#lix

The new kid looks over your way at the noise, eyes wide and nervous. He’s maybe a year older than you, dobok a little too big, sleeves swallowing his hands. The name on his chest reads LEE.

He has freckles scattered across his nose like someone flicked paint at him.

Pretty, you think.

A second later, you whip a roundhouse kick a little too high, and it glances right off your partner’s shoulder.

Which would’ve been fine, if the new kid wasn’t standing just behind your partner, exactly in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The heel of your foot clips him right under the chin.

He stumbles, eyes going wide, hand flying to his face. “Ow!”

Everything stops.

“Ah, Felix!” Master Kim is there in two strides, hands gentle as he checks his jaw. “You okay?”

Felix blinks, a bit dazed. “Yeah, I.. I’m okay,” he says in that lilting accent, deeper than you expect. His eyes flick to you.

You bow quickly, mortified. “Sorry! That was my fault, sir, I wasn’t..”

Master Kim sighs but his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Everyone watch your spacing,” he says. “Felix, go get a drink. Makenzie, you go too. And maybe try not to knock anyone out next time.”

You scuttle off the mat, Felix trailing beside you, one hand still pressed to his chin. You grab two paper cups from the cooler and fill them, thrusting one in his direction without meeting his eyes.

“Sorry,” you say again. “For your… face.”

He laughs, a short surprised sound. “It’s okay. At least now I know the first rule of this place.”

You glance at him. “What’s that?”

“Stay away from you,” he says, eyes sparkling.

You gasp. “Rude.”

He grins wider, and suddenly the sting of getting yelled at feels less awful.

“I’m Felix,” he says, holding out his hand, cup crumpled between his fingers. “But you probably got that from the whole kicking-me-in-the-head introduction.”

“Makenzie,” you reply, shaking his hand. His palm is warm, a little shaky with adrenaline. “I don’t always open with violence.”

“I feel honoured,” he says solemnly. “Special treatment.”

His eyes crinkle. His freckles move.

You stare. He notices.

“What?” he asks, self-consciousness flickering across his face. His hand lifts automatically toward his nose, like he’s going to cover it. “Do I still have..”

“I like your freckles,” you blurt.

He blinks. “Huh?”

You shrug, suddenly shy. “They’re cool. Like… someone used you for a connect-the-dots painting.”

“That sounds cursed,” he says, but he’s flushing, pink seeping across the bridge of his nose. “They’re ugly.”

You wrinkle your nose. “No, they’re not.”

“Yeah, they are,” he insists. “My sisters say I look like I fell asleep under a dirty window.”

“That’s rude,” you say. “Tell them they’re wrong.”

He laughs again, softer this time. “You haven’t met them. They’ll fight you.”

“I do taekwondo,” you remind him. “I’ll fight back.”

He looks at you for a second and something settles in his expression, like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

“Okay, Makenzie,” he says. “You can have the freckles then.”

You stare. “That’s not how it works.”

“Too late.” He taps his nose lightly, still smiling. “They’re yours. You like them, you keep them.”

You feel something warm bloom in your chest.

“Fine,” you say. “But you have to take care of them since they’re on your face.”

His smile goes wobbly at the edges, like he’s trying not to show too much. “I’ll do my best.”

You walk back onto the mat together, shoulder to shoulder.

—

You grow up like that.

School and dojang and after-class slurpees from the servo down the road. You and Felix going through belts side by side, lining up your stripes, whining about finishing patterns, sparring light because you hate the idea of actually kicking each other.

He gets taller. His hair changes a dozen times. His voice drops, sending you into a quiet crisis the first time he says your name and it rumbles in your chest.

He still hates his freckles.

You still don’t.

“Why do you cover them?” you ask one afternoon when you’re fifteen, sitting on the cracked curb outside the dojang while you wait for your parents. He’s dabbing at his face with a makeup wipe, sweat glistening at his temples. You caught him before class with a little compact mirror pressed close, muttering at his reflection.

“Because they’re ugly,” he says automatically. “And I don’t want anyone making fun of me at school photos. Again.”

You reach over and flick his forehead.

“Hey,” he protests, rubbing the spot. “What was that for?”

“Lying,” you say. “They’re not ugly. They’re cute.”

He blushes, the colour blooming right under your favourite constellation on his nose. “You think everything about me is cute.”

“Not everything,” you say thoughtfully. “You snore.”

“I do not,” he says, scandalised.

“You do too,” you argue. “Last sleepover, you sounded like a dying lawnmower.”

He drops his head dramatically onto your shoulder. “Why are you so mean to me?”

“Because you’re pretty,” you say.

His head snaps back up. “No, I’m not.”

“Prettier than me,” you add, just to watch him glitch.

He does. “That’s.. no, that’s not.. you.. shut up.”

You grin, leaning into his side. “You heard me, sunshine. I’m the funny one, you’re the pretty one.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly, he says, “I don’t mind being pretty if it’s just to you.”

Your smile falters.

He catches it instantly, panic flashing. “I mean, not like.. I didn’t.. I just mean you’re my best friend, so it’s fine if you say it, not..”

You bump your shoulder against his, cutting him off. “Relax, Lix. I know what you mean.”

You don’t say that you like that he cares what you think. That your heart does a weird, swoopy thing whenever he cuddles up next to you on movie nights, legs a tangled mess under the blanket while you pretend not to notice your hands brushing.

You don’t know the word for it yet. Not really. Not out loud.

He doesn’t either.

So you sit there on the curb, two stupid teenagers in doboks, bickering about freckles until your parents’ cars pull into the lot and the moment passes.

—

He tells you about Korea in the back of the bus after school, a crumpled audition email printout pressed between his fingers like a secret.

“This is huge,” you say, staring at the logo at the top of the page. “Like… you leave-your-family huge.”

He bites his lip. “Yeah.”

“And your friends,” you add, your voice trying and failing to stay light. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” he echoes. His leg bounces, knee jiggling against yours. “What do you think?”

You look at him.

At the boy who tripped over his own feet walking into the dojang for the first time and still bowed to everyone twice. At the boy who dances in your kitchen when he thinks no one’s watching, face lit up with something pure. At the boy whose freckles you’ve memorised like a map back home.

“I think,” you say slowly, “you’d regret it forever if you didn’t try.”

His shoulders sag in relief. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s you. Of course you’ll make it.”

He laughs, shaky. “You’re always so sure.”

“Someone has to be,” you say, nudging him. “You worry enough for both of us.”

He stares at the email again. “I’ll miss you,” he says, almost too quiet to hear over the rumble of the bus.

Your throat tightens.

“Yeah,” you say, because you don’t trust yourself with more. “Me too.”

He doesn’t tell you he’s in love with you.

You don’t tell him you’re starting to figure out you might be in love with him too.

Instead, you go to his going-away party. You hug his mum. You steal his hoodie so you have something that still smells like him. You stand in the airport and wave as he disappears past security, your eyes burning.

He turns around three times to look back at you.

You wave every time.

—

Drifting apart happens slower than you expect.

At first, it’s constant.

Photos from the dorms. Videos of him and other trainees in practice rooms. Occasional grainy selfies at 3 a.m. where he looks exhausted and happy in a way you don’t have a word for.

You stay up late to watch debut stages on dodgy streams, screaming quietly into your pillow when he hits the camera with that smile, the one you know is half terror and half joy.

You send him screenshots: LOOK AT YOU, FELIX, YOU ACTUAL STAR.

He sends back: stop making me cryyy 😭 miss u

Time zones suck.

Slowly, inevitably, life fills the spaces between messages.

Your classes get harder. Your part-time job eats your evenings. You start going to castings for modelling gigs on a whim and somehow keep getting called back. Someone sees you in a local campaign and says, You know, if you ever wanted to try Seoul or Tokyo…

Your phone buzzes on your nightstand with his name sometimes when you’re in the middle of a shoot or a casting or just asleep with your face in a textbook.

You open it hours later to his: you awake?

Or a link to a song he wants you to hear.

Or a blurry picture of the sky with: this reminds me of going home with u after training ☁️

You reply when you can. He does too.

The gaps stretch.

Happy birthday! texts replace calls. His schedule gets busier. Yours does too.

You both mean to do better.

You both don’t.

The last message you send before it all really goes quiet is a selfie on a tiny runway in Sydney, hair pinned back, makeup heavy, a borrowed dress that fits like a glove.

You write: guess who booked a show 🌟

He sees it, but he doesn’t reply right away.

You tell yourself it’s because he’s busy.

He is.

So are you.

Days pass. Then weeks.

By the time you both realise how long it’s been, reaching out feels like stepping onto a stage you haven’t rehearsed for.

You never fight.

You just… fade.

—

Years later, Seoul feels like a fever dream you forgot to wake up from.

The hotel room smells like hairspray and coffee. There are garment bags hanging everywhere, stylists weaving in and out, calling instructions in quick Korean. You understand most of it now. You still answer in a mix of Aussie English and broken Korean that makes the makeup artists laugh fondly.

“Kenzie!” your manager calls, poking his head around the divider. “Final fitting time. You ready?”

You stare at yourself in the mirror for a second longer.

You did get pretty, you think, a little dazed. Or at least, the world finally realised you were.

Your cheekbones are more defined. Your eyes sharper with the expert sweep of eyeliner. Your body honed from years of discipline that’s not so different from taekwondo drills, just in different shoes.

You still feel like that girl in a dobok half the time, tripping over her own feet and telling boys they have pretty freckles, well.. one boy.

You shake it off and turn, grinning at your manager. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

The Louis Vuitton, don’t say it like that, they told you, it’s “LV” now, show is at a converted warehouse in Hannam-dong. Inside, it’s all gleaming floors and metal rigs, rows of editors and idols and influencers in sunglasses despite it being very much indoors.

Backstage is chaos.

You thrive in it.

“‘Scuse me, sorry, coming through,” you murmur as you’re shepherded into your spot in the lineup, long coat swishing around your legs. The stylist fusses with the belt, tugs your collar, smooths your hair.

“Makenzie-ssi,” she says, satisfied. “You look perfect.”

You smile. “Gamsahamnida.”

Your heart’s beating fast, but it’s a good fast. Stage-fast. Pattern-fast. You bounce on your toes lightly, letting your body remember that this is just another type of performance.

Out front, the music starts.

The show director claps once. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

The first model steps out.

You count.

You’re third.

“Two,” someone whispers.

The model in front of you disappears around the corner.

“One.”

The stagehand taps your arm.

Your feet move.

You step into the lights.

It’s always like walking into another universe.

The runway stretches out in front of you, bright and narrow, lined with unblinking faces and flashing cameras. The music thrums through your ribcage like a second heartbeat.

You walk.

Heel, toe, weight, breathe. You’ve done this a thousand times on a hundred catwalks all over the world. But there’s a strange electricity tonight, a hum in the air you can’t name.

You hit your mark at the end of the runway, pivot, let the coat flare just enough for the photographers. Your face stays neutral, the way they trained you. Detached. Untouchable.

On the way back, your gaze sweeps the front row.

You’re not supposed to focus on anyone. You’re supposed to stare at the end of the runway like it owes you money. Still, your eyes catch on familiar faces. Actors. Singers. A handful of idols you’ve seen on billboards.

And then you see him.

He’s half-turned toward the runway, one elbow on his knee, fingers pressed lightly to his lips. There’s an LV monogram on his blazer, high collar neat around his throat. His hair is dark tonight, styled off his forehead. His jawline looks sharper, his shoulders broader.

But his eyes.

His eyes are the same.

So are the freckles across his nose.

He goes white.

You almost miss a step.

Years of training kick in, spine snapping even straighter, chin level. You keep walking, every muscle under control, even as your brain starts screaming.

Holy shit.

Felix.

You don’t know if he recognizes you at first. It’s been so long. You’ve changed. He’s changed. The lights are harsh, the line of models constant.

Then his mouth forms a shape around a word you haven’t heard from him in years.

Makenzie.

Your name.

Your heart stutters.

You force your gaze forward, you keep your pace, you walk off the runway like nothing happened.

Backstage explodes around you again with movement and noise. The coordinator is already shouting for second looks, stylists are tugging at zippers, someone hands you a bottle of water you down without tasting.

Your hands shake.

“Are you okay?” another model asks, squeezing your arm as she passes.

“Yeah,” you lie. “Just… adrenaline.”

You catch sight of yourself in a mirror as they swap your coat for a shorter jacket, fix your hair, retouch your lips.

He’s here.

In Seoul. At this show. As if the universe looked at you finally finding your feet in this city and said, You know what we haven’t done yet? Chaos.

You swallow.

You don’t see him again during the show. You’re too busy in the machine, walking, changing, walking again. But every time you step onto the runway, some stubborn, hopeful part of you scans the front row.

He’s there each time.

Watching.

—

After, the air outside the venue is cool against your overheated skin. Media lines the exit, cameras flashing as guests spill out. Your manager hustles you through a side door reserved for models, away from the worst of the crowd.

“Great job,” he says, clapping your shoulder. “The brand reps loved you. We might get more out of this, okay? Stay ready.”

You nod, still half somewhere else. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He fields a call and wanders ahead, leaving you for a moment under the shadow of the building, the hum of the city thrumming around you.

You exhale, letting your head thunk back gently against the concrete.

“Makenzie?”

You freeze.

You’d know that voice anywhere, even lower now, warm as ever. It slides down your spine like a memory.

You turn.

He’s standing a few metres away, just beyond the pool of light by the door. For a second, it feels like you’re back at the dojang, startled in the doorway of the bathroom with a paper cup in your hand.

“Felix,” you breathe.

Up close, the changes are even more obvious. He’s grown into himself, all long lines and sharp cheekbones, a far cry from the boy whose dobok swallowed him whole. But his smile, slow, unsure, breaking across his face like sunlight from behind clouds, that’s exactly the same.

“You’re…” He steps closer, stops like he’s not sure he’s allowed. His eyes scan your face, your hair, the outfit. “You’re here.”

“Yeah,” you say, a laugh bubbling up even though your eyes sting. “Apparently.”

He laughs too, incredulous. “I thought I was hallucinating. Like, I saw you walk out, and my brain went, oh, that’s Kenzie, and then the rest of me went, shut up, she’s on another continent, you idiot.”

You swallow. “Surprise.”

His gaze softens. “You look… wow.”

“You too,” you say, and your voice cracks on the last word.

He hears it.

He always did.

“Hey,” he says, a little gentler. “You okay?”

You cover a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion with a joke, like muscle memory.

“Honestly, I’m just offended you went from getting kicked in the face in a dojang to Louis Vuitton ambassador before me,” you sniff. “Very rude of you.”

He grins, the tension breaking. “You were always faster than me, I had to win at something.”

You scoff. “Please. I still had better form.”

“You did not,” he says automatically, slipping back into the old rhythm without even thinking.

You stand there grinning at each other like idiots for a few seconds, the city moving around you in blurred motion.

Then his expression shifts, turning more serious.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “For… what?”

“For… disappearing,” he says. His hand comes up, then falls again, like he wants to scratch the back of his neck but doesn’t want to mess up his hair. “We… stopped talking. I should’ve tried harder. Every time I thought about messaging, it felt like… too long had passed. And then more time passed and..” He huffs, frustrated. “I missed you.”

The ache you’ve been ignoring for years throbs in your chest.

“I could’ve messaged too,” you say quietly. “It wasn’t just you. Life happened. We both let it.”

He searches your face. “Are you… mad?”

You think about all the birthdays you didn’t spend together. The nights you watched him through a screen and wanted to text him and didn’t. The days you wished you could hear someone say your name with that accent, that voice, and settled for memories instead.

“No,” you say, and realise it’s true. “I’m not mad.”

You smile, a little wobbly.

“I’m just… really glad you’re here.”

His shoulders drop with visible relief. “Me too,” he says. Then, almost shyly, “You still calling my freckles pretty or have you grown out of that?”

You step closer into the light.

He doesn’t move away.

You reach up before you can overthink it, fingers hovering for permission. He tips his face slightly toward you.

Up close, they’re exactly as you remember. Little constellations across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, faint but stubborn.

“Still mine,” you say softly.

He swallows. “Yours, huh?”

“Yeah,” you say. “You gave them to me, remember? I have witnesses.”

He smiles, eyes crinkling. “I remember.”

You glance at the street, at your manager pacing a few steps away on his phone, then back at Felix.

“I have to go soon,” you say reluctantly. “Schedules and all that.”

“Right,” he says quickly. “Yeah, of course. Same.”

You shift your weight, unsure suddenly. The last time you said goodbye, it took you years to circle back. You don’t want to repeat that.

“Felix?” you say.

“Yeah?”

“Let’s… not drift this time,” you say, heart in your throat. “I know we’re both busy and life is insane and you’re, you know,” you gesture vaguely, “Felix Lee, Actual Star now. But… I don’t want to lose you again. Not when we’re finally in the same place.”

His eyes soften in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“You’re never losing me again,” he says quietly. “Not if I can help it.”

You chew your lip. “Big words, Aussie boy.”

He grins. “I’ll back them up.”

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, hands already shaking out of habit. “Can I.. I mean, can I get your number again? I still have the old one, but it’s got like… a Nokia attached to it in my brain.”

You laugh and exchange phones, tapping your name into his contact list.

You look up at him.

At the freckles. At the eyes. At the boy you used to kick in the head and feed slurpees to, who’s now a man in a designer blazer looking at you like the years between you just folded in half.

“Text me,” you say.

He smiles, soft and bright. “Already did.”

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

sunshine ☀️: don’t disappear again, yeah?

I’ve got way too much to tell you

Your heart does that swoopy thing again.

“Don’t worry,” you say, backing away toward your manager, who’s waving for you. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

He steps backward too, but his eyes don’t leave yours.

“You’re here,” he says one more time, like he has to confirm it for himself.

“I’m here,” you say.

Maybe you’ll sit in some tiny Seoul restaurant at 2 a.m. and talk about everything you missed in each other’s lives.

Maybe you’ll reach out one night and brush the freckles you once claimed, and he’ll let you, and neither of you will pretend it’s just friendship anymore.

“See you, Makenzie,” he calls.

“See you, Felix,” you call back.

Your phone buzzes before you’ve even taken your makeup off.

You’re half in, half out of your hotel bathroom, a cotton pad in one hand and an oversized robe hanging off one shoulder when the screen lights up on the bed.

sunshine ☀️: u still awake?

You grin before you can stop yourself and wipe the last of your eyeliner off in record time.

You flop onto the bed, hair falling around your face, and type back.

you: barely 👵

whats up, mr louis vuitton?

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

sunshine ☀️: ya ya tease me

im just at dorm now

had to hide in my room so the guys stop asking who I was staring at at the show 💀

You snort out loud.

you: wow so embarrassing for whoever you were staring at

couldn’t be me

sunshine ☀️: yeah this really tall model

kinda scary

you: she sounds hot

sunshine ☀️: she is

she also kicks ppl in the face

0/10 do not recommend

You laugh, shoulders relaxing, something in your chest easing that you didn’t realise was tight.

you: seriously though

how are you?

tell me everything I missed

There’s a longer pause this time.

sunshine ☀️: ok u asked for it

so. stray kids

u know them right? 👀

you: heard of them once or twice

loud boys

vaguely familiar

sunshine ☀️: rude

they’re… honestly theyre my family

like I know that sounds cheesy but its true

chan hyung is like

extra aussie dad

always worrying if we ate and slept

minho acts like he hates us but he cooks w his headphones on when he thinks we’re not looking

changbin is LOUD but if you’re sad he shows up w snacks and pretends he was “just passing by”

hyunjin is art kid but also clown

han is chaos but he’s the one u call at 3am when u wanna cry

seungmin insults me but makes sure my mic is on right

innie is still our baby even tho he’s taller than me now

I love them so much it hurts sometimes ngl

You read it twice, smiling like a fool.

It’s so… him. The way he lists them, the little details, the affection pouring through every line. You can picture him typing it, hunched over his phone on his bed, hair sticking up, cheeks a little flushed.

you: that was disgustingly cute

I approve

u sound happy w them

sunshine ☀️: I am

they saved my life tbh

the trainee years were rough

but w them it was…

not easier but not alone

u know?

you: I’m glad you had ppl

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

sunshine ☀️: you were there 🥲

even when u werent

when it got really hard I’d think about stupid stuff

us getting slurpees after dojang

u telling me my freckles were “company property”

u yelling at me for dropping my guard

it helped more than u think

“Don’t cry,” you mutter to yourself, wiping at the corner of your eye with the heel of your hand. “He’ll never let you live it down.”

you: I’m never gonna let u forget u just called me company property owner btw

sunshine ☀️: LMAO

pls dont invoice me for 10 yrs of freckle rent

you: also

famous boy

how is the whole world screaming ur name thing

sunshine ☀️: weird

like its amazing

I love performing

I love hearing stays scream and sing w us

love seeing them happy

but sometimes its

a lot

cameras always there

ppl watching how u breathe

you: like ur a person and also a shiny pokemon card

sunshine ☀️: exactly 😭😭

you: for what its worth

u did look shiny tonight

when u smiled at the runway

half the room died

sunshine ☀️: ☹️☹️☹️ stop

dont call me shiny

you: ok sorry

u looked like an overpowered elf fairy from some expensive gacha game

sparkly blonde freckled unfair

sunshine ☀️: why elf fairy

why not like

dragon or smth cool

you: bc u have that whole

ethereal “I grant wishes and cry if u yell at me” vibe

sunshine ☀️: I DO NOT

you: babes

u turned white when u saw me

I thought u were gonna ascend

sunshine ☀️: that was shock ok

I was like “wow the hottest model in the room is my old training partner universe really said multi hit combo”

Your face heats.

You bury it in the pillow for a second and scream silently into the mattress.

When you come up for air, your fingers are slightly shaky.

you: u cant just SAY stuff like that

ppl have hearts

sunshine ☀️: 😂😂😂

its true though

u looked…

different

but also exactly the same

I saw your walk and I was like yep that’s the girl who used to boss everyone around at training

you: I did NOT boss everyone around

sunshine ☀️: u literally told me my pushups were ugly once

you: they WERE

ur form was tragic

sunshine ☀️: see 😭

u were always confident

even when u were nervous

u’d fake it so hard everyone believed it

so seeing u on that runway

it just made sense

“yeah that’s makenzie ofc she’s there”

you: I was so nervous I thought I was gonna fall into the front row

imagine taking out a louis vuitton exec on accident

aussies would never be allowed back

sunshine ☀️: I would have caught u

you: bold of u to assume u could dive that fast in those boots

sunshine ☀️: ok true 😭

You roll onto your side, tucking the pillow under your head, the phone a warm weight in your hand.

It feels like being in Year 9 again, texting under the covers, except now the topics are world tours and magazine shoots instead of math homework and who stole whose shin guards.

you: speaking of shiny

blonde?

when did that happen

sunshine ☀️: ok fine I wanted to try it

u like it?

You picture him: hair light and soft, roots just starting to show, skin warm under stage lights, freckles standing out even more against the pale.

you: yeah

u look like u wandered out of a fantasy novel

like some prince of the forest w a gamer addiction

There’s a longer pause. You wonder if you pushed it too far, teased too much.

sunshine ☀️: stop

my ears are hot now

my members are gonna clown me if they see

you: oh my god

are u BLUSHING felix

sunshine ☀️: no. shut up

u always say this stuff like its nothing

it messes w me

you: what stuff?

sunshine ☀️: calling me pretty

elf fairy prince of the forest

saying u like my freckles

u say it like its just a joke

but my brain just

replays it for 10 yrs

Your heart does the swoopy thing again, a little bigger this time.

You stare at your ceiling.

You think about him in his dorm room, ears red, phone screen lighting his face, freckles and all.

you: its not a joke

I DO think ur pretty

I always have

I think ur beautiful actually

there

now ur brain can replay that for 10 yrs

You hit send before you can chicken out, then immediately throw your phone onto the bed and cover your face with both hands.

A muffled buzz makes you scramble to grab it.

sunshine ☀️: …

why are u like this

do u want me to die

you: 😂😂😂

no

who will I bully

sunshine ☀️: bully someone else

im busy having a heart attack

you: sorry

u signed up for this in 2000-whatever

sunshine ☀️: I did didnt I

sunshine ☀️: thanks tho

seriously

there’s a lot of ppl who say stuff about how I look

good and bad

but when u say it

it feels

idk

like Kenzie saw me first

so if she says its ok

I believe it more

you: I did see u first remember?

day one

dojang

panic bow

sunshine ☀️: and u immediately almost killed me

you: and then told u ur freckles were mine

keep up

sunshine ☀️: right

sorry boss

You glance at the time and realise it’s nearly 3 a.m.

“Shit,” you whisper.

you: dont u have schedule tmrw?

sunshine ☀️: yeh…

but this was worth it

you: go to sleep, sunshine

sunshine ☀️: u too

model life needs beauty sleep apparently

sunshine ☀️: night, makenzie

im really glad ur here

you: night, felix

me too

text me tmrw

You set your phone on the nightstand, the last message still lighting up the dark.

For a long moment, you lie there listening to your own heartbeat, remembering the smell of mats and sweat and slurpees, the feel of his hand in yours at the drinking fountain, the way your name sounded in his mouth today like it never left.

Somewhere across the city, he’s putting his phone down too, face hot, chest full.

You both fall asleep with stupid smiles on your faces, your conversations finally picking up the thread they dropped years ago.

—

Your phone rings just as you’re halfway through making coffee and thinking about nothing in particular except maybe going back to bed.

You glance at the screen.

Manager.

You sigh, stab the answer button, and wedge the phone between your ear and your shoulder while you pour.

“Morning,” you mumble.

“Makenzie!” he says, too bright for this hour. “You sound dead. Good, we’ll fix that. I’ve got news.”

“Is it ‘go back to sleep, Kenzie, you’ve worked hard’ news?” you ask hopefully.

He laughs. “You’re hilarious. No. It’s shoot news. Big one. Editorial plus digital campaign, multi-brand collab. Korea meets Australia meets Paris. They want you.”

That wakes you up faster than any coffee.

“Wait, really?”

“Really,” he says. “They loved you at the show. Said you had… hold on, what did she call it…” He rustles paper. “Ah. ‘A compelling presence that feels both fresh and familiar.’”

“Wow,” you say. “I should put that on a t-shirt.”

“Or your rate card,” he says. “Anyway. There’s a twist.”

You immediately narrow your eyes, even though he can’t see you. “What kind of twist?”

“You’re not shooting alone.”

“That’s fine,” you say. “I’ve shot with other models before.”

“Not like this.” He sounds delighted with himself, which is never a good sign. “This is a duo concept. Very intimate, strong narrative, lot of chemistry. They want contrast but synergy. You know the spiel.”

You take a sip of coffee to buy time. “Okay…”

“And,” he says, drawing it out, “they specifically requested another model from Australia for the pairing. Guess who.”

You shrug, even though you know he can’t see that either. “I dunno. There’s like ten of us in the country. Who?”

He clears his throat, like he’s been waiting for this moment all morning.

“Felix.”

You choke.

You cough so hard you have to slam the mug down on the counter to keep from dropping it, coffee sloshing dangerously near the rim.

“Sorry,” you croak. “Who?”

“Felix,” he repeats, oblivious to your near-death. “You know, Stray Kids, Louis Vuitton’s fairy prince, that Felix. House ambassador, sweetheart of the internet. Blonde, freckled, the one you were making heart eyes at the whole time...”

You make a strangled noise. “How do you know what I..”

“I don’t,” he says cheerfully. “I’m guessing. Am I wrong?”

You grit your teeth. “Continue.”

He chuckles. “Anyway, the brand loves this whole ‘two young talents from Australia conquering Korea’ thing. They want to lean into it. Very… what did she say… ‘youthful, electric energy.’ You two together, it’ll shoot like a dream.”

Your brain latches onto one word and refuses to move on.

“Together,” you repeat slowly.

“Together,” he confirms. “Two-day shoot. Lookbook plus motion. There’s even talk of a short film element if the test footage looks good.”

You press your palm to your forehead. “Okay. Okay, that’s… fine. Totally fine. I can be professional.”

“That’s the spirit,” he says. “Oh..one more thing. Creative director keeps saying she wants it to feel really… passionate.”

You blink.

“Passionate,” you echo.

“Yeah,” he says, happily unaware that you’re staring into space like you’ve just been told to walk into a lion enclosure in a meat suit. “Her words. ‘We want to see the chemistry, the history, the tension, like two people who came from the same sky and met again in a different one.’”

You make a noise that could be a laugh or a small internal scream. “Right. History. Chemistry. Passion. Great.”

“She actually said your names in the same sentence,” he continues. “‘They’re both young, beautiful, from Australia, they’ll explode on camera, it’ll be magic.’”

You nearly drop the phone.

“Young and… what?” you ask.

“Beautiful,” he repeats. “Which, fair.”

“Not that part,” you say through your teeth.

“From Australia?” he offers innocently.

You close your eyes. “The passionate part.”

“Oh.” He laughs. “Right. That. Don’t worry, it’s fashion speak. Passionate just means ‘don’t look like cardboard.’ You’ll be fine. You and Felix already looked like your own fanfic at the show. The photogs will eat it up.”

You are absolutely going to die.

You can already see it: headlines, edits, comments. Makenzie and Felix, childhood friends, reunited in Seoul, staring into each other’s eyes in high fashion while the internet collectively combusts.

“Kenzie?” your manager prompts when you go quiet too long. “You still alive?”

“Define alive,” you mumble.

He snorts. “You’ll thank me when the campaign drops. Anyway, block out next Tuesday and Wednesday. Fittings this weekend. I’ll send the brief and moodboard. Some of the references are… intense, just warning you.”

“Intense how?” you ask suspiciously.

“Lots of proximity,” he says. “Hands. Eye contact. The kind of stuff that makes teenagers on Twitter write essays.”

You drag your hand down your face. “Oh my god.”

He laughs. “You’ll handle it. You always do. And hey, at least you already know your co-star. Better than some random guy from Paris who’d try to mansplain your own country to you.”

You pause.

He’s right.

You imagine doing this with someone you’ve never met, some tall stranger with too much cologne and not enough sense to ask before touching your waist. The thought makes your skin crawl.

Then you imagine doing it with Felix.

Felix whose hands have been on your shoulders correcting your form since you were twelve. Felix whose freckles you memorised as a teenager. Felix who texted you last night about how your words stick in his head for ten years.

Your stomach flips.

Not with dread.

Something else.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “Send me the details.”

He laughs. “Talk soon, superstar.”

He hangs up.

You set the phone down on the counter and just… stand there for a second, staring at nothing.

Passionate.

You grab the edge of the counter, knuckles white.

“Nope,” you tell the empty room. “We are not thinking about that.”

Your phone pings.

You jump.

It’s not your manager.

It’s him.

sunshine ☀️: so did u get a call? 😅

You stare.

you: oh my god

U Too??

sunshine ☀️: they told me like

10 mins ago

“FELIX we’re doing a synergy concept w another aussie talent, very emotional, very youthful”

me: ok cool

them: “her name is makenzie”

me: 😳😳😳

You choke out a laugh.

you: passionate

they said passionate

sunshine ☀️: LMAO

they said that to u too??

you: yes

my manager literally said “it’ll be really passionate” and I nearly died on the spot

sunshine ☀️: same

I was like “sir I know her she has blackmail material”

you: so we’re doing this?

sunshine ☀️: do u… want to?

I can tell the company I fell down the stairs or smth

you: Lix

I want to

I’m just…aware there will be cameras documenting u looking at me like that

you: like u did at the show

like I’m gonna vanish if u blink

sunshine ☀️: …oh

u noticed that huh

you: hard to miss when ur whole face did a jump scare

sunshine ☀️: IM SORRY

u were just

idk

there

everywhere

you: hey

how comfortable are u w this kind of shoot?

like

lots of “act like u wanna kiss her but dont” energy

sunshine ☀️: honestly?

bit nervous

I’ve done duo stuff before but not w someone who knows what my hair looked like in yr 7 😭

but if its u

I think ill be okay

I trust u

You exhale a breath you didn’t realise you were holding.

you: same

I’d be 100x more anxious w a random

at least w u

if I trip u’ll just laugh and catch me

sunshine ☀️: I got u

always

plus

u get to bully me for my “passionate” face for the rest of my life

you: oh I PLAN to

screensaver incoming

sunshine ☀️: rude

also

“act like u wanna kiss her but dont”

that should be outlawed

you: in which country

sunshine ☀️: in my heart

You throw the dish towel at absolutely nothing, face hot.

you: stop making me blush in my own kitchen

sunshine ☀️: u started it

fairy prince this

beautiful that

now we gotta stand 2cm apart in nice clothes

pray for me

You lean your hip against the counter, grinning helplessly.

you: we’ll be fine

remember when master kim made us do those one-step drills over and over until we could do them w our eyes closed?

sunshine ☀️: yeah

u kept smacking my arm bc my block was “lazy”

you: I was right

this is the same

just blocking but make it fashion

sunshine ☀️: “punch me w ur gaze”

you: shut UP

you: ok my handler says I have homework

moodboard time

sunshine ☀️: also

Makenzie

sunshine ☀️: I’m really glad its u

for this

even if they make us pretend to be “passionate” for 8 hours straight

you: me too, sunshine

I’ll see u at fittings?

sunshine ☀️: yeah

try not to kick me in front of the fashion ppl

you: no promises 😇

You hang up, drop your phone on the table, and finally let yourself flop face-first onto the couch with a groan.

Passionate.

You bury your burning face in a cushion.

“Okay,” you tell yourself, voice muffled. “He’s your friend. You’re professionals. You survived sparring and adolescence and him growing into a human elf. You can survive standing very close to him in expensive clothes.”

Your phone pings again.

You peek.

sunshine ☀️: for the record

ur “passionate” face on the runway yesterday was insane

trying not to stare was the hardest choreo I’ve ever done

You throw the pillow over your head and scream into it.

It’s going to be a very long, and very interesting, shoot.

—

The studio looks like a spaceship.

High ceilings, white walls, huge softboxes hanging overhead like moons. There’s a rack of clothes that probably cost more than your old car and at least three people walking around with clipboards and headsets, speaking in rapid Korean and French.

You’re in hair and makeup when he arrives.

You don’t see him at first. You hear him.

That laugh. Low and warm and instant sunshine.

Your heart skips so hard your makeup artist clicks her tongue. “Don’t move,” she scolds gently, angling your chin back toward the mirror.

“Sorry,” you mumble.

You tell yourself you’re not craning to see him in the reflection. You fail.

He appears behind you in the blurred background, flanked by his own team. The LV stylist fusses with the lapels of his jacket, tugging them just so. His hair is a soft, expensive blonde again, swept off his forehead. The light catches on the subtle shimmer at the corners of his eyes. His freckles are dusted with the faintest hint of highlight, like someone deliberately wanted them to catch the light.

He looks like a fairy prince that wandered into a fashion editorial.

He also looks nervous.

His eyes find you in the mirror.

For a moment everything else kind of… fades.

He lifts his hand in a small wave. It’s a tiny movement, almost shy, at odds with the confident idol persona everyone here knows.

You fight a smile and fail miserably.

He grins.

Your makeup artist groans. “If you two keep making hearts with your eyes, I’m never getting this eyeliner even.”

“Sorry,” you say again, biting back a laugh.

Felix is escorted to the station next to you. You can see him more clearly now, just beyond the frame of your mirror. His artist starts on his base, fluffing his brows, dusting powder over his freckles. He fidgets, eyes flicking toward you whenever he thinks you’re not looking.

You’re both trying very hard to act normal.

It’s almost funny.

“Makenzie-ssi,” your stylist chirps, appearing with a garment bag. “Ready to change?”

“Born ready,” you say, sliding off the stool.

They zip you into the first look: a structured black blazer dress that hugs your waist and then falls clean and sharp to mid-thigh, paired with sheer tights and pointed heels. There’s a heavy chain at your throat and small glints of jewelry at your ears. Your hair is sleek, parted cleanly, tucked behind one ear.

You barely recognise yourself and also somehow look exactly like you wish you did all the time.

You step out from behind the screen.

Felix looks up.

He goes silent mid-sentence. Whatever he was saying to his makeup artist dies on his tongue.

His gaze drags from your shoes to your knees, over the cut of the dress and up to your face. His pupils dilate just a little.

You force yourself not to fidget.

“What?” you ask, half teasing, half braced.

He blinks.

“You look…” He trails off, ears turning red. “Yeah.”

You snort. “That’s not a sentence Lee.”

He clears his throat, composing himself. “You look incredible,” he corrects, more firmly. “Very… model. Very ‘I’ll step on you and you’ll say thank you.’”

You grin. “That’s the brief, right?”

He groans. “I hate that that’s accurate.”

You gesture at him. “You’re one to talk.”

He’s in a double-breasted suit in deep charcoal, tailored perfectly, with a silk shirt open just enough at the throat to show a hint of collarbone and a delicate chain. The styling is deceptively simple, letting his features do the work. The blonde hair, the freckles, the sharp jaw line softened by that ridiculous smile when he looks at you.

“You look like an elf prince going to court,” you declare. “If you step on me I’ll probably thank you.”

He makes a choking noise so sudden one of his stylists pats his back in concern.

You laugh, too pleased with yourself.

“Kids!” the creative director calls, clapping her hands. She strides over, all black turtleneck and statement glasses, tablet in hand. “You both look incredible. Come, come, let’s talk.”

You gather around the monitor as she flips through the moodboard. Grainy film photos of couples in alleys, intertwined hands, foreheads pressed together, half-smiles. A lot of eyes. A lot of almosts.

“So,” she says, gesturing broadly between you. “The story. Two souls from the same place, reunited in a foreign city. There’s history. There’s longing. They’re comfortable, but there’s tension. They’re both their own sun, but together they’re…” She snaps her fingers. “Fireworks.”

You nod like this is the most normal thing anyone’s ever asked you to embody.

Next to you, Felix swallows.

“We’ll start simple,” the photographer says in accented English, already moving toward his station. “Just walking, looking, feeling. Then we’ll build. Trust each other, okay? Use what you have. I heard you two are really from the same hometown? Let it show.”

You and Felix exchange a glance.

“Something like that,” you say.

He smiles.

They position you on set in front of a huge painted backdrop that looks like a blur of Sydney’s skyline melting into Seoul’s. Clever. Cheesy. Effective.

First shots are easy.

You walk side by side, then in opposite directions, then cross paths and glance back over your shoulders. You laugh at something he whispers and the photographer lights up. “Yes! That, that. Genuine!”

Felix relaxes with the movement, slipping into performer mode. On the turn, his hand skims your lower back, the touch casual and steadying. You don’t overthink it. You’ve moved with him before, just in different uniforms, different stakes.

Between takes he leans in. “You alright?”

“Fine,” you whisper back. “It’s just walking. Although if I stack it in these heels, you’re catching me.”

“Always,” he says, no hesitation.

You ignore the way that word hits you right in the sternum.

The first outfit change passes in a blur. You end up in something softer this time: a slinky cream slip dress with a structured coat hanging off your shoulders, bare legs, delicate heels. He loses the blazer and trades it for an oversized knit over his shirt, more relaxed, like someone you’d actually bump into on a street corner.

The atmosphere shifts.

“Okay,” the director says, voice gone almost conspiratorial. “Now we lean into the story. You two are not colleagues. You’re not idols and models. You’re characters. Lovers who haven’t seen each other in years. Got it?”

You feel Felix go still beside you.

He exhales slowly. “Got it.”

You nod too, clenching and unclenching your fingers to bleed off some of the sudden nerves.

They position you center stage. The backdrop has changed to something more abstract now, light and shadow and hints of a city at night.

“Felix,” the photographer calls. “Come stand behind her. Little distance at first. Look at her like you’re not sure she’s real.”

You almost laugh. You don’t dare.

Felix takes his mark behind you. You can feel him before you turn. The heat of his body, the faint rustle of fabric as he shifts.

“Good,” the photographer murmurs. “Kenzie, eyes forward. You feel him before you look. Give me the conflict.”

You let your face go still, then let something flicker through it, a tiny crack. You think about airports and silent phones and years of wondering. You think about last night’s texts and how easy it was to slip back into him.

“Now,” the photographer says softly. “Turn and see him.”

You pivot slowly.

He’s right there.

Closer than you expected. Eyes fixed on your face like there’s nothing else in the room.

For a second, you forget you’re supposed to be acting.

Something raw flashes across his features. Surprise, relief, something like awe.

None of it is faked.

“Beautiful,” the photographer says, snapping rapidly. “Hold that. Lean in a little. You’re drawn together like magnets.”

Felix steps closer. You don’t remember deciding to mirror him, but you do. The distance between you shrinks until you can feel his breath, warm against your lips, the faintest hint of cologne and something that is just… him.

Your heart is beating too fast.

His hand hovers at your waist, not quite touching. You’re aware of every centimeter of space between his fingers and your body.

“Okay,” the photographer says after a moment. “Now we go deeper. Felix, I want you to hold her like you haven’t seen her in years.”

Your lungs forget how to work.

There’s a quiet beat where the room holds its breath.

Then, very softly, like he doesn’t mean to say it out loud, Felix murmurs, “I haven’t.”

It’s barely more than a whisper. You feel it more than you hear it, the words vibrating in the small space between you.

Your chest does something strange.

He moves.

His hands settle at your waist, firm and sure now, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress like he’s anchoring himself. He steps that last fraction closer, erasing the space, fitting your bodies together like you’ve done this a thousand times in another life.

You inhale sharply.

“Beautiful, beautiful,” the photographer is saying somewhere far away. “Now, Kenzie, you react. First shock, then relief. Let yourself melt.”

You don’t have to fake it.

Your shoulders drop as if someone’s taken a weight off them. Your hands, which had been hovering uselessly by your sides, lift almost of their own accord, sliding up his chest, fingers resting lightly at the base of his neck.

He’s warm. Solid. Real.

You let your forehead tip forward until it almost, almost touches his.

You can see every freckle. The little scar at his eyebrow. The way his pupils are blown wide, dark swallowing light.

He swallows.

“Good,” the photographer breathes. “Closer, closer. You’re sharing the same air now. There’s a question between you.”

Your noses brush.

It sends a jolt straight through you.

You feel Felix’s hands tighten at your waist, grip sliding a little lower, fingertips pressing into the small of your back. His breath stutters. You feel it fan across your lips.

You’re vaguely aware that your own face has gone hot.

“Now,” the photographer says, voice low, intent. “The moment. You’re about to kiss, but you don’t know if you should. Let the tension build. I want that… ache.”

You look at Felix.

He looks at you.

Everything else falls away.

Your brain flashes images without permission: his text last night saying he’s glad it’s you, the way he said he trusts you, the little crush you never named when you were fifteen and stupid.

Your thumb moves in the space behind his ear, a tiny unconscious stroke.

His breath hitches.

He’s looking at your mouth now.

“Perfect,” the photographer says. “Now… kiss her.”

The words hit like a dropped cymbal.

You blink.

Felix jolts.

His fingers spasm at your waist so sharply he tugs you involuntarily closer, your balance tipping forward. Your hand tightens at the back of his neck on reflex, more to hang on than anything else.

For a split second, your center of gravity is not your friend.

You wobble.

His eyes go wide.

“Oh, shit,” he blurts, dipping suddenly to steady you. One arm bands around your back, the other sliding under your thighs in a half-formed instinct like he’s about to lift you.

In the chaos, your heel slips on the slick floor.

You yelp.

“Whoa,” someone calls off to the side.

Felix practically scoops you up, catching you before you can actually fall. It’s clumsy and too fast, his elbow bumping the edge of the backdrop, your hand smacking lightly against his shoulder.

You end up half cradled, half hanging onto him, faces even closer than before, breaths tangling.

For one absurd, suspended heartbeat, it’s just… this.

His arm solid under your knees. Your hand fisted in the lapel of his sweater. Both of you staring at each other like complete idiots.

Then the room bursts into laughter and exclamations.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” the director laughs, hand over her heart.

Your cheeks are on fire. “I’m fine,” you say, voice higher than usual, clutching at Felix. “Sorry. Slippery.”

Felix is pink from ears to collar, chest heaving, eyes darting everywhere but your mouth. “That’s… my bad,” he stammers. “I almost dropped her, sorry. Sorry. Reflexes lag.”

“No!” the photographer says, delighted. “It was perfect! Do you know how many couples fake that kind of electricity? And you two just fall into it. Literally.”

The crew chuckles.

You want the floor to open up. You also want to laugh. You do both, a weird half-breathless giggle escaping you as Felix gently sets you back on your feet.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low for you alone.

You nod, still gripping his sleeve. “Yeah. You?”

“Heart’s going 200 bpm,” he admits. “Otherwise fine.”

You huff. “Drama queen.”

He smiles, the corner of his mouth quirked. “You almost ate it in front of Vogue and I saved you. A little drama is earned.”

“True,” you concede.

The creative director bustles over, eyes bright. “You two are phenomenal,” she declares. “Let’s reset, though. Same emotion, maybe less… gravity experiment.”

You both nod.

Felix leans in as everyone moves around you, adjusting lights, checking the backdrop.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “When they said ‘kiss her’ my brain just… short circuited.”

You snort. “Yeah, I noticed. I thought you were going to yeet me into the lights.”

He winces. “Please don’t say yeet in front of the French photographer. I beg.”

You grin, the tension easing. “So. About the kissing thing…”

He goes very still, eyes snapping to yours.

“Yeah?” he says carefully.

You swallow.

“We can… not,” you say quietly. “If you’re uncomfortable. They can cheat it with angles. Forehead, cheek, near-miss. It’s not a music video, they don’t need contact.”

His shoulders drop a fraction, some tightly wound coil unwinding.

“I’m…” He hesitates. “I’m not uncomfortable with you,” he says finally, earnest. “I just didn’t expect them to ask for it so fast. My head was still at ‘wow, she’s close, don’t stare at her mouth like a creep’ and then he said it and my brain blue-screened.”

You bite back a smile. “You can stare. It’s literally your job today.”

He groans softly. “Don’t say that.”

You nudge his arm. “We’ll set a boundary, okay? We can give them everything without actually… crossing that line. At least this time.”

“This time,” he repeats under his breath, something unreadable flickering through his eyes.

Before you can unpack that, the photographer calls you back into position.

“Same setup as before,” he directs. “But this time, we stop just before the kiss. Let the viewers imagine the rest. That’s even more powerful.” He winks. “Cinema.”

Relief washes through you.

You take your mark again. Felix steps behind you, then around, hands resuming their place at your waist like they never left.

This time, it’s easier to lean in.

You know the beats now. It’s choreography. A dance.

Surprise. Relief. The pull. The hover.

Your foreheads rest together, noses brushing lightly. You feel his fingers flex at your back, small reassuring squeezes in time with the shutter.

He looks at your mouth again.

You let your gaze drop to his.

The air between you thins.

“Perfect,” the photographer murmurs. “Right there. Stay. Beautiful. I feel the years between you evaporating.”

You almost roll your eyes.

Instead, you let the words sink in.

Years.

Airport.

Dojo.

Late-night texts.

Freckles.

You inhale like you’re taking him in.

He breathes out, the sound shaky against your lips.

“Cut,” the director calls softly after a while. “That’s it. That’s the one.”

You both step back slowly, like breaking the moment physically requires effort.

The crew applauds lightly. Someone whistles.

You shake out your hands, laughing a little to cover the way your heart is still beating too fast.

“You two are unreal,” the creative director says, clapping once. “Let’s take five. Then we’ll hit the motion shots.”

You nod, moving off set toward the water table.

Felix falls into step beside you.

“That was…” He searches for a word. Fails. “Yeah.”

“Intense,” you supply.

He huffs. “That too.”

You grab two bottles and hand him one. His fingers brush yours. It feels like an echo of the last ten minutes.

“Hey,” you say quietly, tilting your head toward a quieter corner of the studio. “You okay?”

He leans against the wall, rolling the bottle between his palms. His cheeks are still flushed, blonde hair slightly mussed.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Weirdly… good. Nervous. But good.”

You exhale. “Same.”

He glances at you, gaze soft. “Thanks for… being you,” he says. “Making jokes. Checking in. I know some ppl would just bulldoze.”

You nudge his shoulder. “Please. I’ve been bullying you since we were twelve. You think I’m going to stop when there’s money on the line?”

He laughs, the sound loosening something in your chest.

You take a sip of water, then add, a little more serious, “We can still set a line any time, okay? If they push too far, we say no. Together.”

“Together,” he echoes.

The way he says it makes your pulse jump.

“Although,” he adds, a shy little smile tugging at his mouth, “I think we’re doing pretty good for two awkward Aussies pretending to be passionate French film characters.”

You bump your hip against his. “Speak for yourself. I was born to be dramatic.”

He snorts. “Trust me, I know.”

You grin.

Out on the main floor, someone calls for places.

You and Felix straighten, exchanging a look.

“Ready?” you ask.

He smirks, a flash of the idol confidence sliding over his features. “Let’s show them what passionate really looks like.”

You arch a brow. “Big words for someone who almost dropped me.”

His ears go red. “Low blow.”

You both step back under the lights, shoulders aligned, breathing in sync, ready to turn years of shared history into something the cameras can only almost catch.

No actual kiss.

with every bounce you could feel his cock driving even deeper into your sloppy pussy. your hands wrapped around his neck as you kept whining yourself on his cock.

“this dick is all mine, ffuckk… you feel so good baby” you babbled, to cock drunk to even comprehend what was leaving your mouth.

“that’s a g-good slut, c’mon let me hear those pretty moans p-please baby” he spoke trying to contain his moans.

he lived for when you rode his cock like this, he could feel your nails digging into his shoulders, the tears running down your cheeks when your head was buried in the crock of his neck, and not to mention the way your ass jiggled with every bounce.

your pussy was squeezing him so tight, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it together before he pained you insides white.

“s-slow down princess m’gonna cum if you keep this up”

at this point both your legs were shaking but you just couldn’t stop riding him, not when he felt so good. even with teary eyes and shakey legs all you could think about was how fuuking good his cock felt inside of you, how every moan that left his mouth made your pussy hotter, how he hit that one spot your fingers could never reach, and how much you know he’s gonna cum inside you.

“rin,rin,rin, i-i’m gonna cum”

“cum for me baby, cum on your dick princess s’all yours pretty”

your movements started getting sloppier and more shakey as you approached your high, “gonna be a good girl and make us cum mhm”? Rin spoke before he kissed you.

and with that both of you came. as you then rested your head on his chest.

“you did so good baby, now untie me let me fuck all this cum right back into my pussy”