches the curve of your cheek, the shape of your mouth as you smile at the sky. His chest tightens.

He doesn’t remember deciding to stop watching the fireworks. Only that suddenly, they’re secondary—background noise. Beautiful, yes, but nothing compared to you standing there, so close he can feel your breath.

You sense it and turn. Your gaze meets his right eye first, then his left. You swallow, eyes flicking down almost without permission, tracing the line of his nose, lingering on his lips. Full, soft, and oh so close.

When you look back up, he’s already watching you. He doesn’t look away.

The world seems to slow, fireworks still bursting behind you, light and sound framing the moment as if it were planned.

San leans down slowly, giving you time. Space to pull back. To say no.

You don’t.

His lips meet yours gently, carefully. The kiss is warm, unhurried, full of everything that’s been building for months. His hand tightens slightly at your waist, holding you there like he’s been waiting for this moment all along.

Fireworks explode overhead, but you barely notice.

This is the only thing that matters.

When he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with yours in the cold air.

“Happy New Year,” he whispers.

You don’t hesitate. Not for a second.

The moment he pulls back to speak, you’re already leaning in again, fingers tightening at the back of his neck, drawing him back to you like it’s instinct rather than choice. He lets out a soft, surprised laugh that barely exists before your lips meet again.

The fireworks crack overhead, loud and brilliant, but they fade into background noise as San steps back until the cool metal of the balcony rail presses against your back. He cages you there without pinning you, hands firm at your waist, thumbs brushing over the curve of your hips like he’s grounding himself.

He tilts his head just right, careful, practiced, so your noses brush instead of bumping. The kiss deepens naturally, unforced, and you realize with a quiet jolt that he’s very good at this.

Insanely good.

You feel every subtle shift of his mouth, the way he draws you in and then eases back just enough to make you chase him. His lips are warm, soft, and persistent. When his tongue brushes yours, it’s unhurried, exploratory, like he’s memorizing you rather than taking.

You’ve kissed plenty of times before. But this is different.

You’re suddenly aware of things you’ve never paid attention to before him. The way he breathes through his nose when he kisses you. The quiet sound he makes in his throat when you respond the way he likes. The gentle tug of his teeth, more promise than pressure, followed by a soothing sweep of his lips like an apology and a praise all at once.

His hands tighten reflexively, then soften, grip turning into slow caresses over and over again, like he can’t decide whether to hold you still or pull you closer. He chooses both, pressing his body into yours, solid and warm, making you feel small in the best way.

Your arms loop fully around his neck now, fingers sliding into his hair, and he exhales against your mouth.

He doesn’t push you or insinuate anything, but you can feel the pressure building between your legs. You want him. And by the feel of the hardness pressing against your stomach, he wants you too. That alone makes you blush and press into him.

You lean back, breaking the kiss. You’re both breathing heavily, and before San can lean back in to kiss your lips, you press a kiss to his neck, before pausing not to see, but rather feel his reaction.

His head falls back instantly, exposing more of his neck as if inviting further exploration. A soft moan escapes him—completely unintentional but very telling—and his hands grip your hips tighter. The action presses him more firmly against you, leaving no doubt about his arousal.

His pulse point throbs against your lips, matching the rhythm of his heavy breathing. San's body is reactive, honest almost to a fault when it comes to physical touch. And right now, his body is screaming for more. For you.

You take that as a sign to continue, pressing your lips harder against his neck, sucking softly, leaving a mark.

A sharp intake of breath is followed by a low groan that rumbles deep in his chest. His fingers dig into your hips almost painfully as he holds onto you for dear life. He moans your name softly, wantonly.

When you lean back to look up at him, his eyes are closed, his fingers digging into your hips. Not to cause pain, but to steady him. 

“What’s wrong?” You ask him, cupping his cheek. You don’t realize he’s trying to show restraint, trying to respect you even though he would love to pick you up and take you to bed. To show you what you do to him.

His eyes flutter open slowly, dark brown irises almost black with desire. San swallows hard, his throat working against your palm. "Nothing's wrong," he whispers hoarsely. But the way his jaw clenches and unclenches gives him away. He's trying so hard to be good when all he wants is to be bad with you.

His self-control is hanging by a thread. One wrong move and he might snap.

"Just... trying to behave," he adds, his voice low and strained.

Ah. There it is. Choi San, the man you are.

You brush your thumb along his bottom lip. “I want you,” you whisper up at him, your other hand trailing up his firm, clothed chest.

His breath catches audibly. San's composure cracks—just a little. His eyes flutter shut again, lashes fanning against his cheeks, and you feel his entire body tense as if savoring the permission.

When he opens his eyes again, they're not soft anymore.

"Say that again," he growls quietly, voice dropping two octaves.

“I want you,” you repeat louder. “Take me to bed.”

Without a word, he bends down and scoops you up in his arms. You gasp, surprised, and instinctively wrap your arms around his neck for support. He holds you close, one arm banded around your waist, the other supporting your thigh. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent as he strides purposefully towards his bedroom.

The room smells like him—clean linen and the faint spice of his cologne. He closes the door, and the noise of the world falls away. He turns to you, and his expression isn’t hungry, not yet. It’s reverent.

“Months,” he said, his voice a low hum in the quiet. “Wanted you for months now. Let me see you. All of you.”

Your heart hammers, but the familiar, gnawing whispers of insecurity are quiet. He’d dismantled them brick by brick, session by session. So you nod.

He undresses you with a slow, unhurried focus, his knuckles grazing your skin not with lingering intent, but with a steady purpose. Cool air meets your shoulders, your back, your stomach. You stand before him, utterly bare, and his eyes don’t just look. They drink you in.

“You’re beautiful.”

Your throat tightens.

He lifts his hand, brushing his knuckles lightly along your arm. “I thought that the first day you walked into the gym.”

You blink. “You did?”

He nods, eyes never leaving you. “Yeah. I wanted you then. Just like that. Nervous. Soft. Real.”

Your chest aches.

“I would’ve had you exactly as you were,” he continues gently. “But I loved watching you grow, watching you get happier. More confident. That smile you wear now?” He smiles back at you. “That’s everything.”

You swallow, emotions rising fast and sharp. “Even now?”

He steps fully into your space, then rests his forehead against yours. “Always,” he murmurs. “You’re gorgeous to me. At any size. In every version of you.”

His hands finally come up, framing your sides, grounding you there like he’s making a promise instead of a move.

Then he sheds his own clothes, and your breath simply stops.

The faint light from the window paints him in silver and shadow. Tight, defined abs that shift as he moves. Firm pecs that beg for your touch. Biceps that bunch and relax, bulging with latent strength. His shoulders are broad, his back a sculpted landscape of muscle that tapers down to narrow hips. Muscular thighs, a perfect ass. And his traps, rising from his shoulders like the foundations of a statue. He’s a work of art, carved from living marble.

And then his cock. Thick, heavy, already hard, and curving up against his stomach. Pretty wasn’t the right word. It was formidable. Majestic. A promise of ruin.

You reach out, your fingers trembling only a little, and wrap your hand around him. The heat of his skin is a shock. The velvet-over-steel texture makes your mouth water. A low, needy sound vibrating in his chest.

“That’s it,” he encourages, his head tilting back. “Just like that. Feels so good, baby.”

You sink to your knees, the carpet soft beneath you. You take him into your mouth, and his reaction is immediate, vocal. A sharp intake of air. A broken, “Yes.” His hands come to cradle your head, not pushing, just holding. You work him, your tongue tracing the thick vein on the underside, swirling over the slick, smooth head. Every time you hollow your cheeks and take him deep, a guttural groan tears from him.

“Your mouth…fuck, your mouth is perfect. So warm. So soft. Don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop.”

You don’t. You suck him with a dedication that feels like worship, and he gives you his sounds, his praises, his complete vulnerability. You feel powerful. You feel adored.

When he pulls you up, his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. “My turn,” he growls, and the softness is gone, replaced by a gentle but firm command.

The switch had been flipped.

He lays you back on the bed, your head sinking into the pillows. He kneels between your thighs, and for a moment, he just looks, the distant fireworks painting his face in fleeting color. Then he bends his head.

His mouth on you isn’t a quick feast. His tongue is soft, tender, licking slow, broad stripes that made your back bow off the mattress. Then it changes—firm, pointed flicks against your clit that has you gasping. He sucks gently, then nibbles with a careful scrape of his teeth that sends electric jolts straight to your core.

He’s making out with you there, his lips and tongue moving with the same tender, then passionate rhythm of a deep kiss. He moans into you, the vibration traveling through your entire body. His hands slide under your ass, lifting you, angling you so he can go deeper, his tongue fucking into you in soft, relentless thrusts.

“Taste so good,” he mutters, his voice muffled against you. “Gonna make you come on my face. Wanna feel you shake.”

And you do. The orgasm builds not like a wave, but like a firework—a tight, coiling tension in your belly that he stokes and stokes with his tongue, his lips, his soft sucks—until it bursts. Your vision whites out. A silent scream catches in your throat as you clench around nothing, your hips bucking against his mouth. He holds you through it, drinking every last pulse, every last shudder.

Before you can even come down, he’s moving up your body, his weight settling over you. The head of his cock pressing against your entrance, hot and insistent.

“This,” he says, pushing forward just an inch. A burning, perfect stretch. “This is going to ruin you for everyone else. Just me.”

And then he sinks in.

Oh.

The fullness is absolute. It steals the air from your lungs. He’s thick, long, stretching you in places you didn’t know could be stretched. He doesn’t move at first, just lets you feel him, lets your body adjust to the invasion. Then he begins to move.

Slow, at first. Withdrawing almost completely, then sliding back in with a deep, rolling grind of his hips. Each stroke is a masterclass in sensation. He angles his hips, and the thick head of his cock drags over a spot deep inside that makes you see stars. He changes his pace—short, hard thrusts that make your tits shake and makes wet smacking noises echo in the room. Then long, slow, deep pumps that feel like he’s reaching your soul.

He fucks you with a focused, possessive rhythm. One hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip, his fingers pressing into your flesh. His eyes never leave yours.

“You take me so fucking well,” he pants, his breath hot on your lips. “So perfect. Made for me. All for me.”

The fireworks continue outside, a silent, brilliant accompaniment to the ones he’s setting off inside you. Every nerve ending is alight. The world narrows down to the joining of your bodies, the slick sounds of friction, the smell of sex and sweat, the taste of him on your tongue from earlier.

He’s a gentleman and makes sure you come again, his thumb finding your clit and circling with perfect, dirty pressure as he pistons into you. The second climax is sharper, brighter, a supernova that ripples through you, making you clamp down on him with a violent, rhythmic squeeze. He groans, a sound of pure pleasure and strain.

“Fuck, yes…squeezing my cock just like that…I can’t…I’m gonna…”

His thrusts became erratic, desperate. His beautiful body tightening above you, every muscle corded. He buries himself to the hilt, his pelvis grinding against yours, and lets go.

“Fuck! I—oh God—Y/N, baby—” he grunts out, hips stilling.

A hot, wet flood erupts inside you. It isn’t a trickle; it’s a claiming. Pulse after pulse of his release, filling you, marking you. It’s filthy. It’s wet. It’s messy.

And it’s beautiful, because it’s San, and he has a way of making everything feel special.

He collapses onto you, his weight a warm, comforting anchor, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His breathing ragged against your skin, pressing slow, lazy kisses.

“Mine,” he whispers.

Outside, the final few fireworks pop and fizz.

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