#mutualpining

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝓃𝑒 ✧ ɞ˚‧｡⋆

The dorm room smells like someone just won the laundry lottery: crisp cotton detergent mixed with that vanilla candle she insists on burning even though it’s basically a fire hazard at this point. The wick is drowning in its own wax, throwing off sweet curls of smoke that fight the coconut shampoo ghost still clinging to everything Soobin touches. From his phone propped against a half-empty iced Americano bottle comes the chillest lo-fi playlist known to man, bass so lazy it’s practically napping. Afternoon sun pours through the floor-to-ceiling window like it’s auditioning for a luxury real-estate ad, painting fat golden stripes across the cream rug that cost more than most people’s rent. Dust motes float through the beams like tiny drunk astronauts. Her left thumb keeps spinning the thin silver ring she bought in a “treat yourself” moment last semester, twisting it clockwise, counterclockwise, clockwise again like she’s trying to unlock something. Soobin’s shoulders are relaxed against the couch back, long legs sprawled, but his left hand rests flat on his thigh—thumb tapping once, twice, three times in perfect sync with the invisible rhythm he’s always hearing. The whole place screams quiet money: soft gray sectional that actually stays clean, plants that haven’t died yet (miracle), no mystery stains, no empty energy-drink cans. Just the kind of effortless niceness that comes from parents who never ask “how much was that?”

She exhales through her nose, slowly, and lets her head tip back against the cushion. The fabric is soft chenille, the kind that costs too much per yard but feels like being hugged by money. Her bare feet are tucked under one of the throw pillows, toes curling into the fringe. Soobin's hoodie—navy, oversized, the one she stole last week and never gave back—hangs loose on her frame, sleeves bunched at her elbows. She can still smell his shampoo on the collar when she turns her head: clean coconut and something faintly woody. Familiar. Safe.

He hasn't said anything in maybe three minutes. Just sits there, scrolling his phone with one hand while the other keeps that slow, absent thumb-tap on his leg. The light hits the side of his face, turning the tips of his dark hair gold-brown, catching the soft curve of his cheek when he breathes. He looks peaceful. Always does around her. Like the world quiets down when she's in the room.

She watches him from the corner of her eye. The way his lashes are stupidly long. The way his mouth rests in a gentle line even when he's not smiling. The way he never slouches like most guys do when they're trying to look cool—he just exists, tall and calm and unbothered. God he's pretty, she thinks, not for the first time. What a fucking waste that he's gay.

The thought lands soft, familiar, almost fond. No sting anymore. Just a fact. Like knowing the sky is blue or that strawberry soju hits differently on an empty stomach. He's her person. The one who remembers she likes her nails almond-shaped and not square. The one who can French-braid better than her own mom ever could. The one who once spent forty minutes debating with her whether Chris Hemsworth's arms or Timothée Chalamet's jawline deserved more thirst tweets, rating them both like it was a legitimate Olympic category. Zero hesitation. Zero fragile masculinity. Just Soobin being Soobin.

She twists the ring again. Faster this time.

He notices—of course he does—and glances over without lifting his head much. His eyes are warm brown, crinkled at the corners already even though he's barely smiling.

"You okay?" he asks, voice low and soft like he's talking to a skittish animal. Which he kind of is. She knows it. He knows it.

"Yeah." She forces a small laugh. "Just thinking how you're literally the only guy I know who can talk about hot guys without making it weird."

Soobin huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. His thumb stops tapping. "Is that a compliment or a roast?"

"Both." She nudges his thigh with her foot under the pillow. "Mostly compliment. You don't get all macho about it. You just… agree. Like when I said that new TA has nice hands and you went 'yeah his fingers are long, good for—' and then made that obscene gesture with zero shame."

He grins now—full, dimples deep, eyes curving into happy half-moons. The kind of smile that makes her stomach do a lazy flip even though she knows better.

"What can I say?" He shrugs one shoulder, casual. "I'm secure in my sexuality."

She snorts. "Understatement of the year."

The playlist shifts to a slower track. The light moves half an inch across the rug as the sun drops lower. Vanilla curls stronger now that the candle's wick is shorter.

Soobin sets his phone down screen-up. Reaches over without asking and takes her left hand—the one still fiddling with the ring. His fingers are long, warm, callus-free because he uses hand cream like it's religion. He turns her hand palm-up, inspects the chipped navy polish on her nails.

"This is peeling already," he murmurs, thumb brushing the edge of one nail. "Want me to fix it later? I still have that quick-dry top coat in my bag."

She doesn't pull away. Why would she? It's just Soobin.

"Yeah," she says, softer than she means to. "That'd be nice."

He nods once. Lets her hand go but doesn't move his own far—leaves it resting on the cushion between them, pinky brushing hers like an afterthought.

She stretches her legs out fully now, bare feet sliding across the couch until her heels bump his hip. The contact is light, casual, the kind of nudge that’s happened a thousand times before. He doesn’t flinch or shift away. Instead he adjusts his posture with that effortless grace he has, long legs folding just enough to give her more room so her ankles end up resting against his side like they belong there. It’s automatic. Muscle memory at this point. Her toes wiggle once against the soft fabric of his sweatpants, seeking the warmth that always seems to radiate off him no matter the season.

Soobin sets his phone face-down on the armrest with a soft clack. The lo-fi track keeps humming, bass line still sleepy, but now it feels like background noise for whatever quiet thing is about to happen between them. He turns his upper body a little more toward her, one elbow propped on the back of the couch, chin resting in his palm. The movement makes the hoodie sleeve she’s wearing ride up her forearm, exposing the thin silver bracelet she forgot she was wearing today. He notices that too, of course. His eyes flick to it for half a second before returning to her face.

She catches the glance and smirks, feeling playful all of a sudden. “What, you gonna offer to polish my jewelry next? You’re already on nail duty.”

He lets out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest and traveling up her legs where they touch him. “If it’s peeling like your polish, yeah. Can’t have my favorite accessory looking neglected.”

“Favorite accessory,” she echoes, rolling her eyes so dramatically her lashes almost brush her brows. “You say that like I’m not wearing your entire wardrobe half the time.”

“Exactly.” He reaches over and tugs lightly on the drawstring of the hoodie hood that’s bunched around her neck. “This one’s mine. The gray sweatpants yesterday were mine. The black tee with the tiny hole in the collar from last week? Also mine. I’m basically dressing you at this point.”

She laughs, sharp and bright, the sound bouncing off the high ceiling. “You love it. Admit it. You get a weird thrill out of seeing me in your clothes.”

Soobin tilts his head, expression perfectly innocent, but there’s a glint in his eyes that’s pure mischief. “I get a thrill out of knowing you smell like me all day. Territorial much? Maybe.”

She snorts again, louder this time. “Territorial. Please. You’re the least jealous person alive. You literally encouraged me to go out with that barista last month because ‘he has nice forearms and makes good latte art.’ Your exact words.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “He did have nice forearms. And the latte art was on point. I’m supportive like that.”

“Supportive,” she repeats, dragging the word out like it’s evidence in a trial. “You’re supportive the way a gay best friend in a rom-com is supportive. Full enthusiasm, zero competition.”

His smile widens just a fraction, dimples deepening, but he doesn’t correct her. Just let the assumption sit there between them like a cozy blanket neither of them ever bothers to fold up.

She kicks his hip lightly with her heel. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re comfortable,” he fires back, voice soft but quick. His free hand drifts down and settles loosely around her ankle again, fingers wrapping just enough to hold without gripping. Thumb strokes once over the bone, slow and absentminded, like he’s petting a cat that wandered into his lap.

The touch is so normal it almost doesn’t register as anything more. Almost.

She feels the warmth spread up her calf anyway. Ignores it. Or tries to.

She kicks his hip again, lighter this time, more playful, toes wiggling against the cotton of his sweatpants like she's testing if he'll actually react. Soobin doesn't budge. He just lets his head tip sideways until it rests against the couch back, eyes half-lidded, looking at her like she's the most entertaining documentary he's watched all week.

"You're staring," she says, narrowing her eyes in mock suspicion. "Stop looking at me like I'm about to do something stupid."

He raises one eyebrow so slowly it's basically performance art. "You always do something stupid. I'm just waiting for the live show."

She gasps, dramatic, hand flying to her chest like he wounded her. "Excuse me? My life choices are impeccable. Flawless. Iconic, even."

Soobin snorts so hard his shoulders shake once. "Your last 'iconic' choice was texting that finance bro at 2 a.m. because he said 'you're giving the main character energy.' You came crying to me at 3 because he ghosted you by breakfast."

She groans and flops backward, arms flung wide, hoodie riding up to expose a sliver of stomach. "He had nice teeth, okay? Perfect alignment. Orthodontist-approved. I was blinded by enamel."

"Blinded by enamel," he repeats, deadpan, voice dripping with the kind of dry amusement that should come with a warning label. "That's a new low. Even for you."

She sits up on her elbows, glaring, but the corners of her mouth are already twitching. "You're supposed to be supportive, not savage. Where's my best-friend loyalty?"

"Right here." He leans forward, elbows on his knees now, face closer, voice dropping into that low, conspiratorial tone he uses when he's about to roast her into next week. "Supporting you means telling you the truth. And the truth is your type is walking red flag with a side of gym-bro cologne. I'm doing the lord's work by saving you from yourself."

She throws a throw pillow at his face. He catches it one-handed without blinking, tucks it behind his back like it's a trophy, then reaches out and flicks the end of her nose gently.

"Ow," she whines, rubbing the spot even though it didn't hurt. "Abuse. I'm calling the friendship police."

"Call them. They'll side with me." He grabs her wrist mid-rub, turns her hand over again like it's exhibit A in his ongoing case against her taste in men. "Look at this. Chipped polish. Messy cuticles. You're literally falling apart and still swiping right on guys who can't even text back. Priorities, babe."

She yanks her hand free but doesn't really try hard. "Don't 'babe' me,You're the one who knows how to contour better than half the girls on campus. If anyone's priorities are questionable, it's yours."

Soobin grins, all teeth and dimples and pure evil innocence. "Contour is gender-neutral. And I'm good at it because I care about art. Unlike your taste in men, which is apparently performance art in tragedy."

She bursts out laughing, head thrown back, the sound loud and unfiltered in the quiet room. "You're such an asshole."

"Love you too," he says, soft and quick, like it's nothing. Like he says it every day. Which he kind of does.

Her laughter fades into a grin she can't quite wipe off. She nudges his knee with her foot again, lingering this time. "You're lucky you're hot. And gay. Otherwise I'd have to hate you for being this mean."

He just smiles wider, eyes crinkling until they're almost gone. "Lucky me."

The candle pops once, throwing a fresh wave of vanilla. The lo-fi track loops back to the beginning, bass still napping. His pinky is still brushing hers on the cushion.

—------------------------------------------------------

Soobin has always been tactile in the most innocent way: fixing her hair when a strand falls in her face during lectures, tucking her scarf tighter in winter, letting her nap with her head on his shoulder during movie marathons without ever making it weird. No leering. No lingering too long. Just… care. The kind that feels like home because it never asks for anything back.

That’s the thing about him. He’s never once made her feel like a conquest or a prize or even a maybe. He’s just there. Steady. Warm. Listening to her rant about shitty dates, offering ice cream and brutally honest commentary, then braiding her hair while she cries about the same shitty date ghosting her. He’s seen her at her messiest—hungover, puffy-eyed, mascara-streaked, ranting about how all men are trash—and never once flinched or judged or tried to fix it by hitting on her.

And that’s why the gay assumption fits so perfectly in her head. It explains everything without any scary edges. He can compliment her ass in leggings (“objectively phenomenal, congrats”) and then immediately pivot to ranking male swimmers’ shoulders like it’s a TED Talk. He can hold her hand in crowded places so she doesn’t get lost and never once lets his thumb wander. He can whisper filthy jokes in her ear during group hangouts and laugh when she swats him, because it’s all playful.

If he were straight, she thinks, this would be dangerous. The touches would mean something. The smiles would carry subtext. The way he remembers her coffee order, her cycle (because he tracks it better than she does, the freak), her favorite period snacks would feel like moves in a long game. But he’s not straight. So it’s just friendship on steroids. Extra affection. Extra everything. No threat to the perfect little bubble they’ve built.

She likes the bubble. It’s cozy. It’s reliable. It lets her be vulnerable without fear of rejection or awkwardness or—worst of all—losing him. If he ever looked at her like that, really looked, the whole thing might crack. And she can’t imagine a world where Soobin isn’t her constant. Where she doesn’t have someone who shows up at 2 a.m. with convenience-store ramyeon because she texted “life sucks” at 1:57. Where she doesn’t have the one person who can make her laugh until her stomach hurts even when she’s convinced the world is ending.

So she keeps the label in place like a safety pin. Gay. Safe. Mine (but not like that). It lets her lean into every hug, every casual touch, every late-night confession without second-guessing. It lets her steal his hoodies and sleep in his bed during thunderstorms and cry on his chest without wondering if he’s counting the seconds until he can kiss her.

It’s perfect cus It’s easy.

The candle flickers again, vanilla thickening the air. His pinky stays exactly where it is, brushing hers in the smallest, most innocent rhythm.

She exhales, slow and smug in her own certainty.

Thank god he’s gay, she thinks, the phrase landing like a favorite blanket. Otherwise I’d be so fucked.

She shifts her weight, pretending it's just to get more comfortable, but really it's to press her ankle a fraction harder against his side. The movement is small, almost nothing, but his hand reacts instantly: fingers curl a little tighter around her ankle bone, not possessive, just enough to say he noticed and isn't letting go. His thumb resumes that slow, deliberate circle over the knob of bone, pressure so light it's criminal how much it registers. Heat spreads up her calf in lazy waves, the kind that feels accidental until you realize it's been building for minutes.

Soobin doesn't look down at where they're connected. His eyes stay on her face, soft and amused, like he's cataloging every micro-expression she makes. He tilts forward another inch, elbow still on his knee, chin in hand, closing the space between their faces without ever making it feel deliberate.

"Speaking of terrible taste," he says, voice dropping into that velvet register he uses when he's about to say something devastatingly honest, "you still have that group chat open with the girls? The one where they keep trying to set you up with their brother's friend who 'looks like a taller Soobin but straight'?"

She freezes for half a heartbeat, then bursts into laughter that comes out too loud in the quiet room. "They said taller. Taller. As if height is the only upgrade needed."

He raises both brows now, mock-offended, mouth twitching. "Excuse me. I'm already premium edition. Adding height would just make me unfair to the rest of the male population."

"Premium edition," she echoes, snickering. "You're a walking limited-edition collectible with emotional support boyfriend DLC unlocked. No wonder they keep trying to straight-wash you."

His laugh is low, chest-rumbling, and the vibration travels straight through her legs where they touch him. He shifts his grip on her ankle—slides his palm up to cup the back of her calf now, fingers splaying wide enough to cover most of the muscle there. The move is casual, like he's just adjusting for comfort, but the warmth of his whole hand seeps through her skin and settles somewhere low in her stomach.

"Emotional support boyfriend DLC," he repeats, tasting the words like fine wine. "Accurate.It comes with unlimited hugs, savage roasts, and emergency midnight delivery. Five-star rating. No returns."

She snorts again, but the sound catches when his thumb drags one long, slow line up the inside of her calf—barely there, barely intentional, yet it leaves a trail of goosebumps she can't hide. Her free foot flexes against his hip in reflex, toes curling into the fabric.

"You're ridiculous," she mutters, but her voice comes out breathier than she planned.

"And you're still using me as a human heater." He doesn't move his hand away. If anything, his fingers flex once, gently squeezing the muscle before relaxing again. "Admit it. You'd freeze without me."

She rolls her eyes, but the gesture feels weak now, performative. "I'd survive. Probably."

"Liar." His smile turns softer, almost tender, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You'd miss the premium-edition cuddles the most."

The candle flame dances higher for a second, throwing vanilla-scented warmth across both their faces. His hand stays exactly where it is—warm, steady, claiming space on her leg like it's always belonged there.

The silence finally cracks when Soobin exhales again, longer this time, the sound almost a sigh but too content to qualify. His hand slides off her calf in one slow, reluctant motion, fingers trailing down the back of her ankle before letting go completely. The absence of warmth hits sharper than it should, a sudden cool spot on her skin that makes her want to chase it back. She doesn't. Instead she curls her toes once against his hip, testing the boundary without crossing it, then pulls both legs in toward her chest. The movement is casual, folded knees hugging the pillow now, but it feels like retreat even though she hasn't moved far.

Soobin leans back fully against the couch again, stretching his arms overhead until his spine pops softly. The motion lifts the hem of his shirt just enough to show a thin strip of skin above his waistband—flat stomach, faint line of muscle that disappears under fabric. He doesn't fix the shirt right away. Lets it ride there for a beat while he rolls his shoulders, then tugs it down with lazy fingers.

"Beomgyu's gonna be home any minute with that party energy," he says, voice back to its normal gentle drawl. "You still want strawberry soju or should I text him to grab something else?"

She hugs her knees tighter, chin resting on top. "Strawberry. Definitely. And tell him if he brings that cheap beer again I'm pouring it on his head."

Soobin chuckles, low and easy, already reaching for his phone. His fingers fly across the screen in quick taps, message sent before she finishes the sentence. He sets the phone back down between them, screen dark now, and turns his head to look at her fully. The light has gone fully amber, painting half his face in warm shadow, making his eyes look deeper, almost liquid.

"You know," he says quietly, "you could just stay here tonight. Crash on the couch. Or my bed. Beomgyu's party usually ends with him passed out on the floor anyway."

She considers it. The idea settles warm in her chest: his room, his sheets that always smell like him, the way he never hogs blankets even though he's giant. No walk back to her place in the dark. No dealing with Lia's questions about why she's smiling like an idiot. Just easy. Familiar.

"Yeah," she says after a second, voice softer than the words deserve. "Maybe I will."

He nods once, small satisfied movement, like something clicked into place. "Good. I'll grab extra pillows."

She watches him stand—tall frame unfolding gracefully—and feels that same smug certainty wrap around her again. This is them. This is safe. This is why he's the only one she never has to question.

He glances back once from the hallway, dimples faint in the low light. "Don't move. I'll be right back."

She doesn't. Just sits there hugging her knees, ring still spinning slowly on her thumb, thinking how lucky she is to have a best friend like this.

How perfectly, tragically lucky.

The stairwell echoes with Beomgyu’s arrival before the door even opens: keys jangling like loose change in a pocket, footsteps skipping every other step, already laughing at some joke he’s telling himself. The sound bounces off the concrete walls and spills into the apartment the second he kicks the door wide. A gust of cold evening air rushes in behind him, carrying the faint metallic bite of campus sidewalks and the greasy promise of whatever takeout bag he’s swinging.

Soobin is already up, moving toward the kitchen island with that long-legged stride that makes everything look effortless. He flips on the overhead light—soft warm white, not the harsh fluorescents most places have—and the room brightens just enough to make the shadows retreat. The vanilla candle has finally given up; only a thin trail of smoke curls from the drowned wick, scent fading fast into the background. The lo-fi playlist ends mid-note when Soobin taps his phone to silence it, leaving the space suddenly quiet except for Beomgyu’s entrance.

Beomgyu bursts through, cheeks pink from the run up the stairs, grin splitting his face wide enough to show every tooth. He’s wearing the same oversized denim jacket he’s had since freshman year, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair a chaotic mess from the wind. In one hand: a plastic bag bulging with bottles that clink together. In the other: his phone, already recording a boomerang of himself kicking the door shut behind him.

“Party people!” he yells, voice cracking on the last syllable for dramatic effect. “Your host with the most has arrived. And he brought reinforcements.”

He swings the bag onto the counter with a theatrical thud. Glass rattles. Soobin catches a rolling bottle of soju before it can tip off the edge, sets it upright without comment, then leans both hands on the marble, shoulders relaxed, watching Beomgyu like a parent watching a toddler with too much sugar.

She stays curled on the couch, knees still hugged to her chest, but she can’t help the grin that tugs at her mouth. Beomgyu’s chaos is predictable in the best way—like a storm you see coming from miles away and still run out to dance in.

Beomgyu finally notices her. His eyes light up even brighter. “There she is! My favorite third wheel. You staying? Because I need someone to film me doing the worm later when I’m three shots deep.”

She snorts, unfolding her legs and stretching them out along the cushion again. “Only if you promise not to cry when you inevitably lose at beer pong. Again.”

Beomgyu clutches his chest like she stabbed him. “Low blow. That was one time. One. And it was because Yeonjun cheated with the elbow rule.”

Soobin lets out a quiet huff of laughter, already pulling glasses from the cabinet. “Yeonjun always cheats. You just keep falling for it.”

Beomgyu points an accusing finger at him. “Traitor. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Soobin shrugs one shoulder, dimples flickering. “I’m on the side of truth. And truth says you suck at beer pong.”

She laughs again, louder this time, the sound bouncing off the high ceiling. The room feels bigger suddenly, fuller, the quiet intimacy from earlier stretching thin but not snapping. Beomgyu starts unpacking bottles—strawberry soju, regular, a couple of cheap beers, some random flavored vodka he probably grabbed because the label was shiny.

Soobin glances over his shoulder at her, eyes soft in the new light. “Still crashing here?”

She nods without hesitation. “Yeah. Couch is calling my name.”

Beomgyu overhears and spins around, arms wide. “Couch? No way. You get the guest spot in Soobin’s room. He’s got the good pillows. I know because I steal them sometimes.”

Soobin rolls his eyes but doesn’t deny it. Just keeps lining up shot glasses in a neat row.

The first guests will arrive soon. Music will get loud. People will spill drinks and secrets and bad dance moves. But right now, in this brief pocket before the storm hits full force, she feels it again—that smug, cozy certainty.

This is her safe place. Her people. Her ridiculous, perfect best friend who never makes anything complicated.

She watches Soobin pour the first shot of strawberry soju, the liquid catching pink in the light, and thinks how lucky she is that nothing ever has to change.

The buzzer rings again, sharper this time, impatient. Beomgyu vaults over the back of the couch in one fluid motion—long limbs flailing just enough to look chaotic on purpose—and slams the intercom button with his palm.

“Yo, come up! The door's open!” he yells into the speaker, voice echoing back tinny and distorted.

Soobin doesn’t react to the acrobatics. He’s already lining up more shot glasses on the island, neat little soldiers in a row, strawberry soju bottle uncapped and waiting. The pink liquid catches the overhead light and glows like cheap candy. He pours three shots without measuring, liquid sloshing just shy of the rim, then slides one toward her spot on the couch with a gentle push across the marble.

She uncurls fully now, feet hitting the rug, and pads over barefoot. The floor is cool under her soles, a sharp contrast to the lingering warmth from where his hand had been. She picks up the shot, sniffs it once—sweet, artificial strawberry that promises a headache by morning—and raises it in mock toast.

“To bad decisions and worse hangovers,” she says.

Beomgyu spins back around, grabs his own glass, and clinks it against hers so hard a drop spills over the edge. “To me getting laid tonight. And you two finally admitting you’re basically married.”

Soobin chokes on air mid-pour. A tiny splash hits the counter. He wipes it up with the sleeve of his hoodie—her hoodie, technically, but who’s counting—and shoots Beomgyu a look that’s equal parts fond and murderous.

“Keep dreaming, Gyu.”

The door bangs open before anyone can reply. First in is Yeonjun, hair freshly dyed a violent cherry red that looks illegal under the apartment lights, followed by two girls she vaguely recognizes from last semester’s psych elective—both giggling, arms linked, already halfway to tipsy from whatever pregame happened elsewhere. Behind them trails a guy with a backpack full of speakers, wires dangling like tentacles, and then three more randoms she’s never seen but who act like they live here.

The room fills fast. Voices overlap. Someone cranks the Bluetooth speaker on the coffee table—bass-heavy hip-hop that rattles the empty bottles. Yeonjun beelines for the soju, pours himself a double, then throws an arm around Soobin’s shoulders like they’re long-lost brothers.

“Binnie! My man! You look disgustingly sober. Fix that.”

Soobin shrugs the arm off with zero effort, but there’s a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Someone has to make sure you don’t break your face on the coffee table again.”

Yeonjun gasps, hand to chest. “That was one time. And I was pushed.”

The girls swarm the couch, claiming spots on either side of her. One—dark hair, silver nose ring—leans in close, eyes sparkling.

“You’re Soobin’s friend, right? The one he talks about all the time?”

She blinks. “He talks about me?”

The other girl laughs. “Constantly. ‘She hates olives,’ ‘she likes her coffee iced even in winter,’ ‘don’t play that song, it makes her sad.’ It 's cute.”

She feels heat crawl up her neck. Glances toward the kitchen. Soobin is pouring another round, head bent, but she catches the quick flick of his eyes her way—brief, almost shy—before he looks back down.

Beomgyu appears at her elbow, shot in hand, grinning wickedly.

“See? Married. I told you.”

She elbows him in the ribs. Hard.

The music gets louder. Bodies start moving—someone drags the rug back to make a makeshift dance floor. Laughter spikes over the beat. The air thickens with perfume, spilled soju, and the faint metallic tang of excitement.

Soobin weaves through the growing crowd, two fresh shots in hand. He stops in front of her, offers one without a word. His fingers brush hers when she takes it—deliberate? Accidental? Doesn’t matter. The touch is brief, warm, gone.

He leans down just enough so his voice reaches her ear over the noise.

“Stay close. Things might get messy fast.”

She nods, shot burning sweet down her throat.

The music jumps an octave when someone finally connects Yeonjun’s phone to the bigger speaker. Bass drops hard enough to rattle the shot glasses on the island. Bodies pack tighter—someone’s elbow bumps her shoulder, a stranger’s laugh explodes too close to her ear. Beomgyu is already in full chaos mode, dragging the coffee table to the side with dramatic grunts, clearing a wobbly circle of floor space that’s now officially the “dance floor.”

He spins toward her, eyes bright and predatory, holding two red plastic cups like trophies. Beer sloshes inside, foam clinging to the rims.

“Beer pong!” he announces like it’s a royal decree. “You versus me. The loser has to do the worm in front of everyone. Right now. No excuses.”

She raises both brows, arms crossing over her chest. “You’re already losing. You always lose.”

Beomgyu gasps, clutching his heart with one hand while thrusting a cup at her with the other. “Slander. Pure slander. I’m undefeated in spirit.”

Soobin appears at her side like he materialized from the crowd, tall enough to cut through the press of bodies without effort. He plucks the cup from Beomgyu’s fingers before she can take it, sniffs once, then hands it back with a flat look.

“This is warm and half foam. Try again.”

Beomgyu whines but obeys, darting back to the kitchen island to pour fresh ones from the cold six-pack someone brought. Soobin stays planted next to her, shoulder brushing hers every time someone squeezes past. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t need to. The crowd parts around him like water around a rock.

Yeonjun materializes on her other side, red hair glowing under the string lights Beomgyu strung up earlier. He slings an arm around her shoulders, casual and heavy.

“Team up with Binnie. Make it a couples pong. It’ll be adorable. Everyone will cry.”

She elbows him in the ribs. “We’re not a couple.”

Yeonjun grins, teeth flashing. “Sure. That’s why he’s literally your shadow tonight. Look at him. Guard dog mode activated.”

Soobin doesn’t deny it. Just reaches past her to snag a ping-pong ball from the table Beomgyu is now setting up—two red cups at each end, triangle formation, water inside because no one trusts the beer not to spill everywhere. He bounces the ball once on the table, catches it clean, then holds it out to her palm-up.

“Your shot first,” he says, voice low enough that only she hears it over the music. “Sink it and I’ll buy you actual good soju next week.”

She takes the ball, fingers brushing his for a split second longer than necessary. The plastic is cool and slightly damp. She lines up, tongue poking between her teeth in concentration, and flicks her wrist.

The ball arcs perfectly—plop—straight into Beomgyu’s front cup.

The room erupts. Beomgyu shrieks like he’s been shot, clutching the cup to his chest.

“Cheating! She cheated! Soobin distracted me with his pretty face!”

Soobin snorts, shoulders shaking once. “That’s your excuse? My face?”

Beomgyu downs the cup in one dramatic gulp, slams it down, then points at Soobin. “Your turn, traitor. Sink it or I’m making you sing karaoke.”

Soobin takes the next ball, bounces it once, twice, eyes flicking to her for half a heartbeat before he throws. Clean arc. Plop. Another cup is gone.

Beomgyu throws his head back and howls. “This is rigged! Rigged!”

The crowd chants now—pong, pong, pong—phones out, recording. She laughs so hard her stomach hurts, leaning sideways into Soobin’s side without thinking. His arm comes around her shoulders automatically, steadying her, thumb resting light against her upper arm.

Beomgyu misses his next shot spectacularly—ball ricocheting off the rim and flying into someone’s hair. The room loses it.

Soobin leans down, mouth close to her ear again. “Told you. Messy fast.”

She tilts her head back to meet his eyes. “You love it.”

His dimples flash. “Only when you’re winning.”

The game keeps going. Cups empty. Cheers rise. Beer spills. Someone starts a conga line that immediately collapses into a pile of limbs.

And through it all, Soobin stays right there—arm loose around her, body angled to shield her from the worst of the crowd, quiet amusement in every glance he sends her way.

The beer pong game collapses into chaos exactly as predicted. Beomgyu misses his redemption shot so badly the ball bounces off the ceiling fan, ricochets into a potted plant, and knocks over a half-full cup of beer that splashes across Yeonjun’s white sneakers. Yeonjun shrieks like he’s been set on fire, hopping on one foot while waving his arms. “My limited edition! You monster!”

Beomgyu cackles so hard he has to brace himself on the table. “Collateral damage! War is hell!”

She watches the whole disaster from the edge of the makeshift court, Soobin’s arm still loosely draped around her shoulders like a human seatbelt. The crowd has doubled in the last twenty minutes—more bodies, more noise, more questionable decisions stacking up like Jenga blocks. The string lights flicker every time someone bumps the speaker, casting erratic pink and blue shadows across sweaty faces and red plastic cups.

Across the room, one of the psych girls has cornered the backpack-speaker guy against the wall. She’s got her hands in his hair, mouth on his neck, and he looks equal parts thrilled and terrified. His eyes dart around like he’s waiting for someone to yell “cut.” She whispers something in his ear; he nods frantically, then they disappear down the hallway toward Beomgyu’s room. The door clicks shut. Thirty seconds later, muffled giggling turns into unmistakable rhythmic thumping against the wall.

Soobin tilts his head toward the sound, eyebrow quirking. “That’s gonna be awkward in the morning when Beomgyu realizes his bed is occupied.”

She snorts into her cup. “He’ll just sleep on the floor and call it ‘immersive camping.’”

Another couple—random tall guy with a backwards cap and one of Yeonjun’s friends—has claimed the armchair in the corner. She’s straddling his lap, grinding slow and shameless while he gropes under her shirt like they’re auditioning for softcore. Their makeout is so loud it competes with the bass drop. Sloppy, wet sounds. Occasional moan that makes half the room turn and cheer like it’s a sports highlight.

Beomgyu stumbles over, three shots deep and swaying, pointing at them with exaggerated horror. “Public indecency! I’m calling the morality police! Wait, no, I’m the morality police. Get a room!”

The girl flips him off without breaking rhythm. The guy just grins, dazed and happy.

Soobin leans down, voice low and amused against her ear. “They’re putting on a better show than the actual party.”

She laughs, shoulder bumping his chest. “At least they’re committed. Look at Mr. Backwards Cap—he’s treating it like a religious experience.”

Another couple forms near the kitchen island: two guys from the econ club, hands everywhere, one pinning the other against the fridge while they kiss like the world ends in five minutes. Beer cans clatter to the floor. Someone yells “get it!” and starts filming on their phone.

She shakes her head, grinning. “This place is turning into a low-budget porno set. Where’s the director yelling ‘more passion’?”

Soobin’s fingers flex once on her shoulder, thumb brushing the nape of her neck in a quick, absent caress. “Give it ten minutes. Someone’s gonna start a threesome in the bathroom.”

Beomgyu overhears, spins toward them with wild eyes. “Don’t jinx it! Last time we had to replace the shower curtain. Again.”

She bursts out laughing so hard she has to grab Soobin’s hoodie to stay upright. He steadies her automatically, arm tightening just enough to keep her from tipping.

The room spins with drunk energy—bodies grinding, mouths crashing, hands wandering, everyone too far gone to care who’s watching. Phones out everywhere, capturing the madness for tomorrow’s regret stories. Someone starts a chant of “shots shots shots” that turns into off-key singing. Another couple disappears into the coat closet. Door slams. Giggling. Thudding.

Soobin watches it all with that same calm, half-smile, like he’s observing animals at the zoo. His hand stays on her shoulder, warm and steady, the only point of quiet in the storm.

She glances up at him, still chuckling. “How are you not drunk yet?”

He shrugs, eyes crinkling. “Someone has to drive the getaway car when this implodes.”

She rolls her eyes but leans into his side anyway.

The couch has become their unofficial commentary booth. She’s tucked into the corner now, knees drawn up, back against the armrest, one foot propped on Soobin’s thigh like it’s a footstool he volunteered for. He doesn’t complain. Just lets his hand rest loose on her ankle again, thumb occasionally flicking the hem of her legging like he’s keeping score in a game only he understands. The party has hit peak disaster: bass thumping so hard the empty cups on the table vibrate, bodies grinding in every corner, someone’s already crying in the bathroom over a text from an ex.

Soobin nods toward the armchair couple—the girl still riding backwards-cap guy like he’s a mechanical bull at a county fair. She’s got her head thrown back, mouth open in what looks like a very loud moan, while he grips her hips like they’re the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

“Look at that technique,” Soobin deadpans, voice low enough for only her to hear. “He’s holding on like she’s about to launch into orbit. Solid ten for effort, three for rhythm.”

She chokes on her laugh, nearly spilling her drink. “She’s doing all the work. He’s just… there. Like a very enthusiastic chair.”

“Exactly. Human furniture. Five stars on Yelp for comfort, zero for cardio.”

They both watch as the girl suddenly grabs his face and kisses him so aggressively their teeth probably clack. Tongues visible from across the room. She pulls back, says something, then dives back in.

Soobin tilts his head. “That kiss looks like they’re trying to eat each other’s souls. Is that passion or are they just really hungry?”

She snorts so hard beer bubbles up her nose. “Passion. Definitely passion. The kind that ends with a trip to urgent care for a dislocated jaw.”

Across the room, the econ-club guys have escalated: one has the other pressed flat against the fridge, hands under shirts, hips rolling in a way that’s more dry-hump than dance. The kiss breaks for a second—both panting—then the taller one whispers something filthy enough that the shorter one’s eyes roll back.

Soobin winces theatrically. “Oof. That dirty talk was so loud I heard the word ‘daddy’ from here and I’m not even wearing headphones.”

She covers her mouth, shoulders shaking. “He said it like he’s ordering at a drive-thru. ‘Yeah, can I get one daddy with extra cheese?’”

Soobin’s laugh is quiet but deep, vibrating through his chest into her side where she’s leaning now. “And the response. ‘Coming right up.’ Tragic.”

Beomgyu stumbles past, three cups in hand, spots them, and points accusingly. “You two are gossiping like old ladies! Join the degeneracy!”

Soobin lifts his free hand in a lazy salute. “We’re providing color commentary. Someone has to narrate the trainwreck.”

Beomgyu flips them off, then immediately gets pulled into a sloppy group hug by Yeonjun and two randoms, all three trying to grind at once and mostly just falling over.

She leans her head on Soobin’s shoulder, still giggling. “This is better than reality TV. We should start a podcast. ‘Live from Soobin’s Couch: Watching Drunk People Ruin Their Lives.’”

He turns his face toward her hair, voice dropping softer, amused. “You’d be the mean one. I’d be the nice one who says ‘they’re just expressing themselves.’”

She lifts her head, eyes sparkling. “You’d defend their terrible decisions?”

“Only if they pay for therapy later.” His thumb strokes once along her ankle, slow and absent. “But yeah. I’d say they look very… passionate.”

She snorts again. “Passionate. Sure. That’s one word for it.”

The armchair couple finally tips over sideways—crash—onto the floor in a tangle of limbs and laughter. No one stops making out. Just keeps going horizontally now.

Soobin sighs, mock-sad. “And scene. Tragic loss of verticality.”

She buries her face in his shoulder to muffle the laugh. His arm slides around her back, hand settling warm at her waist, holding her steady while the room spins around them.

The commentary booth turns sloppy around shot number four. Strawberry soju hits different when you chase it with warm beer—sweet first, then bitter, then nothing but warm fuzz and zero filter. She’s giggling into Soobin’s shoulder every few seconds now, body loose, one leg still draped over his lap like it grew there. He’s matching her pace, cheeks flushed a soft pink that makes his dimples look dangerous. The room is a full circus: someone’s doing body shots off Yeonjun’s stomach on the kitchen floor, Beomgyu is attempting to twerk on the coffee table and mostly just falling off, the armchair couple has relocated to the floor and is now aggressively dry-humping while fully clothed like horny teenagers who forgot how zippers work.

A long beat of quiet falls between them—not awkward, just drunk and syrupy. The bass thumps on, but it feels distant, muffled by the alcohol blanket wrapped around their heads. Soobin’s hand has migrated from her ankle to the inside of her knee, fingers splayed wide, thumb resting in the soft dip behind her kneecap. No movement. Just weight. Warm. Heavy in the best way. She doesn’t move it. Doesn’t want to.

Across the room, backwards-cap guy finally gets his shirt off. Throws it like a victory flag. The girl cheers, then immediately face-plants into his chest, laughing so hard she snorts. They roll once, twice—knock over a lamp. It crashes without breaking. No one cares.

Soobin watches for three full seconds, head tilted, then turns back to her with the slowest, most judgmental blink she’s ever seen.

“That,” he says, voice thick and slurred just enough to sound luxurious, “is what happens when you confuse stamina with choreography.”

She wheezes, forehead dropping to his collarbone. “He thinks he’s in a music video. She thinks she’s winning an award for best supporting actress for bad decisions.”

He snorts, breath warm against her temple. “They’re both losing. Spectacularly.”

Another pause. The music dips into a slower track—some R&B remix that makes half the room grind harder. The econ guys are now making out so intensely one of them has the other’s leg hooked over his hip against the fridge door. The fridge light flickers every time it opens and closes from the pressure.

Soobin exhales through his nose, long and dramatic. “I give that kiss a six. Solid technique, but zero finesse. It’s like watching two vacuum cleaners fight over dust.”

She laughs so hard tears prick her eyes, hand slapping his chest once. “Vacuum cleaners. You’re evil.”

“Observant,” he corrects, fingers flexing once against her knee. The touch sends a lazy spark up her thigh that she blames entirely on the soju.

The silence stretches again—five seconds, six, seven—filled only by distant moans, shattering glass somewhere in the kitchen, Beomgyu yelling “body shot round two!” like a war cry. Soobin’s thumb starts the tiniest circle behind her knee. Barely there. Drunk enough to pretend it’s accidental.

She lifts her head just enough to meet his eyes. They’re glassy, dark, crinkled at the corners with drunken amusement.

“You’re terrible at commentary,” she mumbles, words running together. “But you’re right. Everyone here is a disaster.”

He smiles slowly, lazy and devastating. “Except us.”

She snorts. “We’re sitting on a couch judging people while drunk. We’re the kings of disaster.”

“Queens of irony,” he counters, leaning in until their foreheads almost touch. “Best seat in the house.”

Beomgyu, now shirtless and glistening like a budget action hero, climbs onto the coffee table again, holding an empty soju bottle like a microphone.

“New game!” he bellows, voice cracking on the high note. “Drink roulette! Spin the bottle, whoever it lands on has to take a shot and do whatever the spinner dares. No backsies. No mercy. Let’s ruin lives!”

Cheers erupt. Phones flash. The crowd forms a sloppy circle around the table. She’s still tucked against Soobin, head fuzzy and warm, cheeks hot from the alcohol and the laughter that won’t stop bubbling up. His hand has slid higher on her thigh now—casual, drunk, thumb resting just under the hem of her legging like it wandered there by mistake and decided to stay.

The bottle spins again, slower this time, the soju making everything feel like slow-motion film. Beomgyu’s voice cracks on the countdown—“Three! Two! One!”—and it lands with a decisive clink, pointing straight at her.

The circle erupts. Phones flash. Beomgyu pumps both fists like he just won the lottery. “Queen of the night! Dare time!”

She’s too drunk to protest properly. The room tilts when she tries to sit up straighter, so she just laughs and flops back against the couch arm, hoodie riding up to expose a strip of stomach. The cool air hits skin and she shivers once, giggling at nothing.

Soobin’s hand is still on her waist from earlier, thumb brushing the edge of exposed skin like it’s no big deal. He doesn’t move it. Just watches with that glassy, amused stare.

Beomgyu pours a fresh shot of strawberry soju, eyes wicked. “Yeonjun! Dare: drink it off her tummy. No hands. Go full animal.”

Yeonjun whoops, already crawling across the table on his knees, red hair flopping into his eyes. The crowd chants his name like it’s a gladiator arena. He stops in front of her, grinning feral, cheeks flushed deep pink from the alcohol.

“Ready?” he asks, voice slurred and playful.

She snorts, lifting the hem of the hoodie higher with one hand. “Do your worst, pretty boy.”

Yeonjun doesn’t hesitate. He lowers his head, lips brushing her stomach first—teasing, light—then pours the shot straight from the bottle onto her skin. Cold liquid pools in the dip of her navel, sweet and sticky. The crowd loses it—whistles, cheers, someone yells “slurp!”

He dives in. Tongue flat, lapping slow at first, then bolder, chasing every drop. His hair tickles her ribs. She squeals, half-laughing, half-gasping, fingers tangling in his red strands without thinking. The sensation is ridiculous—cold soju, warm tongue, alcohol buzzing in her veins—and she can’t stop giggling even as goosebumps race across her skin.

Yeonjun finishes with a dramatic lick up her midline, then lifts his head, lips shiny, eyes dark and drunk. “Best shot I’ve ever had.”

The room roars.

Before she can wipe the sticky residue or even sit up properly, Yeonjun surges forward, cups her face with both hands—gentle but sure—and kisses her.

It’s bold. Messy. Full soju-sweet and laughter. His tongue slips in playful, teasing hers for a second before pulling back with a loud smack. He winks, collapsing sideways onto the table in fake exhaustion, one arm flung over his eyes.

“Ten out of ten,” he declares to the ceiling. “She’s a pro.”

The circle loses it. Beomgyu high-fives her so hard her arm hurts. Phones capture every second.

She falls back against Soobin, laughing so hard tears streak her cheeks. His arm wraps fully around her waist now, pulling her into his side like gravity. His breath is warm against her ear when he murmurs, “Bold move.”

She turns her face up, noses almost touching, eyes glassy and bright. “Just for fun. No big deal.”

He smiles slow, dimples deep, eyes dark and unreadable in the flashing lights. “No big deal.”

His hand stays on her waist—fingers splayed, possessive in a way that feels accidental until it doesn’t. The bottle spins again. Someone else screams. The party keeps raging.

But she stays right there, pressed against him, the kiss already forgotten in the haze.

The bottle spins again. The party keeps raging.

But she stays right there, pressed against him, the taste of strawberry soju and Yeonjun’s kiss already fading into background noise.

Soobin’s cheeks are flushed a deep rose, eyes glassy and half-lidded, but he still looks annoyingly composed—hair a little messy from people ruffling it, lips shiny from the last shot he took straight from the bottle. The couch cushion has sunk under their combined weight; every time someone walks past, the whole thing rocks like a boat.

She turns her head toward him, cheek smushed against his shoulder, breath warm against his neck. The alcohol has stripped away every filter she ever had.

“You know,” she slurs, poking his chest with one finger, “if you weren’t so stupidly tall, you’d be the perfect height for me to climb like a tree.”

Soobin huffs a laugh that rumbles through his chest into hers. His thumb drags one slow line along the inside of her thigh—barely an inch, but enough to make her breath hitch.

“Climb me?” he echoes, voice low and rough from the drinks. “Bold. You’d need a ladder for the good parts.”

She snickers, head lolling back so she can look up at him through her lashes. “Please. I’d just use your abs as steps. They’re basically a staircase anyway.”

He grins slowly, dimples carving deep. His free hand comes up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering at her jaw. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I might let you try. See how far you get before you slip.”

The words land drunk and playful, but the way his eyes darken a fraction makes her stomach flip. She blames the soju. Totally the soju.

She shifts closer, thigh sliding higher across his lap until she’s practically straddling one of his legs. The movement is clumsy, tipsy, but deliberate enough that his hand tightens on her thigh to steady her.

“Slipping’s half the fun,” she murmurs, nose brushing his cheek. “You’d catch me. Right, big guy?”

Soobin’s laugh is quieter this time, breath fanning hot across her lips. “Always catch you. But if you keep grinding on my thigh like that, I might start charging admission.”

She gasps dramatically, hand flying to her chest. “Charging? After all we’ve been through? I thought we were ride-or-die.”

His fingers flex against her leg, pulling her a fraction closer. “Ride-or-die it is. Emphasis on ride.”

The joke hangs there—dirty, accidental, perfect. Her laugh bubbles up again, but it comes out breathier than before. The room keeps spinning around them—people making out, bottles clinking, Beomgyu yelling something incoherent—but right here, on this sagging couch, the air between them feels suddenly thicker, hotter, heavier.

The fake-flirt doesn’t stay fake for long. It mutates fast, drunk and reckless, like everything else in the room tonight.

She shifts again in his lap—deliberate this time—grinding down once, slow and teasing, just enough to feel how hard he is under the thin layer of sweatpants. His grip on her waist tightens instantly, fingers digging in like he’s trying not to flip her onto her back right there.

“You’re playing dirty,” he mutters, voice gravel-rough against her ear.

She grins, tipsy and bold, lips brushing his jaw. “Says the guy who’s been hard since I let Yeonjun lick soju off my stomach. Hypocrite.”

Soobin laughs low, the sound vibrating straight through her core. His hand slides up her back under the hoodie, palm flat and hot between her shoulder blades, pressing her closer until her breasts flatten against his chest.

“Guilty,” he breathes. “But you liked it. I felt you clench when his tongue hit your skin.”

She gasps, half-laugh, half-moan, and rocks her hips once more—subtle, but unmistakable. “Shut up. That was the cold soju. Not him.”

“Liar.” His lips graze her earlobe. “You’re soaked right now. I can feel it through my pants.”

Her breath hitches. She tries to laugh it off, but it comes out shaky. “You wish.”

“I know.” He nips her earlobe lightly—teeth just sharp enough to sting. “Bet if I slipped my hand down there I’d find you dripping. All from me talking shit in your ear.”

She shivers hard, thighs squeezing his hips. “Keep dreaming, Binnie.”

The music has devolved into a pounding bass line that vibrates through the floorboards and straight up their spines. Beomgyu is somewhere in the kitchen screaming “body shot round three!” while Yeonjun tries to pour vodka into someone’s mouth and mostly pours it on the floor. Phones flash like strobe lights. Moans and laughter mix into white noise.

Soobin turns his face into her hair, nose brushing her temple, lips grazing the shell of her ear. His breath is hot, whiskey-sweet from the last shot he chased with beer. He speaks so low the words are more vibration than sound, meant for her alone.

He pulls back just enough to look at her—eyes dark, pupils blown, cheeks flushed deep. Then he leans in again, mouth to her ear, voice dropping to a filthy whisper that curls straight down her spine.

“I’m not dreaming. I’m imagining how you’d sound when I finally fuck you open—slow at first, just the tip, letting you whine and beg for more while I stretch you out inch by inch until you’re crying on my cock, clenching so tight I can’t pull out even if I wanted to. Then I’d flip you over, ass up, face down, and pound into you until you’re screaming my name and coming so hard you forget your own.”

The sentence lands like a slap of heat. Her whole body clenches—thighs, stomach, core—like someone flipped a switch. A rush of wet warmth pools between her legs so fast she has to press them together. Her nipples harden against the hoodie fabric instantly. She sucks in a sharp breath, the sound audible even over the music.

He doesn’t pull back. Just lets the words hang there, lips still brushing her earlobe, waiting.

She freezes for two full seconds. Then the flustered giggle bursts out—high, shaky, half-hysterical. She shoves at his chest weakly, face flaming, trying to play it off like it’s just another joke in their endless chain of filth.

“Oh my god,” she wheezes, voice cracking on the laugh. “Shut up. You can’t just say shit like that.”

Soobin pulls back just enough to meet her eyes. His pupils are blown wide, cheeks flushed darker now, but the grin is slow, wicked, unrepentant. He licks his bottom lip once—slow, deliberate—like he’s tasting the words he just fed her.

She fans her face with one hand, still giggling, but the sound is breathy, edged with something raw. Her free hand clutches the front of his shirt, knuckles white.

She swallows hard, voice cracking on the laugh. “Wow Soobin, if I didn’t know you I’d want to sit on it right now. The way you just talked was hot as fuck.”

The confession slips out raw, drunk, honest. She expects him to tease back. Joke. Break the tension.

He doesn’t.

His eyes lift to hers—something dark and hungry flickering there, something that wasn’t there five minutes ago. The playful glint is gone. Replaced by raw want. His hand on her waist slides lower, cupping her ass fully now, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

His voice comes out gravel-rough, barely louder than the bass.

“Who said anything about being gay tonight?”

The words hit like a second shot of soju—straight to the veins.

She stops breathing.

Half an hour passes like that: whispered filth traded back and forth, hips rocking subtly under the cover of the crowd, hands wandering but never crossing the final line. They watch the room—people grinding, making out, disappearing into bedrooms—but it’s background noise now. Their world has narrowed to mouths close, breaths shared, bodies pressed tight.

Every dirty promise he murmurs makes her wetter. Every teasing grind she gives makes him harder.

He realizes it then—really realizes it.

She’s turned on by him.

Not Yeonjun. Not the party. Him.

The shift in his eyes deepens—dark, possessive, triumphant.

The bass finally drops to a low throb as someone kills the playlist mid-song. Beomgyu is passed out face-down on the kitchen island, one arm dangling, drooling onto a stack of red cups. Yeonjun and the psych girls have vanished—probably tangled in his bed or someone else’s. The living room floor is a war zone: overturned bottles, sticky puddles of soju and beer, abandoned hoodies, a single high-heel lying like evidence at a crime scene. The string lights flicker weakly, pink and purple bleeding into dim amber from the single lamp still on. The air smells like spilled liquor, sweat, cheap perfume, and the faint metallic bite of exhaustion settling in.

She’s still in Soobin’s lap, legs straddling one of his thighs, hoodie rucked up to her ribs from all the shifting and grinding. His hands are under the fabric now—both of them—one splayed across her lower back, the other cupping her ass through the legging, fingers dug in just enough to keep her anchored. Her forehead rests against his temple, breaths coming short and hot against his cheek. The room is emptying fast—people stumbling out, laughing slurred goodbyes, doors slamming downstairs—but neither of them moves. The silence that follows the music is loud, intimate, heavy with everything they’ve been whispering for the last hour.

His heart hammers against her chest. Hers answers in frantic little skips. The alcohol is still buzzing hard, but the haze has sharpened into something clearer, hungrier.

She shifts once—slow roll of her hips down his thigh—and feels him twitch under her, thick and insistent through the sweatpants. A soft, involuntary whimper slips out before she can catch it.

Soobin exhales hard through his nose, lips brushing her cheek.

“Everyone’s leaving,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low. “Beomgyu’s out cold. We’ve got the place to ourselves.”

She swallows, throat clicking. “Yeah.”

His hand on her ass squeezes once—firm, possessive. “You gonna keep teasing me, or are you finally gonna let me do what I’ve been promising all night?”

She laughs—shaky, breathy—but doesn’t pull away. “You talk like you’re gonna wreck me, Binnie.”

“I am.” His mouth finds her ear again, voice dropping to that filthy velvet register that’s been ruining her since the first whisper. “Gonna spread you out on this couch, peel those leggings off slow, lick you open until you’re dripping down my chin, then fuck you so deep you feel me in your throat. Gonna make you come on my cock until your legs don’t work, then flip you over and fill you up until it’s leaking out of you. You’ll be begging me to stop and begging me not to at the same time.”

Her whole body clenches—hard. A fresh gush of wetness soaks through her underwear and probably his pants too. She gasps, nails digging into his shoulders, hips grinding down instinctively.

“Fuck,” she breathes, voice trembling. “You can’t just… say that.”

He nips her earlobe. “Why not? You’re already shaking for it.”

She tries to laugh again, but it comes out as a moan. “If I didn’t know better… I’d think you actually want to ruin me.”

Soobin pulls back just enough to meet her eyes—dark, blown, no trace of joke left.

“I do.”

The words land heavy. Final.

She stares at him for one long, suspended second—party dying around them, Beomgyu snoring softly in the background, the room empty except for the two of them and the electric tension crackling between.

Then she snaps.

Her hands fist in his hair, yanking his mouth to hers.

The kiss is brutal—teeth clacking, tongues sliding messy and desperate, no preamble, no gentleness. She pours every filthy promise he made back into it, biting his bottom lip hard enough to taste copper, grinding down on his cock like she’s trying to break him.

She’s flat on her back now, legs hooked high around his waist, ankles locked at the small of his back. Soobin hovers above her, weight braced on one forearm beside her head, the other hand shoved under her hoodie, palm cupping her bare breast, thumb rolling slow, relentless circles over her nipple until it’s swollen and aching. His hips are already slotted tight between her thighs, cock thick and rigid through his sweatpants, grinding down in slow, deliberate rolls that drag the rough cotton over her soaked leggings, right against her clit.

She moans into his mouth—loud, broken—tongue sliding against his in wet, sloppy strokes. No finesse left. Just hunger. Teeth clack, lips bruise, spit strings between them when they separate for half a second to breathe. Her hands are everywhere: nails raking down his back under his shirt, leaving red trails; fingers twisting in his hair and yanking hard enough to make him groan; one palm shoving between them to cup his cock through the fabric, squeezing once, feeling him throb and leak against her palm.

“Fuck,” he growls against her lips, hips snapping forward harder. The friction is brutal—his length grinding right along her slit, the seam of her leggings catching on her swollen clit with every thrust. “You’re so fucking wet I can feel it soaking through.”

She whimpers, hips bucking up to meet him, chasing the pressure. “Then do something about it.”

He doesn’t answer with words. Just kisses her deeper—tongue fucking into her mouth in the same rhythm his hips are fucking against her core—while his free hand yanks her legging down just enough to bare her ass and the tops of her thighs. No panties underneath. Just slick, swollen folds rubbing raw against the damp cotton of his sweatpants.

She cries out when he grinds down again—bare clit dragging along his clothed shaft. The friction is filthy, perfect, overwhelming. Her nails dig into his ass, pulling him closer, harder, faster.

“More,” she gasps against his mouth. “Harder. Please.”

Soobin obeys. Hips pistoning now—desperate, erratic—cock sliding up and down her slit, head catching on her entrance through the fabric, teasing without pushing in. His mouth moves to her neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks, teeth scraping, tongue soothing the sting. One hand pinches her nipple, twists just shy of pain; the other grips her hip, holding her still so he can grind exactly where she needs it.

She’s trembling—whole body shaking—thighs quivering around his waist, core clenching on nothing, so close she can taste it.

The kiss doesn’t slow. It deepens into something feral, tongues sliding thick and wet, mouths open so wide it hurts the corners of her lips. She sucks his bottom lip between her teeth, bites down until he hisses into her mouth, the copper tang of blood mixing with strawberry soju and spit. Soobin growls—low, animal—hips slamming down harder, cock grinding brutally along her bare slit now that her leggings are shoved to mid-thigh. The rough cotton of his sweatpants drags over her swollen clit with every desperate thrust, fabric soaked dark and clinging to both of them.

Her hands claw under his shirt, nails raking bloody trails down his back. She feels the skin give, feels him shudder and fuck harder against her in response. One hand dives between them—fingers shoving into his waistband, wrapping around his leaking cock. He’s thick, hot, pulsing in her palm; the head is slick with precome, smearing sticky across her fingers as she strokes him rough and fast. He groans brokenly against her tongue, hips jerking into her fist.

“Fuck—tighten your hand,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Squeeze me like you’re gonna milk every drop.”

She does. Grips him hard, thumb swiping over the slit, spreading the wetness while her other hand yanks his sweatpants lower. His cock springs free—heavy, flushed dark, veins standing out—slapping wet against her stomach before he notches the head right at her entrance. No penetration. Just teasing pressure, the fat tip catching on her hole, stretching the rim without pushing in.

She whimpers, hips canting up desperately. “Inside—please—need you inside—”

“Not yet.” He kisses her again—messy, bruising—while his hand slides down to cup her pussy. Two fingers plunge in without warning, curling hard against her front wall, thumb mashing her clit in tight circles. She screams into his mouth, walls fluttering around his fingers, gushing slick that runs down his wrist.

He fucks her with his hand—hard, fast, obscene squelching sounds filling the quiet room—while his cock slides up and down her folds, coating himself in her wetness. The head bumps her clit on every upstroke, making her jolt and clench.

“Gonna come,” she whines, voice wrecked. “Soobin—fuck—gonna come just like this—”

He groans deep in his throat, hips stuttering. ““Do it. Gonna come on my fingers first,” he growls against her lips. “Then I’m gonna fuck you raw until you’re crying and coming again. Gonna fill you so full it drips out for days.”

The words snap something inside her.

She comes with a shattered cry—back arching off the couch, thighs clamping his wrist, walls spasming violently around his fingers. Wet heat pulses out, soaking his hand, dripping down to the cushion beneath her ass. Her vision whites out for a second; she bites his shoulder to muffle the scream, tasting salt and skin.

Soobin doesn’t stop. Keeps fucking her through it—fingers curling deeper, thumb grinding her oversensitive clit—until she’s shaking, overshot, tears streaking her cheeks.

He pulls his fingers free with a wet sound, brings them to his mouth, sucks them clean while staring down at her wrecked face, he follows seconds later—hips slamming down one last time, grinding deep as he comes with a choked groan against her throat. Hot spurts soak through his sweatpants, mixing with her wetness, the fabric clinging transparently to both of them. His whole body shudders, arms trembling as he holds himself above her, forehead pressed to hers, breaths ragged and shared.

They stay like that—panting, sticky, wrecked—mouths brushing in lazy, open-mouthed kisses that taste like salt and come-down.

The room is silent except for their breathing and Beomgyu’s distant snores.

She sobs his name.

He comes instantly—hips stuttering, cock pulsing hot and thick inside her, flooding her with rope after rope until it leaks out around his base, mixing with her own release.

They barely catch their breath. Soobin’s mouth is still on hers—slow, filthy open-mouthed kisses now, tongues lazy but greedy, tasting salt and come and the faint strawberry ghost lingering on both their lips. His cock is softening inside her but still thick enough to stretch her walls, every tiny shift sending aftershocks through her oversensitive core. Come leaks out around his base in slow, warm dribbles, pooling under her ass on the ruined couch cushion. The wet sound of it is obscene in the quiet room.

She clenches around him once—reflexive, needy—and he groans low against her tongue, hips rocking forward in a shallow, instinctive thrust. Not fucking. Just grinding. Slow, dirty circles that drag his softening length along her fluttering walls, smearing their mess deeper.

“Again?” she whispers, voice cracked and wrecked, half-laugh, half-plea.

Soobin pulls back just enough to look at her—eyes dark, pupils still blown wide, sweat beading on his upper lip. “You’re still dripping,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Can’t leave you like this.”

He rolls his hips again—deeper this time—cock hardening inside her with every grind. She whimpers, thighs trembling around his waist, nails digging into his ass to pull him closer. The friction is slick, filthy, oversensitive—every drag makes her twitch and clench, fresh wetness mixing with the come already inside her.

His hand slides between them, fingers finding her clit—swollen, slippery—and rubbing tight, merciless circles. She arches hard, mouth falling open on a broken moan. “Soobin—fuck—too much—”

“Not enough,” he growls, kissing her again—deep, desperate—while his hips snap forward in short, punishing thrusts. The couch creaks under them, springs protesting. His other hand grips her thigh, yanking it higher so he can sink deeper, cockhead nudging her cervix on every stroke.

She’s shaking—whole body trembling—tears streaking her cheeks from overstimulation and raw need. Her walls flutter around him, milking him, pulling him in. He grinds down hard, pubic bone crushing her clit, and she comes again—sudden, violent—sobbing into his mouth as her pussy spasms, gushing around his cock in hot pulses.

Soobin follows right after—hips stuttering, burying deep as he spills again, thick ropes flooding her already full cunt until it overflows, dripping down her ass and soaking the cushion beneath.

They collapse together—sweaty, shaking, breathing in harsh pants against each other’s mouths. Slow kisses now—soft, emotional—tongues brushing gentle, tasting the mess they made. His forehead rests on hers, eyes closed, hand cupping her cheek like she’s something fragile.

The room is dead silent except for their ragged breathing and the faint drip of come hitting the floor.

Then—sharp, piercing—the emergency ringtone cuts through everything.

Her phone. The specific tone she set for Lia. Loud. Insistent. Emergency.

She freezes.

Soobin lifts his head, eyes snapping open, still buried inside her.

The ringtone blares again—once, twice—vibrating against the coffee table where she dropped it earlier.

She reaches for it with trembling fingers, heart slamming for a different reason now.

The screen lights up: Lia calling. And a text preview underneath.

“I’m at Soobin's garage. Emergency. Need you NOW. Please hurry.”

Her stomach drops.

Soobin pulls out slowly—careful, gentle—both of them wincing at the wet slide and the sudden emptiness. Come drips out immediately, thick and warm down her thighs.

She sits up fast—dizzy, legs shaky—yanking her leggings back into place with shaking hands. The fabric clings, soaked through.

“I have to go,” she whispers, voice cracking. “Lia—she’s waiting downstairs. In the garage.”

Soobin nods once—face pale now, eyes wide with concern. He stands, tucking himself back into his sweatpants, wincing at the sticky mess.

“You okay to walk?” he asks, already grabbing her phone and hoodie from the floor.

She nods, but her legs feel like jelly. “Yeah. Just… help me.”

He does—arm around her waist, steadying her as she stumbles toward the door. The apartment is a graveyard—empty cups, passed-out Beomgyu, the couch ruined behind them.

At the door she turns, looks at him—eyes glassy, lips swollen, thighs still trembling.

“I’ll text you,” she says, voice small.

He nods, hand lingering on her cheek. “Go. I’ll clean up here.”

She slips out—door clicking shut behind her—leaving him standing in the wrecked room, come still drying on his skin, heart hammering.

She’s already halfway to the stairwell, leggings still clinging damp between her thighs, hoodie pulled low to hide the marks blooming on her neck. Every step sends a fresh trickle of their combined mess down her inner thigh; she can feel it cooling, sticky, obscene. Her legs shake—not just from the orgasms, but from the sudden drop of adrenaline, the reality slamming back like cold water.

Soobin stands in the open doorway, shirt untucked, hair wrecked, lips swollen red. Come is still drying on his sweatpants in dark patches; he doesn’t bother hiding it. His chest rises and falls too fast, like he ran a marathon instead of just fucking his best friend on a couch.

She pauses at the top of the stairs, hand on the railing, turning back. The emergency ringtone has stopped—Lia must have hung up—but the silence feels louder now.

Soobin steps forward once, twice—bare feet silent on the tile—until he’s close enough to reach out. His fingers catch her wrist, gentle but firm, thumb pressing over her racing pulse.

“Are you coming to college tomorrow?” he asks softly, voice rough from moaning her name minutes ago.

She swallows. Looks down at their joined hands—his so much bigger, knuckles still red from gripping her hips—then back up to his face. His eyes are dark, searching, something vulnerable flickering behind the post-orgasm haze.

“Sorry, buddy,” she whispers, the old nickname slipping out like habit. “I’m going to Mom’s house. Lia needs me. It’s… bad.”

He nods once. Slow. Doesn’t let go of her wrist.

The stairwell door creaks open downstairs—Lia’s voice echoes up, small and urgent. “Hey? You coming?”

She tugs gently. Soobin releases her, fingers trailing down her palm, pinky hooking hers for one last second—like always, like nothing has changed.

But everything has.

She turns, starts down the stairs. Doesn’t look back. Can’t. If she does, she’ll see the wrecked couch, the come-stains, the way his sweatpants cling to his thighs, the marks she left on his shoulders. She’ll see him watching her go, and she won’t leave.

The door to the garage swings shut behind her.

Soobin stands there another full minute—alone in the wrecked apartment—listening to the echo of her footsteps fade, then the distant slam of a car door, then the low rumble of an engine pulling away.

He exhales once—long, shaky.

Then he walks back inside.

Closes the door. Locks it.

Crosses to his bedroom without looking at the couch.

His suitcase is already packed—black rolling case by the closet door, handle extended, zipper half-open. Inside: neatly folded clothes for a week, charger, toothbrush, the small notebook he keeps synced to her calendar. He’s been ready for days. Weeks, really.

He zips it closed. Sets it by the front door.

Then he sinks onto the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, face in hands.

The apartment is dead quiet except for Beomgyu’s snores and the faint drip-drip from the kitchen faucet.

Soobin lifts his head slowly. Stares at the closed door she just walked through.

A slow, quiet smile curves his mouth—not playful, not teasing. Something darker. Hungrier. Certain.

This is the opening.

Finally.

୨ৎ ݁ ˖ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ˖ ݁ ୨ৎ

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝓃𝑒 – 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝑜𝓇𝓎 ( reading )

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝓌𝑜 – 𝓇𝑜𝒶𝒹 𝓉𝓇𝒾𝓅

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑒𝑒 – 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓃𝑜𝓌𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓂

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓇 – 𝒾𝓃𝓋𝒾𝓈𝒾𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝒾𝓋𝑒 – 𝓁𝒾𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑒

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝒾𝓍 – 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓀

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃: 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓎𝑒𝓈 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒾𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝓈𝒶𝓎

⋆｡‧˚ʚ upcoming....ʚ˚‧｡⋆

✧ 𝓂𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ✧

𝓌𝑒𝓁𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓇𝓃𝑒𝓇 ♡

✧ 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑔𝑒𝓉𝓈 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 → [𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒]

✧ 𝓊𝓅𝒸𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒿𝑒𝒸𝓉𝓈 → [𝓈𝑜𝑜𝓃]

୨ৎ ݁ ˖ 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 ˖ ݁ ୨ৎ → [𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓅𝓁𝑒𝓉𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉]

🩷 𝓊𝓅𝒹𝒶𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒾𝓀𝑒𝓈

౨ৎtag open: @black-startxt, @binniesbabe @buttersoob,

They made one up.

Her father’s identity had been a secret from the start, a mystery wrapped in whispered rumors and unanswered questions. Some tabloids swore he had been a rockstar, a fleeting love affair lost in the haze of the ‘70s. Others speculated he had been someone ordinary, someone her mother had chosen to protect from the chaos of her world. Y/N had stopped wondering a long time ago. Her mother had always said, "You don’t need to know where you come from to know where you’re going, baby." And maybe that was true. But sometimes, when she looked at herself in the mirror, she wished she knew which parts of her belonged to Stevie Nicks and which belonged to a stranger.

Still, despite the world’s obsession with her past, Y/N had built something of her own.

Her music was raw, poetic—a fusion of indie rock and dreamlike lyricism that belonged entirely to her. She wasn’t interested in stadiums or radio hits; she wanted songs that lingered in the bones, the kind that made people ache without knowing why.

And yet, no matter what she did, the headlines always found a way to reduce her to a footnote in her mother’s story.

"Stevie Nicks’ Daughter Haunts the Music Scene—Can She Ever Escape Her Mother’s Shadow?" "The Princess of Rock ‘n’ Roll: Y/N Nicks Inherits a Legacy of Magic and Tragedy."

She ignored them. Mostly.

But some nights, when the whiskey burned too much and the music wasn’t enough, she wondered if she’d ever just be herself.

The first time Y/N met Harry Styles, she was fifteen.

It was a warm summer night in Los Angeles, the kind where the air was thick with nostalgia, humming with the remnants of a golden era long gone.

Fleetwood Mac was playing at The Forum, and backstage was a haze of cigarette smoke, laughter, and the scent of aged leather. It was a world Y/N had always known, one that felt like home and yet never quite belonged to her.

She had been curled up on one of the velvet couches, her combat boots propped up on a glass table, flipping through an old notebook of half-written lyrics.

Her mother had walked in then, a force of nature even in her sixties, wrapped in flowing black fabric, rings glinting under the dim lights. And beside her—

Harry.

He had been twenty, freshly cut from the boyband machine but still unmistakably him. Messy curls, dimples carved deep into his cheeks, a floral button-up that hung loose over his chest. There was an ease to him, a confidence that most people his age hadn’t yet earned.

Stevie had smiled, her voice all warmth and amusement as she introduced them.

"Harry, this is my daughter, Y/N. Y/N, sweetheart, this is Harry Styles."

Y/N had barely spared him a glance, disinterested in the way only a fifteen-year-old girl could be.

She had looked him up and down, unimpressed, before muttering, "Oh. You’re the boy with the hair."

There had been a beat of silence. Then—

Harry had grinned, wide and unbothered. "And you’re the girl who hates the spotlight."

That had made her pause.

She had finally looked at him properly then, taking in the twinkle of mischief in his green eyes, the way he had spoken to her like he knew her, like he could already see the edges of her soul.

She had hated that.

So she had rolled her eyes, shutting her notebook with a snap. "Yeah? What gave it away?"

Harry had only chuckled. "Just a feeling."

They hadn’t known it then, but that moment—that first careless exchange in the glow of The Forum’s dressing rooms—had been the beginning of something that would follow them for years.

They had drifted in and out of each other’s lives after that, their paths crossing at industry events, in backstage corridors, in places where music and fame blurred the lines between strangers and something more.

But they had never been close.

Not yet.

That would come later.

And when it did, neither of them would be able to stop it.

It was a city built on illusions, a place where the past and present blurred under neon lights and whiskey-soaked conversations. People changed here, or they lost themselves trying.

Y/N had spent years learning how to exist in the industry without letting it consume her. She had built walls, wrapped herself in the armor of cigarette smoke and sharp words, refusing to let the world shape her into something she wasn’t.

But some nights—nights like this—she felt the weight of it all pressing against her ribs.

She had been in the music industry long enough to know that these parties weren’t really about music. They were about power. Influence. The quiet, calculated dance of networking, where every glance and every handshake meant something.

Y/N hated it.

And yet, here she was.

The party was in the Hollywood Hills, tucked away in a mansion that reeked of old money and new fame. The kind of place where people got too drunk on tequila and promises they wouldn’t remember in the morning.

She had come because she had to—because being seen mattered, even when she wished it didn’t.

She was twenty-five now, no longer the sharp-tongued teenager who had met Harry Styles in the glow of The Forum’s dressing rooms.

She had grown into herself.

And so had he.

She saw him before he saw her.

Harry was in the center of the room, as he always was, laughter spilling from his lips as he leaned against a marble bar, his rings catching in the dim light.

He looked different now—older, surer, carved out of something stronger.

The curls were shorter, but still wild. The tattoos more visible, inked stories along his skin. He wore a suit, something sleek and expensive, but the top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a silver cross against his collarbones.

Even here, surrounded by actors and musicians and people who pretended they belonged, he was the only one who looked like he truly did.

Y/N had spent years pretending she was immune to the charm of men like him.

But as she stood there, watching the way he moved, the way people gravitated toward him, she felt something stir in her chest.

Something she didn’t want to name.

She turned away, heading toward the bar, but it was already too late.

She heard his voice before she felt his presence.

“Well, if it isn’t rock royalty.”

Y/N exhaled, bracing herself, before turning to face him.

Harry was smiling, that slow, lazy grin that had made girls weak in the knees for over a decade.

“Pop star,” she greeted, raising an eyebrow.

His dimples deepened. “Didn’t think this was your scene.”

Y/N shrugged, lifting her whiskey glass. “It isn’t.”

Harry’s gaze flickered over her, assessing. “Then why are you here?”

“Same reason you are,” she said, taking a slow sip. “To remind people we still exist.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “You don’t have to remind anyone, love. They never forget a Nicks.”

There was something in the way he said it—something almost… knowing.

She tilted her head, watching him. “And they never forget a Styles.”

His smirk deepened. “Touché.”

The conversation between them felt effortless, the kind of back-and-forth that came with years of shared history, even if most of it had been from a distance.

She had always liked that about him.

That he could meet her wit for wit. That he never backed down.

That night, they danced around the past without ever acknowledging it, teasing each other between sips of whiskey and stolen glances.

He called her "rock princess" like it was a private joke.

She called him "pop star" with just enough mockery to make him laugh.

The undercurrent of something more was there—tangible, electric, waiting to be acknowledged.

But neither of them touched it.

Not yet.

Later, when the party had thinned and the air inside had grown heavy with heat and smoke, Y/N slipped outside.

She kicked off her heels, stepping onto the cool stone of the balcony, and lit a cigarette with steady fingers.

The view of the city stretched before her, a glittering sea of headlights and broken dreams.

She inhaled deeply, letting the nicotine settle in her lungs, humming a familiar melody under her breath—one of her mother’s, an old Fleetwood Mac song that had been stitched into her bones long before she was born.

She didn’t hear him approach.

Didn’t realize he was there until he spoke.

“Still hate the spotlight?”

His voice was softer now, missing the teasing edge from before.

She exhaled, watching the smoke curl into the night. “I hate what it does to people.”

Harry leaned against the railing beside her, silent for a moment, as if turning over her words in his head.

Then, he huffed a quiet laugh. “Still the girl who hates everything?”

Y/N smirked, side-eyeing him. “Still the boy with the hair?”

Harry grinned, running a hand through his curls. “I like to think there’s more to me than that.”

Something unspoken passed between them then.

A shift. A breath.

A moment on the edge of something inevitable.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them said a word.

But in the silence, they both felt it.

A crack in the walls they had spent years building.

A spark that had always been there, waiting for the right time to catch fire.

Harry called her three weeks after the party.

It was late—too late for anything that wasn’t trouble.

She had been sprawled across her bed, an open notebook balanced on her stomach, trying to piece together a song that didn’t want to be written, when her phone buzzed against the nightstand.

She didn’t need to check the name.

There was only one person who would call her at this hour, as if he knew she’d still be awake.

She let the phone ring twice before answering. “You lost, pop star?”

Harry chuckled, his voice low and lazy. “Not lost, no. Just… thought of you.”

Y/N rolled onto her side, tucking the phone between her shoulder and ear. “Oh? Should I be flattered?”

“Dunno.” He paused. “Wanna come to the studio tomorrow?”

That made her sit up.

She knew Harry was working on a new album. The industry had been buzzing about it for months, but he had been careful—secretive, even—about who he let in.

And now, he was inviting her.

Y/N hesitated for only a second before saying, “What time?”

She arrived at the studio the next evening, her guitar slung over her back, dressed in a well-worn Fleetwood Mac t-shirt just to mess with him.

Harry was already there, sitting on the edge of a couch with a notebook in his lap, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the cover.

He looked up when she walked in, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

Y/N dropped onto the couch beside him, stretching out like she owned the place. “Didn’t think you actually had a studio. Thought you just wrote love songs in expensive hotel rooms.”

Harry chuckled, flipping the notebook shut. “Maybe I do both.”

The night unfolded in quiet moments and half-sung melodies.

She watched as he disappeared into the recording booth, slipping the headphones over his ears, eyes fluttering shut as the music took over.

And for the first time, she let herself really listen to him.

Harry had always been a good singer. That much was obvious. But there was something about watching him like this—seeing the way he poured himself into every lyric, the way his voice carried a rawness that no amount of polish could hide—that made her breath catch.

He was singing something new, something unfinished.

And as his voice curled around the notes, thick with longing and something unspoken, he looked up—straight at her.

Y/N’s grip tightened around her whiskey glass.

The booth’s glass separated them, but the way he stared at her—intense, knowing, like he could see straight through her—made her feel like there was nothing between them at all.

She swallowed hard, looking away first.

Harry smirked.

One studio session turned into two. Two turned into three.

And then, before she knew it, she was on a plane with him, tucked into first-class seats as his tour swept across the country.

She told herself she was just tagging along for inspiration, a creative escape.

She told herself it didn’t mean anything.

But the late nights in hotel rooms told a different story.

They fell into a rhythm—drinking whiskey on balconies, trading lyrics like secrets, letting conversations slip into the kind of honesty that only existed between two people who didn’t want to admit what they were to each other.

Some nights, they wrote.

Some nights, they just existed—stretched out on hotel carpets, hands brushing when they passed the bottle back and forth, staring at ceilings like they held the answers to questions neither of them wanted to ask.

She hadn’t expected this.

Hadn’t expected the way he looked at her when she wasn’t paying attention.

Hadn’t expected the way she wanted to memorize the shape of his laughter.

Hadn’t expected the way she craved him, in the quiet, in the spaces between words, in the way his voice curled around her name like it was something sacred.

One night, she fell asleep in his hotel room.

They had been listening to records, the vinyl crackling in the background, the bottle of whiskey between them half-empty.

She had kicked off her boots at some point, curling up on the couch, his hoodie draped over her shoulders like she belonged in it.

Harry had been mid-sentence when he noticed she wasn’t answering.

He turned, finding her tucked into the cushions, her breathing soft, her hair spilling across her face.

Something in his chest tightened.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw, telling himself to let it go.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in, brushing her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering a second too long.

She stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

And for the briefest moment, Harry let himself want it—let himself imagine what it would feel like to close the space between them, to taste the whiskey on her lips, to see if she’d kiss him back or push him away.

He hovered there, so close, so fucking close—

And then he pulled back.

Shoving a hand through his curls, he let out a quiet curse, grabbing the nearest blanket and draping it over her instead.

Not now, he told himself.

Not yet.

He sat back, forcing himself to look away.

But even in the dark, even in the silence, he knew.

He was already in too deep.

London was cold, the kind of damp chill that clung to bones and made her wish she was still waking up in different hotel rooms, still stealing sips of his morning coffee, still pretending she didn’t care when he hummed her songs under his breath.

The withdrawal was annoying.

But not unexpected.

She had just finished scribbling notes for a new song when her phone rang.

“You still in town?”

She smirked, setting her pen down. “Didn’t know you missed me so much, pop star.”

Harry chuckled, that deep, lazy sound that made something twist in her stomach. “Not even denying it, are you?”

She rolled her eyes. “What do you want, Styles?”

“Dinner.”

That made her pause.

Sure, they had spent weeks living in each other’s pockets—whiskey-soaked late nights, studio sessions stretched into dawn, long looks across dimly lit dressing rooms—but this felt… different.

Intentional.

Like he was asking for something neither of them were ready to name.

Still, she played it cool. “Where?”

“I’ll text you.” A pause. “Wear something nice.”

She showed up to the restaurant in a leather jacket, ripped jeans, and her mother’s old silver rings.

Let him try and tell her what to wear.

Harry was already there, tucked into a quiet corner, a half-full glass of red wine in front of him. His curls were messier than usual, his sweater hanging loose on his frame, and the moment he saw her, his dimples deepened.

“Very fancy,” he teased, flicking the collar of her jacket as she slid into the seat across from him.

Y/N smirked. “If you wanted a date, you should’ve said so.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Didn’t say I didn’t.”

The air shifted.

She ignored the way her pulse quickened, instead reaching for the menu. “So. What’s good here?”

They fell into easy conversation, talking about the tour, the highs and lows, the stupid inside jokes they’d collected along the way.

But somewhere between the laughter and the second glass of wine, the mood softened.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” she asked, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers.

Harry tilted his head. “Of what?”

“Being… this.” She gestured vaguely at him, at the world outside the restaurant doors, at the weight of fame that followed them both. “The cameras, the expectations, the pressure. Do you ever just wanna disappear?”

Harry studied her, running his thumb along the rim of his glass.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But then I remember why I started. And it’s not about all the noise. It’s about the music. About…” He exhaled, shaking his head with a small smile. “About moments like this.”

Y/N felt her heart lurch before she could stop it.

She cleared her throat, forcing a smirk. “Sappy.”

Harry grinned, leaning back in his chair. “You love it.”

She did.

That was the problem.

They should have known better.

A quiet dinner in London? No such thing.

The next morning, the headlines were everywhere.

Harry Styles and Rock Royalty: A New Power Couple?

The Fleetwood Mac Connection—Is Y/N Following Her Mother’s Footsteps in Love, Too?

Spotted: Harry & Y/N, Cozy London Date Night or Just Old Friends?

Y/N groaned, tossing her phone onto the kitchen counter. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Harry’s name lit up her screen.

She answered without greeting. “Tell me this will blow over.”

Harry chuckled. “It’ll blow over.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am.” Another laugh. “We could deny it.”

“Obviously.”

“Or…”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Or?”

Harry’s grin was practically audible. “Could always lean into it.”

She snorted. “You wish, Styles.”

He hummed. “Yeah, maybe I do.”

Her stomach flipped.

Before she could respond, there was a knock on her door.

“Gotta go.” She hung up quickly, shaking off the warmth curling in her chest.

Then she opened the door.

And found her mother standing there, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

Y/N barely had a chance to step aside before Stevie breezed past her, silk scarves trailing, the scent of patchouli and incense filling the space.

She made a beeline for the kitchen, plucked Y/N’s phone off the counter, and squinted at the headlines.

Y/N sighed. “Good morning to you, too.”

Stevie hummed, tapping a red-lacquered fingernail against the screen. “So… you and Harry Styles.”

Y/N groaned. “For fuck’s sake, it’s nothing.”

Stevie arched a delicate brow, taking a slow sip of her tea. “Sure, baby. Keep telling yourself that.”

Y/N scowled. “It’s not love.”

Stevie’s lips curled into a knowing smile.

“Love is messy in this business, honey.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, snatching her phone back. “I wouldn’t know.”

Stevie just laughed, something soft and far too smug in her gaze.

Because she knew.

Long before Y/N was willing to admit it to herself.

She spotted him immediately.

Harry.

Leaning against the marble bar, whiskey in hand, dimples out in full force as he laughed at something Lizzo said. He looked too good, annoyingly good, all effortless charm and understated power in his black suit, his sheer shirt open just enough to tease golden skin and the sharp edge of his collarbone.

Y/N swallowed hard.

It had been weeks since the headlines. Since her mother’s knowing smile. Since she had convinced herself she wasn’t thinking about him like that.

But now, with the golden glow of the chandeliers casting shadows over his cheekbones, his green eyes flicking up to meet hers across the room—she felt it.

The pull. The inevitable, undeniable pull.

She found herself at his side before she could think better of it, sliding onto the barstool beside him.

Harry glanced at her, eyes flicking over her outfit—a silk slip dress in deep navy, barely-there straps, silver chains glinting against her collarbone. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his fingers tightening around his whiskey glass.

Interesting.

Y/N smirked, plucking an olive from the garnish tray and popping it into her mouth. “Enjoying yourself, pop star?”

Harry exhaled a laugh, tilting his glass towards her. “Was just about to ask you the same thing, rock princess.”

She arched a brow. “You clean up well.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “So do you.”

Her breath hitched, but she masked it with a slow sip of her drink.

They fell into easy conversation, but the teasing was sharper tonight, laced with something dangerous. He was closer than usual, his knee brushing against hers, his fingers grazing the inside of her wrist when he reached for his drink.

And every time she laughed, his eyes flickered to her lips.

Sometime after midnight, when the party was loudest and the drinks were strongest, Y/N felt the walls closing in.

She had spent the last hour with his hand on the small of her back, his voice low in her ear, his eyes dark and unreadable whenever she so much as looked at someone else.

She couldn’t take it anymore.

So she grabbed his wrist.

“Come with me.”

Harry blinked, surprised, but let her lead him through the crowd, up a grand staircase, and through a side door that led to the rooftop.

The city stretched out below them, glittering in the darkness. The muffled bass of the party throbbed beneath their feet, but up here, the air was crisp, cool against flushed skin.

Harry ran a hand through his curls, exhaling. “Y’finally had enough of all that?”

Y/N scoffed. “I just needed to breathe.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“You think about it too, don’t you?”

Her stomach clenched.

She turned to him, arms crossed. “Think about what?”

Harry took a step closer. “This.”

Her heart hammered. “Harry—”

“I think about you too much,” he admitted, voice quiet but firm, like he had been holding it in for years.

The air crackled between them.

Y/N’s nails bit into her palms. Her voice was steady when she said, “Then do something about it.”

Harry moved before she could take it back.

His hand found her jaw, fingers tilting her face up to his. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his breath fanning against her lips—giving her a chance to stop it, to pull away.

She didn’t.

So he kissed her.

Slow at first, teasing, like he wanted to savor the moment. His lips were soft but firm, tasting like whiskey and warmth, like something she hadn’t realized she had been starving for.

And when she kissed him back, something inside him snapped.

A groan rumbled in his throat as he deepened it, his other hand sliding around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The cold rooftop wall pressed against her back, his body against her front, caging her in.

She melted.

Her fingers tangled in his curls, tugging just enough to make him growl into her mouth. She felt his smirk against her lips before he kissed her harder, licking into her mouth like he wanted to learn every single inch of her.

The city blurred around them.

There was only this.

Only him.

Only the moment they had spent years pretending they didn’t want.

When they finally broke apart, Y/N was breathless, lips tingling, her hands still fisted in his hair.

Harry smirked, eyes dark and hazy.

“Was wondering when you’d let me do that.”

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, her fingers tracing his jaw.

“Shut up and do it again.”

And so he did.

They didn’t talk about it, not really.

They just acted.

And once that line had been crossed, there was no going back.

The secrecy of it all was intoxicating.

It turned the smallest moments into something electric—her fingers grazing his when she passed him a drink, the press of his palm against her lower back as he guided her through a crowd.

They stole kisses behind dressing room doors, in dimly lit hallways, in the backseat of a blacked-out SUV. It was a game neither of them acknowledged but both played with fervor.

It was thrilling.

It was dangerous.

It was them.

Harry had sent her nothing but a single text:

Room 1107. Door’s open.

So she went.

The moment she stepped inside, he was already reaching for her.

His hands were warm as they slid around her waist, pulling her in. His lips found hers before she could even make a remark about his audacity, and suddenly she was backed up against the wall, gasping softly into his mouth as his fingers gripped the hem of her hoodie—the one she had stolen from his suitcase weeks ago.

It smelled like him.

It felt like home.

“Missed you,” he muttered against her lips, his voice rough with exhaustion but laced with something softer, something sweeter.

She smirked, her fingers curling into his T-shirt. “You saw me three hours ago.”

Harry hummed, dragging his lips down the column of her throat. “Still too long.”

She rolled her eyes, but the shiver down her spine betrayed her.

But sleep had other plans.

Y/N woke up tangled in crisp white sheets, her limbs a lazy sprawl across the mattress. The scent of Harry—cologne, whiskey, and something distinctly him—wrapped around her like a second skin.

And then—

A knock at the door.

Her eyes flew open.

Harry groaned into the pillow beside her. “Fuck’s sake.”

“Harry? You up?”

His assistant.

Shit.

Y/N scrambled upright, heart racing. She barely had time to throw on his hoodie before Harry was tugging her off the bed, dragging her toward the closet.

“Oh, you have to be kidding me,” she hissed.

He just grinned, pushing the door open. “Get in.”

“Harry—”

“In, love.”

She barely had time to flip him off before he shut the door behind her, sealing her in darkness.

Y/N pressed a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing, crouched between his suitcases, her bare legs chilled by the cool air inside.

She could hear everything.

The door creaking open.

Harry’s voice, rough from sleep. “Morning.”

The assistant’s knowing tone. “You sound like shit.”

A pause.

Y/N could feel the smirk in Harry’s response. “Yeah, well. Long night.”

Her glare could have burned through the door.

From the other side, she heard rustling—probably his assistant rifling through a bag.

Then—

“Oh, and by the way? If you’re gonna sneak someone in, maybe don’t leave two pairs of shoes by the door next time.”

Silence.

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

Harry, to his credit, barely missed a beat.

“Right. Yeah. Noted.”

The door shut a moment later.

She barely had time to breathe before the closet door swung open, revealing Harry’s smug, dimpled grin.

“Next time,” he murmured, offering his hand to pull her up, “you’re hiding under the bed.”

Y/N smacked his chest.

And then kissed him.

It was meant to be quick—just a press of lips in playful retaliation—but Harry wasn’t one to let a moment slip away. His fingers curled around her waist, holding her there, deepening the kiss. It was languid, familiar, the kind of kiss that tasted like late nights and secrets, like comfort and hunger all at once.

She sighed against his mouth. “I should go.”

“I know.”

Neither of them moved.

It was only when the morning light began creeping through the curtains, spilling over their tangled limbs, that she forced herself to untangle from him. Harry stayed in bed, arm draped over his forehead, watching as she slipped into her jeans and pulled on his hoodie—her own top lost somewhere in the haze of the night before.

His voice was hoarse from sleep. “At least let me get you a car.”

“I’ll call one,” she assured him, raking her fingers through her messy hair.

Harry sat up then, brows knitting together. “Y/N—”

“I’ll be fine,” she interrupted, flashing him a small smile. She pressed a last kiss to his cheek, inhaled the warmth of his skin, and slipped out of the room.

And right into a camera flash.

The second she stepped onto the pavement, she knew.

The street wasn’t exactly swarming, but one paparazzo was enough. He was already snapping rapid shots, the sound of the shutter slicing through the dawn stillness like a guillotine. She didn’t run—that would make it worse. Instead, she pulled up the hood of Harry’s sweatshirt, kept her chin down, and slid into the waiting car.

Her phone buzzed before she even reached her apartment.

Maddie: Shit. Have you seen TMZ??

Y/N’s stomach twisted. She hadn’t even shut the door behind her before she was pulling up the link.

The headline screamed at her in bold print:

Y/N Nicks Spotted Leaving Harry Styles’ Home—Rock Royalty & Pop Prince?

Her pulse pounded as she scrolled. Dozens of pictures. Some from last night when they arrived separately at his house. Some from this morning, catching her in the same outfit.

And then the comments.

Not surprised. The tension in that interview was insane. She’s not even that famous wtf. Fleetwood Mac and One Direction crossover??? Didn’t she date that bassist last year? She’s literally wearing his hoodie. IT’S HAPPENING. Harry can do better tbh.

Her fingers tightened around the phone.

She should have known.

By noon, it was everywhere. Entertainment news, gossip sites, even actual journalists weighing in on the implications of her and Harry. She ignored the notifications, silenced her phone, but then came the email from her publicist.

And worse—Harry’s PR team.

We need to get ahead of this. No comment is best for now. We’re drafting a statement.

It was bullshit.

By mid-afternoon, she was at his house.

Harry was pacing the living room, phone in one hand, stress written all over his face. He looked up when she walked in, exhaling heavily. “They want me to deny it.”

Y/N’s breath caught. “What?”

“They think—” He dragged a hand through his curls. “They think we can ride it out, wait for something else to distract them. If we say nothing, it dies faster.”

Something bitter lodged itself in her throat. “Say nothing? Or lie?”

He hesitated. And that was enough.

“You said we were in this together,” she said, voice sharp.

“We are,” he insisted. “But you know how this works, Y/N. It’s different for me. The fans.”

Her laugh was hollow. “Oh, the fans.”

“That’s not—” He sighed, shaking his head. “You know what I mean.”

“No, Harry. I don’t.” She crossed her arms. “Because last I checked, I’m in this industry too. I’ve had my entire existence scrutinized since birth. Do you think I don’t know what it’s like to have people picking apart my every move?”

His jaw clenched.

She pressed on. “But I’m not ashamed of you. And I sure as hell don’t want to pretend this isn’t real just because some PR team is scared of a few bad headlines.”

“I’m not ashamed of you,” he said, voice low.

“Then why are you acting like you are?”

Silence.

Her heart hammered.

Finally, she exhaled shakily, voice barely above a whisper. “I want us to stop hiding. Please.”

He didn’t say anything.

And maybe that was her answer.

Y/N swallowed the lump in her throat, nodded once, and turned for the door.

The quiet thud of the door closing behind her felt heavier than it should have.

It wasn’t dramatic—no slamming, no storming out. Just the quiet finality of leaving.

And yet, it echoed.

She didn’t cry in the car. Didn’t cry when she got home. Didn’t even cry when she scrolled through Twitter and saw her name still trending, the discourse evolving by the hour.

What does Harry see in her anyway? She’s just another nepotism baby. She’s so private—does she think she’s better than his other exes? She’s clearly using him for clout. She’s lucky to have him, but he deserves someone who actually appreciates him.

Her fingers hovered over the screen before she locked her phone and tossed it onto the couch.

Let them talk. Let them spin their stories. It wasn’t like the truth mattered.

She went silent.

No Instagram stories, no late-night tweets, no cryptic lyrics. The press called it a calculated move, the fans called it suspicious, but in reality?

She just didn’t have the energy.

She slept too little and drank too much coffee. She ignored calls from her publicist. Ignored texts from mutual friends who wanted to check in but were probably just fishing for an inside scoop.

And Harry?

Harry didn’t reach out.

Not once.

Which, of all the things, hurt the most.

It had been three days.

She was at her mother’s house when it happened.

Stevie had always been able to tell when something was wrong, no matter how good Y/N thought she was at masking it. She hadn’t pried, though. Not yet. Instead, she let Y/N exist in the space, offering quiet company rather than questions.

But Y/N knew she wouldn’t escape forever.

That night, the house was quiet except for the hum of the wind outside. Stevie had gone to bed hours ago, leaving Y/N alone in the dimly lit living room, the grand piano standing in the corner like it was waiting for her.

She didn’t even realize she was walking toward it until her fingers brushed against the keys.

She sat down.

And she played.

It started as muscle memory, the chords slipping out in a familiar pattern, soft and haunting. The kind of song that lingered in the bones, that carried the weight of something unfinished.

"You could be my silver spring..."

The words came out quieter than she intended, but they were there.

"Blue-green colors flashing..."

Her voice wavered.

"I would be your only dream..."

Her fingers trembled over the keys, the melody filling the empty room.

"You will never be my lover..."

The tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them.

God.

She hadn’t cried. Not when the pictures leaked, not when the headlines turned ugly, not even when she walked away.

But here, under the weight of this song—her mother’s song—she broke.

She barely heard the footsteps approaching behind her.

But she felt the presence.

A hand, warm and familiar, rested gently on her shoulder.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop playing.

Stevie sat down beside her on the bench, saying nothing.

She just listened.

And when Y/N’s hands finally fell away from the keys, when her head dropped forward and her shoulders shook with silent sobs, her mother reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Oh, baby," she murmured softly.

And that was all it took for Y/N to shatter completely.

She turned into her mother’s arms, hiding her face against her shoulder as the heartbreak spilled out in ways she hadn’t allowed before.

Stevie just held her.

She didn’t say I told you so, didn’t say you knew this would happen, didn’t say I warned you, love is messy in this business.

She just let her cry.

Because what was there to say?

Y/N had been willing to fight for this. She had been willing to face the noise, the scrutiny, the world dissecting her every move—for him.

And he hadn’t even reached for her when she walked away.

She had loved him. Had let herself believe, even just for a moment, that they could exist beyond the secrets, beyond the fear.

But maybe she had been wrong.

Maybe he was never hers to begin with.

Meanwhile...

Harry hadn’t slept.

He had spent the last three days running on autopilot, going through the motions of studio sessions and meetings, pretending like everything was fine when it wasn’t.

He had tried to tell himself that this was the right move. That letting the story die on its own was the best way to protect them both.

But nothing about this felt right.

He had checked his phone a hundred times, fingers hovering over her contact, but he never typed anything. What could he say? Sorry I didn’t fight for us? Sorry I let the fear win?

He wasn’t sure what finally pushed him over the edge. Maybe it was the lack of her name in his messages, the absence of her voice. Maybe it was the fact that he had spent years wanting her and only had days before she slipped away completely.

Or maybe it was the video.

It wasn’t even a full clip, just a fifteen-second snippet someone had posted online.

Y/N, at a piano. Playing Silver Springs.

It was grainy, the lighting dim, but he knew her silhouette anywhere.

And he knew what that song meant.

His stomach dropped.

Because suddenly, it wasn’t just the weight of the media or the PR teams or the fans that mattered.

It was her.

It had always been her.

And if he didn’t move now, if he didn’t do something, he was going to lose her for good.

The rain was relentless.

It hit the pavement in steady sheets, washing the city in silver streaks and the glow of streetlights. It soaked through Harry’s clothes, plastering his shirt to his skin, curling his hair against his forehead, dripping down his jaw like the storm itself was trying to pull him under.

But he didn’t care.

His heart was hammering, his chest tight with something wild and desperate as he stood in front of her door, fist poised to knock.

This was it.

No more hiding. No more silence. No more pretending like he could live without her.

His knuckles hit the wood. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

He swallowed hard, knocking again, harder this time, rainwater slipping down his wrist.

Still nothing.

His stomach clenched. What if she wasn’t here? What if she didn’t want to be here—what if she had already left, had already moved on—

The door swung open.

And there she was.

She stood barefoot in the doorway, an oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, her hair damp, like she’d just stepped out of the shower.

She hadn’t been expecting him. That much was obvious.

Her eyes widened, lips parting slightly as she took him in—the way his shirt clung to his chest, the way water dripped from his curls, the way his breath came ragged and uneven.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Then—

“Fuck the PR,” he blurted, voice raw. “Fuck the headlines.”

She blinked.

“I love you.”

The words hit the air like a lightning strike, sharp and electric.

A breath. A pause. A crack in the silence.

The rain hadn’t let up.

It streaked down the windowpanes, tapping a steady rhythm against the glass, pooling in the crevices of the street outside. The air smelled like wet pavement and something electric, something on the verge of breaking.

He stood there in her doorway, dripping onto the hardwood floors, soaked to the bone. His shirt clung to him, darkened by the rain, molded to the sharp lines of his chest and the ridges of his stomach. Water curled at his jaw, trailing down the hollow of his throat. His breaths were heavy, ragged, like he’d run here in the downpour, like nothing in the world had mattered more than making it to this moment.

And she—

She just stared.

Chest rising and falling, lips slightly parted, fingers trembling at her sides.

Silence stretched between them, thick and weighted, every unspoken word, every unshed tear, every almost hanging in the space between their bodies.

Her fingers fisted in the damp collar of his shirt.

She yanked him inside.

The door slammed behind them, but neither of them noticed.

His back hit the wood, a sharp inhale punched from his lungs as she pressed against him. Their bodies were a tangle of heat and desperation, a collision of limbs and longing, the storm outside nothing compared to the one building between them.

Her hands slid up, skimming over his shoulders, gripping the nape of his neck, pulling.

Their mouths crashed together.

It was rough. Messy. Clumsy in the way only something utterly inevitable could be.

Her nails scraped against his scalp, and he groaned into her mouth, his fingers threading into her damp hair, tugging just enough to tip her head back. His lips slanted over hers, deepening the kiss, tasting her like he was starved for it.

She gasped when his mouth trailed lower, down the curve of her jaw, the column of her throat. He bit down, just enough to leave a mark, just enough to make her shudder against him.

Her hands fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, but the fabric was stuck to him, refusing to give. Frustration twisted her features.

“Off,” she demanded, voice breathless, thick with need.

He barely pulled back long enough to shove the wet fabric off his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor with a damp slap.

She pressed her palms against his bare chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the erratic beat of his heart beneath her touch.

Then, she leaned in, running her tongue over the rain-slicked skin at his throat.

His whole body tensed.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped.

Losing Control

They didn’t make it far.

They stumbled through the flat, hands desperate, mouths never parting, breathing each other in like oxygen.

Her sweatshirt was the next casualty, pulled up and over her head, landing somewhere behind them. His hands were on her skin instantly, fingers tracing the delicate lines of her spine, dragging down, down—gripping the back of her thighs and hoisting her up.

She gasped against his lips, legs wrapping around his waist.

He walked them backward, moving blindly, guided only by instinct and the sound of her breathing, the little whimpers she made when he kissed the hollow of her throat, the way her hips shifted against him.

They hit the couch.

She was weightless for a moment, air rushing from her lungs as he dropped her onto the cushions, hovering above her, chest heaving.

His hands spread over her bare thighs, sliding up, up, until his fingers hooked into the waistband of her shorts. He glanced up, meeting her gaze.

“I’ve wanted you since that first night,” he murmured, voice rough, wrecked.

Her breath caught.

A single heartbeat. A moment suspended in time.

Then she was tugging him down, capturing his mouth with hers.

Heat.

That was all she could feel.

The press of his body, the weight of him between her thighs, the scratch of his stubble against her skin as he kissed a path down her stomach.

Her nails raked down his back, catching at the waistband of his jeans, tugging. He groaned, the sound vibrating against her skin, his grip tightening on her hips as he pushed himself lower.

His lips ghosted over her navel, down further, until—

Her back arched, a sharp inhale punched from her lungs, a curse whispered into the air.

And then everything blurred.

A tangle of limbs, clothes stripped away piece by piece, moans swallowed in kisses, bodies moving together, frantic, unrestrained, the storm raging both outside and between them.

He pressed inside her with a shuddering breath, forehead dropping against hers, their hands gripping, clutching, desperate.

“Look at me,” he murmured, voice hoarse, raw with something deeper than lust.

She did.

And in that moment, it wasn’t just sex.

It was everything.

They collapsed against each other, breathless, bodies tangled.

Her cheek rested against his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles over her bare spine.

The rain pattered softly against the window, but all she could hear was the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, quietly—

“You didn’t stop me from walking away.”

He exhaled, his lips brushing over her temple. “I wanted to.”

She glanced up at him. “Then why didn’t you?”

His throat bobbed. “Because you deserved more than that.”

Her heart ached.

She shifted, fingers trailing over his jaw, over the curve of his mouth. “And now?”

His hand tightened on her waist.

“I’m done running.”

She stared at him for a beat.

Then, slowly, she smiled.

And when she kissed him, soft and lingering, he knew—

So was she.

The world could burn. The headlines could scream. The fans could theorize. The PR teams could scramble.

None of it mattered anymore.

Because they were done hiding.

They chose the timing.

They chose the words.

They chose each other.

The cameras were set up in a cozy, softly lit studio, with plush chairs and warm lighting that made everything feel a little less staged, a little more intimate. She sat beside him, their hands resting on the space between them—not quite touching, but close.

The interviewer, an older woman with kind eyes, smiled at them both.

“So,” she began, “I think it’s safe to say the world has been dying to know. What’s the truth?”

Harry exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. He glanced at Y/N, his dimples peeking out as he grinned, then looked back at the camera.

“The truth?” he repeated, voice playful, teasing.

She nudged him, a silent Behave.

He ignored it.

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like it was the easiest thing in the world. “I’m in love with her. Always have been.”

The interviewer made a sound of delight. The world outside exploded.

She turned to Y/N, who was smiling so wide her cheeks ached.

“And you?” the interviewer asked gently.

Y/N looked at Harry.

He was already looking at her.

“I’m in love with him too,” she murmured. “Obviously.”

The arena was packed.

The energy in the air was electric, a chorus of cheers and music and flashing lights. The setlist was nearly done, the concert winding toward its final moments. But before the last song, Harry paused.

“Alright,” he murmured into the mic, stepping back from the center of the stage. “I’ve got something special for you all tonight.”

The crowd roared.

His eyes found her, standing just offstage, watching him with an amused smile.

And then—he extended his hand.

She hesitated.

Not because she didn’t want to. But because, for the first time, this wasn’t just between them. This was in front of thousands.

He must have seen it in her eyes, because he smiled—soft, reassuring, knowing. He wiggled his fingers, beckoning her.

“C’mon, love,” he said. “Duet?”

The audience screamed.

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous,” she mouthed.

But she took his hand.

The moment she stepped onto the stage, the noise doubled, an eruption of cheers and chants and camera flashes.

But none of it mattered.

Not when he was looking at her like that.

The first chords of the song played, slow and sweet, the melody wrapping around them like something sacred.

And then—

He lifted her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

Soft.

Lingering.

Devoted.

The crowd melted.

But in that moment, as the lights bathed them in gold, as their voices wove together, as their fingers stayed entwined—

It wasn’t about the world watching.

It was about them.

Because for once, it didn’t matter who was looking.

They had each other.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

The screen door slams so hard behind you that the entire porch shudders, the old wood groaning in protest as the frame rattles against its hinges.

Good.

Let it shake.

Let something else feel as unsettled as you do.

You storm down the steps, each footfall heavy and deliberate, the worn boards creaking beneath your weight. The air is thick with the scent of lake water and sun-warmed pine, but it does nothing to soothe the heat simmering under your skin. Your arms are crossed tightly over your chest, fingers digging into your sides as if you can physically contain the frustration clawing its way through you.

The dock stretches out ahead, sun-bleached and familiar, and you march straight onto it without slowing.

The lake is beautiful this morning.

It always is.

The surface glitters under the bright summer sun, a thousand fractured reflections dancing across the water. Gentle waves lap rhythmically against the wooden pilings, the soft, repetitive sound usually enough to quiet your thoughts. Somewhere in the distance, a boat engine sputters to life, its low hum carrying across the open water. Birds call from the treeline, their cries sharp and clear in the stillness.

Normally, this place calms you down.

Normally, it feels like breathing.

Today, it feels like nothing.

Because all you can hear—over the water, over the wind, over everything—is his voice.

Don't talk about things you know nothing about.

The words echo in your head, sharp and cutting, replaying over and over until they feel etched into your skull.

Like he hadn’t just spent twenty minutes grilling you.

Like he hadn’t walked back into your life after a year and immediately started acting like he knew better than everyone else.

Like he hadn’t made you feel small.

Like he hadn’t made you feel twelve years old again—awkward and defensive and desperate to prove something you shouldn’t have to prove.

Your jaw tightens.

You kick at the edge of the dock.

Hard.

Your foot connects with the wood, the impact jarring up your leg as a spray of water splashes up in response, droplets catching the sunlight before falling back into the lake.

"Jerk," you mutter under your breath.

The lake offers no argument.

By the time you finally drag yourself back inside, your irritation hasn’t faded—it’s evolved, sharpened into something more restless, more persistent.

The house greets you with a strange, hollow quiet.

The kind that feels temporary.

Your parents’ voices drift faintly from somewhere outside, muffled by distance and walls. Tyler’s laughter echoes from the garage, loud and careless, followed by the clatter of something metallic hitting concrete.

Which means—

Good.

No Leon.

You don’t hesitate.

You take the stairs two at a time, your hand barely grazing the railing as you move quickly, like if you slow down even for a second, you might lose momentum—or worse, run into him again.

Your bedroom door slams shut behind you with a satisfying thud.

Immediately, you move.

Drawers slide open with sharp, impatient motions.

If everyone is so determined to spend the day at the lake, then fine.

You’ll spend the day at the lake.

Just not with him.

You yank open your dresser.

Fabric shifts under your hands—soft cotton, worn denim—until you find what you’re looking for.

A swimsuit.

You toss it onto the bed.

Another drawer.

A cover-up.

Another.

Sunscreen.

Everything lands in a growing pile, your movements quick and forceful, fueled by something that feels suspiciously like spite.

It’s ridiculous.

You know it is.

But it’s also—

Satisfying.

You strip off your shirt, the fabric sticking slightly to your skin from the heat, and pull on a black bikini top. The elastic snaps lightly against your back as you adjust it, your fingers moving faster than necessary.

Then shorts.

Then you pause.

Frown.

Change your mind.

You tug them off again, tossing them aside before grabbing a different pair.

Then you hesitate again.

Then change again.

A frustrated sound escapes you.

Why do you care?

Why does it matter?

The answer comes immediately.

Leon.

Of course it’s Leon.

Everything today somehow circles back to him.

Everything is his fault.

At least, that’s what you’re telling yourself.

You finally settle on a swimsuit and an oversized button-up, leaving it open as you shrug it on. The fabric hangs loosely off your shoulders, light and breezy, barely brushing your skin. You gather your hair into a messy ponytail, securing it with a quick, practiced motion.

The mirror catches your reflection.

Your cheeks are flushed, whether from the heat or your lingering anger, you’re not entirely sure.

Your eyes are sharp.

Annoyed.

Still thinking about him.

Which only makes you more annoyed.

"Fantastic," you mutter.

You grab your sunglasses, your tote bag, your phone—everything you need to make a quick escape—and head for the door.

You yank it open.

And immediately collide with something solid.

You stumble backward, a startled curse slipping from your lips as your balance falters—

Strong hands catch your elbows instantly.

Firm.

Steady.

Grounding you before you can fall.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Leon.

Of course it’s Leon.

Because apparently the universe has a sense of humor, and you are the punchline.

For a moment, everything freezes.

His hands are still on your arms, warm and solid.

Your hands are pressed against his chest, fingers splayed against the fabric of his shirt.

Too close.

Way too close.

The hallway suddenly feels narrower than it should.

Warmer.

Charged with something you don’t want to name.

His gaze drops, just for a second.

Taking in the swimsuit.

The open shirt.

The sunglasses dangling loosely from your fingers.

Then his eyes lift back to yours.

Something flickers there.

Something quick and unreadable.

Gone before you can catch it.

You step back immediately, pulling away like the contact burned.

Distance.

You need distance.

Leon lets go just as quickly, his hands falling away as if he’s just as aware of it as you are. One hand tightens slightly around the strap of the duffel bag slung over his shoulder, the other gripping a smaller bag at his side.

So he’s unpacking.

Good.

Maybe he’ll unpack.

And then leave.

Forever.

"What?" he asks, his voice calm, almost too calm.

You hadn’t realized you were glaring.

"I can’t believe you’re still here."

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile.

"There it is."

"There what is?"

"Thought maybe you lost your ability to be mean."

You scoff, crossing your arms again.

"Thought maybe you lost your ability to be annoying."

A faint smile appears.

Small.

Controlled.

Dangerous.

"I was gone for a year and that’s the welcome I get?"

"You were here thirty minutes before insulting me."

His jaw shifts slightly, the smile fading into something more neutral.

"I wasn’t insulting you."

"Oh, please."

"You weren’t exactly making it easy."

You stare at him, incredulous.

The nerve.

The absolute nerve.

"You started it."

A short laugh escapes him, genuine disbelief threading through it.

"I started it?"

"Yes."

"Y/n."

The way he says your name stops you cold.

Not teasing.

Not mocking.

Not softened into some nickname.

Just Y/n.

Low.

Steady.

And somehow heavier than anything else he’s said.

Your stomach flips in a way that is deeply, deeply unhelpful.

You hate that.

You hate him.

You especially hate that he looks—unfairly—good standing there, sunlight spilling through the hallway windows behind him, catching in his hair and outlining his frame.

His hair is a little longer than you remember, falling slightly into his eyes.

His shoulders are broader.

His posture more grounded.

His expression calmer.

More controlled.

Until you really look.

Then you see it.

The faint shadows under his eyes.

The tension in his jaw.

The way his shoulders hold just a little too tight, like he’s bracing against something unseen.

Like he’s holding himself together through sheer force of will.

For a brief, fleeting moment, something soft pushes against your anger.

Concern.

Sympathy.

Something you don’t want to feel.

You shut it down immediately.

"So where are they sticking you this year?" you ask, your tone sharper than necessary.

"The guest room."

"Poor guest room."

His eyebrow lifts slightly.

You shrug.

"It’s been nice knowing it."

The smile returns.

God.

You wish he’d stop doing that.

"I’ll let it know you said goodbye."

You roll your eyes.

"Maybe it’ll survive."

"Maybe."

Silence settles between you.

Thick.

Lingering.

Neither of you moves.

Which is ridiculous.

All he has to do is walk past you.

All you have to do is leave.

Instead, you both stay exactly where you are.

Looking at each other.

The tension shifts.

Softens.

Becomes something quieter.

Something heavier.

The kind that makes your pulse suddenly loud in your ears.

Leon glances briefly toward the staircase, then back at you.

"Still hate me?"

The question catches you off guard.

Not because he asked.

But because of how he asked it.

There’s no teasing in his voice.

No edge.

Just something honest.

Curious.

Like he actually wants to know.

Your mouth opens.

Then closes again.

"Depends."

"On?"

You cross your arms, holding onto the last scraps of your irritation like a shield.

"Whether or not you plan on interrogating me again."

Something flickers across his face.

Regret.

Quick.

Real.

Gone almost as soon as it appears.

His gaze drops for a second before lifting back to yours.

"I’m not interested in interrogating you."

The words should feel simple.

Harmless.

But they land heavier than expected.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

The hallway feels smaller.

Closer.

His eyes stay on yours.

Steady.

Intent.

Like there’s something he wants to say.

Like he doesn’t know how.

Then—

"Y/N!"

Tyler’s voice explodes from downstairs, loud and abrupt, shattering the moment completely.

You both blink, the tension snapping like a stretched wire.

Reality rushes back in.

Thank God.

"Saved by the idiot," you mutter under your breath.

Leon’s quiet laugh follows you as you brush past him, the sound warm and familiar in a way that unsettles you more than anything else.

And as you head down the stairs, neither of you realizes that something has shifted.

Something subtle.

Something dangerous.

Because for the first time all morning, neither of you is angry anymore.

And that might be worse.

The staircase creaks beneath your feet as you make your way downstairs.

One hand trails along the smooth wooden banister polished by decades of summers, family gatherings, and bare feet running through the house.

Your pulse has finally started to settle.

Mostly.

Unfortunately, every few steps your brain decides to replay the hallway.

The way he said your name.

The way he looked at you.

The way he laughed.

You immediately shove the thoughts away.

Absolutely not.

Not happening.

Not today.

By the time you reach the bottom step, you've almost convinced yourself the entire interaction was meaningless.

Almost.

The familiar sounds of the lake house wrap around you again.

Your mother's laughter drifting in through the open windows.

Tyler yelling about something from outside.

The screen door opening and closing.

Life continuing exactly as it always has.

Normal.

Comfortable.

Safe.

You adjust your sunglasses on top of your head and head toward the back door.

Three months.

That's all.

Three months of Leon Kennedy under the same roof.

Three months of avoiding him.

Three months of not letting him get under your skin.

Easy.

You can do easy.

Outside, the lake sparkles beneath the afternoon sun.

Behind you, somewhere upstairs, a guest room door quietly clicks shut.