#nct reader

You waited patiently for him to answer. Anyone would have thought that he didn’t hear the question, but you knew him long enough to know that he was just bidding his time. In the two years you have been his doctor, the boy has shown you more than you have gone through in your career as a criminal psychiatrist. Sitting here for an hour just waiting for him to respond is child’s play for you by now.

And you would wait longer if needed, because Park Jisung is more than just the usual clinically insane person. Convicted at the age of twenty-one, he was moved to maximum security for a string of crimes that he committed all over the country. Arson, robbery, attempted murder, blackmailing and stalking. At first look, his police records seemed to make no sense because his offenses jumped from one crime to another with no rhyme or reason. It's almost as if they were done by different people, each one with their own intent and stain of madness.

Except that's exactly how and what it is. And it was you who have discovered it all.

You knew from the first time you sat down with him that the boy was different. If there’s one thing you’ve learned in your career, it was that convicts can be easily categorised into boxes, no matter how complex they believe they are. You have the narcissists who do things for the sake of testing the waters and the immorals who commit because they get drunk from the feeling of getting away with something taboo and unlawful. Even the madness of serial killers can be tabbed if you study them closely. But Jisung was different. He was not doing things for the sake of personal twisted pleasure or lack of care for societal standards.

He was wanting to be seen.

And see, you did. It happened on your third session, the memory still clear as if it just happened yesterday. You remember watching him closely as he sauntered into the room with a gait that you haven’t seen on him before, his steps relaxed and his shoulders held with almost a slight edge of careless arrogance. When he took his usual seat, he leaned back and looked you straight in the eye with a confidence you have never observed in him. You raised your eyebrows slightly in response and he slowly smirked in amusement, the smile almost looking out of odds in his face like it didn’t belong there.

You ignored it and folded you hands on the table instead. His gaze dropped to your fingers and there was a flash of something that flickered in his eyes before he raised them back to your face.

“How are you feeling today, Mr. Park?”

A soft amused scoff escaped him as if you just said a joke. Your face remained passive. Professional.

“Is there a joke I am missing?” You asked evenly. “You seem to be in a sunnier mood today.”

At this, his grin turned wider. He leaned a little bit more forward on his seat then, his elbows resting on the table. His handcuffs glimmered under the light, cold and unyielding, and yet you felt the invisible itch on your fingers to feel the emergency call button on the underside of the table. You held the urge back and kept your head high.

“Is that how I came off to you? Depressed and sulky?”

For the first time, a frown graced your forehead. There is something different about his voice and the low baritone you clearly remember from him. His tone remained the same, and yet the pitch is higher… the modulation more airy than usual. He saw the look of confusion on your face and he laughed, his head thrown back carelessly.

“Oh dear. I hate it when this happens. You know, we’re not always as anti-social as it seems.”

Your throat felt dry. He knew you caught the pronoun he just dropped and he now looked at you with an almost challenging, hungry air. You held his gaze for a bit before reaching for your pen. You needed to hold something, anything, to keep your hands from shaking.

“If you’re being so brazen, then I think we should just cut to the chase. What is it that you want to tell me?”

“Tsk, so straightforward. Don’t you have any guesses?”

“I have multiple, but I have little time.”

“And what if you can’t handle it?”

“You are not the first nut case I’ve handled and you’re certainly not going to be the last. I will do just fine.”

It might be the snark and fire in your voice, but for a moment, you saw an unknown emotion come over his face, almost transforming it in front of your eyes. His eyes, playful and amused, burned with something that made your skin prickle, before it dimmed down once more to a look of satisfaction. He leaned back once again on his seat and studied you the same way a collector would gaze down a preserved butterfly in a glass container, its wings pinned down by needles. The clock ticked loudly on the cracked wall of the room. Somewhere, another mad prisoner wailed from his cell.

He smiled. Looking back, you didn't realize that it was the signal that brought the death knell in your life.

“Let’s not be rude and make formal introductions first, shall we, princess?”

“Name is Lee Haechan. At your service.”

*******

That was two years ago.

Since then, prisoner 025 had been formally and clinically diagnosed with Dissociative Personality Disorder, a mental health condition formerly called as Multiple Personality Disorder given to patients with split or alternate personas living in one body.

In the months that followed, you came to know more about Park Jisung’s different ‘alters.' Some revealed themselves to you, like Haechan did, while others were first shared to you as stories while they waited to be more trusting of you.

First, there was Lee Haechan, 25 years old, honey-skinned and dark haired with eyes that made Jisung’s face light up with a mischievous air everytime he takes over his consciousness. He was the most forward and talkative of his alters and the personality that comes out in situations when they needed to socialize more. A proclaimed con artist, he is the persona that claims to be the mind behind the scamming cases under Jisung’s file.

Lee Mark was the second alter you met, 26 years old and the only one who can speak English. Haechan told you that Mark wears glasses and has the worst eyesight of the bunch, and also his exact opposite in terms of personality. As the oldest you have met so far, Mark is unsurprisingly the most mature of everyone, acting as the oldest brother of the group. Unlike the others, he claims to have not done any crimes. If anything, he seems to be the only one against them.

You met Huang Renjun almost half a year after Mark. The same age as Haechan, he is the first alter of Jisung that doesn’t have the same ethnicity, or so he claims. When he first introduced himself, Jisung came over to your session with a grace in movement that made him look as if he was smaller, though his personality seemed to be as sharp as a knife. Straightforward and most of the time crass, Renjun often switches with Haechan to help Jisung socialize and work as a ‘normal’ citizen. He claims to have done the arson cases filed against Jisung.

Coming after Renjun was Chenle, a young man who claims to be just a few months older than Jisung himself. He identified himself to be Chinese like Renjun, and is the most sporty and active of his alters. According to his stories, Chenle took over Jisung’s consciousness the most during their childhood years being the one closest to his age. He was, however, far from the other in terms of temperament. Cheerful and quick in wit, you find yourself the most at ease with him whenever he decides to show up. According to others, Chenle is also the alter that can 'copy' Jisung the best.

The last you’ve met is Na Jaemin. 25 years of age, he revealed himself to you just two months before, after you were informed that Jisung was sent to solitary confinement. The boy, who had never stirred any major trouble since he was imprisoned apparently stabbed a fellow prisoner out of nowhere and had to be isolated for a few days to calm down. You remember feeling frazzled when he first came into the room looking like death, but the moment he gave you a lopsided smile, you knew you were faced with someone you have never met before.

If you were to be truthful, you have never felt more scared of your patient until that moment.

Because while Jaemin may be playful in speech and almost childish in temperament, it's obvious that he could also be prone to sudden manic and violent bursts. He didn’t have any problem admitting to you that he was the one behind the stalking cases—even laughing at the faces of the guards who jumped him to haul him back to his cell.

That was the first and last time you met him. The encounter shook you to the point that you have considered quitting, but Mark came out one day to say that Jaemin had been confined and not allowed to take over indefinitely.

Unfortunately, that relief was also short-lived, because the moment you sat into your session today, Jisung gave you a new name that sent shivers down your spine.

Lee Jeno.

You kept your gaze steady on Jisung now even as the boy refused to look at your face. He had started to fidget, and you figured you needed to push him just a little bit more to center him.

“Do you want to tell me more about him?”

Jisung paused from his fretting momentarily before giving a small nod.

“He is 25 years old…”

The same age as Haechan, Renjun, and Jaemin... That makes four of them now.

You lowered your gaze back to your notes and started scribbling. A thrum started deep in your bones, the usual mix of fear and excitement of meeting a new alter. Despite having done this a couple of times by now, the novelty of it still leaves you breathless and on edge. What new personality will you unveil this time? What will he show you? Park Jisung, in every sense of the word, is the personification of both the fragility and the wonder of the human mind.

For someone in your profession, having a patient like him is a once in a lifetime, if not an almost impossible experience.

“Black hair… Short-cropped. He is the same height as Jaemin. Muscular. Lean but strong.”

“And how does Jeno help you out?”

This time, Jisung’s pause was longer.

“Jeno is the strongest. He protects us.”

“Just like Mark does?”

He shook his head.

“No. Mark is different. He takes care of us. Jeno… does what is necessary to keep us safe.”

You stared at the boy for a heartbeat before starting to write again. You could understand what he is trying to say in between the lines. People with alters usually splinter into different personalities that each have a role to play in the host’s life. Every identity you’ve met so far has this. It’s only a matter of time before someone like ‘Jeno’ reveals himself.

The Protector.

The devil himself, if it may be.

“And why did you decide to share him with me now?” You asked with a tone gentler than usual as you continued writing. The silence stretched as your pen scratched on the paper's surface.

“It’s about time, I guess.”

Your fingers momentarily paused as you felt a chill settle at the pit of your stomach. You wanted to look up at him, but something told you not to, so you kept your eyes on the scribbles you’ve written.

“Any stories that you want to share to me about him?”

Silence. There was an infinitesimal change in the room that made your hair slowly stand on end.

“Why don’t you ask him directly?”

Your gazes clashed before you could even stop yourself.

He smiled, the gesture not meeting his eyes.

You glare at Renjun, who doesn’t bother to look up from his laptop, working on the graphic for the student council. “Was not.” 

“Whatever,” he says. “Just don’t let the pretty boy distract you from paying attention because I needed to finish this yesterday.”

“The only one distracting me is you, and you aren’t pretty.” You pretend his silence is agreement instead of him trying to force you to take notes as Professor Bae closes up the lecture. 

It’s not that you can’t focus around Na Jaemin–your perfect notes at the end of class prove just the opposite. Jaemin simply exists in another world. There is your corner, mostly filled with student council responsibilities and never ending university work, and there is Na Jaemin, honorary member of every frat on campus. Not that you’ve been thinking that much about him, but his Instagram shows up in your recommended often enough for you to know that he goes to parties nearly every weekend. The sliver of overlap in the Venn diagram of your world and his only includes Microbiology on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 1 to 4, and that’s enough for you. To fantasize about him from here, a fruit you’ll never have the opportunity to try. 

Jaemin starts to turn around and you quickly turn to Renjun, resisting the urge to peek at him out of the corner of your eye. You look at the shapes on Renjun’s computer instead. 

“That looks like shit.” 

“Trust the process,” he says. 

“You spent the entire lecture working on this, you are aware we have a lab where you actually have to do things right?” 

“You don’t think you can handle it on your own?” 

“Stop trying to bait me into doing all the work.” You close your laptop, standing and stretching. You see Jaemin out of the corner of your eye, a blob of black hair shuffling down the aisle toward the door to the classroom. The orange-pink sweater is actually a cardigan, large cream colored buttons keeping it together. That’s when you realize you’re staring again. Shit. 

“Are we eating before lab or do you seriously think you’ll finish that thing in the next thirty minutes?” You ask Renjun, who still hasn’t moved. 

“You want to be president when you aren’t even pressuring me into posting the election announcements that were supposed to go out yesterday?” 

“I want to eat something before we have to stare into microscopes, so what do you want?” You wonder if he’s focused enough to miss you grabbing his wallet out of his bag. 

“Whatever you want is fine and if you use my card it will literally decline.” You curse and toss his wallet back into his backpack. 

“Should have taken that class with Chenle, his card never declines.” 

“That’s because it’s his parents’ black card.” He finally looks up from his laptop at you. “Are you getting the food or not?” 

You open your mouth to say something extremely witty and/or smart, but your stomach rumbles. “I’m going to fire you when I’m president.” 

“And who else will put up with your bullshit?” he calls as you walk down the aisle. You prepare a mature response (sticking your tongue out at him), walking backwards. Directly into someone—bouncing off their chest, more specifically. 

Hands grab your shoulders before you can react, straightening you before you have a chance to fall. “Woah there.” 

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry,” you say as you turn around and find Na Jaemin staring at you. Apologies spill out, even as he smiles at you, a true, knees-to-jelly, threat-to-sunshine smile. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. 

“Sorry,” you repeat. Your brain struggles to diversify its vocabulary with him looking at you, smiling with his eyes in full focus. His eyes are so dark it’s difficult to distinguish between his pupils and his irises. Staring, again, the third time in an hour. Why can’t you be normal around him? 

“I was blocking your way out anyway, so it wasn’t all your fault.” He steps back, letting you out of the aisle. At least, giving you the space to do it, since your feet decide not to work. He tilts his head at you, sending your brain into a spiral of predictions, ranging from he’s going to ask you out (rather fantastical) to he’s going to tell you that you have something stuck between your teeth (horribly realistic). 

Instead, he says, “You’re YN, right?” 

“Yeah. How did you know that?” 

His smile widens when you say yes. “Student council vice president, right?” 

You don’t trust your voice so you nod. 

“I’m Jaemin,” he says, extending his hand for a moment like he wants to shake hands but he pulls away at the last second. “Your picture is on the website.” 

“Nice to meet you,” you say, mouth going through the motions on its own since your brain’s whiteboard has been wiped completely clean. The only thing left is NA JAEMIN in giant bold letters, bright red marker and all. 

“Yes, it is,” he says. Does he know the effect his smile has on people? Legally it could be considered a weapon. He pauses a moment longer, like he wants to say something else but instead he turns away, walking back to his seat, waving at half the class because of course he does. 

You don’t have to turn around to feel Renjun staring at you. You don’t feel like hearing his judgy comments, even when they’re only passed on through his eyes. Whoever said eyes are the window to the soul was right—Renjun’s give you a clear view of the most judgmental person you have ever met. You leave the class without looking back. 

Very few places nearby campus sell edible food, and even fewer are ever empty enough to be able to grab food and eat before the three hour lab starts. Today is even worse than normal, as if everyone has chosen to be hungry at the same time as you. You end up at a 7/11, grabbing Takis since they’re the only chips Renjun will eat. You grab an iced tea, tapping your finger in line as you wait. Getting the food was enough of a distraction to keep you from thinking about Jaemin but as you wait for the person in front of you try to get a discount using a coupon that expired three months ago, you go over every millisecond of the interaction–and god, you were so awkward. All you really did was apologize to him, you couldn’t even move. You have got to grow up, stop acting like a middle schooler with a crush. 

The cashier finally gives up, giving the person a discount and waving them out. You set your food down and smile at her. She does her best to put a customer service smile back on her face, though you can see the exhaustion. You thank her as profusely as you can. 

By the time you make it back to the lecture room, there’s barely five minutes left of break. 

“Thank god, I’m starving,” Renjun says, grabbing the bag out of your hands. You keep your iced tea on the side farthest from him, glaring at him until he tilts the bag so that you can reach it too. “We are going to make Donghyuck cook tonight, I need real food.” 

“Agreed,” you say, covering your mouth with your hand so you don’t spew hot chip dust everywhere. 

“And I took pictures of you embarrassing yourself in front of Jaemin, so please try to replace me as your social media correspondent.” He smiles at you over the purple bag. 

“You’re horrible, has anyone ever told you that?” 

“Music to my ears, sweetheart.” 

.

.

Unfortunately, Renjun’s graphic does look good, though still not good enough to warrant how much time he spent on it. The messy shapes don’t look half as bad when they’re the right color, and all the information is listed (not in Comic Sans, though it’s only a matter of time before he tries to use it again. You have yet to find out if he actually likes the font or just wants to be annoying). He posts it an hour after the lab, which wasn’t half bad. Your percent error was under 50% for once. 

It’s a Friday morning, no classes since your university actually listened to the student requests for a three day weekend, which the student council (you) takes full credit for. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean you are responsibility free. Instead you sit in cheap plastic chairs rented from the events and planning committee and under a tent that’s in serious danger of blowing away. 

You cling to your ball cap, NCIT STUDENT COUNCIL embroidered on the front. The papers in front of you whip around, the weights on top of them holding steady. At least it isn’t raining, though the thick clouds overhead get darker every minute. 

Realistically, there’s no reason for you to be here. All the information about running for student council is posted online and with over 30,000 students, only a small portion of the student body actually care—none of whom are walking around campus at 11 in the morning on a Friday. You pull the blanket tighter over your shoulders. Just another fifteen minutes and then Jisung will relieve you. Mark should be the one freezing his ass off since he’s the one that insists on upholding tradition, but as president he takes advantage of avoiding work whenever he can. 

Only two and a half months before that privilege is yours. Assuming you are elected, of course, but there’s no real danger in losing that. You’ve been a part of the council since freshman year, appointed as vice president as a sophomore. Few people have more qualifications, and fewer are actually interested in the position. Usually the competition comes from within the cabinet, but none of the rest of the guys have said anything about the running, though that might be because you haven’t shut up about the position since freshman year. Either way, the position is all but yours, and there is absolutely no reason you need to sit here when you could be studying for midterms. 

A strong gust of wind blows from in front of you instead of behind and this time you are too slow. Your cap flies off your head, tumbling across the empty quad. You shuffle after it, keeping the blanket wrapped tightly over your shoulders, which helps protect you from the cold winds. Unfortunately, said cold winds don’t stop blowing, and your hat blows faster than you can shuffle. It reaches to the sidewalk on the opposite side of the squad by the time it finally stops. 

Moving as fast as you can wrapped up one dry day away from mummification, you try to snatch the cap before it gets blown away again. You bend down to reach for it but a pair of sneakers appear in front of you and a mitten-clad hand grabs it before you can. You stand up and find Jaemin, wearing bright red earmuffs that have a green headband to make it look like a pair of cherries. He holds your hat out, smiling when he sees you (when he recognizes you?). 

“What’s wrong? Hat got your tongue?” He waits, with an expectant smile. The boy next to him, wearing more layers than you, shakes his head. “Sorry,” Jaemin says, “bad joke, I know, but I couldn’t help it.” 

Even the most lovesick part of you can’t defend him on that one. You take your hat from his outstretched hand, sticking it back on your head when you realize what your hair must look like after crossing the quad with all the wind. 

“It’s Jaemin, from microbio,” he says, as if there’s actually a chance you don’t know him. 

“Thanks, Jaemin from microbio.”

He flashes a smile that warms you better than any sun. “My pleasure, Vice President.” 

“You can just call me YN,” you mumble. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” You swear he winks, though maybe it’s the wind blowing in his eyes. 

The boy next to him nudges Jaemin with his shoulder, keeping his hands tucked safely in the pockets of his jacket. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” 

Jaemin rolls his eyes. “This is Jeno, he’s–God, I guess he’s my best friend.” He glances at Jeno, unimpressed. “The position is temporary.” 

“Thanks!” Jeno says brightly. 

“Jeno, this is the vice president of the student council,” he says. 

“YN,” you say, “I’d shake your hand but…” You show your hands, stuck keeping the blanket wrapped around you. 

“It’s alright, I lost my gloves, so my hands are stuck here.” Jeno lifts his jacket with his hands in the pockets, just to prove his point. 

“Hey, I didn’t get a handshake,” Jaemin says. 

“Did you need a handshake?” 

He tilts his head, showing off his jawline, not that you’re paying attention to that at all. It simply calls attention to itself, and who are you to ignore a jawline that could have been sculpted by Michelangelo (not the ninja turtle). He must be cold with so much skin exposed. 

“I’ll settle for some advice,” Jaemin says. Right, maybe you shouldn’t be comparing his face to famous works of art mid-conversation (save it for the Instagram stalking like everyone else). 

“Advice?” 

“I was actually looking for you anyway.” Jaemin glances at Jeno before meeting your eyes again. “The student council election is open to anyone, right?” 

“The presidency is open to seniors that are enrolled here, but yeah,” you say. “Why?” 

He shrugs. “I’m going to apply.” 

You blink at him. “For president? Of student council?” 

“Yeah,” he says. Jeno shuffles beside him, stuffing his hands impossibly deeper into his pockets. 

President… but that’s your position. If it wasn’t for the senior-only rule, you’d already be president. You rose through the ranks, suffered through a vice presidency with Mark to get here–it’s your position. 

“Do I apply there?” He asks, pointing at the table you’re supposed to be sitting at. 

“The application is online,” you find yourself saying, “you have to submit a resume and go through a qualifying process, and submit your proposals for campaign policies and a whole bunch of other stuff, it’s all on the application information.” You’re about halfway through your own application, though it’s mostly copying and pasting from the document you’ve been working on since you joined student council. 

“You can scan the QR code on this blanket, it’ll take you to the application.” You hold it straight, cursing Renjun in your head for being so creative with marketing. You look like an idiot, waiting for him to scan your shoulder. 

“Cool,” Jaemin says, pulling out his phone, but instead of scanning the code, he hands it to you, a new contact profile with your name already in it. You glance between the phone and the smiling boy. “Can I ask you if I have any questions?” 

Jaemin is asking you for his phone number. To help with his campaign, against you. Your brain works in overdrive, trying to determine how you are supposed to feel. Your heart doesn’t hesitate to take advantage of the internal turmoil. You put your number into his phone and hand it back to him. 

“Sure,” you say, even as your brain screams at you not to. “Whatever I can do to help.” 

He grins and your brain fully malfunctions, gears popping, cartoon sparks flying. “Thank you, YN.” 

“No problem,” you mumble, knowing that’s not true at all even without a functioning brain cell. You should have let him call you vice president when you had the chance–this is so much worse. 

“I should go back,” you say, taking a step backward, a gamble considering your history of walking backwards around him. Trying not to linger in Jaemin’s presence is like a planet resisting the pull of gravity to the sun–no matter how hard you try, you can’t beat physics.  

 But maybe he isn’t the sun because when you take another step, Jaemin takes a step to follow you. Are there stars that revolve around planets? But Jaemin doesn’t revolve around you, he doesn’t even exist in your solar system. Maybe a black hole is a better metaphor, sucking you in from a galaxy over. You should stop making metaphors based on middle school astronomy. 

You peer at Jaemin as he continues across the quad, walking leisurely beside you as you shuffle. Jeno trails behind slightly, risking the cold to pull out a phone. 

“Are you following me?” 

Jaemin looks at you over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows. “You think you’re that special already?” Before you can answer, he laughs. “But, yeah, I am. I can’t leave you all by yourself out here, anything could happen.” 

“As opposed to by myself at the table?” 

He shrugs. “There’s two chairs. I could sit with you.” 

It’s your turn to raise your eyebrows, looking him up and down. He’s got a puffy jacket (bright red, probably to match with the earmuffs) and jeans. “You’d freeze in five minutes.” 

“You could–” 

“Are we going to Doyoung’s or not?” Jeno calls from behind you. 

“Right,” Jaemin says, “I definitely did not forget about that.” He glances at you. “Rain check?” 

“I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities for you to keep me company freezing my ass off,” you say, “but seriously, I wouldn’t let you stay anyway.” You reach the table, turning to face him. 

Jaemin pouts. “Why not?” 

“For starters, I don’t want to be responsible for the hypothermia you’re bound to catch,” you say, “and it’s a student council thing. You’re not a part of the student council.” 

“Not yet.” 

Right. The standard, crush-threatening-the-dream-you’ve-spent-three-years-working-toward-situation. “Also, no offense, but I barely know you.” 

“Offense taken,” Jaemin says, holding a hand over his chest. “We’ve taken half a class together!” 

“We’ve spoken twice if you count today!” You say. Does he really not get it? “At the very least it would be awkward.” 

“I take full offense to the idea that I could ever be awkward,” Jaemin says. He folds his arms over his chest, eyeing you. “I’ll prove it to you.” Your gut twists, sending off the warning bells, but there’s no way Jaemin is actually flirting with you. He probably hates the idea that someone doesn’t immediately trust him with their heart and soul. He doesn’t need to know that you already do. That’s why there’s simply no way he’s flirting with you–it simply doesn’t make sense. 

“Dude, we seriously need to go,” Jeno says. “Doyoung is spam texting.” 

Jaemin wiggles his eyebrows at you. “I’ll see you in class.” 

“Bye Jaemin,” you say. You watch him walk away with Jeno, throwing his arm over his friend’s shoulders. He doesn’t look back at you. 

What just happened? 

Jisung approaches so quietly you jump when you turn around and he stands in front of you. “Was that Na Jaemin?” 

“Yes–wait, how do you know him?” 

Jisung avoids your eyes, turning to watch the pair of boys trudge away. “Renjun talks.” 

You’re going to kill him. But first you need to defrost, so you hand the blanket over to Jisung and jump a few times to warm yourself up, trying in vain to make up for the loss. 

“What was he doing here?” Jisung asks, wrapping himself so tightly his feet are bound together. One strong push would send him tumbling over, probably unable to get up. If only it was Renjun. 

“He wants to be president.” 

“Of student council?” 

“Apparently.” 

“Huh.” Jisung sits back. “Aren’t you supposed to be president?” 

“Yep.” 

“Huh.” Jisung stares at you. 

“Have fun!” You say. The air without Jaemin is so much colder. Maybe your toes have frostbite. “It’s cold!” 

Jisung grunts, huddling down and you don’t spare a second look at him. There’s a solid chance he’s texting Renjun already, since your best friend has decided to be a dirty gossip. You walk along the sidewalk and try to tell your heart that no matter how pretty his smile is, Na Jaemin is bad for you. Your heart reminds you that he saved your hat. 

Your phone vibrates in your pocket. You pull it out, fully expecting to see a message from Renjun but instead a string of numbers show up. you better save my number :). You stare at your phone until it fades to black, which is why you know the exact moment it starts to snow. Though it’s March and the groundhog didn’t see its shadow, a snowflake falls on your phone, melting quickly. You walk home in the snow, thoughts of Jaemin piling up a snowbank that no plow can clear. 

.

.

For breakfast on Tuesday morning, you have an untoasted bagel with a side of impending doom. You woke up with the feeling, a knot in your gut that usually only appears before exams or after you drink too much coffee, but today has chosen to warn you of unknown horrors yet to come. It has to be the dream you had, only you forgot it the moment you woke up. 

[Bitch #1] You’re just trying to avoid jaemin. 

You don’t know why you expected Renjun to support you. Unsurprisingly, he found out about Jaemin’s intent to run for president before you made it back to your apartment, and dedicated an hour to lecturing you over FaceTime, then spent the entire pregame on Saturday side eyeing you. 

Jaemin’s message sits at the bottom of your recent texts. He hasn’t sent anything since Friday, though neither have you. You close your phone and try not to think about him, an impossible task. In the end you can’t think of a valid excuse, and go to your morning lecture. It’s one of your favorite classes (world history of medicinal developments 1200-1600) but today your mind drifts, still trying to figure out why today feels so off. Are you forgetting an assignment? You’ve checked the syllabus for all of your classes and the reminders your professors sent out but nothing has slipped past your the list on your planner. You check your outfit after class to see if you put something on backwards but you look fine. By the time you head toward microbio, you’ve resigned yourself to a day of inexplicable anxiety. 

You should have trusted your gut. 

You take one step into the room and the knot in your gut twists itself into a mess that spells out leave now while you still have the chance. 

In your normal spot at the back of the classroom, sitting beside Renjun, sits Jaemin, grinning and waving at you like he’s been sitting there the entire semester. 

You walk carefully down the aisle of desks, stopping in front of him. “You’re in my seat.” 

Jaemin doesn’t seem to notice Renjun’s snort, opting to smile at you. “Hello YN, it’s nice to see you.” 

“Hi Jaemin,” you say, “you’re in my seat.” 

He rolls his eyes, sliding his backpack to the side and slipping into the next seat over. “I was just getting to know Renjun.” 

You glare at your best friend, sitting beside him. “I’m sure he’s been lovely.” Renjun smiles innocently, turning back to photoshopping a graphic of the student council.  

Jaemin pulls out his laptop, sitting leaning back into the chair. Is he planning on sitting here for the whole class?  

“What are you doing?” You ask softly. Renjun continues to click around, not even pretending not to eavesdrop.

“I told you, I could never be awkward,” Jaemin says. 

“Speak for yourself,” you mutter, shrinking in your seat. Does he really not notice the class staring at you? Okay, maybe staring is an exaggeration, and it’s not the whole class, but the people he normally sits with keep glancing back at you and whispering to each other. 

Professor Bae walks in and they turn back to the front, saving you from (more) embarrassment. From the corner of your eye, you watch the boys at your sides—Renjun doesn’t bother to open the notes doc he shares with you, opting for continuing the edit, which you can’t really complain about because it’s the series of posts you asked him to make. Jaemin pulls up a cartoon series, Teen Titans, volume off with the subtitles on. 

“Is this what you do every class?” You whisper. 

Jaemin looks away from his fake typing for a moment. “She grades for attendance, not participation.” 

“Are you even passing this class?” 

Jaemin grins. “Sweetheart, I skew the curve.” Just to prove his point, he pauses the bickering superheroes and pulls up the grade review for the class. True to his word, his scores are well above average, rivaling your own. With the exception of Renjun, you haven’t met anyone who’s gotten similar grades. 

Jaemin smiles, switching back to the show. He exudes confidence, and why wouldn’t he? Not only hot and popular, he’s smart too, smarter than you—it takes you hours of studying, exam cram sessions, paying attention in class—he doesn’t even hide that he isn’t paying attention, and from his reputation alone, you know he doesn’t spend as much time studying as you. Does he know what he’s getting into with student council? Even the laziest of presidents put in several hours of work a week.

Jaemin laughs at the show. Renjun finally glances at you, raising his eyebrows at Jaemin in a silent question. You shrug, mouthing, I don’t know either. He purses his lips and turns back to photoshop. You’re sure the second Jaemin steps away he’s going to be on your ass again. 

Belatedly, you realize you’ve spent far too much of the class thinking about Jaemin. Professor Bae has already moved on from weekly announcements to new topics, meaning you have a date with YouTube review videos tonight. Thank god Professor Bae actually cares about her students and has recorded lectures. You just have to hope you didn’t miss one of the exam hints she only drops during class. 

Jaemin and Renjun stay quiet for the rest of the class period, though it does little to help you actually focus. Between Jaemin existing next to you and the inevitability of Renjun’s judgment, it’s hard to stay focused on virus identification. You take half the notes you usually do. 

But can you really blame it on them? It’s you that loses focus, you that is distracted by Jaemin beside you when he doesn’t actively try to pull your attention. He may have disrupted the balance of the universe by sitting beside you, but that doesn’t mean you have to fall off the scale. 

Professor Bae announces the end of lecture a couple minutes early. You swear you see her raise her eyebrows at you and glance at Jaemin before disappearing into her office for the half hour break before lab. Is it too self-absorbed to wonder if she’s taking things the wrong way? But what is the wrong way? None of it makes any sense except that maybe Jaemin is too stubborn for his own good. Funny how a week ago he didn’t know your name and now you can say he’s ‘too’ something. 

“So what do you normally do during break?” Jaemin asks. “Other than bounce off the chest of your roguishly handsome classmates.” 

You roll your eyes to keep him from noticing how flustered his comment actually makes you. “Go over the prelab in case someone forgets to do it–”

“I always do it!” Renjun says. 

“–but usually get snacks and do homework. Lately Renjun has been doing a lot of student council work during class, but that’s because he doesn’t know how to manage his time.” 

“Says the one who asked me to design a scheduler for them.” 

“Just because you’re good at Canva doesn’t mean you’re on top of your work.” 

Renjun shakes his head. You can tease him all you want, at the end of the day, you know that it doesn’t really matter. The truth is, he just doesn’t need to study as much as you. Sort of like Jaemin, and absolutely nothing like you. 

“What do you normally do during break?” You ask. 

Jaemin purses his lips. “Well, my lab partner rarely does the prelab, so usually I let him look at mine.” From the row where Jaemin normally sits, a guy in a striped yellow polo glares back at you. 

You glance between him and Jaemin, who turns away from his partner to look at you. “Should you go over there?” 

“Probably.” He doesn’t make a move to get up, instead tilting his head and smiling at you a little. “You’re very interesting, YN.” 

You cough, breaking eye contact to fiddle with the A key on your laptop which is in serious danger of falling off. “Well, your lab partner is probably going to try and inject you with a virus during lab if you don’t go over there.” 

Jaemin laughs. “You’re probably right. I’ll talk to you later.” He stands up and glances at Renjun, who finally looks away from his laptop. Jaemin nods at him and flashes a smile at you, showing perfect rows of white teeth, and finally turns around, backpack half open in his hand. 

You tear your eyes away from him, turning back to Renjun, who sits with his elbow on the armrest, chin in hand. He softens his eyes and looks up at you. “You’re very interesting, YN.” 

“Shut up,” you say, pushing his elbow out from under him, though he doesn’t fall like you wish he would. 

He shakes his head. “I do not like that guy.” 

“Really?” You frown. “Why?” 

“The fact that you’re even asking me that.” He sighs. “He’s just not my favorite type of guy.” He glares at you before you can tease him. “You seem to exclusively be attracted to shitty men, and then I become associated with them through proximity and it’s overall not a fun time for me.” 

“Okay first of all, you barely know Jaemin,” you say, “and second of all, nothing’s ever going to happen with him.” 

Renjun raises his eyebrows. 

“Seriously,” you insist, “he’s literally Jaemin, and I’m… not his type. You can hate him all you want but don’t do it on my behalf.” 

Renjun stares at you a little longer. He doesn’t believe you, and he’s probably right not to. But he turns back to his computer and doesn’t argue back. 

“I didn’t do the pre lab, though,” Renjun says, “that was a lie.” 

“I’m going to kill you and make it look like an accident.” 

.

.

Jaemin doesn’t show up to class on Thursday. You stare at your phone, the single message in your conversation with him. Curiosity and something bitter boil together, making it impossible to think logically. He acts so friendly around you it would be easy to mistake him for a friend, but it’s not like you don’t have friends. You wouldn’t have a second thought about sending a text like this to Renjun or Donghyuck–but you’ve never felt butterflies when either of them looked at you. 

So when your phone dies, you slip it into the pocket of your sweatshirt instead of trying to fight Mark for a charger (ever since “someone” stole one, he’s been overprotective of the cords). It’s movie night anyways, it’s not like you need your phone. 

“Wait,” you say, “since when are we watching Endgame?” 

“We literally just voted,” Donghyuck says, “You could have tied it for Lilo and Stitch but you weren’t paying attention.” He glares at you. 

Mark throws an arm over your shoulders. “It’s all good, YN can just make the popcorn.” 

“It’s hitting buttons on a microwave.” 

“Oh, would you look at that, the movie’s starting!” Mark says, pushing you off the couch and towards the kitchen of his apartment. You glare at him, but the guys have made you watch Marvel movies enough times that you are glad for the excuse to escape any part of it. It’s bad enough you can hear it from the kitchen. 

The shelves in Mark’s apartment are tall enough that he keeps a stool in the kitchen so that he can reach the highest of them. Of course that’s where he keeps his popcorn, so you jump as high as you can, snatching the box. Except you pull a little too hard and the box flies clean out of your hand, your feet slipping out from under you. You tumble to the ground, narrowly avoiding banging your head on the faux marble countertop. 

A moment later, Donghyuck appears standing over you, box of popcorn in one hand. “You could have just used the stool.” 

“That’s so much work.” 

“And yet it keeps you off the floor.” He holds out his free hand and helps you stand. Your tailbone hurts a little but otherwise it seems you dodged major damage. 

“You okay?” Chenle shouts. 

“Fine,” you shout back. You wonder what the odds are that they’d let you bleed out to finish the movie—probably higher than what you want to calculate. At least Donghyuck is as anti-Endgame as you. 

He sets the box on the counter, pulling the plastic off a bag and putting it in the microwave for five minutes. You would’ve just used the popcorn button but Donghyuck insists it tastes better this way. He turns around, leaning against the counter and studying you. 

“So,” he says. 

You raise your eyebrows. “‘So’ what?” 

“So, Jaemin.” Donghyuck stares at you, eyes unreadable. He’s been like this ever since you met him—pulling people apart with his eyes and extracting the most important bits, all with a smile on his face. He knew Shotaro was going to drop out before Shotaro did. 

“He’s…” A friend? A crush? The guy you wish would stay out of your life so you could keep daydreaming about him? 

“He’s sort of famous,” Donghyuck says. “Or infamous, depending on who you ask.” 

“And if I ask you?” 

Donghyuck smiles like this is going according to his script. “He’s lots of fun to party with. I don’t know anyone that doesn’t like him.” 

“But?” You jump when the first piece of popcorn pops. 

Donghyuck pins you down with his eyes. “But he isn’t the boyfriend type. I mean, I’m not best friends with the guy, but it’s pretty obvious, and I talked to—”

“Stop.” You hold a hand up. “I know exactly what kind of guy he is, I’m not an idiot.” 

“I’m not saying you’re an idiot, I just—”

“Donghyuck, I get it.” You stare back at him. “I really do, but I promise I know what I’m doing.” Okay, maybe that last part is a lie, but you know what you aren’t doing. You don’t expect a single thing from Na Jaemin. 

“I heard he’s running for president.” 

“Come on,” you say, “you think he can beat me?” Donghyuck raises his eyebrows. He won’t call you out on it, but he doesn’t have to. Your lie doesn’t even convince yourself. Jaemin has it all—grades, good looks, and, most importantly, popularity. Yes, he can beat you. Easily. 

“Why are you helping him?” 

“Jisung can’t keep his mouth shut, huh?” 

“Renjun was actually the one that told me, but that’s not the point,” Donghyuck says. 

“He hasn’t even asked for help,” you say, “and it’s not like I’m going to give up. I just…”

“You like him,” Donghyuck says. He raises his eyebrows, waiting for you to try to deny it but you won’t fight a battle that’s already lost. But you won’t admit it either. 

“I know what I’m doing.” 

Donghyuck chews on his lip for a moment. “Just be careful,” he says, “I do care about you. A little. Just a tiny bit. And from what I know, Jaemin is a good guy, but I don’t want you to get hurt because he isn’t what you want him to be.” 

“Gross, stop acting like we’re friends,” you say. 

“Never mind, I take it all back,” he says, “and I won’t be your vice president.” 

“Too late.” You shrug. “You already signed a contract.” 

“Fine, I’ll veto everything you propose.” 

“You don’t have the power to do that.” 

He tossed his hands up. “What is the point of being vice president?” 

You beam at him. “Doing the shit I don’t want to do!” 

Donghyuck opens his mouth to argue back but he pauses, sniffing at the air, and that’s when you realize the popcorn has long since stopped popping. Behind Donghyuck, smoke rises. 

He curses, pressing the button to open the door only to take a wave of smoke straight in the face. At least the bag isn’t on fire. You laugh as he waved his hand in front of his face, coughing. 

“Dude, what is that smell?” Mark shouts from the living room. 

You spend half the movie bickering with Donghyuck while trying to get the sharp smoky scent out of Mark’s kitchen. By the time the Avengers have all the infinity stones again and are in the final battle, you are curled up on the floor with a blanket, the popcorn bowl confiscated by Chenle when he realized how much you and Donghyuck ate while making it (it sort of tastes like smoke anyways). Two Marvel movies later, Mark shakes you awake and sends you and the rest of the guys out. 

You’re so tired by the time you get home, you plug your phone in and fall asleep. That’s why you don’t see the message until your alarm goes off the next morning. 

[Na Jaemin] you busy? 

.

.

For the past three weeks, you’ve tried meditation. Renjun swears by it, but you’ve seen him lose it over half a quesadilla, so it doesn’t exactly instill confidence in you. Still, you set aside ten minutes every morning to listen to the podcast he sent you. It’s meant to be calming, to connect you with yourself, and usually you do feel better, at least for a few minutes. 

You peek at your phone, checking how much time in the lesson is left (3 and a half minutes). No new notifications. 

Jaemin’s message gave you a heart attack when you woke up. He sent it at 8:12pm, probably right after your phone died. So seeing his message first thing in the morning woke you up pretty fast. You sent an apology that you definitely didn’t rewrite fifteen times, and now you wait. 

But no, you’re meditating right now. Clearing your mind, not thinking about a single thing except the air that floods your lungs, letting your heart beat twice before releasing the air again. You peek your right eye open. No new notifications. 

The narration ends and you sigh, laying back on your bed and checking your schedule for the day even though you’ve memorized it. In half an hour you need to be in the library to meet with your study group, then a council meeting, some space for lunch (which will undoubtedly end up crashed by Chenle or Donghyuck), then more homework in the afternoon. Tonight you’re supposed to go to a party thrown by one of Mark’s friends from grad school—depending on whether Renjun can find out if he’s a poli-sci major or not. 

You jump when your calendar disappears and the incoming call screen pops up. You stare at Jaemin’s name for a couple seconds before your brain begins to function again, and you slide the button at the bottom of your phone to answer the call. 

“Hello?” 

“YN,” Jaemin says. His voice is a little deeper than normal, raspy like he just woke up. “I was starting to think you’d blocked me.” 

“Sorry, my phone died last night and Mark doesn’t let anyone use his chargers.” 

Jaemin laughs, the phone distorting the quality, sounding choppy and un-Jaemin. “Damn, does the student body know he treats his council like this?” 

You laugh a little but can’t think of anything else to say. The silence stretches longer as Jaemin doesn’t speak either. The ceiling of your apartment has a constellation of holes, evidence of the former tenant’s antics. You have yet to figure out exactly what it could be—stabbing the ceiling with a broomstick? What does Jaemin’s ceiling look like? He’s so hard to pin down, like the more you get to know him the less he makes sense. He’s the type to have a messy room with clothes tossed everywhere and a bed that’s never made, yet he’s also the type to keep it neat, put up diagrams to match the college aesthetic of studying even if Jaemin himself is allergic to it. 

“So,” Jaemin says, apparently realizing you aren’t going to say anything else. “I actually texted last night because I wanted to see you.” 

You shove down the butterflies that spring up. “For what?” 

“First of all, it’s cruel that you don’t think I’d want to see you just to see you. But also I was gonna ask to go over microbio together because I heard a rumor that Professor Bae talked about the final.” 

“Don’t you have a lab partner?” 

“Yeah, he’s who told me she talked about it. Unfortunately he’s worse at taking notes than me.” He pauses. “Besides, you’re much cuter.” 

“Oh.” The butterflies breach containment, digging like madmen trying to escape your stomach. 

“So are you free?” 

Despite just checking your schedule, your mind goes blank. You frown, trying to remember what you’d just seen, and thank every deity that might exist that Jaemin can’t see your face right now. 

“I’m free after the council meeting. How is 12:30?” 

“Damn, council meetings on Fridays,” Jaemin says, “that works though. Meet you in the library?” 

“We can use the council room on the third floor,” you say, “no one else will be there.” 

“Okay,” Jaemin says, “see you soon, YN.” 

“Bye, Jaemin.” 

The butterflies have turned into zombies, rotting in your stomach and spoiling the leftover popcorn from last night. It’s just sharing notes. It’s just Jaemin. He’s just a boy from another world. The butterflies groan and demand chocolate. 

.

.

Council meetings feel a little bit like the Magic School Bus series. The tagline plays in your head: A normal council meeting? With this group? No way! 

Some of the blame can be directed towards having such an eclectic group of majors, Mark as the only true political science major. The rest of the group has been adamant about keeping the council safe from political science majors (how Mark doesn’t see the horrors of his classmates you truly don’t know). Another point towards Jaemin, being biochem and pre-med. 

Though being a non-poli-sci major doesn’t mean he can handle the presidency. Mark can barely do that. Not that he’s a bad president. Though it sometimes feels like you do all the heavy lifting for him to take credit for, he does work hard. No, Mark’s problem isn’t his leadership—it’s that he doesn’t know when to give up. 

The council meeting is long done but he continues to bicker with Donghyuck, who holds the entire student council hostage. 

“It’s a proven fact,” Mark says. “How are you arguing with science?” 

“Can science tell me what I feel?” Donghyuck folds his arms over his chest. His laptop has faded to black, the meeting notes long forgotten. “This isn’t about facts, it’s about my experience!” 

You check your phone. The meeting has already gone over fifteen minutes. Any longer and Jaemin could walk in on a very not-empty room with Mark committing a crime against Donghyuck for saying that Froot Loops have individual flavors. Maybe it’s time to intervene. 

“You’re just gaslighting yourself,” Mark says, “it’s not physically possible!” 

“Well, you’re not physically possible!” 

“That makes negative sense. I’m getting dumber listening to your attempts to argue.” 

“Okay,” you say, standing up so quickly your chair falls back. “This isn’t council business anymore. All in favor of concluding the meeting?” According to the official rules, Mark is the only one that can conclude the meeting, but Jisung’s hand flies up, followed quickly by Renjun and Chenle. 

“Cool, majority rule,” you say, ignoring the outrage on Mark’s face. Donghyuck pretends to be mad too, but he was only arguing with Mark to piss him off. He’ll probably follow the older boy around just to ruin his day. The two always have some fight going on—you’re convinced the reason Donghyuck agreed to be your vice president (if you win) is just because Mark would hate it. 

Jisung leaves first, eager to escape from Donghyuck and Mark. Donghyuck pauses long enough to write a few more summarizing notes on the meeting but catches up to Mark before he can vanish, continuing to pester him about Froot Loops. 

“Going home,” Renjun says, “we’re going out tonight, by the way. Turns out Taeyong is an econ major, and also a former frat president.” 

“Huh,” Chenle says, “I can’t believe neither Donghyuck or me know him.” 

Renjun shrugs. “I need to finish a couple projects since nothing will get done tomorrow.” He grins. “See you guys later.” 

“Bye Renjun,” you say, tapping your phone screen to check the notifications. 

[Na Jaemin] in the library  [Na Jaemin] lost in the library  [Na Jaemin] nvm found the stairs 

[yn] need me to come find you? 

[Na Jaemin] nah i don’t get lost (yes please) 

“You’re texting with Jaemin?” Chenle breathes over your shoulder, making you drop your phone. Unfortunately it’s still open, your messages easy to read and Chenle doesn't hesitate to snatch it. At least the rest of the guys left, only Chenle is nosy enough to wonder who you’re texting. 

“This is painful,” he announces. He hands the phone back to you. “You could at least add an emoji. Or, like, send more than one sad message.” 

“Why?” 

Chenle shakes his head. “You are texting the Jaemin, right? Na Jaemin?” 

“Is there any other?”  

“You’ve got a chance here,” Chenle continues, ignoring your question. “Not many people—well, I’ve actually heard he’s quite experienced but that’s beside the point, because you have a chance and that’s rare.” 

“Genuinely, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You glance at the door, just in case Jaemin appears. Somehow you don’t think you want him overhearing this conversation. 

“Okay, look,” Chenle says, “you’re you. Student council, 4.0 GPA, plans to be the next director of the WHO or whatever—”

“That’s not at all what I want.” 

“—never a second you aren’t working, and then there’s Jaemin, and sure he’s a STEM major too, but the he’s type that strolls through life, who has things fall into his lap because he’s hot and lucky but you can’t really be mad about it because he’s Jaemin.” He pauses, like that explains everything. But you already know that Jaemin exists in a realm outside your own. Chenle waits a moment longer then shakes his head. “You know what, you’ll figure it out eventually.” He glances at you with a frown. “Maybe.” 

“Good bye, Chenle,” you say pointedly. 

He moves extra slow, closing his laptop only after spamming the save button. He once forgot to save a spreadsheet after a two hour budgeting session and you think he’s still traumatized. Still, spending a full thirty seconds hitting CTRL + S is excessive even for him—he’s stalling, trying to be as nosy as ever. 

“I’m meeting him at the elevator so you can stop stalling,” you say. You hover over the send button, Chenle’s “advice” infecting your brain. You hit send before you can overthink it any more. 

[yn] on the way now 👍 

Chenle sighs, returning to peeking over your shoulder. “You’re hopeless.” 

You grin and give him a thumbs up. “Thanks buddy. If you hurry you can run into him in the elevators.” 

Chenle perks up, grabbing his still-open bag and sprinting out the door. You feel a little bad for lying to him, but he was the one that didn’t read Jaemin’s messages closely enough—evident from missing the fact that he’s on his way up the stairs and how Chenle thinks he might actually be flirting with you. You shake your head at the thought. 

Just when you reach the doorway to the stairs and wonder if you should meet him in the stairwell, the door flies open. Despite climbing three flights of stairs, Jaemin breathes normally. A different backpack than usual is sling over his back, bright orange, like… well, an orange. (Persimmon, your brain unhelpfully supplies). 

“Hi,” he says. “Sorry I’m late.” You wonder how anyone is immune to his smiles. A smile like that robs you of everything irreplaceable and leaves you missing it as soon as it’s gone. 

“You’re not late,” you say, showing him the time on your phone as you walk to the council room. “Exactly on time.” 

“Oh.” He glances at you, and when you turn your phone back to face you, you understand the awkwardness. 

[Chenle] good luck 🤪🤪🤪

[Chenle] have fun with the hottie 🔥🔥🔥

[Chenle] but not too much fun 😼😼

You clear your throat, praying he didn’t get a chance to read all of the messages. “Chenle’s just making fun of my emoji use. Or lack of emoji use.” 

Jaemin nods. “I hate to take the side of someone I’ve never met over you, but he might be right.” 

“I use a perfectly respectable amount of emojis,” you say. “Besides, I’ve never seen you use any.” 

“You’re just going to have to text me more to find out.” 

You’ve never been so happy to see the doors to the council room. It’s nothing more than a glorified study room, with a rectangular table that stretches in the middle of the room, eight wooden seats set around it. A giant whiteboard stretches the majority of the back wall. The only truly special part of the room is the projector that hangs from the ceiling, with a screen that needs a button to come down. The walls that line the hallway are glass, along with the doors, so that anyone can see the council discussions, though tucked away in the back corner of the third floor, only the occasional passerby is subject to the bickering. 

Jaemin raises his eyebrows and whistles. “This is nice.” 

“Don’t lie,” you say. “The only nice thing about it is that we have full access to it whenever we want.” You point to the sign that reads Student Council Members Only. Truthfully, the six of you use it more as a private study room than for actual council work. 

“It is nice,” Jaemin says, holding the door open for you. He pauses in front of the whiteboard. Chenle had been sitting closest to it, apparently spending the final thirty minutes of the meeting drawing out different game plans for the basketball club he somehow has time for. 

“Chenle,” you explain, “he thinks he’s a part of the Golden State Warriors.” 

“How much council work actually gets done in these meetings,” he says teasingly. 

“You catch on fast,” you say. “It took me the full first year to realize how incompetent we are.” 

“How come?” 

“The president just wanted resume padding. He was incredible at sucking up to faculty and making the right people think he was a great leader, but he would send us fresh-terns to pick up condoms and sent Donghyuck with a fake to get drinks once.” 

“Fresh-tern?” 

“The freshman interns,” you explain, “since the president is the only elected position and the rest of the council is appointed, the only way to get known is through the ‘internship,’ which technically is open to anyone but only freshman are dumb enough to dedicate that much time to a job that does absolutely nothing—like, it doesn’t pay or even guarantee you a spot on the council in the future. It’s all based on whether the president likes you or not. 

“Anyway, our president last year was marginally better, and he tried to abolish the seniors-only president rule but couldn’t get it to pass in time, so we ended up with Mark. Not that Mark is a bad president, though council meetings could be half as long if he wouldn’t go on tangents every two minutes.” You stop, realizing how much you’re talking. You’ve come dangerously close to telling him the truth about the presidency. Jaemin says nothing, probably bored. “Anyways, we’ve got a few new initiatives this year but mostly we try to maintain the annual events and keep Mark’s head on his shoulders until he graduates.” 

“Sounds like fun,” Jaemin says. 

“Sometimes.” You pause. “How’s your application going, by the way?” 

He glances at you, smile fading a little. He turns back to the whiteboard, this time studying the fading drawing Renjun made a month ago of a goat fighting Donghyuck. “Still figuring things out. Mostly working on my campaign goals.” 

You nod. A part of you wants to press further, learn more about his plans—but because you want to beat him or because it’s Jaemin? Why is it so difficult to think clearly around him? 

You sit at the table and open your laptop, pulling out your notes. He sits beside you, scraping the chair against the tile floors until his knee is an inch away from yours. He must not notice the way your breath catches in your throat when he leans closer. A moment later and your brain is invaded by his scent, a clean smell like laundry detergent or body wash. 

“It’s organized by subject,” you explain. “Usually I take notes in class and then Renjun reviews and organizes it with keywords and highlighting and this coding system that I don’t really get but he swears by. Either way it works for us.” You show him the keyword that Renjun uses to signify exam hints, combining it with the past class’s date to cross reference the relevant information. 

Jaemin lets out a low whistle. “This is crazy.” 

“Yeah,” you say, “Renjun puts a lot of time into it. But when we study for exams, it’s worth it.” 

“You know Renjun from student council?” He asks, beginning to type a few notes. 

“I guess that’s where I met him first,” you say. “But he’s pretty much my best friend. The whole student council is pretty close, way closer than the group Mark came into. He tells us horror stories about how they made the fresh-terms compete just to turn them against each other, though that’s back when it was filled with poli-sci majors.” 

“None of you are poli-sci?” 

“I’m public health,” you say, “and Mark is poli-sci, but the rest of the guys avoided it. We swore that the next council would be free of the plague of poli-sci majors.” 

“You really hate them?” 

“They deserve it,” you say. “But also it’s because I made the mistake of dating one last year.” You shudder at the memory. 

“Really?” Jaemin looks away from his laptop, staring at you instead. 

“Don’t make fun of me,” you whine. “It was a moment of weakness and he confessed to me with cookies.” 

“Not making fun,” Jaemin says. “Were the cookies at least homemade?” 

“Well, yes.” You shake your head, trying to stop the next bit from coming out. But Jaemin raises his eyebrows and you can’t help it. “He had his ex make them, actually.” 

“No!” 

“Yeah, and then dumped me for them after, like, two weeks, and the guys are all convinced that he cheated on me with them,” you say. “So, no, I don’t really like poli-sci majors.” 

“A good observation,” Jaemin says. His approval makes your cells glow—scientists could discover a new form of bioluminescence from within you. 

Jaemin continues to stare at you, eyes full of warmth. It’s so easy to get lost in them, glancing between the pure dark chocolate and fond smile on his lips. The change in light when your laptop screen fades snaps you out of it. 

You eye him. “Do you even need these?” 

“Nope,” Jaemin says. He grins at you. “Just an excuse to see you.” He turns back to the laptop and continues to copy your notes into his document. You turn around, giving him no chance to see the smile that creeps onto your face. You seriously need to get a grip. Jaemin needs to get a grip and realize that he can’t flirt with you like this, not without completely upsetting the balance of the universe. But even as the world slides sideways, you smile. 

.

.

“Nothing special.” That’s what Renjun said when you asked him what he wanted to do for his birthday. But March 23rd falls on a Friday this year, and everything snowballed from there. 

That’s how you find yourself wearing an outfit even the most lenient parents would dub inappropriate, wearing more body glitter than exists in the state of Utah, taking your fifth shot. 

“Sixteen more to go,” Renjun says, patting your back. Why you promised to match him shot for shot, you aren’t quite sure. You had reasoning, at some point. Definitely before the shots. 

At least you aren’t alone—Donghyuck curls his lip after his shot, lime slice snatched out of his hand by Mark before he can take it as a chaser. Mark laughs as he grimaces. 

 “What’s our motto?” Donghyuck shouts. 

“Two and three to infinity!” Mark shouts. 

“Nobody goes to the hospital!” You shout. 

“To the grave!” Renjun shouts. 

“Huh, I guess we should have coordinated that,” Donghyuck says. “I was thinking something more like ‘happy birthday Renjun.’” 

“Shoulda said something,” you say. You take a step to the couch, the world tilting to the side, though maybe it’s actually you because you stumble into the wall. It holds you up until you make it to the couch, sighing as you reach solid ground. A couple people sit next to you, friends of friends of Renjun whose names you don’t know regardless of the alcohol. 

“You’re YN, right?” The girl closer to you says, making you feel a little guilty for having no idea who they are. She beams when you nod. “I live in Apollo Hall, Karina is my RA, she says you aced biochem.”  

“Oh, yeah,” you say. “Who do you have?” 

“Professor Ahn,” she says. 

“He’s good,” you say, “I had him for a different class and he talks off topic all the time but if you visit him in his office hours once, he’ll remember and be more lenient on the research report. I can send you my notes, too, if you want.” 

She smiles even wider. “Really?” 

You nod, your brain sliding around your skull with the movement—not a good sign, only five shots into the challenge. 

The music changes, a Britney Spears song that Donghyuck must have slipped into the rotation. The girl’s friend drags her up to dance before you get the chance to ask for her name. 

Dancing sounds like so much fun, until you stand up and realize that you’ve been hydrated too well. Your bladder announces its need for attention much like the maintenance worker that fixed the leak in your shower—loud and last minute. 

You push your way through the people crowded at the edge of the room, making your way to the hallway where the bedrooms and, more importantly, bathroom are. You pass by a semi-familiar face flirting with a girl from Renjun’s study group, but your bladder gives no time for your brain to make connections of recognition, let alone time to wave. 

Finally, you break the crowd, ignoring the couple making out concerningly close to Donghyuck’s bedroom door (something you like to call “not my problem”). All your focus is on the door to the bathroom, a piece of lined notebook paper taped on with RESTROOM scribbled in marker. Just as you reach for the handle, the door swings inwards. 

You might have caught yourself, two or three shots ago. Instead you tumble forward, the floor coming to meet you fast. And then you aren’t. 

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” Jaemin says, laughing. He caught you by the elbows, your face pressed into his chest. He helps you straighten up, though he doesn’t let go of your arms. 

“Jaemin.” You grin at him. 

He tilts his head. “You’re drunk.”  

“You’re pretty,” you say. Jaemin tilts his head and smiles at you. Endearing. Endearing, that Jaemin has an amused expression on his face. Like he is endeared by you. How funny. 

But he really is pretty. He must be hot in the leather jacket, loose over his broad shoulders. Yes, those broad shoulders. He’s hot too. But first, he’s pretty. His black hair falls just above his eyes, loosely split down the middle, framing the perfect angles of his face–the perfect line of his nose, gentle curve of his cheekbones, that jawline–and of course those lips. Perfect lips. 

Jaemin leans closer. “You’re prettier.” 

You burst into laughter, stopping only when you snort. “You almost sound serious.” 

Jaemin doesn’t say anything else, still smiling at you, only a couple inches of space between you. Ignoring those lips this close is impossible. They’re the prettiest shade of pink, and he must have put on lip balm–or maybe it’s the lighting–because they glow. What do they feel like? They have to be soft—you’d bet everything in your pocket (if these pants had pockets) he tastes sweet. Like a fruit, a yummy, juicy fruit, dripping with juice, which reminds you—pee. 

You push past Jaemin, into the bathroom. “Need to pee.” 

He catches his hand on the door before you can close it, frowning a little. “You’re not going to slip and crack your head open?” 

“Nope,” you say. “Really need to pee.” He lets go of the door and you slam it shut, using one hand on the counter to steady yourself while you fumble with the lock. After an eternity, you finally get to the toilet, which, despite the number of people crowded in a house of two college guys, isn’t totally disgusting. 

Two minutes, an empty bladder, and clean hands later, you push the door open. Your balance has improved just enough for you to feel confident in your ability not to die on the dance floor—and with perfect timing because Break Your Heart by Taio Cruz just started playing. You find Donghyuck in the middle of the room and join him, grinning when he cheers. 

Renjun appears halfway through the next song, shots in hand. More of the tequila ends up on the ground than in your stomach by the time you knock it back but Renjun shouts, “Six!” anyways. 

Another 2000s hit plays (it’s definitely Chenle’s playlist, which reminds you that you haven’t seen him in a while) and you get Renjun to stay on the dance floor for the full song. It’s hot and sweaty and you wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world. 

Donghyuck cheers again, hyping up the people that join your little circle. You turn to see Jeno, wearing a piece of fabric that technically could be called a shirt though it really looks like a hole for his head that’s completely open at the sides except for the ties at the bottom. Beside him, and right next to you, Jaemin grins at you. He throws an arm over your shoulder, pulling you against his side. 

“And I was like baby, baby, baby, oh!” You shout along with the song, vaguely aware of the rest of the guys singing along—except for Jaemin, who waits for Ludacris’s verse to come in to rap it word for word. 

Renjun drags you away before the next song can start. “Number seven,” he shouts in your ear over the bass. 

“What about Donghyuck?” You glance behind you where he starts a full performance, an empty water bottle as a microphone. 

Renjun shrugs. “He’ll catch up.” 

You watch Renjun struggle to pour the tequila, holding the bottle with two hands off the edge of the counter to get the mouth as close to the paper shot cups as possible. You can’t see how much tequila actually makes it into the cups but it burns its way down, sending your stomach spinning. Only a third of the drinks you are supposed to take with him but you’re already questioning the next round. 

Renjun gets dragged away from you by some people you aren’t even sure are actually his friends, but you lose track of him when someone tugs on your hand. Jaemin, again. He lost his jacket at some point, wearing a shirt that matches Jeno’s, showing off his considerable arms. Even in the poor lighting from the strobe lights Donghyuck set up, you can see the definition in his biceps. 

Yeah, you’re definitely staring. 

Jaemin asks something but you can’t hear him over the music. You step closer, stumbling a little on your own feet. As always, he catches you, arm sliding around your waist. 

“How are you doing?” He shouts over the music. 

You grab his other forearm to keep yourself from falling over. “I’m so hungry.” 

Jaemin leans closer, lips brushing against your ear. “Wanna get out of here?” You raise your eyebrows at him and he grins. “The McDonald’s, across the street?” 

“I need French fries,” you say, letting go of his arm and spinning out of his embrace to face the door. He catches you before you can go too far (and fall on your face), looping his elbow through yours. 

As soon as the door closes behind you, everything falls silent. Not everything, because you can still hear the bass from inside the house, and cicadas sing, and the highway is close enough to hear the rumbling of engines passing by. But quiet falls in the space between you and Jaemin, a breath waiting to fall free. 

He doesn’t let go over your arm, using his other hand to brace the three steps in front of Donghyuck and Renjun’s place. He leans on you as much as you lean on him, magnets stuck to each other, except magnets don’t struggle to stay upright crossing an empty street. Maybe if they could get drunk. 

The street light flickers above you, crackling electricity. You can feel Jaemin’s bare arm against yours, firm muscle held taut. You peek at the boy beside you, his head tilted to the sky. Pretty. You won’t say it again for fear of being repetitive, but it’s the right word for this moment. Not just Jaemin, but the chilly night air, the faulty light above you fighting with the neon lights to illuminate your breath. You’ll blame the alcohol in the morning, but tonight it’s all pretty. 

Jaemin swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and he turns to meet your eyes. It’s definitely the alcohol but you don’t look away. 

The crosswalk changes to the white man, beeping at you to cross the street. You tear your eyes away from him, settling for clinging to his arm to make it past the striped crosswalk illuminated by headlights. 

You’re hardly the only drunk couple at McDonald’s. Jaemin notices you limping a little and drops you off in a booth, stumbling on his own to order. You must have done something dancing, though you don’t remember anything hurting. Your ankle hurts now, so you lean your head into your elbow and watch Jaemin’s back. 

The fluorescent lights can’t make him look sickly. They show his arms in their full glory, open sides revealing enough of his body to make you self-conscious. The hint of a farmer’s tan dusts his arms, shoulders just a shade lighter than his forearms. Where did he get that from? 

So many questions about him. So much to know. So little you do know but you like him so much it gets so hard to tell. What matters. 

Jaemin puts his wallet into his back pocket, turning around and smiling when he meets your gaze. He slides into the seat across from you. “Potatoes are incoming.” 

“Do you know what persimmons taste like?” 

“What?” His brow furrows, a cute frown that makes you forget what you’d asked. 

“Never mind,” you mumble. Opening your mouth any more around him is a dangerous game—you aren’t quite sure what will spill out. 

He reaches out to tap his finger on your arm. Like the sun, being in his atmosphere makes everything warmer, his touch boiling your skin. The heat flows through your body, each cell vibrating with the need for something. 

“You feeling okay?” 

It takes considerable concentration to work past his finger, which has graduated to drawing shapes, and answer him. “Renjun wanted to do twenty-one shots for his birthday but seven is beyond enough.” 

Jaemin whistles. “Is Renjun going to survive tonight?” 

“Probably not,” you mumble. “That opens up a council position. You could be a good social media person. Your face is pretty enough.” 

“Is that the only requirement for student council?” Jaemin asks. “Being pretty?” 

“You can’t be a poli-sci major either,” you say, “which you pass. It helps that you’re smart, and kind. I like people that are smart and kind.” 

“That’s a low bar,” Jaemin says. “What else do you like?” 

“Hm…” Your voice rumbles, a funny feeling in the back of your throat. You hum for a little longer before you remember Jaemin asked you a question. What do you like? 

“Sharks. They’re much cooler than dolphins. And potatoes, I love potatoes. I like Renjun. And Donghyuck. And Mark, even though he’s a poli-sci major. I like Chenle and Jisung. They might be my favorite people.” And you. I like you so much I don’t know how to say it. 

“What about doctors?” Jaemin leans closer, intertwining his fingers with yours. “Do you like doctors?” 

You lift your head up, pouting your lips at him. “Doctors have needles. I don’t like needles.” 

Jaemin laughs. “Even if the doctor is super rich?” 

“Rich? From taking all my money?” You cry. 

“Rich from saving people’s lives,” he says. “Like a neurosurgeon.” 

You squint at him, the blurriness of your eyelashes mixing with the blurriness of the alcohol and canceling out until his face becomes clear. “Are you actually pre-med because of Grey’s Anatomy?” 

Jaemin looks away, running a hand to the back of his neck. “Maybe.” His biceps are almost enough to distract you from his admission. Almost. 

“Oh my god.” You can’t hold back the giggles, trying to cover your mouth with your hand. Tears prick at your eyes and you gasp for breath, stomach twisting the alcohol with the giggles and turning over itself until you aren’t sure if you’re starving or need to throw up. 

“It’s a perfectly respectable career!” Jaemin says. 

“You want to be Patrick Dempsey?” You say between giggles. “Not even McSteamy?” 

“Hey, he’s—wait, you watch it too?” 

You shrug. “It’s fun.” 

“Then how are you making fun of me!” He cries. 

“I didn’t go into medicine because of it!” 

Before he can say anything else, the workers shout a number. He glances at the receipt and shoots you a glare without a drop of malice in his eyes and leaves. 

Jaemin being silly. Jaemin bickering with you. Hard to believe that even two weeks ago, you never would have believed he watched children’s shows in class and chose his profession because of a soap opera. Jaemin who keeps surprising you, who makes you want to believe that maybe he’s from the same planet as you after all. 

He brandishes the brown paper bag in front of him like treasure. What does it matter that you’re grinning because of him and not the golden treats inside?

“For you,” he says, setting the bag in front of you and tilting it on its side so you can reach inside for the fries. “I didn’t know what sauce, so I fought… Okay, maybe flirted with the worker, but the important part is that I got one of each.” He pauses glancing at you. “Which apparently you don’t need.” 

“So good,” you say, eating them properly: no sauce, just freshly fried golden perfection. You look up to find Jaemin smiling at you… fondly? Is that what’s in his eyes? 

“What?” 

He shakes his head. “You’re just cute.” 

You stare at him, fry halfway to your mouth. He looks down, the tips of his ears tinted red as he grabs a fry and dips it in honey mustard. 

The rest of your time at McDonald’s is dedicated to properly enjoying the French fries and not at all sneaking glances at Jaemin sneaking glances at you. You finish the fries long before the swirly feeling in your stomach goes away. The butterflies must be drunk too. 

“Back to Renjun’s?” Jaemin asks, standing up and extending a hand for you to take. The most dangerous handhold of your life. You don’t think twice about taking it. 

“Mm, I’m pretty tired,” you say, “and Renjun was pretty adamant about the twenty-one shots thing. If we go back, he won’t let me go until one of us is in the hospital.” Walking is easy when Jaemin lets you lean on his shoulder. Standing just outside the McDonald’s, your shadows stretch ten times as tall as you, the lines between you and Jaemin undefined. 

Jaemin raises an eyebrow. “You aren’t worried about him?” 

“He swore to send Donghyuck to the grave before him, he’ll be fine,” you say, “plus Jisung is there, sober. They’ll be fine.” 

“And you?” 

“I’ll be fine when I get home.” You tilt your head up from his shoulder only for him to look down at you, his nose brushing against yours. Your breath catches in your throat, heart pounding. But you don’t move away and neither does he. 

“Take me home?” 

He doesn’t move for a heartbeat, eyes flickering to your lips. Then he turns his head straight, patting your head with his free hand a couple times. “Okay.” 

You whisper directions, a ten minute walk from Renjun’s place. The walk home is considerably less stumbly, your balance recovered halfway through the fries. You cling to Jaemin’s arm anyway, more afraid of letting him go than falling. 

The building appears far too quickly, Jaemin pushing open the glass doors and walking you to the elevators. You don’t dare say a word to break the silence as the elevator dings to the third floor. He waits until you reach your door to disentangle himself from you, standing with the tips of his sneakers a millimeter away from yours, catching your hands in his. 

“Goodnight, YN,” he says. 

No. This isn’t the time for goodnight, not when every atom in your body might explode if he takes a step away. You tighten your fingers around his. 

“Do you want to come in?” You ask. “See my apartment?” 

He tilts his head, a little frown creasing his brow. “Okay.” 

You fumble with your keys, hands shaking when you open the door. Emotions swirl around you, making it difficult to tell the difference between excitement and anxiety, if it exists. Calling the place an apartment is a bit of a stretch. Glorified broom closet is your preferred term–a bed shoved against the far wall with a tiny window next to it, desk tucked in next to it like a puzzle piece without enough space for a chair, a door for your bathroom, directly next to the “kitchen” of a stovetop oven and sink, and a closet that barely fits your coats.

Beyond being tiny, you left the place a mess, second, third, and fourth contenders for outfits strewn on your bed, unwashed dishes in the sink. The entryway is the only space for the two of you to stand together comfortably but you lead Jaemin farther in, balling up the clothes and tossing them into your hamper underneath the bed. 

“I don’t normally have company,” you explain. 

“It’s okay,” he says, “my room’s a mess too.” He picks up the pink teddy bear from your bed and smiles. “A gift?” 

You shake your head. “Bought it myself for surviving sophomore year.” You pull the great white shark out from beneath a blanket. “Freshman year.” 

“Cute,” Jaemin says, still looking at the bear. 

You follow Jaemin as he wanders the tiny room. He pauses at a framed picture of the student council that sits on your desk. It was a gift from last year’s graduating cabinet, the whole group, president, appointed cabinet, unofficial members, and the fresh-terns, fifteen people in total. 

“That one’s my ex,” you say, the word still strange in your mouth. “If you count two weeks as even dating.” 

“The one in red?” 

You nod. 

Jaemin snorts. “I’m way hotter than him.” He sets the picture and turns, and suddenly only a couple inches of space separate him from you. This close, you can see exactly how pretty he is, long eyelashes that cannot be natural, even longer when he stares at his toes instead of meeting your eyes. And, this close, you can see the soft pink of his lips, lower lip jutting out just a tiny bit. 

Not drunk, not yet sober, it’s easy to lean a little closer, brush your lips softly against his. The kiss is over before you can think about it. 

You open your eyes to Jaemin staring at you, eyes wide, somewhere between disbelief and fear. You open your mouth to apologize but he moves faster, hand coming up to cup your face and pulling you closer until you kiss him again, your hand instinctively catching you against his chest. He links his fingers with your free hand, tugging you even closer to him. 

He moves slow at first, a gentle kiss that takes your breath away anyway. He pulls away when the stars flood your brain, smile boyish and sweet. His thumb strokes your cheek into the shape of a heart. Then he slides his hands to the back of your neck, letting go over your other hand to wrap around your waist and pull you against his chest. 

Jaemin knows how to kiss. He moves like it’s his last chance, desperate lips telling truths words can’t capture. And you might not have as much experience, but you understand the language of desperation. A never ending chain of fireworks explode within you, pushing you to wrap your arms around his neck, kiss him even harder. Your hands move on their own, tugging at the cloth of his shirt until he leans back, breathing heavily. 

“How far you want to go?” He asks, chest rising and falling with each breath. “You know consent is so sexy.” 

You laugh, giddiness making it difficult to think. “You have a condom?” 

Jaemin grins, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. He slips the shiny packet out, tossing his wallet to the floor along with his shirt. He gives you a proper amount of time to ogle his chest before tugging you against him again, your heart pounding so hard against him he must feel it. 

He tilts your head towards his until his lips brush against yours, and when he speaks, you feel every word. “Now where were we?” 

.

.

[Na Jaemin] sorry I had to go :( [Na Jaemin] wish I could have been there when you woke up  [Na Jaemin] but! I have a surprise [Na Jaemin] [image attached] [Na Jaemin] see you in the morning <3 

You blink at the message, a picture of him wearing a fuzzy headband in the middle of his skincare routine. Your head pounds a little, but otherwise your hangover isn’t too bad. Definitely not the worst it’s ever been. 

No, the strange feeling in your stomach is something else. Last night is burned into your memory, every move, every touch. Jaemin, who you fell asleep beside, though the timestamp on the texts show he didn’t stay much longer after. Not that you expected him to. It’s Jaemin, you remind your traitorous heart. No matter how much he flirts, no matter what he did drunk, he was never yours. 

Your phone rings, but it isn’t Jaemin. 

“Hey,” Renjun says. 

“You sound awful,” you say, throat aching. 

“You’re one to talk,” Renjun says, “and you didn’t even get to double digits. Donghyuck out-drank you.” 

“And how’s Donghyuck doing?” 

“Throwing up in the shower, it sounds like.” 

You laugh, the motion, sending your stomach spinning. “Happy birthday Renjun.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, “I actually did call for a reason.” 

“I am not helping with clean up,” you say, “Chenle swore he’d do all of it since he bailed on set up.” 

“Not that,” Renjun says. “I’ll be over as soon as I can walk without passing out.” He hangs up, leaving you to frown at the empty screen. 

Well, considering how late he got back, Jaemin probably won't be awake any time soon. You need to shower and rehydrate and try to convince your stomach to take something—and with how Renjun sounded over the phone, it seems like you’ll have plenty of time. 

An hour later, slightly burnt toast, and post-Advil, the headache is mostly gone. Your stomach still twists at the thought of Jaemin. You jump at the doorbell but find Renjun wearing a mismatched sweatsuit and his bright orange crocs, glasses nearly sliding off the bridge of his nose. He wears the hood of his sweatshirt up but you can see tufts sticking up. 

“God, did you shower?” You catch a whiff as he passes by, reeking of tequila. 

“I was serious about coming over as soon as possible.” He groans, collapsing on your bed. “I think I maybe came over too early though. Might need to throw up.” 

“Do you want toast?” You offer. 

He glares at you. “Just sit.” Renjun rarely speaks with patience but today he seems extra short on it. Maybe because of the hangover, but the way he glares at the carpet before turning to look at you makes you wonder if something else is wrong. His eyes soften a little when he meets your eyes, his frown lightening just barely. 

“I really wish I didn’t have to tell you this,” he begins. “Did you go out with Jaemin last night?”

“He… took me home,” you say. “What’s wrong Renjun?” 

“Last night—well—this morning, I met some guys from Sigma Nu, who are friends with Jeno and Jaemin,” he says, “who were talking about how Jaemin is going to be president. About how he’s messing around with the frontrunner, trying to distract them or fuck around, trying to take the presidency.” He falls quiet, studying your face. 

“He wouldn’t.” Your voice feels so small. 

He wouldn’t, you said, but you can’t even convince yourself. Your heart flounders, drowning in a lake of its own creation, choking on fantasies. Your brain takes control in the chaos, gears turning despite the crashing waves. Facts don’t need oxygen. 

1) Jaemin approached you about the presidency first 

2) he pretended not to know you were running 

3) he’s known for hooking up with anyone 

4) he never belonged in your world 

The conclusion is obvious, a conclusion you could have come to much sooner if you weren’t too busy getting swept off your feet by his easy flirting and sweet smile. Though your heart doesn’t want to believe it, it makes too much sense. So much more sense than the hope you were stupid enough to believe in. Jaemin isn’t that type. How many of your friends told you that? How many times did you tell yourself that? But you let him hurt you anyway because he held your hand and called you cute. How quickly a fruit can rot when it sits in the palm of your hand. 

Jaemin doesn’t exist a universe away–he lives in your world, worse than a cliche. The type of boy that made you want to believe in him, even when you knew better from the start, and maybe that’s the worst part. He never hid who he was, what he wanted. It’s you that wanted more, that believed he could want something more. How pitiful. 

“I’m sorry,” Renjun says softly. “I wanted him to be different.” 

“Did you? Because everyone was telling me about how I needed to be careful, protect myself, not get hurt over him. Did any of you consider that I didn’t ever expect anything from him?” You shake your head. “No, you all thought poor little YN, getting their feet swept out from under themself over a boy that doesn’t give a shit about them? A boy that’s actively trying to stop them from achieving a dream they’ve had since they started college? Well, guess what? You all were right. Congratulations.” You bite your lip trying to hold back the tears but it’s too late. 

“I’m sorry,” Renjun repeats. He pats your arm, looking away when you swipe at your eyes. He waits for you to take a shaky breath, hand on your arm. You grab the teddy bear, trying not to hear Jaemin calling it cute. 

“I slept with him.” The admission burns its way up your throat. “Last night.” You sigh. “You don't have to tell me I’m an idiot.” 

“Okay, I wasn’t going to say that,” Renjun throws his arm over your shoulders. “Though I’m kind of regretting sitting on the bed.” He scoots a little forward but squeezes your shoulder. “You’re going to do things you regret, there’s no stopping it.” 

“Why do you always have to be right? Why am I exclusively attracted to shitty men?” Your chin digs into the innocent bear, jaw tightening. “Why can’t I just like a boy that likes me?” 

“Do you think maybe you liked him too much?” Renjun asks gently. “Like maybe you liked the idea of him more than Jaemin himself.” He pauses, squeezing your arm. “Don’t let a boy that isn’t real hurt you.” 

You lean into his touch, resting your head on his shoulder. “But he was real. Sweeter than persimmon. Like a strawberry. Or a mango.” 

“Okay, I’m not understanding.” 

“I thought he was a persimmon, a magic fruit I could imagine tasting sweet or sour or tart but he’s real and even though his flavor isn’t a mystery, it’s better than what I could have imagined. Like taking a bite of a pineapple and it’s the best pineapple you’ve ever had, juicy and sweet.”

“Okay first of all, that’s a terrible metaphor, please stop talking about how he tastes or I will throw up,” Renjun says. “Also persimmons are real.” 

“I know that,” you snap, “but I’ve never had one, so they’re magic to me.” You stare ahead, grateful Renjun knows when you just need a little bit of time to work up the courage to say what you need to say. “I’m saying you are right. I didn’t really like him, not at first. But it’s worse than that because when I did get to know him, it was so much better. He wasn’t a dream, he was a boy who watches Grey’s Anatomy and does skincare even after a night of partying.

“I know it makes more sense, that his flirting wasn’t real, that he was never really interested in me. But nothing real about him makes sense, and I want to believe in him, still.” You purse your lips. “Pretty pathetic, huh?” 

“You really liked him,” Renjun says, “that won’t just go away.” 

“That would be too easy,” you mutter. 

Renjun laughs. “You’re going to be fine. There are so many better men.” 

“That’s what you said last time,” you say. 

“And I was right,” Renjun says, “Jaemin is better than last time. Marginally. At least he isn’t a poli-sci major.” 

You snort. 

“See, you’re already laughing at him.” Renjun pushes you off his shoulder, standing up and groaning. “Now, I’m going to throw up in your bathroom, and then we can watch dumb action movies until your brain rots. The rest of the guys are supposed to come over, though I think Donghyuck is still throwing up.” 

You bury your face into the bear. “Does everyone know?” 

Renjun pauses. “The guys from this morning were sort of proud to be the ones to tell us.” 

You groan. The door to your bathroom closes but you barely hear it. You clutch the bear a little tighter, as if the fluff could break through your chest and fill the spilling hole in your heart. 

It would be too easy to blame Jaemin, to pretend like none of the pain is from your own stupidity. But you already told Renjun. You knew it from the start. 

Knocking at the door, a knock that means only one person. You wipe the tears from your eyes and take a deep breath that does nothing to steady your heart. 

“God, I was afraid I was waking you up.” Jaemin starts talking as soon as you open the door. He holds up a bag, a tray with two iced coffees and a hot cup. He looks unfairly good and, of course, he grins at you. “I wasn’t entirely sure what your hangover cure is, so I got hot and iced coffee, and there’s a breakfast sandwich and a donut and also these potato things, I really wasn’t sure what you’d like, but–” 

“Did you know that I was running for president?” 

Jaemin freezes, frown slowly curling his brow. “What are you–”

“Just answer the question.” You grip the door handle, knuckles turning white. 

He pauses a moment too long. “It’s not like that.” 

“Never talk to me again.” You fight the urge to slam the door, but your neighbors don’t have to suffer your wrath. You shake your head, “I can’t believe I fell for your bullshit.” 

Jaemin opens his mouth but you close the door, sliding the deadlock as hard as you can. He has the audacity to try to explain himself. If you didn’t want to hear him out so badly, you might laugh. Instead you turn your back on the door, sliding down it until you can rest your head on your knees and sob. 

.

.

Jaemin makes it halfway down the aisle of seats on Tuesday before you turn to Renjun, panic and tears in your eyes. He glares at Jaemin so hard he freezes in his tracks and doesn’t try again. He doesn’t look at you in class, not even a peek. On Thursday, he walks straight to his seat. 

.

.

Chenle doesn’t bother to throw his packages into the recycling after opening them. He says he’s hanging onto them to make moving out easier, but really he’s just too lazy to break them down. You have to step around them to get into his apartment, since he thought it would be fun to make an obstacle course out of them. Navigating these sober is hard enough, you have no idea how he makes it to bed after a night out. 

But today, it’s worth it. It’s been two weeks since you cut off Jaemin, a month since the day you bumped into him in class (a month and three days but who’s counting?). He doesn’t look at you anymore. You haven’t fully escaped him–every once in a while you’ll hear his laugh from the other side of the lecture room. The sound still stabs between your ribs, a wound turned new each time you hear it. But it cuts a little more shallow each time. One day you won’t feel it at all. 

And today, Chenle got a puppy. 

She cries before you make it over the baby gate in Chenle’s room. A tiny ball of white fluff bounds toward you, tripping over her own feet. 

“Hi baby!” Your voice automatically rises three pitches looking at her. “Aren’t you just adorable!” You crouch down, letting her jump on your knees. She won’t sit still long enough to be pet, sprinting around your feet, then back to Chenle sitting on the floor, back resting against his bed. 

“Hi to you, too,” Chenle says pointedly. 

“Hi Chenle,” you turn back to his puppy. “And hello puppy!” 

“Her name is Daegal,” he says. You can hear him rolling his eyes. “‘Cause she’s got a big ass head.” 

“Chenle is so mean to you!” You coo at the puppy at your feet. “But that’s okay, I’ll take good care of you. You can come home with me!” 

“You hear that baby?” Chenle says. “YN wants to pay me $1000 to take care of you!” 

You stare at him. “Did you seriously adopt a $1000 puppy?” 

He shrugs. “She’s really cute.” 

“You’re insane.” Daegal settles down enough to let you pat her head. 

“I invite you into my home for some much needed puppy love and this is how you treat me?” Chenle sighs. “To think that I felt bad for you, that I told you about her before anyone else. This is how I get treated for my kind heart.” 

“I don’t need your pity,” you say. Daegal licks your hand. 

“It’s not pity.” He pauses. “Well I guess it is pity, but you’re also my friend YN. Believe it or not, watching you live the sad boy lifestyle over some dude, again, is not fun. I’d much rather watch you being happy with my puppy.” 

“You’re the one who brought it up,” you mutter. 

Chenle claps his hands, making Daegal jump. “But that does remind me, everyone has been too much of a coward to ask, but I’ve heard from tertiary sources about his reputation, but I’d love a first hand account.” 

“What are you talking about?” You eye him. 

“How was the sex?” 

“You’re seriously asking me that?” 

He shrugs. “Well, yeah.” 

You pick up Daegal, staring at her instead of Chenle. She wiggles her tail, then her paws, so you set her back down. “I’m not answering that.” 

Chenle narrows his eyes, studying you. “That means it was good.” 

“That’s not at all what I said.” 

“And yet you’re not denying it.” 

“Please shut the fuck up.” 

For once he listens. With Renjun, silence means peace–he doesn’t say anything that doesn’t matter. When Chenle doesn’t speak, it means he has something to say and he isn’t sure how to say it. You peek up at him and your suspicions are confirmed. He chews on his lip, frowning at you. 

“Just tell me.” 

Chenle purses his lips. “He dropped out.” 

“Of school?” 

He rolls his eyes. “The election.” 

You stare at him. “Seriously?” 

“He hasn’t touched his application since Renjun’s birthday and Donghyuck said yesterday he emailed and said he wasn’t going forward with it.” He doesn’t say anything about how technically you should be checking the email. 

“But it doesn’t make any sense.” 

Chenle shrugs. “I’m just telling you what I was told.” He stands up. “Now! How much do you like cleaning up dog pee?” 

You glance down at Daegal, who squats in the middle of the room, a dark stain on the carpet beneath her. Chenle tosses you some paper towels and a can of Febreeze. 

“Why am I cleaning up after your dog?” 

“Because you tried to steal her,” he says, “and I’ve already done this three times today and I’m really sick of it.” 

You shake your head but pull off a paper towel and press it into the stain. 

“We’re going out tomorrow night, by the way,” Chenle says. “And you’ve passed two weekends in a row so you’ve hit a cap for the month. You have to come with, no ‘buts.’” 

Apparently the grace period of pity is over. Whatever, it’ll be nice to do something other than hiding in your room watching Powerpuff Girls. And maybe you will see him. Maybe you’ll get an answer to the giant question mark that’s lodged itself in your heart when Chenle told he dropped out. Maybe the little caterpillar of hope that’s survived these past few weeks can metamorphize. 

And maybe he’ll break your heart again. But you won’t get any answers daydreaming. 

.

.

How Renjun can still drink Tequila, you truly do not understand. Ever since his birthday, the thought of it makes your stomach flip, and you didn’t even drink that much. But he sips on the margarita, insisting it doesn’t taste like alcohol. 

“It’s disgusting,” you say, pushing it closer to him. “I am not drinking this.” 

He rolls his eyes. “You do realize the whole gimmick of this place is all their drinks are made with tequila, right?” 

“No one told me that!” You glare at Chenle, who showed up at your door at exactly 8:00pm and dragged you to the bar. “For the record, I would have pre-gamed. But I guess I can be the babysitter tonight.” 

Chenle cheers. “Donghyuck, you’re back in! YN is babysitting!” 

Your drink slides down the table to Donghyuck, interrupting whatever ‘conversation’ he was having with Jisung. 

“I thought the whole point of dragging you out was to make you have fun,” he says. 

“You better be fun, then,” you say. 

Donghyuck raises his eyebrows but eventually take a long sip. “Brain freeze!” He cries, clutching his forehead. You laugh with the rest of the guys. It’s almost normal, except you can’t help but peek at the door whenever somebody walks in. 

The night passes and the guys get more drunk. The bar gets more crowded–soon you are squished between Renjun and Chenle, barely able to breathe as the music slowly gets louder. The tequila looks more and more appealing but the guys need at least one person sober to make it back alive: Chenle arm wrestles a stranger while Donghyuck has some poor soul cornered, practicing his pick up lines. 

When Chenle loses, you push past him, muttering something about fresh air that they probably can’t hear. You push through the crowd of drunk people, trying not to remember the last time you did this. 

You squint at the steps, edges difficult to see with so little light. Who builds a bar on the second floor of a building? You make it to the final step but misjudge how close it is and your foot slips off the edge, sending you tumbling forward. You might have caught yourself, but you don’t have to—strong arms catch you mid fall, wrapping around your waist and swinging you clean off the stairs and onto solid ground. You aren’t surprised at all to look into Jaemin’s eyes as he lets go. 

He frowns at you, eyes so dark they look black. Maybe it’s the lack of light, but the twinkle in his eyes, the glint you’ve come to recognize as trouble, is missing. 

“Hi,” you say. 

He drops his arms, stuffing his hands into his back pockets. “So you’re talking to me now?” 

An apology begins on your lips but you can’t push it out. Not when you still don’t understand. “Can we talk?” 

He glances at you. “Have you been drinking?” 

You shake your head.  

“Okay.” He doesn’t walk away, folding his arms over his chest. 

When you imagined this conversation, the sun shined so that you could see the warmth in his eyes. He smiled at you, called you silly for ever doubting him. The Jaemin in your head wouldn’t ever do something to hurt you. 

But Jaemin doesn’t exist in your head–it’s far past time you learned that. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I shouldn’t have just cut you off. But I thought… I don’t know what I thought, let alone what I think now.” You force yourself to meet his cold eyes, searching for a hint of warmth. “Chenle told me you dropped out of the presidency.” 

He nods slowly. 

“But Renjun told me that someone told him that the presidency is the only reason you ever pretended to like me, but if you dropped out then I really don’t get it. Not that I ever got it in the first place, though, because you’re you and I’m me, and everyone kept telling me that, like I didn’t already know that you are supposed to be a persimmon and grow on a tree far far away from my lemon or pomegranate or whatever kind of fruit I am, because the point is we were never meant to be.” You take a deep breath, realizing that you don’t exactly sound sane. “What I’m trying to say is that it doesn’t make sense. It made sense when you were trying to cheat me out of the presidency, but you dropped out. And it doesn’t make sense.” 

Jaemin blinks slowly at you. “You would rather believe that I was trying to rob your presidency than that I actually like you?” 

“Do you?” 

He frowns. “Of course I do. I like you so much I think about things I’ve never wanted before, the silly shit–watching horror movies as an excuse to cuddle, having picnics by the river, buying groceries together–I wanted to do all of it with you. 

“You talk a lot about how we’re different people—who gives a shit? If I’m the type of person that wants to be with you and you’re the type of person that wants to be with me, why does any of that matter?” He takes a step closer to you, and you can see you were wrong. His eyes aren’t cold, they’re full of emotion, dark waves of hurt. “What do I have to do to prove it to you? Should I tell you how pretty you are? How incredibly smart you are—not fake smart like me, but really smart. And when I’m around you, I like who I am. I know it’s cheesy but you bring out the best in me. 

“I know I fucked up. I should have told you how I felt before anything else, and I shouldn’t have left. I regretted it as soon as I was gone but it was terrifying to lay next to you and give you my bare heart, even when I didn’t think you would ever try to hurt me.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know if it hurts more thinking that you never wanted a relationship or thinking that I’d ever stoop that low. I mean, everyone tells me about my reputation, but I didn’t think you cared about any of that.” 

Tears prick at your eyes. How could you be such an idiot? Listening to all the wrong people, especially yourself. Jaemin doesn’t exist in another world, he isn’t any kind of fruit. He’s a boy that you like that likes you back. It doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, reaching a tentative hand out to rest against his arm. “I’m so sorry.” He drops his head, sighing. “I was an idiot.” 

He sighs, staring at your hand. You start to drop it but he grabs it, squeezing your fingers. “Where do we go from here?” 

You study him, eyes finally adjusted to the darkness. Jaemin who is not a fruit, not an alien, just a boy. 

“Hey.” You reach out and cup his cheek, waiting for him to meet your eyes. “My name is YN. I think you’re really cute.” 

For a heartbeat he doesn’t move. Then he smiles, cheek rising underneath your hand. “Hey, my name is Jaemin. I think you’re really cute too.” 

“Oh really?” You slide your hand to the back of his neck, wrapping your other arm across it. His arms wrap on your waist, pulling you into a hug. He squeezes you flush against him, head tucked into your shoulder just as yours is tucked into his. 

“I know we can’t start over,” he says, “but can we start again?” 

“How about this time we just talk to each other?” You say, tapping your fingers on his shoulder. “No more rumors and gossip.” 

He nods, chin digging into your neck a little. “I swear, I won’t give you any reason to doubt me ever again. I won’t be the kind of guy your friends call a red flag.” 

You loosen your grip and lean back to look him in the eye. “Wait, did they seriously say that to you?” 

“I ran into Donghyuck after I dropped out and we had a very… one sided conversation with his side doing all the talking,” Jaemin says, “and Renjun made it obvious from the start that he didn’t like me.” 

You laugh a little, then even more when he pouts. “You’ll win them over again.” 

“They really don’t like me,” he says. 

You cup his cheek again. “You’ll change their minds.” He leans into your touch, closing his eyes. You lean forward, resting your forehead against his. He gasps a little, hands tightening on your waist. 

“Now, am I remembering incorrectly, or are you an amazing kisser?” You ask. 

He grins, leaning forward and closing the distance without wasting a second. Neither of you can stop smiling, lips and teeth gnashing together but it’s still the best kiss you’ve ever had. 

.

.

You stretch an arm out, only to find more bed instead of empty space. You sit up, shivering as the blanket falls away. Right, you fell asleep in Jaemin’s bed. His room is much bigger than yours, sharing an apartment with Jeno. He has enough room for a dresser and a nicer desk, even a chair. It seems he lied to you about being messy, because even when you show up unannounced, like today, his clothes are neatly folded and the biggest mess you’ve found has been three dirty dishes in the sink (which you later found out were Jeno’s). 

Jeno, apparently, isn’t all bad–he did let you in even though your boyfriend was still out. He doesn’t fully trust you, but then again, your friends don’t hide their mistrust of Jaemin either. You maintain your earlier stance that time will heal that wound. 

You hear a knife against a cutting board coming from the kitchen, so you wrap the blanket around your shoulders and shuffle towards the sound, unable to stop the smile from spreading up your lips when you turn the corner and find Jaemin standing at the counter. He glances behind him and grins at you, and even though you just woke up from a nap and probably have messy hair and marks on your face, he says, “you look sexy.” 

“So cheesy,” you say. He laughs and turns back around. You slip behind him and wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his back and closing your eyes. He radiates warmth better than any blanket. It’s too easy to lean against him, take a deep breath of the scent of his laundry detergent and cling to him. Jaemin moves slowly, careful not to hit you by accident. 

“What’re you doing?” 

“A surprise,” he says, “at least my attempt at one.” He sets down the knife on the counter and taps on your hands, pulling them apart gently and spinning around to face you before setting your hands back on his waist. He tilts his head at you when you purse your lips and frown. “What’s wrong?” 

“Still no ass,” you say, patting him a little lower than his waist. 

“Hey!” He sticks his lower lip out. “I’m trying.” 

“No one’s perfect,” you say, sliding your hands back up and sneaking a kiss to his cheek. 

“You are,” he says, cupping your face to kiss you properly. Jaemin still kisses like it’s his last chance, drawing out every moment, lips lingering on yours until your head spins. It’s only when you can’t breathe that he finally pulls away.  

“Good answer,” you say. 

He smiles. “If you come to the gym with me I’d be more motivated to get an ass you’d be proud of.” 

“You send enough pictures for me to know that if I saw you at the gym I would never survive,” you say. “You want me to die?” 

He laughs, squishing your face together with his hands. “If anyone’s going to die, it’s going to be me, because you are too cute.” 

He presses another kiss to your lips, still squished together in a pout. He laughs at the outrage on your face, letting go of your cheeks and slipping his hands behind your neck, kissing you one more time for real, letting go far too early. 

“The surprise,” he says. He lets go of you with one arm, turning to the cutting board and holding up a slice of what he was cutting. It looks a little bit like a tomato, though it’s more orange than red, and about the size of a golf ball. 

“A persimmon?” 

“I still don’t really get the persimmon thing,” he says, “but I’ve never tried one.” 

You blink at him. Jaemin makes it so easy to fall in love. He holds the piece closer to your mouth, waiting for you to open. A persimmon tastes sweet and mild and rich, a little bit like honey. Jaemin eats his own piece, frowning and nodding. 

“No more magical mystical fruit,” Jaemin says. 

“You’re going to make an amazing trophy husband,” you say. You tap him on the nose. “Maybe we could even be a power couple.” 

He grins. “We’ll be so cool. Like Beyoncé and her husband.” 

“Jay-Z?”

“Whatever.” Jaemin flips his hand. “The important part is that I am Beyoncé.” 

You smack his shoulders softly. “Hell no, Beyoncé would never have a flat ass.” 

“It always comes back to the ass.” He sighs. “Be honest: are you embarrassed by me?” 

Once you never thought he could be embarrassing. That was before you knew he staked his career on a soap opera and wears jorts to the gym, before he called you drunk just to confess he accidentally stole your pencil, before he spent three hours putting up campaign posters for you (and then another two getting written up by campus police for not having permission). Before you fell in love with him. 

“By you? Never.” You pat his cheeks. “Your ass leaves much to be desired, though.” 

Still, he chose not to bring it up. You didn't seem ready to talk about whatever was on your mind, and the last thing he wanted was to start another fight. Instead, he just wanted to make you feel better, even if only for a little while—to distract you from whatever was weighing you down.

Not to mention, it had been a while since you last saw each other. He wanted to have a pleasant night with his (admittedly mad) girlfriend. Chenle tried to push aside the fact that you had been acting this way for some time now, hoping that with his full attention, things would eventually go back to normal.

But that didn't quite happen.

What was supposed to be a nice dinner—filled with you telling him about your day or whatever was on your mind—turned into an uncomfortable evening of one-sided conversation. He kept trying, asking questions, making little comments, anything to get you to open up. But every effort was met with short, clipped responses, until eventually, he gave up. Exhausted from trying, he fell silent, letting the weight of the tension settle between you.

And that same silence lingered between you, stretching uncomfortably into the present moment. At this point, Chenle was certain this was because of something he did. It always was.

He didn't know what, not yet, but that familiar weight of inevitability settled in his chest. He could already feel it: this was going to lead to another fight.

You were like a pressure cooker, holding everything in, letting the steam build until you had no choice but to explode. And when you did, he knew he'd be caught in the middle of it.

Chenle tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, sneaking glances at you from the corner of his eye. The weight of your silence pressed down on him, making the drive feel longer than it actually was.

He hated this. Hated the distance, the invisible wall you had built between you two. With a quiet sigh, he finally spoke, his voice softer than usual.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong, or are we just going to sit in this awkward silence all night?"

You shifted in your seat, arms crossed over your chest, staring out the window as if the city lights held all the answers.

“Nothing you don't already know," you answered simply, shrugging, not even sparing him a glance.

Ah. Not this again.

Chenle sighed, your name leaving his lips in a near-pleading tone. "Please, I'm trying," he said, frustration creeping into his voice despite his efforts to stay calm. His fingers tightened slightly around the steering wheel, his brows furrowing. "I'm doing everything I can.”

“I'm sorry if that's hard to believe."

"Okay, then what should I do? Tell me," he said, alternating his gaze between you and the road. "Because I thought we were fine. You said we were fine. I tried to give us a good night, and you spent the whole time looking like you didn't even want to be there."

You finally turned to face him, a crease forming between your brows. "I already told you, Chenle," you shook your head, frustration bubbling over. "This one night doesn't fix everything. I barely see you. And when I do, it's like you're just making up for lost time instead of actually being here."

He exhaled, jaw tightening. "You know I'm busy. I don't choose to be away from you."

“I know you're busy." Your voice was tired—tired of hearing the same excuse over and over again. "But it feels like you're only too busy for us."

Chenle's brows furrowed. "That's not true," he said, his tone carrying a hint o exasperation. "Things have been hectic lately. Of course, I'd rather be with you all day, but I have responsibilities. I can't just push them aside." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I am trying, I make time for you whenever I can.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. "Whenever you can," you repeated, voice dripping with disbelief. "Do you even hear yourself? You make it sound like I'm just supposed to sit here and be grateful for whatever little time you decide to give me."

Chenle's jaw clenched. "That's not what I meant."

"But that's what it feels like," you snapped, turning to him. "You just admitted it—you prefer to be with me, but you can't because everything else comes first. So where does that leave me, huh?"

His patience was wearing thin now. He absolutely hates it when you twist his words. "That's not fair," he shot back. "You know this isn't about choosing between you and my responsibilities. I don't want to be away from you, but I have to be.”

“And I have to deal with it, right?" you bit back, voice trembling with frustration. "I just have to accept it, pretend I'm okay with it—pretend I don't feel like I'm losing you every single day?" You scoffed, looking out the window before turning back to him, eyes burning. "How can I love you if you're never around?"

The words hung heavy in the air, sharp and unforgiving. Chenle's breath caught in his throat. His fingers curled even tighter around the wheel, his anger flaring—not just at you, but at the situation, at himself, at how nothing he said or did ever seemed to be enough.

“You don't mean that," he said, his voice low, controlled, not wanting to snap at you or show how your words were hurting him.

“Don't I?" you challenged, pushing him just a little further. "I mean... how do I even know you're not just—" you hesitated, your voice dropping slightly, but the words still came out before you could stop them. "Fooling around with someone else?”

Chenle's head snapped toward you, his expression shifting from frustration to pure disbelief.

“Oh, so now I'm a cheater?" His voice was sharp, edged with something almost wounded. "Seriously? That's what you think of me?”

“Can you blame me for wondering?" you ssaid back, shrugging. "You're barely around, you barely talk to me, and when you do, it's always the same excuse—'I'm busy.' What else am I supposed to think?"

His take a deep breath as he tried to keep his anger in check. "You're supposed to trust me," he said, voice low but firm. "You're supposed to know that I wouldn't do that to you."

You scoffed. "Yeah? Well, it's kinda hard to trust someone who's never here."

That did it. His patience snapped.

He pulled the car over abruptly, the sudden movement making your breath hitch. As soon as the car was in park, he turned to you.

“You really think so little of me?" he demanded, his voice laced with anger and hurt. "After everything? After all the times I've shown you how much you mean to me?" He let out a bitter chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know what more you want from me. I'm doing the best I can, and somehow, that's still not enough for you."

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. Because, deep down, you knew this wasn't really about him cheating or whatever nonsense you were saying right now—it was about how much you missed him. How much it hurt to feel like you were slipping further and further from each other.

You knew he was trying. So hard. You knew that. It wasn't lost on you, all the effort he put into making this work, but the words still slipped out, cutting deeper than you intended. You didn't mean to hurt him. Of course, he would never cheat. You knew that, too. But despite all of that, you couldn't bring yourself to say sorry.

You looked away from him, ashamed. The silence stretched between you both like a suffocating weight, the tension palpable. You weren't even sure what to say back to him. Nothing you said would change anything now. You could feel the distance between you growing larger with every second.

Chenle was seething, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He knew you hadn't meant it, but the words still stung. They stung like acid, burning through everything he thought he understood about you. "If you're just going to keep that up, then maybe I should just leave.”

You flinched at his words, though you didn't say anything. The thought of him leaving, of everything falling apart, shattered something deep inside of you.

“Maybe that's what you want." His voice was sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade. "You're better off without me anyway.”

That wasn't how you wanted things to go. You loved him—God, how you loved him. That's why you were still here, still fighting through the hardships, the distance, the endless fights. You didn't want to feel like this. You didn't want to be this angry, this hurt, but it was as if you couldn't stop yourself. Every bitter word seemed to spill out before you could even think.

You could feel your throat burning, the tightness building up as tears blurred your vision. You just wanted to cry, to break down like a child, but no, the words came instead. The same impulsive, careless words you always regretted.

"Yeah, maybe you're right.”

As soon as you said it, you felt the weight of it crash down on you.

The car was suffocating. Every breath felt like a betrayal, every second stretching longer and longer. Chenle stayed silent, but you could feel his eyes on you, burning with disappointment, with hurt. It was as if he was waiting for you to take it back, to say something, anything, that would make it stop. But it didn't come.

Chenle's chest tightened painfully, the silence swallowing him whole. His heart was splintering, piece by piece. Was he really so worthless to you now? Was he so easily discarded that you could say something like that? Had everything he had given you, everything he had done, amounted to this?

Was he really that much of a burden? What had happened to the life you two used to talk about? The future he had dreamed with you? Now, here he was, sitting beside you in this car, the last pieces of the life he had built in his mind slipping through his fingers.

He didn't say anything, didn't try to justify himself, didn't even plead for you to take it back. He just nodded slowly, his lips pressed into a thin line, and reached for the ignition. The car roared to life, the sound of the engine drowning out everything else, and with that, he started driving again.

Neither of you said a word for the rest of the drive.

Ever since he joined the team, he’d already been hanging on by a thin thread and now wasn’t really the time to snip it himself.

Why is she here?

Mark initially thought that it was kind of odd to see Y/N out and about this late—well, late by his standards since he always made it a point to be home before nine. Then again, this was Y/N, and it was kind of an unspoken thing that she was a little bit of a wildcard. She moved like she was given carte blanche for life, not really minding any oppositions so long as she gets what she wants.

Mark had seen it on the court too and somehow, the girls still followed through. Needless to say, it was one of the many things he liked about her. A go-getter for sure. And It must be important if she had the time to make the trip over here. At night, no less.

Although Mark knew what was waiting for him on the other side of this door, obviously, still, nothing could have prepared him from the sight of Y/N waiting patiently on their porch, decked in her usual choice of athleisure and—oh.

Oh.

Y/N was wearing his sweatshirt.

He almost forgot about that. Her hoodie was proven to be a good replacement, if its whereabouts slipped from his mind.

The sight alone had his insides twist and turn at such a rapid rate that Mark was sure he was going to spit up the warm, messy goo composed of his ever growing feelings for the girl and the barely thought out confession that’d been brewing in his head for God knows how long.

Or, you know, actually vomit from pure nervousness.

Mark (thankfully) ended up not doing any of the most embarrassing things he could do in front of Y/N, and instead smiled once catching her eye. Smiling always seemed to reinforce a positive chain reaction and Y/N linked seamlessly with a coy grin of her own, entire frame relaxing.

“Mark, hey,” she greeted, eyes still twinkling despite the dimly lit porch. “I’m not like, bothering you or anything, am I?”

“No!” Mark winced, “no, you’re never a bother,” he followed up, voice leveled and reassuring. “But—um, what are you—what are you doing here? Not that I don’t want you here or anything! It’s just… so sudden.” He finished the piss-pour reply with an awkward laugh and wanting the ground to open up so it could swallow him whole.

She had been in his room, for fuck's sake, why was he so skittish?

Though it didn't seem like Y/N sensed the awkwardness. She never did, seeing she easily dissipated the imposing atmosphere with a good-natured laugh. It was a soft, airy sound. A stark contrast to how she carried herself, though Mark guessed the sharp, shark-like grin balanced everything out.

“I just wanted to see you—” then she looked thoughtful for a moment, before her face returned to its usual brightness. “—again.”

It’s so cute, Mark thought, that he could see her whole thought process just by looking at her face. Every twitch of her lips, the furrowing of her eyebrows and how her nose scrunches sometimes. So, so cute. He wanted to see it all.

“Also! I wanted to give you something.”

At that, Mark’s eyebrows shot up high, relaxed, then knitted together as he tilted his head. It couldn't be the sweatshirt, right? Y/N had her times of shamelessness sure, but he didn’t think she was that shameless enough to strip.

“Don’t you want to come in first?” Mark suggested, just in case he was right in his assumptions.

Y/N shook her head, the grin dimming down into a more demure curl of her mouth. “No,” she said as she unhooked the gym bag she’d been carrying. It fell to the ground with a dull sound and Y/N followed, dropping to a squat and unzipping it. “It’s okay. I’ll be quick anyways. The girls are expecting me home soon—here!”

She now stood to her full height, with something crinkling in her hands, “you’ve been our manager for almost a month now and I just realized you don’t have your team jacket yet.”

A confused noise slipped through his lips, “we have a team jacket?”

“Uh-huh. You’ve never noticed Dejun and Ten wearing them?”

Mark wrinkled his nose, “I honestly thought they just liked to match.”

His entire face heated up when she laughed, “oh you’re absolutely precious, Markie.” His face was burning hot at this point. The compliment (?) was one thing, but being addressed by a cutesy nickname Y/N took it upon herself to give him almost had his heart lurching out of his chest.

“Don’t make fun of me,” he sulked as he gently took the jacket from her. “I really didn’t know team jackets were a thing.” He knew that each Volleyball team and their respective coaches had their own custom made track suits and all, but he didn’t think it extended to the managers, too.

“I’m not. I promise,” she giggled. “I just think it’s cute.” Under all of the embarrassment coiling around him, Mark still had the strength to scoff, earning an amused huff from Y/N before she cleared her throat. “How about you try it on for me?”

It sounded easy enough, but trying it on under the guidance of the setter was a little imposing. Still, she asked and it was kind of Mark’s job to listen and cater to any of the girls’ athletic needs. And how coincidental that Mark held Y/N above everyone else that perhaps he was willing to make himself look like a fool in front of her.

(As if you hadn't done that before, snarked a voice in his head).

He wore the jacket as he would normally. Looped his arms through the sleeves, humming at the smooth sensation of the material brushing against his skin. He fiddled with the collar for a brief moment until leaving it to naturally rest and zipped it up half-way to gauge the fit.

“It fits perfect,” Mark murmured, mostly to himself as he stretched out his arms. The sleeves ended just shy of the first knuckles of his thumbs. Not too long, not too short for his tastes.

“Hang on, lemme just…”

All Mark could do was blink once, twice, three times when Y/N shuffled closer into his space, tensing when warm hands smoothed down the jacket until one of her hands found the zipper.

Y/N smiled to herself as she pulled it up higher, eyes trailing along before it strayed to the side. Curious, and on the verge of passing out because holy shit she’s so close!—as if he didn’t jump onto her earlier—Mark followed her line of sight and there he found her eyeing the embroidered ‘Manager’ just above where his heart was.

“Congratulations, Manager Lee,” she said, voice soft as her nimble fingers slowly traced the embroidery. If she could feel the thunderous beating of his heart, she didn’t comment and instead, peered up at him with the sweetest of smiles.

“You are now officially part of the team.”

"Yeah," Mark breathed out, and letting Y/N take another piece of his heart into the palms of her hands again. Each and every bit of it was hers to begin with anyway, yet she was able to find more and more. And Mark would always let her take and take, and hoped she'd let him do the same someday. "thank you for having me."

Y/N's eyes twinkled. "And it's good to have you, Mark."

One of the requirements of a manager was to have a keen eye. Managers weren’t as important as the coaches that oversaw training, but they were an integral part of the team whenever it involved the wellness of each athlete. Having keen eyes meant that watching was essentially what Mark had to do. He had to be attentive and attuned towards the well-being of the team and act quickly at the faintest signs of discomfort he might catch.

Consequently, that’s what he had been doing even before taking the managerial position. He had always been watching. It’s all Mark could do really, but he supposed it was better than nothing.

The ‘02’ on the back of Y/N’s jersey had been all sorts of intimidating. The sight of her back alone made it seem like she was unreachable, shining the brightest even among the handful of star-players that were with her on the court.

Like now, all Mark did was watch with a wry smile as Y/N said her goodbyes, turning her back to him as she hopped down the wooden steps leading away from the house.

Just like that, Y/N was out of reach once more, leaving him to simply orbit around her until the chance of being closer comes around.

However, just as Mark thought to head inside for the night, Y/N turned around with a blinding smile and waved.

“Talk soon, Mark!” She hollered.

“Yeah!” Mark smiled to himself with a hand above where hers rested moments ago. “Talk soon!”

As Mark sat on his desk, gazing at the team jacket hung up on his door with faraway eyes, something told him that maybe, just maybe Y/N wouldn’t mind looking back at him every once in a while.

a/n: i wish mark lee was real 💔

“Be careful, you might just burn a hole in her the longer you stare,” Jungwoo teased as he came around with a champagne glass in his hands, making Jaehyun snap out. 

He smiled at the light-haired fellow and shook his head, “I was just looking.” 

“Chill out, bro,” Jungwoo chuckled, handing him the champagne glass which Jaehyun gladly took from him, “She’s yours. There’s nothing wrong with staring at her like you want her as your dinner.” 

Dinner? He wanted you as his three-course meal. The forming bulge in his pants began to make him want to uncomfortably tug at it, Jaehyun started to turn to Jungwoo and moved his body from side to side to push out the indecent thoughts he had of you. 

Jungwoo watched him moving, scanning him from top to bottom and spotted the root of the problem and laughed, “You haven’t dick her yet?” 

“Don’t talk like that about her,” Jaehyun growled quietly at him. 

Putting his hands up in a defensive manner, Jungwoo teased, “Feisty.”

Dicking her sounded completely vulgar for someone as angelic as you. It was called “Love Making” when it came to you and Jaehyun felt his face heat up at the thought of it. He set eyes on you once and he knew that you were the one. He was intoxicated by everything about you: your voice, your scent, your touch. 

“It’s not that, I just can’t get to her, “Jaehyun started to explain, “I can have her any time that I want but I know that one thing I can never earn, her love.” 

“What do you mean?” Jungwoo frowned, “You’re Jeong Jaehyun. Who wouldn’t fall for you?” 

His eyes trailed back to you and licked his lower lip, “She doesn’t. I could give her the best orgasm of her life but when the sun rises, she’s just a completely different person,” he could feel the familiar tight feeling in his chest when he thought about how you would stray away from his touch.

Your feet were sore from wearing the heels throughout the whole party. You smiled so much that you could feel the muscles in your cheek quivering but you know as a granddaughter-in-law you had to put on your best performance. Jaehyun seemed to socialise less than you even though it was his own family’s birthday celebration. The few times when you looked in his direction and caught him staring at you almost made you wonder if he even came to the party to just watch you do the work for him as you went around to greet everyone. 

Everyone was happy to see you as soon as you approached them, at least the elderly ones. The younger ones were throwing dagger stares at your back, you could feel it as you walked past them. It was no secret that you married the charming Jeong Jaehyun of the SM family, Jaehyun was best known as one of theheartthrobs amongst the others. If ‘handsome’ was a person, it definitely would be Jaehyun, you wouldn’t deny it yourself. The girls would even kill to be in your place to be selected as his bride but words circulated that it was Jaehyun himself that had asked for your hand in marriage when the Selection started. You were specially selected by the heir himself. 

Your thoughts were interrupted abruptly when Jaehyun stood behind you, he looked at you through the dressing table mirror, “Tired?” 

You curtly nodded at him, “Yeah, a little. You?” 

When Jaehyun wrapped his hands around your waist and pressed his lips against your exposed nape, you had expected it. A strong urge to pull away from him was there but you held your place and watched the top of his head as his kisses trailed up to behind your ears. You sucked in a quick breath and you felt Jaehyun freeze. He looked up slowly but before he could meet your eyes, he stepped away from you. 

“I’ll wash up first,” he mumbled as he turned away and made his way into the bathroom. 

You waited till you heard the shower run before you finally could feel yourself breathing again. The corners of your eyes began to swell up tears as you gripped the sides of your dressing table. As days goes by, it was beginning to eat you up inside, the unsettling feeling resting in the pit of your stomach makes you anxious. You hated the feeling. 

It was a marriage that you did not want. Even if it was to the famous Jeong Jaehyun, you hated the title as his wife. You couldn’t breathe knowing the expectations as his partner, feeling the eyes gawking at you when you walk in with him. What made it even more unbearable were the burning stares you received from those who had affections for your husband, it felt like they were waiting for you to make the wrong step. You couldn’t risk it, not with your family’s status on the line, you had to make this work and keep your father’s business from going into bankruptcy. Only the SM family was able to save your family from going down. 

Pull yourself together, you whispered to yourself through the mirror reflection. 

It didn’t take long before Jaehyun was done with his shower and you quickly slipped in the bathroom, appreciating the personal space you finally got to yourself. You quickly got out of the dress and began to run the shower. The heater was still on, of course it was, Jaehyun would prepare everything before you shower: the heater, the towel etc. As usual, you would take a little longer in the bathroom until you were quite sure that Jaehyun had gone to sleep before you finally decided to come out. And as you have guessed, as soon as you opened the door, the room was dark and only accompanied by the dimly lit candle that Jaehyun always puts on before he goes to sleep. It was his favourite rose vanilla scent, something you’ve gotten used to ever since being married to him. 

You quietly walked over to the King-sized bed, roughly making out the shape of Jaehyun on the bed. Taking your side of the bed, you get under the comforter and enjoy the feeling of the soft mattress under you after a long day. Letting your head hit the pillow, you let out a soft squealed-moan as you stretched your feet. 

Jaehyun began to shift his body, he started to turn towards and as you knew, he wrapped his arms around your waist and buried his face in the crook of your neck. Almost regretting yourself for wearing the night dress but maybe a part of you had wanted to feel wanted. 

You remained still, probably waiting for something to happen and when you felt like maybe he was deep in his sleep, you began to relax until Jaehyun whispered against your skin, “Did you have a good time today?” 

“Hmmm?” You looked at him even though you couldn’t tell where his eyes were or if he was even looking at you. 

“I saw you talking to Halmeoni. Both of you were laughing at something, I wonder what it was about,” he still didn’t budge from his position. 

You nodded, “She reminds me of my own grandmother. So genuine and kind. I prefer being around her more than anyone.” 

Jaehyun leaned away from you, his face inches away from yours, “I wish you smiled at me the way you smiled at her.” 

Your eyes searched his face, even in the dimly lighted room. There was nothing for you to say, what could you possibly answer that won’t hurt his feelings? So you did what you do best, you remained quiet. Just silently stared at him in the dark until he pulled you in for a kiss. You sighed into the kiss, knowing very well where this was leading to. 

Even though he doesn’t say it, you knew how Jaehyun had watched you the first time you met, when you exchanged wedding vows, the night of the wedding and every other day where you would be together, as a married couple. The man was madly in love with you by the way he talked to you, the way he touched you and the way he spoke of you. Many times you often overhear his friends talking about Jaehyun going bonkers-mad when he hears them using indecent terms when talking about you to him. The many times he would pull you close to him at bigger family gatherings. 

He deepened the kiss himself by sucking on your lower lip as he shifted to be on top of you, “You always smell delicious when you go to bed, I can’t even sleep.” 

You knew, feeling the hardness poking from his pajamas pants. Impatient was Jaehyun, as he grinds himself against your thigh. Little does he know, you craved him the way he was craving you at the moment. 

You snaked your hands around his back and grabbed onto his shoulders from under his arms, pulling yourself up to him. Jaehyun grabbed around blindly at the side until you heard a ‘click’ and the lamp on the night stand turned on. You tore away from him in surprise because Jaehyun never turned on the lights. All the time when you had sex with him, it would be at night and in the dark room where you could only follow your instincts, voices and silhouettes. 

“I want to look at you,” Jaehyun said quietly. His face was soft as he gazed into your eyes. He was undeniably beautiful, his skin was soft and fair, his was tousled softly on his forehead. As you were admiring him, he does the same to you. He caressed your cheek with the back of his hand, “You’re so beautiful,” he took the words right out of your mouth. 

His eyes scanned down to your breast, where the night dress was covering very minimal, before he came back up to look at you. He dipped into your lips and kissed you hard before pulling away, the affection was quickly mixed with a look of lust as he hooked his fingers on both sides of your night dress strap and pulled it down. Your nipples hardened at the sudden exposure to air as he continued to strip you naked and toss the dress to the side. You were too stunned to do anything and watched him pull his shirt over his head. 

He straddled both of his legs on either side of you, only the pyjama pants were separating your skin from touching. Jaehyun allowed his eyes to roam all over you from your face to the rounds of your breasts, the curves of your waist and finally down. He couldn’t even begin where to start appreciating you, the strain in his pants was not allowing him to think straight. He wanted to plunge deep into you but he had to practice self-control. 

You were like a goddess to him and he worships every part of you. The silence was starting to make you feel insecure as you moved your arms to cover your breasts from him, earning a frown from him. 

“Don’t,” he started. Trying to pry your hands away from your upper body.

“Can we turn off the lights?” Your voice was quiet. 

When he successfully pulled your hands off, he replaced them with his hands. Covering your breasts with his hands, “I want to do it with you with the lights on. I want to look at you.” 

He pinched lightly on your nipples and a soft moan escaped you, making your hands reach up to cover his hands with yours. A smirk broke out on his face, dimples pressing into either side of his cheek. He ran his thumb over your hard nub and it made you become a moaning mess. 

“If I do this…” he lowered his face to your breast and flicked a tongue over your nipple a few times before covering his mouth over it. Your back arched towards him. 

Your hand cupped his face as he suckled on your nipple while his other hand stroked in circular motion. The familiar sensation pooled in between your legs as you fought from closing your legs together to apply the sweet pressure on your clit. Almost feeling the needy throb of your pussy when Jaehyun lets out a soft moan. You opened your eyes to look at him, his eyes were open and watching you while being latched onto your breast. It was such a sight which you eventually threw your head back on the pillow and let yourself absorb in the euphoric feeling. 

“Am I making you feel good?” He pulled away and looked at you. You licked your dry lips and looked at him, nodding. He lightly pinched your hard nipples, “Use your words, beautiful.” 

You moaned, “Yes.” 

“Do you want me to make you feel good again?” Pressing his crotch against you. He moved his hip, making the texture of his clothed dick create friction against you. 

“Please,” you begged, unconsciously reaching out and touching his abs. 

Jaehyun caught your hand in his and muttered, “Fuck this,” before he stripped himself of his pants. 

His cock sprung out, thick and long. You watched him cover his length with his hand and stroked it as he brought his fingers to stroke your clit. 

Your fingers curled into a fist as you grabbed the comforter, Jaehyun was rubbing your clit and then running his finger over the entrance of your pussy before going back to rubbing your clit. Jaehyun wanted to prep you first before going in, he knew how dry you were. He had to play with you for a little while, sometimes earning a little whine from you before he would take you on. All this while, he could only hear the pretty sounds you make but this time he wanted to look at you, watch you. 

When the pretty noises you were making were starting to turn into a sigh, he looked up at you, “I know, baby. Just a while more alright?” He whispered gently, leaning in to kiss you. 

You were used to all these but with the lights on, it felt different. You never imagined how he would look at you when you were at it. You simply could feel him holding your hand, smell him and hear his voice. Never see the look on his face when he was working you on, never see the red flush of his cheeks or the sweaty side of his face. The way his hands wrapped pretty around his length, his thumb teasing his tip and the pre-cum covering the tip. Sure, you’ve seen his abs, you may have seen a few of his buttocks (when you walked in on him changing or showering). There was so much more to look at now that he was kneeling over you, teeth pressing into his red lower lip as he rubbed you good. 

Jaehyun knew you were about to climax when he watched how you started to play with your nipples and you started to breathe heavily. He pulled his hand out and positioned the tip of his cock at your entrance. You were about to protest at the sudden loss when he slowly moved in. Feeling your walls clenched around him, he couldn’t help but to bury his face in your neck. The tightness wrapped around his cock was sending him out of the universe, you felt like home to him. 

I was born to be here, he felt the coy thoughts repeating in his head as he lazily thrust his hips. 

You, on the other hand, were feeling everything. You felt full and stretched, sensitive and good but overall, you wanted him to do you roughly. You wanted more, drunk on this ecstasy. Letting your hands roam on his body, you needed to hold onto something tight. 

The sound of your skin slapping filled the room, along with your moans and grunts. You ran your fingers through his hair while he dug his nails into your sides as Jaehyun started to pick up his pace. He moved quickly, pulling out and slamming harder into you each time. You found yourself holding his knuckles and squeezing them at each thrust. A few more slams and you found yourself letting out a small yell when orgasm overcame you. You threw your head back and arched your back as your high reached you and then felt yourself slumped back limp. 

Jaehyun watched you without stopping, stroking the back of your hand. He could feel himself reaching his high too but he wanted to feel you deeper. So without a rest, Jaehyun turned you over as you weakly went on your fours. 

“No…” you practically begged, “I just…” 

You didn’t know how to tell him that you just had the most satisfying orgasm and you weren’t ready for another. You were still so sensitive that you could easily ride up another orgasm and for a fact you knew the second could send you out of the world, definitely, with Jaehyun’s skills. 

“You’re mine, babe,” Jaehyun kissed your shoulder and slammed hard into you. He did it again, pulling out and slamming into you, “You’re mine…” 

“Hmmm…” the thrust sent a jolt to your body as you felt the soft pillow rubbing against your hard nipples. Jaehyun brought his hand to the front and began to rub your clit as he fucked you hard. 

“Jaehyun,” you whimpered. The pressure was beginning to gather in the pit of your stomach. 

“Fuck, you’re mine,” hearing you call him like that, he knew he was close. Jaehyun listened to your moans as he rubbed you. The second he felt you climax, he too spilt his load into you. Sending waves of jerks into his hip as he let himself ride away his orgasm. Finally, when he was able to catch his breath, he whispered, “You’re mine.” 

But you were already falling into slumber, your hands reaching around blindly until you found him and pulled him around your waist. Both of you were sweaty but neither of you minded. Jaehyun positioned you in a way where your head was resting on his arms, facing you. Your breathing was quiet as you drift off to sleep. He listened to you, rubbing his lips against your shoulder and remained in that position for a while. 

You mumbled incoherently in your sleep after a few minutes and turned, facing him. Your face was buried in his chest as your arms wrapped around his waist. 

Jaehyun smiled down at you, stroking your hair gently as he watched you. He liked how he exhausted you, and made you feel a certain way. But then it hit him, a sudden realization that this bliss was just in the moment. He could only hold you like this now for when the morning comes, it’ll be as though this didn’t happen between the two of you. You would go back to the usual cold and awkward wife, and he would have to wait for nighttime to come again before he could hold and love you like this again. 

“You will never love me like I love you,” Jaehyun planted a kiss on the top of your head as tears escaped down his cheek. 

For the aching heart, he had to live with, there was only so much he could do to get moments like these. But little did he know, you could hear him. 

continue to [Part 2] [Last]