#jay fluff

You had been in love with Jay Park since the second year of high school.

It started as something quieter than a crush — a slow, warm pull every time he leaned over your desk to show you a riff on his phone, or when he'd wait for you after class with one earbud dangling, offering the other so you could listen to the same song.

He was always cool, a little sharp with his humor, but never cruel.

He remembered the small things: how you liked your coffee, the way you fiddled with your sleeves when you were nervous, the fact that you secretly wanted to learn guitar even though you were convinced your fingers were too clumsy.

Two months had passed since graduation, and the two of you had slipped into this strange new version of adulthood.

No more uniforms, no more bells dictating your day. just late nights, cheap takeout, and the growing tension that neither of you had named.

You told yourself it was just a silly, accumulation of caring over the years.

But lately it had become something heavier. needier.

Because it wasn't just his smile or the way he looked at you like he could read every thought behind your eyes.

It was the guitar lessons.

Every few nights you ended up in his room — that warm, low-lit sanctuary at the back of his aparment.

Soft golden lighting, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with wood polish and whatever bottle of wine he'd opened that evening.

He'd sit behind you on the bed or on that worn leather stool, chest brushing your back as he guided your fingers along the fretboard.

His voice would drop low when he corrected your posture, breath warm against your ear.

And every single time, you left that room wet, aching, and painfully aware of how badly you wanted more than just his hands on yours.

Tonight, that ache felt louder than usual.

The restaurant was still buzzing when you all stepped outside.

The four of you had taken over a corner table for nearly three hours — pasta plates half-empty, bottles of soju and beer scattered like evidence.

Heeseung had been the calm anchor as always, laughing deeply at Jake's ridiculous stories about his latest failed attempt at cooking.

Jake, true to form, had been loud and playful, teasing you about how red your cheeks got after your third glass.

"Alright, i'm tapping out" Heeseung said, stretching his arms above his head. he grinned at you and Jay. "you two heading back too?"

Jake slung an arm around your shoulders for a second, giving you a quick squeeze. "don't let Jay bore you to death with more guitar talk."

You laughed, the sound a little loose from the alcohol. "too late. i think i'm officially addicted."

Jay stood a step behind you, hands in the pockets of his dark jacket, watching the exchange with that trademark half-smirk.

He hadn't drunk much — maybe one beer the whole night. he never did when he knew he'd be the one making sure everyone got home safe.

"Get home safe, hyung" Jay told Heeseung, bumping fists. "Jake, stop burning your kitchen down."

Jake flipped him off playfully as he and Heeseung headed toward the main road to catch a cab. you waved until they disappeared around the corner, the streetlights catching their silhouettes.

And then it was just you and Jay.

It was barely past 9 PM, but the city had already slipped into that quieter, darker version of itself.

The restaurant sat on a side street lined with closed shops and a few scattered people hurrying home.

Neon signs flickered softly in the distance. your cheeks felt warm, the alcohol humming pleasantly in your veins, making everything feel a little softer around the edges.

Jay glanced at you, dark eyes scanning your face.

"You good?" he asked, voice low and steady. "you look a little flushed."

"I'm fine" you answered, maybe a touch too quickly.

You smiled up at him, feeling bolder than usual. "just… warm. and i don't really want to go home yet. my brothers are probably screaming at some video game right now. your place is quieter."

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. that familiar mix of amusement and something unreadable.

"You sure? i can drop you off. you drank more than usual tonight."

You stepped a little closer, the alcohol loosening your usual shyness. "i'm sure. i'd rather be with you."

The words came out softer than you meant them to, almost flirty. Jay's gaze lingered on you for a beat longer than normal before he nodded.

"Alright. let's go."

The walk to his place wasn't long.

Jay kept pace beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed every few steps. he didn't say much, but he was always like that — comfortable in silence.

Every once in a while he'd glance over to make sure you were steady on your feet.

When you finally reached his apartment, you stepped into his room, the familiar warmth settled over you like a blanket.

The lighting was exactly how he liked it: soft, gold tones from the tall floor lamp in the corner.

His acoustic guitar rested on its stand beside the electric one. a half-finished bottle of red wine sat on the low wooden table next to two clean glasses.

The small leather couch had a couple of blankets thrown over it, and the walls held photos — some of the group, some of just the two of you from random outings over the years.

It smelled like him: wood, faint cologne, and that subtle hint of wine that always seemed to linger here.

Jay shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the back of his chair.

"Sit" he said, nodding toward the couch. "i'll get you some water first. you're going to thank me tomorrow."

You dropped onto the couch, watching him move around the room with that effortless confidence.

Even after years of friendship, you never got tired of looking at him. the sharp line of his jaw, the way his black hair fell across his forehead, the casual way his shirt stretched across his shoulders.

He came back with a glass of cold water and handed it to you before pouring himself a small amount of wine.

"You're really not that drunk, are you?" you asked, teasing lightly as you sipped the water.

Jay chuckled, settling beside you on the couch. not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat of his body.

"I'm sober enough to know you're tipsy" he replied, voice smooth. "and sober enough to know you get chatty when you are."

You laughed softly, pulling your legs up onto the couch.

The alcohol made your thoughts swirl — memories of all those guitar lessons mixing with the deeper, filthier ones you tried to push down.

You'd been in love with him for years.

But lately, the need had grown teeth.

It wasn't just romantic anymore.

You wanted him.

Wanted his hands on you for reasons that had nothing to do with chord positions. wanted to know what his mouth felt like. wanted to taste him.

To have his cock in your mouth, heavy and warm, to hear the way his voice would break if you took him deep.

Not anyone else's. just Jay's.

Those thoughts had been getting louder since the lessons started two months ago.

Every time his fingers covered yours on the strings, every time his chest pressed against your back and he murmured instructions against your ear… you left his room throbbing, panties ruined, fingers slipping between your legs the second you got home.

And now here you were again, in his room, a little drunk, heart racing.

"Now you're quiet" Jay observed, tilting his head. his dark eyes studied you carefully. "what's going on in that head of yours?"

You bit your lip, feeling heat rise to your cheeks that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

"Just… thinking about how long we've been friends" you said, keeping your voice light. "feels weird sometimes. like we're actual adults now."

Jay hummed in agreement, taking a slow sip of wine. "yeah. but some things don't change." he glanced at you, a small smirk playing on his lips. "you still suck at guitar."

You gasped dramatically, shoving his shoulder. he laughed — that low, rich sound you loved — and caught your wrist gently before you could pull away.

"See? still easy to mess with."

His thumb brushed over the inside of your wrist, just once. the touch sent electricity straight down your spine. you didn't pull away.

The air between you felt thicker than usual. the golden lighting cast soft shadows across his face, making him look even more unfairly handsome. you could smell his cologne again, warm and familiar.

"Jay…" you started, not even sure what you wanted to say.

He raised an eyebrow, still holding your wrist loosely.

"Yeah?"

You swallowed. the need you’d been carrying for years — the filthy, aching want — sat heavy on your tongue. but you weren't brave enough yet.

Instead, you just smiled, shy but warm, and leaned your head against his shoulder like you'd done a hundred times before.

"I'm glad you're my best friend" you whispered.

Jay was quiet for a moment. then his hand shifted, resting lightly on your knee.

"Me too" he murmured.

But his fingers stayed there, warm through the fabric of your jeans, and neither of you moved to change the subject.

The night was still young, and the tension that had been building for years felt dangerously close to spilling over.

The water helped a little, but the alcohol still buzzed warmly through your system, making your limbs feel loose and your thoughts dangerously unguarded.

You watched Jay move across the room with that effortless grace he always had. he reached for one of his guitars, and your breath caught.

He picked up the acoustic — his prized custom-made gibson Vesper.

The instrument looked beautiful under the soft café-gold lighting: dark wood with elegant black binding, sleek and modern with a vampire-inspired design he'd once explained to you in detail.

It was his baby, the one he played when he wanted something intimate and warm-toned.

"I've been working on a new melody" he said casually, settling on the stool across from the couch. his long fingers wrapped around the neck of the Vesper like it was an extension of himself. "want to hear it?"

You nodded, maybe a little too eagerly. "yeah… show me."

He strummed a few soft chords first, then launched into the short piece. just five or six seconds of a smooth, melancholic melody that shifted into something warmer, almost seductive in its simplicity.

His eyebrows furrowed slightly in concentration, lips parted just a fraction as he focused. the way his fingers moved — precise, confident, pressing and sliding along the frets — made heat pool low in your stomach.

God, you didn't even know if you actually cared about learning guitar anymore.

Was it the music? or was it just him?

The way his forearms flexed, the focused set of his jaw, the way the warm light caught on his sharp cheekbones and made his dark hair look softer.

You wanted him so badly it embarrassed you sometimes.

Especially tonight, with the alcohol making your skin feel too hot and your inhibitions paper-thin.

In your head, the thoughts were already spiraling: kneeling between his legs, taking his cock into your mouth, tasting him, hearing that low voice of his break while you sucked him deep. not just any dick. his.

Jay finished the short melody and looked up, smirking when he saw your expression.

"Not bad, right?" he asked.

"It was beautiful" you said honestly, your voice a little breathy. "i love how it sounds on the Vesper."

He stood and walked over, offering you the guitar. "you know the basics now. let's try teaching you your first real short melody. nothing too crazy."

You took the Vesper carefully, the wood warm from his hands.

On the outside, you looked focused and innocent, adjusting the strap and sitting up straighter.

"Posture." Jay reminded you.

He moved behind you on the couch, one leg on either side of your body so he could reach around. his chest pressed lightly against your back as he corrected the angle of the guitar on your lap.

One hand settled on your shoulder to straighten your back, the other sliding down to adjust your left hand on the fretboard.

His touch was warm. deliberate.

You bit your lip hard without thinking, a quiet little sound escaping as his fingers covered yours, guiding them into position. the alcohol made it impossible to hide your reaction — your cheeks burned, your thighs pressed together instinctively.

Jay paused. you could feel him smirk against the side of your head.

"Easy there" he murmured, voice low and teasing near your ear. "don't break my strings with that death grip. or is the Vesper too much for you tonight?"

You let out a shaky laugh. "shut up. i'm trying."

He didn't move away immediately. his fingers stayed over yours a second longer than necessary, then he pulled back just enough to watch but remained close.

"Go ahead. start with the first four chords i showed you last time. slow."

You tried.

Your fingers felt clumsier than usual from the drinks, but you managed to hit the notes — not fluid, not pretty, but recognizable. better than a total beginner.

The Vesper's rich tone filled the room even with your imperfect playing.

Jay hummed approvingly. "not terrible. you're improving."

Then, out of nowhere, he dropped the bomb.

"So… how was that blind date with Sunghoon a week ago?"

Your fingers slipped. a horrible, discordant twang rang out from the guitar. you winced.

"Why are you asking about that?" you said quickly, glancing over your shoulder at him.

Jay shrugged, leaning back against the couch but still watching you closely. his expression was casual, but his eyes were sharp. "just curious. Jake mentioned Sunghoon told him you two… hooked up."

The room felt suddenly warmer. you stared down at the guitar, fingers frozen on the strings.

It was true.

You'd gone on that blind date desperate to convince yourself that your insane attraction to Jay was just horniness. just lack of sex.

Sunghoon was good-looking, you'd slept with him after a couple of drinks. the sex had been… fine. mechanically okay.

But it left you emptier than before. because all you could think about during and after was Jay. how you wished it was Jay's hands, Jay's mouth.

It had only made your filthy fantasies about your best friend worse.

You tried to play it off, strumming a few awkward notes that sounded completely off-key. "Jake needs to mind his own business. why is he such a gossip?"

Jay chuckled, that low, amused sound that always sent shivers down your spine. he reached over and gently corrected your finger placement again, his touch lingering.

"Because he's Jake. and you're avoiding the question."

You huffed, the alcohol making you bolder even as embarrassment burned your face. "it happened, okay? it was… whatever. not life-changing."

Jay raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by how flustered you were getting. "not life-changing? damn. poor Sunghoon. but ifeel like details are missing."

You shot him a look, trying to sound defensive. "i've grown up, you know. i'm not that irresponsible girl from high school who told you every dirty detail about her first time in graphic, disgusting detail anymore."

Jay laughed outright at that, leaning closer again. his breath brushed your neck.

"Oh yeah? because i remember that conversation very clearly. you did not hold back. 'it felt like a sad hot dog in a hallway' was the line that still lives rent-free in my head."

You groaned, covering your face with one hand while still awkwardly holding the guitar with the other. "i was drunk and stupid! and like… seventeen."

"You're still a little drunk tonight" he pointed out, voice teasing but softer. "and still oversharing, apparently."

The conversation hung between you, heavy with years of history. you tried to play again, but your notes kept clashing — messy, out of rhythm, completely unfocused.

Jay didn't stop you. he just watched, eyes dark and thoughtful under the warm lighting.

You sighed. "it was just an escape, Jay. i thought maybe if i… did something, it would quiet my head. but it didn't. it was okay, but… it wasn't..." you trailed off, not brave enough to finish that sentence.

It wasn't you.

Jay was quiet for a long moment. his hand came to rest on your lower back, a casual but intimate touch as he leaned in to adjust your right hand strumming position.

"You're thinking too hard" he said eventually, voice low. "that's why it sounds like the guitar is in pain."

You laughed despite yourself, the sound shaky.

Being this close to him, drunk, with his hands on you and your mind full of filthy thoughts about sucking him off right here in this room… it was torture.

The lesson continued like that for a while longer.

Jay guided you through the simple melody, patient even when your playing fell apart. every correction involved him touching you — fingers on yours, hand on your waist to fix posture, knee brushing your thigh.

Each touch sent sparks through your body.

At one point you shifted on the couch, and your thigh pressed firmly against his. you didn't move away. neither did he.

"You're really warm" he commented after a while, almost absentmindedly. "still feeling the drinks?"

"Yeah" you admitted, biting your lip again as his fingers guided yours into a new chord. "everything feels… a lot right now."

Jay hummed. his voice dropped lower. "i can tell."

The air in the room felt thicker.

And as Jay leaned in once more to correct your hand, his lips accidentally brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured instructions, you wondered how much longer you could keep pretending this was just about learning guitar.

The warmth of his breath sent a shiver racing down your spine. you froze, fingers stiffening on the frets of the Vesper.

The rich, dark wood of the guitar felt heavier in your lap now, like it knew the real reason your heart was hammering.

"I… i think i can't keep playing right now" you admitted, voice softer than you intended. the alcohol made your words feel thick on your tongue. "i'd love to, though. your Vesper sounds so beautiful. it's honestly such a pretty guitar. the tone is just… perfect."

Jay pulled back slightly, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. that sound — God, that sound — always did dangerous things to you.

He reached around you to gently take the guitar from your hands, his fingers brushing over yours one last time.

"Yeah? she's my favorite for a reason" he said, standing up with the instrument.

He walked over to the stand and carefully placed the custom Gibson Vesper back in its spot, adjusting it with the same care he always showed his things.

You watched him move, the soft golden lighting casting gentle shadows along his shoulders and arms.

The room felt smaller now. cozier. the faint scent of wine still lingered in the air, mixing with his cologne and the wood polish from his guitars.

He turned back to you, hands sliding into the pockets of his jeans. "it's getting late anyway. past eleven already. you're pretty drunk, and i'm not letting you go home like this. you can just stay over. saves time, and your brothers are probably still up causing chaos."

You let out a bright, tipsy laugh, the kind that came out a little too loud because of the alcohol. "yeah? okay. i'd like that. a lot, actually."

Jay's smirk deepened, but there was something softer behind it. "didn't even think twice, huh?"

"Nope" you said, popping the 'p' playfully.

He walked over to the built-in closet near the back of the room and pulled out clothes. two oversized t-shirts — one black, one dark gray — and a pair of soft black pajama shorts.

He held them out to you.

'Here. you can wear these. that dress looks cute but it's not exactly sleep-friendly. too cold in here at night if you're not covered up properly."

You stood up, a little unsteady, and took the clothes from him.

Your fingers brushed his, and you felt that familiar spark again. "thanks, Jay."

Before he could say anything else, you grabbed the bundle and slipped behind the heavy cream-colored curtain that separated the small changing corner from the rest of the room.

It was something he'd put up after one too many late-night study sessions when you'd crash here.

You heard him laugh quietly on the other side.

"Drunk you is way shyer than sober you" he teased, voice warm with amusement. "usually you just strip down in front of me like i'm not even here. claiming 'we're best friends, it doesn't matter.' but the second alcohol hits… curtain time."

You fumbled with the zipper of your dress, cheeks burning. "shut up. i'm being responsible."

"Responsible" he echoed, clearly not buying it. you could hear him moving around, already changing too. "sure."

"I am!" you called back, laughing as you pulled his t-shirt over your head. it smelled like him — clean laundry, faint cologne, and that comforting warmth that always made your stomach flip.

The shorts were a little loose on your hips, but they were soft and comfortable. "i've grown up. i'm not that chaotic high school girl anymore."

You stepped out from behind the curtain, adjusting the hem of the oversized shirt. and then you stopped dead.

Jay was in the middle of pulling his own shirt on.

He already had the gray pajama shorts on, hanging low on his hips, but his torso was still bare. the warm lighting highlighted every line of muscle on his chest and abdomen — the result of casual gym sessions.

His skin looked smooth, shoulders broad, that sharp V-line disappearing into the waistband of his shorts.

You let out a soft, involuntary exhale, almost a gasp. your heart skipped hard.

Jay noticed immediately. he tugged the shirt down quickly, but not before you got a full view.

His eyebrow arched, that signature smirk returning.

"Damn. you really are wasted tonight" he said, voice low and teasing as he stepped closer. "if you want, i can tie you up so you can control yourself better. keep those wandering eyes in check."

Your brain short-circuited for a second.

Yes. God, yes. tie me up. use me. anything.

The filthy thought flashed through your mind so fast it made you dizzy. but on the outside, you just let out a nervous laugh, shoving his shoulder lightly.

"Stop it" you mumbled, still smiling. "i'm fine. perfectly fine. just… surprised you're changing in the middle of the room, that's all."

He chuckled, running a hand through his dark hair. "this is my room. and you've seen me shirtless plenty of times. at the beach last summer, remember? or when we went swimming at Sunoo's parents' pool?"

"That was different" you muttered, walking over to the couch and dropping down onto it, pulling one of the soft blankets over your legs.

Your face felt hot. the alcohol wasn't helping you hide anything.

Jay followed, sitting on the other end of the couch but turning toward you. the room felt even more intimate now — just the two of you in comfortable clothes, the golden lights dimmed slightly, the faint sound of the city outside barely audible.

"So" he said after a moment, grabbing the half-empty bottle of water and taking a sip before offering it to you. "you really didn't enjoy it with Sunghoon?"

You groaned, covering your face with both hands. "we're back to this?"

"I'm curious" he said simply. "you're my best friend. if some guy didn't treat you right or couldn't make it good for you, i need to know. i'll kick his ass if necessary."

You peeked at him through your fingers. he looked genuinely relaxed, but there was that focused intensity in his eyes again — the same one he got when he was trying to read you.

"It wasn't bad" you said slowly, lowering your hands. "he was… nice. polite. good-looking, obviously. but it just felt… mechanical. like we were both going through the motions. i thought maybe sleeping with someone would help clear my head about certain things, but it only made it worse."

Jay tilted his head. "worse how?"

You shrugged, tracing patterns on the blanket with your finger.

Your mind was still swirling with images you couldn't say out loud —his low groans filling this exact room.

"Just… confirmed some stuff" you said vaguely. "that i'm probably not built for casual stuff. my brain gets too loud."

Jay was quiet for a beat. then he shifted closer, stretching his arm along the back of the couch until his fingers lightly brushed your shoulder again.

"You've always been like that" he murmured. "even back in high school. you overthink everything. except when you're telling me way too many details about your personal life."

You laughed, the sound breathy. "i was young and stupid. and you were the only person i trusted enough to say that stuff to."

"Still am?" he asked, voice quieter now.

You met his eyes. the tension between you felt alive, humming under the surface. "yeah. still you."

The silence stretched comfortably. Jay eventually stood up. he grabbed another blanket and tossed it over you before settling back down — closer this time, so your legs were almost touching.

"Remember when we first became friends?" he asked suddenly, staring at the ceiling. "you used to sit there during lunch, pretending you weren't listening to me play. i thought you were cute. shy, but cute."

Your heart fluttered. "i had the biggest crush on you for like… two years before i even admitted it to myself."

Jay turned his head to look at you, surprise flickering across his face for a split second before that cool mask returned. "Yeah?"

"Yeah" you whispered, the alcohol making you honest. "but you were always so… you. cool. talented. out of reach. so i settled for being your best friend instead."

He didn't answer right away. instead, he reached over and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. his touch lingered.

"You're not out of reach to me" he said softly.

The words hung heavy in the air. your body felt warm all over — from the drinks, from his proximity, from years of wanting.

You turned onto your side to face him better, the blanket slipping down slightly.

"Jay… can i ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Have you ever… thought about me like that? more than just a friend?"

He was quiet for a long moment, dark eyes studying your face. then he gave you that half-smirk again, the one that made your knees weak.

"I'm not drunk enough to answer that tonight."

You laughed, but there was nervous excitement bubbling inside you. "coward."

"Maybe" he said, chuckling. "or maybe i'm just responsible. one of us has to be when the other is this tipsy."

You spent the next hour talking like that — about old memories, stupid fights you had in high school, the group chats with Heeseung and Jake that always got chaotic, how weird it felt to be actual adults now.

Eventually, you both were in bed under thin blankets.

Jay's voice was low and soothing. every once in a while his hand would brush your arm, casual touches that felt anything but.

At some point you shifted, and your head ended up resting against his chest.

He didn't push you away. instead, his arm came around you, holding you loosely.

"You're warm" you mumbled sleepily, the alcohol finally catching up to you fully.

"So are you" he replied, voice barely above a whisper.

Your mind kept drifting back to filthy places even as sleep pulled at you — imagining sliding your hand under the waistband of his shorts, tasting his skin, hearing him say your name in that deep tone.

But for now, you let yourself enjoy the closeness. the safety.

Jay's fingers traced slow patterns on your back through the t-shirt.

"Get some sleep" he murmured against the top of your head. "we'll talk more in the morning. when you're sober."

You nodded, eyes already closing.

But even as you drifted off, safe in his arms in the soft golden light of his room, you knew one thing for certain:

Pretending was getting harder and harder.

You lay there for what felt like forever, curled against his side under the soft blanket, but sleep refused to come.

The alcohol had loosened your body, but your mind was wide awake, buzzing with years of suppressed feelings and the heavy warmth of Jay's arm draped loosely around you.

Every small shift of his body, every steady breath he took, made your skin prickle with awareness.

Jay wasn't sleeping either. you knew him too well — he never could fully relax until he knew you were safe and asleep. it was one of those quiet protective habits he'd had since high school.

With a soft sigh, you sat up slowly, the oversized t-shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder. you stayed close, your thigh still pressed against his.

Jay shifted beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. his dark hair was slightly messy, and his eyes scanned your face with that familiar sharpness.

"Can't sleep?" he asked quietly.

You shook your head. "too many thoughts."

He hummed in understanding but didn't push. for a moment, comfortable silence settled between you again. then you spoke, the alcohol still giving you just enough courage.

"You know… i doubt Jake would've randomly told you about Sunghoon unless you asked him first." you turned your head to look at him directly. "so why the curiosity, Jay?"

Jay let out a slow sigh, running a hand through his hair as he stared at the ceiling for a second. when he looked back at you, his expression was calm but serious.

"Because you're my best friend" he said simply. "it's my job to look out for you. to make sure no dickhead hurts you, gets your hopes up, or leaves you feeling like shit afterward. i've been doing that since we were in secondary school. nothing's changed."

You fell quiet, processing his words.

The weight of them sat heavy in your chest. his protection had always felt safe… but lately it felt like something more. something that made your stomach twist in confusing, needy ways.

Jay noticed your silence. he tilted his head slightly. "why are you thinking about all of this right now? you know i worry about you. that's not new."

You bit your lip, fingers playing with the edge of the blanket. "i guess… i've been wondering lately if i've ever mistaken your protection for something else. like… possessiveness."

Jay stared at you for a beat, then let out a low, genuine laugh — the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

He sat up fully now, swinging his legs so he was facing you directly. the movement brought him much closer, your knees nearly touching, his presence suddenly filling your space.

"Possessiveness?" he repeated, still chuckling in disbelief. "you're way too drunk to be throwing words like that around."

You met his gaze, your heart beating faster. "i'm drunk, but i'm sober enough to notice that you're the one acting weird tonight."

Jay laughed again, softer this time, shaking his head. "me? weird?"

He leaned in a little, voice dropping. "you're the one whose breathing keeps changing every time i get close. the one who keeps pressing your thighs together when my hand brushes your arm or when i fix your posture during lessons. you think i don't notice?"

Your mouth went dry. heat flooded your cheeks.

He was right — painfully right. you'd been doing exactly that for the past two months during every guitar session. and tonight, with the alcohol stripping away your filters, it was impossible to hide.

You stayed silent for a long moment, just looking at him. then you put on that fake-innocent expression you knew he could see right through — wide eyes, slight tilt of your head.

"If you know all of that… why don't you do anything about it?"

The question hung in the air like smoke. Jay's smirk faded into something more intense, more focused. his dark eyes searched yours carefully.

"Because i'd never do anything you haven't asked for" he said, voice low and steady. "not with you. never."

Your face grew hotter. you could feel the blush spreading down your neck.

The tension in the room thickened, wrapping around both of you. you were hyper-aware of everything: the way his bare arm looked under the golden light, the faint scent of his skin mixed with the laundry detergent on the t-shirt he was wearing, how close his mouth was if you just leaned forward a few inches.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. "and if i did ask… would you give it to me?"

Jay didn't answer with words right away.

Instead, he reached out slowly, his fingers gently brushing your hair away from your face before tucking it carefully behind your ear.

The touch was light, but it sent electricity racing across your skin. His hand lingered there for a second, thumb grazing your cheekbone.

Then he nodded. once. slow and deliberate.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

The simple gesture and that quiet confirmation made your stomach flip violently.

In your mind, the thoughts rushed in unfiltered — filthy, desperate images of his hands on your body, his voice in your ear, finally giving in to what you'd wanted for years. but you stayed still, letting the tension stretch.

Jay's eyes stayed locked on yours, calm but burning with something deeper. he didn't move closer or pull away. he just waited, giving you the space to decide what came next.

"You're really going to make me say it out loud, huh?" you murmured, a nervous little smile tugging at your lips.

He smirked again, that trademark Jay confidence returning. "i'm not assuming anything with you. i've known you too long. if this is what you want, you're going to have to be clear."

You let out a shaky breath, shifting slightly on the bed.

Your thigh pressed more firmly against his. neither of you moved away.

"I've wanted this for so long" you admitted quietly, the alcohol and years of repression loosening your tongue.

"Not just tonight. since we were in high school. every time you taught me guitar… every time we'd end up here talking until 3 a.m.… it's been driving me crazy."

Jay listened without interrupting, his expression unreadable but his body language open.

He moved one hand on the bed near your leg, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

"You hid it well" he said eventually, voice rougher than before. "most of the time."

"Guess i'm not hiding it anymore."

He chuckled softly. "No. you're really not."

Another stretch of heavy silence. your eyes dropped to his mouth for a second before flicking back up. Jay noticed, of course.

He always noticed.

"You're nervous" he observed, not teasing this time. just stating it. "your pulse is going crazy right here." his fingers lightly touched the side of your neck, feeling your heartbeat.

You didn't deny it. instead, you leaned into his touch just slightly.

"I'm nervous because it's you" you whispered. "because if we do this… it changes everything."

Jay's thumb brushed slowly along your jaw. "it doesn't have to. not unless we want it to."

His words were careful, responsible — so typically Jay.

Even now, when the air between you crackled with years of built-up desire, he was still thinking about protecting what you had. it only made you want him more.

You stayed like that for a while longer, talking in low voices.

Every small movement — your fingers brushing his arm — felt loaded.

The tension was thick enough to taste. your body ached with it, a deep, warm need that had been growing for years, sharpened by every guitar lesson, every late-night conversation, every moment you'd spent pretending.

But still, you didn't cross the line. not yet.

The silence between you stretched, thick and electric. your heart hammered so hard you were sure he could hear it.

The soft lighting in Jay's room wrapped around both of you like a secret, making every small movement feel heavier than it should.

You shifted closer on the bed, moving until you were on your knees beside him.

Jay was leaning back against the pillows in a way that left space — deliberate space. if you wanted to climb on him, kiss him, do anything… he wouldn't pull away. his dark eyes followed you calmly, patient as always.

"You don't have to feel any pressure" he said quietly, voice low and steady. "even Heeseung and Jake noticed. they've been telling me for weeks how obviously into me you are. i couldn't exactly deny feeling it too… but i didn't want to make things weird between us."

His honesty hit you hard. you leaned in slowly and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, lingering there for a second. his skin was warm under your lips.

"I don't want things to get uncomfortable either" you whispered against his cheek. "if we do this… if something happens… i promise i can pretend it never did. until we figure out how we really feel. no pressure on you either.”

Jay nodded once, then shifted back until he was leaning against the headboard of his bed.

The blankets were rumpled around you both.

You hesitated only a moment longer before swinging one leg over his lap and settling yourself straddling him.

The oversized t-shirt you wore rode up your thighs slightly as you sat down. Jay's hands came up naturally to rest on your waist — steady, supportive, but respectful.

His fingers didn't wander lower. he simply held you there, giving you balance without pushing for more.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. you were both breathing a little heavier. your hands rested on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under the thin fabric of his shirt.

You traced small, nervous circles with your fingertips, exploring the firm muscle you'd stared at so many times during those guitar lessons.

Jay watched you closely, that cool, observant expression still on his face even now.

"You've been thinking about this for a long time, haven't you?" he murmured.

You nodded, biting your lip. your hands slid slowly up his chest to his shoulders, then back down again, feeling the warmth of him through the shirt. "yeah… especially during those lessons. every time you sat behind me… every time your hands were on mine…"

You leaned forward and kissed his other cheek, then the corner of his jaw. your fingers kept moving, sliding over his collarbones, down his arms, learning the shape of him like you'd wanted to for years.

Jay's grip on your waist tightened just slightly — not enough to control, just enough to show he was affected.

"You have no idea how hard it's been keeping my hands where they belong during those lessons" he said, voice dropping lower, a little rougher around the edges.

"Sitting that close to you, feeling you react every time i touch your fingers… knowing you're getting wet just from that. it's been driving me fucking crazy too."

Your breath hitched at his words. the slight dirty edge to them — so rare from him — sent heat rushing through your whole body. you pressed your palms flat against his chest again, feeling how his breathing had changed.

"I want you to teach me what good sex feels like, Jay" you finally whispered, the words spilling out shy but honest.

Your face burned as you said it, but you didn't look away.

Jay's eyes darkened, but he still held himself back. his thumbs brushed slow, soothing circles on your waist over the t-shirt.

"You're sure?" he asked, even now checking. "we can stop anytime. this doesn't change anything if you don't want it to."

"I'm sure" you breathed.

You leaned in and finally kissed him properly.

The first kiss was soft — tentative, testing.

His lips were warm and surprisingly gentle against yours. then you tilted your head a little more, deepening it, and Jay responded with a low hum that vibrated through his chest.

One of his hands stayed firmly on your waist while the other came up to cup the back of your neck, not pulling, just supporting.

You kissed him again, slower this time, savoring it. your hands grew bolder, sliding under the hem of his shirt to touch bare skin.

You traced the lines of his abs, feeling the way his stomach tensed under your fingertips. Jay let out a quiet breath against your mouth when your nails grazed lightly over his skin.

"Fuck..." he muttered between kisses, voice husky. "you've been holding back a lot, haven't you? all those times you sat in this room acting innocent while your mind was somewhere filthy…"

You smiled shyly against his lips, still that mix of timid and needy. "Maybe."

Your hands kept exploring — running up his back, feeling the muscle there, then back to his chest.

You could feel how hard his heart was beating. you shifted slightly in his lap, not grinding, just adjusting closer, and Jay's fingers flexed on your waist.

He kissed you again, a little deeper this time, his tongue brushing yours carefully. when you pulled back for air, he rested his forehead against yours.

"You're shaking" he observed quietly, always noticing everything. "still nervous?"

"A little" you admitted, your fingers still tracing patterns on his chest under his shirt. "but i want this. i've wanted it for so long."

Jay's hand slid up your back in a slow, comforting stroke. "then we take it slow. i'm not rushing anything with you."

His voice dropped again, that slight dirty tone returning. "even if i've thought about bending you over that guitar stool more times than i should admit."

Your face flushed hot. you kissed him again to hide your embarrassment, hands cupping his face now.

The kiss grew heavier, more urgent, but Jay kept control — never letting his hands move lower than your waist, never pushing your hips down against him.

You broke the kiss and pressed your face into his neck, breathing him in as your fingers continued their slow exploration of his torso.

You could feel him getting hard beneath you, but he made no move to do anything about it.

"Tell me what you've thought about" you whispered against his skin, shy but curious.

Jay let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating against your cheek. "you really want to hear that right now?"

You nodded, kissing his neck softly.

He exhaled slowly. "a lot of nights after you left these lessons… i thought about how pretty you look when you're concentrated. how your breathing changes when i get close. thought about what sounds you'd make if i finally touched you properly instead of pretending it was just about guitar chords."

Your thighs squeezed instinctively around his hips. Jay noticed but didn't comment on it, just kept talking in that low, controlled voice.

"I've wondered how you'd taste" he added, almost casually. "how you'd look sitting on my lap like this, trying so hard to stay quiet because your brothers might hear if we were at your house."

You let out a shaky breath, your hands tightening on his shoulders.

The tension was almost unbearable now — heavy, aching, delicious. you kissed him again, deeper, your body pressing closer against his chest while your hands roamed freely under his shirt.

Jay kissed you back with the same measured intensity, one hand still steady on your waist, the other gently threading through your hair. he was hard beneath you, you could feel it clearly, but he remained the same Jay — cool-headed, teasing even now.

"You're going to kill me if you keep touching me like that" he murmured against your lips, a hint of a smirk in his voice. "those hands have been driving me insane for months."

You smiled, a little breathless, and kissed the corner of his mouth. "good. because you've been doing the same to me every single lesson."

The two of you stayed like that for a long time — kissing slowly, touching carefully, talking in low voices between heated moments.

The world outside felt far away. years of friendship and hidden desire were finally cracking open, but still slowly, still safely.

Jay pulled back after one particularly long kiss, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip.

"Still okay?" he asked, eyes searching yours.

You nodded, leaning in to kiss him again.

Neither of you were ready to stop yet. the night was young, the tension was perfect, and for the first time, you weren't pretending anymore.

You kept kissing him, deeper now, with a hunger that surprised even you. despite the innocent, pure look on your face — wide eyes, flushed cheeks — any shyness had melted away under the heat of the alcohol and years of built-up need.

Your hands moved with purpose, sliding down Jay's chest, over his stomach, until you boldly palmed the obvious bulge straining against his gray pajama shorts.

Jay let out a sharp breath against your mouth, then another low sigh as your fingers rubbed him slowly through the fabric. je was hard, thick, and warm under your touch. you didn't hesitate, stroking him with more confidence, feeling him twitch under your palm.

"Fuck…" he muttered between kisses, his voice rougher.

He finally broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look down between your bodies.

There you were — straddling him, hand shamelessly rubbing his erection right beneath where you sat. his dark eyes darkened further.

"You're not playing around tonight, huh?" he said, voice low and slightly amused, but clearly affected.

You leaned in closer, lips brushing his ear, your voice needy and breathless. "i need you so bad right now, Jay… please. i want you to fuck me."

Jay let out a short, surprised laugh, the sound husky. "then take all your clothes off" he said, half-joking, half-challenging, that signature teasing tone still there even now.

But you were too far gone.

Without hesitation, you sat back on his thighs and pulled the oversized t-shirt over your head, revealing your bare chest. then you lifted your hips and slid the pajama shorts down your legs, kicking them aside until you were left in just your panties.

Your skin felt hot under his gaze.

Jay cursed under his breath — a low, impressed "shit…" — as his eyes raked over your body. his hands stayed respectful on your waist for a moment longer before he helped steady you.

"Come here" he murmured, pulling you back onto his lap properly.

The kissing resumed, hotter this time.

Your hand returned to stroking him through his shorts while his mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, then down your neck.

He sucked lightly on your skin, not enough to leave marks yet, but enough to make you whimper softly.

You ground against his bulge slowly, feeling the friction through the thin layers separating you. Jay's breathing grew heavier, his hands finally sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.

"You've been hiding this body from me during all those lessons?" he said against your neck, voice low and a little dirty. "sitting there acting all innocent while i was trying not to think about how you'd look like this… straddling me, touching my cock like you own it."

You moaned softly at his words, your hand squeezing him firmer. "i thought about it every time."

Jay kissed you hard again, then shifted both of you. he moved you off his lap gently and stood up, quickly pulling his own shirt off and dropping his shorts.

His cock sprang free — hard, flushed, and bigger than you'd imagined in your filthiest thoughts. he was smooth, well-kept, the head already glistening.

He sat back down against the headboard and pulled you back on top, but this time he guided you into a different position.

He turned you so you were facing away from him, your back to his chest, straddling his lap in reverse.

"Like this" he said quietly, voice steady but thick with want. "i want to feel you."

His hands settled on your hips, guiding you as you lowered yourself.

He didn't enter you yet — instead, he pulled your panties to the side and slid his cock between your folds, letting you grind along his length. the heat of him against your wet pussy made you gasp.

You leaned back against his chest, one of his arms wrapping around your waist to hold you steady while his other hand reached down to rub slow circles on your clit.

His mouth was right by your ear, breathing warm against it.

"Slow" he reminded you, always in some control. "we've got all night."

You rocked your hips, sliding along his cock, coating him with how wet you were.

Jay groaned softly, the sound vibrating against your back. he kept rubbing your clit with practiced fingers, occasionally squeezing your breast with his free hand, rolling your nipple gently.

"Feel how hard you made me?" he murmured, lips brushing your ear. "all those guitar lessons… you sitting between my legs, biting your lip every time i touched you. i wanted to pull you back against me just like this."

You moaned, moving faster against him. Jay adjusted his grip, lifting you slightly before finally guiding the head of his cock to your entrance.

"Ready?" he asked, checking one last time.

"Yes" you breathed.

He lowered you slowly onto him, inch by inch.

The stretch was perfect — full, deep, overwhelming in the best way.

When he bottomed out, both of you let out shaky breaths. he stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, his arm tight around your waist, the other hand still between your legs rubbing your clit.

Then he started moving.

He thrust up into you in a steady rhythm, deep and controlled.

You braced your hands on his thighs, leaning forward slightly as you rode him in reverse, matching his pace.

The position let him hit deep with every roll of his hips, his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you.

Jay's breathing was ragged now, but his voice stayed low near your ear. "that's it… just like that. you feel so fucking good."

His hand on your clit never stopped, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

The other hand gripped your hip, guiding you down onto him harder.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the warm room, mixed with your soft moans and his occasional low groans.

You leaned further forward, hands on his knees for leverage, bouncing on his cock while he thrust up to meet you. Jay cursed again, the view from behind clearly affecting him.

"Look at you" he said, voice strained but still teasing. "taking me so well after wanting it for years…"

The pleasure built fast — the angle, his fingers on your clit, the deep thrusts.

Your thighs started trembling. Jay noticed, as always, and wrapped his arm tighter around you, holding you close as he fucked you through it.

Your back arching against his chest, a broken moan leaving your lips. Jay kept moving, slower now, drawing it out, murmuring quiet praise against your neck.

He didn't stop completely. after you caught your breath, he guided you to lean all the way forward, chest almost to the bed, still connected.

He sat up straighter behind you, hands on your hips as he thrust deeper, faster, chasing his own release.

The position was intense — you face down, ass up, Jay behind you thrusting with controlled power. his hands roamed your back, occasionally gripping your hair lightly to pull you back against him.

"Fuck, you're squeezing me so tight" he groaned.

You pushed back against him, meeting every thrust. Jay's pace grew more urgent, but he never lost that cool edge — always making sure you were okay, his hands soothing even as he fucked you harder.

You kept moving on him, rolling your hips in a slow, needy rhythm as you rode Jay in reverse.

Your back was pressed against his chest, his cock buried deep inside you with every downward motion.

The stretch felt incredible, and the position let you feel every inch of him. your hands gripped his thighs for balance while his arm stayed wrapped around your waist, the other hand still teasing your clit with slow, deliberate circles.

But Jay had other plans.

His hands slid to your hips, gripping firmly but not harshly.

With a low murmur against your ear — "let me take over for a bit" — he guided you forward. you leaned down, hands bracing on the bed as he smoothly shifted your body off his lap and onto all fours. the transition was fluid, his cock slipping out for just a second before he positioned himself behind you.

Your hips stayed high, ass up, while your chest and face pressed down into the mattress.

The soft sheets muffled your heavy breathing as Jay knelt behind you.

He reached forward, gathering both of your arms gently but decisively, pulling them behind your lower back. he held your wrists together with one hand, limiting your movement without being overly restrictive.

His grip was secure, controlling, but still careful — classic Jay.

"Fuck… Jay…" you moaned loudly, the sound shameless and needy.

Your voice echoed in the warm room, much louder than you'd ever been with anyone else. "it feels so deep like this…"

He rubbed the head of his cock along your soaked folds for a moment, teasing, before pushing back inside you in one smooth, deep thrust.

You cried out, face buried in the mattress as your ass stayed arched high for him.

Jay started moving — deep and fast, but not brutal.

Each thrust was powerful and controlled, hitting that perfect spot inside you with precision. the sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, steady and rhythmic.

"Shit, listen to you" he said, voice low and slightly amused even now.

"You're so loud tonight. all those years pretending to be shy during our lessons… and now you're moaning like this with your face in my bed."

You whimpered loudly in response, unable to hold back. "i can't help it… you're so deep— ahh!" another loud moan tore from your throat as he thrust particularly deep, holding it there for a second before resuming his pace.

Jay kept your wrists pinned at your lower back with one hand while his other hand reached up and gathered your hair.

He didn't yank it — he simply held it firmly, using it as leverage to keep your head down against the mattress while he fucked you. the gentle tug on your scalp sent sparks through your body.

"That's it" he murmured, breathing heavier but still composed. "keep that ass up for me. you feel incredible like this… so wet. been thinking about this view for months every time you left my room."

Your moans grew louder, unrestrained. every deep thrust pushed a new sound out of you — high-pitched whimpers mixed with desperate gasps and full moans.

Your hips pushed back against him instinctively, meeting his rhythm as much as his grip on your wrists allowed.

"Jay— oh god, right there— fuck" you cried out, voice breaking. Your face stayed pressed into the sheets, cheek turned to the side, eyes half-closed in pleasure.

He leaned forward slightly, chest closer to your back, changing the angle just enough to make you see stars.

His thrusts never faltered — consistent, deep, fast enough to make your thighs shake but never rough enough to cross into discomfort.

"You're squeezing me so tight" he groaned near your ear, voice rough but still that familiar Jay tone — teasing underneath the lust. "all that tension from the guitar lessons finally coming out, huh?… you were this wet thinking about me fucking you like this?"

"Yes— fuck" you moaned loudly, almost sobbing into the mattress.

Your body rocked forward with each thrust, but Jay's hold on your wrists and hair kept you exactly where he wanted you. "i need more… please don't stop—"

He didn't.

He kept the pace steady, fucking you thoroughly.

Minutes passed like this — long, drawn-out, filthy minutes filled with the wet sounds of your bodies connecting and your increasingly loud moans. Jay would occasionally slow down to grind deep inside you, letting you feel every inch, before picking up speed again.

After a while, he released your wrists but only to adjust your position further.

He gently pushed your upper body fully down onto the bed, guiding you into a prone-bone angle — your hips still tilted up, legs slightly spread, chest and face pressed flat against the mattress.

He moved with you, covering your back with his chest as he slid back inside.

This new position felt even deeper. Jay's weight pressed you into the bed as he thrust down into you, one hand still tangled in your hair, the other braced beside your head for support.

"Still good?" he asked between thrusts, voice low and caring even as he fucked you harder. "tell me if it's too much."

"It's— ah... it's perfect— Jay, fuck" your voice was loud and broken, moans spilling out continuously now.

The mattress muffled some of them, but not enough. you were loud, needy, completely lost in the sensation.

Jay let out a low chuckle that turned into a groan as you clenched around him. "you're going to wake up the whole house if you keep moaning like that. not that i mind… i like hearing how much you need this."

He kept the rhythm deep and fast, hips snapping against your ass with controlled power.

The angle made his cock drag perfectly against your g-spot with every stroke. his hand in your hair kept you grounded, his lips occasionally brushing your shoulder or the back of your neck as he fucked you.

"You're doing so well" he murmured, voice husky against your ear. "my best friend moaning my name while i fuck her exactly how she needs."

"Jay— please…" you whined loudly, pushing your hips back as much as the position allowed. your hands gripped the sheets tightly, body trembling from the sustained pleasure.

He kept going, deep, fast, relentless but never rough.

Always observant — adjusting when your moans pitched higher, slowing for a few strokes when your thighs shook too much, then building the pace again.

Jay kept his steady, deep rhythm, fucking you thoroughly from behind while you stayed pressed into the mattress. your loud moans continued filling the room without filter — raw, needy, and unrestrained.

But he wasn't done changing things up.

He slowed his thrusts gradually, then pulled out carefully.

Before you could protest the sudden emptiness, he flipped you onto your back with strong but gentle hands.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was between your legs again, spreading them wide and settling on top of you.

This time, though, he hooked both of your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half.

Your hips lifted off the bed as he leaned forward, bringing his face close to yours. the new angle made everything feel impossibly deeper.

"Jay— fuck—" you moaned loudly as he pushed back inside you in one smooth motion.

Your voice cracked with pleasure, eyes fluttering. "it's so deep like this… i can feel everything—"

He braced his hands on either side of your head, his dark eyes locked on your face as he started moving again. deep, fast strokes that made your breasts bounce with every thrust.

Your legs trembled over his shoulders, ankles near his ears.

Jay's expression stayed focused — that cool, controlled look mixed with clear desire.

He wasn't being rough, but the way he drove into you was relentless, hitting that perfect spot over and over.

"Look at me" he said, voice low and a little strained. "want to see your face while i fuck you."

You tried, but another loud moan tore from your throat as he ground deep inside you, rolling his hips in a way that made your toes curl. "ah— Jay, right there— don't stop—"

Your hands flew up to grip his arms, nails digging into his biceps as he held you folded beneath him.

The position left you completely exposed, hips tilted up, taking every inch of his cock with each thrust.

You were so loud now — moaning, whimpering, gasping his name repeatedly.

The sounds bounced off the walls of his warm-lit room.

Jay leaned down further, almost bending you in half, and kissed you messily.

His tongue slid against yours as he kept thrusting, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder. when he pulled back, his breathing was heavier.

"You're so fucking loud tonight" he murmured against your lips, a hint of that teasing smirk appearing even now.

"I can't— ah, it feels too good—" you cried out, head falling back against the pillows.

Your face was flushed, lips parted, eyes glassy with pleasure. every deep thrust pushed a new moan out of you. "Jay… Jay, please— it's so much—”

He kept the pace fast and deep, hips snapping forward with controlled power.

The angle made his cock drag perfectly against your g-spot on every stroke. one of his hands moved down to rub your clit again, adding another layer of overwhelming sensation.

You were a mess beneath him — legs over his shoulders, body folded, moaning shamelessly loud with every movement.

Your hands roamed his back, scratching lightly down his skin as pleasure built higher and higher.

"Fuck, you feel perfect" Jay groaned, voice rough but still composed.

He kissed your neck, sucking lightly as he continued thrusting. "been wanting to have you like this for so long. all spread out, taking me so well… moaning my name like you can't get enough."

"I can't— i really can't—" you sobbed-moaned, voice breaking. your hips tried to move to meet his thrusts, but the position left you mostly at his mercy. "it's so deep, Jay… i'm so close already—"

He immediately slowed his pace just enough to keep you on the edge without pushing you over, drawing out the moment. His thrusts became long, deliberate strokes — pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in deep and grinding against you.

"Not yet" he said softly, almost teasing. "we're not done."

He changed the angle slightly, pressing your thighs further back as he leaned over you.

The new depth made you cry out even louder, your voice echoing in the room. Jay's hand stayed on your clit, rubbing slow circles while he fucked you with those deep, fast strokes.

Sweat glistened on both your bodies under the soft brown-gold lighting. Jay's hair fell messily over his forehead as he watched your face, always observant, always checking your reactions.

"Every time I hit this spot right here—" he thrust deep and ground against you to emphasize, making you moan loudly again. "—you get even wetter. you really did want this bad, didn't you?"

"Yes— god, yes— i've wanted you for years—" you gasped, voice loud and broken.

Your hands gripped his shoulders tighter as another wave of pleasure washed over you, keeping you right on the edge.

Jay kept going, deep and fast, but always controlled. he would lean down to kiss you messily every so often, swallowing some of your loud moans before pulling back to watch you again.

His hand never left your clit, building the tension higher without letting it break.

After a while, he lowered your legs from his shoulders but kept them spread wide. he stayed on top, chest pressed to yours in a more classic missionary, but still deep and intense.

His hips rolled against yours in a steady rhythm, grinding deep with every thrust.

"Still okay?" he asked between strokes, always the caring one even now.

"So okay— fuck, Jay, it feels amazing—" you moaned loudly, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper.

The room filled with the sounds of your loud, needy moans, his low groans, and the wet rhythm of your bodies moving together.

Jay kept the pace deep and fast, drawing it out, making the pleasure last as long as possible.

He kissed your neck, your jaw, your lips — mixing tenderness with the raw intensity of how he was fucking you.

His hand occasionally slid up to hold one of your wrists above your head, not pinning hard, just keeping you in place while he drove into you.

"You sound so pretty when you're this loud" he whispered against your ear, voice rough. "moaning for your best friend like this… after all this time."

Your response was another loud, broken moan as he hit that perfect angle again.

The tension kept building, higher and higher, but Jay expertly kept you both teetering right on the edge — not letting either of you fall over just yet.

You were right on the edge.

Your body was shaking underneath Jay, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as he fucked you deep and steady. your moans had become desperate, broken cries that filled the entire room.

"Jay— i'm so close— please, i'm gonna cum—" you gasped loudly, your voice cracking with need. your nails dug into his back as the pressure built unbearably tight inside you.

But Jay suddenly slowed down, then stopped moving completely, buried to the hilt inside you. he held perfectly still, breathing heavily against your neck.

"Not yet" he murmured, voice low and composed, that teasing control still fully intact. "you're not cumming yet."

You let out a loud, frustrated whine, trying to roll your hips up desperately, but he pinned you down with his weight, refusing to give you the last bit of friction you needed.

"Jay… please…" you begged, voice needy and loud. "i was so close—"

He kissed the corner of your mouth softly, then slowly pulled out of you, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness.

Your pussy throbbed painfully, slick and desperate.

Jay moved down your body with deliberate calmness. he spread your legs wide, settling between them on his stomach.

His dark eyes looked up at your flushed, innocent-looking face as he wrapped his strong arms around your thighs, holding you open for him.

"Since you're being so loud and impatient" he said, voice husky but still teasing, "i'm going to taste you instead. but you still don't get to cum until i say so."

Before you could respond, Jay leaned in and dragged his tongue slowly up your soaked folds.

You moaned loudly, back arching off the bed at the sudden intense pleasure.

"Fuck— Jay—"

He took his time, exploring you with his mouth like he had all night. his tongue moved in slow, broad strokes from your entrance up to your clit, savoring how wet you were.

Then he circled your swollen clit with the tip of his tongue, applying just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge without pushing you over.

You were loud — extremely loud. your moans echoed shamelessly in his warm-lit room as he ate you out.

"Oh my god— Jay… that feels so good—" you cried out, one hand flying down to grip his hair. your hips tried to buck against his face, but his strong arms kept your thighs firmly pinned down, controlling your movements.

Jay hummed against your pussy, the vibration making you whimper even louder.

He alternated between long, slow licks and focused sucking on your clit, occasionally dipping his tongue inside you. his technique was precise and confident — typical Jay, even in this.

"You taste even better than i imagined" he murmured against your wet skin, voice slightly muffled. "all those guitar lessons… and i had no idea how sweet this pretty pussy was."

You moaned brokenly, head thrown back against the pillows. "Jay— please— i need to cum so bad— i can't take it—"

He ignored your begging and continued devouring you.

His tongue flicked rapidly over your clit for a few seconds, then slowed down again, edging you mercilessly.

Every time your thighs started trembling harder and your moans pitched higher, he would pull back slightly, kissing your inner thighs or blowing cool air on your sensitive folds until the orgasm threat faded just enough.

You were a complete mess — loud, desperate, and dripping.

"Ah! Jay— your tongue feels too good—" you sobbed, voice hoarse from how much you'd been moaning. your free hand gripped the sheets tightly beside you, knuckles turning white.

Jay slid two fingers inside you slowly while his mouth focused on your clit, curling them upward to press against that sensitive spot. the combination made you cry out even louder, almost screaming his name.

"Jay— fuck— i'm so close again— please let me cum this time—"

But he pulled his fingers out and slowed his tongue once more, denying you for the third time.

You let out a loud, frustrated whimper, tears of overwhelming pleasure pricking at the corners of your eyes.

"Not yet" he repeated calmly, kissing your clit softly. "i want you shaking for me first."

He buried his face deeper between your legs, sucking your clit into his mouth while his tongue flicked rapidly.

The wet, obscene sounds of him eating you out mixed with your loud, broken moans. he kept you spread wide, completely exposed, as he worked you over with expert patience.

Minutes passed like this — long, torturous minutes of Jay's mouth on your pussy.

He would bring you right to the brink with fast, focused licks and suction, then slow down to lazy, broad strokes that kept the pleasure simmering without exploding.

Your body was covered in a thin layer of sweat, thighs trembling uncontrollably around his head.

"You're dripping all over my chin" he murmured, voice low and slightly dirty. "such a messy girl tonight. and still trying so hard to be quiet when we both know you can't."

"I'm not— i can't be quiet— Jay, please—" you moaned, almost incoherently now.

He slid his fingers back inside you, fucking you slowly with them while his tongue circled your clit.

The dual sensation had you seeing stars, right on the edge once again.

Your voice was getting hoarser, your moans desperate, needy sobs as he continued edging you with his mouth for what felt like forever.

Jay between your spread legs, focused and in control, while you writhed and moaned loudly beneath his skilled tongue.

He was clearly enjoying himself, occasionally humming in satisfaction against your pussy or glancing up to watch your innocent face contort with overwhelming pleasure.

"You're doing so well holding it for me" he praised softly between licks. "just a little longer…"

Your body was on fire, every nerve ending screaming for release, but Jay kept you right there — teetering, desperate, and completely at his mercy.

Now you were shaking uncontrollably, your thighs trembling around Jay's head as he continued working you with his tongue.

Jay sucked your swollen clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue rapidly while his two fingers curled deep inside you, pressing firmly against that sensitive spot.

His dark eyes flicked up to watch your face as he pushed you over.

"Jay— fuck— i'm cumming—!" you cried out loudly, voice breaking into a high-pitched moan that echoed through the room.

The orgasm crashed over you hard.

Your back arched violently off the bed, hips jerking against his face as waves of intense pleasure ripped through your body.

You moaned shamelessly loud, almost screaming his name as your pussy clenched around his fingers and flooded his tongue.

But Jay didn't stop.

He kept his mouth on you through the entire orgasm, licking and sucking gently but consistently, drawing it out and immediately pushing you toward another peak.

"Jay— oh my god, it's too much... i just came— ah" you wailed, one hand gripping his hair tightly while the other twisted in the sheets. your legs shook uncontrollably around his shoulders.

He hummed against your pussy, the vibration sending aftershocks through you.

"I know" he murmured, voice low and slightly smug against your wet folds. "but you sound too pretty when you're falling apart. i'm not done with you yet."

He continued eating you out with focused determination — slow, broad licks mixed with quick flicks on your oversensitive clit.

His fingers kept moving inside you, curling and thrusting steadily. the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth on your dripping pussy filled the room alongside your loud, hoarse moans.

After several long minutes of this delicious torture, Jay finally pulled his mouth away, his lips and chin glistening with your arousal.

He looked up at your flushed, wrecked face with that signature cool smirk.

"On your stomach again." he said quietly, voice rough with want.

You barely had the strength to move, but he helped you, flipping you onto your belly with strong, careful hands.

He pulled your hips up so you were in doggy again — ass high, chest and face pressed down into the mattress, exactly how he liked you.

Jay knelt behind you and rubbed his hard cock along your soaked folds before pushing back inside you in one smooth, deep thrust. you moaned into the sheets as he filled you again.

"Jay— nggh—"

He started fucking you again with those perfect deep and fast strokes, his hips snapping against your ass.

One hand gripped your hip firmly while the other slid up your back. Then you felt it — his thumb circling your tight rim teasingly before slowly pressing inside.

The dual sensation — his thick cock stretching your pussy while his thumb gently worked inside your ass — was overwhelming.

"Shit... Jay" your body trembled as he pushed his thumb deeper, moving it in slow, careful thrusts in time with his cock.

"Relax for me" he murmured, voice low and steady even as he fucked you harder. "just a little. i've got you."

He kept the pace deep and rhythmic, cock driving into your pussy while his thumb gently fucked your ass.

The feeling was intense but not painful — just enough stretch and fullness to make your loud moans turn even more desperate.

You were a wreck — face down, ass up, moaning shamelessly loud with every thrust. Jay's free hand reached around to rub your clit again, pushing you toward another orgasm while he continued the double stimulation.

"Listen to how loud you are" he said, voice husky with arousal but still teasing. "you love this, don't you?"

"Yes... ngf... fuck yes, i love it—" you cried out, pushing back against him desperately. "don't stop... please."

Jay kept going, deep and controlled.

His cock dragged perfectly against your g-spot with every thrust while his thumb moved gently inside you, stretching you just enough to heighten everything.

The room was filled with the wet sounds of sex, skin slapping skin, and your continuous loud moans.

He leaned forward, chest pressing against your back as he fucked you, his mouth close to your ear.

"You're squeezing me so fucking tight" he groaned softly. "both holes. such a greedy girl tonight."

You could only moan in response, completely lost in the pleasure.

Jay's rhythm never faltered — deep, fast strokes in your pussy, steady movements of his thumb in your ass, and his fingers still working your clit.

He kept you right on the edge of another orgasm, drawing it out just like before.

After several long, intense minutes, he pulled his thumb out carefully and focused entirely on fucking you deep from behind, both hands gripping your hips as he drove into you with powerful, controlled thrusts.

Jay leaned down again, kissing the back of your neck as he continued fucking you thoroughly.

"You're doing so well" he said quietly, voice warm despite how hard he was driving into you. "taking me so deep… being so loud for me. my perfect girl."

He kept the pace going, switching between deep grinding and faster thrusts, always keeping you full and stimulated.

He gripped your hips tighter and drove into you harder, his cock sliding in and out of your soaked, sensitive pussy with wet, obscene sounds.

"Jay, fuck... it's too much—" you cried out, voice breaking as he hit that perfect spot over and over.

He leaned forward, chest pressing against your back, and wrapped one arm around your waist to hold you in place. his other hand slid up to grip your shoulder, pulling you back onto his cock with every thrust.

"You can take it" he murmured against your ear, voice rough and low. "you've been waiting years for this. take it like a good girl for me."

Then he shifted again, pushing your upper body fully down while keeping your hips raised.

The weight of him on top of you again, the way his cock drove so deep at this angle, had you moaning loudly into the sheets, almost sobbing with overstimulation and pleasure.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of him fucking you thoroughly, Jay's breathing became more ragged. his thrusts grew faster, more desperate.

This was exactly how he needed it.

He fucked you harder, hips snapping against your ass with urgent, almost frantic strokes.

His cock drove deep inside you with every thrust, the angle letting him hit as deep as possible. his breathing was heavy and labored against the back of your neck.

"Fuck— i'm close—" he groaned, voice strained for the first time that night. "you feel too good… i can't hold it anymore."

You moaned loudly in response, pushing your ass back against him as much as you could. "cum inside me, i want to feel you—"

That seemed to break the last bit of his control.

Jay's thrusts became erratic and desperate. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other gripping the sheets beside your head.

His hips slammed against you faster, chasing his release with raw need.

"Shit— fuck" he growled, voice breaking as the pleasure overtook him.

With a deep, guttural groan that vibrated against your skin, Jay buried himself as deep as possible inside you and came hard.

His cock pulsed strongly, releasing thick, warm spurts of cum deep into your pussy.

His hips stuttered and jerked against your ass as he rode out the intense orgasm, grinding deep to push every drop inside you.

He kept thrusting weakly through his climax, desperate and almost whimpering against your neck as the pleasure overwhelmed him.

His body trembled on top of yours, muscles tense, breathing ragged and hot against your skin.

He stayed pressed against you, hips twitching, making sure you took every single drop.

The desperation in his movements — the way he held you so tightly, the broken groans, the way he couldn't stop moving even after he started cumming — was raw and intense. years of tension finally snapping in that exact moment.

He stayed inside you for a long time afterward, breathing heavily, body still covering yours completely as the last aftershocks ran through him.

His cock continued to twitch inside your cum-filled pussy, making you whimper softly at the overstimulation.

The room was quiet now except for both of your heavy breathing. Jay's warm, sweaty body remained pressed against your back, his face hidden in your neck as he tried to catch his breath.

No words yet.

Just the heavy, satisfied silence and the feeling of him still deep inside you, having cum exactly where he needed to — deep, desperate, and completely lost in the moment.

The room felt quieter than it had all night.

You stayed there — face down, body spent and trembling — trying to process the overwhelming wave of emotions crashing over you.

The pleasure was still echoing through your limbs, but something deeper was settling in. something terrifying and warm at the same time.

Jay finally let out a long, shaky breath.

He pressed a slow, almost hesitant kiss to the back of your shoulder before carefully pulling out of you.

The loss of him made you whimper softly. you felt empty.

Exposed. raw.

He rolled off you and lay on his side, facing you.

For a few seconds, he just looked at you — dark eyes searching your face with that familiar intensity. his hair was messy, lips slightly swollen, skin glistening with sweat under the soft brown-gold lighting.

He looked beautiful. and suddenly, painfully real.

You turned your head to face him, cheek still pressed against the bed.

Your heart was doing something complicated in your chest.

"Jay…" you whispered, voice hoarse from how loudly you'd been moaning.

He reached out and gently brushed damp strands of hair away from your face. his touch was careful now, almost reverent.

"Yeah?" he answered quietly. his voice was lower than usual, a little rough.

You didn't know what to say. there were too many things at once.

I just slept with my best friend.

I let him cum inside me.

I've been in love with you for years and now i'm scared.

Instead of speaking, you shifted closer and tucked yourself against his chest.

Jay didn't hesitate — he wrapped his arms around you immediately, pulling you in.

One hand rubbed slow circles on your bare back while the other rested at the nape of your neck.

The silence stretched again, but it wasn't uncomfortable.

It was heavy.

"I…" you started, then stopped.

Your fingers traced small patterns on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slowly begin to calm. "i don't know what to say right now."

Jay let out a soft breath that was almost a chuckle. "me neither."

He tilted his head down to look at you.

His expression was calm on the surface, but you knew him too well. there was something vulnerable behind his eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asked. the question was simple, but the way he asked it — gentle, serious — made your chest tighten.

You nodded against him. "yeah. just… a lot."

He was quiet for a moment, then spoke again, voice low. "i know. for me too."

You pulled back slightly so you could see his face better. "did you… want this? like, really want it? or did i just—"

Jay cut you off by pressing his forehead against yours.

"I wanted it" he said firmly. "i've wanted it for longer than i probably should admit. but i never let myself think about it too much because… you're you. my best friend. the one person i didn't want to risk losing."

Your eyes stung a little.

You swallowed hard.

"I've been in love with you since second year" you confessed in a whisper. the words felt scary to say out loud, but after everything that had just happened, they also felt necessary.

"Not just… wanting you. loving you. for years. and tonight i just… i couldn't pretend anymore."

Jay's hand stilled on your back for a second. then he pulled you closer, tucking your head under his chin.

"I figured" he murmured. "i'm not blind. the way you looked at me during those guitar lessons… how you'd get quiet sometimes. i noticed. i just didn't know if acting on it would fuck everything up."

You let out a shaky laugh. "and now?"

He was quiet for a long time. his fingers resumed their slow movement on your back.

"Now i don't know" he admitted honestly. "but i don't regret it. not even a little." he paused. "do you?"

You shook your head quickly. "no. God, no. it felt… right. even if it was intense. even if i was so loud i probably woke up your neighbors."

Jay chuckled softly, the sound rumbling in his chest.

The familiar teasing tone returned just a bit. "you were really loud. i didn't know you had that in you."

You hid your face in his neck, embarrassed but smiling. "shut up. you were the one edging me for like an hour."

He laughed again, but it faded into something softer. his arms tightened around you.

"I just… i needed to know you really wanted it" he said quietly. "all of it. not just because you were drunk or horny. i needed to hear you fall apart for me."

You stayed silent, absorbing his words.

The vulnerability in his voice was rare. Jay was always the cool one, the one who had everything under control. hearing him admit that he'd been holding back too made something warm bloom in your chest.

"I've never felt like that with anyone else" you whispered. "not even close. it wasn't just sex, Jay. it was you."

He exhaled slowly, like he'd been holding that breath for a long time.

"Yeah" he said finally. "same here."

The two of you stayed tangled together like that for a while.

You traced a finger along his collarbone. "are you scared?" you asked softly.

Jay was quiet for a few seconds.

"A little" he admitted. "i don't want to lose what we have. the friendship. the late nights. the stupid arguments about music. you're important to me. really fucking important."

You nodded, throat tight. "me too. but… i also don't think i can go back to pretending i don't feel this way."

He tilted your chin up gently so you were looking at him. his dark eyes were serious, but there was warmth there too.

"Then we don't pretend" he said. "we figure it out. slowly. no pressure. you're still my best friend first. everything else… we'll see."

You felt tears prick at your eyes again, but this time they were different. not sad. just overwhelmed.

Jay noticed immediately. he wiped the corner of your eye with his thumb.

"Hey" he said softly, that teasing smirk returning just a fraction. "don't cry on me now. i just made you cum so hard you almost forgot your own name. this is supposed to be a victory lap."

You laughed wetly and shoved his chest lightly. "you're such an asshole."

"Your asshole" he corrected, smirking.

The joke helped. it reminded you that even after everything, he was still Jay.

Your Jay.

You snuggled closer again, legs tangling with his. His hand resumed rubbing your back, soothing and steady.

The emotional weight of the night settled over both of you — the relief, the fear, the hope, the deep affection that had always been there underneath the tension.

It wasn't simple. it wasn't clean. but it was real.

Jay held you tighter, like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.

"Get some sleep" he murmured eventually, voice soft. "we'll talk more in the morning. when your brain isn't fried from all the orgasms i gave you."

You smiled against his skin. "cocky."

"Accurate" he replied.

Even in the emotional aftermath, the teasing remained. it felt safe. familiar.

As your eyes grew heavier, wrapped in his arms in the warm glow of his room, you realized something important:

Whatever happened next — whether this became something more or complicated everything — you didn't regret a single second.

And from the way Jay's fingers kept tracing gentle patterns on your skin long after you thought he'd fallen asleep, you suspected he didn't either.

PARK JONGSEONG HAS NEVER KISSED YOU. 

Maybe you have never even felt his touch, the mere sensation of fingers brushing innocently against each other was unknown to you. 

And as you realise it, your chest tightens, and you dig your fingernails way too deep into your palms until they form little red crescents which burn. You realise he’d never seen you shed your tears as well, so you keep them at bay, praying that it’ll be enough to hide the storm brewing inside you. 

Park Jongseong is your fiancé, an arranged marriage. Bound to you by the weight of expectation, tradition, and a polished ring that sparkles mockingly on your finger.

To anyone else, you might seem like the perfect couple—well-dressed at formal dinners, walking side by side at events, exchanging polite smiles that barely reach your eyes. But behind closed doors, the gap between you feels insurmountable. 

Sometimes during those boring and forced events, all you want to do is to pull Jongseong closer by his arm. You want him to look at you and smile, to hold you by the waist and kiss you, to at least, acknowledge your presence in a room. 

But Park Jongseong is careful, too careful.

His words are measured, his actions restrained, as though every interaction is scripted. When he walks beside you, there’s always a polite distance, just enough to make it clear he’s near but never close enough to feel his warmth. Even when he hands you something—a pen, a glass of water—his fingers never brush yours.

It’s like he’s built an invisible wall between you, one that neither of you has dared to tear down.

“Ah—!” he winces in pain as you dab the medicated damp cotton a little too hard over his bruise on his cheeks. 

“S-sorry, I had something on my mind,” you stutter, immediately discarding the cotton into a trashcan.

“Its fine,” Jongseong whispers. 

“Wait let me see—” you reach your trembling, careful hand towards Jongseong’s bruise, in high hopes to cure it. 

“Its okay I'm fine,” Jongseong reiterates, slapping your hand away in a hurried motion.

Ouch. Does he not want you touching him? 

You gulp. The previous plaguing thoughts dawning over you once again. Doubt, insecurity and disturbance hurls at you at a threatening velocity once again, and you can feel yourself falling into a black void. 

You gulp again, your throat suddenly dry, your fingers tightening around the edge of the bathroom sink. You wish you had something to hold onto, something solid or real. Because standing here, staring at your fiancé, you felt like you were slipping into something dark and unknown. 

Jongseong sits on the marble countertop, his long legs spread apart, hands resting on either side of him like he was trying to keep himself steady. His crisp white dress shirt rumpled, the top buttons undone, revealing the faintest hint of a bruise blooming against his collarbone. His knuckles are scraped raw, his lip slightly swollen, and yet, god, yet he still looked unfairly handsome. Even now, even like this. 

You wish he would just kiss you. 

Just once. 

Just so you could taste something other than this awful, gnawing suspicion twisting in your gut.  

“How’d you hurt yourself?” you finally ask, your voice quiet but firm, pushing past the lump in your throat. The words feel too small in the vast space between you.  

Jongseong exhales sharply through his nose, shifting where he sat, as if he suddenly found the countertop beneath him unbearably uncomfortable. He lifts a hand, raking it through his raven-black hair, the strands falling messily over his forehead. His dark eyes never met yours.  

“Just fell first on my face,” he mutters, his voice tinged with forced nonchalance. “I was late to the office.”  

The explanation is simple. Too simple. Like a script he had rehearsed and rewritten a thousand times before finally presenting it to you. His words echo in the cold, tiled room, but they lack weight. Lack of honesty. 

Your fingers clench at the fabric of your sleeves as you nod slowly, pretending, for now, that you believed him. But the walls around you felt thinner, and the air between you was suffocating.  

Because deep down, you know.  

Jongseong is lying.

You nod slowly, trying to process his words, but they feel so hollow, so rehearsed. Jongseong doesn't even meet your eyes as he speaks, his gaze fixed on the tiled bathroom wall behind you.

“You should be more careful,” you sigh, ultimately rearranging all the medicines back to the first aid kit, with all your hopes of holding a long conversation with Jongseong slipping away into the trash can, “Its okay if you're late to office one day—” 

“How'd you get this?” Jongseong mumbles, his hand was flying slowly towards you from your peripheral vision. 

In a moment he stands up, easily towering over you. You can't dare to look in his eyes, so you settle yours at the loose buttons of his shirt. Your heart thumps faster as he moves in closer, a concerned yet bored tone in his voice. 

And then it finally happens, the impact takes place. The rough, calloused yet gentle pads of his fingers touch the apple of your cheeks. 

An electric shock runs through your veins— Park Jongseong touches your face. 

“Uhm- I uh I was-” you stutter, unable to form a proper sentence. 

“Weird,” Jongseong scoffs, retracting his hand. You wince at the absence of his touch, wishing it’d lasted longer. Jongseong continues, “we got hurt in the same place.” 

Your breath hitches.  

The warmth of his fingers lingered on your skin, even though the touch had been fleeting. Insignificant, maybe, to him. But to you? It was enough to leave your thoughts spiraling, to send your heart into a frenzied rhythm you couldn’t control.  

Jongseong’s expression doesn’t change. It’s still composed, unreadable, but there was something else in his eyes now. Not warmth, not affection, but something bordering on curiosity. As if he were piecing together a puzzle, one he didn’t quite care enough to solve.  

You force out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s just a coincidence,” you mutter, lying through your teeth. Because, just like him, you aren’t being honest either.  

Because your bruise wasn’t an accident.  

And neither was his.  

For a second, just a brief second, the two of you stand there in silence. The space between you feels suffocating, but not because of proximity. It was the weight of everything left unsaid. The doubts, the unspoken questions, the invisible wall that had existed from the very start.  

You want to reach for him, to bridge the gap. To ask him what had really happened, to tell him you weren’t as blind as he might think. But the words die in your throat when Jongseong took a step back, like he had just realized he’d gotten too close.  

“I should go,” he says flatly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off some invisible burden. His hand brushes over his lip, pressing lightly against the swelling before he turns toward the door.  

“Jongseong—”  

He pauses. Just barely. Not enough to turn around, not enough to give you hope.  

You clench your fists at your sides. “Be careful next time,” you finish, your voice softer, weaker than you wanted it to be.  

There was a moment where you thought—hoped—he might say something back. But instead, he simply nods once before slipping out of the bathroom, leaving you standing there, alone with your own reflection.  

Your fingers reach up, tracing the ghost of his touch on your cheek.  

Park Jongseong had never kissed you.  

And at this rate, you aren't  sure if he ever will.

THE EVENING AIR BUZZES WITH CONVERSATION AND CLINKING GLASSES.

You sit rigidly at the long aok dining table, forcing a smile.

Jongseong is beside you, distant even in proximity, his fingers lightly tapping against the stem of his wine glass. You steal glances at him when you think he’s not looking, searching for any crack in his polished mask.

Across the table, your cousin Daisy leans forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“So…” she begins loudly enough to catch everyone’s attention, “how’s the arranged love story going? Still playing house or have we upgraded to actual feelings yet?”

The table erupts into laughter. You stiffen, your heart dropping into your stomach.

You try to laugh along, but it comes out awkward and brittle.

“You know, busy schedules. Hard to plan our fairy tale ending around board meetings and conference calls.”

The words taste sour in your mouth. 

You glance sideways at Jongseong, silently begging him with your eyes— Say something. Tell them it’s more. Tell them I’m more to you.

He simply chuckles, a soft, detached sound, and lifts his glass. The knot in your stomach tightens.

“Work always comes first,” he says, voice smooth, almost rehearsed.

There’s a pause. A small, hollow space opens inside your chest, which Jongseong manages to disturb.

Daisy snickers. “So romantic. Truly the love story of the century.”

Someone else jokes about putting bets on how long the marriage will last. More laughter, even more jokes. Insensitive and overlooking.

You feel your face heating up, but it's not embarrassment, it’s humiliation. And Jongseong, just sits there. Smiling politely, like he’s miles away.

You press your lips together tightly, stabbing your fork into a piece of roasted vegetable.

The moment passes, conversation flowing into safer topics, but your appetite is gone. All you can taste is the bitter disappointment.

As dessert is served, Jongseong’s phone vibrates on the table. He glances at it quickly, then tucks it away without a word. The tiny movement feels monumental. Another reminder that there's always somewhere else he'd rather be.

Finally, after what feels like hours, people start gathering their things, pulling on coats, exchanging hugs and goodbyes.

You and Jongseong step out into the chilly night. The cold air slaps your cheeks, a stark contrast to the stifling warmth inside.

You walk side by side in silence towards the car.

You can't hold it in any longer.

“Why didn’t you say anything back there?” you blurt, voice trembling despite your best effort to stay calm.

Jongseong stops walking. Turns to you slowly. His face is unreadable under the dim porch lights.

“About what?” he asks, feigning innocence. Oh, how you hate that face.

“About us,” you snap, your voice cracking under the weight of it all. “When they joked, when they implied we’re just business partners?”

He shrugs. “It was just a joke. Why give them more to gossip about?”

You stare at him, blinking rapidly to keep the sting of tears at bay. “Because it’s not just a joke to me.”

He exhales, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re overthinking it, Y/n.”

You laugh bitterly. “Am I? Because it feels pretty real when you don’t even try to correct them. When you act like you’re fine with everyone believing this marriage is just some... some arrangement you’re tolerating.”

His jaw tightens. “What would you have wanted me to say? That we’re madly in love? That we’re inseparable? That I can’t breathe without you?” His voice is low, cutting. He snaps, “Would that have made you feel better? Lying to everyone?”

You flinch like he slapped you. The hurt pools behind your eyes.

“I don’t need you to lie,” you whisper. “I just—”

The words hang between you, heavy, fragile.

For a second, just a second, something flickers across his face. Regret? Guilt? You can't tell.

But just as quickly, he turns away, walking briskly to the car. “Let’s not do this here,” he says sharply. “It’s late.”

You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, watching his back retreat from you like a closing door.

When you finally move, your feet feel like lead. You climb into the passenger seat without a word. The ride back home is suffocating. Silent. A chasm grows wider with every passing streetlight.

You want to reach out, to grab his hand, to say something, anything, that will fix whatever's breaking between you.

But you’re too afraid you’re the only one who still wants to fix it.

So you stare out the window, watching your reflection blur against the passing night.

And beside you, Jongseong drives on, his hands tight on the wheel, his face carved in stone.

Park Jongseong is giving up, maybe you should too.

PARK JONGSEONG THOUGHT HIS TO BE WIFE HAD FORGOT HIS BIRTHDAY.

But then he reminds himself, all these months of carrying a diamond ring of mockery on his hand— a symbol of bondage, marriage —he had never felt the fleeting touch of his soon to be wife.

And so he doesn't bother to kiss her goodbye, maybe pull her closer by her waist, whisper something not so innocent in her ears to watch her face flush in enticement, and leave for work with the motivation to come back to his fiancé’s arms.

No. He does nothing.

Park Jongseong doesn't even take the day off and stays at home. He leaves in a hurry, first thing in the morning. He doesn’t like celebrating birthdays anyway, it’s just a year closer to his demise, nothing to like about it.

He packs his briefcase in silence as he steals one last glance of you, groaning lazily as you make your way to the washroom. Of course, you have your job too, and Jongseong expected even less. It’s just a birthday, nothing too much.

9:30 am, he reaches his office building.

The heir to the prestigious, Park Company. The weight of expectation hung in the air like a finely spun chandelier, too delicate to touch, too grand to ignore. After all, he wasn’t just any director. He was Park Jongseong. The upcoming CEO. The heir.

The revolving glass doors of the company building spun to a slow stop behind him. Jongseong adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, eyes half-lidded, movements precise. He could hear the echo of his polished shoes as he walked through the marble tiled lobby, his reflection following him in the towering glass panels.

“Good morning, Vice President,” several voices chorused as he passed, accompanied by clipped bows and tight smiles.

He gave them all the same nod. Unbothered. Distant.

The elevator doors open and steps out alone, the silence laying on him like a second skin. The floor is cool and quiet, save for the typical office noises. He reminds himself that it's just another day, just another date on the calendar which could be overlooked without any problem. His team gathers up to the front door, clapping and smiling at him. Some senior executives push a forced smile in front of their young boss, the juniors more enthusiastic about someone they fear athough Jongseong doesn’t know if theirs are forced or natural.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY JONGSEONG,” they all sing song as confetti pops out in the air and paper freckles of his least favourite colours flutter down on him.

A distant banner said: TO THE FUTURE CEO. He shrugs, a polite smile on his face.

Among the crowd he spots Sunghoon, his first cousin as he steps out with a jovial smile and hands still clapping. He was in line to be the CEO as well, before he put down the offer to be COO instead, saying he's not a natural leader like Jongseong is.

“To the youngest CEO our company has ever seen!” he exclaims to the crowd as he stands beside Jongseong, pulling him to an encouraging hug. “What?” he snickers, “don't like the celebration?”

“No, I love it,” Jongseong hopes his smile is not too fake looking as he faces his team, not all of them are happy to be here, some are bored and waiting for their shift to be over. He sighs, “thank you guys for this, it means a lot to me.”

A celebration follows, and Jongseong does what is needed. A polite tight lipped smile, respectful bows and a small speech. Said the expected words. Cut the cake, nodded through small talk, and endured hugs from coworkers who’d never even dared to speak to him before today.

When noon rolls around, someone chirps, “We ordered lunch in! Come eat with us, Vice President Park!”

But Jongseong shakes his head.

“I’ll stay in,” he says, voice as smooth as glass. “I have calls to take.”

He turns, walks into his office, and shuts the door behind him.

Silence falls like a blanket. The cheers and loud noises quickly fade as the second Jongseong pulls the door close to his office, making slow and steady steps to his chair. He sits down on it, sighing as he lets out a shaky breath.

Birthday.

The word still rolls bitterly in his mind, not festive, not celebratory—just sharp edged and cold. A reminder of time ticking forward, dragging him further into a life that never felt like his own. A year older, a year deeper into expectations that weren’t his to begin with. The title. The company. The marriage.

He remembers the uncomfortable tight-fitting tuxedos, blinding camera flashes, tight lipped smiles of relatives he didn’t know and as usual, a script.

A script he had to learn every year, which is now installed in his brain. Jongseong just has to open his mouth and utter the same, mechanical and monotonous words in front of everyone as his parents would reassure him after, of how well he did, how well he behaved. And before he even knew it, birthdays meant nothing to him.

But then again, it was made cold and unbearable to him by the world. By his parents.

“Whatever,” he sighs and shrugs his blazer off him. And just as he’s about to throw it on his desk, he notices something.

A lunch box, covered neatly in pink satin cloth. A small note on top.

Jongseong doesn’t want to make assumptions, but he does anyway. What if it's from you? What if you really remembered his birthday? With a gulp, he steers his chair closer to his desk and picks up the lunch box, opening his cloth and reading the note in his hands, holding it up close.

Hope you like it. Happy birthday Jongseong, from y/n.

His breath falters, you remember.

His name in your handwriting. A little crooked, like you were in a rush, or were nervous. His throat tightens as he peels the lid off the top container.

And the scent hits him instantly.

Curry.

Rich, warm, and spiced exactly the way he likes it. Not the kind served at expensive restaurants with dainty portions, but the real kind. Homemade. The kind that sticks to your ribs. The kind that reminds him of chilly weekends in Seattle when he was small enough to sit on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs while his grandmother stirred the pot.

Something coils in his chest.

Carefully, he lifts the second container. The rice is shaped into a perfect flat surface. Neatly pressed, fluffy, hot. And across it—seaweed sheet, hand-cut with meticulous patience—spells out three letters.

JAY

Jongseong feels his heartbeat faltering. He winces as his offices’ air conditioning hits the bruise on his cheeks. He carefully sets the curry down on his table, before gaping at the rice again.

It indeed spells, JAY.

He scoffs at this weird feeling. The more he stares at it the more his heart burns and coils.

Only his grandmother had ever called him that. Not his father. Not his mother. No one in the stiff, lacquered halls of his youth had bothered to learn the name that made him feel… human. Small. Loved.

And now here it was. Cut delicately in seaweed. Sitting quietly in a box on his birthday.

By you.

“You’re really not going to join us for lunch?” Sunghoon barges in his office, striding towards Jongseong's desk.

Jongseong hurriedly tries to close the lunchbox, but it’s too late. Sunghoon’s eyes have already zeroed in on it like a hawk spotting prey.

“Is that curry?” Sunghoon gasps, leaning over the desk like an excited child. “Oh my god, it smells amazing. Who got you that? Is it from that expensive place across the street? Is that seaweed spelling your name? That’s so cute—”

“Get your hands away from it,” Jongseong snaps, dragging the lunchbox closer to his chest like it’s a newborn baby he’s sworn to protect with his life.

Sunghoon’s hand freezes mid-reach. His eyebrows shoot up.

“Wow. Wow. Possessive much?”

“This is mine,” Jongseong mutters defensively, clutching the lunchbox tighter. “You guys have a whole lunch downstairs. Go eat that.”

“But that’s communal food,” Sunghoon whines, poking the air toward the lunchbox. “This looks special. Homemade. You should share. It’s what Grandma Jay would’ve wanted.”

Jongseong glares at him.

“Grandma Jay would’ve wanted you to mind your own business.”

Sunghoon snickers, undeterred, and tries to lunge for a bite. Jongseong immediately swivels his chair away, putting his entire body between Sunghoon and the precious lunch like a shield.

“Jesus, you’re like a dragon hoarding treasure,” Sunghoon laughs, hands on his hips. “You’re gonna die alone with that lunchbox in your arms.”

“Good,” Jongseong says without missing a beat. “But I'm not going to share.”

Sunghoon makes one last dramatic, fake sob attack at the lunchbox. Jongseong kicks at him under the desk until he stumbles back, defeated.

Grumbling, Sunghoon heads for the door, shooting Jongseong a betrayed look over his shoulder.

“You’ve changed, man,” he says dramatically. “Fame, fortune… personalized seaweed letters. You’re not the same Jongseong I knew.”

Jongseong just smirks to himself as the door swings shut again. 

Finally, blessed peace.

He opens the lunchbox once more, the smell of curry filling the room, and the sight of your careful seaweed letters warming a space inside him he didn’t even know was still hollow.

A dull sting pulses along his cheek as he chews, and his hand drifts to the bruise you both pretended not to see. He clicks his tongue, annoyed. Coincidence, he tells himself. Nothing more. But the throbbing settles under his skin like a reminder—of you, of your quiet lies, of his own.

But this time, when he takes the first bite, he laughs under his breath.

YOU DESERVED A BETTER GRATITUDE THAN A JUST SIMPLE THANK YOU.

Park Jongseong sighs as he stares at the window of his car, watching the raindrops race against each other. His fingers drum restlessly against the steering wheel, the soft patter of rain against metal filling the silence inside the car.

He leans back against the headrest, staring at the road.

“thank you for the lunch, y/n.” he said last night, “it was so delicious.”

He remembers the tension between your brows, how they knotted up gently and relaxed a second after. Disappointment. He was offhand, rushed and sudden with his words, not even looking into your eyes as he said how warm the meal was. So why wouldn’t you be disappointed? Jongseong remembers the way you rolled your shoulders back, a small sigh escaping you as if you had to physically push the disappointment out of your body, tuck it somewhere he wouldn’t notice.

“you’re welcome,” you said simply, unmuting the ignored show playing on the tv with a soft clenched jaw, which Jongseong wished he wouldn’t notice.

He knew that your welcome wasn’t genuine. And maybe he could’ve tried to find the stars in your eyes to make things better, maybe he shouldn’t overthink.

But he also remembers the way you took a second glance of him when he stood there like a robot, holding his almost empty briefcase in his hands, wanting to say something else than just a thank you.

Your eyes were cold then. Faint traces of tears sticking to your lashes, catching the soft glow of the overhead light as you looked at him like you were trying to read him one last time. He thought you would say something, maybe shout or scoff at his posture.

But nothing came out of your mouth except a tired sigh as you abandoned your discomfort and disappointment on the cold couch as you made your way towards the shared bedroom, agonizingly slow.

Maybe you had that pace intentionally, for him to call you back and say something real. Cause fuck, you remember his beloved nickname which was lost, you remember how he liked his curry, you remember him.

Lost in own thoughts, something interesting catches Jongseong’s eyes.

Is that you?

Jongseong gets startled at the sight. You, in this heavy and cold rain, trying to cross the road with your blazer above your head, which does nothing to keep you dry.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, quickly starting his car as he drives across the road, stopping just beside the pavement.

“Y/n!” He shouts your name clear in the heavy rain, loud enough for you to turn around to his voice, “get in, you’re going to get sick!”

You pause mid-step at his voice, blinking through the rain as you turn to face him. The car idles beside the curb, headlights casting a pale glow across the drenched street. His figure leans across the seat, the passenger door wide open like a quiet plea.

But you stay rooted where you are, water soaking through your shoes, the cold seeping deeper beneath your skin. Your hands clench at your sides.

“I’m fine,” you call out, loud enough for him to hear but it’s tough at the edge, shaking, “go home, Jongseong—”

“Y/n please,” he pleads, although it doesn’t sound like one, “you’re soaking wet, just shut up and get in!”

“I’m- I’m fine,” you snap. You don’t want to get in the car just because he happens to see you and is inviting you to stay dry. That’s the only case, isn’t it? Jongseong is here by coincidence, he wouldn’t deliberately check your location to pick you up in this awful weather. Would he?

“I can go by myself, the rain is not too bad.”

You can hear him sigh, as he gets out of his car, slamming the door behind him.

“Get in,” he steps into the rain, the downpour immediately plastering his shirt to his skin, darkening the fabric, “You will fall sick, y/n. Get in the car.”

He steps even closer, his hair now sticking to his forehead by this insufferable rain as he narrows his eyes. “If you want to be sick so bad, do this another day.”

Your throat tightens. You want to scream at him, shake him, ask him why he always waits until things fall apart before showing up. Why he only steps into the rain once you’re already drenched.

But instead you force your chin up, press your lips into a tight smile as you gather your blazer tighter around yourself.

“Don’t act like you care if i’m sick, Jongseong,” you didn't want to say that, but do anyways.

He blinks. For a second, his expression falters. Barely. “Why not?,” he says quietly, almost like he’s confessing something he hadn’t intended to say aloud. But then his gaze hardens again, guarded. “You’re freezing, Y/N. Stop being stubborn.”

The wind blows past you both, cold and biting. You shiver, teeth clattering as you try to recover whatever warmth the soaked blazer has to give.

“I won’t go—”

“As much as I would love to argue with you right now,” Jongseong cuts off, standing so close that your hands could meet, “I can't let you get sick.”

Your lips part, another protest rising, but before you can speak, Jongseong’s fingers curl around your wrist, not harsh, but firm. His brows draw together, rain sliding down his temples, his lips a tight line.

“I said get in the car,” he repeats, lower this time. His voice carries an edge, not pleading, not begging—commanding. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You glare at him, heart wrenching in the cold rain as it seeps into your work clothes.

“You only come when it’s convenient for you,” you try to hold it together.

He steps closer, raindrops sliding down the sharp lines of his face. “You think this is convenient for me?” he says bitterly, tone low, controlled. “You think standing here like an idiot in the rain for you is easy?”

The proximity hits you suddenly. He’s standing close, too close, as the rain damps his shirt next. Jongseong’s grip around your wrist tightens, indicating he’s not going back home without you in his car.

And somehow that warms you a bit in this coldness.

His eyes are direct, confronting as they try to soften into yours. Try, you can see it, how his eyebrows lift and slowly fall, trying to find the ease in the situation to gently pull you into the car with no trouble, with no one getting sick.

“Y/n…” he whispers your name, as if for the last time when he finally eases his brows, “get in the car. Please.”

You gulp at his seriousness, a droplet of rain rolls from his chin to fall on your cheeks. It’s cold, making you flinch.

“And if i don’t go?” you test the waters, voice trembling as you watch him roll back his shoulders.

“Then I’ll carry you,” he says without hesitation, his gaze hardening. “Don’t test me right now.”

Something in his tone makes your breath hitch. He’s not bluffing—you know that.

You swallow, lips pressing into a thin line as you hesitate, your pride warring with the exhaustion creeping into your bones. But just as another gust of wind leaves you shivering, your resolution breaks.

You look away first, “You are a very bad liar—”

Jongseong doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile or smirk or gloat. He just scoops you up before you can finish the sentence.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as Jongseong’s arm slides under your knees and the other wraps firmly around your back, pulling you against him. Your soaked blazer slips uselessly from your shoulders, rain immediately lashing against your skin, but his body blocks most of it. He’s solid, unyielding, warm in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Jongseong—!” you protest, instinctively gripping the front of his damp shirt. His name tears out of you softer than you intended.

“I warned you,” he mutters, jaw clenched as he turns toward the car. His grip tightens reflexively when you shift, as if afraid you’ll fall or run. “Stop fighting me.”

He reaches the car and nudges the passenger door open with his knee, maneuvering you inside with careful precision.

When he slides back into his seat, drenched and stoic, he doesn’t look at you immediately. Just stares ahead as the engine hums softly beneath the rain. And with that, he pulls the car into drive, headlights cutting through the downpour, his hand steady on the wheel even if everything else between you trembles on the edge of falling apart.

“Take this,” he says, reaching towards the backseat and grabbing his dry blazer, “you’ll be cold.”

“T-thanks,” you don’t argue much as your teeth clatter together, quickly draping the blazer over your damp clothes.

“Y-your clothes are soaked too,” you gulp, voice soft and nervous. You glance at Jongseong’s side profile as he drives, “you’ll get sick—”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, his voice low and steady, almost too calm, “I’m not the one shivering. And it’s just a little rain.”

“So much for the guy who didn’t let me walk home in the rain,” you giggle softly, hoping to elevate his mood but his expressions remain stoic, indifferent.

You pull the blazer tighter around yourself. It smells like him. espresso, cologne and ironically, like home.

“Thank you for—” you clear your throat, taking time to rethink your gratitude towards him when he himself barely shows it. He’s always words, one or two, never sentences like you. But at the end of the day, someone has to express something.

“Thank you for the blazer, and for picking me up anyways. I know you didn’t mean to and I’m sorry for being a nuisance—”

“You’re not a nuisance,” he admits, eyes still on the road. Your heart stops. “I’m not that big of a jerk to let my fiance come home with a fever.”

There’s a silence that stretches long and sharp, the rain outside tapping impatient fingers against the windows. You sink deeper into the passenger seat, your hands curling in your lap. His words aren’t romantic. They aren’t sweet. But they tear through something inside you, a part that’s been holding itself together with hope and delusion.

It’s the bare minimum. It’s something, and something is better than nothing. Right?

“Really?” you whisper, unsure if you really heard that right.

He nods slightly, still focused on the road ahead. “What’s there to question? If you don’t want me picking you up next time, just say so.”

Your heart tugs, this is coming from him. You don’t need anything more than this quiet ride, the shared space between you, the knowledge that he’s here. Whether it’s out of obligation or something deeper.

Jongseong reaches forward, turning on the car’s heating system inside.

“You can keep the blazer,” he mumbles.

You leave it here for now, basking into the silence with his cologne around you, questioning whether or not you really have space in his heart.

RAIN ALWAYS MAKES HIM SOFT.

Not in the obvious way. Not the cinematic way where he confesses or reaches for you or lets himself be held. It makes him quiet first—eyes lingering on windows, fingers tapping restlessly, shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing for something unseen. You notice it the moment you step onto the rooftop, the smell of wet concrete clinging to your coat, droplets sliding down the glass doors behind you.

It’s Sunghoon’s birthday, technically, though no one is really treating it like one. You almost didn’t come. Long days at work, the quiet tension waiting for you at home. But Sunghoon had called, cheerful and insistent, saying it would be “good for everyone,” which usually meant good for Jongseong.

You arrive later than Jongseong and spot him near the bar, surrounded by men in expensive suits. Business partners, maybe friends, you don’t linger long enough to figure it out. After greeting Sunghoon and handing him a gift you picked up last minute, you drift toward the railing instead, letting the city stretch beneath you.

The air is cold. Damp. The kind that creeps under your skin.

He doesn’t see you at first.

Or maybe he does, and pretends he doesn’t. He stands with a glass in his hand, ice melting faster than he drinks it, head tilted just enough to listen without really engaging.

You watch him from the corner of your eyes. Careful, as he would have been. You watch the way his jaw tightens when someone laughs too loudly, his thumb rubs the rim of his glass over and over—a nervous habit he probably doesn’t realize he has. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.

He looks up suddenly, eyes catching you the first thing he looks at besides his drink, as if rehearsed.

You look away quickly. Ever since he rescued you from the rain, he’s gotten quieter. Maybe shy. You notice how quickly he looks away from your eyes, how he hums shakily in response to your soft thank yous, how his cheeks filled with color when you wore his blazer home, rain soaked and cold.

You hope none of that was your imagination.

Sunghoon’s laughter rings behind you, bright and careless, and you force a smile as someone hands you a drink. The rooftop is warm, string lights overhead, music low and conversation easy. You lean against the railing.

That’s when someone steps beside you.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” a familiar voice says.

You turn. Sim Jaeyun—coworker, colleague, friend, whatever fits best these days. Casual clothes, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like he doesn't care. He smiles easily.

“Neither did I,” you admit. “Long week.”

“You look tired.”

“You have no idea.”

He says your name gently. He asks about work, complains about his boss, makes you laugh with a stupid story about getting lost. At some point, without thinking, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, fingers grazing your temple.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t notice the shift in the room.

But Jongseong does.

He notices the untouched drink, the way your sleeve keeps slipping, and he sure as hell notices someone else standing in front of you. Touching you. Smiling with you.

The sound around him dulls, like someone turned the volume down. He sees the touch, the way you tilt your head, the smile he doesn’t think he’s ever earned. Something hot and sharp coils in his chest.

He downs his drink.

“Vice President Park, what are your thoughts—”

He doesn’t hear it.

Another glass appears in his hand. He gulps it down. His throat burns.

The weather crawls under his skin. Anger blurs into something uglier, something dangerously close to fear.

Why are you smiling like that?

He tells himself it’s none of his business. He has no claim. You’re his fiancée by contract, not by touch, not by confession.

And yet his feet move before his thoughts catch up.

He doesn’t storm. He detaches himself from the circle, sets his glass down with too much force, and walks. Slow. Measured.

You feel it before you see him.

The air tightens. Jaeyun is mid sentence when your gaze flickers past his shoulder and lands on Jongseong.

He’s coming toward you.

Tie loosened. Hair disheveled. Jaw set hard. Alcohol makes him tipsy, but his intentions are clear.

Your heart stutters.

You straighten, fingers curling around your glass. Jaeyun notices, glances back.

“Uh,” he clears his throat. “Is that—”

Jongseong stops beside you.

Too close.

Close enough that you smell him—whiskey, rain, something bitter underneath. Close enough that his presence redraws the space.

“Jaeyun,” Jongseong says calmly, nodding once. Polite. Cold.

“Vice President Park,” Jaeyun replies, straightening.

Jongseong’s gaze slides back to you. Lingers on your face, the loose strand by your temple, the slipping sleeve.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” he says to you. You swallow. “I told you earlier.”

He blinks, like he’s replaying the memory too late. “You did.” A beat of silence.

Jaeyun shifts, uncomfortable. “I was just keeping her company,” he says lightly, attempting to diffuse. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

Jongseong hums low. His eyes don’t leave you.

“You don’t have to,” he says. Then, softer, but sharper. “I’ve got her. She’s taken.”

Your breath catches.

Jaeyun hesitates, glancing at you. You open your mouth, but Jongseong’s hand lifts first.

Not entirely touching you.

Hovering at the small of your back, close enough that you feel the heat through your dress. A careful, controlled claim.

“I’ll… grab another drink,” Jaeyun says. “Nice seeing you.”

When he leaves, the space collapses.

You’re alone with Jongseong.

Silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid. He looks away first, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers trembling.

“I can— can talk better than him,” he hiccups.

“Seriously, how much did you drink?” he basically reeks of alcohol and slightly sways side to side as you guide him down the stairs to the empty hallway.

“Are you—,” your sentence is left unfinished a Jongseong cages you against the wall, shaking hands on each side of your head.

He’s close, too close. His eyes are red, unfocused, flickering between your eyes and your lips. His breath is warm but reeking of whiskey. His hands stay planted on the wall, shaking, fingers flexing like he’s reminding himself not to touch.

“You shouldn’t let—” he starts, then hiccups softly, the sound almost humiliating in how it breaks his authority. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, reopens them, tries again. “Let someone who is not your h-husband touch you like that.” The words come out crooked, slurred at the edges, but the intent behind them is painfully clear.

You stare at him, stunned, then a breathy laugh slips out despite yourself. “God,” you murmur, “you’re so drunk.” His brows knit together immediately, offended and wounded in the same breath.

“So what I’m— drunk?” he demands, swaying closer before catching himself, forehead knocking lightly against the wall beside your head. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Yes,” you say, heart thudding. “Jongseong. You did.” You lift your chin, meeting his gaze even as your voice trembles. “You’re not my husband. You’re only my fiancé. And I can have my own friends.”

For a second, something hollow flashes across his face. Then he laughs, short, disbelieving.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head too hard. “No one else w-would check the—” another hiccup, quieter this time, “—weather and deliberately get wet in the rain just to bring you home safe.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, sinking deep and slow, like cold seeping through fabric. For a moment, you can’t breathe properly. You remember the rain too well. The way you’d laughed it off, the way he hadn’t, how he’d checked the rain twice and still stepped outside without an umbrella, coat already darkening at the shoulders because you hated walking alone.

“I would do that,” he continues, voice lower now. “As your— fucking fiancé or husband. Not Jaeyun. Not— not anyone else.”

His hands leave the wall. They hover instead, uncertain, fingers twitching in the space near your waist like he’s begging himself for restraint. He leans in despite it, forehead nearly brushing yours, breath warm and unsteady against your cheek.

“I would do it in a heartbeat,” he whispers.

Your chest tightens, a quiet ache blooming behind your ribs, because no one else has ever noticed the weather for you, has ever overlooked their own comfort for yours, yet some voice in the back of your head insists that he's just drunk.

But the way he says it hurts worse than any confession.

“I didn’t like him,” he admits. “Near you.”

“Why?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand comes up to his chest again, fingers pressing there like he’s trying to steady something beneath his ribs. His breathing is uneven now, shallow.

“Jongseong,” you say, alarm creeping in. “Are you okay?”

He nods too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats.

But he isn’t.

You see it when you guide him to the parking lot, cold wind tugging at your hair. He leans too much on you, apologizing under his breath.

“Sorry—sorry, I’m— I’m heavy,” he mumbles, fumbling for the car keys before giving up and letting you take them from his shaking fingers.

“You’re drunk,” you say gently. “Not dying.” He huffs out a weak laugh. “Feels close enough.”

The drive home is quiet, wipers sweeping rhythmically. Jongseong slumps in the passenger seat, eyes fluttering close like he’s afraid of what happens if he lets them stay closed. His breathing evens out only when the car stops at red lights, like only motion keeps him awake.

At one point, he murmurs your name. Just once. Soft. Unconscious.

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel.

Getting him inside is harder than you expect. He insists he can walk, immediately proves he can’t, nearly folding until you hook an arm around his waist.

“Easy,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”

“I know,” he says. “You always— always do.”

You ease him onto the bed. He collapses face first into the pillows. You tug off his shoes, straighten the blanket, careful not to linger.

When you turn away, it feels like stepping back from something fragile. You make it two steps toward the door.

His hand closes around your wrist. Not rough but enough to stop you.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, barely awake, eyes still closed. His grip tightens slightly, like his body knows what he wants even if his mind can’t form it. “Cold.”

He tugs again, weak but insistent, pulling you down to the edge of the bed. He shifts, arm draping around your waist, face pressing into your side like he’s searching for warmth.

“Rain,” he mumbles into your dress. “Hate it when you’re out in it.”

You freeze.

His words dissolve into half formed apologies, your name tangled with quiet plead. His breathing slows, forehead resting against your stomach like it’s the safest place he knows.

You don’t move.

Because for the first time, his softness isn’t guarded or conditional. It’s just him, clinging in his sleep like he trusts you not to disappear.

And you realize, with startling clarity, that rain doesn’t make him weak.

It makes him tell the truth.

YOU WONDER IF YOU CARE TOO MUCH SOMETIMES.

Because no matter what you do for Park Jongseong, it never feels like enough to quiet the ache that lives with you. Loving him feels like holding something fragile and priceless in your bare hands, knowing that even your gentlest grip might hurt him, knowing that letting go might destroy you both.

You care in a way that feels reckless. Although you do see the consequence of it, that has now finally for once, in your favour.

Jongseong doesn’t pull away after that night.

If anything, he does the opposite.

He lingers.

At first, it’s subtle enough that you convince yourself it’s coincidence. He waits for you in the mornings, jacket already in hand even when the forecast promises clear skies. He sits closer at the dining table, knee brushing yours beneath the polished surface, never once apologizing for the contact. When you move around the apartment, he follows. Not hovering, not watching, just present.

You tell yourself it’s temporary. That he doesn’t remember what he said. That the drunken softness was a one-time fracture.

After all, this whole thing is arranged, and you’ve managed to gaslight yourself into thinking this softness is just obligation wearing a kinder face. That this is him playing his part better now.

You repeat it like a rule. Like something that can keep you at bay.

But rules blur when he learns your steps.

He starts matching his pace to yours without realizing it. Slowing when you slow, pausing when you hesitate, turning back when you forget something even if it makes him late. When you sit on the couch, he chooses the space beside you instead of across the room. When you’re tired, he quietly rearranges his schedule around yours, meetings shifted, calls taken later, priorities subtly rewritten.

It’s never announced. Never even whispered.

It just happens.

And it scares you more than it comforts you. Because this is what you wanted, wasn’t it? For him to care, to notice, to stay. But now that it’s happening, it feels unfamiliar in your hands. It feels like obligation. Plain obligation.

Still, sometimes you catch him looking at you with something like relief. Other times, something closer to fear.

That’s when it starts to bleed through.

In the way his fingers tighten around your sleeve when you mention staying late at work. In the way his jaw sets when your phone lights up with unfamiliar names.

At night, he sleeps closer.

Not always touching, sometimes just angled toward you, arm thrown over the empty space between your bodies like he’s reserving it. Other nights, he curls into you without thinking, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath steadying only once you’re there. When he stirs from whatever restless place his dreams take him, his hand finds you first. Barely there. But always you.

You start waking before him just to watch.

The way his brow smooths in sleep. The way his lips part slightly when he exhales. The faint tension that never fully leaves his body, even at rest. You notice the moments when his breathing stutters, when his hand presses briefly to his chest before settling again. So subtle you wonder if you imagined it.

You don’t ask, even when you know you should.

Instead, you slip out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb the way Jongseong’s arm lies over your hand, loose but deliberate, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You peel his fingers away one by one, apologizing in your head for a crime you haven’t committed yet, and pad toward the kitchen.

The apartment is still. Morning light spills softly through the curtains, pale and forgiving. You make coffee the way he likes it now, without thinking about when you memorized that detail. The realization only hits after the mug is already warming your palms.

You’re setting plates on the counter when the bedroom door opens.

Jongseong stands there, hair mussed, shirt half-buttoned, eyes heavy but searching. He looks relieved when he finds you in the kitchen, like something in his chest loosens at the sight.

“You’re up,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“So are you,” you reply.

He hums and drifts closer, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you move, each small action tracked like he’s afraid to miss it.

Sunlight catches the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

“You didn’t sleep well,” you say without thinking.

He stiffens for half a second, then shrugs. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

That alone feels like a confession.

The moment lingers too long, fragile, exposed. Jongseong seems to realize it too, because his shoulders tense, his gaze drops, and the softness retracts all at once.

“Schedule’s tight this week,” he says abruptly, voice clipped. “Might come home late.”

You nod, even though you know that’s not the reason the air has cooled.

Breakfast is quiet after that.

He sits across from you instead of beside you, answers short, eyes fixed anywhere but your face. When you pass him the toast, your fingers brush, and he flinches.

It’s barely noticeable.

But you notice.

You lift your mug, letting the warmth settle your nerves. The coffee tastes familiar, comforting in a way that makes your chest ache. You don’t realize he’s staring until he turns back to the counter and starts brewing coffee again.

“You already have one,” you say.

“I know.”

He pours it into a different mug. A plain one. You ask, very confused, “Why are you using a different cup?”

He pauses, then nods toward your hands. “Because you’re holding mine.”

You freeze, eyes dropping to the mug. His mug. Heat rushes to your face.

“I— I’m sorry,” you say quickly, already standing. “I didn’t realize—”

“Hey.” His voice is gentle. He steps closer, stopping you with a light touch to your wrist. “It’s fine.”

You look up at him, still braced.

“It’s just a cup,” he adds, softer.

Something in your chest loosens. “Isn’t it your favorite?” you murmur.

He pours milk into his coffee, hesitates, then adds a little more—your preference, not his. When he notices you watching, he clears his throat.

“I can share,” he says.

You smile, small and careful. This time, he doesn’t look away.

But to your luck, softness doesn’t last.

It creeps into the days quietly, settles into routines, hides in shared cups and matching steps. Until one evening, it snaps under the weight of everything neither of you is saying.

Jongseong comes home late.

You know it the moment the door opens, not because of the time, but because of the way it opens. Sharper. With a thud.

You’re on the couch, half curled into the corner with your laptop abandoned beside you, the apartment lit only by a lamp you forgot to turn off. You look up instinctively.

He doesn’t greet.

His tie is loosened, jacket still on, hair slightly damp like he washed his hands too aggressively and dragged his fingers through it afterward. His expression is shut tight, jaw clenched in a way that makes something in your chest tighten in response.

“You’re late,” you say. Not accusing. Just stating.

“I know,” he replies, cold.

He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t take his jacket off. Just stands there like he hasn’t decided whether to stay or leave.

Something prickles.

“You said you’d text,” you add, softer now.

His eyes flick to yours. There’s irritation there, not fully directed at you, but sharp enough to cut.

“I was busy.”

The way he says it feels deliberate.

You close your laptop slowly. “You’ve been busy every night this week.”

Silence.

You stand as if to confront him. The distance between you shrinks without either of you meaning it to.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you say, carefully. “But don’t shut me out either.”

His laugh is quiet. Humorless. “I’m not shutting you out.”

“You are,” you say, firmer now. “You come home exhausted, you won’t talk, you won’t let me ask if you’re okay—”

“I am okay,” he snaps.

The sharpness makes you flinch before you can stop yourself.

He sees it.

Something dark flashes across his face—regret, anger, fear, all tangled together.

“I didn’t mean—” He stops. Swallows. “You’re overthinking.”

The words land badly.

“You hate it when I watch you,” you say quietly. “But you hate it more when I stop.”

His hands curl into fists at his sides.

“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me,” he says. “You don’t know what it’s like—”

“Then tell me,” you cut in. Your voice shakes despite your effort. “Stop standing five steps away from me like I’m a stranger in my own house.”

That does it.

He crosses the space between you in three strides.

Too fast. Too close.

You barely have time to inhale before he’s there. Towering, breathing unevenly, the air between you charged and dangerous. His hands come up, bracing against the wall on either side of your head.

The sound it makes is soft.

The effect is not.

Your heart slams against your ribs. You can feel his warmth now, feel the tension vibrating off him, feel how hard he’s fighting himself. His face is inches from yours, so close you can see the faint pulse at his jaw, the way his eyes flicker down to your mouth before snapping back up.

“Don’t,” he says hoarsely. Not a command, but warning to himself.

“Don’t what?” you whisper, breath catching.

“Look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

He gulps, as if holding back very specific words. “Like I owe you something I can’t give.”

Your chest aches. “I’m not asking for anything.”

“Yes, you are,” he says, voice low, strained. “You ask just by standing there. By—” His breath stutters. “By caring.”

You don’t move.

You can feel his breath on your cheek. Warm. Unsteady. His lips are dangerously close now, close enough that the slightest tilt would end everything you’ve been holding apart.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to risk.”

“Then why are you here?” you ask, tears threatening. “Why do you come back to me every night if you’re so afraid?”

His eyes darken.

Because he wants to kiss you.

Because you can see it. The way his mouth softens, the way his body leans in despite his mind screaming no. His forehead dips, brushing yours. He gulps again, eyes glued to your lips. For half a second, you think he’s going to give in.

You think this is it.

Then he pulls back.

Abrupt. Violent in its restraint.

He steps away like he’s been burned, dragging a hand through his hair, breathing hard. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again.

“I need air,” he says, voice rough. “I can’t do this tonight.”

He grabs his jacket off the chair, pauses at the door just long enough for you to think, hope, he might turn back.

He doesn’t.

The door closes behind him, leaving you alone in the charged silence, lips still tingling from a kiss that never happened, heart aching from how close he came.

And how far he ran.

PARK JONGSEONG SMOOTHENS HIS TIE IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR.

He does it twice. Then a third time. Slow, precise movements, like repetition might quiet the unease sitting low in his chest. The mirror reflects a version of him he knows how to wear, pose and pretend. The heir. The fiancé. The man who never falters.

Except his fingers hesitate at his collarbone.

Just for a fraction of a second.

He exhales, steadying himself, and reaches for his cufflinks. The room smells faintly of cologne and starch and something warmer beneath it. Home, he thinks, before he can stop himself.

The bedroom door opens softly behind him.

“Jongseong?”

Your voice.

He straightens instinctively, shoulders squaring before he turns around.

You stand there in the doorway, light spilling in behind you, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe.

The dress drapes over you like it was designed with patience, soft fabric, gentle lines, nothing loud. It doesn’t demand attention. It invites it. The kind that lingers. The kind that stays. Your hair falls neatly over your shoulders, collarbones catching the light, skin warm and real in a way that makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest.

You shift your weight, suddenly self conscious beneath his stare.

“So?” you ask, trying to sound casual. “How do I look?”

The question hangs between you.

Jongseong opens his mouth. But then closes it back.

His eyes trace you—too slow to be polite, too careful to be careless. He notices everything: the way the fabric settles at your waist, the slight dip at your collarbone, the way your hands fidget like you’re bracing for something. For him. Because of him.

Because the last thing he remembers clearly is your breath on his lips and the way he walked away like a coward.

“You look—” Jongseong gulps, the words getting stuck between his throat and his heart. His eyes dart away from your eyes and he opens his mouth again.

“You look—”

“Sir,” the driver’s voice cuts in from the hallway. Why, the perfect timing. “The car is ready.”

The moment collapses.

Jongseong nods once, grateful and irritated all at the same time. “We’ll be right there.”

The door closes again, leaving the words unsaid. You smile at him, understanding, and he hates himself for not being fast enough with his words

----

The family house is already alive when you arrive.

Laughter spills from the open doors. The clink of glasses. Familiar voices layered over one another in practiced warmth. Jongseong’s mother greets you first, eyes sharp and appraising, a practised smile.

“You look lovely,” she tells you, hands light on your shoulders. “Perfect.”

Jongseong’s father nods at him from across the room, just acknowledging his presence with his perfect wife. But he doesn’t come up to you both for once.

“Do you want to sit?” he asks quietly, leaning in just enough that no one else hears. His voice is neutral, but his shoulders are tense.

“I’m fine,” you reply. Then, after a beat, softer, “Are you?”

He exhales through his nose. “I will be.”

That’s not an answer.

You drift toward the window under the pretense of admiring the garden lights. Jongseong follows a moment later, stopping beside you.

“I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer to your ears.

You keep your eyes forward. “Which part?”

His jaw ticks. “All of it.”

“That’s convenient,” you say, not unkindly, just bored.

He glances at you then, eyes dark. “This isn’t the place.”

“No,” you agree, nodding. “It never is.”

Dinner starts shortly after. What is meant to be a family gathering feels like business meeting soon.

Everyone takes their seats, chairs pulled back in unison, napkins folded just so. Jongseong sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours beneath the table, a small anchor in a room that already feels too large.

Conversation starts harmless.

Someone comments on the weather. Another praises the dishes. Jongseong’s uncle talks about a recent business acquisition, his voice carrying authority. You nod when appropriate, smile when addressed, keep your posture perfect.

But then the atmosphere shifts.

“So,” one of his aunts says, swirling her wine, eyes flicking to you with something like curiosity, “have you settled into married life yet?”

Not yet married, you want to say, You know that.

Instead, you smile. “We’re adjusting.”

She hums. “That’s good. It’s important to learn flexibility early. Especially for women.”

Another voice joins in, you don’t recognizethe face. “You still plan on working after the wedding, right? Or is this just, a phase?”

You open your mouth, then hesitate. Choose your words carefully. “I enjoy my work.”

“Of course,” someone else laughs lightly. “But family should always come first. Jongseong’s responsibilities are already immense.”

The implication lands quietly. You are not one of them.

You glance down at your plate, appetite gone. Your hands curl slightly in your lap, nails pressing into skin just enough to ground you.

“But it must be nice,” his cousin adds, smiling sweetly, “to have everything taken care of. Some people don’t realize how fortunate they are.”

Fortunate.

The word lands softly, almost politely—and still, it sinks its teeth into you. It curls somewhere behind your ribs, sharp and humiliating, because you know exactly what they mean by it. Not lucky. Not loved. Arranged. Chosen for you. Your hands rest neatly in your lap, fingers folded just right, posture perfect, because this is what fortune looks like from the outside.

You smile because you’re supposed to, because anything else would be impolite. Your chest tightens anyway. They don’t see the waiting, the wanting, the nights spent staring at a ceiling beside a man who won’t touch you. They don’t see how much of yourself you’ve learned to shrink just to fit into this version of “enough.”

You’re just another asset for them. A doll beside Jongseong.

Your eyes burn, vision blurring just slightly, and you lower your gaze before anyone notices. Because crying here would be unforgivable.

Jongseong’s fork stops moving.

It doesn’t clatter. He doesn’t drop it. He simply stills and puts it down.

He looks at you. Really looks this time.

The way your shoulders have gone rigid. The way your smile hasn’t quite reached your eyes. The way your head tips lower, lashes casting shadows over cheeks that are just a little too flushed, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears.

“That’s enough,” Jongseong says.

The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut through the table cleanly, like a blade sliding between ribs.

Conversation falters. Glasses pause halfway to lips.

His aunt blinks. “Jongseong, we were just—”

“You were being disrespectful,” he interrupts, voice steady and controlled. His hand moves under the table, fingers brushing your knee once. “And you’re not going to continue.”

His cousin scoffs softly. “Oh, come on. We didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know exactly what you meant,” he says. His glare flicks across the table, sharp and unyielding. “And you don’t get to talk about her like she’s a convenience. Or something handed to me.”

The silence thickens.

His mother opens her mouth, but hesitates.

His father clears his throat. “Jongseong,” he says carefully, in a warning tone. “That’s enough. This is a family dinner.”

Jongseong turns to him slowly.

For a moment, his expression falters. Not with doubt, but with something older and buried.

“Just because you never said anything to defend Mom,” he says, voice low and shaking, “doesn’t mean I’ll do the same for my—”

He stops. Breathes shakily.

“—my wife.”

The words lands heavy. Your head snaps up to Jongseong, tears almost running down.

“She is not fortunate,” he continues, eyes never leaving his father’s. “She is capable. She is intelligent. And she does not owe anyone gratitude for being here.”

A pause.

“If you can’t respect that,” he finishes, “then this dinner is over.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

You stand before anyone can respond, chair scraping softly against the floor.

“Excuse me,” you say, voice thin but steady. “I need some air.”

You move before anyone can stop you.

The chair scrapes softly against the floor as you stand, the sound far too loud in the thick silence Jongseong has carved open. Your hands tremble, but your spine stays straight.

No one stops you. No one knows how.

You walk out before the tears can fall.

The hallway feels endless. Too bright. Too quiet. Your heels click too fast against the marble as you head toward the garage, breath coming shallow, chest tight like it’s caving in. You tell yourself not to cry. You’ve done this long enough. You can do this too.

You don’t hear him at first.

“Y/n—!”

Jongseong’s voice cuts through the space, urgent in a way you’ve never heard before. You turn just as your foot slips, heel catching awkwardly on the edge of the concrete ramp.

You twist your ankle, pain shooting up.

You gasp, stumbling forward, but arms catch you.

Strong. Jongseong absorbs you without hesitation, one arm braced around your waist, the other gripping your forearm.

“Shit—” he breathes, crouching instantly. “Don’t move.”

Your ankle throbs, hot and pulsing. You bite your lip hard, tears finally spilling over.

“I’m fine,” you whisper.

“No,” he says, “You’re not.”

He doesn’t ask for permission.

Jongseong lifts you into his arms. Your face presses briefly into his shoulder, the scent of his cologne grounding you despite everything.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “I won’t drop you.”

He carries you to the car, sets you down gently, buckles you in himself with shaking hands. When he slides into the driver’s seat, his jaw is tight, eyes dark with something fierce and protective.

Neither of you speak as he pulls out of the driveway.

The house disappears behind you.

THE APARTMENT IS QUIET WHEN YOU GET THERE.

Muted, like it’s holding its breath with you. Jongseong helps you inside without a word, arm firm around your waist, movements careful in a way that feels practiced and panicked all at once. He sits you down on the couch, kneeling immediately in front of you, jacket discarded somewhere behind him.

“Let me see,” he says, voice low.

You hesitate. “It’s probably not that bad—”

“Please,” he cuts in, gentler now. “Just… let me.”

He slips off your heel slowly, like he’s afraid even the air might hurt you. His hands are warm, steady despite the tension still living in his shoulders. When his fingers brush your ankle, you flinch.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs instantly, retreating. “I’ll be careful.”

He fetches the first aid kit, crouches again, and wraps your ankle with slow precision. His brows knit together, jaw tight, focus unwavering.

The silence stretches.

“You didn’t have to say that,” you whisper suddenly. “Back there.”

He doesn’t look up. “I did.”

“I could defend myself—”

“I know.” His hands pause. Then he looks at you. Really looks at you. “But I wanted to.”

Something in his expression fractures then. Eyebrows relaxes, shoulder dropping. His thumb lingers at your ankle a second too long, like he’s forming words.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to,” you say, even though part of you aches because he did. “Not against your family like that—”

“Yes,” he replies immediately. Too quickly. “I did.”

Your gaze drops to his hands, still hovering around your ankle, fingers warm and careful. He exhales through his nose, steadies himself, and resumes wrapping the bandage, slower now, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might make something crack.

“Maybe they were right,” you murmur, fidgeting with your fingers, warm agaisnt your lap. “About me being fortunate.”

His looks up, immediately. “Don’t.”

“It’s fine,” you add quickly, reflexive. “I’m used to it.”

That makes him stop again.

“No,” he says, quieter. “You shouldn’t be. They were wrong about everything.”

You laugh under your breath, bitter. “Jongseong—”

His thumb presses lightly into your ankle, apologetic and voice soft. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

“A little.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and you can’t tell what he’s apologizing for anymore.

“You didn’t push me,” you try. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“I should’ve been there faster.”

You look at him then. “You caught me.”

“Still,” he insists, a crease forming between his brows. “I should’ve—” He cuts himself off, breath hitching slightly. His hand shifts, pressing briefly to his own chest before he seems to realize you’re watching.

His hand lingers at his chest for half a second longer than necessary.

Then Jongseong straightens.

The shift is subtle but unmistakable. He rises to his full height, standing between your knees, close enough that your breath catches. From where you’re sitting on the counter, he feels impossibly tall, shoulders tense, frame rigid like he’s holding himself together by force alone.

You tilt your head up to look at him.

His expression is unreadable at first. Guarded. Then something in it gives way, like a crack spreading through glass that was never meant to be unbreakable. His jaw clenches. His eyes soften, dark and conflicted, flicking over your face as if he’s memorizing you again.

“I’m okay,” he says quietly.

You don’t answer.

Jongseong finishes securing the bandage. The movement puts him directly in front of you, close enough that his knees brush yours, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

He reaches up hesitantly, knuckles brushing your cheek. His thumb wipes at the corner of your eye before you even realize tears have slipped free.

“You’re crying,” he murmurs, voice rough.

You laugh weakly, giving up. “I think it just… caught up to me.”

His gaze lingers on your face, your red rimmed eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way you’re trying so hard to stay composed even now. Something in him gives way.

“I hate that they made you feel small,” he says quietly. “I hate that you let them.”

You swallow, looking down as if it solves something. “I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

“You didn’t,” he says, “They did.”

His hand stays on your cheek, warmer now, more certain. He uses his other thumb to brush under your other eye. Your heart thumps loud, you hate it and yet you crave it.

“You shouldn’t have to be strong all the time,” he adds. “Not here. Not with me.”

Your chest tightens. “Then why do you keep pulling away?”

The question is soft. Careful. It lands anyway.

His jaw flexes. He looks down at you, then away, then back again.

“Because if I don’t,” he says, voice dropping, “I won’t know how to keep this… contained.”

“Contained from what?”

“From wanting more,” he admits,  voice shaking at its edges. “From wanting you.”

“Do you really want me?” you whisper louder than you meant to.

That’s all it takes.

He leans in slowly, as if giving you every chance to change your mind. His forehead brushes yours first, breath warm against your lips. You can feel the trembling tension in him.

When his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft.

Almost reverent.

The kiss is hesitant at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. His lips move against yours slowly, learning, relearning. When you sigh into it, his control fractures.

He kisses you deeper then, still gentle but unmistakably desperate, like he’s been starving quietly for too long. His hand slides up your back, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to doubt what this is.

He trails a hot line from your lips down your jaw, then to the hollow under your ear, and you arch without realizing, breath hitching.

“Jongseong—” you whisper, when his mouth finds the tender skin at your neck. The sound breaks somewhere between his teeth and the small gasp that slips out of you trembles against his chest.

“I—” he says, voice swallowed by another kiss. “I’ve wanted—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, pleading, yet a part of you wants him to finish the sentence.

Between his kisses, your thoughts scatter and then narrow to an aching truth—you had wanted this for so long it almost hurts to finally have it.

You don’t know why, because you have always yearned for Jongseong’s warm touch. But right now, you can only hope that you won’t wake up from this.

He pauses, forehead against your temple, eyes dark and vulnerable. “I don’t know if I have the right to want,” he admits, so quiet you almost miss it. Then, louder, “But I do.”

His mouth finds your pulse at the base of your throat and presses, the kiss wet and demanding. Your hands go up, tangling in his hair at the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his strands as he deepens the kiss.

He lifts you without fussing and carries you towards the bedroom. The movement is fluid, as if he’s imagined this a thousand times and finally stepped into it. You wrap your legs around his hips instinctively.

“Careful,” you murmur, breathless, face burning up with shyness.

“I am,” he answers, voice low. “Always.”

He lays you down gently, not breaking the kiss until his forehead rests against yours and you both are dizzy with it. He leans over you lips roaming—down your throat, to the soft slope between collarbone and shoulder—leaving a trail of heated kisses like a map.

“Say my name,” he murmurs against your skin, “Call me Jay, please.”

“Jay,” you answer.

He lifts his head, mouth quirking into something close to a smile. “Good,” he says, and it’s a laugh with no humor.

Jongseong feels himself fading quietly, the way a man does when he’s held something back for too long. Every brush of your lips against his reminds him how close he is to losing the careful distance he built to survive

He’s terrified by how easy it is to forget everything else when you sigh against him, by how instinctively his body leans closer to you and the guilt eats him alive because he never allowed himself to touch you.

“Why didn’t you kiss me earlier?,” you say at one point, trying not to cry, awkward under the weight of his closeness.

“I’m sorry” he simply says, voice hoarse. “I was... scared.”

“Of what?”

He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he brings his soft, wet lips to yours again, capturing you into another kiss.

MORNING ARRIVES QUIETLY.

The morning light slips in through the opaque curtains and fills the space in the bedroom. The city outside is awake, but your apartment isn’t, not really. It’s suspended in that soft in between where the night hasn’t fully let go yet.

You wake first.

For a few seconds, you don’t move. You just register. The warmth at your back. The steady rise and fall of his chest against you. His arm draped over your waist, heavy and protective, with his face nuzzled deep in your neck.

Last night comes back to you in fragments rather than a rush—his mouth at your neck, the way he carried you like something precious, the way his voice broke when you said his name. The way he held you afterward, forehead pressed to yours, breathing uneven but calm, like he’d finally stopped being cold.

You turn slowly, careful not to wake him.

Jongseong looks different in sleep.

Softer. Younger. His brows aren’t drawn together like they usually are, his mouth slack, lashes resting against his cheeks. There’s no heir, no expectation, no weight in the way he rests right now. Just a man who looks tired in a way that makes your chest ache.

Jongseong stirs when you shift slightly, his arm tightening instinctively around you. He hums, drowsy and half audible, and presses his lips to your hair without opening his eyes.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You smile before you can stop yourself. “Morning.”

He opens his eyes slowly, dark lashes lifting, and for a split second you see it, his eye are actually soft this time. Then his expression even warms when he focuses on you.

“Did I wake you?” he asks quietly.

“No,” you whisper. “I was already up.”

He hums again, eyes drifting shut as he pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm, steady. You can feel the way his body relaxes when you don’t pull away, when you fit into him like this is something practiced rather than new.

“Stay,” he murmurs, like it’s a reflex.

You smile, your hands resting against his chest, “I’m not going anywhere.”

That makes his eyes open again.

Something passes over his face. Relief, maybe, or something more fragile. His hand tightens at your waist just a little.

“You’re warm,” he says, almost distracted. “Did you sleep?”

“A little,” you admit. “You?”

He exhales softly, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Better than I usually do.”

There’s a pause. Not an uncomfortable one. Just space.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, unhurried. It feels different in the daylight. His thumb brushes gently under your eye.

“You’re staring,” you tease quietly.

“Let me,” he replies. “I don’t do it enough.”

Its crazy to think how only just a week ago, this softness intimacy with your own fiance was just a dream, something that you could only imagine. Back then, his touch felt like a concept rather than a reality, his warmth something you imagined in quiet moments before sleep, never something you expected to wake up to, wrapped in it.

Now he’s here, breathing against you, holding you as if he always did, as if he was never any cold to you.

Your chest aches with a cautious kind of hope, the kind that blooms slowly, afraid of being noticed, because part of you is still bracing for him to pull away, for the walls to rise again.

He presses another kiss to your forehead, lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“I’ll make coffee,” he says finally. “Don’t move.”

You laugh softly. “I won’t. Promise.”

He disappears into the kitchen, barefoot and rumpled, sleeves pushed up, hair still tousled from sleep. The sight of him like this, unguarded and domestic, fills you with a warmth that almost hurts.

You sit up on the bed, glancing around the bedroom as you wait.

As the duvet cover pools around you, you can’t help but wonder how he must have felt last night, after sleeping with his back turned to you for months, after restricting your touch for months. You remember the way his voice trembled when you said his name, the way his breathing finally evened out only when you were tucked against him, and you realize he must have been carrying something heavy for a long time.

Maybe, just maybe, he was yearning for you the same way you were yearning for him.

And you let yourself believe that. You believe that mornings will be like this from now on. Soft and domestic. Romantic, even.

You glance around the bedroom as you wait, trying to find to pull you out of your thoughts.

That’s when you notice the folder.

Tucked beneath the edge of the coffee table, partially hidden, beige and unassuming. You wouldn’t have paid it any attention if not for the bold hospital logo printed across the corner.

Your stomach twists.

You tell yourself not to touch it. You really do.

But something twists in your gut, sharp and familiar, the same feeling you had when he pressed his hand to his chest last night. The same unease that’s been following him like a shadow for months.

You stand.

Your bare feet barely make a sound against the floor as you walk over. The folder is thin. You hesitate with your fingers resting against it, heart already racing like it knows what’s coming.

You pull the paper free.

Your eyes skim at first, unfocused.

The papers inside are neatly stacked, clipped together. Medical reports. Test results. Dates. Charts.

You scan the first page. And then the words blur.

Diagnosis: Atherosclerosis.

Your breath leaves you all at once, like someone punched it out of your chest.

Atherosclerosis, a condition in which plaque builds up inside your arteries, which overtime hardens narrows the arteries.

You read the other pages. Slower this time. Clinical language. Risk factors. Progression. Treatment plans that sound too careful, too conditional. Phrases like advanced, monitor closely, high risk.

Your fingers tremble as you keep reading, as if slowing down might somehow soften the meaning.

But it doesn’t.

Is this why he always kept you at an arms' distance? Why he always left you wondering for his love? Never touched you, or held or kissed only until last night? He doesn’t actually have limited time, does he?

A quiet, broken sound leaves your throat before you even realize you’re crying. You clamp a hand over your mouth, but it doesn’t help. Tears spill freely now, dropping onto the papers in dark, blurry spots. Your shoulders shake as you try to breathe through it, try to make sense of the hurricane hurling towards you.

Footsteps sound behind you.

“Coffee will be ready in—”

The sentence dies in his throat.

You hear it. The way his voice stops, the way the air shifts. You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re staring at the paper like it might rearrange itself into something less devastating if you keep looking.

“Y/n…” Jongseong says carefully, slowing down at the threshold of the bedroom.

When you finally lift your eyes, he’s frozen near the doorway, mug in hand, color draining from his face. His gaze drops from your tear streaked cheeks to the papers in your hands.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he says quietly.

The words land softly, but they split something open inside you.

Your fingers tighten around the papers, knuckles white, the thin sheets trembling with you. Your throat burns the moment you try to speak, like your body already knows what your heart is refusing to accept.

“H-how long?” you ask, the question barely holding together. It comes out thin. Fragile. Like if you press any harder, you’ll shatter completely.

He doesn’t answer.

That silence is worse than anything he could have said. It stretches heavy, filling the space between you until your chest feels too tight to breathe.

“How long, Jongseong?” you ask again, louder this time, tears spilling down without restraint. Your voice cracks right down the middle. “How long have you known?”

He sets the mug down slowly on the counter, like even that small sound might break you further. The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim, unnoticed. His shoulders rise and fall once, a controlled breath that looks rehearsed. Like he’s done this alone, over and over.

“A while,” he admits.

The words feel vague on purpose. Cowardly.

“A while?” you echo, disbelief laced with hurt. Your laugh is short and broken, more like a sob caught in reverse. “What does that even mean, Jongseong? Weeks? Months?”

His jaw tightens. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers shaking just enough that you notice. He looks away from you—toward the window, the wall, anywhere but your face.

“Years.”

The word drops into the room like a blade.

For a moment, everything goes quiet. Not muted, but gone. Like your ears are ringing after an explosion.

“Years?” you whisper, the syllable barely surviving your lips.

Your knees feel weak. Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels physical, like something is crushing your ribs from the inside. You clutch the papers harder, as if they might anchor you to the floor.

“You’ve been—” Your voice gives out. You swallow, forcing the words through tears. “You’ve been sick this whole time?”

“Yes.”

The answer is immediate. Too immediate. Like he’s tired of lying, or maybe tired of carrying it alone.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” The hurt finally spills into anger, your voice rising, shaking, raw. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”

He turns back to you instantly, panic flashing across his face, all that carefully built composure cracking at the edges.

“That’s not—” he starts, stepping toward you.

“Then what was it?” you cut in, backing away without realizing it. Your chest heaves, every breath uneven. “What was all that distance? All those nights you wouldn’t touch me, wouldn’t even look at me?”

Your voice breaks again, softer now, more wounded than angry. Memories flood back uninvited, the cold space between you in bed, the way he always kept a careful inch of distance, the way his hands would clench like he wanted to reach for you and stopped himself.

“You made me feel unwanted,” you whisper. “Like I was asking for too much just by loving you.”

His face twists at that, pain cutting through his features so sharply it almost scares you.

“I was trying to protect you,” he says, voice strained. “I was trying to protect us.”

“By shutting me out?” you snap, tears blurring your vision. “By letting me think I wasn’t enough?”

“That’s not what it was,” he insists, stepping closer again. “I couldn’t— I didn’t know how to let you get attached when I don’t even know how long I—”

He stops himself.

Your heart stutters. “When you don’t know how long what?” you take a shaky breath in, “Why after all this time—”

“Because Im dying, okay?” Jongseong snaps.

The words don’t land right away.

They snatch the land away from right beneath your feet, and for a second you feel falling down. For a moment, all you can hear is your own heartbeat beating way too loud agaisnt your ribcage.

“What…?” Your lips move, but the sound barely comes out. “What did you say?”

He looks like he regrets it the instant the words leave him. Like they tore out of him without permission. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. His eyes are glossy. Hes not crying yet.

“I said I’m dying,” he repeats, quieter now. Hoarse, and you know that hurts him. “Eventually. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this year. But it’s there. Hanging over everything.”

You shake your head slowly, as if that might undo it. As if disbelief alone could rewind time to ten minutes ago, when the world still made sense.

“No,” you whisper. “Don’t say that like it’s—like it’s already decided.”

He laughs under his breath, bitter and exhausted. “It kind of is.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “Then why are you standing here?” you demand, tears streaming freely now. “Why are you pretending this is just another argument we can talk through?”

“Because I didn’t want you living your life around a countdown,” he says, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “Because I didn’t want to be the reason you wake up one day alone, wondering why you stayed.”

You clutch the papers to your chest like they’re the only thing keeping you upright. “So you thought hurting me would be better?”

“I thought distancing myself would make it easier when I leave,” he says quietly.

“When you—” Your breath stutters. “When you what?”

“When I go away,” he admits. “Anytime, Y/n. My whole life is unsure. I don’t get guarantees. I don’t get to plan ten years ahead like everyone else.”

He drags a hand down his face, the movement slow, weary, like the mask is finally too heavy to hold up.

“I didn’t want this marriage,” he says suddenly, the confession sharp and honest. “I didn’t want a wife whom I can just leave behind.”

The words gut you.

“Then why did you agree?” you ask, voice small despite everything tearing through you. “Why stand there beside me, say vows you didn’t believe in?”

His eyes lift to yours then, and something raw breaks open in them.

“Because I didn’t know how not to,” he says. “Because everyone kept telling me it was the right thing. My family wanted stability. I—”

He stops. Swallows hard.

“Because part of me hoped I was wrong,” he finishes. “That maybe I’d get lucky. That maybe if I kept my distance, I could survive it without hurting you.”

Your chest feels like it’s caving in on itself.

You want to scream at him for keeping something this devastating from you, for deciding on your behalf what you could and couldn’t handle. You want to cry for the months you spent feeling unwanted, for the nights you lay beside him wondering what you’d done wrong, for every time you swallowed your need for affection because you thought you were asking for too much.

And beneath all of that, cutting deeper than the rest, is fear.

Your mind keeps replaying every small moment from the past days. The way he would sometimes pause mid-step, fingers pressing briefly to his chest before he noticed you watching. The exhaustion he tried to hide behind clipped answers and silence. He was living life on borrowed time. And now it all makes a horrifying kind of sense. The distance wasn’t indifference. It was fear. Fear of attachment. Fear of leaving you behind. Fear of loving you too much when he wasn’t sure how long he’d be allowed to.

Your hands shake as you clutch the papers, the thin sheets crumpling slightly under your grip. You don’t even notice. All you can feel is the way your chest feels too small for everything trying to live inside it at once.

Anger. Fear. Grief. Love.

Love, most of all.

You take a step toward him before you realize you’ve moved. Your legs feel unsteady, like they might give out at any second, but you keep going until you’re standing right in front of him. He looks braced, like he’s expecting you to push him away, to scream, to tell him you’re done.

Instead, your voice comes out broken and soft.

“So you decided for me,” you say. Not accusing. Just devastated. “You decided that I couldn’t love you through this. That I couldn’t stay.”

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t want you trapped.”

“I wasn’t trapped,” you whisper. “I was confused. I was lonely. I was wondering every day what I did wrong.”

That hits him harder than shouting ever could.

Jongseong’s shoulders sag, like something finally gives up holding itself together. He closes his eyes briefly, breath shuddering as it leaves him.

“I know,” he says hoarsely. “I know I hurt you.”

The word hangs in the air between you.

Dying.

It doesn’t sound real. It feels like a foreign language, like something meant for hospital rooms and strangers, not the man standing in front of you with his jaw clenched and his eyes shining like he’s trying not to break apart in front of you.

Your breath stutters. Your fingers loosen around the papers, and they slip from your grasp, fluttering to the floor.

“You—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help. “Don’t say it like that. Don’t say it so casually.”

Jongseong exhales sharply, like the word tore its way out of him. “I’m not being casual. I’m being honest for once.”

The room feels too small. The walls press in. You take a step toward him without even realizing it, your chest aching with something that feels too big to fit inside you.

“You really did decide a huge part of my life without asking me,” you whisper.

His gaze flickers to your lips and then back to your eyes, conflicted, raw. “Because it hurts more than anything to know I might leave you behind.”

The words knock the breath out of you.

“You already did,” you say softly. “Every time you made me doubt your love.”

His shoulders sag, like the fight drains out of him all at once. “I cared too much,” he admits. “That was the problem.”

You’re close enough now to feel the warmth of him, the tension vibrating through his body like a live wire. Your hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt at his chest. You feel his heart beneath it, beating hard and fast, like it’s trying to run from the truth too.

“You should’ve told me,” you say, your voice breaking. “I would’ve stayed. I would’ve chosen you anyway.”

His breath shudders. “I didn’t pity.”

“You really think that?” you say, tears blurring your vision. “It would’ve been love.”

That does it.

Something in his expression finally gives. The careful distance he’s kept for months collapses in a single moment. He reaches for you like he’s been holding himself back from doing it for far too long, one hand coming up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing under your eye where your tears spill over.

“Don’t say that,” he murmurs, voice low and unsteady. “If you say that, I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”

“Then don’t pretend,” you whisper. “Not with me.”

For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. Like he’s memorizing every line of your face, every fragile breath you take.

Then he leans in.

The kiss isn’t gentle at first. It’s desperate, like all the words he’s swallowed are finally finding a way out through his mouth instead. His lips press into yours with a quiet, aching intensity, and you gasp against him before melting into it, your hands clutching at his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.

His breath mingles with yours, warm and uneven. The kiss deepens, not rushed but heavy, loaded with everything unsaid—regret, longing, fear, love. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between your bodies.

“God,” he exhales against your lips, the word breaking like a confession. “I shouldn’t—”

You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again, softer this time, slower, like you’re grounding him, reminding him that you’re real, that this moment is real. Your forehead rests against his when you finally pull back, breaths mingling, your noses brushing.

“I don’t care about anything,” you whisper. “I only care about you.”

His eyes search yours, dark and vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, lingering, like he’s fighting the urge to kiss you again and losing.

“You make this so hard,” he murmurs.

“Sorry” you reply quietly.

He lets out a breath that sounds like surrender. His forehead drops to yours, his eyes closing briefly as if he’s bracing himself for the weight of what he’s about to say next.

He opens his eyes then, and they’re wet now, shining dangerously. “I didn’t think I’d survive watching you look at me like this every day. Like I was your future.”

Your heart twists painfully.

“You are my future,” you say without thinking.

The words hang in the air, fragile and terrifying.

He shakes his head immediately. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?” you demand, voice cracking. “Because it scares you?”

“I can’t promise you anything,” he says sharply, desperation bleeding through his restraint. “I can’t promise you years. I can’t promise you safety. I can’t even promise you tomorrow.”

He gestures vaguely to his chest, frustration and fear tangled together. “My body could fail me at any point. I live knowing that. I didn’t want you living like that too.”

You step closer, until there’s barely any space left between you.

“I would’ve chosen it,” you whisper. “If you’d told me, I would’ve chosen you anyway.”

His breath stutters.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say fiercely. “Because I already did. Every night you turned away, every morning I woke up hoping you’d look at me differently. I stayed even when I didn’t understand why you were pulling away.”

Your voice softens, trembling. “Do you know how much it hurts to feel unwanted by the person you love?”

He winces like you’ve struck him.

“I never didn’t want you,” he says immediately. “God, Y/n, that was the problem.”

Silence falls again, thick and heavy.

You wipe at your tears with the back of your hand, inhaling shakily. “Then say it,” you challenge quietly. “Say what you were so afraid to say.”

He stares at you, chest rising and falling unevenly, like he’s standing at the edge of something irreversible.

“I was afraid,” he admits finally. “Afraid that if I let myself love you the way I wanted to, it would destroy me when I leave.”

“When you die?” you whisper, hating the word even as it leaves your mouth.

His face tightens, but he nods once.

Your knees feel weak again. You reach out instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself against him.

“And the wedding?” you ask suddenly, voice trembling with the weight of the question. “Will you— will you not—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“I will marry you, Y/n.”

The certainty in his voice steals your breath.

He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks where tears keep falling, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s afraid this might be taken from him too.

“I will marry you,” he repeats, softer now. “Not because I have to. Not because anyone expects me to. But because I want to. Loving you is the one thing in my life that feels real.”

Your lips tremble. “Then why were you pushing me away?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, voice breaking. “maybe because I have limited time.”

Something inside you shatters completely at that.

You press your forehead to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, strong and terrifying and precious all at once. Your tears soak into his shirt as you sob quietly, fingers gripping him like if you let go, he might disappear.

Jongseong wraps his arms around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm at your waist. He holds you like he’s afraid the world might steal you away too.

“I didn’t want to give you a life full of hospitals and waiting rooms,” he murmurs into your hair, his palms caressing your back slowly. “I didn’t want to be the reason you’re scared all the time.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes red and swollen. And then press your face against him again.

His breath catches.

“If I miss someone the most in this world,” he says suddenly, voice thick with emotion, “then it is my grandma.”

You still, listening.

“She wanted to see me grow up. Be successful. Be happy.” His lips tremble as he speaks. “She wanted to share her blessings with my future wife.”

He swallows hard. “But she couldn’t. She didn’t get to see any of it.”

Your heart aches as he continues, voice barely holding together.

“If she’d be here, you would love you,” Jongseong’s voice cracks, but he lets out a melancholic laugh through it. It cracks, brings water to his eyes.

He lets out a shaky breath, eyes dropping to look at you.

“I...” His voice drops to a whisper. “I love you, Y/n.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“I love you,” he repeats, like he needs to hear himself say it. You bring your head up to see him again. A tear slips past his cheeks, enhancing his now flushed features. Jongseong’s breath hitches, “I’m sorry for being a bad fiancé, I’m sorry I made you doubt. But I love you, god, I do.”

A broken laugh slips out of you through your tears.

“I love you enough that it hurts,” he continues, pressing his forehead to yours. “And I should have said this sooner to you.”

You cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears he’s finally letting fall.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, smiling through tears, “Just don't love me halfway anymore.”

He nods slowly, eyes closing as he leans into your touch. “Then stay,” he murmurs. “Even if it’s scary.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, echoing your words from this morning, but now they carry weight. Promise. Choice.

He kisses you then. Again. Not desperate like last night. Not restrained like before. But full and trembling and honest, like he’s finally stopped running from the truth.

And when he holds you afterward, arms tight and protective, you don’t care about anything else in this world.

Park Jongseong has finally kissed you, heck, he's even holding you. And even if he can't do that forever, it’s all that you ever wished for.

EPILOGUE

The wedding does not feel like how weddings are described in stories.

There is no loud music spilling into the street, no crowd pressing in on every side, no overwhelming spectacle. It is small, intimate to the point of fragility, held in the quiet hall of an old heritage house on the outskirts of the city, where the windows are tall and the light filters in pale and gentle, as if even the sun is careful not to intrude too loudly on something this delicate.

Both your families wanted a huge crowd, too many heads to feed in the wedding; but much to their bad luck, Jongseong had stood his ground. He’d said it calmly, without raising his voice, without the sharp edge he used when he was tired or in pain. He didn’t want a stage. He didn’t want a day that felt like it belonged to everyone except the two of you. He wanted something small enough to breathe in. Something that wouldn’t exhaust him before the vows were even spoken, that would feel like yours.

So here you are.

The guest list is trimmed down to the people who matter, the people who know—at least partly—what this day costs him and what it means. There are no distant relatives you barely recognize, no business acquaintances pretending this is a celebration more than a formality.

Except Sunghoon brought in his whole friend group back from his college days, to which Jongseong knew he couldn’t say no to.

Your mother had argued, of course. His family had too. There were expectations. But Jongseong had only said, “Y/n doesn’t want crowds, and I want us to live our wedding day and not rehearse it.” And that had been the end of it.

The hall is simple. Old wood floors that creak softly under careful steps. White fabric draped along the walls. A narrow aisle lined with lilies that smell clean and faintly sweet. The kind of place that feels more like a promise.

You stand at the far end of the aisle, hands folded in front of you, trying to steady your breathing.

Your dress is lighter than you expected it to be, the fabric falling in soft lines instead of stiff layers. You wanted something you could move in. Something that wouldn’t weigh you down. Something that felt like you. The veil brushes your shoulders, and for a moment you close your eyes, just to take it in.

This is real.

When you open them, you see him.

Jongseong is already at the front, standing beside the officiant, posture straight but not rigid. He looks.fragile, in a way that makes your chest tighten. The suit fits him perfectly, but you can see the faint signs of fatigue he never quite manages to hide. The slight hollowness beneath his eyes. The careful way he holds himself, like he’s measuring his energy even now.

And still, when he looks at you, everything else falls away.

His expression changes the moment your eyes meet. The tension in his shoulders eases, just a little. His lips part, like he forgot to breathe for a second. There’s something raw there. Something open. Something that makes your throat ache.

You start walking.

Each step feels slow, because your body seems to understand the weight of this moment better than your mind does. The quiet hum of the room wraps around you. You’re vaguely aware of people watching, of soft movements, of the way the light catches in the tall windows, but mostly, there’s just him.

With every step, memories rise up uninvited.

The distance that used to sit between you like a wall. The silence. The nights you lay awake wondering what you had done wrong. The day you found the papers. The way his voice broke when he said he was dying. The way he looked at you like he was both terrified and relieved that you knew.

And then the nights after that. The long talks. The quiet understanding. The way he started reaching for you again, slowly, like he was relearning how to trust himself with your heart.

You stop in front of him.

Up close, you can see the way his hands are clasped together, fingers tight, knuckles pale. You can see the faint tremor in his breath. But you can also see the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, like you are the only steady thing in a world that keeps shifting under his feet.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The officiant clears their throat gently and begins, their voice low and respectful, as if they, too, understand that this is not a day for grand speeches. The words drift around you—about love, about commitment, about choosing each other not just when it’s easy, but when it’s hard.

“In sickness and in health” lands heavier than the rest.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, and Jongseong notices. His gaze flickers to your hands, then back to your face, and he gives you the smallest nod. Like he’s reminding you. Like he’s reminding himself. We’re here. We’re still here.

When it’s your turn to speak, your heart is hammering so hard you’re afraid your voice will shake.

But when you look at him, really look at him, the words come out steadier than you expect.

His eyes shine, but he doesn’t look away.

When it’s his turn, he swallows hard before speaking.

“I spent a long time trying not to want this,” he admits. “I thought distance would protect you. I thought if I didn’t let you get too close, it would hurt less when…” He stops, breath catching, then continues more softly. “When I leave. I was wrong. All I did was waste time I could have spent loving you properly.”

His voice steadies, just a little.

“I can’t promise you forever. I wish I could. But I can promise you honesty. I can promise you every day I’m given. I can promise you that as long as I’m here, you won’t face anything alone.”

Your eyes burn, but you don’t look away.

When the rings are exchanged, his fingers linger around yours, like he’s afraid of letting go even for a second. When he leans in to kiss you, it’s gentle, unhurried. Not a performance. Not for the room. Just for you.

And when the officiant declares you married, there’s no thunderous applause. Just soft clapping. Warm smiles. A quiet, collective exhale.

The room exhales around you, a collective softening now that the vows have been spoken and the weight of them has settled into something real. There’s a quiet shuffle of movement as people begin to rise from their seats, the soft murmur of congratulations beginning to bloom through the hall. The light shifts as a cloud passes outside, turning the windows briefly dimmer, then bright again.

Jongseong’s hand is still wrapped around yours.

His palm is warm, his grip a little too tight, like he’s anchoring himself to the reality of this moment. You squeeze back, a silent reassurance, and he looks down at you with something fragile and bright in his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief that he’s actually here, standing beside you, that the day did not break apart before it could begin.

“You okay?” you whisper, leaning in so only he can hear.

He nods. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”

You recognize the tone. The carefulness. The way he’s learned to pace himself, even in moments meant to be joyful. You don’t press. You just stay close, your shoulder brushing his arm, your presence a quiet support rather than a demand.

The officiant steps aside, offering you both a small, gentle smile. Someone from the back laughs softly—Sunghoon, probably—trying to cut through the heaviness with something familiar. Your mother wipes at her eyes, her expression torn between pride and worry. His family watches him closely, too closely, like they’re counting his breaths without realizing it.

You and Jongseong take a step forward together.

The motion is small, but you feel the shift in his balance immediately. It’s subtle, you feel it in the way his fingers tighten around yours, in the way his shoulder brushes yours a little harder than before.

“Jongseong?” you murmur.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, the words practiced. He gives you a faint smile, the kind he uses when he doesn’t want to worry you. “Just stood up too fast.”

You search his face. The color has drained a little, leaving him paler than before. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temple that wasn’t there moments ago. Your chest tightens with a familiar, creeping fear.

“Do you want to sit for a bit?” you ask quietly. “We can—”

“I don’t want to sit,” he replies, more firmly than you expect, though his voice is still gentle. “I want to walk out with you. Just… slow, okay?”

So you walk slowly.

Each step is measured, careful. The old wood floor creaks beneath your feet, a soft, grounding sound. The lilies lining the aisle blur in your peripheral vision. You keep your attention on him, on the steady rise and fall of his chest.

His inner world feels loud in a way you can almost sense without him saying anything. There’s a stubborn pride in him, a refusal to let this moment be overshadowed by his body’s limits. He has fought for this day. He has insisted on being here, standing, choosing this with you. The thought of needing help, of letting weakness show in front of everyone, presses against something old in him.

And yet, even as he tries to hold himself together, there is a quieter fear threading through him. A whisper that this might be too much. That joy, even when it is gentle, still costs him something.

Your own thoughts are no less tangled.

Part of you is floating, still wrapped in the soft glow of being married, of hearing him say vows that felt like a promise against the dark. Another part of you is coiled tight with worry, hyper-aware of every change in his breathing, every slight falter in his step. Loving him has taught you this strange duality, how joy and fear can exist side by side, neither fully eclipsing the other.

You reach the middle of the aisle.

There’s a soft ripple of applause, gentle and restrained, as people make space for you to pass. Someone murmurs congratulations. Someone else whispers his name, concern threading through the sound. The room feels warmer than before, or maybe that’s just your nerves making everything feel too close.

Jongseong exhales, long and slow.

“I’m glad we did it like this,” he says under his breath. “Small. Quiet.”

You smile up at him, though your heart is beating too fast. “Me too.”

His gaze lingers on you, something tender and aching in it, like he’s trying to hold onto this exact version of you in this exact moment. Married. Here. Alive in front of him.

“You look…” he trails off, then shakes his head slightly, eyes glues on yours. “You look like something I don’t deserve.”

You start to protest, but the words die in your throat when you feel his grip falter.

It’s subtle at first, the tension in his fingers loosening, his hand slipping slightly in yours. His step stutters. His breath catches.

“Jongseong?” you say, louder now.

The room seems to tilt.

For a second, he’s still standing, eyes unfocused, like he didn’t expect this to happen now, of all times. His inner world fractures in that moment.

“I’m okay,” he tries to say, but the words come out wrong, thin and unconvincing.

Then his knees buckle.

The world lurches forward in a rush of motion and sound. You feel his weight shift suddenly, too heavy, too fast. Your grip tightens instinctively as you reach for him, calling his name as the room erupts into startled gasps, chairs scraping back, someone shouting for help.

Your arms wrap around him as he falls, your body bracing against the impact, heart slamming painfully against your ribs.

“Jongseong—!”

The lilies blur into white streaks at the edge of your vision. The quiet hall fractures into chaos, voices overlapping, footsteps rushing closer. You sink to the floor with him, cradling his head against your chest, your hands trembling as you search his face.

His eyes are half-lidded, breath shallow but there, still there. His brow is drawn, like he’s fighting to stay with you.

“Stay with me, please,” you whisper, the words pouring out like a plea. “A-Always” Jongseong breaths out.

Around you, the room is a blur of motion and worry, but your world has narrowed to the feel of his weight in your arms, the fragile warmth of his skin against yours, the uncertain rhythm of his breathing.

AUTHORS NOTE hello hello again! thank you so so much for reading this all the way and making it through here 💗 i decided for the ending to be open because making jay pass away would be too sad and i couldnt think of any other endings 😞 so for my angst ending haters, you can just pretend that the epilogue never happened!!! phew, its finished and i definitely took way more time than i should've, but like i was sooo confused on this one. anyways, please let me know how it was and reblog to support! see you in my next long fic 😛

edit: and now to clear up some doubts about the ending, jay doesn't actually passes away in the ending! its just shown that he collapses to the ground, and whatever happens after that is left to your imagination, making this an open ending! once again, thank you for reading <3

©BYWONS, 2026 DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE OR REPOST

JONGSEONGㅤhas a not so subtle smirk dancing on his lips as you raise your voice in annoyance.

“and you— are you even listening to me?” you ask when you notice him leaning against his mahogany desk, arms crossed over his chest.

“i am, my love,” he says in that deep yet oh so sweet voice that makes you falter, but then you see his smile and it makes you even angrier.

“you’re smiling,” you deadpan at his sheer audacity. if he didn’t have such a handsome face, you probably would have punched him. “i’m trying to have a serious conversation and you’re smiling,”

“can’t help, darling,” he makes way to you and swiftly pulls you by your waist. “you’re hot when you talk to me in that tone,”

you do slap his arms away and get more angry, but jay would live.

JAEYUNㅤthinks something is wrong with him because why is he having the time of his life when you’re mad at him.

you’re clearly upset, going off about something he did. “you never take me seriously!”

“i-i do!” he defends himself, knowing very well he is doing anything but taking you seriously, even right now.

your eyes squint at him— or the overflowing amusement in his eyes. “you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

and your boyfriend goes speechless after being caught red-handed. “i—uh— a ... little?”

shaking your head, you give up, walking out on him. “you’re unbelievable,”

“not my fault you look sexy as hell when you’re mad at me!” he shouts back shamelessly as you leave the room.

SUNGHOONㅤis hit with realisation the second you shoot him angry eyes. his heart races, mind explodes, eyes widen— that firm, slightly raised voice of yours— it’s doing things to him.

“you can’t do this every time i try to make plans for us,” you make a point, fully expecting him to argue back, but he just reaches out to hold your hand.

“listen, baby—”

“park sunghoon,” words leave your mouth at the nickname— firm and strict. “shut up,”

and sunghoon freezes, feeling all his blood go south. you’re angry and you probably won’t talk to him for a while, but he doesn’t need to be saved.

“y-yes,” he stutters nervously, but he is exactly where he wants to be.

SUNOOㅤis a little surprised at first because you are never this mad.

he looks at you as you get ready for work while also scolding him on the side— he feels like you two are a married couple already with the way you’re scolding him like a wife scolds her husband.

“you’re cute,” words slip off his tongue just as you’re about to leave.

“excuse me?!” you frown and he short circuits at your stern voice and furrowed brows, feeling like something new has awakened inside of him.

and his face flushes red, heart racing even when you’re shooting him the looks of anger. “nothing!”

“kim sunoo, i’ll deal with you later,” and you bet he isn’t sure if you’re warning him or threatening him with a good time.

JUNGWONㅤtruly is baffled because it feels like he is coming to terms with a new side of himself.

“you could’ve told me,” your words are sharp, and usually he would be muttering apologies but now...now he is quiet.

really quiet, eyes zoomed in on you, your shirt— his shirt— it makes you ten times more attractive when you are putting him in his place while wearing his clothes.

his mind trails off in inappropriate directions and he looks away, but then your voice draws him back to you. “look at me when we’re talking, won,”

and he deadass loses his breath, sirens going off in his mind. “sorry,”

you go on for a few more minutes and it’s hard to say he doesn’t enjoy it— so much that he might have a little problem.

NI-KIㅤis having the time of his life because not only are you cute, you are also short and angry that makes him want to hug you and smother your face with kisses.

“riki, stop grinning and listen to me,” you warn, hands on your waist, trying to look as intimidating as you think you do, but riki sees otherwise.

“i am,”

“you’re not,” you say again, bit more firmly this time, eyes not leaving his deep brown ones even for a second.

and it’s like a switch flips inside of him.

because suddenly, your boyfriend is reduced to a mix of nods and no’s and he gulps every time your voice gets a little louder— he hopes this doesn’t awaken something in him but it is already late.

it is only until you notice his eyes fixed on your lips that you catch on. “you’re liking this, aren’t you?”

“maybe...maybe not,” he shrugs, ears a little red.

and you can only shake your head at his implications. “sick freak,”

jay is the steady one, he carries himself like someone who’s always been slightly ahead of the rest of the world. jay is the person who remembers your weird food order and sends you memes at two a.m. when you’re stressed. jay is the friend who will shove half your suitcase into his bag because you insist on carrying everything. he’s been there since backyard forts and playground vows. he’s the one with a measured laugh that comes late and soft, with hands that are always busy — checking a schedule, fixing the strap on your backpack, reaching for the jar of coffee without thinking. he is both impossibly steady and wildly impulsive. best friends since childhood, he knows which part of your pizza you always give up and can read the exact tone in your voice that means you need him without you having to say a word. he knows you in a way most people never will.

you’ve been planning this weekend for weeks: two nights away from the city, a small coastal town with a hotel that promises sea views and soft linen. the trip is a way for you to “decompress,” though you both know it’s a selfish excuse to spend some time with the person you adore the most. you both need the quiet; you both crave the plainness of two people who can be entirely themselves without the rest of the world.

you meet at jay’s apartment early on saturday. he’s already waiting by the door in an old band tee and jeans, hair messed up like he’s been up later than normal. when you walk in, he grins. “ready for an escape?” he asks, voice half-joke, half-relief.

“always,” you say, dropping your bag and grabbing the travel mug he hands you. it’s still warm. you both stand in the doorway for a second, jay nudges your shoulder. “let’s go get some fresh air.”

the drive there is effortless because he makes it so. windows down, music up. jay is a playlist master: he builds the soundtrack like he’s building the mood. his selections are small treasures — an old ballad you loved in high school, a song that you used to hum after an exam, a track you two once danced to in the kitchen at two in the morning. he sings along with the music, fingers drumming the steering wheel, and you watch the way sunlight lines his jaw when he smiles at a lyric. conversation is a steady stream of anecdotes, inside jokes, and comfortable silences where no one feels the need to fill the space.

“remember when we tried to build that tree fort?” jay asks, voice soft with the kind of fondness that makes the corners of your eyes crinkle.

“the one we almost set on fire?” you remind him, though the memory is fuzzy and ridiculous. you both laugh like it’s a secret you’ve shared too many times.

“i’ve got a vivid memory of my dad panicking and running when he saw you trying to light the lighter,” jay says, and you snort, pushing your hair back with a hand.

“you were the one who suggested setting the leaves on fire!” you point out.

“that’s because you were the one who suggested having a fireplace!” he retorts.

“nuh-uh, i was the architect. you were the disaster specialist.”

he grins, eyes warm. “okay, i’ll accept that title. disaster specialist. it fits.”

by the time the coastline unfurls, the town greets you with warm light and a salty breeze that makes your scalp tingle.

the plan is simple: wander, eat, and do nothing you would normally schedule. the first stop is a small café with mismatched chairs and a chalkboard menu. you both order the same thing without planning it. “of course we did,” jay says when the server walks away. “we’re synced.”

you sit, and conversation moves between silly and comfortable. you talk about the dumb things you did in school, the band practices that always ended in pizza, the way jay once tried to convince you that he could beatbox. you both laugh until your stomachs ache. “you sounded like a dying walrus,” you say, wincing with the memory.

“i was talented,” jay protests, mock-hurt. “and you never appreciated artistry.”

“i did appreciate it,” you lie, smiling. the truth is, you appreciated everything about him — the way he told stories, how his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the soft way he checked if you were okay.

after coffee, you wander down the pier together. the sea stretches into a steady horizon, glittering under the afternoon sun; warmth settles on the back of your neck and the breeze smells like salt and summer. jay walks just half a step ahead, hands tucked into his pockets, until something catches his eye: a seagull swoops down, triumphant, clutching someone’s sandwich in its beak.

“i wonder what that reminds me of…” he says, voice dripping with mischief.

you glare at him, already knowing where this is going. “don’t.”

he smirks. “jay—”

“i’m just saying, it’s impressive. most people only get their sandwich stolen once.”

you elbow him sharply. “i was six, and you were the one supposedly taking care of my food, you moron!”

he laughs, the sound bright and familiar, and nudges a puddle with his shoe. a thin arc of water sprays your jeans

“jay!” you yelp.

he shrugs innocently. “oops.”

you flick water back at him with your fingers — which, somehow, only splashes your own shoes. he bursts out laughing.

“that was the saddest attempt i’ve ever—”

before he can finish, you launch a real attack: kicking at the puddle with enough force to send a wave toward him. he dodges, still laughing, and you chase him down the pier, both of you splashing like children who’ve never grown up. your laughter mixes with the cries of gulls and the hush of the sea. it feels stupid and perfect.

when you finally slow down, breathless and damp, you notice a couple of people walking by — older, maybe tourists — who glance at the two of you and smile. one of them nudges the other, and there’s a tiny, knowing look passed between them. the kind of look people give when they see two people who clearly adore each other, even if neither of them is saying it out loud yet. jay notices, too. he tilts his head towards them, then towards you.

“what was that about?” he asks, light but curious.

you shrug, suddenly aware of how close he’s standing, his shoulder brushing yours.

“no idea,” you say — though your heart knows exactly.

after your clothes have been dried by the sun, you stop at a surf shack and decide to try the foam boards. “how hard can it be?” jay asks, grinning. he’s confident, and you know that sometimes his body can do the things his voice promises. the sea is cold but the sun makes up for it. you fall more than you stand, both of you laughing at each other’s ungraceful attempts. when you finally ride a small, sloppy wave, it feels like a victory. as the sun starts to lower, you both sit on a towel and watch the light go gold. jay tells a story about being lost when he was a kid — how he ended up in an ice cream truck because he followed the smell.

you tell him about a karaoke night with your friends which ended in a sore throat the next morning. jay watches your face as you talk like he’s memorizing it. when he tells his story, you see him soften in a way that surprises you: his voice drops, and his hands move in wide, careful circles as if tracing a figure on the sand.

dinner is small and warm. fairy lights hang low. you split a plate and an extra dessert because jay insists. “there’s always room for more dessert,” he says like it’s a moral code he follows strictly. you eat and joke and the conversation turns to the stuff that matters in tiny ways — your worries, the internships you both consider, the small fears.

the drive to the hotel is quiet in a comfortable way, you both feel tired in the best kind of way.

the hotel is a low building with whitewashed walls and a small, flourishing garden. it smells like lemon and seawater at the door, and for a beat you feel like you’ve stepped into a postcard. jay parks in a spot that has been gloriously unclaimed, and you step out together, shoulder to shoulder — the sort of unspoken choreography that makes you both laugh at how simple it feels.

the hotel lobby is cozy: wood floors, an old chandelier, and the receptionist offers a smile that’s almost too sincere. you move like one unit — jay on your left, his hand occasionally brushing the small of your back when the pavement dents or the door takes a gust of wind.

“welcome,” the receptionist says, handing you a key each. the keys are small metal things on old-fashioned loops. jay takes both and jokes about keeping them safe like they’re tiny treasures. the check-in goes smoothly. there’s a mild disappointment in the clerk’s face when he says over the computer, “we have you down for a double room… oh.” the clerk’s face changes. “i’m so sorry,” he says, scrolling. “there was a booking error. and— um—”

your stomach does a small, reflexive flip. “what kind of error?” you ask.

“the hotel is overbooked tonight. it looks like someone else booked your room — the double room with twin beds,” he explains, apologetic. “i’m so sorry. we can bump you up to a suite tomorrow, no costs, but tonight… we only have one room available. a standard double with one bed. it’s most likely a mistake on our end, but i can offer a complimentary breakfast, free minibar and a late checkout to make up for it.”

for a second, the news feels like a comic misstep. you both stand there blinking like two people on a sitcom. “one bed?” you repeat, because the idea is ridiculous and, somehow, makes your pulse skip.

you and jay exchange a glance so practiced it feels like a private joke handed down through years. jay’s brow arches, eyes searching your face as if to see how you’ll react. there’s a moment where you both silently consider demanding a refund and stomping out, but the tiredness in your limbs argues for a place to rest. you’ve come for quiet, and a little awkward intimacy in a single bed is still better than having to drive to the closest hotel possible.

jay rubs his forehead, then shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “we can share,” he says, the kind of simple solution he’s always offered when things go sideways.

“or i can sleep on the floor,” you offer, half-joke, half-serious. “i have a flexible spine.” he laughs.

“no way. we’re grown-ups. we’ll share.” his voice is steady. you feel easier because he always makes the small panic smaller.

“we’ll take it,” jay says finally, his voice steady. “one room. one bed. seems… cozy.”

the receptionist’s smile brightens like the problem is solved. you both pay the fee for the two nights and grab your keys. the elevator ride up is bright with awkward jokes. jay jokes about who will get which side of the bed, about knee territory.

“i get the window side,” you say, claiming it like a prize.

“fine, i get the remote,” he counters. “and the top sheet.”

the room is not big, but it is simple and kind, a wide window faces the ocean. the bed looks smaller than in the picture, white sheets tucked into a neat fold, but it still takes up most part of the room. there’s a vase with fresh flowers on the bedside table and a note from management, apologizing for the mix-up. there’s a soft hum in the air-conditioning, and the town’s urgency feels miles away.

you both make rituals out of mundane things: tossing your bags in a corner, ordering two glasses of iced water and a plate of fries to share. jay takes the window seat, tucking his feet under him and watching the waves. you sit on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, and the two of you settle into the unpretentious ease that’s defined your friendship for years.

“should we go out after this?” you ask after a while. “walk the beach near here? grab some snacks for later?”

jay glances at you and then the bed, a tiny smirk threatening mischief. “or,” he says slowly, “we could stay here, watch that awful romcom on the hotel channel, and eat these fries until our stomachs hurt.”

you groan, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. “eat fries until our stomachs hurt… what are we, twelve?”

you spend the late afternoon (after eating the whole plate of fries, that is) wandering the coastal streets: an old bookshop tucked between a fishmonger and a café, a little stall selling the most amazing scented candles, an ice cream place where jay insists you try a flavor called sea-salt caramel that you didn’t believe would be good but turns out to be divine. you throw yourself into the city’s rhythm — quiet markets, low-slung houses with wind-bent palms, the tang of salt on your lips. the sun slants golden and the ocean is a constant mood, a low storyboard of waves that outlines your day.

when evening comes, you head to a local bistro and order some plates to share. the conversation is easy, sometimes nostalgic, sometimes teasing. you revisit old embarrassments as though they are moments you both cherish, and you discover new quick truths: jay’s soft spot for an old childhood teacher, how he still hums that ridiculous jingle he used to perform for neighborhood kids, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles like he’s remembering something sweet. you find yourself leaning in more than usual, drawn to small gestures that have always been there but suddenly feel more luminous.

“do you ever think about how different things would be if we hadn’t been stuck living two houses apart?” you ask, swirling the rim of your glass.

jay pauses, lifting his fork like he’s considering the question as carefully as a strategic play. “no,” he says eventually. “maybe it would be different. but i like the way we’ve been pegged to each other — like a pair of constant variables. you know?”

you do. you know because jay has been constant in your calculus of life — the equation that solved itself with him in it. “i like it too,” you say, and mean it.

back at the hotel, the night unfurls with small rituals. you brush your teeth in the bathroom together because it feels like something you’ve always done, even though it’s oddly intimate, and you both laugh when a toothbrush falls and clatters. you change into pajamas in the same room, without looking at each other. it’s no big deal, because there’s years of trust there.

after closing the balcony’s door, you come back to the room while jay reads aloud the silly poem that was printed on the hotel pamphlet, turning it into a mock-serious performance.

“i have the perfect plan for tomorrow’s night,” he announces in a dramatic whisper, making you snort. “we conquer the buffet and then we empty the mini bar which, by the way, is free because of the hotel room thing.”

“incredible strategy, commander,” you mumble, tossing a pillow at him.

when you crawl into bed, the mattress feels even smaller than you thought. you both lie down on your backs, the covers tucked and your knees up. the hotel window shows the sliver moon and a smear of town lights. you don’t turn off the lamps because it feels like the night wants to be watched.

“i can feel it already… destiny. fate. the universe preparing to kick us with food poisoning from the buffet and—”

“what are you doing?” you ask, and he just grins.

“i’m narrating our lives. also, i never get to be dramatic out loud with anyone except you.”

the warmth in your chest is a gentle pressure.

you settle closer, legs tangling accidentally, and the bed feels too familiar and too intimate at once. there’s nothing sudden or electric in that moment — just the friendly gravity that has always existed between you two, the small ease that comes from a thousand shared food, errands and late-night confessions.

the distance closes so naturally you barely register it. one moment you’re side by side, and the next his foot nudges yours, a small accidental press that sends a quiet ripple through your chest. he doesn’t joke like he usually does. he just looks at you for a second — too long, too gentle — before glancing back at the ceiling. then, jay shifts, trying to get comfortable, and ends up knocking your knee.

“sorry,” he says softly — then adds, “but also… it’s your fault for having knees.” you snort, but you don’t move away. neither does he.

jay reaches for the remote, tapping your ankle with it. “okay,” he announces, “since your knees started this war, i get to pick the movie.”

“that’s not how this works,” you mutter, but you’re already smiling.

he scrolls until he finds a romcom with a 23% rating and a poster that looks like it was made in microsoft paint.

“perfect,” he declares.

“that looks terrible.”

“exactly, a cinematic masterpiece.”

he presses play, and the two of you settle closer, shoulders brushing as the opening credits flash like a warning.

later, long after the film fades and the television hums low, you find yourselves wide awake.

it’s the kind of quiet that makes every sound amplified; the ticking clock sounds like an orchestra. the ocean mutters in the background; a faint glow from the street below paints the curtains silver. you lie on opposite sides at first, an unconscious measure of space between your shoulders, but there’s something in the air that nudges at the perimeter.

you start with small talk — funny comments about the hotel’s art, the exact color of the blanket, how the protagonist of the last movie was an idiot — and then sink into quieter conversation. then you talk about work, about the small mistakes and the things that made you proud that day. the conversation is slow and easy. you nudge his knee with your foot and he squeezes your ankle in return, not even looking at you. the small touches are normal for you; they mean nothing more than warmth in the moment, but they make your heart skip a beat.

after a while the talk goes softer. jay says, “i’m glad we did this.” you answer, “me too.” he turns his head to look at you, face lit by the moonlight and softer than you remember in normal days.

“i don’t like being away from all of this,” he says, voice quiet. “i mean, from home, from my friends, from my family… from you.”

you feel a little jolt. “from me?” you ask, trying to make your voice casual.

“yeah. it’s weird,” he says, fingers tracing an absent path on the sheet. “i just… i like this. being with you like this. no pretending. no schedules. just us two.”

“i feel the same,” you say, and you mean it.

the room hums. you reach for his hand; your fingers fit his the way they always have. his grip tightens, then loosens, like he’s deciding how much to say. the closeness is comfortable and also suddenly sharper. you both stay awake, talking in half sentences, the kind of talk that means more than the words.

“do you ever think about how long it’s been?” jay asks suddenly, voice soft, not a joke this time.

“how long it’s been… since what?” you reply, turning your head to look at him.

“us,” he says. “you and me. the whole best friends thing. like… how long we’ve had each other.” there’s a hitch at the edge of his voice that makes you sit up a little.

he looks smaller now, exposed in the low glow of the lamp. your heart tugs at the rawness of the moment — the way time has folded you into adjacent lives.

“since kids,” you say, because the answer comes easily. “since we were both too young to know better. you were the one who taught me how to ride a bike after four tries and three scraped knees.”

he laughs then, because he remembers the bandages awkwardly wrapped on your knees.

“and you were the one who hid my vintage baseball cap because you thought it was stupid,” he reminds you, teasing but tender.

you roll your eyes. “it was stupid.”

“so was my hair, that’s why i wanted to hide it,” he says, and you both grin at the shared memory before a comfortable silence settles.

then, like an accidental gradual pull, his hand finds yours again. it’s easy and familiar: fingers slipping into those well-known places, a reflex that has always belonged only to you two. tonight, though, the touch feels charged, like it’s more meaningful than ever. for a second your fingers intertwine, and you turn to look at him fully, as if the light will reveal new shapes.

you tell him a small thing you’ve been holding for a while — how you worry about moving forward and losing pieces of your life that felt safe. he listens and then says, simply, “we’ll keep the important parts. we’ll keep the parts that matter. you’ll never lose me. ever.” his voice is calm but there’s an undercurrent of something else — care that feels weightier than usual.

the mood shifts in little ways. when you laugh, his look lingers. when you reach for the blanket and he helps you pull it, his hand covers yours a fraction longer than it needs to. you both notice but don’t comment. the night tightens from easy to intimate in a way that feels new. you lie facing each other now, closer than when you first got in bed. your shoulders almost touch. the two of you lie close enough that, if you wanted, you could trace the outline of his face with your thumb.

“remember when we used to stay up making forts?” you ask, voice small, half-trying to be playful.

“i remember you stealing my flashlight and refusing to share,” jay replies. he smiles, then grows quiet. his hand caresses yours under the cover, fingers warm around yours, his thumb drawing little circles that slow your breathing. “i like being near you,” he says again, but this time the words sound like a confession instead of a casual note. they hang between you, bright and risky.

you can feel your heart speed up. you look at him, really look — at the line of his jaw, the way his eyelashes shadow his cheek, the little scar on his nose.

the hotel room is full of the sound of quiet breathing. the air between you is different now — thiner, charged. you squeeze his hand back and the touch feels like a dare. the shift is gentle but certain: you both feel it, like the tide turning under the shore. you don’t fall asleep, neither of you do. you stay awake with your hands intertwined. what you’ve said is not yet the confession you both are afraid and eager to say, but it’s close enough. so much that the space between your faces feels like a wall you’re both willing to break.

“you’re quiet,” you murmur.

“i’m thinking,” he replies, looking at the ceiling as if the words are hiding up there. “about how different everything would be if i didn’t approach you that day at your porch, if we treated each other like strangers.” he turns his head slightly to meet your eyes. “but we’re not strangers, are we?”

you shake your head. “no. we’re… us.”

“us,” he says, saying the word like it’s a small, sacred thing. jay props himself up on an elbow, the lamp throwing shadows that make his face more serious than you usually see it. “i think i used to think that best friends were supposed to be… a constant. like okay, safe, habitual. and that was enough. but lately—” he pauses, fingers trailing idle patterns on the bedsheet. “lately i can’t tell whether what i feel is just familiarity or something else. something that makes me… not okay with you being with anyone else.”

the sentence drops, and your chest tightens in a way that spins your stomach. you liked to guess that, in small private moments, maybe jay felt things he didn’t say — the same things you felt — but he’s never voiced it like this. the admission is raw and honeyed at the same time.

“do you want to say it?” he asks suddenly, voice so soft it could be mistaken for sleep talking. he’s facing you now, eyes open and honest, the moonlight in the window making his skin look paler and a little electric.

you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. “say what?” you ask, though you already know.

“you know what it is... that,” he says, and his mouth quirks — nervous, silly, resigned. “that thing between us. that i’m tired of pretending doesn’t exist.” he swallows. “i’m tired of pretending i don’t think about you like that.”

your heart stutters. you feel it as a physical thing, as if someone has flicked a switch and warmth is flooding the room. you laugh, a small, incredulous sound that shakes with relief.

“you mean…” you begin, voice small.

“i mean,” he cuts in, not harshly but with a gravity that lands heavy, “i think i like you. more than a friend. and it’s been creeping up on me, and i don’t know when it started exactly, but i know when i notice it now. and it terrifies me because you’re my person. and the idea of losing you to… anything else makes my chest hurt in a way i don’t like.”

“you’re serious.”

“i’m extremely serious. i wouldn’t joke about this.” jay’s hand tightens around yours. “i—i’ve been stupid about it. scared, i guess. scared of what it would do to us. but i can’t keep pretending that i don’t care in a different way.” he breathes, “i like you. like-like you. more than best-friend-like.”

you stare at him for a second — at the honest way his lips tremble when he says the words — and your throat goes dry. the air between you tilts. your heart beats so fast you’re sure he can hear it; a dozen little memories — of his hand brushing yours, of the way he looked at you after your high school show, of how he'd walk you home after parties, of the way he always lent you his jacket — assemble into a shape that suddenly seems obvious. your fingers are limp in the space where his had been; you reach for them without thinking, and his hand closes around yours like a soft, heavy promise.

“i was so sure,” you say finally, and your voice is barely more than a rustle against the linens. “i was sure i was the one being an idiot. that it was only me who wanted more and—” you stop because the words begin to rearrange themselves into something urgent. you inhale, collecting courage. “jay i… i feel the same.”

jay’s shoulders deflate, a laugh escaping him that’s half disbelief and half joy. his face is a map of every possible emotion at once: relief that blooms into disbelief, then something tender and almost shy, like embarrassment and happiness braided together. he swallows audibly, then slides off the edge of the bed to sit beside you, thumb brushing your knuckles in a motion so slow it could be prayer.

“you do?” he asks, voice cracking. “you like me too?”

“i do,” you confirm, before you can overthink it. “i’ve wanted this — wanted you — for a while. and i’ve been trying to tell myself i was imagining things. i kept thinking if i said it out loud everything would change, and i was scared.” your voice thins and then steadies. “but i’m tired of being scared.” you let out a breath, laugh-crying a little. “i’m tired of pretending it hasn’t been you for ages.”

he cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek, and the gesture is tender and sudden. “hey, don’t be scared,” he whispers. “i don’t want to lose us either. but i don’t want to ignore this.”

“so… what do we do?” you whisper, the question monumental in the small room.

your faces are inches apart; you can almost count the soft baby hairs at his temple.

“we start,” he says, and the word feels like a vow. “we try, slowly, brick by brick, step by step. we don’t have to figure out the rest tonight.” you nod, slow and certain.

after seconds of silence, you finally break it.

“i want to,” you echo.

jay opens his mouth, then closes it. “are you sure?” you nod. “you know if we cross this line it’s going to be very hard to—”

“jay,” you stop him, looking into his eyes. “just kiss me already”

and then, in a moment that feels both like a cliff and landing, jay leans in. his lips find yours with a tenderness you’d only imagined in stolen movie scenes. it’s tentative at first — warm, probing — as if he’s afraid to wake something delicate, and you know he’s trying to be gentle because the moment matters. but the kiss soon deepens, becomes a conversation in itself. your hands find the familiar places — the little dip behind his ear, the nape of his neck — and he responds by threading his fingers through your hair, steadying himself against the newness of the feeling.

the world outside the window hums as if nothing at all has changed, but everything has. when he pulls back for air, his forehead rests against yours and both of you are breathless, eyes bright and shaking. you both pull back with nervous smiles that turn into laughter because everything feels suddenly lighter and impossibly good.

“god, i can’t believe we’re actually doing this, can you?” jay laughs, looking into your eyes.

you answer by kissing him deeper. this time there’s less carefulness and more hunger — years of small touches and bedside talks turning into something braver. your mouth opens under his, and the world narrows to the taste of him. you feel his breath hitch, a small sound that is part shock, part sweetness.

his hands are not tentative anymore. they travel down your sides, find the curve of your waist, pull you flush against him. you can feel the line of his ribs under the shirt, the steady beat of his heart, a drum that matches yours. he mumbles against your mouth, “i like you. so much. it’s stupid. it’s everything.”

“i love you,” you say before you can stop yourself — your words tumbling out in the dark and landing between you. you don’t take them back. you mean them; the truth feels heavy and right.

jay freezes for the tiniest second, disbelief and joy warring on his face. then he smiles like he’s been given a map to something he’s been searching for without knowing. “god, i love you, i love you too,” he says, and his voice is near-breaking. he says it again, this time firmer, like anchoring himself. “i’ve loved you for ages.”

you both breathe, the confession settling like a warm blanket. then the awkward, perfect, dangerous part: you both laugh because you’re unbelievably relieved and because it feels ridiculous to be this dramatic about words you should have said way sooner.

“so,” jay says, cheek pressed to yours, “now what?”

“now,” you answer, “we stop pretending we don’t want each other?” you murmur, tracing small, teasing, nervous circles on his chest with your fingertip, savoring the steady heat under your skin.

jay chuckles, shaking his head. “you’re impossible.” the he licks his lips, leaning against your ear. “but i wouldn’t have you any other way.”

he kisses your temple, then drags his mouth down your neck in slow, tender strokes that make you shiver. “is it okay if i show you how much i’ve wanted this, then?” he asks, the question gentler than the rest. you nod. “let me make this easy for you,” he murmurs, voice huskier now.

he slides his hand down to the small of your back and pulls you flush against him. the contact is immediate, grounding. his mouth finds yours again, deeper this time — hungry but still careful, wanting to memorize your reactions. you kiss him back with the same mix of desperation and care.

you can feel the change move through you like heat. jay’s hands are not shy; they explore your curves as if they’ve been waiting for permission. you hook your legs around him, instinctively, and the motion brings you both closer. the covers rustle; the room shrinks to the two of you. you laugh breathlessly against his lips. “we’re idiots,” you whisper.

“big idiots,” he replies, smiling into the kiss, then his voice drops. “i’ve wanted you for so long.” he breaks the kiss just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours.

the room condenses to the sound of your breaths and the soft rustle of the covers. the lamps throw a golden halo around you both, and the world outside the window recedes into a wash of distant traffic and the ocean’s hush. his hand slides up your side, careful, asking permission with the lightest pressure; you answer by angling your hip toward him. the motion is tiny, but it says everything you couldn’t say with words.

he keeps talking when he kisses you — low reassurances, little jokes that make you hiccup-laugh between soft, searching kisses. “i could do this forever,” he murmurs against your throat. “i will be very annoying and very attentive. is that okay?” you nod, because yes, yes, yes. your voice would betray you if you tried to say anything else.

suddenly, the room grows even hotter. he begins with soft worship — hands mapping your shoulders, the line of your collarbone, the dip of your neck. his mouth follows, leaving kisses that turn into gentle suckles, slow and intimate. every little noise he makes — soft groans, the way his breath catches — makes your pulse quicken.

as his kisses travel further, his hands move with purpose. he peels your shirt up slowly, as if practiced, just as if he was a man who had been rehearsing this exact scene in his head a hundred times. you help as he pauses to kiss the skin he reveals, fingers fumbling at the hem because you want him close, you want nothing between you. the fabric slips away and leaves you bare to the cool air and his eyes.

jay drinks in the sight quietly like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. “you’re beautiful,” he whispers, cheeks flushed and voice thick. it’s clumsy and perfect. “i mean it.”

you feel heat bloom in your chest. “you too,” you breathe. “you’re so, so beautiful.”

his hands find your waist again, pulling you until your bodies are flush. he kisses your throat, then your collarbone, lingering at points that make your back arch. his lips are everywhere, each kiss slow and worshipful. when his hand finds your breast, he cups it like it’s fragile, thumbs rolling your nipple with gentle, exploratory pressure. you gasp.

“you’re so perfect, baby,” he breathes, voice raw. when he finally takes a nipple into his mouth, it’s like a small electric shock — sharp and delicious. he sucks with a mix of need and adoration that makes your knees weak. you moan, which makes him hum against your breast, pleased and needy.

“do you want me to stop?” he murmurs against your skin, suddenly cautious.

“no,” you say, breathless. “jay, please, don’t stop.”

encouraged, jay’s mouth moves lower, trailing to the curve of your ribs, the slope of your belly. his hands keep you steady, one at the small of your back, the other sliding between you to trace the line of your hip. he breathes around your navel and then looks up at you, eyes dark with want. “are you sure? i don’t want to rush anything you’re not ready for.” he asks again, though the question is almost theatrical now, given the way your both lusting for each other.

you respond with your own hands, sliding up the back of his pajama shirt, feeling the tension of his muscles. “i’m sure. i want you. i’ve imagined this so many times,” you confess. “i want you so much, jay. i need you so much it hurts.” the confession is private, painful, but liberating to say.

he smiles like someone who finally got permission for something he’s been dreaming of. he answers by settling between your legs, careful as if you might break, but his eyes are bright and fierce with want. you can’t help but moan at the sight of your best friend licking his lip, so eager for your body, for you. “then… should i go on? i’m dying to taste you,” he says, voice low and breathy. you answer by nodding. “words, pretty girl, i need words.” he chuckles, caressing your skin.

you swallow, your throat caught between letting out a laugh or a sob of desperation. “god, jay, yes, please,” you groan, certain. your fingers tighten in the sheet, not out of fear but because you need something to steady you — something that isn’t him for a second, until your breath evens out and you remember how safe his hands always feel.

his hands keep hold of your hips, thumbs pressed into the skin. then his mouth is right there, a kiss low on your belly, slow and adoring, and when his tongue finally slips out it’s like heat and velvet at once. he starts at the curve beneath your ribs, lapping a smooth line down towards your center. the first touch makes you jerk, breath hitching; he hums against you, the sound vibrating through his chest and into you, pleased and hungry.

“fuck.” he groans, closing his eyes. and you feel yourself getting even wetter.

he doesn’t rush. that’s the first thing you notice, really notice, while your pulse is hammering against your ribs and the room feels too small for all the air you suddenly need. jay stays on his knees at the edge of the bed, palms sliding slow up the backs of your thighs like he has all the time in the world. his eyes flick up to yours, soft and dark and a little wrecked, and he smiles, small, reverent.

“you’re shaking,” he whispers, thumb stroking the crease where your leg meets your hip. “i’ve got you, okay? we can slow down.”

you shake your head before the words even form. “don’t you dare.”

he laughs, quiet, the sound warm against your skin. “okay. okay, baby.”

then he lowers his mouth and kisses you there, once, gentle, right over the cotton of your underwear, like he’s saying hello to something sacred. the second kiss is open-mouthed, hotter, and you feel the heat of his breath soak through the fabric. your hips jerk without permission as a moan escapes your throat.

he hooks his fingers in the waistband and drags the last scrap of clothing down your legs, slow enough that you feel every inch of air replacing it. when you’re bare, he just looks for a long second, eyes glassy, lips parted, like he’s trying to memorize you.

“baby,” he says, reverent. “look at you. you’re so fucking pretty i can’t think straight. god,” he breathes. “you’re so pretty. how are you this pretty everywhere?”

you try to laugh, but it comes out shaky. he kisses the inside of your knee, then higher, open-mouthed and lazy, like he’s tasting dessert he’s waited years for. every press of his lips is paired with a new praise whispered against your skin.

“so soft… you taste so good already. i’ve been dreaming about this for so long.”

the praise lands warm in your chest. he lowers himself between your thighs. his palms slide under you, lifting you gently toward his mouth like an offering.

the first touch of his tongue is soft, just a slow, flat lick from entrance to clit that makes your hips jerk, your back arch clean off the mattress. he groans like you’ve hurt him, arms banding under your thighs to hold you open.

“fuck, there it is,” he says, voice rough with wonder. “that’s my girl.”

he licks again, deeper this time, parting you with the tip of his tongue, tasting you like he’s starved. when he circles your clit, gentle, lazy circles, your breath catches so hard it sounds like a sob. he pulls back just enough to speak.

“you taste so good, sweetheart. i've been dreaming about this. been dying to know what you sound like when you let go for me.”

he settles in like it’s his life’s work. tongue flat and broad at first, just feeling you, learning every twitch and sigh. then he narrows it, circles your clit once, twice, light enough to make you crazy. you thread fingers into his hair and he hums approval, the vibration rolling straight through you.

“don’t be shy, pull harder,” he says against you. “i want to feel you.”

you do. he rewards you by sliding one finger inside, slow, eyes locked on your face to watch every flicker. when you clench around him he curses softly, adds a second, curls them just right.

“perfect,” he whispers. “so perfect for me. you always were.”

he seals his mouth over you and sucks, soft at first, then harder when your fingers fist in his hair. every time you tug, he groans like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. his tongue dips inside you, slow thrusts that match the roll of his thumb over your clit, and the room fills with the wet sounds of him devouring you.

“jay,” you whimper, thighs trembling on either side of his head.

“i know, baby,” he soothes, voice muffled. “i know. just let me take care of you.”

the way he curls his fingers, slow and perfect, stroking the exact spot, makes your back arch clean off the bed. his mouth never leaves your clit, licking, sucking, fluttering, sucking again until your legs try to close on instinct. he just gentles them open with his shoulders, kissing the inside of your thigh.

“stay open for me, love. wanna see all of you. wanna watch you fall apart on my tongue.”

he finds a rhythm that makes your thighs start to tremble, mouth relentless, fingers steady and deep. every time you get close he backs off just enough to keep you teetering, kissing your clit like an apology before he starts again. you’re babbling his name, pleas, broken little sounds you didn’t know you could make.

“jay, please, i’m so close i can’t—”

“i know, baby, i know. let me take care of you. you deserve it, you deserve everything.”

he sucks your clit gently, crooking his fingers at the same time, and the orgasm rolls over you slow and huge, like a wave that starts at your toes and crashes behind your eyes. you cry out, hips grinding against his face, and he works you through it, soft licks and praises the whole time.

“you’re doing so good for me,” he mumbles, kissing your thighs. “my beautiful girl, i love watching you fall apart.”

when you finally fall against the pillows, he crawls up your body, kissing every inch he passes, until he’s hovering over you, mouth shiny, eyes dazed.

“you look so pretty like this,” he whispers, voice cracked open.

you don’t waste another second: you pull him down into a kiss and taste yourself on his tongue. it’s filthy and perfect. he groans into your mouth, hips rolling instinctively against yours.

“i need you,” he says against your lips. “i need to be inside you. can i?” he says it like a prayer, lips brushing yours.

you nod, frantic. “yes. yes, jay, please.”

he pulls back just far enough to reach for the nightstand drawer. his fingers close around the little foil square and you both freeze for half a heartbeat, staring at it like it’s evidence.

a slow, wicked grin spreads across your face even as your cheeks burn.

“wait,” you breathe, propping yourself up on your elbows, hair falling messily over one shoulder. “did you… pack condoms for our little platonic weekend getaway?”

jay’s ears go scarlet. he tries to look dignified and fails completely. “i—”

“be honest,” you tease, poking his chest. “did you stand in the drugstore aisle going “hmm, better grab a three-pack just in case my best friend finally lets me ruin our friendship”?”

he groans, dropping his forehead to your collarbone, but he’s laughing, muffled and embarrassed. “shut up.”

“no, no, i need details.” you tilt his chin up so he has to meet your eyes. “how many scenarios did you run in that pretty head? did you practice this moment in the mirror?”

“i hate you,” he mutters, but he’s grinning so wide the crinckles by their eyes are showing. “i threw them in at the last second, okay? i told myself it was… responsible. like life-jacket thinking. just in case we, i don’t know, got on a boat, got shipwrecked and needed to improvise a water pouch or something.”

you burst out laughing, the sound bright in the quiet room. “a water pouch. smooth, park.”

he hides his face in your neck, voice muffled. “i was delusional and hopeful and terrified all at once. sue me.”

you soften, running your fingers through his hair. “so you’ve been carrying around the possibility of us for months?”

he lifts his head, eyes suddenly serious even while his cheeks are still pink. “years,” he corrects quietly. “i just finally grew a spine tonight.”

the laughter fades into something tender and huge. you cup his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “come here, you optimistic little boy scout.”

he kisses you again, slower this time, like he’s trying to say thank you and sorry and finally all at once.

you take the packet from his unsteady fingers, tear it open with your teeth because you can’t resist the way his breath catches, as much as you can’t stand not touching him another second. when you roll the condom down his length he’s trembling, biting his lip so hard you’re worried he’ll leave marks.

you guide him back to you with both hands on his hips, fingers pressing gentle crescents into his skin. he’s shaking, fine tremors running through his shoulders, his thighs his breath, like every nerve is lit up and waiting for permission. when the blunt head of him nudges against you, he stops. just stops. forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, sharing the same ragged air.

“tell me again,” he breathes, voice shredded. “please.”

you cup his face, thumb sweeping the sharp line of his cheekbone. “i love you, jay,” you say, clear and steady even though your heart is sprinting. “i want you. i want this. i only ever wanted this with you.”

his eyes flutter shut for a second, like the words are almost too much. when they open again they’re glassy, stunned, impossibly soft.

and because you can’t help yourself, because you need to see him laugh one more time before everything changes forever, you lean up and whisper against his mouth, “for the record… best emergency preparedness ever.”

a broken laugh punches out of him, half sob, half joy. “you’re the worst,” he chokes, but he’s smiling so wide it almost dimples both cheeks.

then the smile fades into something raw, and he pushes in.

slow. god, so slow you feel every single inch like it’s being carved into you. the stretch is perfect, almost too much, and you both exhale shakily when he’s halfway. he pauses again, sweat beading at his temple, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump, you hear him swear under his breath.

“it’s okay, jay,” you whisper, stroking his back. “i’ve got you too.”

he nods against your forehead and sinks the rest of the way in one smooth, trembling glide until there’s no space left between you. the sound he makes is wrecked, animal, grateful. he bottoms out and just stays there, buried to the hilt, pulsing inside you, breathing like he’s run miles.

“fuck,” he says, voice cracking on the single syllable. “fuck, you feel,” he swallows hard, tries again. “you feel like home. like every place i’ve ever wanted to be.”

your throat closes. you wrap your legs higher around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, and the tiny shift in angle makes you both gasp.

“move,” you beg quietly. “please move.”

he does.

long, unhurried strokes that drag over every sensitive spot like he already knows your body by heart. he watches your face the whole time, eyes dark and awed, lips parted. every time he pulls almost all the way out and slides back in he whispers something new against your skin.

“i love you,” he mumbles. “you’re so warm, so perfect… fuck, i can’t believe i get to call you mine.”

you meet him halfway, rolling your hips up, nails raking lightly down his spine. the rhythm builds steady and deep, not fast, never fast, like you have years to make up for and all the time in the world to do it. the headboard taps softly against the wall in a lazy, hypnotic beat that matches the hush of the ocean outside.

he kisses you constantly, messy, open-mouthed, swallowing every sound you make. when he angles his hips just right you see stars; your back arches and he groans like it hurts him how good you feel.

“right there, yeah? you want it there?” he asks, voice hoarse, doing it again, again, and again.

you can’t answer with words, just nod frantically and pull him down for a kiss that’s more teeth and tongue and pure need. sweat gathers where your bodies are pressed together, skin sliding slick and perfect. the room smells like salt and sex and the faint lemon of hotel soap and jay, always jay.

he buries his face in your neck, kissing the skin there, sucking gentle marks. the rhythm stays slow, deep, grinding on every thrust so his pelvis rubs your clit and you see stars. you can feel another orgasm building, softer this time, deeper.

“jay,” you whimper, clutching at his shoulders. “i’m close again.”

“i know,” he breathes, lifting his head to watch you. “i want you to come around me this time. i want to feel you let go while i’m inside you.”

he slips a hand between you, thumb finding your clit with devastating accuracy, and circles once, twice, gentle but relentless. your thighs start to shake against his sides and the orgasm rolls through you like warm honey, endless and shattering. you clench hard around him, crying out his name into his mouth, and the feeling of you coming undone around him finally breaks his control.

he thrusts deep one last time and stays there, hips stuttering, face buried in the damp curve of your neck. you feel him pulse inside you, again and again, each throb matched by a broken whisper of your name like it’s the only word he remembers until he finally spills inside you.

“jay, i love you,” you’re able to whimper. “i love you so much.”

after, he doesn’t pull out right away. he stays inside you, kissing your face, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, until you’re both giggling breathlessly at how tender it all is. his arms are trembling as they hold his weight off your chest, breath sawing in and out against your throat. you stroke his hair, his back, the nape of his neck, anywhere you can reach, until the shaking stops.

when he finally pulls out it’s careful, almost reluctant. eventually he ties off the condom and collapses beside you, pulling you into his chest. your legs tangle automatically. the room smells like sex and salt air and the two of you. he lifts his head. his eyes are a little red, wet at the corners, and he looks so young and stunned and happy it punches the air out of you.

“hi,” he whispers, voice completely shot.

you laugh, watery and wrecked. “hi.”

you end up half on top of him, cheek over his heart, one of his hands splayed possessively across your lower back, the other tangled in your hair. your legs are still intertwined, sticky and perfect.

the room is quiet except for breathing and the far-off shush of waves. moonlight has shifted; silver stripes paint his collarbone, the slope of your shoulder.

after a minute he starts laughing, soft and disbelieving.

“what?” you mumble into his skin.

“i just had sex with my best friend,” he says, like he’s testing the sentence for flaws and finding none. “and it was,” his voice cracks again. “it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

you press a kiss over his heart. “same.”

he squeezes you tighter. “we’re gonna be so annoying now.”

“the most annoying,” you agree, smiling against his chest. “oh, and, for the record, i’m not letting you leave this bed until we have to check out.”

“deal.” he tips your chin up, eyes shining.

for a long time you just breathe together. his fingers trace mindless patterns on your back.

“so,” he says finally, voice hoarse and soft, “what do we do now?”

you press your smile into his collarbone. “we date, i guess?”

he huffs a laugh. “yeah. we date. like, officially. you’re my girlfriend.”

the word makes something warm unfurl in your chest. “and you’re my boyfriend.”

“boyfriend,” he repeats, testing it, grinning. “i like that. a lot.”

you prop your chin on his chest to look at him. “people are gonna lose their minds.”

“let them.” he brushes your hair back. “my mom is gonna cry happy tears, and my own dad is gonna threaten to kill me if i hurt you.”

you snort. “he’ll have to get in line behind your grandma.”

jay’s quiet for a second, thumb stroking your cheek. “are you scared?”

you think about it, his thumb stroking your hip.

“a little,” you admit. “but mostly i’m… relieved.”

you turn in his arms so you’re face to face again.

“just so you know... i want mornings,” he says suddenly. “i want to wake up and make your coffee the way you like it, too much sugar, no matter how wrong it is. i want to argue about whose turn it is to do dishes and then make out against the fridge anyway. i want boring tuesday nights on the couch and big stupid anniversary trips and,” his voice cracks a little, “and i want to come home to you for the rest of my life, if you’ll let me.”

tears prick your eyes without warning.

“yes,” you whisper. “yes to all of it.”

he kisses you again, slow and sweet, like sealing a vow.

“i’ve been scared for years that one day you’d bring someone home and i’d have to smile and be happy for you while my chest caved in.” jay confesses. “but this is better. this is so much better.”

you kiss the center of his palm. “no more pretending.”

“no more pretending,” he echoes. “i get to hold your hand in public. kiss you when i want. tell everyone you’re mine.”

“possessive you is unexpectedly hot,” you tease.

he rolls you gently so you’re under him again, wrists pinned lightly above your head. “you have no idea.”

you arch up to kiss him, slow and lazy. when you break apart he rests his forehead against yours.

“we’ll take it slow with everyone else,” he says seriously. “we’ll tell our families first. then the group chat can explode. but us... we don’t have to figure everything out tonight. we just keep being us, but now i get to love you out loud.”

your eyes sting a little. “i like the sound of that.”

he kisses the tip of your nose. “good. because i plan on being disgustingly in love with you for a very long time.”

you laugh, watery. “disgustingly in love?”

“oh yeah. i’m talking matching halloween costumes, instagram hard launch in like, a week, writing songs about you… the whole cringe package.”

“i can’t wait.” you smile.

he settles beside you again, pulling the sheet up over both of you. you curl into his side, ear over his heart.

“jay?”

“mhm?”

“i’m really glad the hotel messed up the booking.

he laughs, the sound rumbling under your cheek. “me too, baby. me too.”

you talk until the sky outside starts to pale. about stupid little things — who gets the left side of the bed at home, whether you’ll keep separate toothbrushes at each other’s places or just share, if you’ll tell your friends or let them figure it out when you don’t stop touching each other —, and big things — moving in together one day, maybe in a year, maybe sooner; how you’ll handle fights when they come, because they will; how you’ll protect this new, bright thing between you.

and every time one of you starts to worry, the other kisses it quiet.

at some point you must doze off, because you wake to jay pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, whispering, “morning, girlfriend.”

you smile into the pillow. “morning, boyfriend.”

outside, the waves keep rolling in, steady and sure, just like the two of you now, finally on the same page.

© jongst4r, 2025

The sound of keys jingling in the lock was your cue to put the kettle on.

Jay always came through the door like the world outside was a costume he could finally peel off. Here, in the apartment nobody knew he shared with you, he didn’t have to be Park Jongseong, idol, performer, Enhypen’s beloved ace. Here, he was just Jay —your Jay. The one who danced with you while brushing his teeth, who left shoes scattered in the hallway, and who whispered stupidly sweet things into your shoulder when he couldn’t sleep.

No one knew.

Not really.

No one knew. The members knew he had a second apartment. A “quiet place.” They didn’t know about your toothbrush beside his, or the cardigan hanging off his desk chair, or how your presence had quietly settled into every corner of the space. Two years of careful balance. Secret. Contained.

Until tonight.

“Wifey,” Jay called from the front door, voice already smiling, “you didn’t burn the place down while I was getting the groceries, right?”

You laughed, meeting him halfway to steal a quick kiss and grab a bag from his arms. “Not yet. But there’s still time.”

He grinned. That same soft, boyish grin that made your chest ache.

The members were coming over for dinner —for the first time. The idea had started as some hopeful wishing, then turned into Jay sitting on the edge of the bed one night saying he was tired of splitting his life in half. He wanted the people he loved in the same room.

You’d hesitated. You understood what secrets cost in this industry.

“They’ll like you,” he’d said, stubborn and hopeful. “They just don’t know it yet.”

You weren’t convinced.

----------------------------------

When the doorbell rang, you forced yourself to breathe before opening it.

Jungwon. Heeseung. Jake. Sunghoon. Sunoo. Ni-ki.

Polite greetings. Polite smiles.

Their eyes moved slowly over the apartment. Your shoes by the door. The framed photo turned slightly toward the wall. The lived-in warmth that didn’t match the story they’d been told.

Jay, oblivious, clapped his hands once. “See? Not a cave.”

You offered drinks. Jake thanked you with an easy smile. Sunoo complimented the smell of the stew. Heeseung nodded warmly.

Sunghoon’s gaze lingered.

He stepped closer to the shelf, fingers brushing the edge of the photo frame before straightening it —just enough to reveal it fully.

A candid of you and Jay on the couch, his head tipped toward yours.

Sunghoon’s expression didn’t change. “Didn’t know this place was… decorated.”

His tone was cold. Too cold.

Jay laughed from the kitchen. “What? I live here.”

Sunghoon hummed softly. “Right.”

The word wasn’t agreement. It was assessment.

Jay returned with side dishes and slid an arm around your shoulder. “This is who I’ve been talking about,” he said proudly. “My wife—okay, not legally, but basically in my heart.”

You laughed, but you felt it—that slight tightening in the room.

Ni-ki muttered something under his breath. Heeseung shot him a look.

Sunghoon leaned back in his chair. “That’s a bold title.”

Jay grinned. “I’m a bold guy.”

Sunghoon’s eyes flicked to you. “I guess so.”

Jay didn’t hear it. Or pretended not to.

A few minutes later, Jay stood abruptly. “I forgot the sides. You guys talk. I’ll be right back.”

The second he disappeared into the kitchen, the air shifted.

You folded your hands in your lap. “So… schedules have been intense lately?”

Jake nodded politely. Sunoo smiled faintly. No one elaborated.

Sunghoon tilted his head slightly. “How long has this been going on?”

His voice was calm. Casual.

“Two years,” you answered, because lying would be worse.

His eyebrows lifted —just a fraction. “Two.”

There was something sharp in the way he repeated it.

“That’s… impressive,” he continued. “Keeping something like this hidden.”

You couldn’t tell if it was admiration or accusation.

“We were careful,” you said quietly.

Sunghoon’s gaze held yours. “You’d have to be.”

Jungwon stood then, muttering something about getting water. You excused yourself soon after, heart beating too loud in your ears.

The hallway felt narrower.

You’d barely taken two steps before Jungwon’s voice stopped you.

“You know this could ruin his career, right?”

His words were steady, controlled. Protective.

Your stomach dropped, but you kept your voice even. “Jay wanted you to meet me.”

“And if someone finds out?” Jungwon pressed. “You think the company’s going to protect this?”

The words hit like a slap.

You blinked. Swallowed. Your heart thundered behind your ribs, but you kept your voice calm, light, like you didn’t feel like throwing up.

“Jay’s been really excited for this dinner,” you said simply.

And then you slipped past him without another word.

You didn’t cry. Not when Jay returned to the table and tucked a stray hair behind your ear. Not when he laughed with his members, completely unaware of the tension you were wading through. Not even when he kissed your temple and whispered, “See? I told you they’d love you.”

You smiled and nodded and laughed at the right times.

You even helped clean up when they left.

And when Jay, blissfully unaware, fell asleep beside you that night, arm slung across your waist and smile still ghosting his lips

you got up. Quietly.

Finally letting the tears fall.

By the time the sun rose, your side of the bed was cold. Your toothbrush was gone. Your keys were missing from the hook.

And the apartment —the secret home you’d built together— suddenly felt a little too big for one person.

----------------------------------

The morning light slipped gently through the blinds, drawing soft golden lines across the bedspread. Jay stirred, groaning as he rolled over, expecting to bury his face in your shoulder, to feel your warmth curled into him like always.

But you weren’t there.

His arm stretched across the sheets, landing in the dip where your body should’ve been —but there was only the faint warmth left. 

Still half-asleep, Jay blinked his eyes open, the smile already forming.

“Babe?” he mumbled into the pillow.

No answer.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. The covers were still in place, the pillow you always used still nestled beside his —creased, slightly indented. Like you had only just left. It still smelled like your shampoo.

For a second, he closed his eyes again and inhaled the scent of you. He smiled faintly, thinking maybe you were in the kitchen. Maybe you were making toast, humming something off-key.

But something felt… off.

Jay stood, letting the blanket fall away as he padded out into the apartment.

No music. No tea kettle. No faint tapping of your feet on the floor.

He moved through each room, slower now. A creeping heaviness pulling at his limbs.

The mug you always used —gone. Not just in the sink. Gone.

He turned to the coat rack. Your favorite jacket? Missing. The hoodie you always said he stretched out too much when he wore it? No longer slung over the back of the couch.

He blinked rapidly, heart thudding harder.

He rushed back to the bedroom, flinging open drawers.

Empty.

Not completely —but enough.

Enough to know this wasn’t some morning errand. This wasn’t a walk to clear your head.

This was intentional.

The bathroom counter didn’t look like you brushed your teeth there this morning. The book on the nightstand you’d been halfway through? Gone.

Jay’s throat tightened as he looked around the space that was no longer a shared home —but just a place where you used to be.

His phone buzzed, dragging him out of the haze.

A group chat notification.

Jungwon [8:03 AM]:

Thanks again for last night. Good food. Hope you got some rest.

Jay barely read it.

He opened your contact instead.

Jay [8:03 AM]:

Princess, where are you?

Jay [8:04 AM]:

Are you okay?

Jay [8:07 AM]:

Please just tell me you’re safe.

He stared at the screen.

Nothing.

He sank back onto the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress, his knuckles white.

----------------------------------

Inside the dorm, he didn’t even take off his shoes. Just stormed in like a man possessed.

The air was off immediately.

They were all there. Relaxed. Normal.

He wasn’t.

“Where is she?” he demanded, eyes sweeping the room.

Confused glances. Uneasy shifts. A tension that wasn’t new—but now he could feel it like static in his chest.

Jake looked up from his phone. “What?”

“Y/N. She’s gone.” Jay’s voice cracked, but he kept going. “She left last night. Took her things. No note. No text. Nothing.”

His phone buzzed in his palm again.

He didn’t even try to hide it this time.

He looked.

Missed call: Mom

Not you.

His stomach twisted.

“She wouldn’t just leave.” His voice was softer now. “She wouldn’t do that unless something happened.”

He scanned their faces. Heeseung looked down. Jake bit his lip. Jungwon wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Jay’s heart sank.

“You knew something was wrong last night,” he said, realization hitting like a brick to the ribs. “You all knew, and you didn’t tell me.”

No one answered.

He looked around at them, at the silence that followed. Their guilty eyes. The way Jungwon didn’t even try to look surprised.

And that’s when it clicked.

He felt it like a slap.

“You knew,” he said, voice low. “You knew something was wrong last night.”

Jungwon finally stood. “Jay, you lied to us for years.”

“I protected her,” Jay snapped. “Because this world is brutal, and you know it. I wanted her to be safe. I never thought I had to protect her from you.”

His phone buzzed again. He fumbled for it this time, breath hitching

Random Email Notification 

He shut his eyes, pressing the phone to his forehead like it could stop the ache crawling through his chest.

“I let you guys meet her because I thought you’d love her,” he said, voice tight. “Because I love her.”

Sunghoon stepped forward cautiously. “We were hurt. It felt like you shut us out.”

“You think this is about you?”

Jay turned on them, rage and grief mixing in his throat.

“She sat at that table smiling through every cold stare. She went to that dinner knowing it might not go well —but did it anyway. For me. And when you guys left, she pretended it didn’t bother her. She kissed me goodnight like everything was fine.”

His voice cracked.

“And I believed her.”

He looked down at his phone again. No messages. No missed calls. No signs of you.

“Every time my phone buzzes,” he said quietly, “I pray it’s her.”

The screen lit up again.

Another random email.

He shoved it into his pocket.

“I don’t care what any of you think,” Jay said, backing toward the door. “I’m going to find her. Even if I have to check every café, park bench, and corner of this city.”

And before any of them could speak, he was gone.

----------------------------------

The soft hum of Chae’s hair dryer in the bathroom was the only noise in the apartment.

You sat on her couch, knees tucked under your chin, one of her oversized hoodies drowning your frame. Your duffel bag sat by the door —half unpacked, but still zipped just enough to suggest this was temporary.

Because part of you kept waiting for yourself to go back.

To him.

Your phone buzzed.

Again.

You didn’t have to check it. You already knew who it was.

Jay [11:03 AM]

I don’t know where you are, but I need you to know I’m sorry. If something happened last night that hurt you… please just tell me. Please.

You stared at the screen.

You had read every single one.

You just couldn’t bring yourself to answer.

Chae emerged from the bathroom, towel-wrapping her damp hair, eyeing you from across the room. “You’re gonna make a hole in the floor if you keep staring like that.”

You managed a weak smile. “Sorry.”

She plopped down next to you, pulling her legs up. “You don’t have to apologize to me. But maybe you should to yourself. For holding it all in that long.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line.

“I really thought they’d like me,” you said quietly.

Chae’s gaze softened. “I’m sure some of them do. But let’s be real, Jay dropped a bomb on them and expected them to throw a party.”

You stayed quiet.

She glanced down at your phone, which was now lighting up again.

Jay [11:10 AM]

I swear I didn’t know they treated you like that. I thought last night was perfect. I was so happy. I was so happy…

You locked the screen again.

“I don’t want to ruin his life, Chae,” you said, voice barely a whisper.

“You didn’t,” she said gently. “You were his life.”

You looked down at your hands. “Then why did it feel like I was the one being punished for it?”

Chae leaned her head on your shoulder. “Because people don’t like being left out of things that matter. And you mattered. A lot.”

You felt your throat tighten.

“I didn’t want to leave,” you whispered.

“I know.”

You turned your phone over so the screen faced down.

“I just don’t want to be the reason his dream fails...he works so hard.”

And finally, for the first time since you left, the tears came. Quiet and slow. The kind that didn’t demand attention but dragged every ounce of hurt to the surface.

Chae didn’t say anything more.

She just stayed with you —still and safe.

Outside, the city moved on. The world didn’t know anything had fallen apart.

But in Chae’s tiny living room, curled up in borrowed clothes and borrowed time, you felt like you were still holding on by a thread.

Your phone buzzed again.

But this time, you didn’t look.

Not yet.

----------------------------------

One Month Later

The dorm felt smaller somehow.

Louder. Heavier. Even when no one was speaking.

Jay sat at the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed, fingers absently curling into the hem of an old t-shirt that didn’t belong to him.

It was yours.

Soft and worn, the faded fabric still held your scent —barely, but enough that he kept it close. He hadn’t washed it. Couldn’t. Like it would erase the last piece of you that clung to him.

Your pillow was behind him, propped against the dorm mattress like it didn’t belong there —because it didn’t. It looked wrong surrounded by his things. Out of place, like you were now.

He hadn’t gone back to the apartment.

Not since that morning.

He moved back in with the members after you left. Said it was just temporary. Said he needed “a change of scenery.”

But they all knew the truth.

He couldn’t bear waking up in that place without you.

Still, he hadn’t canceled the lease. The rent quietly left his account every month, untouched. The fridge was still stocked. Your slippers were still by the door.

He didn’t even know where to start looking.

You had friends, of course. A few he remembered from stories you’d told him in passing. But no one close enough that he knew their address.

He’d texted. Called. DM’d. Nothing.

He even emailed.

Nothing.

And every time his phone buzzed, he dove for it like a mad man.

One new notification

He looked.

A label reminder for a livestream.

Not you.

He tossed the phone down.

Then picked it right back up.

Opened your chat thread again.

Jay [9:17 AM]

I’m sorry. I know I said that a hundred times already but I need you to know I mean it. I’d say it a thousand more. Just tell me where you are. Please.

No reply.

The members had noticed.

Heeseung said nothing at first, but started showing up at his door with coffee.

Jake checked on him constantly, always trying to get him out of the dorm —even just to walk.

Sunoo tried to make him laugh, but even he started giving up when Jay’s smiles never reached his eyes.

And Jungwon…

Jungwon watched him like someone waiting for a string to snap.

“You should go back to the apartment,” Jungwon had told him once.

Jay shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Jay’s voice had been quiet. “It still feels like hers.”

----------------------------------

“Okay, no offense, but you’re starting to blend into the couch.”

You didn’t even look up from your spot, curled into Chae’s throw blanket like a blanket burrito, half-scrolling, half-sulking. “It’s a nice couch.”

Chae dropped beside you with a thud, tossing a pillow at your legs. “It’s a couch that’s seen you in the same hoodie for five days straight.”

You grumbled into the cushion. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Exactly the problem.” She sighed. “Y/N, I love you, but this isn’t healthy. You barely go outside, you haven’t touched your makeup bag, and you’re on your fourth rewatch of weightlifting fairy kim bok joo.”

You tried not to smile, but your lips betrayed you just a little.

“Fine,” you muttered. “I’ll get out. But I’m only going for snacks. Your snacks, by the way. I’ve been stress-eating all your chips.”

Chae rolled her eyes, “As long as sunlight or moonlight hits your skin at least once today, I’ll allow it.”

You threw on a baseball cap, hoodie, and sunglasses —just in case. Not because you expected to see anyone you knew.

Especially not them.

The walk to the convenience store was quiet, the way you liked things now.

No questions. No stares. No reminders of the life you’d walked away from.

You wandered through the aisles aimlessly, grabbing a drink, a few bags of chips, and the candy you love. The place was mostly empty —just you and a guy grabbing ramen cups near the back wall.

It was peaceful.

You turned the corner toward the refrigerated drinks and froze.

There he was.

Jungwon.

Baseball cap pulled low, black hoodie, earbuds tucked in. He hadn’t seen you yet.

You ducked, heart slamming in your chest. Of all people —why him?

You turned fast, heading for the register.

“Y/N?”

Your name cracked the air like a whip.

You didn’t turn around.

Just dropped your items on the counter, trying not to shake as the cashier scanned them.

“Hey—wait! Y/N, it’s me!”

His voice was louder now. You could hear his footsteps behind you, closing in.

You tossed a crumpled bill onto the counter and grabbed your bag, mumbling a thank-you before turning sharply toward the door.

“Y/N, please—can we just talk for a second?”

You didn’t answer.

Just shoved the door open and walked faster.

Maybe if you could get around the corner. Maybe if you just made it to the end of the block—

“Y/N!”

You glanced back for half a second.

He had dropped the basket he was holding. Left it right there in the middle of the store. He was coming after you.

You turned back around and started walking faster.

But it was too late.

Jungwon was already jogging to catch up, calling your name like he has any right to. 

“Y/N—wait, please.”

You kept walking, arms crossed tight over your chest, shoulders hunched like you could fold yourself into invisibility.

But Jungwon caught up anyway.

He slowed beside you, breathing lightly, trying to keep pace without crowding you. “I just want to talk—just for a second.”

You said nothing.

“I didn’t know you were staying around here,” he said, cautiously. “Jay’s been trying to find you.”

You flinched at the name.

He saw it.

“Y/N,” Jungwon said, softer now, “he’s not okay.”

“Stop.”

Your voice came out barely above a whisper.

He blinked. “What?”

You turned to face him for the first time, your chin trembling even as you held your ground.

“Don’t,” you said. “You don't get to talk to me about him.”

He froze. You weren’t yelling. You were hurting.

Tears had begun to form at the corners of your eyes, glistening beneath your lashes, but you refused to let them fall.

Jungwon stepped back like he’d been slapped. “Okay. I won’t.”

Silence settled over both of you, thick and heavy. Cars passed on the street behind you. The city moved on, uncaring.

You took a breath.

Then another.

Then, without saying a word, you turned and started walking again —back toward Chae’s apartment. 

But behind you, after a few seconds, you heard his footsteps again.

Still there.

Still following.

You kept your pace steady, trying not to let the tears fall as you walked back toward Chae’s apartment. Jungwon matched your steps without a word.

The streetlights flickered on as dusk crept in, casting long shadows over the cracked sidewalks. The city buzzed faintly around you, but all you could hear was the steady sound of your own breathing —and the soft footsteps behind you.

As you reached the building, your heart hammered harder. You slowed, then stopped just before the entrance, the familiar doorframe suddenly feeling too heavy.

You turned quickly, catching Jungwon’s gaze.

His eyes were steady, calm —no judgment, no expectation. Just watching.

No words passed between you.

Jungwon nodded, then stepped away into the darkening street, his figure blending into the shadows as you pushed open the door and disappeared inside.

You didn’t look back.

But you knew he was still watching.

----------------------------------

The next day, the apartment door clicked open and Chae stepped inside, dropping her bag by the door with a tired sigh.

“You won’t believe this,” she said, toeing off her shoes as she crossed the room. “Some weird guy’s been hanging around the building all afternoon.”

You glanced up from the couch. “Weird how?”

She tossed her keys onto the counter, brow furrowing. “Black hoodie. Mask. Just pacing near the entrance like he’s waiting for someone.”

Your chest tightened before your brain caught up.

Jungwon.

You swallowed, the memory of his voice from the night before settling heavy in your stomach. Without thinking, you leaned forward and reached for your shoes. “I’m just going to check something.”

Chae blinked. “Check what?”

“I’ll be back,” you said, already standing.

Outside, the air was cooler than you expected, the sky just beginning to darken. You took the stairs instead of the elevator, your pulse loud in your ears. And then you saw him —leaning against a lamppost near the entrance, hood pulled low, posture tense but patient.

He looked up when you approached, surprise flickering briefly across his face before smoothing out.

“Y/N,” Jungwon said quietly.

“What are you doing here?” You kept your voice even.

He hesitated, then straightened. “Can we talk? It’s not about Jay. I promise.”

You studied him for a moment, weighing exhaustion against curiosity. Finally, you nodded. “Okay.”

You walked together, not back inside, but away from the building —toward a small park a few blocks down, half-forgotten and mostly empty. The city noise dulled there, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the low hum of traffic in the distance. A few streetlights cast soft circles over empty benches.

You sat beneath a large oak tree, the space between you careful, deliberate.

“I want to know who you are,” Jungwon said after a moment. His voice was low, cautious. “Not just… who you are to him.”

You let out a tired breath. “Yeah. I guess to you I’m just ‘Jay’s girlfriend.’”

He shook his head slightly. “That’s not fair. To you. Or to him.”

You stared at your hands, twisting the hem of your sleeve. “I just try to keep him grounded. That’s all. It’s harder when the people he trusts don’t even know I exist.”

Jungwon didn’t interrupt. His expression softened, not pity, but something closer to understanding.

You found yourself talking anyway. Small things at first. Your favorite coffee shop tucked between two bookstores. Your love for old movies with terrible endings. How you once tried to learn guitar and gave up because your fingers hurt too much.

For a few minutes, it didn’t feel like a confession. Just conversation.

Then you smiled faintly and added, “Jay tried to teach me once. I got the pick stuck between the strings and panicked like the guitar was attacking me.”

Your laugh came out uneven.

“He looked so offended,” you continued, voice wavering. “I laughed until I cried.”

The memory settled heavy in your chest. Your eyes burned, and you turned your face away before the tears could spill.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured.

Jungwon reached out, resting his hand lightly against your arm. He didn’t grip it. Didn’t push. Just there.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he said quietly.

You stood abruptly, brushing at your face. “I should go.”

He rose too, hesitating. “Can I walk you back?”

After a beat, you nodded.

The walk back was quiet —not awkward, just careful. When you reached the building, he stopped a few steps short of the entrance.

“Thank you,” he said. “For trusting me.”

You nodded once and went inside.

Over the next seven days, it became routine.

Each evening after practice, Jungwon would wait near Chae’s building. No messages. Just a shared understanding. You’d walk together to the same small park, sit on the same bench beneath the oak tree, talk about nothing and everything until the city lights felt softer.

Day 1

You talked about your childhood —the small town, the slow afternoons, the music that first made you believe there was more out there. Jungwon listened with genuine focus, asking questions, smiling at the right moments, laughing softly when you shared stories you hadn’t told in years.

Day 2

He opened up in return. About the weight of leadership, about how being relied on so heavily sometimes left him feeling unsteady and unsure. You didn’t interrupt, just nodded, letting him speak. It felt like trust was being built, piece by piece.

Day 3

The conversation lightened. Movies, shows, half-serious debates over characters and endings. Jungwon admitted he was terrible at binge-watching but promised —hand to heart— that he’d try your favorites anyway. You teased him for it, and he laughed, unguarded.

Day 4

That night was quieter. He spoke about missing normalcy —walking without being watched, existing without expectation. You didn’t offer solutions or reassurance. You just stayed, shoulder close to his, letting silence do what words couldn’t.

Day 5

He told you stories from the group’s early days, the embarrassing ones he clearly didn’t share often. You laughed until your sides hurt. By the end of it, the other members felt less like distant figures and more like people you almost knew.

Day 6

You brought snacks as a peace offering. He showed up with coffee from a nearby street cart, slightly too sweet, still warm. The exchange was small, almost trivial, but it felt like a bridge —something solid between two very different worlds.

Day 7

By the end of the week, words came easier. You talked about Jay —not the idol, not the image, but the person he was when no one was watching. Jungwon didn’t comment, didn’t judge. He just listened. When your voice wavered and you wiped at your eyes, he passed you a napkin without a word.

That quiet understanding stayed with you long after the night ended.

----------------------------------

The dorm felt quieter than he remembered.

Not because it actually was —someone had music playing down the hall, laughter drifted in and out from a late-night game— but because everything reached him like it was underwater. Muted. Distant. As if the world had lost saturation.

Jay sat on the edge of his bunk, the familiar creak of the mattress barely registering. In his lap was the hoodie you used to steal, fabric worn soft from being claimed as yours. Beside him lay a pillow he’d taken from the apartment, still holding the faintest trace of you.

He’d tried washing one of your shirts once.

The scent disappeared too fast.

He never made that mistake again.

It had been over a month.

He still paid the rent on the apartment. Still transferred the money on time, every time. But he hadn’t gone back —not once. The thought of stepping inside felt unbearable. Every room existed in his mind as it was the last time he saw it: untouched, suspended, full of echoes he couldn’t face.

The guys didn’t mention you.

Not directly.

They spoke carefully, like your name was something fragile, something that might break him if handled wrong. And maybe it would have. But Jay wasn’t angry. He couldn’t be. Anger required direction.

What he felt was hollow.

He knew he’d missed something. More than one thing. He’d been so wrapped up in finally letting himself be happy that he hadn’t noticed the cracks forming around him. The way your voice tightened around his members. The way your smile stayed polite instead of warm. How your laugh that night never quite reached your eyes.

He should have known.

Every day, he checked his phone too often. Every vibration made his heart jolt before reason caught up. But it was never you. No texts. No calls. Nothing to explain the silence.

At night, he played guitar quietly, careful not to wake anyone. He’d started writing again —lyrics that weren’t meant for stages or albums. Just fragments. Lines about the way you used to curl into his side. About the empty space you left behind.

Sometimes he dreamed of you coming back, standing in the doorway with that familiar smile, teasing him for losing his keys again.

Other nights, he stayed awake until dawn, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment he realized you were gone.

He didn’t know where you were. He didn’t know how to fix what he’d broken.

But every day, without fail, Jay still waited.

Just in case you came back.

----------------------------------

Jay came back from practice exhausted, sweat clinging to his skin, limbs heavy, head still pounding from a full day of pretending he was fine.

The dorm was unusually quiet. Most of the guys were still out or or haven’t left their rooms yet. He barely registered it as he pushed open the door to his shared room —until he stopped short.

Something was wrong.

His bed was… neat. Not the way he left it.

The blanket was tucked in, smooth in a way it never was. The sheets were freshly changed. His pillow —your pillow— sat fluffed at the head of the bed, perfectly arranged.

His stomach dropped.

“No,” he muttered, crossing the room in two quick steps. “No, no—”

He grabbed the pillow and pressed it to his face without thinking, breathing in desperately.

Nothing.

The warmth was gone. The faint scent that had lingered for weeks —yours— had been stripped away, replaced with clean cotton and lavender detergent. Sterile. Wrong.

His chest tightened. His breath came shallow, uneven.

“Jay?” Jake’s voice came from the doorway.

Jay turned sharply, eyes wild. “Did you do this?”

Jake froze. “Yeah—I mean, yeah. I thought it needed to be washed. It hadn’t been touched in weeks, and you’ve been looking wrecked, so I just… I thought I was helping.”

“You washed it?” Jay said, his voice cracking before he could stop it. “You washed her pillow?”

Jake took a cautious step forward. “Jay, I didn’t know—”

“That was the last thing I had that still really smelled like her,” Jay said quietly. Too quietly. “It was all I had left.”

The words hung there, heavy and unmoving.

Jake’s expression shifted, guilt settling in fast. “Shit. Jay… I’m sorry. I really didn’t know.”

Jay didn’t respond. He sat down hard on the edge of the bed, staring at the pillow in his hands like it had betrayed him.

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” he murmured.

Silence filled the room. Jake stayed near the door, unsure whether to leave or stay, the weight of it pressing in on both of them.

Jay hunched forward, the pillow still in his lap, his thumb tracing the seam absently, like muscle memory might bring something back.

Then, barely above a whisper, he said, “I bought her a ring.”

Jake looked up sharply. “You—wait. You were going to propose?”

Jay let out a hollow breath, shaking his head. “Not like that. Not… officially.” He swallowed. “We knew marriage wasn’t possible. Not publicly. Not like normal people.”

Jake didn’t interrupt.

“I just wanted her to have something real,” Jay continued, voice strained. “Something that meant I was serious. Even if no one else ever saw it.” His jaw tightened. “We joked about being married all the time—‘wifey,’ ‘hubby’—but I didn’t want it to just be a joke to her.”

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling. “I was waiting. I thought after she met you guys—after everything went well—I’d give it to her.”

A bitter laugh slipped out. “I didn’t even notice how uncomfortable she was that night. I didn’t see it. I just kept smiling like an idiot, thinking it was the best night of my life.”

His voice dropped. “Meanwhile, she was already halfway gone.”

Jake finally moved, sitting beside him. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Jay shrugged weakly, eyes glassy. “Because if it got out… if the company found out… I couldn’t let her become a secret someone else exposed. I couldn’t do that to her.”

He reached for the drawer beside the bed and pulled out a small velvet box. His hands hesitated before opening it.

Inside lay a simple gold band, a single diamond catching the light. Elegant. Unworn.

Jake stared. “She doesn’t know?”

Jay shook his head once. “She never even saw it.”

His voice broke on the last word.

Loud voices cut through the room before either of them could speak again.

A door slammed. Sneakers scraped hard against tile. Something hit the wall with a dull thud. The sound shattered the fragile quiet Jay and Jake had been sitting in, the room suddenly too small, too thick with unspoken pain.

Jay blinked and snapped the ring box shut on instinct. He didn’t put it away. The weight of it stayed pressed into his palm.

Jake stood first, already turning toward the door. “What the hell was that?”

Jay followed without answering.

They moved down the hallway, the voices growing sharper with every step. When they turned the corner into the main room, Heeseung stood near the front door, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Jungwon had just come in. His shoes were half off, hair damp from the humid night air, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. He didn’t look defensive.

He looked guilty.

“Are you serious right now?” Heeseung snapped. “It’s past midnight. You left without telling anyone. Do you know how dangerous that is?”

“I’m not a kid,” Jungwon muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.

“That’s not the point,” Heeseung shot back. “You disappear constantly lately. No texts. No location. Nothing.”

Jay stepped forward, his voice low. “What’s going on?”

Jungwon looked up, startled to see him. His gaze flicked between Jay and Jake, lingering a beat too long on Jay before dropping again.

Jake glanced between them. “You okay?”

Jungwon didn’t answer.

Jay’s chest tightened. Something felt wrong —more wrong than it already had. “Where were you?”

“I just needed air,” Jungwon said quietly.

The answer was too careful.

Jay narrowed his eyes. “That’s all?”

Silence.

Jungwon’s gaze lifted again, sharper this time —and then dropped.

To Jay’s hand.

The ring box.

Jay hadn’t even realized he was still holding it, thumb pressed into the velvet lid like it might disappear if he let go.

Jungwon’s breath caught.

Jake noticed too and stepped forward quickly. “Okay—let’s not do this right now. Everyone’s exhausted. We can—”

“What is that?” Jungwon asked, already knowing.

Jay lifted his eyes slowly. “It’s a ring.”

The room went dead quiet.

Heeseung looked between them, confused. Jake winced.

“For her?” Jungwon asked.

Jay nodded once.

“Jay,” Jake tried again, gentler. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes,” Jay cut in. “I do.”

He looked at all of them now —eyes tired, hollow, stripped bare. “I bought it before dinner. Before everything fell apart. She never knew. None of you did.” His voice faltered just slightly. “Because I didn’t trust anyone else to keep it safe.”

Jungwon dropped his gaze, guilt curling tight in his chest.

“I thought if she met you guys, it would finally feel right,” Jay continued. “Like the two best parts of my life could exist in the same room.”

He exhaled sharply. “I was wrong.”

No one spoke.

Jay turned toward the hallway, the ring box clenched hard in his hand. He needed air. Silence. Something that didn’t hurt this much.

He barely made it two steps.

“I know where she is.”

Jay froze.

The words were quiet, almost gentle —but they split the air cleanly in two.

Slowly, Jay turned back.

Jake tensed. Heeseung went still.

“What?” Jay asked. His voice was flat. Dangerous.

Jungwon met his gaze. “I know where Y/N’s been staying.”

Jay’s grip tightened. “How long?”

“A little over a week,” Jungwon admitted. “I ran into her. By accident.”

Jake dragged a hand down his face. “Jesus.”

“And you didn’t tell me,” Jay said.

“I didn’t know if I should,” Jungwon replied. “She didn’t want to see you. She didn’t even want to talk about you.”

Jay took a step forward. “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t,” Jungwon said steadily. “I kept it quiet. She was hurting, hyung. And I was part of why. I didn’t want to make it worse.”

Jay’s breath came fast. “You’ve been seeing her.”

“I wanted to make sure she was okay.”

“And is she?”

Jungwon didn’t answer.

Jay’s voice broke. “You don’t get it. I lost the only person that mattered. And you knew.”

“I know,” Jungwon said softly. “That’s why I’m telling you now. She’s not okay. But neither are you.”

Jay laughed once —short, hollow. “So what? You sneak out every night to see my girlfriend?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?” Jay snapped. “You know where she is. You talk to her. You’re the one she trusts now—not me.”

Jungwon didn’t raise his voice. “She didn’t choose me over you. She needed space.”

“Then why keep going back?”

“Because she’s hurting,” Jungwon said quietly. “And because after I understood her… I realized you needed to understand too.”

Jay shook his head. “I don’t need—”

“Tomorrow,” Jungwon interrupted. “Go tomorrow. I was supposed to meet her. You should go instead.”

Jay stared at him. Raw. Unsteady. “She won’t want to see me.”

“She will.”

Jay looked down at the ring box, knuckles white around it.

“She still loves you,” Jungwon added, gentler now. “She just thinks she’s the problem.”

Jay didn’t respond.

He stood there, the weight of everything pressing in —grief, anger, longing —all of it tangled around a small velvet box in his hand.

And for the first time in weeks, hope hurts worse than the silence.

----------------------------------

You go to the park the same way you always do.

Same path. Same bench beneath the crooked tree with the peeling bark. Same time of night, when the air is still cold and the city is sleeping.

You sit, hands folded in your lap, eyes drifting across the walking trail.

The park is almost empty at night, but that doesn’t make you feel safer.

Streetlights cast uneven pools of yellow across the paths, and every passing car makes your shoulders tense. You sit on the familiar bench anyway, hands tucked into your sleeves, eyes flicking toward the entrance every few seconds.

Jungwon is late.

He’s never late.

Your stomach twists. You tell yourself not to read into it, not to spiral—but the quiet feels heavier tonight, like something is about to break.

Then you sense him.

Not footsteps. Not movement. Just that pull you’ve never been able to explain.

You look up.

Jay stands half-hidden beneath a tree near the edge of the park, hood pulled low, mask on, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He hasn’t stepped into the light. He’s watching you like he’s afraid you might disappear again if he blinks.

Your breath catches.

“No,” you whisper.

You stand immediately, heart racing —not because he’s here, but because someone else could be. Because this is exactly how things go wrong.

You cross the distance quickly, keeping your voice low and tight. “What are you doing here? You can’t —Jay, this is insane.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t sure.”

“That doesn’t matter,” you hiss. “One person. One phone. That’s all it takes.”

He steps closer, careful. “I missed you.”

Your chest aches at how small his voice sounds.

“That’s not a good enough reason,” you say, even as your hands curl into fists to keep from reaching for him. “You have too much to lose.”

“I already lost you.”

“That’s different,” you say immediately. “I chose to leave. Your career didn’t.”

Jay exhales, slow and shaky. “Do you really think loving you was ever a risk I regretted?”

You shake your head, blinking hard. “I love you too much to let you ruin your life for me.”

The words hurt both of you. You can see it on his face.

You take a step back, forcing space between you. “We shouldn’t be standing this close.”

He doesn’t move. “I didn’t come to pull you back into something you’re not ready for.”

You look at him again, surprised.

“I came to ask for a redo,” he continues. “That night. Meeting everyone. I failed you. I was so focused on how happy I was that I didn’t see how scared you were.”

Your throat tightens.

“I want another chance,” he says. “But this time, I promise I won’t let you disappear beside me. I’ll see you. I’ll protect you.”

You shake your head instinctively. “Jay… that’s dangerous.”

“I know.”

“You can’t promise things like that.”

“I can promise to try,” he says. “And if I can’t do it right, I won’t do it at all.”

Silence stretches between you, filled with the hum of the city and the distant sound of traffic.

“I shouldn’t,” you whisper finally.

His shoulders drop, just slightly. “Okay.”

The disappointment in that single word hurts more than anything else.

You step forward before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his sleeve. “I didn’t say no.”

He looks up, eyes wide in the dim light.

“One redo,” you say softly. “That’s it.”

Jay lets out a breath, almost a laugh, almost a sob. “I swear I won’t waste it.”

You glance around the park again, anxiety spiking. “You need to go. Now.”

“I will,” he says quickly. “I just—”

You step closer, heart pounding, and press a brief kiss to his cheek. It’s soft, familiar, and far too intimate for how dangerous this moment is.

“For your walk home,” you whisper.

You pull away immediately and walk back toward the path, not daring to look back.

Behind you, Jay stays where he is, fingers lifting to his cheek like he needs to remind himself it was real.

You don’t breathe properly until you’re back inside Chae’s apartment.

The door clicks shut behind you, locks sliding into place, and only then do your shoulders finally sag. Your heart is still racing, hands trembling slightly as you slip off your shoes and pad down the hallway. Chae’s bedroom door is closed, the apartment dark and still.

Safe.

You sit on the edge of the guest coach, phone resting in your palm like it weighs too much.

You stare at the screen for a long moment.

Then, before you can overthink it, you type.

I made it back.

You hesitate, then add:

Please be careful getting home.

You hit send and immediately regret how fast your heart jumps afterward.

Jay is still awake. He’s lying on his bunk, phone face-down on his chest, staring at the ceiling like sleep might eventually take pity on him. His mind is still in the park —your voice, the kiss, the way you walked away without looking back.

The vibration against his chest makes him freeze.

He grabs his phone so fast it almost slips from his hand.

Your name.

For a second, he just stares at the screen to make sure he’s not imagining it.

Then he sits up abruptly.

I’m home.

He types, deletes, types again.

Thank you for texting me.

Too much? He exhales and keeps going.

I couldn’t stop worrying.

There’s a pause. Thirty seconds that feel like thirty minutes.

Then his phone buzzes again.

I know. I was worried too.

Jay smiles without realizing it.

Really smiles.

His fingers move before his nerves can catch up.

We’re off this Thursday.

He hesitates, heart pounding, then sends the next message anyway.

If you want… you could come by the dorm.

Another pause.

Jay presses his thumb against the screen, trying not to spiral. He’s already bracing himself for a polite excuse, a careful boundary.

Then—

I’ll think about it.

It’s not a yes.

But it’s not a no.

Jay exhales, leaning back against the wall, phone clutched tight in his hand.

That’s enough for me.

He adds, softer:

I’m really glad you’re safe.

On the other side of the city, you lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, phone resting on your chest.

You close your eyes.

For the first time in weeks, the quiet doesn’t feel so lonely.

----------------------------------

Thursday comes faster than you expect.

You stand outside the dorm longer than necessary, hands tucked into your sleeves like you might still turn around if you wait long enough.

You’re just about to knock when voices leak through the door.

Loud. Chaotic.

“I swear to God, if anyone touches the food before she gets here, I will actually kill you.”

Jay.

You freeze, then smile before you can stop yourself.

“There is no way you’re threatening murder over some food,” someone laughs —Jake, you think.

“I’m serious,” Jay snaps. “It has to be perfect. The plates, the drinks—why is that cup there? Who put that there?”

“It’s a cup, hyung,” Sunoo says, amused. “Relax.”

“I cannot relax,” Jay says loudly. “This is important.”

“Bro’s pacing like it's life or death,” Ni-ki adds, followed by more laughter.

You let out a quiet breath, something warm loosening in your chest.

These are the people Jungwon talked about. The ones who bicker and tease and show up loudly for each other. Not the tense, guarded strangers you met that night. Not the silence.

You lift your hand and knock —soft, almost hesitant.

The noise inside stumbles to a stop.

Footsteps approach. The door opens, and Jungwon’s face appears, eyes widening slightly when he sees you.

“Oh—hey,” he says, voice gentle. “You made it.”

You nod, suddenly shy. “Yeah.”

Before he can say anything else, there’s a rush of movement behind him.

“Move.”

Jungwon barely has time to step aside before Jay pushes past him, hands already on the door, eyes locking onto you like the rest of the world just shut off.

“You’re here,” he says, breathless.

You smile, small but real. “Hi.”

For a second, he just stares at you, like he’s confirming you’re real. Then he steps back abruptly, glancing over his shoulder.

“Shoes off—no, wait—actually, yeah, shoes off. I mean—come in. Please. You’re—yeah.”

Someone snorts behind him.

“Hyung, breathe,” Jake mutters.

Jay shoots him a look without taking his eyes off you. “Don’t start.”

You step inside, the door closing softly behind you.

Jay hovers, clearly unsure what to do with his hands.

“I, uh,” he starts, then stops. “Are you okay? Did you—was it hard getting here?”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly. “Really.”

He nods, still searching your face. “Okay. Okay.”

Jungwon watches the two of you for a moment, then quietly clears his throat. “I’ll—uh—give you guys a second.”

Jay barely registers it.

You glance around the room again, hearing laughter from down the hall, the clatter of dishes, someone arguing about music volume. It feels… normal. Alive.

You look back at Jay. “This is the side of you he told me about.”

Jay blinks. “What?”

You smile a little wider. “The loud one. The one who cares too much and pretends he doesn’t.”

His ears turn red instantly.

“Oh,” he mutters. Then, softer, “I’m really glad you came.”

You nod. “Me too."

The tension you carried in with you slowly fades as the night settles.

It starts small. Sunoo handing you a drink and immediately asking if you like mint chocolate ice cream. Jake insisting you sit because “Jay’s been pacing for hours and someone needs to ground him.” Heeseung hovering just enough to make sure everything’s okay, but not pushing.

Jay stays close without smothering. Always half a step behind you, like he’s ready to step in but doesn’t want to crowd you. You notice it. You don’t comment.

Dinner turns loud fast.

Ni-ki complains about the portions. Jay snaps back that he cooked and therefore decides who starves. Someone puts music on too loud. Someone else argues about it. You find yourself laughing before you realize you are.

It feels… easy.

At some point, Ni-ki eyes you over the table, grin sharp and mischievous. “So,” he says, dragging the word out, “you’re the reason Jay turns into a domestic menace.”

Jay straightens immediately. “Hey—”

You beat him to it.

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, unfazed. “I trained him. He didn’t even know how to properly wash rice before me.”

Ni-ki bursts out laughing. “No way.”

Jay sputters. “I knew how.”

“And you flooded the kitchen,” you add calmly.

The table erupts.

Jay opens his mouth, ready to defend himself —or you, it’s unclear—but stops when he sees you smiling, eyes bright, completely unbothered.

Ni-ki points at him. “She’s scary.”

You lean back in your chair. “You’re welcome to challenge me, but I don’t recommend it.”

“Hyung,” Ni-ki says, still laughing, “how do you survive?”

Jay just watches you, something soft settling in his chest. “I don’t,” he says quietly. “I just accept my fate.”

You glance at him, amused. “Drama queen.”

He smiles to himself, small and private, like he’s storing the moment away.

Later, when the plates are cleared and someone suggests games, Jungwon sits near you, noticeably more relaxed than before. He listens as you talk, nods along, fills in details when needed. The awkward edge from before is gone.

At one point, Jay goes to grab more drinks, and Sunoo leans toward you conspiratorially. “He’s been like this all week, you know.”

“Like what?”

“Cleaning. Stressing. Threatening violence over anything.”

You laugh. “That tracks.”

Jay returns just in time to hear Sunoo say, “We like you.”

Jay freezes. “You do?”

Sunooi shrugs. “Yeah. You make him less annoying.”

“Rude,” Jay mutters.

You smile, warmth spreading through you. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

As the night winds down, Jay finds himself standing a little apart, watching you laugh with his members, watching how naturally you fit into the noise.

Not forcing. Not fading.

Just there.

And for the first time in a long while, the tight knot in his chest loosens.

By the time the board games come out, the night has fully settled into something comfortable.

You’re cross-legged on the floor between Sunoo and Jake, surrounded by scattered cards and pieces, laughter coming easier now. Someone keeps changing the rules mid-game. Someone else keeps cheating badly enough that it’s obvious.

Ni-ki, obviously.

“That’s not how you play,” you tell him flatly, taking the card out of his hand.

“It worked though,” he argues.

“That doesn’t make it legal.”

Jay laughs from across the room, leaning back on his hands. “See? She’s on my side.”

Sunghoon snorts. “You say that like it’s rare.”

Heeseung watches the chaos for a moment, then stands. “Okay,” he says, stretching. “We’re switching gears.”

He disappears briefly and comes back with a couple bottles and cups. Nothing wild. Just enough.

“To relax,” he says simply, setting everything down.

The energy shifts —still light, but slower. Softer.

Jay’s laughter fades just a little.

You don’t notice at first when he stands. He does it quietly, slipping toward the hallway like he doesn’t want to draw attention.

Jungwon notices.

Jay murmurs something under his breath —an excuse about grabbing something— and disappears into his room.

You’re distracted anyway.

Jake pours drinks, handing you one carefully. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

You smile. “I’m good. Thank you.”

Ni-ki squints at you. “You’re surprisingly normal.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Jay made you sound intimidating.”

Jay’s room door clicks softly down the hall.

You laugh. “He’s dramatic.”

Sunoo grins. “We know.”

Conversation drifts easily after that. Stories from trainee days. Dumb arguments. Inside jokes they pause to explain for your sake. You listen, ask questions, fill in where you can.

Sunghoon sits nearby, quieter than the others but relaxed, watching the way you fit without effort.

“You’re good for him,” Jake says suddenly, not even looking at you.

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs. “He’s happier when you’re around.”

The words land heavier than you expect.

Before you can respond, footsteps sound down the hallway.

Jay reappears.

He looks… different.

Not obvious enough that anyone else would notice, but you do. His shoulders are a little tense. His jaw set like he’s bracing himself for something. One hand disappears briefly into his pocket before he sits back down beside you.

“Everything okay?” you ask quietly.

He nods. “Yeah.” But his knee bounces.

You don’t push. You just stay close, your arm brushing his, grounding him in the noise and warmth of the room. He glances at you once, eyes soft.

The night continues around you, laughter rising and falling, the game resuming like nothing shifted.

But something has.

And Jay knows it.

----------------------------------

Jay tries to talk to you. He really does.

Every time he leans toward you, someone appears.

“Hey, have you tried this card combo?” Jake asks, shoving cards between you.

Jay opens his mouth— “Hyung, you’re sitting on my phone,” Ni-ki says, crawling halfway across the floor.

Jay exhales, nods, waits.

You meet his eyes again—

Sunoo plops down beside you. “Okay but settle this. Pineapple on pizza.”

Jay closes his eyes.

He shifts closer again— Heeseung asks him something about tomorrow’s schedule.

By the fourth interruption, Jay’s jaw is tight, leg bouncing, hand flexing like he’s holding himself back.

You notice.

“Jay?” you murmur.

He huffs out a breath, stands abruptly. “I need a drink.”

It’s not angry, exactly —but it’s close.

He heads for the kitchen, shoulders stiff. You hesitate only a second before standing and following him.

The dorm kitchen is dimmer, quieter. Just the low hum of the fridge and the faint noise of laughter drifting from the living room.

Jay grabs a bottle, twists the cap off with more force than necessary.

“Sorry,” he mutters without looking at you. “I’m not mad at you. I just—”

“I know,” you say softly.

That makes him stop.

He turns, really turns, and for a second the words look like they’re choking him.

“This might be the only time tonight I get you alone,” he says quietly. “So I’m just gonna say it. Okay?”

Your heart starts racing. “Jay—”

“I love you,” he says immediately. No hesitation. No buffer. “I’ve loved you since before I knew how dangerous it was. And I don’t care.”

You shake your head, panic blooming. “You can’t say things like that—”

“I would risk everything,” he continues, voice shaking now. “My career. My image. My life as I know it —if it meant I got to be with you honestly.”

Your chest tightens. “Jay, stop, you’re scaring me—”

He steps closer. “I’m not asking you to ruin anything. I know we can’t have the real thing. Not yet. Maybe not ever the way people expect.”

He reaches into his pocket.

Your breath catches. “Jay—”

“I know,” he says quickly when he sees your eyes widen, your body tense. “I know. Just—listen. Please.”

He pulls out a small velvet box.

“I don’t want a big moment. I don’t want pressure. I just want you to have something that proves this wasn’t a secret to me. That you weren’t something temporary.”

Your hands shake. “Jay…”

“I need a better reason to call you wifey,’” he says softly, almost smiling through the nerves. “Something real. Something that says I chose you. That I’m choosing you.”

Then, slowly, deliberately, he lowers himself to one knee on the kitchen tile.

Your breath leaves you in a soundless rush.

“This isn’t a proposal,” he says. “It’s a promise. That I see you. That I won’t miss you again. That no matter how hard this gets —I’m yours.”

He opens the box.

The ring catches the low light, simple and perfect.

“Will you let me give you this?” he asks. “Will you be my wifey… for real?”

You’re crying before you can stop yourself.

“Yes,” you breathe, then louder, breaking, “Yes.”

Jay laughs —a shaky, relieved sound— and stands just long enough to slide the ring onto your finger before you surge forward, grabbing his face and kissing him hard.

It’s desperate. Joyful. Real.

Somewhere behind you—

“OH MY GOD.”

You break apart just as the kitchen fills.

Jake, Sunoo, Ni-ki, Heeseung, Sunghoon, and Jungwon—all crowded in the doorway, clearly having been watching for longer than they should’ve.

Jungwon grins. “We said don’t interrupt him again.”

Jay groans, burying his face in your shoulder. “You all are dead.”

You laugh through your tears, holding him tight, ring warm against your skin.

For once, the secret doesn’t feel so heavy.

For once, it feels like a promise kept.

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