#praise com

SYNOPSIS ; Kim Hongjoong is the ruthless dictator of the TEEZER house, and his latest decree is simple: Absolute emotional detachment. No situationships, no distractions, no exceptions. It’s a foolproof system, except for one detail—the rules weren't written to keep his men in line. They were built to keep you out. Three months after breaking off your secret, late-night arrangement to protect his pride, Hongjoong finds himself trapped in a pitch-black room with you during a violent campus storm. Armed with ice-cold compliance and zero intention of backing down, you’re about to prove that you can’t regulate a heartbeat. The fortress is cracking, the paperwork has hit the floor, and the great Captain is about to learn exactly what it means to bow.

PAIRING(S) ; Frat Captain!Kim Hongjoong x Fem!reader

WARNING(S) ; Exes-to-lovers, secret history, forced proximity (trapped in a storm), corporate/fraternity au, mutual pining, malicious compliance, fake/hidden emotions. Explicit sexual content !!MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!, rough/frenetic intimacy, biting, slight blood (lip biting), marking/bruising, language/profanity, public display of affection/groveling.

WC ; 10k-ish

Part 4/8 of THE REVERENCE SERIES

Inspired by Rules by doja cat !

The air in the TEEZER house kitchen smelled like stale beer, expensive cologne, and immediate regret.

It was 10:00 AM on a Sunday, and the sunlight cutting through the blinds was entirely too bright for the seven men gathered around the scarred oak island. At the head of the space stood KIM HONGJOONG, looking less like a college senior and more like a corporate executioner. He hadn’t slept. His leather jacket was slung over the back of a chair, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the sharp lines of his forearms as he aggressively smoothed down a crisp, printed sheet of paper against the stainless-steel refrigerator.

Magnetic tape snapped against the metal.

"Look at it," Hongjoong commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that immediately silenced the low groaning from the hangover brigade. "Read it. Memorize it. Because as of five minutes ago, this house is under a strict goddamn lockdown."

Song Mingi, slumped so low in his chair his chin was practically resting on the table, let out a miserable whine. "Hongjoong, man, my head is literally splitting open. Can we do the dictatorship speech at noon?"

"No," Hongjoong fired back, his dark eyes snapping over to Mingi with zero mercy. "We do it now. Because last night, half of our executive board missed the alumni mixer because you were 'otherwise occupied' upstairs, and San was apparently too busy playing prince charming to notice someone threw up in the downstairs foyer. We are losing control. The TEEZER house has a reputation, and I am not letting a collective case of sudden, pathetic heart-eyes ruin our standing on this campus."

Choi San, sitting cross-legged on a barstool with a mug of black coffee cupped in his hands, didn't even look guilty. He just smirked into his mug, a faint, whipped softness around his eyes that only validated Hongjoong’s fury.

"So, what is that?" Jeong Yunho asked from the kitchen island, leaning forward with a smug, knowing grin. "A manifesto?"

"It’s a corrective measure," Hongjoong said coldly, tapping his knuckle against the paper.

Centered at the top of the page, bolded and unyielding, were the words: THE NEW RULES.

Rule 1: No overnight guests past 2 AM on weeknights.

Rule 2: No domestic privileges (cooking, laundry, or clothing borrowing) for non-residents.

Rule 3: Absolute emotional detachment. No situationships, no placeholders, no distractions that interfere with house duties.

"You've got to be kidding me," Mingi muttered, squinting at the page. "You literally wrote out an anti-feeling clause?"

"I wrote an anti-stupidity clause," Hongjoong corrected, crossing his arms over his chest. "If you can't keep your head straight, I’ll keep it straight for you. The next person who breaks a boundary or lets a girl dictate their schedule answers directly to me."

The front door clicked open down the hall, followed by the soft, familiar scuff of sneakers on the hardwood. Hongjoong didn't think much of it—until you walked straight into the kitchen.

You stopped dead in your tracks, a tote bag slung over your shoulder and your hair tied up in a messy clip. You had only come by to retrieve a denim jacket you’d left on the living room couch the Friday before, completely unprepared to walk into what looked like a high-stakes mafia tribunal.

Every eye in the room shifted to you.

Hongjoong’s posture went instantly rigid. The collective breath in his lungs hitched, his jaw tightening so hard a small muscle ticked beneath his skin. It had been three months since he abruptly ended the secret, late-night arrangement the two of you shared—three months of him pretending you were just another face on campus, and three months of you treating him like white noise.

You looked at the tense circle of boys, then at Hongjoong, and finally, your eyes drifted to the fresh piece of paper pinned to the fridge.

You walked over, entirely unbothered by the suffocating silence, and read the bolded title. Then, you read the three rules.

A short, genuine laugh burst from your lips—loud, mocking, and completely lethal to Hongjoong’s carefully constructed authority.

"The New Rules?" you murmured, looking back at him with an raised eyebrow, your eyes dripping with sharp amusement. "What is this, Hongjoong? A fraternity or a corporate internship?"

"It doesn't concern you," Hongjoong said, his voice dropping an octave, a dangerous edge cutting through his tone. "It's house business. Grab your things and leave."

You didn't flinch. Instead, you took a step closer to him, entirely immune to the "Captain" persona that kept the rest of the campus in check. You knew exactly what he looked like when he wasn't playing dictator; you knew the exact cadence of his breath against your neck at 3 AM.

"Oh, it does concern me, considering your little disciples usually come to me to complain when you have a power trip," you countered smoothly, crossing your arms. You tilted your head toward the fridge. "Emotional detachment? No situationships? Let's be real—if you can't text someone back, you should just look them in their face and say it, instead of printing out a manifesto because you’re terrified of a little vulnerability."

A collective, quiet 'oh shit' seemed to ripple through the boys. Yunho hid a laugh behind his hand, and San suddenly found his coffee very interesting.

Hongjoong’s eyes darkened, a flash of pure, unadulterated frustration breaking through his icy exterior. He stepped into your space, his chest practically brushing yours, trying to use his height and his position to crowd you out.

"Out," he ordered the room, not breaking eye contact with you for a fraction of a second. "Everyone. Out of the kitchen. Now."

Nobody argued. The boys scrambled out of their seats with frantic urgency, Mingi practically tripping over his own feet to escape the incoming blast radius. Within three seconds, the heavy swing door clicked shut, leaving just the two of you in the suffocating heat of the kitchen.

"You think you're exceptionally clever, don't you?" Hongjoong hissed, his voice low and dangerous as he leaned down, his face inches from yours.

"I think you're a hypocrite," you whispered back, matching his fire with a cold, steady gaze of your own. "You want to play the cold king who doesn't feel anything? Fine. Let’s see how long your little kingdom stands when you try to regulate the one thing you can't control."

Hongjoong’s fingers twitched at his sides, the only crack in his otherwise immovable posture. The scent of his cologne—something expensive and sharp—mixed with the residual musk of last night’s party, wrapping around you like an unspoken dare. "You don’t get to walk in here and act like you know how I operate," he said, voice rough-edged, the kind of tone that sent underclassmen scrambling.  

You didn’t scramble. Instead, you leaned in, close enough that your next words brushed against the shell of his ear. "I don’t act," you murmured. "I know." And just like that, you stepped back, pivoting toward the living room like none of it mattered—like he didn’t matter. The denim jacket was right where you left it, slung over the arm of the couch. You snatched it up, folding it over your arm with deliberate nonchalance.  

Behind you, Hongjoong let out a slow, controlled exhale. "Those rules apply to everyone," he said, quieter now, almost to himself. "Especially past mistakes."

You don’t stop walking. You let his words hit your back, but you refuse to let him see you stumble. You throw a sharp, careless smile over your shoulder as you reach the front door.

"Then you better pray I don't catch you breaking them, Captain," you fire back, the heavy front door clicking shut behind you.

Once you're gone, the narrative should shift briefly to Hongjoong's internal state. He is left alone in the quiet house, completely unraveled by a girl who didn't even have to raise her voice.

The kitchen door creaked open with theatrical slowness, Yunho peering in first with a smirk splitting his face. "Coast clear?" he stage-whispered, already laughing when Hongjoong threw a dish towel at his head. The boys flooded back in like a pack of hyenas circling wounded prey—San biting his lip to hide his grin, Mingi wolf-whistling under his breath as he grabbed a protein shake from the fridge.

"Clean this disaster up," Hongjoong snapped, kicking a toppled beer bottle toward Mingi’s feet. His voice carried enough venom to send them scrambling, but Yunho—always the boldest—lingered just a second too long.

"You can print out as many rules as you want, Hyung," Yunho murmured, tapping the fridge with his knuckles. "But she just rewrote them in five seconds."

Hongjoong didn’t dignify that with a response. He stormed upstairs, the weight of their laughter pressing against his ribs like a physical ache.

His office door slammed shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the empty room. He braced his hands on the edge of his desk, head bowed, fingers digging into the wood. The air still carried traces of your perfume—something citrus and sharp, clinging stubbornly to the space like it had every right to be there. Three months. Three months of cold shoulders and calculated avoidance, and yet the second you walked into a room, his pulse spiked like he was some lovestruck pledge.

He wanted to regulate the house because if he couldn’t control his own heartbeat when you walked into a room, he had to control everything else.

His phone buzzed on the desk—San sending him a picture of Mingi dramatically clutching the fridge door with the caption, [Rule #4: No mocking the captain’s fragile ego.] Hongjoong flipped the phone face-down with a muttered curse. He’d always been good at compartmentalizing, at locking away inconvenient desires in neat little boxes labeled Later or Never. But you? You were the exception that unraveled every rule, the glitch in his system he couldn’t debug.

A sharp knock at the door snapped his head up. "I swear to god, Yunho, if you’re here to—"

Park Seonghwa stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with deliberate quiet. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his usually immaculate blazer wrinkled at the elbows. He didn’t glance at Hongjoong’s tense posture or the way his knuckles were still white against the desk. Instead, he pulled a cream-colored envelope from his pocket and dropped it onto the polished surface between them.

"You’re dealing with a ghost, Hongjoong," Seonghwa said, voice flat. "I’m dealing with a legal contract." The paper crinkled as Hongjoong flipped it open, skimming the dense corporate language until the final line leapt out: Failure to comply with marital arrangements by December 31st will result in forfeiture of all inheritance rights.

Seonghwa exhaled through his nose, loosening his tie like it was choking him. "My father is giving me six months to marry into the corporate line, or I’m cut out entirely."

Hongjoong’s jaw clenched. This wasn’t just about money—Seonghwa’s entire identity was wrapped up in that legacy. "Who’s the unlucky debutante?"

"Lee Jiyeon." Seonghwa’s lip curled at the name. "Finance VP’s daughter. Same age as Mingi’s little sister, if that makes you nauseous."

The hypocrisy was almost impressive. Seonghwa’s father had three mistresses Hongjoong could name off the top of his head. "We’ll find a loophole," Hongjoong said automatically, already scanning for soft spots in the contract’s wording.

A bitter laugh. "There isn’t one. Unless—" Seonghwa hesitated, running a thumb over the embossed family seal. "Unless I prove I’m already in a serious relationship. But we both know my dating history reads like a fucking champagne commercial."

Hongjoong exhaled through his nose. Outside, Mingi’s dramatic wailing echoed up the stairs—something about unfair tyranny. He tuned it out, focusing on the sharp lines of Seonghwa’s shoulders, the way his knuckles whitened around the envelope. This wasn’t just stress. This was panic.

"You need a placeholder," Hongjoong realized aloud. "Someone credible enough to stall."

Seonghwa’s smile was razor-thin. "Preferably someone who’d make my father’s monocle pop out." He glanced meaningfully toward the kitchen, where San was now loudly debating the ethics of Rule #2 with Yunho. "But your circus is currently on fire."

Hongjoong let out a dry, humorless chuckle, finally leaning back against his desk and crossing his arms. "The circus is always on fire, Seonghwa. I’m just the guy holding the matches."

He looked down at the contract again, the cold weight of corporate greed practically radiating off the heavy cardstock. It was the ultimate irony. Here he was, trying to force his fraternity into a state of clinical detachment to keep them from crashing and burning, while his best friend was being legally suffocated by a family that viewed love as a poor return on investment.

"A placeholder," Hongjoong repeated, the wheels in his mind already turning. He was a fixer by nature; give him a crisis and he’d give you a strategy. "It can't just be some girl from a mixer. Your dad has investigators on retainer, Seonghwa. He’ll sniff out a fake relationship in twenty-four hours if she looks like she belongs in a champagne commercial with you. You need someone... disruptive. Someone who needs the arrangement as much as you do, so she won't crack under the pressure."

"And where exactly do I find a girl willing to play sacrificial lamb to the Park empire?" Seonghwa asked, running a hand through his dark hair, completely exasperated. "Most girls on this campus would jump at the chance to marry into the name. I don't need a gold-digger who's going to try and turn the fake contract into a real one."

"We'll find her," Hongjoong said firmly, his eyes darkening with that familiar, calculating spark that made him the undisputed captain of the house. "But right now, I need to handle my own perimeter."

Seonghwa pushed off the doorframe, his eyes scanning Hongjoong's face with a sudden, knowing intensity. The panic in his expression faded, replaced by the sharp, protective intuition of a best friend. He tilted his head toward the window, where the faint sound of your car engine revving in the driveway echoed through the glass.

"You're talking about finding loopholes for me," Seonghwa murmured, his voice dropping into a quieter, heavier register. "But you're bleeding out right here. You think you can control this house with a piece of paper, Hongjoong? You're trying so hard to play the dictator because you're terrified that if you let your guard down for even a second, she'll walk right back in and burn down everything you've built."

The words hit exactly where Hongjoong was weakest. His jaw tightened, a hard, defensive wall dropping over his features. "I'm doing what's best for the house."

"No," Seonghwa countered smoothly as he turned the doorknob, looking back over his shoulder with a pitying smile. "You're doing what's safe for your pride. But out of the two of us, you're the one giving your future away willingly. At least I'm being forced into my cage."

The door clicked shut, leaving Hongjoong alone with the silence.

Safe for his pride.

Hongjoong pushed away from the desk and walked over to the window, pulling back the heavy curtain just in time to see your car pull out of the TEEZER house driveway. He watched the taillights disappear around the campus bend, his throat tight.

He could still feel the phantom sensation of your breath against his ear from only ten minutes ago. I don’t act. I know. You knew him. You knew that beneath the leather jacket, the captain's title, and the unyielding rules, he was just a man who used to hold you until the sun came up, whispering promises into the dark that he was now too cowardly to honor in the light.

He looked down at his desk, where a copy of THE NEW RULES sat waiting to be filed.

Rule 3: Absolute emotional detachment.

Hongjoong picked up a black marker, his hand steady even as his heart hammered violently against his ribs. He gripped the paper, his mind flashing to the mocking, beautiful laugh you’d left behind in his kitchen. If this was going to be a war of malicious compliance, he was going to make sure he survived it.

He walked over to his office corkboard and pinned the manifesto right at eye level.

"Let's see who bows first," he muttered into the empty room.

The bass from the Alpha Sigma mixer was vibrating through the floorboards of the off-campus venue, a heavy, rhythmic thud that Hongjoong could feel in his teeth. He was standing on the mezzanine balcony, a lukewarm solo cup sweating in his hand, his eyes scanning the sea of sweaty, dancing bodies below like a hawk mapping a hunting ground.

"You look like you're about to authorize a drone strike," Yunho said, leaning his forearms on the wooden railing next to him. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes scanning the crowd with an easy, untroubled grin. "Relax, Hyung. San is checking IDs at the door, and Mingi hasn't broken anything in at least forty minutes. The house is perfectly compliant."

"Compliant," Hongjoong muttered, his voice a low gravel under the music. "Right."

He wasn't looking at San, or Mingi, or the pledges. He was looking at you.

You were standing near the makeshift bar under the dim red neon lights, wearing a top that caught the light every time you laughed, your hair down and falling over your shoulders. And you were laughing at something a tall senior from the lacrosse team was saying, your fingers brushing lightly against his forearm.

Hongjoong’s grip on his solo cup tightened until the plastic groaned.

For the past seven days, you had followed The New Rules with terrifying, clinical perfection. You hadn’t texted him at 2 AM. You hadn’t shown up at the house to study. When you passed him on the quad on Tuesday, you didn't even look his way; you just kept walking, your shoulder brushing right past his like he was nothing but a stranger taking up space on the sidewalk.

It was exactly what he had demanded. And it was driving him completely, unevocably insane.

If you can't text me back, then look me in my face. It played like a taunt in his head. You weren't hiding behind a screen anymore. If he wanted your attention, you were forcing him to come down from his castle and take it in broad daylight—or under the suffocating heat of a crowded red-lit room.

"Hey, isn't that—" Yunho started, but before he could even finish your name, Hongjoong set his cup down on the railing with a sharp thud.

"I'm going down," Hongjoong said coldly.

"To check the perimeter?" Yunho called out, his smirk widening as Hongjoong pushed past him.

"To enforce decorum," Hongjoong shot back, his leather jacket cutting a path through the crowded stairs as he descended into the heat of the floor, his eyes locked entirely on the target.

The lacrosse player was mid-sentence—something about his summer internship in Monaco—when Hongjoong materialized at your elbow like a pissed-off shadow. His presence didn’t ripple; it ruptured the air, cutting through the bass-heavy thrum of the party with the precision of a scalpel.

"Greek life matter," Hongjoong announced, not bothering to look at the guy, his voice low and edged with something that wasn’t quite authority—more like territorial possession wrapped in bureaucratic bullshit. "She’s needed."

The lacrosse player blinked, his tanned forehead wrinkling. "Uh, we were kinda—"

"Now." Hongjoong didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. Three years of running this campus had honed his tone into a weapon that made even seniors flinch. 

The guy hesitated, glancing at you for confirmation. You shrugged, sipping your drink with deliberate slowness, the ice clinking like a countdown. "Guess I’m being summoned," you murmured, your voice dripping with saccharine compliance. "Duty calls."

Hongjoong’s jaw ticked as the guy wandered off, shooting one last confused look over his shoulder. The second he was out of earshot, Hongjoong pivoted toward you, his leather jacket creaking with the movement. "You’re violating house decorum."

You didn't lower your cup. You just tilted your head back against the wood paneling of the hallway, letting your eyes slowly track the hard line of his jaw up to his dark, dangerous eyes.

"House decorum?" you echoed, your voice barely louder than a whisper, yet carrying perfectly over the muffled bass vibrating through the walls. "Remind me, Captain—since when does a Sigma Chi mixer count as TEEZER house property? Last I checked, my presence here doesn't violate a single piece of your precious fine print."

Hongjoong stepped closer, entirely unbothered by the fact that anyone walking down the hall could see him crowding you into the shadows. He placed one hand on the wall right beside your head, his leather sleeve brushing against your bare shoulder. The heat coming off him was immense, a sharp contrast to the cold condensation on your fingers.

"You know exactly what you're doing," he hissed, his face inches from yours. He smelled like his signature expensive cologne and the bitter edge of black coffee. "You’re making a scene. You've spent the last hour treating this place like your personal audition tape, and you're doing it right in my line of sight."

"I'm socializing," you corrected smoothly, meeting his glare with a level of calm that you knew was actively draining his battery. "Isn't that what we're supposed to do when we're absolutely emotionally detached? I haven't sent you a 2 AM text. I haven't asked to borrow a shirt. I’m practicing perfect compliance, Hongjoong. I'm leaving you alone."

You brought the cup to your lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip while looking at him over the rim.

"Unless," you murmured, lowering the cup until it rested against his chest, right over his hammering heart, "you're having trouble following your own rules."

Hongjoong’s breath hitched. His eyes dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second—a desperate, telling slip in his armor—before snapping back up. His fingers curled against the drywall, the plaster groaning under the pressure.

"Don't flatter yourself," he growled, though his voice lacked its usual clinical weight. It sounded rougher. Desperate. "I wrote those rules to protect the house."

"Then go protect it," you whispered, using your free hand to gently tap his cheek, a mocking, affectionate gesture that felt like a slap to his pride. "Go find Seonghwa. Go check the budget. Because right now, you look a lot less like a dictator and a lot more like a hypocrite."

You didn't wait for his response. You ducked under his arm, your hip deliberately brushing against his thigh as you slid past him. You walked down the hallway, the heels of your shoes clicking rhythmically against the floorboards, leaving him standing alone in the dim, neon-lit corridor with his hand still pinned to the wall and his chest heaving.

Behind you, Hongjoong let out a low, ragged breath, his fist slamming quietly against the wood.

He was losing. And the worst part was, he hadn't even realized the game had officially begun.

The rain hadn't just started; it had broken over the campus like a dynamic assault, sheets of heavy water hammering against the floor-to-ceiling glass of the student union’s multi-purpose room. It was 11:45 PM on a Thursday, four days after the Sigma Chi mixer, and the cavernous space was entirely dead except for the low, hum of a single vending machine and the sharp, rhythmic clack of your laptop keyboard.

The tables around you were a disaster zone of floorplans, vendor invoices, and color-coded seating charts for the upcoming Greek Gala. Because you were the student senate liaison and Hongjoong was the Interfraternity Council president, the university administration had forced the two of you into a shotgun marriage of logistics.

Across the table, Hongjoong sat behind his own laptop, the blue light of the screen catching the dangerous, exhausted sharp angles of his face. He’d shed his leather jacket hours ago, leaving him in a black ribbed tank top that showed off the tense, coiled muscles of his shoulders every time he reached for a highlighter.

Neither of you had spoken a word of substance in three hours. It was professional compliance at its most toxic.

"The catering invoice is missing the security deposit line," Hongjoong said, his voice a low, gravelly friction that seemed to scrape against the quiet of the room. He didn't look up from his screen. "Did you file it?"

"It’s in the blue folder right in front of your face, Captain," you replied smoothly, not pausing your typing for a single beat.

Hongjoong’s fingers froze over his trackpad. Slowly, he raised his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours through the dim light. The silence between you didn't just linger; it suffocated. The storm outside seemed to fade into a dull, white noise, leaving nothing but the high-voltage current running between your chairs.

"I asked you a direct question," he murmured, his tone dropping into that quiet, dangerous register that usually signaled an execution.

"And I gave you a direct answer," you said, finally stopping your fingers to look back at him. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms, completely unbothered by the predatory focus of his stare. "It's right there. Unless your little rulebook doesn't allow you to look at things that are convenient for you."

Hongjoong closed his laptop with a sharp, controlled snap. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, invading your space across the paperwork. "You've been pushing your luck for a week."

"I've been doing my job," you corrected, tilting your head. "And I've been following your rules. No calls. No distractions. Absolute emotional detachment. I'm practically a saint, Hongjoong."

"You're a menace," he hissed, his jaw clenching so hard a small muscle jumped beneath his cheek. "You stand in my hallway looking like that, you touch my chest in front of forty people, and then you come in here and act like we're just two bureaucrats shuffling paper. You’re trying to make me look like a fool."

"No," you whispered, leaning in just enough that he could see the cold, mocking amusement dancing in your eyes. "I'm letting you see exactly what you gave up when you decided your pride was worth more than my time. You wanted a robot, Hongjoong? You got one. Enjoy the clinical efficiency."

A sudden, violent crack of thunder shook the glass panes behind you, the building’s overhead fluorescent lights flickering once, twice, before dying completely.

The room plunged into near-total darkness, saved only by the eerie, ambient glow of the emergency exit signs and the rhythmic flash of lightning outside.

In the shadows, you heard the sharp drag of a chair against the linoleum. Before you could even blink, a heavy, calloused hand wrapped around your wrist, his grip hot and unyielding as he yanked you out of your seat.

Hongjoong's grip on your wrist was iron, his fingers pressing into your pulse point like he needed the proof of your heartbeat to believe you were real. In the storm-darkened room, the only light came in fractured bursts—lightning flashing across his sharp cheekbones, the whites of his eyes burning with something feral. You barely had time to suck in a breath before he wrenched you forward, your chest colliding with his so hard the impact rattled your teeth.

"Tell me why," you hissed, palms braced against his ribcage, fingers curling into the thin fabric of his tank top. The words weren't a question; they were a blade pressed to his throat. "You ended it like I was a liability. Was I just another loose end for the great Captain to tidy up?"

Hongjoong’s breath came in ragged bursts, his other hand sliding up to grip the back of your neck, fingertips digging into the base of your skull. "Because I was losing my goddamn mind," he snarled, the admission ripped from him like a confession under torture. "Because I stayed up until sunrise memorizing the way you laughed when you were half-asleep. Because I couldn’t look at the goddamn budget spreadsheets without wondering what you’d say about them." His voice cracked, raw and furious. "The rules were never for them. They were for me—to stop myself from tearing apart every boundary I ever built just to get you back."

Lightning split the sky outside, illuminating the desperate twist of his mouth for one searing second before darkness swallowed you both again. You could feel the wild thrum of his pulse where your thumb brushed his collarbone, the heat of his skin branding you through his clothes.

Somewhere in the chaos, your knee hit the edge of the oak desk. Hongjoong didn’t pause—he crowded you against it, his hands dropping to your hips to lift you onto the surface in one brutal motion. Paperwork scattered to the floor in a rain of spreadsheets, his forearm braced beside your head as he leaned in, his nose skimming your jaw. "You win," he growled, the words vibrating against your throat. "I broke my own rules. Now tell me to stop, or I swear to god, I’ll—"

You bit his lower lip. Not a kiss—a punishment.

Hongjoong made a sound like a gutted man, his fingers digging into your thighs hard enough to leave marks. The desk creaked dangerously as he surged forward, his mouth crashing into yours with three months of pent-up fury. He kissed like he fought—all precision and teeth and calculated violence, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that bordered on starvation.

Rain lashed the windows in relentless sheets, the storm’s rhythm syncing with the sharp hitch of his breath when your fingers twisted in his hair. He shuddered, his hips pressing forward instinctively, the hard line of him dragging against your thigh in a way that made you both gasp.

"Tell me you thought about this," you demanded, arching into him as his mouth moved to your neck, his teeth scraping over your pulse.

Hongjoong laughed—a dark, ragged thing—and wrenched your shirt collar aside to bite down on your shoulder. "Every goddamn day," he admitted against your skin, his voice wrecked. "Every time I walked past your dorm. Every time I heard your voice in the goddamn library." His hands slid under your thighs, hauling you flush against him as he ground into the heat of you. "I wrote those rules because I knew—" His breath hitched when your nails scored down his back. "—one look from you, and I'd fold."

The admission hung between you, suspended in the charged air before you shattered it by yanking his tank top up over his head. His chest was a map of taut muscle and shallow breaths, his skin fever-hot under your palms. Lightning flashed, illuminating the desperate way his pupils swallowed all but a sliver of gold around them.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, rolling your hips in a slow, deliberate grind that tore a groan from his throat. Hongjoong's forehead dropped to yours, his breath coming in uneven bursts as his hands flexed on your hips—half restraint, half surrender. "You don't get to be smug about this," he muttered, even as his fingers slipped under the waistband of your jeans.

"I'm not," you lied, arching into him. "I'm just proving a point."

His mouth crashed into yours again, all teeth and tongue and three months of pent-up frustration. The desk groaned under your combined weight, pens skittering to the floor as he crowded you back onto the scattered paperwork. His hands were everywhere—tugging at your clothes, skimming up your ribs, thumbing over your nipples through the fabric until you gasped into his mouth.

Hongjoong dragged his lips down your throat, his breath hot against your racing pulse. "Tell me you thought about this too," he demanded, his voice rough with want. His teeth grazed your collarbone, his hands sliding under your thighs to hike your skirt up around your waist.

"Every damn time you walked past me in the library," you admitted, tangling your fingers in his hair. "Every time you pretended not to stare."

He groaned against your skin, his hips rolling against yours in a slow, deliberate grind that made you both shudder. The thick ridge of him pressed against your core, separated only by layers of denim and restraint. "Fuck," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. "I tried so hard to hate you."

The confession hung between you, suspended in the charged air before you shattered it by yanking his belt open. His breath hitched as your fingers brushed the hard line of him through his briefs. "Too bad," you murmured, dragging your nails down his stomach just to watch him tremble. "Because I think you like me."

Hongjoong's hands tightened on your thighs, his fingers digging into bare skin where your skirt had ridden up. "I don't like you," he growled, even as he rocked into your touch. "I'm fucking obsessed with you."

The raw honesty of it punched through your chest. Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the desperate hunger in his eyes—gold swallowed by black, his pupils blown wide. You could feel the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips, the way his breath stuttered when you palmed him through the fabric.

He didn't wait for permission. One hand fumbled between your bodies, popping the button of your jeans with practiced ease. His fingers slid beneath the waistband of your panties, calloused fingertips dragging through slick heat. "Still this wet for me?" he rasped, his voice wrecked. "After everything?"

You arched into his touch, biting back a moan as his thumb circled your clit. "Shut up," you gasped, tugging his briefs down just enough to free him. The first brush of his cock against your inner thigh sent a shudder through both of you.

Hongjoong exhaled sharply, his forehead dropping to yours. For a heartbeat, he hesitated—eyes searching yours in the fractured light. Then the storm outside roared, shaking the windows, and whatever restraint he had left snapped. He lifted your hips, the head of his cock dragging through your folds before he thrust in with a single, brutal stroke.

The desk groaned beneath you. Hongjoong swore violently, his arms trembling as he braced himself above you. "Fuck," he choked out, his hips stuttering. "You feel—" His words dissolved into a groan when you clenched around him.

Rain pounded against the glass in relentless sheets, the rhythm syncopated with the sharp slap of skin as Hongjoong set a punishing pace. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your neck. Every snap of his hips was a confession—three months of denial unraveling with each desperate thrust.

"You thought you could walk away," you gasped, nails scoring down his back. "But you were always coming back to me."

Hongjoong growled low in his throat, biting down on your shoulder as his fingers dug into your thighs. "Shut up," he panted, though the way his hips stuttered betrayed him. Lightning flashed, illuminating the sweat-slicked planes of his chest, the wild hunger in his eyes.

You laughed—a breathless, triumphant sound—and arched against him. "Make me."

His hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat. His mouth crashed into yours, all teeth and tongue and the copper tang of blood where you'd bitten him earlier. The kiss was a battle—messy, frantic, alive—and when you moaned into his mouth, he shuddered like a man coming undone.

Hongjoong's rhythm faltered when you rocked up to meet him, your legs locking around his waist to drag him deeper. "Fuck," he gasped, forehead dropping to yours. "I can't—" His voice broke as you rolled your hips, dragging him impossibly closer. "I'm not gonna last."

"Then don't," you whispered against his lips.

Lightning split the sky outside, illuminating the wrecked expression on his face—eyelids heavy, lips parted, every muscle straining with the effort of holding back. His hips stuttered, his fingers digging into your thighs as he lost the fight for control. With a ragged groan, Hongjoong buried his face in your neck and came apart, his body shuddering against yours in violent, helpless waves.

For a long moment, the only sounds were the rain pounding against the windows and your mingled breaths. Then, slowly, Hongjoong lifted his head. His fingers traced your jawline with a tenderness that contradicted the possessive grip he'd had on your hips moments ago. In the dim emergency lighting, his pupils were still blown wide, his lips swollen from your teeth.

"You're impossible," he murmured, but the words lacked any real bite. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, catching the faint smear of blood where you'd bitten him. "You ruin everything."

You arched an eyebrow. "You're welcome."

The overhead lights flickered once, twice, then buzzed back to life with a harsh fluorescent glare. Hongjoong flinched, his body tensing as reality crashed back in. The desk was a disaster of scattered papers and discarded clothes. His hands were still braced on either side of your hips, his skin damp with sweat.

Outside, the storm raged on, but inside, the air was thick with something heavier—something irreversible.

Hongjoong exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze darting to the door, then back to you. For a split second, you saw it—the panic. The frantic, fleeting urge to rebuild the walls before anyone noticed they were gone. His fingers twitched against your thigh, like he couldn't decide whether to pull you closer or push you away.

"You're thinking too loud," you said, tracing the tense line of his jaw.

His breath hitched. "I'm calculating damage control."

You laughed, low and knowing, and watched the way his pupils dilated at the sound. "Too late for that, Captain. The damage is done."

Hongjoong didn’t move for a long three seconds. The harsh, hum of the fluorescent lights overhead felt like an interrogation, exposing the raw, red marks your nails had left across his shoulders and the dark bruises his fingers were already leaving on your thighs.

Slowly, the mechanical gears of his brain tried to clank back into place. He pulled out of you with a low, wet sound, immediately turning his back to pull up his briefs and fasten his belt. The sudden absence of his heat made the air-conditioned room feel freezing.

"We need to clear this out," he said. His voice was no longer the rough, wrecked rasp that had begged you to hold him tighter a minute ago. It was flat. Corporate. The Captain was trying to put his armor back on, piece by jagged piece. "Someone could walk in. Security does rounds at midnight."

You sat up on the edge of the desk, your clothes rumpled, watching him with a cool, dangerous detachment that made his hands slightly tremble as he gathered the scattered gala papers from the linoleum.

"Damage control," you murmured, adjusting your skirt. "Right."

He didn't look at you. He couldn't. "I'm being practical. What happened here... it changes the logistics. But the house still needs to function."

"The house," you repeated, a cold, mocking smile twisting your lips. You slid off the desk, your heels hitting the floor with a sharp, final click. "You just spent an hour burying yourself inside me, telling me you're fucking obsessed with me, Hongjoong. And the second the electricity turns back on, you’re worried about the logistics?"

Hongjoong froze, a stack of invoices clutched in his hand. His jaw clenched so hard the bone looked sharp. "I have a responsibility to eight men who depend on me to keep this house from sinking. I can't let a personal... distraction..."

"Don't finish that sentence," you interrupted, your voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register that effectively cut the air out of his lungs. You walked up to him, yanked your tote bag off the chair, and looked him dead in the eyes. "You want to play the cold king who hides his mistakes in the dark? Fine. Sleep with your rulebook, Hongjoong. Because from this second on, you don't even get to look me in my face."

You turned on your heel and walked out of the multi-purpose room, the heavy double doors swinging shut behind you, leaving him completely hollowed out in the blinding white light.

The coffee maker hissed like a wounded animal at 6:03 AM, spitting steam and grounds across the counter. Hongjoong didn't flinch. He'd been standing there for seventeen minutes already, palms flat against the Formica, staring at the fridge where his manifesto hung—the ink slightly smudged now at the edges from where someone had splashed vodka on it during last night's party.

San shuffled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, and immediately froze at the sight of Hongjoong's rigid silhouette against the dawn light. "Uh. Morning?"

"Kitchen closes at 9 PM," Hongjoong said without turning. His voice was scraped raw. "There's a mold culture growing in the sink that could qualify for its own PhD. Clean it."

Mingi, trailing behind San, choked on his own spit. "It's literally sunrise—"

"Now."

The sharpness of it made Mingi stumble back a step. His gaze darted to San, who just shook his head in silent warning. Yunho leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, watching Hongjoong's stiff shoulders with the focus of a bomb squad technician.

"You look like you got hit by a bus," Yunho said casually. "Or fucked by one. Those scratches on your neck are—"

Hongjoong whirled. The coffee pot shattered against the wall inches from Yunho's head.

The silence was atomic.

San grabbed Mingi's elbow and hauled him backward out of the kitchen. Yunho didn't move. He just tilted his head, studying the fresh, ragged marks peeking above Hongjoong's collar—the same ones disappearing beneath his shirt.

"You're bleeding," Yunho said mildly.

Hongjoong's knuckles whitened around another mug. "Get out."

Yunho didn't. He stepped closer instead, lowering his voice. "She's not answering your texts, is she?"

The ceramic cracked in Hongjoong's grip.

Across campus, you sipped iced coffee in the library courtyard, laughing at something your study partner said. You hadn't checked your phone once. Not when it buzzed at 3:17 AM. Not when it lit up with a seventh call at sunrise. The screen faced down on the table, buried under your economics textbook like a corpse.

Back in the kitchen, Hongjoong's throat worked silently. He turned the mug in his hands—once, twice—before setting it down with unnatural precision. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Bullshit." Yunho grabbed a rag to wipe coffee off the wall. "You reek of her perfume. And before you snap again—" He held up a hand when Hongjoong's shoulders tensed. "I don't care. But you look like you got run over by the feelings bus, and it's fucking with the house vibe."

The fridge hummed. Somewhere upstairs, Mingi's panicked whisper carried down the stairwell—"Dude, we are not going back in there."

Hongjoong stared at the manifesto pinned to the fridge door. Rule #3 glared back in bold font: NO EMOTIONAL ATTACHMENTS. The paper was pristine. His knuckles were split.

Seonghwa chose that moment to walk in, crisp dress shirt rolled to the elbows, a manila envelope tucked under his arm. He took one look at the shattered coffee pot, the tension strung tight between Yunho and Hongjoong, and sighed. "Christ. Do I need to separate you two?"

Hongjoong didn't turn. His voice came out flat. "Kitchen's closed."

"Not for me." Seonghwa dropped the envelope on the counter with deliberate weight. "Legal team found three loopholes in my father's contract. Thought you'd want to see them."

The silence stretched. Yunho wiped coffee off his jaw, eyes darting between them. "I'll just..." He jerked a thumb toward the exit, abandoning the rag as he fled.

Seonghwa waited until the door swung shut before speaking again. "You look like hell."

Hongjoong's fingers flexed against the countertop. "Not now, Seonghwa."

"It's 6 AM," Seonghwa said evenly. "You're bleeding through your shirt." He reached for the envelope, sliding it closer. "The clauses circled in red? They're actionable. My father can't enforce the marriage if I prove financial independence."

Hongjoong didn't move. His gaze remained locked on the fridge, where Rule #4—NO OVERNIGHT GUESTS—hung crookedly next to a Polaroid of last semester's formal.

"You're not listening," Seonghwa observed. He stepped closer, voice dropping. "Look at me."

The order—the exact tone Hongjoong himself used during house meetings—made his shoulders tense. Slowly, he turned. The morning light caught the shadows under his eyes, the raw scrape of teeth marks disappearing beneath his collar.

Seonghwa exhaled sharply. "Christ. Did you even sleep?"

Hongjoong’s fingers twitched toward the manifesto. "We have a chapter meeting at noon. The alumni liaison is coming—"

"You’re spiraling," Seonghwa interrupted. He jabbed a finger at the envelope. "My father is blackmailing me into an engagement. And you—" His gaze flicked to the fridge, to the fresh nail marks on Hongjoong’s knuckles. "You’re self-destructing over a girl who won’t even look at you."

Hongjoong’s jaw clenched. "This isn’t about her."

"Bullshit." Seonghwa grabbed the manifesto, shaking it once. The paper rattled like a surrender flag. "You wrote these rules to punish yourself. Because you couldn’t handle wanting her." He stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "She walked out because you’re a coward. Not because of the house. Not because of the rules. Because you won’t admit you love her."

The hiss of the burner was the only sound left in the kitchen.

Hongjoong stared at Seonghwa, his chest rising and falling in shallow, sharp increments. For a fraction of a second, the Captain persona entirely fractured, leaving him looking exactly like what he was: a twenty-two-year-old kid who had built a fortress out of pride, only to realize he’d locked himself inside it alone.

"Watch your mouth," Hongjoong whispered. The threat was empty, his voice too thin, too wrecked to carry any real malice.

Seonghwa didn't even blink. He dropped the manifesto back onto the counter, the paper fluttering against the stainless steel. "I’m the only one in this house who isn’t afraid of you, Hongjoong. And right now, you look pathetic. You’re trying to manage my crisis because you’re completely incapable of handling your own."

"I am fixing your life!" Hongjoong suddenly roared, his hand slamming down on the counter so hard the remaining mugs rattled. The outburst seemed to drain the last of his artificial energy. He dropped his head, his damp fringe falling into his eyes as his shoulders slumped. "I am fixing it because I can't... I can't fix this."

"You haven't even tried," Seonghwa said softly, the harsh edge leaving his voice, replaced by the heavy, grounding weight of a brother. He reached out, his hand gripping Hongjoong’s tense shoulder, squeezing tight. "You didn't fix anything with her. You just ran damage control until she decided she was done being treated like a hazard."

Hongjoong closed his eyes. In the darkness behind his eyelids, all he could see was the way you looked under those unforgiving fluorescent lights a few hours ago. The cool, absolute finality in your eyes when you told him he didn't even get to look you in the face.

You hadn't just walked out of the student union. You had taken the air in the room with you.

"She won't even look at me, Seonghwa," Hongjoong confessed, his voice barely a breath. The admission felt like drawing blood. "I called her seven times. She turned her phone off."

"Then stop calling her like a coward from the safety of your office," Seonghwa said, pulling his hand back and adjusting his cuffs, his stately composure perfectly restored. He picked up his manila envelope, tucking it back under his arm. "Go find her. Tear that stupid piece of paper off the fridge, walk across campus, and bow down. Because if you don't, someone else is going to give her the worship she actually deserves."

Seonghwa turned on his heel, his pristine loafers clicking against the tile as he exited the kitchen, leaving Hongjoong alone with the wreckage of the coffee pot and his own suffocating thoughts.

The crumpled manifesto hit the trash bin with the finality of a gunshot. Hongjoong didn't pause to watch it land—he was already striding past the gaping faces of Mingi and San in the living room, out the front door, into the brutal clarity of morning sunlight. His knuckles throbbed where the paper edges had bitten into his skin. He didn't care.

You were sprawled on the union steps with your study group, highlighters strewn across your notebook, when a shadow fell across your page. The chatter around you died mid-sentence. You didn’t need to look up to know who stood there—the scent of his cologne (bergamot and something burnt, like he’d been chain-smoking all night) preceded him.

"Move," you told your friend, nudging her knee aside without glancing up. "You're blocking my light."

A beat of silence. Then Hongjoong dropped to his knees on the concrete in front of you, his hands braced on either side of your sprawled legs. The collective inhale from your study group was audible. His forehead pressed against your thigh, his breath hot through the denim.

"I don’t care about the house," he said, voice rough. The words weren’t whispered; they rang clear across the steps. "I don’t care about the rules. Tear me apart if you want, but don’t make me go back to pretending I don’t—” His fingers flexed against the concrete. "I’m completely undone without you. Please."

Your highlighter rolled off the notebook. Someone’s phone clattered to the ground. Hongjoong didn’t move, his shoulders bowed under the weight of surrender, the morning light catching on the fresh scratches peeking above his collar.

You closed your notebook with a snap. "Get up."

He did—immediately, like your voice was a leash around his throat. His eyes were wild, gold swallowed by black. You stood, shouldering your bag, and walked past him without a word. He followed like a shadow, his fingers brushing yours once, twice, before you let him tangle them together.

By the time you shoved him through your apartment door, his composure had fractured entirely. He crowded you against the wall, his mouth desperate on yours, his hands shaking where they gripped your hips. "Tell me you're mine," he demanded between kisses that tasted like salt and sleepless nights. "Tell me I didn't ruin this."

You bit his lower lip hard enough to make him groan. "Shut up and worship me properly."

He did. Everywhere. His mouth traced the arch of your foot, the delicate bones of your ankle, the soft skin behind your knee. He lingered there, teeth scraping, until your thighs trembled. "You own me," he whispered against your inner thigh, his breath hot. "You have since the first time you laughed at my rules."

When his tongue finally slid between your legs, he moaned like he was the one being unraveled. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you open as he licked into you with slow, deliberate strokes that had your back arching off the bed. "Fuck—Hongjoong—"

"Say it again," he growled, lifting his head just enough to watch your face as his thumb circled your clit. "Say my name like I'm yours."

You came with his name on your lips, his fingers fucking you through it, his eyes locked on yours like he was memorizing the way you fell apart for him.

Later—much later—when he was buried deep inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his hips moving in slow, grinding rolls that made you both gasp, he choked out the words he'd been swallowing for months: "I love you. I love you, I love you—" Each confession punctuated by a thrust that stole your breath. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry—"

You silenced him with a kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair as he trembled above you. His pace faltered, his rhythm breaking apart as he came with a ragged groan, his body collapsing against yours. For a long moment, he just breathed against your neck, his lips brushing your pulse point between exhales. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were red-rimmed, his lashes damp. "I didn't ruin this?" he whispered.

You traced the curve of his bottom lip with your thumb. "You ruined everything else. But not this."

His laughter was rough, relieved, as he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him. Your legs tangled together, your head pillowed on his chest where his heartbeat still raced beneath your ear.

A week later, sunlight streamed through the cafe windows, catching the steam rising from your lattes. Hongjoong's arm was draped over the back of your chair, his fingers absently playing with the ends of your hair as you quizzed him on midterm material. He answered every question wrong on purpose just to make you groan.

The bell above the door jingled. Seonghwa looked like he hadn't slept in days—his usually pristine dress shirt wrinkled, his tie loosened. He collapsed into the chair across from you with the grace of a collapsing building.

"They're flying her in next week," he said without preamble, rubbing his temples. "Legal team found another clause. If I don't formally meet her by the end of the month, my trust fund defaults to my cousin."

Hongjoong's fingers stilled in your hair. You exchanged a glance—his raised eyebrow asking permission. You nodded.

You leaned forward, stirring your latte. "I have a friend," you said casually. "Brilliant girl. Triple major, works three jobs. She's exactly the kind of girl your parents would hate."

Seonghwa's head lifted slowly. "Define 'hate.'"

"She's loud," you counted off on your fingers. "Has tattoos. Once threw a drink at a senator's son for grabbing her ass. Needs rent money."

Hongjoong snorted into his coffee. "Perfect."

Seonghwa's tired eyes sharpened. "You're joking."

"She's also fluent in three languages and can debate political theory better than your father's lawyers," you added. "Imagine the look on his face when you bring home a scholarship student who outsmarts him at dinner."

Hongjoong's fingers trailed down your arm, pride evident in the way his thumb circled your wrist. "Pay her to be your fake girlfriend. Your parents will combust."

Seonghwa exhaled sharply through his nose. "This is insane."

"So was Hongjoong's rulebook," you countered, smirking when Hongjoong nipped at your earlobe in retaliation.

Seonghwa's eyes flickered between you both—the way Hongjoong's hand now rested possessively on your thigh, how you leaned into his touch without hesitation. Something in his expression shifted. "You're serious."

"Deadly," Hongjoong said. He nudged your coffee closer to you, the gesture almost subconscious. "She's right. Your parents want a docile society girl who'll smile and breed heirs. Bring them a hurricane instead."

You twisted in your seat to face Seonghwa fully. "I'll text her tonight. She'll want contracts drawn up—payment, boundaries, termination clauses."

Seonghwa stared at you. "You've done this before."

"Not personally." You smirked, tapping your nails against your cup. "But I know someone who spent six months pretending to date a senator's daughter for tuition money."

Hongjoong choked on his coffee. "That was you?"

"Different lifetime." You waved a hand. "Point is, my friend will eat your parents alive and enjoy it. But she won't do it for free."

Seonghwa exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples again. When he looked up, there was something dangerously close to hope in his exhausted gaze. "How soon can I meet her?"

"Tomorrow." You pulled out your phone, already composing a text. "She works the morning shift at the campus coffee kiosk. Come hungry—she'll poison you if you order anything basic."

Seonghwa’s hand froze halfway to his forehead, his knuckles locking as he stared at your screen. "Define basic."

"Caramel macchiatos, anything with extra whip, and talking down to her while she’s holding a steaming metal pitcher," Hongjoong answered for you, his chest vibrating against your back as he chuckled. He leaned his chin on your shoulder, entirely unbothered by the fact that they were in public or that his best friend looked like he was about to have a stroke. "Trust her, man. If she says the girl is a hurricane, you better start boarding up your windows."

A slow, tentative exhale slipped past Seonghwa’s lips. The crushing weight that had been bowing his shoulders for weeks didn't vanish, but for the first time since his father had dropped that legal ultimatum on his desk, the panic in his chest receded, replaced by a cold, calculating curiosity.

"Contracts," Seonghwa repeated, the word tasting familiar and solid on his tongue. "I can do contracts. Boundaries, timelines, financial compensation—I’ll have my personal attorney draft a non-disclosure agreement by tonight."

"Don't bother," you said, sliding your phone back into your bag with a decisive click. "She writes her own terms. Just bring your checkbook and an open mind, Park. You're about to meet the best thing—or the absolute worst thing—that's ever happened to your family name."

Seonghwa stood up, the wrinkles in his blazer suddenly seeming less like a sign of defeat and more like armor after a battle. He adjusted his tie, his regal, untouchable composure locking back into place like a shield. He looked at Hongjoong, then down at you, a faint, genuine glint of amusement finally breaking through the exhaustion in his dark eyes.

"If she manages to make my mother spill her tea at dinner next week," Seonghwa murmured, picking up his manila envelope, "I’ll pay her double her asking price."

"Consider it done," you smirked.

With a final, lingering nod, Seonghwa turned and walked out of the cafe, his posture straight, his stride carrying the familiar, commanding authority of the richest man on campus. The glass door jingled behind him, letting in a brief gust of warm summer wind.

The second he was gone, Hongjoong turned his head, his lips instantly finding the sensitive skin right beneath your ear. He nipped at it softly, his fingers digging into your thigh under the table with a possessive, heavy pressure that made your breath hitch.

"A hurricane, huh?" he whispered against your skin, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that always made your pulse spike. "You really like orchestrating chaos in my house, don't you?"

"I'm just fixing your friends, Captain," you murmured, tilting your head back to give him better access. "Someone has to look out for the TEEZER boys now that your little manifesto is in the dumpster."

Hongjoong groaned softly, wrapping his arms fully around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest. He didn't care about the rules, he didn't care about the standings, and he certainly didn't care about the onlookers in the cafe. He was completely, irrevocably whipped—and as he pressed a deep, bruising kiss to your lips in the bright morning light, he knew he’d spend the rest of his life gladly bowing down to the only girl who had ever refused to be a placeholder.

© KOZTION 2026 | Do not steal, plagiarize, translate or repost any of my work.

DISCLAIMER | this is no way of a true representation of any of the members. This is purely fiction and for the enjoyment of the reader and not to be taken seriously.

a/n ; Hi.. Hello.. Is this thing on..? Sorry guys for the late update, I’ve recently changed jobs and haven’t had the time to finish up but I promise more is coming sooner than you think!! Spacer from @celcero !!

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