#recklesscakeuu

Soobin’s car hummed through the three hours of quiet countryside roads, the occasional soft click of his turn signal, and the low murmur of whatever late-night ballad playlist he’d put on shuffle. 

You were finally going home.

Not just any home—your family home, the two-story house with cream walls and a clay-tiled roof that hadn’t changed since you were small enough to hide under the dining table during thunderstorms. 

Your mother had been relentless for weeks. Voice messages piled up, and the occasional guilt-trip text that read 'It’s been almost two years, and we still haven’t met him in person. Do you want me to die of curiosity?'

Soobin had laughed when you told him—nervous, dimpled, adorable—but the laugh hadn’t reached his eyes. He’d agreed, of course. He always agreed when you asked. But the closer the date got, the more you noticed the little tells.

The way he chewed the inside of his cheek when he thought you weren’t looking, the way his fingers drummed restlessly on the table when he video called in between rehearsals, the way he asked—twice—if your parents liked beef because he wanted to bring the right gift.

Now, as the late afternoon sun dipped low, your family’s house finally came into view at the end of the narrow lane. The same wooden gate your brothers used to climb as kids. The same porch light that had welcomed you back from every school trip, every late-night study session.

The car rolled to a gentle stop in the driveway. The engine ticked once, twice, then fell silent but he didn’t move to unbuckle right away.

You glanced sideways and caught the way his long fingers flexed around the steering wheel—knuckles pale, then flushed, then pale again.

He had worn something softer for the drive home: a white button-up with a black cardigan, dark loose jeans, and he wore his glasses instead of the usual contact lenses.

Even dressed down, he still looked unfairly expensive as if he belonged on a magazine cover rather than in your childhood neighborhood. 

You reached over and brushed a stray lock of black hair off his forehead. 

“You’re nervous,” you murmured, half-teasing, half-tender. 

Soobin let out a small, nervous laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve performed in front of thousands of people and I’m more scared of your mom right now than I ever was on any stage.”

You leaned across the console and kissed the corner of his mouth. “She’s going to love you. Everyone does.”

He exhaled through his nose, then nodded once like he was steeling himself for a performance he hadn’t rehearsed. The front door flew open before either of you could unbuckle.

Your mother stood on the porch in her favorite floral apron, arms already open. Behind her, your two older brothers loomed, identical smirks on their faces. Minho crossed his arms; Jaehyun tilted his head and mouthed pretty boy the second he spotted Soobin stepping out of the car.

Soobin bowed deeply then straightened and held out the small forest of shopping bags he’d insisted on carrying the entire three-hour drive.

“These are… for all of you” he said, voice soft but steady. “I didn’t know what would be appropriate so I, um, bought a little of everything.”

Your mother’s eyes widened at the Hanwoo beef gift set, then softened at the cordless back massager still in its sleek black box, and finally landed on the oversized bouquet of white peonies and pale pink roses.

She accepted everything with both hands despite being hesitant. “You didn’t have to bring anything,” she said, already tearing up. “Come in, come in. Both of you must be tired.”

Soobin bowed again shyly and followed you inside. The living room smelled exactly the way you remembered with the familiar faint citrus cleaner, your dad’s old tobacco pipe that he swore he’d quit using, and the sweet undertone of red bean simmering somewhere in the kitchen. 

Your brothers immediately flanked Soobin like hawks. Minho clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make the taller man jolt 

“So you’re the guy who finally locked our little sister down.” 

Jaehyun snorted. “Took you long enough to show your face.”

Soobin smiled politely showing off his dimples and answered every barrage of questions with quiet earnestness. Yes, he liked horror movies but got scared easily. No, he didn’t drink often because alcohol made his face red in thirty seconds. Yes, he really did cry during that one episode of that healing drama your mom loved and by dinner, your parents were already calling him “our Soobin-ah.”

You watched the entire scene unfold from across the table, chin in hand, warmth blooming behind your ribs. Soobin kept stealing glances at you—quick, needy little looks that said I’m trying so hard to be good for them. 

After plates were cleared your mother brought out photo albums. Soobin leaned forward, elbows on knees, genuinely interested as your mom flipped through pages of you at five with pigtails and missing front teeth, you at twelve with braces and a soccer uniform two sizes too big, you at seventeen graduating high school with the same serious pout you still wore when you were concentrating.

“He’s so attentive,” your mother whispered to you later while Soobin was helping your dad carry dishes to the sink. “Look how he listens to your father. Most boys his age can’t sit still through stories like that.”

You only hummed, because you knew exactly why Soobin listened so intently. He liked being told what to do. He liked praise even more. And he liked it best when the voice doing the praising belonged to you.

You always thought it was funny how recently you’ve come to know that Soobin liked giving up control because in the beginning of your relationship, he had been the one who took charge.

Exactly a year had passed since you officially started dating by then—twelve full months of stolen moments carved out between his relentless schedules and your own life, of late-night calls where his voice came through cracked and exhausted, barely above a whisper because he didn’t want to wake the other members. Quick kisses in the back of tinted vans while the manager pretended not to notice, longer ones in empty practice rooms after everyone else had left, his back pressed to the mirrored wall and your fingers tangled in the damp hair at his nape. 

You learned each other slowly, carefully—his favorite places to be touched, the way his dimples deepened when he was genuinely happy, the quiet way he’d blush when you caught him staring too long.

Those months felt almost fragile in their sweetness: hands brushing under blankets during movie nights, his head on your lap while you played with his hair until he dozed off mid-sentence, the shy way he’d text you good morning even when he’d only gotten three hours of sleep after a schedule.

Everything built gradually, like a melody finding its rhythm—tentative kisses turning into longer ones, clothes staying on a little less each time, whispered confessions in the dark about how much he liked just being near you.

And when things finally turned physical, he led.

He guided you with a gentle, steady confidence—eyes always searching your face for the slightest hint of uncertainty, pausing each time to let your gazes lock before continuing. He never hurried, never assumed; every caress felt like a careful invitation he already sensed you’d accept, yet he still waited for your quiet nod or the subtle tightening of your fingers against his skin to be certain.

The first time happened in his dorm while the others were out, during a late-night movie neither of you had really watched.

The screen had long since gone dark, the only light coming from the faint blue glow of his computer monitor and the city bleeding in through half-closed blinds. He kissed you slow and deep on the couch until your breathing turned uneven, until your hands were clutching the front of his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

His hands were careful at first, sliding under your shirt to trace the curve of your waist, thumb brushing the underside of your breast like he was asking permission with every touch. You arched into him, and that was all the answer he needed.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—eyes dark, searching, gentle. 

“You sure?” he asked, voice low and steady, thumb brushing your cheek. “We don’t have to—”

You nodded, heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it. “I want to.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed you slow and deep, hands steady as he carried you to his bedroom and laid you on his bed, voice low and sure when he asked again if you were ready, if you wanted this.

You nodded and he took over—careful, observant, almost reverent. He undressed you like you were something fragile and precious, whispered your name like a prayer against your collarbone, set the pace with long, deliberate thrusts that made your toes curl and your breath catch. 

The next few times followed the same pattern. He led quietly, confidently, always checking your eyes, always making sure you were with him. he’d press you against the bathroom counter, lift one of your legs over his hip, and fuck you slow and filthy while the mirror fogged up. In the backseat of his car after midnight drives he’d pull you into his lap, hands on your ass guiding you down onto him, letting you ride while he kissed your neck and whispered how pretty you looked falling apart.

He often flipped you onto your stomach and took you from behind with one hand braced beside your head, the other tangled in your hair just tight enough to make you arch. He’d pull your legs over his shoulders and fuck you slow and filthy until you were shaking, begging, coming so hard your vision whited out. 

He always made sure you came first—twice, sometimes three times—before he finally let himself go, spilling inside you with a low, broken moan that vibrated against your collarbone.

He was good at it. Really good. Attentive. Thorough. Almost too perfect.

Until that one night, six months after your first time.

You were in his bedroom again, rain drumming against the windows as you kissing lazily on the bed. When you reached up, you caught both his wrists, and pinned them above his head against the headboard as you continued to make out.

He froze.

Not in fear—in something else.

His pupils blew wide. His breath stuttered. His hips lifted off the couch in one helpless roll, grinding his already hard cock against your thigh like he couldn’t stop himself.

You held him there and he didn’t fight it.

He melted.

Eyes fluttering shut, lips parting on a shaky exhale, chest rising and falling too fast. A soft, needy sound slipped out of him. It was barely there, but you heard it enough to make heat flood your core.

You rocked against him—slow, mean—feeling him throb through his sweats. He whimpered into your neck, hips chasing every drag of friction.

When you finally whispered “good boy” against his ear, he came.

Untouched.

Hard. Sudden. Mortified.

Hot pulses soaked through the fabric. His whole body jerked, a choked sob catching in his throat.  He buried his face in your shoulder, cheeks burning against your skin, mumbling broken apologies.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I couldn’t—” over and over and you just hummed, not really thinking much about it.

Maybe he was just too tense that night, you thought.

But he kept coming back for it.

The very next time you had sex he didn’t even try to take charge. He waited—eyes down, breathing shallow—until you told him exactly what to do. You made him kneel between your legs on the rug, hands behind his back, and watched him tremble while you rode his face until you came on his tongue.

Only then did you let him inside you—slowly, teasingly, making him hold still while you took what you wanted. He cried that time too—quiet, overwhelmed tears—when you finally let him move, when you told him he could come but only if he begged first.

After that, the dynamic flipped completely.

He liked when you chose the pace. Liked when you told him exactly how to touch you, how fast, how deep. Liked when you ignored his pleas until he was trembling, glassy-eyed, promising anything if you’d just let him come. 

The taller he stood in public, the sweeter his dimples, the gentler his voice on camera, the more violently he unraveled the second you gave him an order in private.

He still towered over you, still had those long limbs and broad shoulders, still looked like the gentle, perfect boyfriend your mother would cry over. But alone, with your hand around his cock or your thighs bracketing his face or your voice in his ear calling him good boy—he became something else entirely. Something needy. Something yours.

That was when you realized that night on his bed had sealed it: he craved surrender far more than he craved control. The brief moment he’d taken the lead had been sweet, earnest, but it was clear he’d only done it because he thought that’s what you wanted. 

But the second you took the reins back, he melted all over again, happier, needier, more himself.

Now, here he was in your family home’s living room speaking to your entire family like he was the most perfect son-in-law in the world. The conversation had slowly drifted to the usual conservative parental conversations eventually going to—toward marriage.

Your mother sighed, setting her teacup down with a gentle clink. 

“You’ve been together for almost two years now,” she said, eyes shining with that particular mix of pride and mild accusation only mothers can perfect. “We were starting to think you’d never bring anyone home. I even told your father last month how maybe you were dating a ghost because we’ve never met your boyfriend.” She chuckled.

Your father gave a low, rumbling chuckle and nodded sagely.

“A good son-in-law should be responsible. Hard-working. Polite.” He turned his gaze to Soobin, “You seem to check all the boxes, Soobin-ah. Tall, handsome, manners like a textbook, and you even brought beef. That’s practically a marriage proposal in gift form.”

Soobin’s ears went from pink to full-on fire-engine red in record time. He bowed his head slightly, fingers twisting the napkin in his lap like he was trying to strangle it into submission.

“I—I’ll do my best to take care of her” he managed, voice soft but earnest. “Always.”

Your mother beamed, as she pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s all we ask. And of course…” She paused, folding her hands in her lap with the careful deliberation of someone about to drop a very polite bomb. “We raised her with certain values. You understand. Intimacy is for after the vows. We trust you both respect that.”

Soobin’s gaze snapped to you so fast it was practically audible. Wide. Panicked. Guilty as sin.  You met his eyes and gave him the tiniest, calmest, most angelic smile you could muster and his Adam’s apple bobbed like it was trying to escape his throat entirely.

“Of course,” he croaked, voice so faint it barely cleared the rim of his teacup. “We… respect that very much.”

The words came out so strangled you had to press your lips together to keep from laughing outright. Under the table, you slid your foot along his calf—slow, deliberate—just to watch his shoulders jolt like he’d been tased.

Your mother beamed, completely oblivious to the silent implosion happening inches away. “Good. That’s good. I knew you were raised right.”

Your brothers, who had been mercifully quiet until now, exchanged a look before Minho, who had been pretending to scroll on his phone the whole time, finally looked up with a shit-eating grin. 

“Yeah, Soobin-ah. Real upstanding guy. Bet you two just hold hands and pray together every night.”

Jaehyun snorted into his water glass and Soobin looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

You had to press your lips together so hard your teeth hurt to keep from laughing out loud at the fact that your entire family was sitting here, your parents blissfully convinced that their precious daughter was still pure as the driven snow, while the boy they’d just declared 'son-in-law material' had spent the last year learning exactly how many times he could have that same daughter moan out his name.

Your mother, blissfully oblivious, reached over and patted his hand. “Such a good boy. We’re so happy you’re here.”

Soobin made a small, strangled noise that could have been “thank you” or could have been the sound of his soul quietly departing his body making you snort at his reaction.

It was nearly eleven when your mother finally stood, smoothing her apron with both hands like she was preparing to deliver a verdict.

“Too late to drive back now,” she declared. “You’ll stay the night. But the guest room is still full of boxes—we haven’t finished sorting that mess from the attic. Soobin-ah, the couch pulls out nicely. It’s quite comfortable.”

You spoke before he could even open his mouth. “He can sleep in my room. On the floor,” you added quickly, the picture of innocence. “I can put out extra blankets and a pillow. He won’t mind.”

Your brothers exchanged grins as your mother studied you both for a long, searching moment, lips pursed.“...Door stays cracked,” she said at last. “And I mean it. No funny business under this roof.”

Soobin bowed so deeply he nearly knocked his forehead on the table edge. “Yes, Thank you. I promise.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek until you tasted copper.

Because little did they know the boy currently bowing ninety degrees and swearing chastity in your mother’s living room had, less than twenty-four hours ago, been crying into your neck while you rode him slow and mean on your apartment bed, begging you to let him come inside again even though you’d already edged him for forty minutes.

And your entire family was sitting here thinking he was the poster child for abstinence.

Oblivious.

Utterly, hilariously, wonderfully oblivious.

You stood, tugging gently on Soobin’s sleeve. “Come on. Let’s get you settled.”

He followed you down the hallway, clutching the small duffel bag he’d brought like it was a shield. The second your bedroom door closed behind you, he let out a long, shaky exhale that sounded like a balloon deflating.

You flicked the lock, heeding no mind to your mother’s reminder earlier. The soft click made him freeze and you turned, leaning back against the wood, arms crossed. 

Soobin immediately dropped to his knees and began arranging the spare blankets into a neat pallet on the floor and you watched him for a moment—long back curved, careful hands smoothing the edges.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

He looked up, confused. “I—floor. Like I promised.”

You tilted your head. “You were so good tonight,” you said quietly. “So polite. So perfect.”

His shoulders dropped half an inch. “I was terrified.”

“I know.” You stepped closer, slow. “I could feel how hard you were trying. Every time Mom praised you I watched your thighs tense under the table.”

Soobin swallowed. “Don’t—don’t say that here.”

“Why not, baby?” You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with one fingernail. “You like being told you’re good, don’t you?”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Yes.”

You smiled. “And you like it when I tell you what to do.”

He inhaled shakily and nodded.

You slid your hand down, fingers curling loosely around his throat—not squeezing, just holding. His pulse thundered against your palm. “Then get on the bed.”

He hesitated. “We’re in your childhood bedroom.”

“Mhm.”

“Where you slept with stuffed animals.”

“Yup”

“Where you probably prayed before exams and cried over boy bands and—” He swallowed. “—and we shouldn’t be doing this here.”

You crouched in front of him, fingers catching his chin, tilting his face up. “Doing what?”

His voice cracked. “You know what.”

“Say it.”

He closed his eyes. “Sex. In your family home. On the same day they met me” He sighed. “Your family is literally—” He gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “—steps away. They think I’m sleeping on the floor. They think we’ve never—”

“—fucked?” you finished sweetly and he winced at the word, cheeks flaming.

“They think you’re still… innocent.” He continued.

You stepped into his space until your chests brushed. “Am I?” You asked and he shook his head. “And whose fault is that?”

His breath stuttered. “Mine.”

“Exactly.” You pushed up on tiptoe and spoke against the shell of his ear. “You took my innocence months ago, Soobin-ah. Remember? On your dorm bed. You fucked me so hard I swore I saw stars that night”

He made a small, wounded sound and you pulled back just enough to see his face—eyes glassy, lips parted. “And now you’re scared they’ll find out?”

He nodded frantically.You smiled wider. “Then you’d better be quiet.”

You walked backward toward the bed, tugging him with you by the front of his sweater and he followed like he was leashed. When the backs of your knees hit the mattress you sat, legs parted just enough that your skirt rode up your thighs.

Soobin stood between them, hands hovering uncertainly.“Strip,” you ordered. “Slowly. Fold everything neatly. You know how I like it.”

His fingers shook as he pulled the sweater over his head. Pale skin, long torso, faint definition that appeared only when he was tense. He folded the knit with care, placed it on your old desk chair. Pants next—slowly, belt sliding free with a soft metallic hiss. Boxers last. He hesitated there, eyes flicking toward the locked door.

You tilted your head. “Problem?”

“...They could hear.”

“They could,” you agreed. “If you’re loud.”

He exhaled through his nose, then pushed the fabric down. Cock already half-hard, flushed dark at the tip. He folded the boxers too, set them on top of the pile.

“Good boy,” you murmured and the praise hit him like a drug. 

You patted the mattress beside you. “Lie down. On your back.”

He obeyed instantly, long limbs arranging themselves carefully so he wouldn’t take up too much space. You stood, peeled off your own clothes without ceremony—skirt, blouse, bra, panties—and left them in a careless heap. Soobin watched every movement with reverent hunger.

When you crawled over him he automatically lifted his hands to touch, then froze. You caught his wrists and pinned them above his head with one hand. “Did I say you could move?”

“No,” he whispered.

“Then don’t.”

You settled your weight across his hips, his cock laying hot and heavy against your stomach. You rocked once slowly, letting your folds glide along the underside of him without letting him slip inside. Soobin’s head tipped back into the pillow. A low, broken sound escaped his throat.

“Shh,” you reminded him, pressing two fingers to his lips. “They’ll hear”

He bit his lip so hard you thought it might bleed.

You rocked again, deliberately dragging your clit along the sensitive ridge under his tip. His hips jerked once unconsciously then froze when he realized what he’d done.

“Sorry,” he breathed. “Sorry, I—”

“Quiet.”

You leaned down and kissed him—deep, filthy, swallowing every tiny sound he couldn’t hold back. When you pulled away a thin string of saliva connected your mouths for a heartbeat before snapping.

“You’re already leaking,” you observed, reaching down to spread the bead of pre-cum across his tip with your thumb. “Already so close and I haven’t even let you in yet.”

“I—I can’t help it when you—” He cut himself off with a sharp inhale as you circled the head once, twice.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t do this.”

His voice cracked. “Because… your parents are down the hall. Because they think I’m respectful. Because they just lectured us about waiting until marriage. Because if they walk in—” His breath hitched. “—they’ll see their only daughter riding the man she brought home today on her childhood bed. They’ll see me inside you. They’ll know I ruined you.”

You clenched around nothing at his words.

“Ruined me?” you echoed sweetly. “You think you ruined me?”

He shook his head. “I—I didn’t mean—”

You sank down in one smooth, slow motion and Soobin’s mouth opened in a silent scream. Back arched off the mattress. Fingers white-knuckled gripping on the headboard.

You stayed still—letting him throb, letting him feel how tightly you gripped him, how wet you were from teasing him for so long.

“Look at me.”

He forced his eyes open. Tears were already clinging to his lashes.

“You’re in so deep,” you whispered. “I can feel you in my stomach. Right here.” You pressed his hand to your lower abdomen. “Feel that?” 

He nodded—jerky, desperate.

“That’s you. Inside me. In the same bed where I used to sleep with my teddy bear and dream about getting into university. While your future in-laws sleep ten meters away.”

A tear slipped down his cheek and you rolled your hips once—small, cruel circles—and watched his face collapse.

“Quiet,” you reminded him again. “Remember?” 

He whimpered—muffled, desperate—into the crook of his elbow and you began to move slow at first. Long, deliberate drags that let him feel every ridge, lifting until only the head remained inside, then sinking back down until your ass met his thighs. Every time you bottomed out his abs jumped. Every time you lifted he chased you with a helpless twitch of his hips—then caught himself and froze.

“You’re shaking,” you observed, bracing your hands on his chest. “Is it because you’re scared? Or because it feels too good?”

“Both,” he choked out.

You sped up—just enough to make the headboard tap once, softly, against the wall and Soobin’s eyes flew wide. “Don’t—the—the bed—”

You clamped a hand over his mouth.“Then control yourself,” you hissed. “Or do you want them to come running? Want your sweet, polite image shattered when they find you balls-deep in their daughter on her childhood mattress?”

He shook his head frantically against your palm as his cock jerked violently inside you. You laughed under your breath. “You like that idea, don’t you? Being forced to come while your whole body is screaming not to make a sound.”

He nodded frantically against your palm.

You rode him harder—still controlled, still measured, but deeper now. The wet sound of your bodies meeting was obscene in the quiet room. Every time you ground down his tip kissed your cervix and his thighs trembled.

“Look how hard you’re trying,” you cooed. “Look at your face—so red, so wrecked. You want to moan so badly, don’t you?” Another helpless nod.“But you won’t. Because you’re good. Because you want to please me more than you want to breathe.”

Tears slipped freely now, tracking down his temples. His hands stayed obediently above his head even though his fingers were now white-knuckled in the sheets. You leaned down until your breasts brushed his chest, lips grazing his ear. 

“Come for me, Soobin-ah. Right now. Fill me up while your future in-laws sleep ten meters away. Do it quietly, like a good boy.”

His whole body tensed before you felt the first hot pulse deep inside—then another, and another. He came so hard his hips lifted off the mattress, pushing impossibly deeper. 

A strangled, almost-silent sob tore from his throat and you swallowed it with your mouth over his. When the last tremor left him you stayed seated, letting him soften inside you while you kissed the tears from his cheeks.

“You did so well, baby” you whispered. “So quiet. So perfect.”He turned his face into your neck, breathing hard. 

“I thought—I thought I was going to die.”

You laughed softly. “You didn’t.”

“I’m still inside you,” he mumbled, mortified all over again.

“I know.” You clenched deliberately around him making him whine helplessly.

You rolled your hips once more—just to feel him twitch—and lifted off just enough to watch the thick stripe of cum that followed. You scooped some with two fingers and brought them to his lips.

“Clean up your mess.”

He opened immediately, tongue curling around your fingers, eyes half-lidded and glassy with afterglow. When you pulled them free he whispered, “We’re going to hell.”

You kissed him slow and filthy. “Maybe,” you murmured against his mouth. “But at least we’ll go together.”

He pulled you back down, guiding you until you sank onto him again in one smooth, slick glide. He didn’t even try to pull out.

He just wanted to stay buried inside you, softening but still thick enough to stretch you, still leaking the last weak pulses of his release. His arms finally wrapped around your waist tentatively at first, like he was waiting for permission to hold you even now, then tightened when you didn’t push him away.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing hard against your skin, nose brushing the spot just below your ear that always made you shiver.

You carded your fingers through his damp hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp the way he liked.

“Sleep now,” you whispered. “We have breakfast with my family in six hours.”

He let out a pitiful, muffled groan into your neck, the sound half-exhausted, half-doomed.

── ∘◦ ⛤ ◦∘ ──── ∘◦ ⛤ ◦∘ ──── ∘◦ ⛤ ◦∘ ──── ∘◦ ⛤ ◦∘ ──

The first pale gray light of dawn slipped through the curtains like an unwelcome guest, turning the room from deep indigo to muted silver. Your childhood bedroom looked almost innocent again in the soft morning glow—the faded star stickers on the ceiling, the neatly folded quilt at the foot of the bed, the small collection of childhood books still lined up on the shelf.

Almost.

Because Choi Soobin was still inside you. He hadn’t pulled out all night.

You apparently fell asleep like that—straddled across his hips, your chest pressed to his, his softening cock still nestled deep in the warm, messy aftermath of his release. Sometime in the small hours he’d hardened again inside you without either of you moving and you woke up briefly to the sensation of him thickening, stretching you open all over again while he slept, whimpering softly into your neck even in dreams.

You hadn’t let him slip out either and simply clenched around him once, twice, and drifted back to sleep with him trapped and throbbing. Now at 6:42 a.m., the house was beginning to wake and downstairs, a kettle clicked on, your mother’s soft humming to some old trot song can be heard as she made breakfast. Closer, the sound of slippers shuffling past your door, then your father’s low cough as he headed to the bathroom.

Soobin stirred beneath you, lashes fluttering as his eyes opened slowly—still glassy from last night, still red-rimmed from crying—and immediately widened in panic when he registered where he was. Who he was still buried inside.

The thin daylight making every detail brutally visible: the dried tear tracks on his cheeks, the faint bruises blooming on his lower lip from biting it raw, the way your inner thighs glistened with the evidence of how many times he’d spilled into you.

His cock twitched hard inside you and you smiled down at him, slow and sleepy and mean.

“Morning, baby,” you whispered, voice barely a breath.Soobin’s throat worked. He tried to speak—couldn’t. He tried again.

“We—we fell asleep like this,” he rasped, so quiet it was almost inaudible. “I’m still… inside you.”

“Mhm.” You rolled your hips once in a tiny, lazy circle making his whole body jolt, the bed frame giving the faintest metallic sigh. 

Down the hall, footsteps paused and Soobin froze. His eyes went wide and his breathing stopped. The footsteps continued past your door, down the stairs and he exhaled shakily through his nose. 

“Baby please—They’re awake. They’re right there—” 

You leaned down until your lips brushed his ear. “And you’re still balls-deep in their daughter. Leaking again already. Look—” You lifted your hips just enough for him to see the thick, pearly ring of cum that had leaked out around his base overnight, coating his shaft, matting the dark hair at his groin. “—you filled me up so much it’s still dripping out. If anyone walked in right now…” 

You sank back down slowly and Soobin’s head tipped back into the pillow. A silent, trembling whine vibrated in his throat. You pressed a finger to his lips.

“Shh. They’re gonna kill you if they see us like this” you joked and his eyes fluttered shut. 

You kept your voice low, cruelly intimate. “My mom would see the tall, polite Soobin, the perfect boyfriend she cried happy tears over last night… naked under me, cock buried to the hilt in her only daughter’s cunt. Still hard. Still leaking. My thighs sticky with your cum. My bedsheets ruined. The same bed where I used to sleep hugging a teddy bear.”

Soobin’s cock jerked violently inside you—thickening, pulsing, threatening to spill again from nothing but your words and the terror. You clenched around him and he choked on a soundless sob.

“Or maybe it’s my dad,” you continued, rocking your hips in the tiniest, torturous rhythm. “He knocks once and opens the door before you can answer. Sees his future son-in-law crying, shaking, trying so hard to be quiet while he’s pumping another load into the girl they raised to wait until marriage. Sees how full I am. How stretched. How I’m dripping down your balls like a little whore.”

Downstairs, your mother called up the stairs—bright, cheerful. “Kids! Breakfast in a few minutes! Don’t sleep too late!”

Soobin’s fingers dug into your thigh as you moved slightly making the iron creak softly, but audible.

The faint clatter of plates being set on the table drifted up from downstairs, followed by your mother’s cheerful voice calling out again. “Five more minutes, you two! Don’t make me come up there!”

Soobin’s entire body went rigid beneath you. 

“Please,” he whispered, voice cracking like a teenager caught with contraband. “I’m literally going to combust.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Combust? Or come again?”

His hips jerked involuntarily at the word pushing himself deeper and the bed gave another, traitorous creak. You both froze when your mother’s humming paused for half a second. 

Soobin’s soul visibly left his body as his hands slapped over his mouth so fast it made a soft smack. His eyes were cartoonishly wide, pupils pinpricks of pure terror.The humming resumed. 

You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

“See?” you whispered, grinding down once, making sure he felt every inch of how soaked you still were. “One more sound like that and she’ll come running with the broom she uses to chase stray cats. She’ll open the door and find you mid-orgasm, face buried in my neck, whimpering ‘sorry eomonim’ while you pump another load into me. ” 

Soobin let out a muffled, hysterical little noise behind his palms—something between a sob and a laugh that had gone completely off the rails.

“I’m going to die,” he wheezed into his hands. “I’m actually going to die. Right here. Naked. Hard. Inside you. And the obituary is going to read ‘Choi Soobin, age 25, perished from mortification after being caught balls-deep in girlfriend’s childhood bedroom by future mother-in-law.’”

You couldn’t hold it in anymore as a soft snort escaped you. He peeked through his fingers again, horrified.

“Are you—laughing at me?”

“Yes,” you said, grinning so wide your cheeks hurt. “Because you’re literally crying and groaning while your dick is still twitching inside me.”

Another pitiful groan—long, drawn-out, dramatic. He dropped his hands and stared at the ceiling like he was praying for spontaneous teleportation.

“I should’ve slept on the floor,” he muttered. “I should’ve slept in the car. I should’ve slept in the neighbor’s shed. Anything but this.”

You rolled your hips again—slow, teasing, making sure the head of his cock dragged against that spot that always made his toes curl. He choked on air.

“But then,” you said sweetly, “I wouldn’t get to watch you fall apart like this. All red-faced and teary and groaning because you’re terrified my mom’s going to walk in and see her precious Soobin-ah turned into a whimpering, cum-dripping mess.”

Soobin’s head thumped back against the pillow. 

“I hate you,” he whispered—voice cracking, no heat behind it at all.

“You love me,” you corrected, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. “And you’re going to quietly come again before we go downstairs. Or I’ll moan your name loud enough for the whole street to hear.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, wide and pleading.“Please don’t.”

You smiled. “Then be a good boy and stay still while I ride you slow.”

In that moment, your mother called again—brighter this time. “Breakfast is ready! Come down before it gets cold!”

Soobin let out one last, long, defeated groan—somewhere between despair and surrender—and buried his burning face in your neck.

“I’m so dead,” he mumbled against your skin. You laughed softly, already starting to move.

“Only if you’re loud,” you whispered and he whimpered as he tried—very, very hard—not to make another sound.

You let the moment stretch just long enough to watch Soobin’s resolve visibly crumble—his eyelashes fluttering, his breath hitching every time your hips rolled in that slow, torturous circle. He was still so sensitive that even the slightest clench made his thighs tremble beneath yours.

The slick heat between you was obscene—still full of him from the night before, still leaking slowly every time you lifted even a fraction. Each shallow roll dragged the head of his cock against that deep, swollen spot inside you, and you could feel him thickening again despite himself, stretching you open all over again like his body had forgotten how to stop wanting you.

You kept the rhythm cruelly unhurried. No hard thrusts. No frantic grinding. Just long, lazy drags that let him feel every inch of your walls fluttering around him, every tiny ripple when you clenched on purpose.

Soobin’s hand was clamped over his own mouth, knuckles white, eyes squeezed shut like he could will himself out of the situation through sheer force of embarrassment. His hips kept twitching upward anyway—tiny, helpless jerks he couldn’t control—chasing the friction even as tears slipped from the corners of his eyes.

“Please,” he managed again when he finally dared to lower his hand just enough to speak, voice cracked and trembling. “Please—slow down—I can’t—I’m gonna—”

You leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice dropping to the softest, most dangerous whisper.

“I can’t slow down, baby” 

His breath hitched—sharp, audible.

“My mom’s already called twice,” you continued, rolling your hips in that same torturous circle that made his cock drag right against the spot that always made his toes curl. “She’s going to come up if we take any longer”

Soobin made a sound that was half sob, half whimper—muffled against the heel of his own hand.

“You wouldn’t want that, would you?” you murmured, clenching around him on purpose, feeling the way he swelled even thicker inside you.

“You wouldn’t want her walking in right when you’re spilling another load deep in her daughter’s cunt. Right when you’re shaking and crying and filling me up so much it drips down my thighs onto the sheets she washed herself.”

His whole body jerked violenty. His free hand shot to your hip, fingers digging in like he was trying to anchor himself, trying to stop you, trying to hold on.

“No—no please—don’t—don’t say that—”

But his cock betrayed him completely. It throbbed hard, pulsing against your walls, the head nudging your cervix with every tiny movement. You could feel the fresh bead of pre-cum leaking into you, mixing with everything else, making every glide even slicker, even louder in the quiet room.

“You’re already so close,” you whispered, grinding down harder now, letting your clit rub against his pubic bone in tight, relentless circles.

You sank down fully again, grinding in tight little circles that rubbed your clit against his pubic bone and forced the head of his cock to kiss your cervix over and over.

A low, broken whimper tried to escape him as he clamped his own hand over his mouth so fast it made a soft smack. His eyes rolled back, tears gathering at the corners again, spilling over when you clenched hard around him once, then twice.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—” The words were muffled against his palm, frantic and wrecked. “Please—please let me—please—”

You leaned down until your lips brushed his ear.

“Come,” you breathed. “Fill me again. Quietly. Like a good boy who doesn’t want his mother-in-law to hear how filthy he really is.”

That was all it took.

Soobin shattered.

His entire body seized—muscles locking, back arching off the mattress in a silent, violent curve. Hot, thick pulses flooded you—deep, endless, spilling so much you felt the warmth bloom inside you all over again, leaking out around his shaft in slow, obscene rivulets that dripped down his balls and soaked the already ruined sheets. His cock jerked hard with every spurt, grinding against your walls, pushing impossibly deeper like he wanted to stay buried forever.

He didn’t make a sound.

Not one.

Just silent, shaking sobs muffled into his own hand, tears streaming down his temples, chest heaving so violently you could feel every ragged breath against your breasts. His thighs trembled under you, hips twitching with aftershocks, cock still pulsing weakly inside the messy heat of your cunt.

You rode him through it—slow, gentle now—milking every last drop until he finally went limp beneath you, boneless, wrecked, utterly spent.

Only then did you still.

You kissed the stray tears from his cheeks, his eyelids, the corner of his trembling mouth.

“Good boy,” you whispered. 

He whimpered—soft, broken, barely there.

Meanwhile downstairs the clatter of plates grew louder. Your mother’s voice floated up again, cheerful and oblivious.“Yah! You two! The eggs are getting cold! Minho already ate half the kimchi!”

Soobin made a sound that was equal parts strangled sob and hysterical laugh—muffled into the crook of your neck so it came out as a pitiful, vibrating hum against your skin. You pressed your lips to his temple, smiling so wide it hurt. 

“Time’s up, baby.” You lifted off him in one smooth motion.

The wet, obscene sound of separation was loud enough in the quiet room that Soobin’s eyes snapped wide in fresh panic. A thick gush of cum followed immediately—hot, viscous, spilling out of you and dripping down his shaft, pooling on his stomach in a slow, pearly smear. 

His cock twitched helplessly at the sudden emptiness, smearing the mess across his abs. He stared down at himself like he’d committed a war crime.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, voice cracking. “That’s… that’s a crime scene.”

You laughed under your breath and reached for the pack of wipes on your nightstand, wiping yourself quickly, then tossed the packet onto his stomach.

“Clean up. We have approximately ninety seconds before my mom starts yelling your name like you’re late for your own wedding.”

Soobin scrambled upright so fast the bed creaked again. He dabbed at the absolute disaster between his legs: thick streaks of cum still clinging to his inner thighs, smeared across his lower stomach, glistening on the base of his softening cock.

He looked down at himself and let out a sound that was half groan, half hysterical laugh.

“There’s so much,” he whispered, horrified. “How is there still this much? Did I black out and come three extra times in my sleep?”

You handed him a second wipe, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“Prioritize the important areas,” you teased before slipping into clean underwear and a loose sleep shirt, moving with the calm efficiency of someone who hadn’t just spent the night riding her boyfriend on her childhood mattress while her entire family slept ten meters away.

Soobin fumbled his boxers back on—wincing when the damp fabric clung to him—then yanked his sweatpants up so fast he almost tripped. He caught himself on the bedpost, breathing like he’d run a marathon. 

You stepped close without a word as your fingers slid into his wrecked hair—still damp at the roots from sweat, strands sticking up in every direction like he’d been thoroughly loved and thoroughly ruined.  You smoothed them down gently, almost tenderly, combing through the mess with slow, careful strokes while he stood frozen, chest rising and falling too fast.

You leaned in until your lips brushed the shell of his ear, voice dropping to the softest, most wicked murmur.

“I’d gladly clean it all up for you, you know,” you whispered, letting your breath ghost over his skin. “Every last drop. With my mouth. Slow. Thorough. Licking it off your thighs, your cock, your stomach… swallowing everything you left inside me and everything that leaked out.”

Soobin made a sound that was half gasp, half strangled yelp—high and desperate and completely involuntary.

His whole face ignited: ears scarlet, cheeks flaming, even the back of his neck turning a violent shade of red that crept down under the collar of his hoodie. 

You kept fixing his hair as though you hadn’t just detonated a bomb in his brain—tucking a stray lock behind his ear, smoothing the front so he looked almost presentable again.

“But we don’t have time,” you added, lips still grazing his earlobe, voice sweet and regretful. “So you’ll just have to sit through breakfast like that, knowing exactly what I’d do if we had five more minutes…”

Soobin’s knees actually buckled for half a second and grabbed your waist to steady himself—fingers digging in like you were the only solid thing left in the world —then immediately let go as if touching you might burn him worse.

“You—” His voice cracked so hard it went up an octave. “You can’t just—say that—right now—”

“Smile pretty at the table,” you whispered as you kissed his cheek before opening the door.

The hallway smelled like sesame oil, toasted seaweed, and fresh coffee. Soobin followed half a step behind you, shoulders hunched, ears still scarlet, walking like a man who’d been sentenced to life imprisonment and was trying to look innocent on the way to the chair.

When you reached the bottom of the stairs, your mother turned from the stove, apron dusted with flour, smiling so wide her eyes disappeared into crescents.

“There you are! Soobin-ah, sit, sit—I saved you the biggest piece of egg omelette”

Soobin bowed, still ninety degrees, still textbook perfect, voice only cracking once. “Thank you”

Your father glanced up from his newspaper. “Slept well, son?”

Soobin’s smile was so brittle it could’ve shattered. “Yes, very… restful.”

Minho snorted into his rice bowl as Jaehyun kicked him under the table. You slid into the seat beside Soobin, thigh brushing his under the tablecloth. He jolted—just a tiny twitch—but kept smiling like his life depended on it.

Your mother set a steaming bowl in front of him. “Eat up. You’re too skinny. I’ll pack you some side dishes to take home later.”

Soobin nodded, murmured another “thank you,” and picked up his chopsticks with hands that were still trembling faintly. You reached under the table and squeezed his thigh once—firm, deliberate.

He choked on absolutely nothing and everyone looked at him. He coughed once, eyes watering.

“Hot,” he croaked. “The—the rice is hot.”

Your mother laughed fondly. “Careful, Soobin-ah. Blow on it first.”

You smiled sweetly across the table at her. “He’s very good at being careful,” you said.

Soobin’s chopsticks clattered against the bowl. Under the table, your fingers brushed higher—teasing the seam of his sweatpants where you knew he was still sticky, still sensitive, still half-hard from the memory of being buried inside you all night.

He stared straight ahead like a soldier facing a firing squad. Your mother beamed at both of you.“See? I knew he was perfect for you.”

Soobin let out a tiny, strangled sound that he tried to disguise as a laugh.

You leaned over and kissed his cheek—quick, innocent, daughterly. 

“Eat your eggs, Soobin-ah,” you murmured, just loud enough for him to hear. “You’re going to need your energy.”

He closed his eyes for one long second. Then opened them again, picking up his chopsticks and finally started to eat. 

Your entire family chattered around him—oblivious, happy, warm—while the boy they’d just declared their future son-in-law sat there with your cum still leaking out of you, his boxers damp, his dignity in tatters, and the most polite, doomed smile you’d ever seen plastered across his burning face.

And under the table, your foot nudged his ankle just once making him whimper—barely audible but he kept eating.

The late afternoon sun appeared through the half-closed blinds of your shared apartment, filling the bedroom in hues of gold.

Beomgyu had come home earlier than expected as practice wrapped up ahead of schedule for once and you were still out, probably stuck in a late lecture or picking up groceries like you’d texted.

The apartment was quiet except for the occasional tick of the wall clock in the hallway. He kicked off his sneakers by the door, padded barefoot into the bedroom to change out of sweat-damp practice clothes.

The top drawer of your nightstand was already cracked open, the way it sometimes got when you were rushing.

Beomgyu didn’t think anything of it at first and just reached in for the charger he was planning to borrow that you usually kept there but his fingers brushed something cool and smooth that definitely wasn’t a cable.

He paused.

His curiosity, which started off innocent at first, made him nudge the drawer open wider. Nestled between a tin of lip balm, a few hair ties, and the little velvet pouch you kept your earrings in was a slim, matte-black vibrator. It was sleek, unmistakably expensive-looking, the kind that came in tasteful packaging with a rose-gold accent at the base. Beside it was a charging cord neatly coiled like it belonged there.

Beomgyu stared before a slow, incredulous laugh huffed out of him. He lifted it carefully between thumb and forefinger like he was handling something mildly explosive, turning it this way and that.

The silicone felt expensive under his fingertips—soft, seamless, warmer than he expected from just sitting in a drawer.

“Seriously...?” he muttered to the empty room.

He pressed the button at the base once, experimentally. A low, steady bzzz answered him—it was quieter than he thought it would be, almost polite. He immediately clicked it off again, cheeks heating for no reason at all.

He should've placed it back.

Closed the drawer.

Pretended he never saw it.

But instead he sat heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, toy still held loosely in one hand. His mind replayed every time you’d come apart under him—back arching, thighs trembling, little broken gasps of his name like you couldn’t remember any other word. The way you sometimes clung so hard your nails left crescent moons on his shoulders. The way you looked at him afterward, dazed and soft.

And yet this thing existed.

He turned it over again, thumb brushing the power button without quite pressing it.

“Why the hell do you even have this—“ he said under his breath, half to himself, half to the absent you. His voice came out lower than usual, edged with something that wasn’t quite anger. “—when you’ve got me?”

The words hung in the quiet room, ridiculous, possessive and a little wounded. He exhaled through his nose.

Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he leaned back against the headboard, long legs stretched out, and clicked the button again. The lowest setting pulsed gently against his palm. He dragged it slowly along the inside of his own wrist first, testing as the vibration traveled up his arm in a pleasant shiver. It was different from the way he usually touched himself—steadier, more concentrated.

His eyelids fluttered as he, moved and pressed it harder against the sensitive skin just below his navel, let it drift lower, over the front of his sweats. The fabric muffled it, but not enough that he couldn't feel it. A rough sound scraped out of his throat as he tipped his head back against the wood, eyes half-lidded, watching the ceiling fan spin slow circles while he nudged the toy down farther and over the growing hardness beneath the cotton. The pressure made his hips twitch upward on instinct.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

He could picture you so clearly—sprawled right here, knees bent, this stupid little thing pressed exactly where you needed it while you waited for him to get home smelling like rehearsal sweat and that stupid citrus shampoo he always stole.

Maybe biting your lip so hard it turned white.

Maybe whispering his name even while you used it.

The mental image was so sharp it hurt.

He shoved his waistband down just enough, wrapped his free hand around himself—already leaking, embarrassingly hard from nothing more than imagination and a low buzz—and pressed the vibrator against the underside, right where the head met the shaft making his whole body freeze for a second.

“Shit—oh my god—”

The vibration was mercilessly precise. No variation, no rhythm he could control. Just steady, unrelenting pressure that made his toes curl into the sheets. He dragged it up slowly, then back down, mimicking the way he knew you liked to tease yourself. His breathing turned ragged.

“Why...” he panted, barely audible, “why would you—fuck—need this when I—I literally—live here—”

The sentence fractured into a low groan as he clicked it up one setting. The change punched the air out of his lungs and his head knocked back again, harder this time.

One hand worked himself in sloppy, desperate strokes while the other kept the toy pinned right where it made his vision spot. Sweat was already gathering at his temples, under his collarbones as he imagined you walking in right now—backpack still slung over one shoulder, keys dangling from your fingers—seeing him like this: legs spread, cheeks flushed, your vibrator pressed shamelessly against his cock while he cursed your name in broken syllables.

The thought made him swear again, hips jerking up into his own fist. “Baby—fuck—”

He didn’t hear the front door. Didn’t hear the soft click of your sneakers being kicked off. Didn’t hear your footsteps pad down the hallway.

He was too busy chasing the bright, electric edge that kept building faster than he could handle, too busy mumbling half-formed complaints into the humid air of your bedroom.

“Shouldn’t even—shouldn’t fucking need it—got me right—right fucking here—”

He was so close he could taste it.

And then, the bedroom door creaked open.

You froze in the doorway as your backpack slipped an inch down your shoulder; the keys still looped around your middle finger clinked once, softly, against your thigh. The grocery tote in your other hand—plastic handles cutting into your palm—suddenly felt twenty pounds heavier.

Beomgyu was a beautiful wreck against the headboard—dark hair plastered across his forehead with sweat, lips parted on a sound he hadn’t finished making, throat working around a swallowed moan. His tank top was rucked halfway up his stomach, showing the tense flex of his abs every time his hips rolled. Sweatpants were shoved just low enough as one long-fingered hand wrapped tight around himself, stroking in uneven, desperate pulls. The other held your vibrator. The one you’d bought on a whim during a late-night spiral of missing him too much while he was on tour, then kept because it was quiet and precise and sometimes you just needed to take the edge off before he came home smelling like sweat and cologne.

Now it was pressed flush against the flushed, leaking head of his cock, buzzing on the second setting—the one you always swore made you see white if you held it there long enough. His eyes were closed, lashes dark against flushed cheeks and he hasn't even noticed your presence.

“—shouldn’t even—” he was mumbling again, voice cracked and low, almost petulant, “—got me, right here, baby, fuck—why would you—”

The words dissolved into a rough, shuddering exhale as he dragged the toy in a slow circle. Your mouth went dry.

You should say something. Clear your throat. Drop the groceries. Laugh. Tease him. Anything.

But you didn't.

Instead you stayed perfectly still, watching the way his thighs trembled, the way the muscles in his forearm stood out every time he twisted his wrist just so. Watching your own toy—your secret, private thing—being used on him like this. A pulse of heat bloomed low in your belly, sudden and sharp as Beomgyu’s head tipped farther back. More sweat slid down the side of his neck, disappeared under his now damp tank top. His breathing was loud now—ragged, open-mouthed.

“Baby—” Your name broke out of him like a plea, like he could feel you even with his eyes shut. “Fuck, wish you were—wish—” He didn’t finish the sentence and clicked the vibrator up one more setting instead.

The change ripped a sound out of him that was almost a sob—high, helpless, nothing like his usual low growls, hips punching up hard, chasing it. The toy slipped a fraction and he readjusted with a hissed curse, pressing it firmer against that sensitive ridge until his whole body arched off the mattress like he’d been electrocuted.

Your grip on the grocery bag tightened and took one silent step forward. Then another, making the floorboard by the dresser creak.

Beomgyu’s eyes snapped open and for one suspended heartbeat, he just stared at you—pupils blown, chest heaving, vibrator still buzzing mercilessly against him. Recognition crashed over his face in slow motion showing a mix of shock, embarrassment, raw want, all at once but he didn’t turn it off nor move his hand. He didn’t even try to cover himself as he continued to just look at you, lips wet and parted.

“...You’re home early.” His voice was wrecked. Hoarse. The same tone he used when he was begging you to let him come inside, when he was too far gone to pretend he had any control left.

You set the grocery bag down carefully beside the dresser and let your backpack slide off your shoulder to the floor with a dull thump, all while never taking your eyes off him.

“So are you,” you said in a quiet, steady, and a little bit breathless manner.

You took another slow step, his gaze tracking you like you might disappear if he blinked. You stopped at the foot of the bed, close enough that he had to tilt his chin up slightly to meet your eyes and to see the way his fingers flexed around the base of his cock, a fresh bead of precome welled up and slid down over the toy. He swallowed hard.

“I—” He licked his lips. Tried again. “I found it. In your drawer.”

“I can see that.” You say followed by another beat of silence except for the steady, damning buzz still humming between you and his cheeks went from flushed to scarlet.

“I didn’t—mean to—” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “I just... wanted to know why.”

“Why?”

“Why you have it...” His voice cracked on the last word. “...when you have me.”

The possessiveness in it should’ve been ridiculous but instead it landed like a match on dry grass.

You reached out slowly and brushed your fingertips along the inside of his knee. He jolted like you’d shocked him, thighs falling open another fraction. You climbed onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his calves. Not touching him fully yet. Just hovering close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off your body.

“Maybe,” you said softly, “I like knowing I can come even when you’re not here.”

His eyes darkened instantly, pupils swallowing the warm brown until they were nearly black.

“Maybe,” you continued, leaning in until your hair brushed his cheek, lips ghosting the shell of his ear, “I like thinking about you while I do.”

A full-body shudder rolled through him. You reached down, wrapped your fingers around his wrist—the one still clutching the buzzing toy—and guided it back to exactly where he’d had it. You pressed it there harder, firm, unyielding.

Beomgyu’s head knocked back against the headboard with a dull thud. “Fuck, baby—”

“Or maybe,” you whispered,

lips now brushing the sharp line of his jaw, “I just like the way it feels when I’m already soaked and aching for you.”

His free hand shot up, grabbed a fistful of your shirt, yanked you closer until your foreheads touched.

“Then why—” he panted against your mouth, “—why keep it?”

You smiled—small, wicked, devastating. “Because sometimes,” you murmured, “I want to come so many times to the thought of you until I can’t anymore... even if you aren't home”

Beomgyu made a sound that was half growl, half whine. You clicked the vibrator up to the highest setting. His whole body seized.

“Shit—baby—no—wait—” But he didn’t let go and neither did you.

Instead you slid your other hand down between your bodies, fingers curling around the hot, leaking length of him where he wasn’t covered by the buzzing toy. He was slick already—precome coating your palm the instant you touched him—and the contrast between your warm, slow grip and the relentless vibration made his thighs tremble violently.

You started stroking him in long, deliberate pulls—base to tip, twisting lightly over the head on every upstroke—while you kept the vibrator pinned exactly where it hurt so good right under the sensitive ridge, buzzing mercilessly against the frenulum.

Beomgyu’s head fell forward; his forehead dropped to your shoulder as broken sounds spilled out of him—half curses, half pleas.

“Fuck—fuck—too much—baby please—”

But his hips rolled into your hand anyway, chasing both sensations at once. You could feel every twitch, every throb; the way he swelled impossibly harder in your fist while the toy drove him insane.

You tightened your grip just enough, sped up the strokes until your wrist ached, slick sounds filling the room alongside his ragged breathing.

Every time he tried to thrust into your fist you eased back just enough to keep him teetering—never quite giving him the friction he was begging for with those little helpless jerks.

“Look at you,” you breathed against his mouth. “Falling apart because of something that isn’t even me.”

His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide.

“It’s—fuck—it’s you holding it,” he managed, voice cracking. “It’s you—touching me—fuck, baby, don’t stop—”

You twisted your wrist on the upstroke, thumb dragging over the slit, smearing pre come down the length while the vibrator hummed relentlessly. His abs clenched so hard you could see every ridge; his breathing turned into shallow, desperate pants.

“Gonna—shit—I’m gonna—” You squeezed tighter at the base, slowed your hand to torturous drags, kept the toy locked in place.

“Come for me,” you whispered. “Come for me, baby”

That did it.

Beomgyu’s back bowed off the headboard. A raw, choked moan ripped out of him as he came—hot, thick pulses spilling over your fingers, dripping down onto his stomach, the toy still buzzing against him through every shuddering wave. His hips jerked uncontrollably, chasing the last of it, until he was trembling, oversensitive, gasping against your shoulder.

You clicked the vibrator off and let it fall from his lax grip onto the sheets.

He was still hard—impossibly, achingly hard—even after coming that much. His cock twitched against your palm when you gave it one gentle, testing stroke.

Beomgyu let out a shaky laugh. “You’re evil,” he managed to say.

You didn't say anything and just kissed him instead—slow, filthy, swallowing the broken moan that tore out of his throat as aftershocks still rolled through him. When you finally pulled back—just enough to speak against his lips—your voice was velvet.

“Keep going,” you said. “Show me why I don’t need it.”

His laugh was breathless, desperate, and a little feral.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he managed, hips already rocking up into your loose grip, eyes glassy and locked on yours. “You’re gonna regret saying that.”

With a careless flick of his wrist he tossed the vibrator aside as it landed somewhere near the pillows with a soft thump.

Before you could even catch your breath from the way he’d just come apart in your hand, Beomgyu’s arms hooked under your thighs. In one fluid, possessive motion he pulled you higher onto his lap—your knees spreading wider around his hips, your weight settling fully over him so you were straddling his thighs instead of hovering.

You gasped at the shift; his still-hard cock pressed hot and slick against your soaked core, the head nudging right where you ached most without pushing in yet.

His hands gripped the backs of your thighs hard enough to leave marks, holding you flush against him so every tiny movement dragged you along his length. He looked up at you through sweat-damp lashes, that feral grin spreading slow and dangerous.

“Feel that?” he murmured, voice wrecked and low. One hand slid up to splay across your lower back under your shirt, pressing you down harder so the friction made you both hiss. “That’s what you get for teasing me with your little secret.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders for balance; he groaned at the sting, hips giving a shallow, teasing roll that had you clenching around nothing.

Then he surged forward without warning, as he flipped you both in one smooth, predatory motion, pinning you beneath him with a grin that promised trouble.

Beomgyu’s weight pins you to the mattress in the best way—solid, warm, still trembling faintly from how he came just minutes ago. His knees bracket your hips, palms planted on either side of your head, caging you without quite trapping you.

You can feel the rapid thud of his heart against your chest where your bodies press together. That feral little grin is still curving his mouth, but now it’s softer at the edges—sharpened by the way his pupils have swallowed almost all the brown of his irises. Strands of damp hair hang in his face.

He looks like he’s trying very hard not to devour you whole right this second.

“You really thought you could just say that,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough, “and I’d let it slide?”

You arch a brow even as heat crawls up your neck. “I said keep going. You’re the one who threw my toy across the bed like it personally offended you.”

He laughs, low and dangerous. “It did.” He dips his head until his lips brush the shell of your ear. “It was touching what’s mine. On our bed. While I’m literally right fucking here.”

One of his hands slowly slides down your side, fingers catching the hem of your shirt and dragging it upward inch by inch. Cool air hits your stomach making you shiver.

He notices. Of course he notices.

“Arms up,” he says quietly and you obey before you can think better of it. The shirt comes off in one smooth tug and he tosses it somewhere behind him without looking.

Then he’s back, palms skating over your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your bra but not quite touching where you want him.

“Gyu—”

“Shh.” He kisses the protest right off your lips—soft at first, almost sweet, then deeper, hungrier, until you’re arching up into him and making small, needy sounds against his tongue and when he pulls back you’re both breathing hard.

He sits up just enough to yank his tank top over his head in that one fluid motion he does that always make it look unfairly easy and the fabric lands somewhere near the foot of the bed.

His skin is flushed from collarbones to the sharp cut of his hips; a faint sheen of sweat still clings to him from earlier activities of using your vibrator on himself while moaning your name.

The memory flashes behind your eyes and you clench around nothing. He catches it—the way your thighs press together instinctively.

“Already?” His voice is teasing, but his hands are shaking a little as he reaches behind you to unclasp your bra, joining the growing pile of clothes. “I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

The sudden exposure pebbles your nipples just as his gaze drops, dark and reverent. He lowers his head and takes one into his mouth without warning—hot, wet suction that makes your back bow off the bed.

“Fuck—”

He hums around you, the vibration shooting straight between your legs. His tongue circles once, twice, then he switches sides, giving the other the same slow, filthy treatment while his hand slips down to palm you through your jeans.

You’re embarrassingly wet already; the denim is dark at the seam. He groans against your skin when he feels it.

“Jesus, baby.” He presses the heel of his hand down harder, grinding slow circles that have you gasping. “All this from watching me?”

You don’t answer with words and just threaded your fingers into his hair and tug, urging him back up so you can kiss him again. The kiss was messy and desperate, tongues fighting for dominance along with the faint metallic taste of want.

He lets you have it for a moment—lets you take control—then breaks away with a low growl and flips you onto your stomach in one smooth roll.

You yelp, half-laughing. “Hey—”

“Hands and knees,” he says, voice gone velvet and steel at the same time.

You push up onto your forearms, then your palms. The position leaves you exposed, vulnerable, aching. Behind you, you hear the rustle of fabric—his sweats finally shoved all the way off—then the mattress dips as he settles between your spread thighs.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your jeans and underwear at once, dragging both down your legs in a single impatient motion. You kick them off the rest of the way; cool air hits your soaked core and you whimper.

Beomgyu makes a rough sound in the back of his throat.

“Shit, baby” he breathes, almost reverent. One palm smooths up the back of your thigh, then cups you fully—fingers sliding through slick folds without entering. Just feeling. Mapping. “So fucking wet just from seeing me fall apart with your little toy.”

He leans over you, chest to your back, lips at your ear again. “You really think anything could ever compare to this?”

Before you can answer, two fingers plunge inside you—deep, curling immediately against that spot that makes your vision white out. You cry out, elbows buckling but he catches you around the waist with his free arm, holding you up.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, pumping slow, deliberate. “Let me hear you.”

You do. You couldn't help it. Every drag of his fingers pulls another broken sound from your throat. He then adds a third—stretches you open with the same patient cruelty he uses when he wants to make you beg—and you’re shaking, thighs trembling, forehead pressed to the sheets.

“Beomgyu—please—”

“Please what?” His voice is wrecked, smug, wrecked again. “Use your words, baby.”

You twist your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “Fuck me. Now.”

His grin flashes—sharp, victorious. He pulls his fingers free; you whine at the loss.

You heard the nightstand drawer open again—the quiet crinkle of foil. He tore the packet with his teeth and you glanced back—watched him roll the condom down his length with practiced, shaking hands, eyes locked on yours the whole time.

“Gonna fuck you so good you forget that thing even exists,” he rasped.

 Then you feel him—notching himself at your entrance, hot and thick and already leaking.

He doesn’t push in right away but just rubs there, coating himself in you, teasing until you’re pushing back against him with a frustrated sound.

“Say it again,” he rasps.You’re beyond pride.

“Fuck me, Beomgyu. Please.”

He snaps his hips forward in one long, deep thrust. The stretch burns so good your eyes roll back. He doesn’t give you time to adjust and just pulls almost all the way out and slams back in, setting a brutal rhythm that has the headboard knocking against the wall.

You scramble for purchase, fingers twisting in the sheets. Every thrust punches the air out of your lungs and every drag of him against that perfect spot inside makes sparks burst behind your eyelids.

He leans down again, one hand braced beside yours, the other sliding around to find your clit—rubbing tight, fast circles that match the snap of his hips.

“Come for me,” he growls against your shoulder. “Come on my cock like how you come on that stupid fucking vibrator.”

The crude, possessive, and desperate words tip you over. You shatter with a choked cry of his name, walls pulsing around him so hard he swears, pace faltering for the first time. He fucks you through it—harder, deeper—chasing his own release now as his rhythm turns sloppy, hips stuttering.

You feel him thicken inside you, feel the first hot pulse “Fuck—baby—gonna—”

He buries himself to the hilt and comes with a broken groan, hips grinding in tight, helpless circles as the condom catches every hot, pulsing spill. You feel the thick throb of him inside you, his whole body shuddering through the aftershocks until he’s trembling on top of you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath ragged and wet against your neck.

Neither of you move for a few seconds before he exhales shakily, lips brushing the back of your shoulder in a soft, unsteady kiss. Another, higher, at the nape of your neck—gentler this time, almost reverent.

Slowly—carefully—he eases out. The drag of him leaving you makes you both hiss; the sudden emptiness feels obscene after being so full. He reaches down between you, making sure the condom stays secure as he pulls free, then ties it off with quick, practiced fingers and reaches over to drop it into the small trash bin beside the desk.

He collapses beside you immediately after, arms hooking around your waist and dragging you into his chest before you can even draw a full breath. His skin is still fever-hot, heart slamming against your ribs where you’re pressed together. You turn in his hold, sliding one leg between his so you can press your forehead to his.

He’s still flushed, still breathing unevenly, but his eyes are soft now. Almost shy. Vulnerable in a way he rarely lets you see.

“…You’re not allowed to use that thing anymore,” he mumbles, voice rough and low, face half-buried in your hair.

You laugh breathlessly. “Jealous of silicone?”

“Fucking right I am.” He nuzzles into your hair. “But I know I’m better.” he insists, moving to nudge his nose into the crook of your neck, lips brushing skin. “Tell me I’m better.”

You tilt your head and catch the corner of his mouth with a gentle kiss. “You are.”

For a few seconds there was comfortable silence.

Then, softly, almost hesitant, he speaks. “But... if you ever want to use it again...” You feel his heartbeat kick against your chest. “...you use it with me.”

Your pulse jumps in answer. He feels it and grins against your throat, small, smug, and tender all at once.

“Deal?” he whispers.

You smile and slide your hand up into his damp hair, tug just enough to make him look at you.

“Deal.”

The building's underground parking lot was dim and quiet when Yeonjun pulled up, engine idling low.

You slid into the passenger seat still carrying the faint scent of stage makeup and hairspray, hoodie zipped halfway, legs already restless from too many hours of schedules.

He didn’t say anything at first—just reached over, buckled your seatbelt for you with that automatic tenderness he never quite shook, even when he was pissed. The silence stretched until you were out on the main road, city lights sliding across the blacked-out windows.

Then, Yeonjun spoke, voice tight, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “He knows you’re mine. Everyone fucking knows.” His jaw ticked. “The whole industry knows and yet he still stands there batting his lashes, calling you ‘baby girl’ like it’s a joke we’re all in on. Like I’m not the one who takes you home every night.”

You exhaled through your nose, staring at the passing taillights. “Chan's like that with literally everyone, Jun. You’ve seen him do it to half the female trainees, the makeup noonas, even Felix when he’s feeling extra dramatic. It’s just... Chan.”

Yeonjun’s laugh was short and bitter. “Yeah? He doesn’t look at them the way he looks at you.” He flicked the turn signal harder than necessary. “Doesn’t lean in that close. Doesn’t drop his voice like he’s telling you a secret meant only for your ears.”

You didn’t argue. Instead you reached over, caught his right hand where it rested on the gear shift, and lifted it to your mouth. The first slow drag of your tongue along the length of his middle finger made his breath hitch audibly. You sealed your lips around the tip, sucked lightly, then kissed the center of his palm—open-mouthed, taking all the time in the world.

His fingers twitched against your tongue. “Baby—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You guided his hand down, under the hem of your hoodie, over the soft cotton of your shirt until his palm cupped the swell of your breast. You pressed him there, letting him feel the stiff peak already pushing against the fabric. Then you dragged lower. Past the elastic of your sweatpants, under the damp lace of your panties. When his fingertips brushed bare, slick folds, he froze.

“Fuck,” he breathed, so low it was almost lost under the hum of the engine.

You tilted your hips, dragging yourself along his curled fingers. “Only you do this to me,” you whispered, voice husky. “Just listening to you get all possessive and jealous... that’s enough.”

Yeonjun’s gaze darted between the road and your lap. “I’m driving.”

“You always drive one-handed anyway.” You curled your fingers around his wrist and rocked forward, coating his hand in the evidence of how much his rant had affected you. “See?”

A car honked somewhere behind you because he apparently drifted half a lane. He cursed under his breath and jerked the wheel to correct. “Jesus—baby, stop. I can’t—”

You didn’t stop.

Instead you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your sweatpants and shoved them down your thighs, bunched just above your knees.

You spread your legs as wide as the seat would allow, one foot braced on the edge of the dashboard, the other pressing against the center console—opening yourself completely to the dim glow filtering through the tinted glass.

The rich, distinct scent of your arousal immediately filled the car as Yeonjun inhaled sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring as his chest rose hard, making his pupils dilate further even as he kept his eyes glued to the dark stretch of road ahead.

“Fucking hell… thank god the windows are tinted,” he muttered, voice gruff and strained. “One wrong glance from the next car over and they’d see exactly how soaked you are for me right now.”

You moaned—soft, needy, the sound slipping out like liquid heat—when you finally guided his slack hand back in between your thighs.

You hooked his fingers on the damp lace of your panties before you pushed it to the side, the fabric catching briefly on your swollen folds before sliding away with a faint, wet drag. The moment his warm palm met bare skin again, you ground down hard against his knuckles.

The friction was devastating.

Rougher than your own fingers ever managed, scraping deliciously along your slick entrance, the heat of him seeping straight into your core. You could feel every ridge, every subtle flex of tendon as you rocked forward, coating his skin in a fresh, glossy layer of your arousal.

He tried to pull away once, forearm tensing under your grip.

“We’re gonna crash,” he gritted out, voice strained, almost pleading.

You clamped both hands around his wrist, nails digging into the soft skin just below his watch strap, and held him exactly where you wanted him.

Your hips rolled in slow, filthy circles—deliberate, obscene—dragging your clit along the prominent knuckle of his middle finger until sparks danced behind your closed lids.

“Then drive careful,” you breathed, the words dissolving into another low, trembling moan.

A red light flared ahead, bathing the dashboard in crimson. The car rolled to a smooth, reluctant stop.

For three long heartbeats, silence swallowed everything except the wet, rhythmic slide of your hips against his unmoving hand and the shallow rasp of his breathing.

Then, Yeonjun exhaled roughly through clenched teeth—a sound that was half curse, half surrender. He shifted in the driver’s seat, leather creaking under him, twisting his torso just enough to angle his wrist at a sharper, more devastating angle.

And finally—finally—he gave in.

Two fingers plunged inside you without warning, thick and unyielding, stretching your soaked walls in one smooth, ruthless glide.

The sudden fullness punched the air from your lungs; your back arched hard against the seatbelt, head thumping back against the headrest. He curled them immediately—deep, practiced hooks that dragged along the spongy front wall with brutal precision, fingertips pressing right against that spot that made your vision white out at the edges. His thumb found your clit at the same moment—already throbbing, slick, hypersensitive—and circled once. Hard.

Your head fell back against the seat with a choked moan. “Fuck—yes—Jun—"

He didn’t look at you.

One glance at your flushed face, your parted lips, the way your chest heaved under the shoved-up fabric, and he knew every last scrap of control would evaporate. So his eyes stayed locked on the red glow ahead, jaw clenched so hard the muscle in his cheek ticked visibly under the passing streetlights.

But his hand never faltered as he worked you ruthlessly—deep, steady pumps, thumb flicking faster every time your hips jerked.

You shoved your hoodie and shirt up in one frantic motion, exposing your breasts to the cool blast of the AC vents. The sudden chill pebbled your nipples instantly; they ached, stiff and begging. Your own hands flew to them—cupping the soft weight first, then pinching the peaks between thumb and forefinger, rolling them hard.

Sharp pleasure-pain shot straight to your core as your walls clenched violently around his invading fingers, vibrating in frantic little pulses that dragged a low, jarring groan from deep in Yeonjun’s chest. He stole the quickest glance—barely a second—eyes so dark the pupils had swallowed the irises entirely.

“Goddamn it,” he rasped, voice gravel-rough and fraying. “Look at you. Tits out, pinching yourself like that while I finger-fuck you in the middle of traffic. Can’t even wait till we get home, can you? So fucking desperate for it.”

The light turned green but he didn’t take his hand away. 

He drove one-handed through the intersection, left palm steady on the wheel, right wrist angled awkwardly but never stopping. Every subtle shift of the steering—every small correction—ground the heel of his hand harder against your swollen clit.

Your moans turned breathy, ragged—high little keens that fogged the passenger window in uneven bursts. The car rocked faintly with the rhythm of your hips grinding down onto his hand; the seatbelt dug into your shoulder, a thin line of restraint against the chaos building low in your belly.

“Faster,” you begged, voice cracking. “Jun—please—harder—”

He swore again, thick and wrecked, and sped up—brutal now, wet sounds loud enough to drown out the low purr of the engine. Your thighs trembled, stomach clenching, breath coming in short, desperate pants. 

When you came, it hit hard and sudden—back arching off the leather, a broken cry tearing out of your throat as you pulsed around his fingers, slick coating his palm, dripping down the inside of your thigh, through your uselessly soaked panties and onto the seat. 

He kept moving through it, drawing it out until you were whimpering, oversensitive, thighs shaking. Only when your hand weakly pushed at his wrist did he finally ease out, fingers glistening.

You didn’t give him time to recover.

Still panting, chest heaving, skin fever-hot and slick with sweat—you flicked the seatbelt buckle open with a soft metallic click. You climbed over the center console in one clumsy, desperate scramble, knees digging into the edge of the passenger seat for leverage, thighs straddling his right leg. Your panties, soaked from your orgasm brushed the rough cotton of his sweatpants and left a dark, wet smear across his thigh.

“Baby—what the—”

You didn’t answer and just yanked at the drawstring of his sweatpants, tugged the waistband down enough to free him. He was already hard—painfully so—tip flushed dark and leaking. Your fingers wrapped around him, slick from your own release, and stroked once from base to tip. 

Yeonjun’s head thudded back against the headrest. “Fuck—fuck—fuck—”

His voice cracked, half-warning, half-plea. The car gave the tiniest swerve; he corrected it instantly, jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jump under his skin.

You ignored him.

Fingers found the drawstring of his sweatpants, yanked it loose with a sharp tug. The elastic gave way easily; you shoved the waistband down just far enough. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed an angry dark pink at the head, already glistening with precum that beaded at the slit and slid slowly down the underside in a lazy, shining trail.

Your hand—still slick and warm from where you’d come all over his fingers—wrapped around him. Base to tip in one long, slow drag. Your palm glided over velvet skin stretched tight, veins pulsing under your grip. You twisted lightly at the head, thumb swiping through the slickness there, spreading it until every stroke made a soft, wet schlick sound that was louder than the tires on asphalt.

Yeonjun’s head thudded back against the headrest with a dull thump. A string of broken curses spilled from his lips.

“Fuck—shit—fuck—” each one rougher, more ragged than the last. His hips jerked up into your fist on instinct; the car lurched forward half a meter before he stamped the accelerator to steady it again.

You leaned in close, breasts brushing his chest through your thin hoodie, nipples hard and aching against the fabric. Your lips grazed the shell of his ear—hot breath fanning over the sensitive skin there.

“Keep driving,” you whispered, voice low and wrecked, lips catching on the tiny silver hoop in his lobe. “Don’t stop.”

He sucked in a sharp breath as you pumped him teasingly slow at first—then faster, matching the rhythm he’d used on you moments earlier. Every time he hissed or cursed you squeezed a little tighter, thumb swiping over the slit to spread the bead of precum there. A car passed on the left; Yeonjun’s grip on the wheel turned brutal.

“You're gonna make me wreck us,” he growled, but he didn’t push your hand away.

You smiled against his neck, teeth grazing skin. “Then pull over.”

He didn’t.

Not yet.

The city lights blurred past in streaks of red and gold, but Yeonjun’s focus had long since fractured and by the next red light—he used both hands as one tangled in your hair, yanking your mouth to his in a messy, desperate kiss while the other cupped your face roughly. 

You kept stroking him through it—harder, faster—until his hips were stuttering, breath ragged against your lips, curses muffled against your tongue until you pulled back slowly, lips glistening and swollen as a thin, glistening thread of saliva stretched between your mouths before it snapped the moment the light turned green, Yeonjun panting as one of his hands returned to the wheel.

You continued to jerk him off with the same filthy rhythm he’d used to wreck you minutes earlier. Every upward stroke dragged a low hiss from between his teeth; every twist at the head made his hips jerk involuntarily against the seat. He was leaking steadily now, your palm gliding through it, making obscene wet sounds that mixed with the low growl of the engine.

“Baby—shit—slow the fuck down,” he rasped, voice splintering, barely audible over the blood pounding in your ears.

The plea was useless. You only squeezed harder at the base—firm, possessive—then dragged your thumb in slow, deliberate circles over the slit, spreading the glossy bead of precum until your entire palm glistened and slid with obscene ease.

Then, you shifted. 

You leaned down, hair spilling over his thigh, breath hot against the sensitive skin just below the head. One teasing flick of your tongue—flat, slow, dragging from just below the ridge all the way up to collect that bead. The taste burst sharp and bitter-salty across your tastebuds; you hummed low in your throat at the flavor of him, letting the vibration rumble straight down his length.

Yeonjun’s entire body locked.

“Fuck—baby, don’t—” His voice cracked, frayed at the edges, barely louder than the blood roaring in your ears. “I’m still driving—fuck—don’t you dare—”

Too late.

You took him into your mouth in one slow, intentional slide. The heat, the wet suction, the way your tongue flattened along the underside and curled—it shattered whatever thread of restraint he’d been clinging to. 

A throaty curse tore out of him, raw and broken as his free hand shot to the back of your head, gripping hard enough that you felt every tremor in his fingers.

“That’s it,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “That’s fucking it—I can’t—I can’t drive like this.”

The car swerved slightly as he jerked the wheel toward the shoulder of the road but you didn't stop. Your mouth stayed locked around him, cheeks hollowed, tongue pressing flat along the throbbing underside while you sucked harder, wetter, sloppier. Spit dripped down his shaft in warm rivulets, pooling at the base, soaking into the dark fabric bunched around his hips.

Tires bit gravel, the vehicle lurched once before he slammed on the brakes and killed the engine in one rough motion. The sudden silence was deafening—only your wet, sloppy sounds and his ragged breathing filling the dark interior. 

He was shaking.

“Fuck, I tried,” he growled, fingers tightening in your hair until your scalp burned with sweet, stinging pleasure, tiny sparks dancing behind your eyelids. “I tried so fucking hard to be the responsible one tonight. Keep it together. Get us home. But you—” His voice cracked on a bitter, breathless laugh. “You just had to keep going, didn’t you? Had to push and push until I fucking snapped.”

He didn’t give you time to answer. Didn’t even give you the chance to pull off him completely.

Strong, calloused hands roughened from endless hours of training slid under your arms. He hauled you up in one brutal motion, forcibly dragging your mouth off his cock with a wet, obscene pop. A thick string of saliva and precum stretched between your swollen lips and the glistening head before it snapped, landing in a warm, sticky line across your chin.

You barely had time to gasp before he was dragging you fully into his lap, knees straddling his hips, chest pressed flush to his. Your sweatpants were already halfway down your calves but he didn’t bother pulling them off all the way. His hands went straight for the waistband of your ruined panties—black lace, once delicate, now dark and sodden, plastered obscenely to your swollen folds like a second skin.

He hooked two fingers under the front panel and paused—just long enough for you to feel the heat of his knuckles brushing your mound, the faint tremor in his grip.

Then he yanked upward.

Hard.

So hard that the thin strip of fabric dug into your slit like a cruel harness, the lace sawing roughly against your oversensitive clit. The sudden, sharp pressure made your hips jerk forward on instinct, a broken moan ripping from your throat as your nails dug into his shoulders.

Yeonjun’s eyes were black, pupils blown wide, watching every twitch of your face like he was memorizing it. “Yeah?” he muttered, voice low and dangerous. “You like that, huh? Like it when I make it hurt just a little?”

He tugged again—slower this time, deliberate—dragging the soaked lace up and down your slit in tight, punishing little pulls. Each upward yank rubbed the rough texture directly over your clit, forcing fresh slick to leak out and darken the fabric even more.

Your thighs trembled violently around his hips; your breath came in short, desperate pants. “Jun—please—”

“Please what, baby?” He twisted his wrist, making the lace bite deeper into your folds.

You couldn’t answer—could only whimper and rock forward, chasing the brutal friction.

He gave one last, vicious yank—hard enough that you felt the seams strain and then give with a soft, final rip. The panties tore away completely, leaving angry red marks etched across the crease of your thighs and the tender, swollen skin just above your clit.

Cool air hit your dripping cunt for half a second before his hand claimed it.

Two fingers spread you open roughly, exposing every slick, sensitive inch. Then without mercy, Yeonjun’s thumb and forefinger found your clit, already throbbing and engorged from the earlier torment. He pinched it firmly between them and squeezed.

Not a gentle roll. Not a teasing flick.

A hard, possessive squeeze that sent a white-hot jolt shooting straight up your spine. Your whole body seized as a strangled cry tore from your throat, hips bucking violently forward, trying to escape and chase the overwhelming sensation at the same time. Fresh slick gushed out around his fingers, coating his hand, dripping onto his lap.

“Fuck—listen to you,” he growled low, voice thick with dark satisfaction. “So sensitive already. Just from me squeezing this little clit like it belongs to me.”

He held the pressure for another heartbeat—long enough that your thighs trembled uncontrollably, walls clenching around nothing—before he finally released it with a slow, deliberate drag of his fingertips, letting the blood rush back in a dizzying pulse.

You were shaking, gasping, barely able to hold yourself up, forehead pressed to his shoulder as you tried to catch your breath.

Yeonjun’s lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a rough, taunting whisper. “You wanted this, didn’t you?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer—just tilted your chin up with two slick fingers so you had to meet his eyes.

“Admit it,” he murmured, thumb brushing your bottom lip, smearing your own arousal there. “All that teasing while we were on the fucking highway... sucking me off while I’m trying to drive... grinding on my hand like you couldn’t wait another second. You wanted me to lose it. Wanted me to snap and fuck you raw right here on the side of the road.”

He squeezed again—sharper this time—making your thighs quake and a broken sob escape you.

Your breath hitched, cheeks burning, but you couldn't deny it. Not when he was looking at you like that—like he already knew every filthy thought in your head.

“Say it,” he demanded, leaning in until his mouth brushed your ear, breath hot. “Tell me you wanted me to lose control like this.”

You could barely form words, but the answer spilled out anyway—shaky, desperate. “Y-yes... fuck, yes—I wanted it... Wanted you to snap. Wanted you to fuck me right here.”

His eyes flashed—satisfaction, hunger, triumph all at once.

“That’s my girl.”

He held the pinch for one final, agonizing heartbeat—long enough that your walls clenched around nothing, begging—before he released your clit with a slow, deliberate drag of his fingertips, letting the blood rush back in a dizzying, overwhelming pulse.

You were shaking, gasping, barely able to hold yourself up when he lined himself up—still slick from your mouth—and slammed in—deep, brutal, all the way to the hilt in one punishing thrust.

Your scream was muffled against his shoulder as your nails raked down the back of his neck. The stretch burned in the best way—thick, unrelenting, filling you so completely you could feel every vein, every angry twitch of him inside you.

“Fuck—still so tight,” he snarled against your throat, teeth sinking into skin hard enough to leave marks. “Even after coming all over my fingers. Greedy little thing.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust and clamped his hands around your hips—fingers digging in hard enough to bruise—and he started moving. Rough. Fast. No rhythm at first, just raw, possessive need, hips snapping up to meet yours on every brutal downward stroke, driving himself deeper until your cervix ached and you were crying out with every thrust, the car rocking violently with the force of it.

Your back hit the steering wheel once—twice—horn blaring for a split second before he yanked you forward again, crushing your chest to his so he could bury his face in your neck and bite down harder.

“Mine,” he growled against your pulse, hips pistoning relentlessly. “Say it.”

“Yours—shit—Yeonjun—”

“Louder.” he demanded.

“I'm—fuck—yours!” you practically screamed in between breaths.

He rewarded you with a particularly vicious grind, pubic bone dragging hard against your clit on every upward stroke. Your walls fluttered around him, already fluttering toward the edge again from the relentless pressure, the way he was fucking you like he needed to ruin you for anyone else.

One hand left your hip and shoved up under your hoodie, palming your breast roughly—pinching the nipple between thumb and forefinger until you arched and sobbed his name.

“Look at me,” he demanded. You forced your eyes open—tears clinging to your lashes—and met his gaze. Dark, possessive, and completely unraveled. 

“Chan doesn’t get to have this,” he rasped, punctuating each word with a punishing thrust. “No one else gets this. Only me. Only fucking me.”

You shattered around him mid-sentence—walls clamping down hard, quivering wildly as your orgasm ripped through you. Your thighs locked around his hips; your cry was high and broken, echoing in the confined space but he didn’t stop. He kept thrusting you through it—harder, if anything—chasing his own release with short, erratic snaps of his hips.

“Gonna—fuck—gonna fill you up,” he warned, voice fraying at the edges. “Gonna mark you so deep you’ll feel me for days. Drip with me on every step tomorrow.”

You clenched around him on purpose—once, twice—and that was it.

Yeonjun came with a choked, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt and pulsing hot inside you. His grip on your hips turned bruising as he ground up into you, riding out every shudder, spilling so much you could feel the excess leaking out around where he was still buried deep, streaking down your thighs and soaking into the leather beneath you.

He exhaled roughly, forehead pressed to yours, panting like he’d just run sprints. For a long minute the only sound was both of you breathing—harsh, uneven, the faint creak of the cooling engine, the quiet click of the turn signal he’d forgotten to cancel, and the thick scent of sex hanging heavy in the air.

Then Yeonjun laughed, rough and disbelieving, and dropped his head back against the seat again.

“Fucking hell, you are insane,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “Completely fucking insane.”

You smiled against his neck, still trembling, still very much full of him, walls vibrating weakly around his softening length. He huffed a low, wrecked laugh and pressed a surprisingly tender kiss to the fresh bite mark blooming on your neck.

“Next time,” he rasped against your skin, voice gravel-rough, “we’re taking the fucking van. Tinted windows all around, way more room in the back. I’m not doing this in a cramped drivers' seat on the side of the goddamn highway again." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "Gonna spread you out properly, take my time, make you scream until your voice gives out.”

You clenched around him once more, just to feel him twitch inside you, and felt the way his breath hitched.

“Liar,” you whisper.

He groaned, low and defeated. “Right” he admitted, lips brushing your ear. “I’ll probably still fuck you anywhere you let me.”

You grinned. “Yeah,” you whispered. “You really will.”

The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall glass windows of the café, turning the wooden tables into warm amber patches. 

Outside, the streets of Seoul buzzed with an unusual energy for February 13th—couples everywhere, laughing, arms linked, carrying those telltale red-and-pink paper bags from florists and chocolatiers. Bouquets of roses wrapped in cellophane rustled against coat sleeves; heart-shaped boxes peeked out from under scarves. 

It was as if the city had decided to rehearse Valentine's Day a day early, everyone eager to beat the crowds tomorrow. 

You sat across from Taehyun at a small corner table, your iced Americano sweating rings onto the coaster. He was slouched comfortably in his chair, legs stretched out under the table so his sneakers brushed yours every now and then. His black button-up shirt  was pulled up his elbows just enough to show his veins whenever his hands flexed as his observant eyes flicked toward the window every few seconds.

A young couple passed right by the glass, the girl clutching an enormous bouquet of white peonies and red tulips like it was a trophy. The guy beside her balanced a gold-foil box of chocolates in one hand and her waist with the other. They were giggling about something, heads bent close.

Taehyun's gaze lingered on them for a beat longer than necessary then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"They're a day early, aren't they?" he said, voice low and amused. "Valentine's isn't until tomorrow. What's the rush?"

You followed his line of sight, watching the couple disappear around the corner. "Maybe they just couldn't wait. Or they hate lines."

He snorted softly, the sound more exhale than laugh. "Still. Flowers wilt in like, twelve hours if you don't put them in water right away. And chocolate? Melts if you carry it around too long in this weather. Not practical at all." 

He tapped his fingers once against the table, decisive. "Waste of money if you ask me."

You couldn't help but chuckle, the sound bubbling up warm and familiar. It was classic Taehyun—cutting straight through the sentimentality with that razor-sharp logic of his. Always observing, assessing, and deciding what actually made sense. No fluff, no wasted effort.

He'd always been like this, ever since the early days when he'd show up at your door with a single rose and a box of dark chocolate truffles, eyes bright with that boyish excitement. Back then, you'd smiled politely, thanked him, and after a few dates gently nudged him toward practicality.

"You know I'd rather you just... got me something useful," you'd told him once, laughing to soften it. "Like coffee. Or that new phone case I needed. Flowers are pretty for a day, but then they're just trash."

He'd looked at you for a long second, processing. Then he nodded once, sharp and final. "Got it."

And that was that. The flowers stopped and the chocolates became rare treats only on your birthday or when he felt like spoiling you with zero occasion.

Instead, he started showing up with your favorite iced latte on stressful days, or a new pair of wireless earbuds when yours broke, or tickets to that indie band you'd mentioned once in passing. 

Practical. 

Efficient. 

You never regretted saying it because you were the same as he was. Practical. Thoughtful in the way that actually lasted.

But sometimes, on days like today when the city smelled like roses and sugar, a tiny, secret part of you wondered what it would feel like to be one of those girls carrying armfuls of petals home.

Taehyun caught your expression—the slight softening around your eyes as another couple walked by with matching red heart balloons. He tilted his head, studying you the way he studied everything: quick, thorough, no detail missed.

"What?" he asked, voice teasing but gentle. "You want one?"

You rolled your eyes, nudging his foot under the table. "Don't start. You know I'd just complain about the pollen."

"True." He grinned, all teeth and mischief. "You'd sneeze for three days straight and blame me."

"Exactly." He leaned back again, stretching his arms above his head until his shirt rode up just enough to show a sliver of toned stomach. Casual. Effortless. The kind of movement that still made your pulse jump after all this time.

"Anyway," he said, dropping his arms and picking up his own drink, "we're not doing any of that tomorrow."

You raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"Nope." He set the cup down with a soft clink. "Got something better planned."

"Better than flowers and chocolate?" you teased.

He met your eyes, steady. "Way better."

There was no elaboration. Just that quiet confidence, the kind that came from already having everything mapped out in his head. Taehyun didn't do vague promises; when he said something was handled, it was.

You let it drop, content to let the mystery sit. That was another thing about him—he loved surprises, but only the kind he controlled. The kind where he could see the variables, calculate the outcome, and know it'd land perfectly.

The two of you finished your drinks in comfortable silence, his foot still brushing yours every so often like an absentminded anchor. When you stood to leave, he automatically grabbed your bag before you could, slinging it over his own shoulder. 

Outside, the air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of street food and exhaust. Couples were still everywhere, posing for photos with their bouquets, laughing as petals caught in the wind. Taehyun slipped his hand into yours without fanfare, fingers threading through yours with the ease of long habit.

"Tomorrow," he said as you walked, "wear something comfortable. No heels."

You glanced at him sideways. "Mysterious."

He just smirked again. "You'll see."

That night, you lay in bed replaying the café moment, the way his eyes had flicked to those couples, the quick logic that dismissed the romance as inefficient, the easy way he'd shut down any hint of wanting it himself. 

It didn't sting, exactly. You knew him. Knew he showed love in actions that stuck around longer than a vase of flowers ever could. Still, as you drifted off, you let yourself imagine—just for a second—what it would be like if he ever decided practicality could include a little impracticality.

The next morning was Valentine's Day and it dawned cold and clear and you woke to the smell of coffee already brewing in your kitchen. 

Taehyun must have used his spare key; he did that sometimes when his schedule let him steal early hours. You padded out in oversized sweats and fuzzy socks, hair still messy from sleep. He was at the counter, pouring two mugs, wearing a black hoodie paired with dark jeans and sneakers that looked ready for walking. His hair was slightly damp, like he'd showered recently, and the sleeves were pushed up to his elbows.

"Morning," he said without turning around. "Coffee's ready. Black, like you pretend to like when you're trying to be healthy."

You laughed, sliding onto a stool. "I do like it black sometimes."

"Sure you do." He turned, sliding your mug across the counter. Then he leaned against the edge, arms crossed, watching you take the first sip.You noticed the small paper bag on the counter beside him—simple brown kraft, no ribbon, no hearts. Practical packaging.

"What's that?" you asked, nodding toward it.

He followed your gaze, then shrugged one shoulder. "Open it later. After we eat."

Breakfast was quick with toast, eggs he'd scrambled with precision, and fruit sliced into neat pieces. He ate standing up, scrolling through his phone with one hand, occasionally glancing up to make sure you were eating too.

When the plates were cleared after he insisted on washing them himself, he finally picked up the bag and held it out.

"Here."

You took it curiously, noticing how it was heavier than it looked. Inside, nestled in tissue paper was a pink thermos, matte finish, the kind that kept drinks hot for twelve hours or cold for twenty-four. Engraved on the side in small silver lettering was your name.

You looked up at him, eyebrows raised and he rubbed the back of his neck, a rare flicker of something almost sheepish crossing his face. 

"You always complain your coffee gets cold when we're out. Figured this would fix it."

You turned the thermos over in your hands, feeling the solid weight of it. It was exactly your style—minimal, functional, thoughtful. 

"It's perfect."

"Good." He nodded once, satisfied. "Now grab your coat. We're leaving in ten."

The surprise unfolded piece by piece, the way Taehyun liked things: controlled reveals, each step building momentum. First, he drove you to a quiet park on the outskirts of the city, a small wooded area with winding trails and a frozen pond that reflected the sky like glass. He pulled a backpack from the trunk and slung it over one shoulder.

"Hiking?" you guessed.

"Sort of." He took your hand again. "Trust me."

The trail was easy at first, crunching leaves underfoot, the air sharp with pine. He walked ahead sometimes, pointing out little things like a bird's nest tucked in branches, a frozen stream that looked like twisted glass, his voice low and excited in that understated way of his.

.Halfway up, he stopped at a clearing. Someone had set up a small pop-up tent—nothing fancy, just insulated walls and a portable heater humming softly inside.

A folding table held a spread: sandwiches wrapped in parchment, fresh fruit, a thermos (that matched yours, but in a sky blue color) of hot chocolate, and—unexpectedly—a small Bluetooth speaker playing soft music.

You stared. "You planned this?"

He shrugged, but his eyes were bright. "Scouted it last week. Owner lets me use it sometimes when it's empty. Figured it'd be better than fighting crowds downtown."

Inside the tent, it was warm, cozy. Blankets on the floor, cushions. You sat cross-legged, watching him unpack everything with efficient movements before he reached into the backpack again.

This time, he pulled out a bouquet. It wasn’t huge nor extravagant. Just a tight bundle of deep red camellia and a few sprigs of eucalyptus for green contrast tied with plain twine.

Your breath caught as he held it out, casual as if handing you a water bottle.

"For you."

You took it slowly, fingers brushing his. "Taehyun..."

"Don't make a big deal," he said quickly, looking away toward the heater like it needed adjusting. "They're not roses. Roses are cliché and overpriced. These last longer, don't smell, won't make you sneeze. Practical."

You stared at the flowers, then at him. He was still avoiding your eyes, jaw tight like he was bracing for teasing but you didn't tease. 

Instead, you set the bouquet carefully on the blanket beside you, then leaned forward and kissed him—soft at first, then deeper when his hands found your waist and pulled you closer.

When you pulled back, his pupils were blown wide, breath uneven."You said you didn't like flowers," he murmured against your lips.

"I said I didn't like wasteful ones." You touched the camellias gently. "These... aren't wasteful."

He exhaled a laugh, low and relieved. "Good. Because I wasn't sure. I kept thinking about yesterday—how you looked at those couples. Figured maybe I was missing something."

You shook your head. "You weren't. You just... you always give me what lasts."

He studied you for a long moment, then nodded once. "Yeah. But sometimes lasting includes a little stupid romance, right?"

"Right."

He kissed you again—this time slower, hands framing your face like he was memorizing it. When he pulled away, he reached into the bag one last time. A small box of dark chocolate truffles. The expensive kind he used to bring in the beginning of your budding relationship.

"Last surprise," he said. "Not practical. Just... because."

You laughed, the sound muffled against his shoulder as you leaned into him. "You're ridiculous."

"Logically ridiculous," he corrected, wrapping an arm around you.

Outside, the wind rustled the trees. Inside, the heater hummed, the music played softly, and the camellias sat bright against the blanket—proof that even the most practical heart could bend, just a little, when it mattered.

The rest of the day passed in lazy perfection: eating, talking, stealing kisses between stories. He told you about scouting the spot, how he'd tested the heater twice to make sure it wouldn't fail. You teased him for over-planning a "spontaneous" date and he just grinned, unbothered.

As the sun dipped low, painting the snow gold, he packed everything up with the same efficiency he'd arrived with. But before you left the tent, he picked up the bouquet and pressed it into your hands again.

"Keep them," he said. "Even if they die eventually. At least they lasted longer than the cliché ones."

You smiled, holding them close. “Of course,” you murmured, smiling small and soft. “I’m not letting these go anywhere.”

He nodded once—sharp, satisfied—then bent to zip the backpack. But he didn’t stand right away. Instead he stayed crouched there for a beat, looking out through the open tent flap at the trail disappearing into the shadowed trees. The first stars were already pricking through the violet sky, faint and cold.

“I wanted to stay longer,” he said suddenly, almost like the words had slipped out before he could catch them. “Watch the stars come out properly with you. Lie back, point out constellations, the whole thing.” 

He huffed a short laugh, self-deprecating. “But the trail’s not lit. No markers past the first bend. If we wait too long we’ll be stumbling around in the dark, and I didn’t bring headlamps. Or a map. Or backup batteries.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture quick and familiar. “Not worth the risk. We’d end up cold, lost, and then I’d have to carry you out piggyback while you complain on my back.”

You laughed—the sound bright against the quiet—and reached out to tug lightly on the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Always planning three steps ahead.” 

He squeezed your hand once. “Next time,” he said, voice low and certain, “we stay for the stars.”

You smiled, holding the camellias a little tighter. “Next time,” you echoed.

His decision was practical, yes. But also, undeniably, romantic in the way only Taehyun could be: deliberate, thoughtful, and surprising.

The walk back down the trail felt different—not just because the light had shifted to that soft, bruised purple of late winter dusk, but because the camellias were still in your hands. Their petals caught the last slivers of sun like small dark flames. 

Taehyun walked beside you, his pace deliberately slowed so you didn’t have to hurry. One hand was in his pocket, the other holding yours as he squeezed every few minutes like he was checking if you were still there.

He didn’t speak much on the descent but it wasn’t awkward. Silence was normal for him after something emotionally high-stakes. He processed in silence, turning the afternoon over in his head the way he’d turn a Rubik’s cube until every side matched.

You could almost see the gears moving behind his eyes—did the heater stay warm enough? Was the chocolate too bitter? Did the flowers feel like too much after all these months of steering him away from them?

You broke the quiet first. “You really planned all of this in a week?”

He glanced over, mouth quirking. “Ten days, technically. Had to wait for the owner to confirm the tent wasn’t booked.” A small shrug. “Wanted to make sure everything lined up. Weather forecast, sunset timing, how long the trail takes at your walking speed.”

You laughed under your breath. “You timed my walking speed?”

“Rough estimate.” He tapped his temple. “I pay attention.”

Of course he did. He always did.

He noticed you shivered when iced drinks sat too long, so he bought the thermos. 

He noticed you always forgot gloves in winter, so last December he’d slipped a pair of thin, touchscreen-compatible ones into your coat pocket without a word.

The parking lot was nearly empty when you reached it. Only two other cars, both with couples still inside, windows fogged, probably stealing the last few minutes before heading home to whatever Valentine’s dinner they’d booked.

Taehyun unlocked the doors with a quiet beep and opened the passenger side for you out of habit. Before you could slide in, he stopped you with a light touch on your elbow.

“Wait.” 

You turned. He was looking at the camellias again, then at you, expression unreadable for a second.

“I almost didn’t bring them,” he admitted. Voice low, like the confession cost him something to say out loud. “Kept thinking about what you said back then—how you’d rather have something practical. I didn’t want to… I don’t know. Make you feel like I wasn’t listening.”

Your chest tightened. “Taehyun—”

“But then yesterday at the café,” he continued, cutting himself off before you could interrupt, “you looked at those people with the big stupid roses and I could see it. Not jealousy, exactly. Just… curiosity? Like maybe part of you wondered what it felt like to be given the cliché thing anyway.” 

He noticed that too, you thought.

He exhaled through his nose, short and sharp. “So I figured—worst case, you laugh at me and we use the flowers as kindling later. Best case…” He gestured vaguely at the bouquet. “You smile like that.”

You hadn’t realized you were smiling until he pointed it out.He rubbed the back of his neck again—the same nervous action from earlier in the tent. 

“Anyway. Point is, I’m not gonna make it a habit. Flowers every week would be wasteful and you’d get sick of them in like, two months. But once in a while? When it actually means something?” He met your eyes, steady. “I can do that.”

The cold air stung your cheeks, but you barely felt it.

“You’re allowed to want things that aren’t one-hundred-percent logical, you know,” you said softly. 

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, well. Working on it.”

You stepped closer, rising on your toes to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Thank you. For all of it. Even the illogical parts.”

He caught your waist before you could pull away, kissing you properly this time—slow, thorough, the way he did when he wanted to make sure you felt every second of it. When he finally let go, his forehead rested against yours for a beat.

“Get in,” he murmured. “Heater’s already on. Don’t want you freezing while I’m trying to be romantic.”

You laughed and slid into the passenger seat, cradling the camellias carefully on your lap like they were made of glass. 

The drive back into the city was quiet again, but comfortable. Taehyun kept the radio low—some chill R&B playlist he’d made months ago because he knew you liked certain tracks. Every so often his fingers would find yours over the center console, thumb brushing your knuckles absentmindedly.

When you reached your apartment building, he parked but didn’t turn off the engine right away.

“Still early,” he said. “You hungry for actual dinner or…?”

You tilted your head. “You didn’t book anything?”

“Didn’t want to lock us into a time slot in case you hated the tent idea and wanted to bail early.”

Of course he’d think of that too. Contingency plans for everything. 

“But there’s that ramen place you like” He continued, “the one with the spicy broth that makes your nose run. Or we can just order in. Your call.”

You considered it. The idea of sitting in a crowded restaurant right now, surrounded by other couples doing the full Valentine’s performance, felt suddenly exhausting. You wanted more of this—the two of you, no audience, no pressure.

“Let’s order in,” you decided. “And you’re staying, right?”

He looked almost offended that you’d asked. “Obviously.”

Upstairs, the apartment smelled faintly of flowers from the candle you’d burned last night. Taehyun kicked off his shoes by the door, hung both your coats, then disappeared into the kitchen like he lived there. 

Which, functionally, he practically did.

You set the camellias on the dining table, arranging them in the only vase you owned—a plain white ceramic cylinder he’d bought you last summer because ‘your old one leaked and stained the wood.’

While he scrolled through the delivery app, muttering about how the restaurant always forgot extra chili oil unless you wrote it in all caps, you slipped into the bedroom to change. 

Comfy sweats, one of his old oversized hoodies he left in your apartment months ago, and fuzzy socks. When you came back out he was already on the couch, legs spread, phone balanced on his thigh, looking completely at home.

He glanced up. Paused. His gaze did that slow sweep it always did when you wore his clothes—possessive, appreciative, a little smug.

“Looks better on you,” he said simply.You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the flush.

“Flattery isn’t practical.” you huffed.

“Doesn’t have to be.” He patted the cushion beside him. “Come here”

You curled into his side, head on his shoulder, legs draped over his lap. He wrapped one arm around you automatically, thumb rubbing slow circles against your upper arm through the fabric while the other kept scrolling until he hit submit on the order.

“Twenty-eight minutes,” he announced. “Plenty of time.”

You blinked, raising an eyebrow in confusion. “Plenty of time for what?”

He didn’t answer with words.Instead he surged up, one hand cupping the back of your neck to hold you exactly where he wanted, the other sliding to your hip with a bruising grip, and kissed you hard.

It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming—teeth catching your lower lip hard enough to sting sweetly, tongue sweeping in deep and wet and possessive, stroking against yours in slow, deliberate drags that made your head spin.

You made a small, helpless sound into his mouth; he swallowed it greedily, tilted his head to take the kiss even deeper, licking into you like he was trying to taste every corner.

His hands then started roaming.

Everywhere.

One palm shoved up under the hoodie you were wearing, rough fingertips skating over the soft skin of your ribs, then higher, cupping one breast fully through the thin bra.

He squeezed firmly, his thumb unhurriedly circling the already-pebbled nipple until it ached, then pinching just enough to make you gasp into his mouth. The other hand slid down the curve of your spine, fingers splaying wide over your ass, kneading the flesh before pulling you down harder against the thick, insistent ridge of him straining behind denim.

You rocked instinctively, grinding down on the hard length of him; he groaned low and guttural against your tongue, the sound vibrating through your chest and straight to your core. He broke the kiss only to drag his open mouth along your jaw, down the sensitive column of your throat, teeth scraping over your racing pulse before he sucked a mark there—hard enough to bloom purple by morning, soft enough that you arched into it instead of pulling away.

“Plenty of time,” he repeated against your skin, voice rough and wrecked, lips brushing with every word, “to get you so wet I can feel you soaking through my jeans before the food gets here.”

The bluntness delivered in that calm tone sent a fresh gush of heat between your legs. He shifted you in one fluid motion, flipping your positions so your back hit the cushions and he loomed above you, one knee braced between your thighs, the other planted on the floor for leverage.

The hoodie rode up to your ribs and he didn’t bother fixing it, shoving it higher with both hands, bunching the fabric under your armpits, exposing the lace of your bra and the way your chest rose and fell in shallow pants.

His gaze dropped, dark and ravenous. “Look at you,” he muttered, more to himself, voice thick. 

One hand closed over your left breast again, kneading slowly while the other yanked the bra cups down in a single rough tug. Your breasts spilled free into the cool air, nipples already tight and flushed. 

He made a low, appreciative sound in his throat before leaning down and took one peak into his mouth. Tongue flat and hot, he circled once, twice, then sucked—hard, rhythmic pulls that matched the slow, deliberate roll of his hips down into yours. 

The rough denim scraped against the thin barrier of your sweats, friction brutal and perfect against your swollen clit. You threaded your fingers into his dark hair, tugging hard. He growled around your nipple, before switching sides—teeth grazing the sensitive bud just enough to make you cry out before soothing it with slow, wet laps of his tongue.

His free hand slid lower, under the waistband of your sweats and past the damp lace of your underwear, straight to where you were already slick and throbbing. Two fingers parted your folds, slid through the wetness with obscene ease, then pressed flat against your clit in a slow, firm circle that made your hips buck.

“Fuck,” you breathed, head falling back against the cushion.

“Language,” he said against your breast, voice muffled and dark. “But I’ll give you a pass since that’s the response I want.” 

He rubbed again—tighter circles now, pressure steady. “Twenty-five minutes left.” He breathed. “Plenty of time to map exactly how many times I can make you come before the doorbell.”

He sounded almost proud of his own ruthless efficiency. You would have laughed if your breath weren’t already coming in short, desperate pants. 

You arched harder, chasing his fingers. He rewarded you by slipping one inside—slow, deliberate—curling immediately to that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

“Another,” you managed, voice cracking and hee didn’t hesitate. Second finger joined the first, stretching you beautifully, pumping in a steady, deep rhythm while his thumb took over your clit—small, relentless circles that never faltered. 

The wet, filthy sounds of his fingers moving inside you filled the room, louder than your own ragged breathing. He lifted his head to watch your face—eyes locked on yours, pupils blown so wide only a thin ring of iris remained.

“Twenty-two minutes,” he rasped, voice wrecked but still steady. “You’re clenching so fucking tight already. Gonna come for me like this? All over my hand before the noodles arrive?”

You could only nod, words gone, hips rocking desperately onto his fingers. He kissed you again—messy, open-mouthed, swallowing every broken whimper as he worked you faster. Fingers curling deeper with every thrust, thumb pressing harder, the rhythm never faltering. 

Practical.

Precise. 

Devastating.

When you shattered it hit like a freight train, your back bowing off the couch, thighs clamping around his wrist, a choked cry tearing from your throat as pleasure ripped through you in sharp, blinding waves. He didn’t stop, just slowed his movements, curling gently to draw it out until you were trembling, oversensitive, gasping against his shoulder.

Taehyun withdrew his fingers slowly, glistening with your release, and brought them to his mouth—licking them clean with slow, deliberate swipes of his tongue while holding your dazed gaze shamelessly satisfied with what he’d done. Then he glanced at his watch.

“Eighteen minutes left,” he said, already working his belt open with one hand, the metal clinking softly. “Enough time to fuck you properly… and still have time to wash my hands before I tip the delivery guy.”

You laughed—breathless, dazed, thighs still shaking. He leaned down, kissed you softer this time, almost tender as he reached for the waistband of your sweats, tugging them along with your soaked underwear—down your thighs in one efficient motion.

“Lift,” he instructed, voice rough with want and you followed.

He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough, freeing his cock—thick, flushed dark at the tip, already leaking. The sight of him made your mouth water, made fresh heat coil low in your belly. 

He notched himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your slick folds once, twice, coating himself until he glistened.

“Condom?” you asked, even as your hips lifted toward him instinctively.

“Already on the table,” he said, nodding toward the small foil packet he’d apparently placed there sometime in the last few minutes—because of course he’d prepared. “But if you want me bare tonight…”

You swallowed hard. “Yes. Please.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, something almost feral flashing in his eyes.Then he pushed in slowly, letting you feel every thick inch as he stretched you open, until his hips met yours and he was buried to the hilt.

You both groaned—low, broken sounds that mingled in the quiet room.He stayed still for a heartbeat, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “So tight… so wet… so…perfect.”

“Language” you teased, repeating his words earlier and he just groaned.

Then he started moving.Slow, deep rolls at first—pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, grinding against your clit with every thrust. Each stroke dragged against that sensitive spot inside, building the pressure again impossibly fast.

“Feel that?” he rasped, voice wrecked. “How deep I am? How you’re taking every inch?”

You could only whimper, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. He picked up speed—harder now, hips snapping forward with controlled force, the couch creaking under you both. One hand braced beside your head, the other slid between you, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts.

“Fourteen minutes,” he growled against your ear. “Gonna make you come on my cock before the timer runs out. Then I’m gonna fill you up so deep you’ll feel me all night.”

The filthy promise tipped you over the edge, coming with a cry, walls fluttering and clenching around him, milking him as wave after wave crashed through you. He fucked you through it, hips stuttering only when your spasms pulled a low, guttural moan from his throat.

When the aftershocks finally faded he slowed, grinding deep instead of thrusting, letting you ride the lingering pleasure.

Then he pulled out slowly, both of you hissing at the loss, and flipped you onto your stomach, tugged your hips up, and slid back in from behind in one smooth stroke.

“Last one,” he murmured, voice strained. “Gonna come inside you now.”

He thrusted hard then—fast, deep, one hand wrapped around your hip, the other sliding up your spine to fist in your hair, pulling just enough to arch your back. The new angle let him hit even deeper, the head of his cock dragging against that spot with every brutal thrust.

You pushed back to meet him, desperate, needy sounds spilling from your lips.He reached around, fingers finding your clit again—rubbing fast, merciless circles.

“Come with me,” he ordered, voice breaking for the first time. “Now.”

You shattered a third time—harder than before, vision whiting out, body shaking as you pulsed around him. He followed seconds later—hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself deep as he came with a choked groan, spilling hot and thick inside you, pulse after pulse until you were both trembling. 

He stayed buried inside you for a long, suspended moment, chest heaving against your back, forehead pressed to the nape of your neck. His lips found your skin there—soft, reverent kisses scattered along the sweat-damp curve, as though grounding himself in the aftershock. His arms bracketed you, one hand splayed wide over your stomach, holding you close while the other braced beside your head to keep his weight from crushing you.

Then he exhaled a long shaky breath and glanced at his watch one final time.

“Three minutes to spare,” he murmured, voice hoarse but satisfied. “Plenty of time to clean up… and still answer the door like nothing happened.”

He pulled out slowly—carefully—both of you hissing sharply at the sudden emptiness and the flare of oversensitivity. The slick heat of his release immediately began to slip out, warm and thick, trailing down your inner thighs. You felt it—intimate, messy, undeniable—and a fresh shiver ran through you at the sensation.

Taehyun noticed instantly.

Without a word he shifted back just enough to reach the side table. He’d already placed everything he might need within arm’s reach earlier—because of course he had: a small stack of soft tissues, a clean hand towel folded neatly, and an unopened bottle of water.

Practical. Ruthlessly prepared. Always three steps ahead.

“Stay here,” he murmured, voice still rough around the edges but steady again. “Don’t move yet. I’ll get the food. And a towel. And water.”

You nodded weakly, limbs heavy, body humming with aftershocks. The couch cushions were cool against your flushed skin as you collapsed fully onto your stomach, cheek pressed to the fabric, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne that clung to everything he touched.

He moved with that same efficient grace—jeans tugged back up just enough to be decent, belt loosely buckled, hair still a beautiful disaster. He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment and you heard the faucet run, the soft rustle of a fresh towel being pulled from the cabinet. Then, he was back, kneeling beside you on the floor.

He draped the warm, damp towel over your lower back first then gently guided it between your thighs, cleaning you with careful, unhurried strokes.No awkwardness, no hesitation; just quiet focus, like this was simply the next logical step in the sequence he’d already mapped out.

“You okay?” he asked softly, thumb brushing a soothing circle over your hip where his grip had left faint pink imprints earlier.

“More than okay.” You managed to say, releasing a small, blissed-out hum.

Without a word, he reached for the rucked-up fabric bunched around your ribs, now twisted high enough that your breasts and stomach were fully exposed to the cool air of the apartment. His fingers gathered the hem gently, tugging it downward in one slow, careful motion.

The soft cotton slid over your skin like a whisper—first covering your breasts, then gliding past your navel, finally settling at mid-thigh where it had always belonged on you. He smoothed it flat against your sides with both palms, fingers lingering at your waist for a second longer than necessary, as though making sure every inch of you was shielded again. The gesture was simple, almost absentminded, but the care in it made your chest tighten.

“There,” he murmured against the shell of your ear, voice low and rough from overuse.

He leaned down, kissed your temple, then stood again. The doorbell rang right on cue as he glanced at his watch, a tiny satisfied quirk to his mouth. 

“Right on time.” he said, voice steady again, though his hair was still a complete disaster and there were faint red crescents from your nails on his shoulders. He adjusted himself one last time, smoothed his shirt down, and headed for the door—calm, collected, utterly composed.

You watched him go, boneless and blissed-out, legs still weak, a stupid, happy smile tugging at your lips as the scent of spicy ramen began to drift in from the hallway.

He set everything on the coffee table, then came back to you with a bottle of water already uncapped.

“Drink,” he said, sliding an arm under your shoulders to help you sit up slowly. “Hydration first. Then food.”

You took the bottle with shaky fingers, sipping while he arranged the containers—chopsticks, extra chili oil (he’d remembered to request it in all caps), napkins fanned out neatly. Only when you’d taken a few solid swallows did he finally let himself sit beside you, pulling you gently against his side.

The ramen was perfect—broth spicy enough to make your eyes water, noodles springy, extra chashu because he remembered what you liked, and it was still steaming as he handed you your bowl first, then took his own. 

You ate in a companionable quiet for a while, the only sounds were the soft slurp of noodles and the occasional satisfied hum from him when he got a particularly good bite. Halfway through your bowl you caught him watching you again.

“What?”

He shook his head once. “Nothing. Just… glad you liked today.”

“I loved today.”

“Good.” He set his chopsticks down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Because I was ninety-two percent sure you would, but there’s always that eight percent margin for error.”

You snorted. “You’re such a nerd”

“Maybe” He leaned back, stretching both arms along the couch behind you. “But it made today successful. I calculated the weather, your mood after work yesterday, whether you’d think the tent was weird instead of cozy, whether camellias would feel like a cop-out compared to roses…” He ticked them off on his fingers. “High confidence overall.”

“You’re insane.”

“Logically insane,” he corrected, the smirk returning—slow, self-satisfied, the same one he’d worn when he’d announced the twenty-eight-minute countdown earlier.

You leaned over and kissed the smirk right off his face, tasting the lingering spice of chili oil that still clung to his lips from dinner. He hummed into it, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing the soft skin just below your ear in a gentle, absent rhythm.

When you finally pulled back, foreheads resting together, his breathing was steadier but his eyes were still dark, pupils blown wide in the dim lamplight.

Even when the practicality included making sure you came three times, came inside you exactly as promised, cleaned you up efficiently with warm towels and careful touches, and still had the ramen piping hot when it arrived—he’d managed all of it without ever breaking that calm, deliberate focus of his.

You shifted then, swinging one leg over to straddle his lap properly again, thighs bracketing his hips. The bowls were already safely on the coffee table; there was no risk of knocking them over. The hoodie he’d tugged down earlier bunched comfortably at your waist now, soft cotton riding up just enough to let his hands settle on your lower back, palms warm through the fabric, holding you close without any urgency.

He exhaled softly against your mouth, the sound almost a sigh of contentment.

“Still think flowers are impractical?” he murmured, voice low and rough, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke.

You laughed—weak and happy, the sound muffled against the crook of his neck where you’d tucked your face.

“I think you’re allowed to be a little impractical sometimes,” you whispered back, fingers threading lazily through the damp strands at his nape. “Just… don’t make it a habit. I’d hate to lose the version of you who times everything down to the second.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours. “Deal,” he said simply.

He leaned in and kissed you once more—slow, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world now that the countdowns were over, the ramen bowls sat empty on the coffee table, and the apartment carried the quiet, intimate perfume of spicy broth, lingering sex, and the clean notes of camellias drifting from the side table. 

His mouth moved against yours with deliberate tenderness— lips brushing, parting, tasting, no rush to deepen it further. Just savoring. One hand slid up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking the soft skin beneath your ear in lazy, soothing arcs; the other stayed splayed at the small of your back, fingers pressing just firmly enough to keep you anchored against him, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

When he finally drew back only far enough that your breaths mingled, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded and dark with something softer than hunger now. The lamplight painted warm shadows across his sharp features, turning the faint red marks from your nails into quiet proof of everything that had come before. 

He didn’t speak right away but exhaled once, long and steady, like he was letting the last of the day’s careful calculations slip away.

Outside the window, the city glittered with Valentine’s lights in pink and red and white. Couples were probably still walking around with wilting bouquets and half-eaten chocolate boxes but you didn’t care.

You had camellias on the table that would last another week at least, a thermos that would keep your coffee hot until next winter, and a boy whose heart operated like an extremely well-calibrated machine—precise, efficient, ruthless in its logic and still, somehow, capable of the softest, most surprising acts of love when it mattered.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, baby” he said, voice barely above a whisper, like the words were just for the space between you. 

You rested your forehead against his again, breathing him in.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Taehyun.”

And for once, he didn’t bother calculating the odds.

The grand ballroom glowed under strings of soft golden lights, chandeliers casting warm prisms across the white linen tables and towering floral arches. Laughter and clinking glasses fill the air, the joyful chaos of a wedding where everyone truly belongs: family, lifelong friends, and the extended family forged through years of shared schedules and late nights.

You sit at the table near the front, the gentle warmth of the lights brushing your skin as you watch Soobin command the room as wedding emcee. He moves with effortless charm—warm, funny, never letting the energy falter.

Absent-mindedly, you lean toward Yeonjun and murmur, “Soobin’s doing so good up there. He’s really carrying the whole vibe.”

Yeonjun doesn’t answer right away.

You notice the way his fingers twist the edge of his napkin, the subtle bounce of his knee under the table. You tilt your head, studying him.

“Hey,” you tease lightly, bumping his shoulder with yours, “Why are you so nervous? People are gonna think you’re the one getting married.”

He lets out a small huff of a laugh and nudges you back, gentle but pointed. You giggle, and the sound finally coaxes the corner of his mouth upward before he heaves a long, quiet sigh, shoulders dropping as though he’d been carrying something heavy all night.

“I don’t even know,” he admits, voice low so only you can hear. “We’ve performed hundreds of times. Stages, festivals, stadiums… but today?” He shakes his head. “I’m shaking.”

You soften instantly. You reach up and cup his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly over the sharp line of his jaw.

“It’s because it’s Jisoo-nim,” you say gently. “You don’t want to mess anything up for him. He’s been there since the beginning with you guys. Every debut stage, every 3 a.m. practice, every time one of you wanted to quit. Of course you’re nervous. You love him.”

Yeonjun exhales through his nose, eyes falling closed for a moment under your touch. Then he leans in, pressing the softest kiss to your forehead, lingering there as though he was drawing calmness from you.

“Yeah,” he mumbled against your hair. “Probably.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, offering that small, crooked smile reserved only for quiet moments like this.

“I have to go dance with the boys now,” he says with a smile.

You nod, squeezing his hand once before letting go. “Go make Jisoo-nim cry again. You’re good at it.”

He chuckles under his breath, stands, and smooths a hand down the front of his shirt. As he walks toward the others, you watch the familiar set of his shoulders relax inch by inch. The closer he got to the dance floor, the more the nerves dissolve and the performer inside him surfaces.

The DJ drops the opening synths of “Love Language,” and the room erupts in delighted gasps and cheers. You smile to yourself, already knowing what’s coming.

Yeonjun steps forward, every line of his body loose and confident. He mouths the lyrics straight at Jisoo—“What’s your love language?”—playful and bold. When the manager flushes bright red but begins trying to follow along, Yeonjun’s grin turns blinding.

As the final chorus builds, the energy sharpens and the boys pull Jisoo into the center. Soobin reaches into his pocket without missing a beat and pulls out a pair of sleek black sunglasses, passing them over with a quick, knowing nod. Jisoo grins before bursting into another helpless laugh as he slips them on.

Jisoo straightened, rolled his shoulders once like he was stepping back into an old, familiar role, and suddenly he was moving with them. Not just following—dancing. Hips popping on the beat, arms slicing through the air with surprising precision, matching every sharp hit and fluid wave of the choreography they’d been rehearsing in secret for weeks.

They finished the last portion flawlessly, hitting the final sharp pose right as the song cut out and the room erupted. Jisoo’s bride jumped up and down in front of him, clapping furiously, tears of joy shining in her eyes as she shouted his name over the thunderous applause, her voice bright and proud.

When Jisoo ripped off the sunglasses, laughing so hard he had to bend at the waist for a second, he pulled his bride into a spinning hug while the boys piled on around them, a messy, joyful tangle of arms and congratulations.

You watch it all from your seat, heart full, the warmth of the moment settling deep in your chest as Yeonjun glances over at you through the crowd, catching your eye for just a second.

He winks and you roll your eyes with a laugh at his ridiculousness before he disappears back into the hug pile.

Later, when the night has quieted into dessert and soft conversations, Yeonjun slides back into the seat beside you, his arm draped along the back of your chair almost immediately, fingers tapping a lazy rhythm against your shoulder blade in time with the music.

You turn to say something teasing, but he’s already leaning in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers something absurd that makes you throw your head back laughing, hand flying up to cover your mouth.

When you twist to shoot back a reply, he dips his head and presses the softest, lingering kiss to the crown of your head. No performance, no camera needed—just the two of you, and the quiet comfort that has grown between you over years of shared glances and late-night talks.

You lean into it for a second, eyes fluttering closed, then nudge him with your elbow. He laughs low, the sound vibrating against you, and the two of you dissolve into shared giggles again, wrapped up in your own little world while the rest of the room hums around you.

Across the table, Beomgyu nudged Taehyun and nodded your way with raised brows. Taehyun smirked, lifting his glass in a mock toast. Soobin just smiled into his drink, soft and knowing. Kai snapped a quick polaroid of the table, smiling as he told them how their family “keeps growing”.They all laugh and you think, sitting there with Yeonjun’s arm warm around you and Jisoo’s happy laughter still echoing somewhere behind, that he’s right.

After the formal ceremony came the reception that already tipped into that golden, slightly hazy hour where champagne flutes are refilled without question and the dance floor pulses with a mix of generations swaying to everything from 90s ballads to the latest idol tracks.

The bouquet toss is announced with a flourish—Jisoo's bride, cheeks still flushed from earlier tears and laughter, turns her back to the gathered single women (and a few brave men who joined in for the chaos). You stand near the middle of the loose circle, not pushing forward but not retreating either, your dress catching the overhead lights.

The bouquet sails in a perfect arc, petals fluttering like confetti. Hands reach—some half-hearted, some determined—but it’s your fingers that close around the stems first. A surprised laugh bursts from you as you lift it triumphantly, the mix of white and pink roses trembling slightly in your grip.

The crowd erupts in cheers, whistles, and playful screams, and not two minutes later came the corsage toss.

Jisoo, grinning like he’d planned the whole thing, blindfolds himself dramatically before flinging it backward over his shoulder. The small cluster of white orchids and silver ribbon spins through the air.

Meanwhile Yeonjun, who’d been standing off to the side chatting with Soobin, instinctively raises a hand and unintentionally catches it one-handed, clean and effortless, like he’d been waiting for it his whole life.

The venue explodes, cameras flash, phones zoom in, and someone—probably Beomgyu—lets out a theatrical wolf whistle that cuts through the noise.

You turn, bouquet still clutched to your chest, and lock eyes with Yeonjun across the small divide. He holds up the corsage like a trophy, one eyebrow arched in mock challenge, lips curving into that signature half-smirk that always makes fans weak. You point at him, laughing so hard your shoulders shake, then mime putting the bouquet behind your back as if to hide it.

The tradition hits like lightning: girl catches bouquet, boy catches corsage—next wedding bells will ring for you two.

Jisoo, mic still in hand from his earlier thank-you speech, couldn’t resist. He steps forward, tux jacket now slung over one shoulder, hair slightly mussed from dancing, the spotlight finding him easily.

“Ah, ah—everyone, hold on,” he says, voice warm and teasing through the speakers. “Look at this. The girlfriend caught the bouquet... and the boyfriend snagged the corsage.” He pauses for dramatic effect as fresh laughter rolls through the room. “You know what that means, right? Tradition says you two are next.”

More cheers, louder this time. Someone in the back yelled "Get it, Yeonjun!" and got a round of applause for it, making Jisoo's grin widen, his eyes twinkling with the kind of fond mischief only a manager-turned-big-brother can pull off. 

He leans toward the mic again, lowering his voice conspiratorially even though it booms everywhere. “And let me tell you—I’ve been with these boys since the very beginning. Back when Yeonjun was still... how do I say this politely?... pining. Pining hard. Sneaking glances during schedules, pretending he was ‘just checking lyrics’ when he was really looking at someone across the award ceremony venue.”

He shot a pointed look at Yeonjun, who had gone from cocky to tomato-red in approximately three seconds flat. "And now? Look at them. Standing here, bouquet and corsage in hand, making me feel old and sentimental at my own wedding."

The venue dissolved into warm laughter as you buried your face in the bouquet for a second, peeking over the flowers with sparkling eyes. Yeonjun rubbed the back of his neck, ears burning, but he couldn't hide the helpless, happy smile spreading across his face. 

He catches your gaze again and mouths a quick “your fault” that makes you laugh harder and shrug playfully from a few feet away.

The other TXT members are losing it in the best way. Beomgyu has doubled over, clutching Taehyun’s arm for support. Huening Kai is filming the whole thing on his phone with zero shame, zooming in on Yeonjun’s flushed cheeks. Soobin simply stands there beaming like a proud brother, occasionally shaking his head as if to say, of course this happened.

Jisoo raises his glass.

“To the lovely couple over here—may your wedding be half as chaotic and twice as beautiful as mine. And… don’t make me wait too long. I’ve got a suit to match already.”

The toast was met with clinking glasses, more cheers, and spontaneous chants of “Marriage!” “Marriage!” that had both of you ducking your heads in delighted embarrassment.

The chant eventually dissolved into softer chatter and the gentle clatter of dessert plates being cleared. The reception settled into that late, haze where time feels elastic—people lingering at tables, slow-dancing in corners, stealing quiet moments before the inevitable goodbyes.

You slip away from the main crowd for a breath of air near one of the tall windows, the cool glass pressing against your palm, when you feel a familiar presence at your back.

Yeonjun appears beside you, but he isn’t alone. 

In his arms is a tiny girl—barely two, cheeks round and flushed from the warmth of too many hugs, dark curls escaping the little bow clipped into her hair. She’s nestled against his chest, one small hand fisted on the side of his suit jacket, the other clutching the edge of his tie like it’s a lifeline. 

Yeonjun holds her with the easy confidence of someone who’s done this before, one arm securely under her bottom, the other supporting her back while she drowsily blinks up at the twinkling lights above.

You blink, confusion flickering across your face. “Where did you even get a baby?”

Yeonjun’s grin is instant and blinding, the kind that makes his eyes disappear into crescents. 

“One of the protocol team’s daughters,” he says, voice soft so he won’t startle the toddler. “Her dad got pulled into an emergency call with the venue staff, and the little one was getting fussy. I figured… why not? We’re basically uncles and aunts to half the company kids anyway.”

Your expression melts from bewilderment into something unbearably fond. You reach out instinctively, brushing a stray hair off the baby’s forehead. The little girl stirs at your touch, big eyes focusing on you before breaking into a gummy, sleepy smile. 

“Hi, pretty girl,” you coo, voice dropping to that automatic gentle register people use with babies.

You then ended up on the floor near your table—out of the main traffic but still visible enough that a few guests smiled indulgently as they passed. You sit cross-legged in your dress, the silk pooling around you like spilled rosewater, and Yeonjun lowers the toddler carefully into your lap.

The little girl immediately latches onto your necklace, small fingers exploring the delicate chain with intense fascination.

Yeonjun drops down behind you, knees bracketing your hips as he settles in close. His arms come around your shoulders loosely, chin hooking over your collarbone so he can see the baby’s face too.

Together, you coo and make silly faces—you bounce the toddler gently on your knees, Yeonjun tickles her round tummy until she squeals in delight, tiny fist grabbing at his finger and refusing to let go.

For a stretch of minutes the rest of the reception fades to background noise. There’s only the soft baby giggles, the warmth of Yeonjun’s chest against your back, the way his fingers occasionally brush yours when you both reach to steady the little one.

The toddler’s energy slowly lowered as her eyelids grew heavy, head lolling against your shoulder before finally tipping sideways to rest against Yeonjun’s arm. Within moments she’s out, tiny mouth parted in sleep, lashes dark against flushed cheeks.

Yeonjun exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Mission accomplished.”

You tilt your head back just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re disgustingly good with kids, you know that?”

He shrugs one shoulder, careful not to jostle the sleeping baby. “I like kids even though I grew up without siblings. And maybe I’ve been thinking about it more lately.”

The words hung between you as your heart gives a small, unsteady thud but you don’t reply right away. Instead, you reach up and brush your fingertips along his cheek with a smile in silent acknowledgment.

Eventually Yeonjun stands, cradling the toddler with the same steady care, and carries her back across the room to where her father had just returned, looking grateful. 

The man mouths a thousand thank-yous as he takes his daughter, pressing a quick kiss to the sleeping forehead before disappearing toward the exit with the rest of the staff.

When Yeonjun came back, the energy in the ballroom had shifted again. The lights had dimmed a fraction more, the DJ playing slower songs now, signaling the night was winding down. Guests began drifting toward the coat check, hugs and promises to meet again exchanged in clusters.

The night has softened into that quiet, reluctant winding-down where the energy of celebration finally gives way to yawns hidden behind polite smiles and the slow shuffle toward coat check and valet. 

The ballroom lights have dimmed to a gentle amber, most of the tables cleared, leaving only scattered petals and forgotten champagne flutes catching the last glow. Outside, the February air bites sharper, but the group lingers at the entrance, reluctant to let the magic end.

Jisoo and his bride stand near the wide glass doors, wrapped in each other’s arms, still radiating the soft, dazed happiness of people who’ve just married the love of their life. TXT and you approach in a loose cluster, hugs and back-pats exchanged like currency earned over years.

Soobin goes first—tall, steady, pressing a careful hug to the bride and a firm handshake-turned-hug to Jisoo. “Hyung, seriously… Thank you for everything. We’re so happy for you.”

Taehyun follows, quieter but no less sincere, murmuring congratulations that make Jisoo’s eyes shine again. Kai practically launches himself at both of them, earning a laugh and a ruffle of his hair. Beomgyu is next, dramatic as always—bowing theatrically before pulling Jisoo into a bear hug that lifts the older man an inch off the ground.

And then Yeonjun.

Jisoo catches him before he can even open his mouth, one arm slung around his shoulders, the other hand gripping the back of his neck like he’s still sixteen and nervous for his first evaluation.

“You,” Jisoo says, voice low but carrying that familiar teasing edge, “better not make me wait another decade to see you in a tux like this again. I told you earlier that I’ve got the perfect suit picked out already—it matches your eyes when you’re being all lovesick.”

Yeonjun groans, ducking his head, but the blush is helpless and bright under the outdoor lights. “Hyung, come on—”

Jisoo only laughs, pulling him into a real hug this time, the kind that says more than words ever could. “I’m proud of you, kid. Always have been. Now go—don’t keep her waiting.”

He releases Yeonjun with a gentle shove toward you, bouquet still cradled in one of your arms, his jacket draped over your shoulders.

You step forward last. First the bride, giving her a warm, genuine hug as she whispered, “thank you for coming, it meant so much.” Then moved to Jisoo who immediately hugs you like family. 

“You’ve been part of this circus since before it even had a name,” he says softly. “Don’t ever think you’re just Beomgyu’s friend. You’re ours too. And of course the girlfriend of that guy over there”

Your eyes shimmer as you nod with a laugh, throat too tight for words, and squeeze him once more before stepping back.

The members surround you then, a quick round of goodnights. Taehyun and Kai press quick kisses on your cheek, Soobin gives you a gentle side-hug. And Beomgyu—Beomgyu lingers.

He wraps both arms around you, chin resting on top of your head for a long moment, the way only childhood best friends can without it feeling strange. When he finally pulls back just enough, his voice drops to a whisper only you can hear.

“Take care, okay? Well, I know you’ll be alright since you’ll be with Yeonjun.” You nod against his shoulder before he leans back, eyes narrowing playfully as he flicks his gaze to Yeonjun who was pretending to check his phone but clearly watching every second.

Beomgyu points two fingers at his own eyes, then jabs them toward Yeonjun in the universal I’m watching you gesture. 

“Don’t do anything stupid, Choi.” 

Yeonjun rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Gyu.”

Beomgyu snorts, gives you one last squeeze before finally letting you go.

You part ways in the valet line—TXT piles into their designated van with promises to spam the group chat tomorrow, while you slide into the passenger seat of Yeonjun’s car. The engine purrs to life, and for a few minutes there’s only the soft hum of the heater and the distant city noise muffled by tinted windows.

You stare down at the bouquet in your lap, fingertips brushing the bruised petals. 

“I still can’t believe Jisoo-nim invited me,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “I mean… it’s his wedding. I thought maybe I’d just get a text the next day or something.”

Yeonjun glances over from the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching across the console without hesitation. He finds your free hand, threads your fingers together, and lifts it to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles.

“Of course he invited you,” he says quietly. “You’ve been there since before any of this was real. Back when you’d sneak into the practice room after school just to bring Gyu ramyeon and watch us butcher choreography. Before you even became an idol yourself, you were already part of it.”

You laugh under your breath, soft and a little watery. “If we weren’t dating, he probably still would’ve invited me. Just because I’m Beomgyu’s best friend.”

“Exactly.” Yeonjun’s thumb traces lazy circles over the back of your hand. “But we are dating. So it’s both.”

A comfortable quiet settles again, broken only by the occasional tick of the turn signal as he navigates the late-night streets. You lift the bouquet slightly, tilting it toward him.

“Do you… actually believe in stuff like this? The bouquet, the corsage, the whole ‘next wedding’ thing?”

He exhales through his nose, thoughtful. “Honestly? Not really. Never did. Thought it was just a cute superstition—something aunties say to make single people blush.” He pauses at a red light, turns to look at you fully, the glow from the light paints a soft red hue across your cheekbones.

“But now?” His voice drops, honest in a way that makes your breath catch. “When it’s about us? Yeah. I believe it.”

Your lips part in a surprised little laugh. He keeps going, words tumbling out like he’d been holding them all night. 

“Think about it. Anyone could’ve caught that bouquet. Some random cousin, one of the staff-noonas, hell, even Kai if he’d jumped high enough. Same with the corsage. But it was us. Both of us. At the same damn time.” 

He shakes his head, almost disbelieving. “And if Beomgyu had caught this stupid thing instead of me?” He taps the corsage still tucked in his pocket. “He’d never shut up about it. ‘Hyung, looks like I’m marrying her first—sorry!’ I’d have been so jealous I’d probably combust.”

You burst out laughing, head tipping back against the seat. “You would’ve sulked for weeks.”

“Months,” he corrects without missing a beat. “But we both caught them. So yeah—it means something. Fate, tradition, whatever you want to call it. I’m not letting anyone else rewrite that part.”

You turn toward him, eyes bright with mischief now. The light turns green; he eases forward, but your gaze stays locked on his profile.

“So…” you drawl, voice lilting with teasing sweetness, “you’re saying you want to marry me, huh?”

Yeonjun’s grip on the wheel tightens for a split second. Then he laughs—low, warm, caught but he doesn’t deny it. Instead, he lifts your joined hands again, kisses your wrist this time, right over your pulse. 

“Caught me,” he murmurs against your skin. “Guess the flowers ratted me out.”

You giggle, leaning over the console just enough to rest your forehead against his shoulder as he drives. The bouquet sat between you like a quiet promise, roses still fragrant in the warm car air.

The city lights streak past in soft blurs, the Han River a dark ribbon on your left as Yeonjun navigates the familiar route home. The car is warm now as the heater continued to hum low. You shift closer during a red light, forehead resting against the edge of his shoulder, eyes half-closed in that soft, post-adrenaline haze that always follows big nights.

Yeonjun glances down at you for a second as he leans a fraction closer so you could be somewhat comfortable, eyes flicking back to the road almost immediately. His free hand moves without thought, fingers slide gently on your cheeks towards your hair, caressing slow circles against your scalp, thumb brushing the shell of your ear. The motion is automatic, practiced, the kind of touch that has become language between you long before words ever caught up.

“You tired, baby?” His voice comes out softer than he means, rough around the edges from laughing and singing along to old ballads all night.

You nod against him, the smallest movement, cheek brushing the fabric of his shirt. A contented little hum vibrates through you. He presses his lips to the crown of your head briefly, breathing you in for a heartbeat before straightening again. 

His hand never stops moving, petting gently down the length of your hair, then back up, grounding you both. “Hang on a little bit longer, we’re almost home,” he murmurs. 

Then, quieter, like the words are too big for the small space but he has to say them anyway.

“I love you. You know that right?”

You smile against his shoulder, eyes still closed as he continues to speak. 

“I can’t wait for the day it’s going to be me in a tux and you in a wedding dress, walking towards me instead of catching someone else’s bouquet.”

Your giggle bubbles up immediately, bright and sleepy. You lift your head just enough to look at him, eyes sparkling under the passing streetlights. 

“You don’t know what the future holds, Choi Yeonjun.”

But even as you tease, you turn your face into his hand—the one still stroking your hair—and press a slow, lingering kiss to the inside of his wrist, right over the faint blue veins. Then you sit up properly, settling back into the passenger seat with a dramatic little sigh, as if reclaiming your composure.

His hand follows without hesitation. Fingers seek yours across the console, lacing them together like they’ve never been apart. Palm to palm, thumb brushing over your knuckles in the same steady rhythm he used on your hair.

“Three years,” he says after a beat, eyes still on the road but voice thick with something fond and certain. “We’ve been dating almost three years. And I’ve been pining for you since… what, a decade ago? Give or take. I know what I want, baby. I’ve known for a long time.”

He squeezes your hand once, gently. “And it’s not just me being dramatic. Our families keep bringing it up every time we go to each other’s gatherings. Mom asks when she’s getting a daughter-in-law. Your dad corners me about ‘marrying his only daughter’. The future’s basically sealed at this point.”

You laugh again—head tipping back against the seat this time, the sound bright and unguarded in the quiet car. 

“I never knew you’d liked me that long,” you say, turning to study his profile. “A decade?”

Yeonjun raises an eyebrow, glancing at you sidelong. “Mm. Is that really surprising? When did you start liking me, then?”

You pretend to think, tapping your chin with your free hand. “Probably… six years ago? Around the time we filmed that year-end special and you kept finding excuses to stand next to me during breaks.”

He gasps an actual, theatrical gasp, eyes widening as he stares at the windshield like it has personally betrayed him. “Six years? Why the hell did we only start dating three years ago then?”

You burst out laughing, shoulders shaking so hard your joined hands jostle. “Because we’re idols, you idiot.”

Yeonjun blinks. Once. Twice. Then he lets out a long, dramatic exhale, slumping back in the driver’s seat as if the realization has just hit him like a truck.

“Oh. Right.” 

He drags a hand down his face, laughing under his breath. “I forgot that part. Completely slipped my mind.”

You nudge his arm with your elbow, still giggling. “You act like we could’ve just dated in the practice room between schedules when we were still new to the industry. As if you could have gone, ‘Hey, wanna be my girlfriend? Cool, let’s go tell the company right now.’”

“I would’ve,” he mutters, half-serious. “Still would.”

You laugh and roll your eyes as the car slows, tuning into the underground parking of Yeonjun’s apartment building. Lights flicker overhead, painting everything in pale white. He pulls into his spot, engine cutting to silence, but neither of you moves right away.

Yeonjun turns toward you fully, elbow resting on the center console, fingers still tangled with yours. 

“Six years for you. Ten for me.” He shakes his head, smiling in that soft, helpless way that always makes your heart stutter. “We’re really bad at this timing thing.”

You lean in, resting your forehead against his again—this time deliberate, noses brushing. “Maybe. But we got here eventually.”

“Yeah.” His thumb traces the ring finger of your left hand, slow and thoughtful. “And I’m not letting the timing slip again.”

You kiss him then—soft, unhurried, tasting like champagne and promises. When you pull back, your eyes are bright, teasing gone soft around the edges.

“Come on, future husband,” you whisper, reaching for the bouquet with your free hand. “Let’s go inside before Beomgyu texts me asking if you’ve proposed in the parking lot yet.”

Yeonjun laughs, low and warm, and finally opens his door.“I can do that,” he says as he rounds the car to open yours. “I’ll get down on one knee right now” he says and you laugh, smacking him lightly with the bouquet you were holding making him chuckle.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, spilling you into the hushed hallway of the apartment building, Yeonjun’s arm already around your waist as you walk—more carrying than guiding. Your feet padded quietly against the cool marble while his jacket still hung loose on your shoulders.

Inside, his apartment welcomes you with familiar dimness: floor lamps left on low, the faint glow from the city skyline filtering through half-drawn blinds. Yeonjun kicks the door shut behind you, toeing off his shoes without letting go of you. You sway the moment you reach the living room, a tiny, sleepy lurch forward that has you grabbing his sleeve for balance.

Yeonjun laughs fondly, the sound rumbling against your temple. “Falling asleep on your feet already?” He steadies you with both hands on your hips, turning you gently toward the wide sectional couch. “Come here, baby.”

You let him guide you down onto the cushions, bouquet set carefully on the coffee table like a fragile centerpiece. Yeonjun drops beside you, long legs stretching out, one arm slung along the back of the couch so you can curl into his side. 

You do exactly that, gently placing your head on his chest, legs tucked under you. For a minute there’s only quiet—His heartbeat steady under your ear, the distant hum of traffic twenty floors below, your slow exhales evening out.

Then you shift as you fish your phone from the pocket of his jacket, thumb unlocking the screen with practiced ease. A soft laugh escapes you almost immediately.

“Look at this,” you murmur, tilting the phone so he can see. “The fans already found the video from earlier.”

Yeonjun leans in, chin resting on your shoulder. The clip is grainy but unmistakable, taken from one of the side tables during the reception. Both of you were sitting on the floor, cradling the toddler Yeonjun brought over earlier on your lap.

You coo at the screen, eyes softening. “God, she was so cute. Look at those cheeks.”

Yeonjun’s smirk is instant, wicked. He slides one hand down your back, fingers finding the delicate zipper at the nape of your dress and tugging it down an inch—just enough to tease.

“Yeah?” His voice drops, playful heat threading through it. “You want one? We can work on it right now. You can just stay put like this… let me do all the work.”

“Yeonjun!” You exclaim as you burst out laughing, twisting to punch his arm playfully.

He catches your wrist, kisses the inside of it, grinning against your skin. “What? Aside from the marriage, our parents also keep dropping hints about grandchildren every family dinner. Might as well give them what they want.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile stays. “You say that now. Wait ‘til there’s a tiny human running around your apartment at 5 a.m. while you’re trying to sleep off a twelve-hour schedule.”

He sighs dramatically, flopping back against the cushions and pulling you down with him until you’re half-sprawled across his chest. Arms wrapping around you fully, he presses a series of slow kisses along your hairline, mumbling against your scalp.

“Fine. I’ll settle for my current baby instead.” 

You snort, burying your face in his neck to hide how wide your smile has gotten. “You’re so corny.”

He hums, not even caring about the complaint you just said as his fingers traced idle patterns on your spine. 

“But seriously… we can’t get married yet. Can’t have a baby yet. All because we’re always so busy with schedules, practices, all that.” He sighs, “Can’t we at least live together here? Just you and me in this place?”

You lift your head, eyebrows raised. “You barely even live here, Yeonjun-ah. You’re always at the dorm with the boys. I’m at my group’s dorm more nights than not.”

He groans, long and theatrical, tipping his head back against the couch. “I know, I know. I bought this apartment because I wanted my own space. Privacy. A place to breathe. And then… I never did. Because coming home to the chaos of the dorm felt more like home than coming home to silence.”

Your expression softens. You reach up, brushing his bangs off his forehead. “We do stay here sometimes. On breaks. Late nights after schedules. Those weekends when we steal a few hours.”

“Not enough,” he whines, voice pitching into that rare, vulnerable register he only uses with you. “I want to always stay here. Come home to you. Wake up to you hogging all the blankets. Fight over who gets the good side of the couch. I want that. Every day.”

You nuzzle closer, cheek pressed to his collarbone. “Soon, baby.”

The pet name hits him like warm honey—he melts instantly, arms tightening around you, a soft exhale escaping against your hair.You keep going, voice muffled against his shirt. 

“Maybe we can ask when we renew contracts. TXT’s up next week, right?” you suggest.

His eyes light up, sparkling even in the low light. “Yeah. Next week.”

You laugh quietly. “But I still have two years before my renewal. You’d have to wait.”

Yeonjun’s face falls into an exaggerated pout, complete with a dramatic groan. He buries his nose in your hair, whining. “Two years is forever.”

You turn your head, pressing a kiss to whatever part of him you can reach—his jaw, the corner of his mouth. “Why are you so adamant about married life today, anyway?”

He goes still for a second, then sighs—honest, unguarded.

“Because I saw Jisoo-hyung tonight. Standing there, looking at his bride like she hung every star in Seoul. They’re happy. Really happy. And we’re older now—twenty-six, twenty-four. Not kids anymore. I want that too. I want us to have that.”

You shift so you can look at him properly, hands framing his face. “We’re still idols, though.”

“I know.” He leans into your touch, eyes searching yours. “And I still want to be one. I love the stage. The music. The boys. All of it. But I also want to come home to you. I want mornings that aren’t dictated by call times. I want… more. With you.”

You smile and cup his face gently like he’s the one who needs soothing. 

“I’ll still be here. Even if we don’t get married tomorrow. Even if we don’t live together yet. Even if kids are years away. I’m not going anywhere.” Your thumb brushes his cheekbone. “At least we never had to worry about hiding because you literally announced we were dating the second it was official. No vague tweets, no denials. You just… said it. On Weverse. In front of everyone.”

Yeonjun huffs a laugh, remembering. “Yeah. ‘Hey MOA, Y/n and I are together. Please be kind to her.’ Short and sweet.”

“Very you,” you tease.

He catches your hand, kisses your palm. “I meant it. Still do. I just… tonight made me greedy. I want the rest of it too.”

You curl back into him, head on his chest again, listening to the steady thump of his heart. “We’ll get there, one stolen night here at a time. We’ve already waited this long. What’s a little more?”

He wraps both arms around you fully, chin resting on top of your head. “As long as it’s with you? I’ll wait forever.”

“You’re being corny again” You laugh.

“I know,” he says, kissing your head. “You love it though”

The apartment then settles into that deep, late-night stillness. Your breathing slows against Yeonjun’s chest, body growing heavier, limbs loosening in the way that means sleep is winning. 

His fingers moved through your hair with slow, rhythmic strokes from crown to nape, then back up, twisting gentle curls around his index finger before letting them slip free again. 

You sigh once, a tiny contented sound, and nuzzle closer, nose pressing into the hollow of his throat. Yeonjun smiles into the dark, lips brushing your temple.

“We should change,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “Sleep in the bedroom properly, yeah?”

You make a soft, sleepy hum as your fingers curl loosely into the front of his shirt like you’re anchoring yourself there. 

He chuckles under his breath, the sound warm and low. “Okay, baby. I’ve got you. You don’t have to move.”

Without another word he shifts, sliding one arm under your knees and the other around your back. He lifts you in one smooth motion, cradling you against his chest like you weigh nothing. 

You stir faintly, a small whine escaping as your head lolls against his shoulder.

“Shh,” he soothes instantly, lips grazing your forehead. “I’ve got you. Just stay like this.”

He carries you down the short hallway, bare feet silent on the hardwood. The bedroom door is already ajar as he nudges it open with his hip. Moonlight spills through the tall windows, silvering the white sheets and the faint outline of the bed you’ve made together last time you stole a night here.

He lowers you slowly, reverently, easing you onto the mattress so your head settles against the pillow. You sigh again, lashes fluttering but not quite opening, body instinctively curling toward the cool sheets. 

Yeonjun kneels beside the bed for a second, brushing a stray strand from your cheek. “Gonna change you now, okay? Just relax.” 

He moves with practiced gentleness—first slipping his jacket off your shoulders, then finding the half-undone zipper at the back of your dress. The silk smoothly slides as he eases it down, careful not to tug too hard. He peels the fabric away inch by inch, folding it over the foot of the bed like it’s something sacred. Underneath you wore simple lace-trimmed underwear.

He doesn’t linger, doesn’t tease—just reaches for one of his shirts from the drawer and threads your arms through the sleeves, guiding your limp hands, then tugs the hem down over your hips. The shirt swallows you the way his jacket had earlier, sleeves pooling past your elbows. 

You hum again, pleased even in sleep, and burrow deeper into the pillow. 

Next comes the makeup. He grabs the small pack of micellar water wipes he keeps on the nightstand specifically for nights like this, and kneels closer. One hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, pressing the lightest kiss to your closed eyelid. “My pretty girl.”

He begins to wipe gently—first your eyes, careful around the delicate skin, then your cheeks, your lips—each pass slow and tender. Between strokes he kisses you: the bridge of your nose, the corner of your mouth, the faint freckle just under your left eye. Every touch accompanied by soft murmurs.

“You did so good tonight… danced, laughed, caught that bouquet like it was meant for you… I’m so lucky, you know that? So damn lucky.”

You don’t wake, but your lips curve into the tiniest smile, like some part of you hears him anyway. When your face is clean—skin soft and bare, lashes dark against pale cheeks—he leans down one more time, kissing you properly now: slow, lingering, barely a press of lips but full of everything he couldn’t say louder.

“Sleep, baby. I’m right here.”

Only then does he stand. He strips quickly out of his suit jacket, shirt, and trousers as he folded them over the chair, leaving him in just his boxers. A quick pass with a makeup wipe for himself, scrubbing away the remnants of lip stain and foundation until his face feels fresh again. 

He doesn’t bother with a shirt as the room is warm enough, and he likes the way your body heat feels against his skin when you tangle together. He slid under the covers, pulling the duvet up over both of you. 

You shift instinctively toward him, seeking warmth even in sleep. He gathers you close—your back to his chest. He draped one arm over your waist, hand splayed protectively over your stomach, the other tucked under your head like a pillow as his nose found the crook of your neck. He inhales the faint rose scent still clinging to your hair, mixed now with the clean smell of his own shampoo from the shirt.

“Love you, baby,” he whispers into your skin, so quiet it’s almost just breath. 

You sigh in your sleep, fingers finding his wrist and holding on. Yeonjun presses one last kiss to the nape of your neck, then lets his eyes close. 

The city lights keep flickering outside, the world keeps turning.

The late afternoon sun slants through the tall windows of the student council room, turning the long oak table into a stripe of molten gold.

The room isn't empty today as several other council members occupied the seats. Kai from the finance committee scribbling notes, Ryujin organizing the sponsorship folder, Taehyun doodling absentmindedly on his agenda, and a couple of freshmen reps whispering about poster designs.

They all glance up when the door swings open twenty-three minutes late.

Beomgyu steps in without rushing, school blazer slung over one shoulder like an afterthought, dark hair slightly mussed from the wind outside, necktie loose on his neck.

He offers the room his usual half-smile—the one that makes most people swoon and forgive him before he even opens his mouth. It's the same easy, charismatic grin that got him elected president in the first place making the freshmen squeal in their seats.

Everyone knew he was popular.

He was the guy who could charm teachers into extensions, draw crowds at basketball games with effortless tricks, and somehow make skipping class look like a personality trait.

So when election time came, the votes poured in on name recognition and that effortless appeal alone. You were the only one who campaigned on actual plans and accountability—and still lost by a landslide.

You slap the pen down hard enough that it bounces once and rolls toward the edge of the table. The other members exchange quick glances; they've seen this routine before.

“You’re late,” you say. 

“I had gym.” Beomgyu drops into the president’s chair at the head of the table as though he hasn’t just skipped three consecutive meetings. “Coach made us run extra laps. Apparently I looked too relaxed.”

Kai snorts quietly. Ryujin hides a smile behind her folder.

“You’re the president.” You stand slowly, the chair scraping behind you. “You don’t get to look relaxed. You get to be here. On time. Every Wednesday at 3:30. That was the deal when you ran—and when the rest of the school population stupidly voted for you.”

He tilts his head, watching you with that same unhurried curiosity he always wears when you get angry, like your temper is a rare bird he wants to study up close.

The other council members shift in their seats, sensing the tension but staying quiet; they've learned not to interrupt when you're in full vice-president mode.

You round the table, loafers click against the wood floor with precise, irritated rhythm before stopping directly in front of him, him tipping his chin up slightly to meet your eyes.

“Do you even know what we discussed last week?” you demand. “The budget re-allocation for the spring festival? The sponsorship letters that are already two weeks overdue? The fact that the decorating committee is threatening to quit because their president hasn’t shown up once?”

Taehyun mutters under his breath, “She’s right, hyung…” but trails off when Kai nudges him.

Beomgyu’s gaze never wavers from you. If anything it softens, the faintest curve touching the corners of his mouth but you don’t notice.

You lean down, planting both hands on the armrests of his chair, caging him in as your face comes closer than you intended.

Close enough that you can see the individual flecks of amber in his dark irises, the nearly invisible scar that curves under the tail of his left eyebrow, the way his breath hitches for half a second when the tip of your nose almost brushes his.

The room goes unnaturally quiet. Ryujin's pen stops moving. Kai's eyes widen slightly. Even the freshmen have frozen mid-whisper.

“Are you even listening?” you hiss.

Your voice has dropped without you realizing it. The anger is still there, coiled tight, but the space between your mouths is so small now that every word feels intimate.

Beomgyu doesn’t answer right away.

He simply looks.

Not at your eyes—at all of you. The faint flush high on your cheekbones. The way strands of your hair have slipped loose and curved against your jaw. The way your lips stay parted after you finish speaking.

Silence stretched. Thick. Warm. Electric.

The other members exchange awkward glances, suddenly very interested in their papers and then ever so quietly, he says,

“You’re beautiful.”

The words land soft, almost surprised, like he hadn’t meant to say them out loud.

You freeze as your grip on the armrests tighten until your knuckles were pale and for one long heartbeat, you can’t remember how breathing works.

Beomgyu doesn’t move. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t try to take it back. He just keeps looking at you with that same unguarded intensity, as though the rest of the room—the agenda, the budget sheets, the wide-eyed council members—has dissolved.

Ryujin clears her throat delicately. “Uh... should we... take a five-minute break?”

You straighten abruptly, face burning, stepping back as if you were electrocuted. The air felt colder without his warmth so close.

Beomgyu leans back in the chair, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact with you. One corner of his mouth lifts—not quite a smirk, but more like he’s tasting the silence you’ve just shared and found it sweet.

 “I’ll stay for the rest of the meeting,” he says. “I’ll sign whatever needs signing. I’ll even write the damn sponsorship letters myself if you want.”

Kai raises an eyebrow and Taehyun grins like he’s just won a bet. You cross your arms, trying to rebuild the wall you let slip.

“You should’ve been here last week.” you say,

“I know.”

“And the week before.”

“I know.”

You exhale through your nose, sharp. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Maybe.” He tilts his head again, studying your flushed cheeks, the way you keep shifting your weight like you can’t decide whether to bolt or stay. “But I’m here now.”

The words hang between you, simple and dangerous.

You look away first—toward the agenda sheet still lying abandoned on the table, toward the schedules pasted on the wall, toward anything that isn’t his face.

“Fine,” you say at last, voice clipped. “Sit there and behave. We’re already behind.”

You turn to retrieve your pen, but not before you catch the way his gaze follows you—soft, unhurried, almost tender.

The rest of the meeting drags on in that same strange, suspended haze. The other council members have settled into their roles again, but the atmosphere feels different now—thicker, like everyone is hyper-aware of the space between you and Beomgyu at the head of the table.

Kai keeps sneaking glances over the rim of his glasses while Ryujin's pen taps an irregular rhythm against her notebook. Taehyun stopped doodling entirely and is now watching the two of you with poorly concealed amusement, chin propped on his hand. The freshmen reps whispered less, their eyes darting between you and the president like they’re waiting for the next scene in a drama they didn’t expect to witness live.

Beomgyu, for his part, stayed unnaturally still.

He didn’t fidget with his phone, didn’t doodle on the margins of the budget sheet you shoved in front of him, didn’t even lean back with that lazy sprawl he usually does when he’s bored.

He simply sat with his forearms resting on the table, fingers loosely linked, and watched you. Not staring, exactly but more like... observing.

Every time you reach to flip a page, every time you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, every small, unconscious movement seems to pull his gaze like gravity.

Ryujin caught it once and quickly looked away, biting her lip to hide a smile as Kai pretended to cough into his fist to hide his own grin.

When you finally pause to ask, your voice comes out sharper than necessary—sharper than you meant it to in front of everyone.

“You’re taking notes, right?”

He blinks once, slowly, like someone waking from a daydream. Then he picks up his pen—black, expensive, the kind that probably costs more than your monthly allowance—and begins writing neatly without a word.

The room works in near-silence for another forty minutes after that.

Beomgyu signs where he’s told to sign. He asks one quiet, surprisingly thoughtful question about the vendor contracts that makes Taehyun raise an impressed eyebrow. He even volunteers to help Ryujin double-check the sponsorship tracker spreadsheet, leaning over to point out a small calculation error without making a show of it.

By the time the last item is checked off and the last signature scrawled across the permission form, the golden light has deepened to amber.

“That’s everything for today,” you say, closing the folder with a soft snap and the others begin to gather their things with unusual speed.

Ryujin stands first, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I’ll email the updated minutes tonight,” she says, already halfway to the door. She shoots you a quick, knowing look—nothing overt, just a tiny lift of her brows that says we’re all seeing this.

Kai follows, muttering something about basketball practice and Taehyun stretches dramatically, then claps Beomgyu on the shoulder as he passes.“Good job actually showing up, hyung. Don’t ruin it next week.”

The freshmen scurry out behind him, giggling under their breath as the door clicked shut for the last time. Within thirty seconds, the room is empty except for the two of them.

You stand and so does he—smooth, unhurried, like rising water. You expect him to make some quip, to toss out a casual See you next week, Vice President and saunter out the door the way he always does but he didn’t

Instead, he rounds the table toward you and you feel your pulse increase once again.

He stops a respectful distance away. “I’ll have the sponsorship letters ready by Friday,” he says. Quiet. Serious. “Scanned and emailed. You’ll have copies for the treasurer and the advisor.”

You search his face for the joke but you found none. “...Okay.”

He nods once. Then, his voice softens. “I’m sorry. For the last few weeks.”

The apology lands heavier than any excuse he could have offered. No deflection, no charm to cushion it. Just the truth, plain and bare.Your throat tightens. You look down at the folder in your hands, at the neat stack of papers you spent the last hour pretending were more important than the boy standing in front of you.

“I don’t need apologies,” you say finally. “I need you to show up.”

“I will.” Two words. Simple. Certain.

You risk a glance up to find that his expression hasn’t changed—still that same quiet intensity—but there is something new in the set of his mouth. Not a smile. More like resolve.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

Then, Beomgyu reaches out slowly, giving you every chance to step back, and brushes the very tip of his thumb along the edge of your jaw, just under your ear. The touch is so light you might as well have imagined it if not for the sudden heat that races across your skin.

“You had a strand stuck here,” he murmurs.

Liar.

There is no strand and you know it. He knows you know it.

Your breath catches anyway as he lets his hand fall, stepping back to give you space again. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.

You swallow and nod, not really knowing what to else to say.

Beomgyu picks up his blazer from the back of the chair, slings it over his shoulder the way he always does, and walks to the door but pauses with his hand on the knob.

Without turning around he adds, almost too quiet to hear.

"You’re still beautiful when you’re mad, by the way.”

Then he’s gone—door clicking shut behind him, footsteps fading down the corridor—leaving you alone in the golden afternoon light with your heart hammering against your ribs and the ghost of his thumb still burning on your skin.

You press two fingers to the spot he touched, steadying your breathing.

And for once, you don’t try to talk yourself out of the feeling that blooms warm and reckless somewhere in your heart.

The next morning arrived too bright, too soon.

You walk into homeroom with your bag slung over one shoulder, trying to look like nothing has changed.

Like you didn’t spend the entire walk to school replaying the quiet click of the council-room door, the weight of Beomgyu’s thumb on your jaw, the way he said you’re still beautiful when you’re mad like it was the most obvious fact in the world.

You slide into your seat, open your notebook and stare at the blank page.

Your pen doesn’t move.

By lunch you’ve managed to convince yourself it was nothing—just Beomgyu being Beomgyu. Charming. Careless. A momentary glitch in the usual pattern of him disappointing everyone and somehow still getting away with it. You almost believe it.

But the moment you step into the corridor outside the cafeteria, you saw him again. Leaning against the wall near the vending machines, one foot propped back, scrolling through his phone with that same lazy grace.

He’s changed out of the uniform blazer into the soft black hoodie he sometimes wears under it, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He looks up the second you appear—as though he felt you before he even saw you and your stomach executes a traitorous flip.

“Hey,” he says. Simple. Soft. Like he’s been waiting.

You stop a few paces away, clutching the strap of your bag a little too tightly before responding.

“Hey.”

A beat of silence. Not awkward, exactly but more like the air between you is holding its breath.

“Have you eaten yet?” he asks.

“Not hungry.”

He nods like he expected that answer. Then he pushes off the wall, slips his phone into his pocket, and falls into step beside you without asking permission and you start walking toward the courtyard out of habit.

He matches your pace perfectly, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed. Neither of you spoke for half a hallway until you couldn’t stand it anymore.

“About yesterday—” you start. At the exact same moment he says, “I meant it.”

You both stop and he turns to face you fully. The corridor is mostly empty—lunch rush already inside the cafeteria—so his voice doesn’t have to fight to be heard.

“I meant it,” he repeats, quieter now. “Every word. I wasn’t trying to mess with you. I just...” He exhales through his nose, a small, almost self-conscious sound. “I looked up and you were right there, angry and gorgeous and close enough that I could see the little freckle under your left eye I never noticed before, and it just—came out.”

He’s not smiling. Not teasing. Just looking at you with those dark, steady eyes that suddenly feel far too honest.

“I’ve been thinking about saying it for a while,” he adds. “Didn’t plan on it happening like that. But I don’t take it back.”

Heat climbs your neck again. You hate how easily he does this to you—unravels every careful wall with a handful of quiet sentences. “You—” You swallow. 

“You may think I said it in passing because I’m acting normal right now but it's a façade.” One corner of his mouth quirks. “I’ve been a nervous wreck since I left that room. Kept replaying it. Wondering if I ruined everything. If you’d tell me to stay the hell away from you.”

The admission is so unguarded it steals your breath making you glance away, toward the row of lockers, toward the scuffed linoleum—anywhere but his face. “I didn’t... I don’t want you to stay away.”

The words slip out before you can catch them and Beomgyu goes still. When you finally risk looking back, his expression has softened into something dangerously tender.

“Then don’t make me,” he says, words landing like stones in still water, rippling outward until your whole chest feels full of them. You don’t know what to say so you don’t say anything. Instead, you start walking again—slower this time and he falls back in beside you without hesitation.

Outside, the courtyard is quiet with a few juniors are sprawled on the grass eating convenience-store kimbap. The cherry blossoms are long gone, but the trees still look soft against the sky. You stop under one of them, out of direct sightlines from the building window and Beomgyu stops too.

He’s close again—not crowding, just near enough that you can feel the warmth coming off him in the cool spring air. “I’ll come to every meeting from now on,” he says. “No excuses. I’ll even bring snacks if it keeps you from murdering me with your eyes.”

A tiny, involuntary laugh escapes you. “Bribery now?”

“Desperate measures.” He shrugs, but his gaze stays on your face. “I don’t want you to think I don’t care. I do. About the council. About... you.”

Your heart stumbles over itself as he reaches out hesitantly, like he’s afraid you’ll flinch. He lets his fingertips graze the back of your hand. You barely felt it, as if it was a question more than a touch.

Then, his fingers slide down until they thread loosely through yours. You don’t pull away.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment, just standing there under the tree, holding hands like it’s the most natural thing in the world while the rest of the school moves around you in distant noise.

Eventually he murmurs, “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like you’re trying to figure out whether to kiss me or push me into the fountain.”

Your face flames. “I am not.”

He grins—small, crooked, devastating. “You kind of are.”

You open your mouth to argue, then close it again because he’s not entirely wrong. Beomgyu’s thumb brushes once, slow and deliberate, over your knuckles.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says softly. “Not unless you tell me to.”

You look up at him—really look at the boy beside you. The boy who always skipped every responsibility like it was a game. The boy who somehow still managed to make you feel seen even when he was barely showing up.

And now that same boy was standing here now, holding your hand in the middle of the school courtyard like it’s the only place he wants to be.

You squeeze his fingers once. “Okay,” you whisper.

His smile blooms slow and real, lighting up every corner of his face before leaning in—just enough to press his forehead gently against yours. “Okay,” he repeats.

The bell rings somewhere above you, sharp and distant but neither of you moves for several more heartbeats.

When you finally do pull back, your fingers are still laced with his and you knew that whatever happens next, you’re walking into it together.

The days after that courtyard moment blur into something softer, quieter, and infinitely more dangerous. Beomgyu kept his word, showing up to every student council meeting—early, even.

He sits at the head of the table with actual notes in front of him instead of his phone, bringing convenience-store ramen cups and iced coffee on Fridays because he 'noticed you always look like you’re running on fumes by the end of the week.'

He signs documents without complaint, asks real questions about the festival logistics, even mediates when two committee members start bickering over color schemes.

You catch yourself watching him more than you should. The way he pushes his sleeves up when he’s focused. The way he bites the cap of his pen when he’s thinking. The way his eyes always find yours first whenever he walks into a room.

You hated how you now noticed everything.

Then two weeks later, the spring festival prep reaches fever pitch. You’re both staying late almost every day—sorting banners in the storage room, double-checking vendor lists, arguing quietly over whether you should use fairy lights or not and tonight was no different.

The school was mostly empty and the janitor has already locked the main gates but you both have special permission slips to stay until nine.

You’re in the art room now, surrounded by half-finished festival posters and the sharp smell of acrylic paint. Beomgyu sat cross-legged on the floor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, carefully outlining gold lettering on a massive welcome banner while you kneeled a few feet away, taping down edges of another one.

Comfortable silence has settled between the both of you before he breaks it by speaking without looking up.

“You’ve got paint on your cheek.”

You blink. Touch your face instinctively. “Where?”

Beomgyu sets his brush down and wipes his hands on the rag beside him. He scoots closer on his knees until he’s right in front of you.

“Here.” His voice low, thumb brushing your left cheekbone in a slow, deliberate manner. The pad of his finger comes away streaked with pale blue.

You freeze but he doesn’t pull back. Instead his hand lingers, cupping the side of your face. His palm is warm, slightly calloused from numerous basketball games and trainings. His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second, then lift again—searching.

You can hear your own heartbeat. Loud. Fast. Embarrassing.

“Beomgyu...” you say softly, barely a whisper. You’re not even sure what you’re asking for but he hears it anyway.

"Hm?” He murmurs. “You know I’ve been thinking about this... Every single day since that afternoon in the council room. Longer, probably.”

Your breath catches as he leans in slowly, giving you time to push away.

You don’t.

His forehead rests against yours first, eyes closed as you breathe the same air. You feel the faint tremor in his fingers where they cradle your jaw.

He then tilts his head—just a fraction—and his lips brush yours. Soft. Tentative. Like he’s asking permission with every millimeter.

You answer by pressing forward, deepening the kiss slowly, carefully. His mouth is warm and hesitant at first, then surer when you part your lips just enough. One of his hands slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. The other finds your waist—gentle, steadying—like he’s afraid you might disappear if he holds on too tight.

You taste spearmint gum and the faintest trace of the iced coffee he drank earlier. You feel the quiet hitch in his breath when your fingers curl into the front of his uniform. You hear the small, involuntary sound he makes when you tilt your head to kiss him deeper.

It’s nothing like the dramatic first kisses in movies—no fireworks exploding, no dramatic music swelling. It’s quieter. Real. Just the two of you in an empty art room surrounded by drying paint and crumpled poster paper, finally closing the distance that’s been shrinking for weeks.

The kiss ends slowly, reluctantly, like neither of you really wants to let the moment slip away. Your lips are still tingling when you pull back just enough to breathe, foreheads resting together, noses brushing.

Beomgyu’s hand stays cupped around the back of your neck, thumb stroking once, lazy and warm, while his other arm loops loosely around your waist. You’re both quiet for a second—too quiet—until the obvious crashes into you all over again.

Choi Beomgyu had just kissed you.

Choi Beomgyu, the council president.

Choi Beomgyu, the most popular guy in the entire school.

Choi Beomgyu, your eternal source of endless frustration and stupid butterflies.

And you kissed him back.

You blink up at him, voice barely above a whisper. “Why did you do that?”

You knew the answer to that question. Both of you have been indulging on the idea for weeks now but still, you wanted to hear it directly from him.

He tilts his head, brows lifting in that amused, knowing way. “Do what?”

“You know what.” You poke his chest lightly, trying to sound stern even though your face is burning. “Kiss me. Just now. Why?”

Beomgyu’s mouth curves—slow, teasing, devastating. He leans in until his lips are hovering right over yours again, close enough that you feel every word.

“Because I like you, dummy.”

The word lands soft and fond, wrapped in that familiar playful tone he always uses when he’s half-teasing, half-serious . You stare at him for a beat before you laugh—short, disbelieving, a little shaky.

“You’re kidding.” He doesn’t laugh back and instead his expression softens, eyes searching yours like he’s making sure you actually hear him this time.

“I’m not.” The laughter dies in your throat. Your smile falters as the weight of it settles. He really isn’t kidding. Beomgyu’s thumb brushes your cheek again, gentle. “I don’t go around kissing people I don’t like.”

You swallow. “You don’t go around kissing people at all.”

“Exactly.” His grin returns, smaller now, almost shy. “So when I do... it means something.”

Your heart does a ridiculous flip in your chest. “You’re so—” You huff, half-laughing again, shoving at his shoulder lightly even though you don’t actually want him to move away. “You’re impossible"

“It’s not nothing.” He catches your wrist before you can pull back, brings your hand up and presses a quick, feather-light kiss to your knuckles. “It’s kind of a big deal, actually. To me.”

You roll your eyes, but the gesture feels weak. “Smooth talker.”

“Only for you.”

The words are still hanging in the air between you, simple and huge all at once. His thumb keeps tracing slow, absent circles over your knuckles like he’s afraid if he stops touching you, the moment will vanish.

His eyes keep flicking to your face—searching, hopeful, a little wide like he can’t quite believe you didn’t bolt.

You let the silence stretch just long enough to watch him squirm, the tiniest bit. Then you tilt your head, lips curving into something playful.

“So... you like me,” you say slowly, drawing the words out like you’re tasting them. “Like, like like me.”

Beomgyu’s ears go pink at the tips. He tries to play it cool—leans back on one hand, lifts a brow—but the flush betrays him.

“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter than usual. “I do.”

He then tugs you closer until your knees bump his again. “I can't believe you're this surprised when we've been holding hands for weeks now”

“We held hands once!” you complain.

“Same thing.” He laughs as he poked your side, making you squirm. “Now I've said it outright. I like you. And I know you're dying to tell me you like me too”

You gasp, mock-offended. “Excuse me?”

“Admit it.” He leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You like me back. Say it or I’ll kiss you again until you do.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“Effective blackmail.” His grin turns wicked. “Five... four...”

You shove his face away playfully, laughing despite yourself. “Fine!, maybe I like you too, you annoying—”

Beomgyu doesn’t let you finish the sentence as he kisses you again—quick, bright, full of that stupid, giddy energy that makes your stomach flip. When he pulls back this time, he’s beaming like he just won the lottery.

“See? Was that so hard?”

You groan, burying your face in his shoulder to hide how badly you’re smiling. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” His arms wrap around you fully now, chin resting on top of your head. “You love me.”

“Slow down, Mister President. We literally just kissed for the first time like five minutes ago.”

“And we’re already at the ‘I like you’ stage. We’re moving fast. I like it.”

You pull back just enough to glare up at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And now you’re stuck with me.” He boops your nose once. “Miss Vice President.”

You swat his hand away, but you’re smiling so wide it hurts. Then, because the teasing has to go both ways, you tilt your head and add in a deliberately casual tone.

“I mean... I guess I like you a little bit too.”

Beomgyu freezes. Blinks. Then his eyes narrow in mock suspicion.“‘a little bit ’?”

You shrug, fighting a grin. “Yeah. Like... a tiny, insignificant amount. Barely noticeable. You’re lucky I tolerate you at all.”

He gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “Tolerate? After I poured my heart out? After I confessed like some lovesick fool in an art room that smells like regret and acrylic?”

You snort. “You confessed like a drama king. ‘Because I like you, dummy.’” She mimicks. “ Who calls the person they like a dummy?”

“The guy who’s about to kiss you until you take it back,” he threatens, already leaning in.

You dodge at the last second, laughing as he chases you across the small stretch of floor between banners. “No take-backs! I said what I said! That’s practically a love letter coming from me!”

He catches you around the waist from behind, spinning you once before pulling you flush against him. His chin hooks over your shoulder, voice dropping low and warm against your ear.

“Say it properly or I’m never letting go.”

You twist just enough to look at him—his eyes sparkling, cheeks still flushed from laughing, paint smudged on his jaw now too.

“Fine,” you murmur, softer this time, letting the playfulness bleed into something real. “I like you... maybe a lot more than a little bit.”

His grin turns blinding. “Better.” He presses a quick kiss to your temple. “But we’re working on the ‘maybe’ part.”

You elbow him lightly. “One step at a time, dummy.”

He laughs—bright, unrestrained—and doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans in again, catching you completely off guard when his lips find yours for what feels like the hundredth time in the last thirty minutes.

Soft.

Playful.

...and a little longer than necessary.

When he pulls back this time, you’re already glaring at him through half-lidded eyes, cheeks flushed and heart racing.

“Beomgyu,” you groan, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “We just had our first kiss like... thirty minutes ago. And now I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve kissed me. Not even a full hour has passed!”

He has the audacity to look proud. "Well you’re not exactly pushing me away.”

You open your mouth to argue—then close it again because, damn it, he’s right. Your fingers are still curled loosely in the front of his hoodie, and you haven’t made a single real attempt to create distance.

Instead you huff, crossing your arms even though it means you have to let go of his hoodie.

“That’s not the point. The point is—” you gesture wildly between the two of you “—we’re supposed to be finishing these banners. Not turning the art room into... into some kind of kissing booth.”

Beomgyu’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “Kissing booth sounds fun. We could charge admission. Raise funds for the festival.”

You swat his arm. “Stop it.”

He catches your wrist mid-swat, brings your hand to his lips, and presses another quick kiss to your knuckles—because of course he does.

“See?” he murmurs against your skin. “Can’t help it. I've kissed you like four times now. You’re addictive.”

You yank your hand back and stare at him, incredulous. “You’re counting?”

“Of course I’m counting.” He leans in again, voice dropping to that low, teasing murmur that always makes your stomach flip. “First kisses are important milestones. Gotta keep track so I can brag later.”

“You’re hopeless,” you mutter, but you’re smiling so hard your cheeks ache.

“Hopelessly smitten you mean.” He steals one more quick peck—barely a brush of lips—before you can protest. “See? Five. We’re on a roll.”

You shove at his chest lightly, laughing despite yourself. “Stop! The banners are never going to get finished if you keep this up.”

Beomgyu gasps, clutching his heart like you’ve wounded him. “You’re choosing paper over me?”

“I’m choosing not getting yelled at by the janitor when he finds us making out instead of working.”

“Making out,” he repeats dreamily, eyes sparkling. “I like it when you say it like that. Though what we're doing isn't really what making out is but we'll get there” he winked.

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, but you can’t stop the grin. “You’re lucky I tolerate you.”

“I’m lucky you like me,” he corrects softly, all the teasing melting away for a second. His fingers lace through yours again, squeezing once. “Even if it’s only a medium amount for now.”

You squeeze back. “Working on the upgrade,” you murmur.

His smile turns quiet, almost shy—the same one he wore when he first said he liked you. “Good,” he whispers. “You need to keep up because I’m already at ‘a lot’ and climbing.”

You lean your forehead against his shoulder, hiding how badly your heart is racing. “Finish the banners first, Mister President.”

“Will do, Miss Vice President.” He kisses the top of your head—soft, lingering—before finally reaching for his brush again but your hands stay linked the whole time you work.

And every few minutes, when you think he’s focused on the gold lettering, he sneaks another quick kiss to your cheek, your temple, the corner of your mouth— basically anywhere his lips could reach.

You complain.

You laugh.

But you don’t actually stop him.

By the time the janitor’s keys jangle in the hallway outside, the banners are mostly done

The apartment living room was dim, lit mostly by the soft blue glow of phone screens and fairy lights strung haphazardly across the shelf.

It was well past midnight, only the low hum of the air conditioner and the occasional distant honk from the street below.

Yeonjun was sprawled across the couch in nothing but loose gray sweatpants, one leg dangling off the edge, the other bent so his bare foot rested flat against the cushion. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower, dark strands falling into his eyes as he frowned down at his phone.

Yoonseul sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him, back against the couch, wearing one of his black hoodies that swallowed her frame. She was scrolling too—faster, more purposefully—cheeks faintly flushed in the screen light. A small, indignant scoff broke the quiet.

“You can’t be serious” Yeonjun muttered, voice low and rough from exhaustion and something else. He craned his head to see her phone better and pointed at it like evidence. “You just added another photocard of me shirtless to your cart!”

Yoonseul didn’t even look up. Her thumb kept moving. “I have to compare the prices,” she said simply.

Yeonjun let his head fall back against the cushion with an exaggerated groan, long and theatrical. The sound vibrated through his chest. “I’m literally right here.”

He spread his arms out, palms up, like he was presenting himself as exhibit A. “Shirtless. Sweats hanging low. Fresh out of the shower smelling like that wood sage and sea salt scent you like. And you’re out here fawning over a piece of paper that costs eighty thousand won and probably has some stranger's thumbprint on it.”

Yoonseul finally glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes flicked down the length of his torso in a deliberately slow fashion before meeting his gaze again. A tiny smirk tugged at her mouth.

“The photocards are collectible,” she said, voice innocent. “They have that glossy finish. And the holo foil. It’s art.”

“Art,” he repeated flatly. He sat up suddenly, leaning forward so his face hovered just above hers, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off his skin.

“You can have the real thing anytime you want. Breathing. Warm. No plastic sleeve. No random selca version where they gave me the worst lighting on purpose.”

He reached down, caught her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, and tilted her face up further. “You want me shirtless? Say the word. I’ll stand in the middle of this living room and do a full 360 for you. Hell, I’ll even hit the poses. Hand in hair, sultry stare, the whole fan-service package. Free shipping. No waiting for the album to drop.”

Yoonseul’s lips twitched, fighting a laugh. She raised one eyebrow. “You’d really do that?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“At three in the morning?”

“Mhm”

She studied him for a beat—his messy hair, the faint red line across his cheek from falling asleep on the couch seam earlier, the way his eyes were half-lidded and playful but also unmistakably serious underneath it all.

Then, she went back to her phone, tapped once more, and the screen lit up with another close-crop of his shirtless photocard.

“Still want the photocard,” she said, voice sweet and unbothered. Yeonjun let out a long, dramatic exhale through his nose and flopped back onto the couch like he’d been mortally wounded.

“You’re actually evil,” he muttered to the ceiling. “I’m out here offering premium, live, 4K, touchable content and you’re choosing mass-produced paper.”

Yoonseul twisted around fully this time, resting her forearms on his thighs so she could look up at him properly.

“Maybe I like the idea of having proof that you were this hot at twenty-six,” she said, quieter now, almost soft. “Something I can keep even when you’re on the other side of the world doing schedules and I’m stuck refreshing fancams at 4 a.m.”

Yeonjun’s expression faltered—just for a second—something tender and unguarded flickering across his face. He reached down, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear with surprising gentleness.

“Then keep the damn photocard,” he murmured. “But this—” he gestured between them, then tugged her hand lightly, pulling her a fraction closer “—this part’s not collectible. It’s not limited edition. It’s unlimited. 24/7. You don’t have to bid on it or fight fans for it in a group chat.”

Yoonseul’s smile finally broke free, small and real. “I know,” she whispered.

He cupped her face with both his hands before mumbling. “Then stop making me jealous of my own photocards” 

Yoonseul laughed under her breath, moving her head to the side to press a quick kiss on his palm, then leaned back again—still holding her phone like a trophy.

“I think that's a you problem” she says before finally pressing the checkout button.

Yeonjun groaned louder this time, lying back on the couch as he threw an arm over his eyes while pretending to die of betrayal beside her.

The package arrived on a Thursday afternoon, casually dropped on the front door of their apartment with a dull thunk that Yeonjun heard all the way from the kitchen. He was mid-bite into a cold slice of convenience-store kimbap when the doorbell chimed—once, sharp, like it was personally judging his life choices.

Yoonseul beat him to the door by three seconds flat. She was already ripping the tape off the small brown parcel before he even made it to the doorframe, hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows, eyes bright with the kind of glee usually reserved for comeback stages or free dessert.

“Finally,” she breathed, peeling back the last layer of bubble wrap like she was unveiling fine art.

Yeonjun leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched so high it nearly disappeared into his bangs.

“You look like you just won the lottery,” he said dryly. “It’s paper. Glossy paper. With my face on it.”

“Shhh.” She held up the thin photocard between two fingers like it was made of glass.

It was one of the photocards from his recent solo album, shadows carved sharp across his collarbones as his bare torso showed just under his red fur jacket, neck adorned with a chain necklace he pulled slightly. His head was tilted, tongue out while facing the camera with his blue-gray dyed hair styled in one of those brushed up looks he sported on his music video and the teasing edge of his waistband just out of frame.

Yoonseul let out a tiny, satisfied sigh as she plopped herself on the couch.

“Look at him,” she murmured, mostly to the card. “Look at this lighting. They actually gave you good lighting for once.”

Yeonjun pushed off the frame and sauntered over, plucking the photocard from her fingers with casual disrespect. He held it up next to his own face, tilting his head to mimic the exact angle.

“Uncanny,” he deadpanned. “The resemblance is striking. Except this version can’t talk back when you ignore him for three days straight because of schedules.”

She snatched it back immediately, cradling it against her chest. “Don’t bully my collectible.”

“Your collectible is literally standing in front of you. Alive. Warm. Currently contemplating whether jealousy is a valid emotion when the rival is yourself.”

Yoonseul finally looked up at him—really looked.

His hair was messy from running his hands through it all morning, the oversized white longsleeved shirt he was wearing slipping off one shoulder, exposing the sharp line of his collarbone that the photocard only hinted at. No makeup, no stylists, no camera-ready sheen. Just him.

She stood up and stepped closer, close enough that the toes of her socks brushed his bare feet.

“You’re prettier in person,” she said quietly, almost like a confession.

Yeonjun blinked. The teasing smirk faltered, replaced by something softer, unguarded.

“Yeah?” His voice dropped an octave without meaning to.

“Yeah.” She reached up, fingertips grazing the real collarbone, tracing the dip where shadow met skin. He caught her wrist gently, brought her palm flat against his chest so she could feel the steady thump beneath.

“Then why’d you spend actual money on the budget version?”

“I told you,” she said, lifting the photocard again so it hovered between their faces like a tiny shield, “when you’re gone for weeks doing Japan promotions or U.S. showcases or whatever cruel itinerary they give you next... I can pull this out at 2 a.m. and remember exactly how you looked when you were twenty-six and mine.”

Yeonjun exhaled through his nose, long and slow.“You’re gonna make me melt in the living room like some cliché male lead in a drama.”

“Good.” She slipped the photocard carefully into the clear sleeve of her phone case—right behind the transparent back, visible but protected. Then she wrapped both arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to his chest. 

He rested his chin on top of her head, arms coming around her shoulders, tight enough that she felt the quiet laugh rumble through him. 

“You’re keeping that thing in your phone case forever, aren’t you?”

“Obviously.”

“Even when we’re old and I’m complaining about my back and you’re yelling at me to stop buying nonsense shoes online?”

“Especially then.”

Yeonjun groaned, but it was fond—resigned in the best way. He pressed a kiss to her hairline, lingering. “Fine."

Yoonseul then tilted her head back, smirking up at him. “Now take off your shirt.”

He raised both brows. “What, right now?”

“You said unlimited access.” She tugged at the hem of his shirt, playful but pointed. “Prove it. The photocard can’t do this part.”

Yeonjun stared down at her for half a second—then broke into a slow, dangerous grin.

He stepped back just enough to yank the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it somewhere behind him without looking.

“Better?” he asked, voice low, teasing, but his eyes were soft. Yoonseul didn’t answer with words.

She just stepped forward again, hands sliding up his sides, and pulled him down into a kiss that tasted like the faint taste of their dinner lingering on his lips.

The kiss broke slow, reluctant, like neither of them really wanted to let the moment end. Yoonseul’s hands were still splayed across Yeonjun’s bare ribs, thumbs brushing the faint ridge of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband of his black sweatpants. Her breathing was uneven, lips swollen and shiny, eyes half-lidded as she looked up at him.

Yeonjun’s grin was lazy, dangerous—the kind that promised trouble and delivered every time. He didn’t step back. Instead he leaned in closer, nose brushing hers, voice dropping to that low, velvet register he usually saved for late-night lives or lyrics he knew would make fans scream.

“You know...” he murmured, letting the words drag out, “the photocard stops at the waistband for a reason.”

Yoonseul’s brows lifted, playful challenge flickering in her gaze.“Oh?”

“Mhm.” One of his hands slid down her spine, slow and deliberate, until his fingers hooked loosely into the front pocket of his hoodie she was wearing. He tugged her forward another inch, bodies flush.

“They had to keep it PG. Company rules. But me?” He tilted his head, lips ghosting the shell of her ear. “I don’t have any rules right now.”

She let out a soft laugh that caught in her throat when his other hand found the drawstring of his own sweatpants and gave it a lazy tug—just enough to make the knot loosen audibly. His fingers toyed with the string, twisting it around his knuckle.

“Anything to say?”

Yoonseul’s hands slid lower, palms flat against the warm skin just above his hips, feeling the subtle flex of muscle as he shifted his weight. She tipped her chin up, meeting his eyes—dark, amused, and unmistakably hungry.

“You’re really gonna stand here and strip in the middle of the living room just to one-up a photocard?”

Yeonjun’s laugh was quiet, rough. He leaned down until their foreheads touched. “Not strip.” A beat. “Tease.” His hand dragging hers so she'd brush the edge of the waistband, dipping just beneath it—barely an inch, just enough to make her breath hitch. “Unless you say the word.”

The living room suddenly felt smaller, warmer. The distant hum of the fridge in the kitchen was the only sound besides their breathing.

Yoonseul’s fingers curled into the soft fabric at his hips, tugging experimentally. Not pulling down—just holding. Claiming. “You're diabolical, Choi Yeonjun.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners, smile turning wicked. “Baby, I don’t talk.” He leaned in, lips brushing hers without quite kissing. “I deliver.”

She pushed up onto her toes then, closing the last sliver of distance, kissing him hard enough that he made a low, surprised sound against her mouth. When she pulled back—just far enough to speak—her voice was steady despite the flush creeping down her neck.

“Then deliver,” she said, tugging the drawstring once more, deliberate. “Show me what the photocard can’t do.”

Yeonjun exhaled sharply through his nose, something between a laugh and a groan. His hands found her waist, lifting her effortlessly until her back met the nearest wall—not hard, but firm enough to pin her there.

“Careful what you ask for,” he warned, voice wrecked and fond all at once. “I might not stop at just teasing.”

Yoonseul’s arms looped around his neck, fingers threading into the damp hair at his nape.

“Good,” she whispered against his lips. “I wasn’t planning on letting you.”

Yeonjun smirked, scooped her up properly—legs around his waist, her surprised yelp muffled against his shoulder—and carried her toward the bedroom.

“Photocard can stay in the living room,” he muttered into her hair as he kicked his door shut behind them. “This part’s VIP only.”

The lock clicked and the glossy paperback version of him—frozen forever at twenty-six,—remained innocently at the back of her abandoned phone on the coffee table. Completely, gloriously outclassed.

Yeonjun kicked the door shut with his heel, the soft click of the lock sounding louder than it should in the sudden quiet of his room. What was left of the late afternoon sun slipped through the half-drawn curtains, painting thin golden stripes across the floor and over the rumpled sheets of their unmade bed.

He didn’t set her down right away. Instead he pressed her back against the door—gently, but with enough weight to make the wood creak under their combined pressure. Yoonseul’s legs were still locked around his waist, arms looped tight around his neck, fingers tangled in the longer strands at his nape as her heartbeat thumped against his chest like it was trying to climb inside.

He didn’t kiss her again.

Not yet.

He just held her there, letting the silence stretch, letting her feel every inch of where their bodies met. The hard plane of his stomach against her softer one, the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the heat of his bare skin bleeding through the fabric of her hoodie. His sweatpants—already dangerously low from her earlier tugging—slipped another fraction when he shifted his hips, the drawstring knot long since undone.

Yoonseul’s breath hitched audibly and Yeonjun felt it along with the tiny tremor that ran through her thighs where they gripped him. He tilted his head, lips hovering so close to hers she could taste the faint mint from his toothpaste.

“Still thinking about that photocard?” he murmured, voice gravel-rough, barely above a whisper. She tried to lean in—chase his mouth—but he pulled back just enough to keep the distance. Teasing. Torturous. “Answer me,” he said softly. No demand in it. Just quiet command.

Yoonseul swallowed nails digging lightly into the back of his neck. “...No.”

“Liar.” One corner of his mouth curled. He rocked forward—once, slow, deliberate—enough to drag the waistband of his sweats lower, enough to make her feel the sharp cut of his hipbone and the promise of everything else still hidden. The friction made her gasp, small and involuntary. His eyes darkened at the sound.

“Say it,” he whispered against the corner of her mouth. “Tell me you’re not thinking about glossy paper and bad cropping when I’m right here.”

She tried to arch into him, seeking more contact, but he pinned her hips with one hand—firm, unmoving. “Yeonjun—”

“Uh-uh.” He brushed his nose along her jaw, lips never quite touching skin. Hot breath fanned over her pulse point. “Not yet. You wanted the deluxe edition. You have to wait for it.”

Her laugh came out shaky, half-frustrated, half-desperate. “You’re evil.”

“You said diabolical earlier.” He nipped lightly at her earlobe—teeth grazing, not biting. “Pick a side.”

She retaliated by sliding one hand down his chest, nails dragging slow over skin until her fingertips hooked into the front of his sweatpants. She tugged—just enough to make the fabric slip another dangerous inch, exposing the deep V of muscle and the faintest trail of dark hair. Yeonjun sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“Careful,” he warned, but his voice cracked on the word, betraying him. Yoonseul smiled against his cheek—small, victorious.

“Make me.”

For a second he went still. Completely still. Like the air itself had paused.

Then he moved.

In one fluid motion he spun them from the door to the bed and lowered her onto the mattress without ever breaking contact. He came down over her, knees bracketing her hips, hands planted on either side of her head, leaning in until their noses brushed.

“You want me to take them off?” His voice was wrecked now—low, hoarse, dangerous in how soft it stayed. “All the way?”

Yoonseul’s hands found his waist again, thumbs slipping beneath the elastic. She didn’t push. Just held. Waiting.

“Maybe,” she breathed.

“Maybe?” He laughed once, dark and quiet. Lowered himself until his chest pressed hers, until she could feel every shuddering inhale he took. His lips ghosted over hers—once, twice—never quite closing the distance. “That’s not an answer, baby.”

She arched up, chasing but he pulled back again, just out of reach. “Words,” he reminded her, lips curving against her cheek. “Use them.”

Her fingers tightened on his hips, nails pressing crescent moons into skin. “Take them off,” she whispered finally—voice small, raw, pleading. “Please.”

Yeonjun exhaled like the word had punched the air out of him. He stayed there another long second—forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in—then slowly, torturously slowly, he rocked back onto his knees. His hands went to the waistband, hooking his thumbs inside before pausing.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

Her eyes snapped to his—wide, dark, glassy. He held her gaze as he dragged the fabric down—just an inch. Then another. The slow reveal deliberate, agonizing.

Yoonseul couldn’t decide where to look first: the slow flex of muscle in his abdomen as he breathed, the dark trail that led downward and disappeared into shadow, the heavy, flushed length of him resting against the inside of his sweatpants—hot, velvet-hard, twitching faintly every passing second.

He didn’t move yet. He just watched her watch him.

The silence stretched taut, electric. He leaned in as raising his hand from the waistband of his sweats, slow, deliberate—knuckles brushing the underside of her jaw, tilting her face until their eyes locked.

“Still sure you don’t want the photocard version? Safer. No mess. No... consequences.” he asked one last time, voice barely audible.

Her laugh came out fractured, needy. “Shut up.”

His thumb traced the seam of her lips—once, twice—then pressed just inside, letting her tongue flick against the pad before he withdrew. The wet sound of it was obscene in the quiet.

“Make me,” he echoed her earlier challenge, softer now, darker. He leaned closer until his mouth hovered a hair’s breadth from hers. Close enough she could taste him on every exhale, far enough she had to strain upward to close the gap.

And she did.

Only then did he finally—finally—give in. The sweatpants slid the rest of the way off in one smooth motion, kicked somewhere into the shadows as the room went quiet except for the sound of their breathing, ragged and matched. 

The mattress dipped under their weight as Yeonjun settled fully naked between her thighs, the last barrier of fabric from his side now gone.

They kissed slow at first—almost careful—like they were both afraid of breaking whatever fragile thing was building between them. Lips sliding, tongues brushing tentative then hungry. Then he deepened it, tilting his head, licking into her mouth with a low, rumbling sound that made her hips jerk up involuntarily.

The friction—his bare length dragging hot and slick along the inside of her thigh—drew a broken moan from her throat.

Yeonjun swallowed it, drank it down, then pulled back just enough to speak against her swollen mouth.

“Feel that?” He rolled his hips once—slow, deliberate—letting her feel every thick inch slide against damp skin. “That’s not something you can buy online. That’s not edited. That’s all of me. Hard because you decided that the photocard version of myself was something I had to get fucking jealous of.”

Yoonseul chuckled as her nails raked down his back—hard enough to leave red lines he’d feel tomorrow under stage lights. He hissed, hips snapping forward on instinct, the blunt head of him nudging against the soaked cotton of her underwear. The contact made them both freeze.

“Fuck,” he breathed, forehead dropping to hers. His arms shook where they caged her in. “You’re so wet I can feel it through the fabric.”

She whimpered—small, helpless—hips raising up again, chasing more. He caught her wrists in one hand, pinned them above her head against the pillow. She arched her back, pushed her chest up toward him as the hoodie she still wore rode high, exposing the soft curve of her stomach, the black lace edge of her bra.

“Look at you,” he rasped, free hand sliding down her side—fingertips skimming ribs, dipping into the dip of her waist, then lower.

He hooked two fingers under the waistband of her underwear, tugged it taut so the fabric pulled tight against her clit. “Soaking through my favorite pair. Ruining them because I teased you too long.”

“Yeonjun—” Her voice cracked on his name. He tugged harder—once—sharp enough to make her gasp—then released, letting the elastic snap back against skin. The tiny sting bloomed into heat.

“Say it,” he ordered quietly. “Tell me what you want. No games this time.”

Her eyes fluttered open—glassy, pleading.“You,” she whispered. “Inside. Now. Please.”

Something raw flickered across his face—want so sharp it almost looked like pain. He released her wrists, both hands going to the hem of the hoodie as he dragged it up and over her head in one rough motion, tossing it aside. Then the bra—clasped, unhooked, gone letting the cool air hit her skin making her nipples tighten instantly.

Yeonjun made a low, reverent sound in his throat, lowering  himself again—chest to chest, skin to skin—his mouth finding the hollow of her throat, then lower. Tongue flicking over one peaked nipple, then sucking hard enough to make her back bow off the mattress, his hand slipping between them as his fingers slid through slick folds—slow, exploratory—circling her clit once, twice, then dipping lower.

Two fingers pushed inside her without warning, curling on the first thrust. She cried out—sharp, startled pleasure—hips bucking into his hand.

“So tight,” he groaned against her breast. “Gonna feel so fucking good around me.”

He worked her open slowly—scissoring, curling, thumb pressing relentless circles over her clit until her thighs shook and her breathing turned ragged. When he finally withdrew his fingers, they glistened against the light as he brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean while holding her gaze.

“Still with me?” he murmured. The words were velvet-soft, but the gravel in his voice betrayed how close he already was to unraveling.

Yoonseul nodded—small, frantic—then pulled him closer to catch his mouth again, tasting herself on his tongue. The kiss was deeper this time, hungrier, tongues sliding slow and filthy in a rhythm that matched the lazy roll of his hips.

He shifted his weight, then reached between them again. This time it wasn’t fingers. He lined himself up with torturous patience, the blunt head of him nudging against her entrance—hot, slick, insistent as he held her gaze.

"Eyes on me,” he whispered.

She obeyed.

He pushed in—inch by agonizing inch—until he was fully inside, hips flush to hers, both of them trembling from the intensity of it. The stretch made her gasp, head tipping back into the pillow, mouth falling open on a silent cry. They both stilled for a heartbeat, breathing each other in, bodies trembling at the sudden overwhelming fullness before Yeonjun’s forehead dropped to hers, breath ragged, arms trembling with the effort of holding still long enough to let her adjust.

“Fuck,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Tell me this is better than any photocard,” he rasped between breaths.

Yoonseul nodded wordlessly, moaning as her hands flew to his face—cupping his jaw, thumbs brushing the sharp line of his cheekbones.

“Move,” she pleaded and he did just that.

A slow, deep roll of his hips—pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, deliberate, controlled, dragging against every sensitive place inside her. Yoonseul’s nails raked down his back hard leaving marks after marks. Her legs hooked higher around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to pull him deeper.

He moved with punishing slowness at first—long, deliberate drags that let her feel every thick inch of him sliding out until only the flushed head remained, then sinking back in with a slow, rolling thrust that pressed the blunt pressure right against that spot deep inside her that made her toes curl and her vision blur at the edges. The friction was obscene: slick heat, velvet drag, the faint burn of stretch that bloomed into molten pleasure each time he filled her completely.

“Jun—” Her voice cracked on his name. He answered with a low groan, pace picking up just enough to make the headboard tap softly against the wall. The sound was obscene in the quiet room—skin against skin, wet and rhythmic, punctuated by their shared, stuttering breaths.

The air conditioner droned uselessly in the background, a low white noise drowned out by the wet, rhythmic sounds of their bodies meeting, by the sharp hitch of Yoonseul’s breath every time Yeonjun bottomed out inside her.

Sweat gathered in the hollow of his throat, a single bead tracing the sharp line of his collarbone before sliding down the center of his chest as it disappeared into the dark trail of hair below his navel.

Yoonseul’s tongue darted out instinctively—she wanted to chase it, taste the salt of him—but he was too far, too focused, hips rolling in that maddening rhythm that kept her teetering right on the edge without letting her fall.

The sheets beneath her back were already damp—cool cotton turned warm and clinging from their combined heat.

Every time he thrust forward, the fabric bunched and pulled against her shoulder blades, a soft rasp that contrasted the slick glide between her thighs. Her own arousal coated them both now; she could hear it—filthy, unmistakable—the wet schlick of him sliding in and out, the faint squelch when he ground deep and circled his hips, stirring her open even wider.

He shifted his angle—lifted one of her thighs higher over his shoulder—and drove in harder, deeper, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind her eyelids. She keened, high and helpless; he swallowed the sound with another bruising kiss.

“Like that?” he rasped against her mouth. “Right there?”

She could only nod, words gone, reduced to whimpers and the arch of her spine. He kept that angle, kept that rhythm—slow enough to savor every second, hard enough to make her shake. One hand slipped between them, thumb finding her clit in tight, slick circles.

Yeonjun’s breathing was ragged, uneven. Each exhale came punched out of him—hot, damp bursts against the side of her neck where he’d buried his face. His lips brushed skin as he spoke, words fractured and low.

“Fuck... listen to you,” he rasped, voice scraped raw. “So wet it’s dripping down my thighs. You feel that?”

He pulled his hand away from her clit as he shifted his angle again—just a fraction—and the next thrust dragged the thick ridge of him along her front wall. One of his hands slid up her side—calloused fingertips catching on the soft underside of her breast before cupping it fully, thumb circling the tight peak of her nipple in lazy, maddening swirls.

The contrast was devastating: rough pad against sensitive skin, the gentle pinch that made her arch, the way the motion tugged at something low in her belly and tightened her around him even more.

“God—so fucking... tight,” he hissed, hips stuttering for the first time. “Squeezing me like you’re trying to keep me inside forever.”

Every muscle clenched instinctively when he tried to pull out too far, greedy little flutters that dragged another broken curse from his throat.

“Eyes here,” he demanded again—voice wrecked, almost pleading now.

Her lashes fluttered open. His face hovered inches above hers—pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed high, lips parted and glistening. He slowed—agonizingly—until he was barely moving, just shallow rocks that kept him buried deep, grinding against her clit with every subtle shift of his pelvis.

The pressure built slow and relentless, a coiling heat that spread from her core outward until her thighs shook and her breath came in short, desperate pants.

“Yeonjun—” His name cracked on her tongue, half sob, half prayer.

“Yeah?” He brushed sweat-damp hair from her temple with surprising tenderness, thumb lingering to stroke the apple of her cheek. “Tell me. Tell me how it feels.”

“Too much,” she whimpered. “So full... so deep... I can feel you everywhere—”

He rewarded her with a harder thrust—once, twice—then went back to that torturous grind.

“Good girl,” he murmured against her mouth. “Taking all of me so perfect. Look how wet you are—look how you’re dripping down onto the sheets.”

She followed his gaze downward—saw the obscene shine coating his length every time he pulled back, saw the way her own arousal glistened on the inside of her thighs, dark against pale skin. The sight alone sent another pulse of heat through her, walls fluttering hard around him.

He felt it immediately, groaning low in his chest. “Fuck—do that again.”

She clenched on purpose this time—slow, deliberate—and watched his eyes roll back for a heartbeat, lashes fluttering, jaw going slack. When he opened his eyes again they were darker, hungrier.

He hooked one of her legs over his elbow—lifting, spreading her wider—and drove in deeper than before. The new angle punched the air from her lungs; she cried out, sharp and unrestrained, nails digging into his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Let me hear you. Let the whole fucking building know who’s making you sound like this"

The pace built—faster, harder—skin slapping skin, bedframe creaking in protest, headboard hitting the wall in steady rhythm. Sweat dripped from his brow onto her chest; she arched to meet it, tongue flicking out to catch the salt before it rolled away. His hand slipped between them again—fingers finding her clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that matched the brutal snap of his hips.

Her body locked up almost immediately—thighs trembling, breath hitching in sharp little sobs. “Close,” she managed, voice wrecked. “So close—”

“Come for me,” he ordered, voice low and commanding even as it shook. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it. Let me feel you soak me.”

The command tipped her over as pleasure crashed through her—white-hot, blinding—muscles locking, thighs trembling, a broken moan tearing from her throat as she pulsed around him, wave after wave of slick heat coating them both. Her vision tunneled; all she could feel was him—thick, relentless and still moving inside her, drawing it out until tears pricked the corners of her eyes.

Yeonjun followed seconds later—hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he came with a rough groan that vibrated through her chest. Heat flooded her in heavy pulses; she felt every twitch, every spurt, the way he throbbed deep inside while his fingers kept circling her clit through the aftershocks, milking every last tremor from her body.

They stayed locked together long after—sweat-slick, trembling, breathing in harsh tandem. He dropped his weight carefully, forehead pressed to hers, nose brushing nose.

“Still want the photocard?” he whispered, voice hoarse, teasing, wrecked.

Yoonseul laughed—shaky, breathless—fingers threading weakly through his damp hair.

“Not anymore,” she managed. “Not when the real thing just ruined me like that.”

"Good" He kissed her then—slow, deep, tasting like salt and satisfaction.

The neon sign above the discreet storefront flickered softly in the dimming twilight, casting a rosy glow over the rain-slicked sidewalk.

Pleasure Emporium, it read in elegant script, a far cry from the seedy dives you'd imagined when Beomgyu had reluctantly agreed to this outing. 

You'd dragged him here after days of playful nagging, your arguments laced with the impending shadow of his upcoming world tour—nine long months of empty beds and pixelated video calls that could never replicate the heat of his skin against yours. 

"Just one more," you'd pleaded over breakfast that morning, your foot tracing teasing circles under the table against his calf. "Something to keep me company while you're off charming the world."

Beomgyu had grumbled, his cheeks flushing that adorable pink you'd come to love, but he ended up caving in the end.

Now, as you pushed open the glass door, a soft chime announcing your arrival, you felt a thrill of mischief bubble up inside you. 

The shop was surprisingly upscale—polished wooden shelves lined with sleek packaging, soft ambient lighting that bathed everything in a warm, inviting hue, and the faint scent of vanilla wafting from hidden diffusers. No flashy fluorescent bulbs or awkward mannequins here as it was more like a boutique for intimate luxuries.

You glanced over at Beomgyu, who hovered just behind you, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, the hood pulled low over his tousled dark hair as if it could shield him from the reality of where he was. 

His expressive, doe-like eyes that could command a stadium full of fans, darted everywhere but at the displays. They flicked to the ceiling, then to the floor, lingering on a potted plant in the corner before skittering away from a row of vibrators shaped like abstract art pieces. 

His shoulders were hunched, his usual confident swagger reduced to a hesitant shuffle, and you couldn't help the laugh that escaped your lips, light and affectionate.

"Gyu, relax," you whispered, looping your arm through his and tugging him deeper into the store. "It's not like we're robbing a bank. Look, they even have candles over there—totally innocent."

He shot you a sidelong glare, but there was no real heat in it, just that endearing mix of embarrassment and annoyance. 

"Easy for you to say," he muttered under his breath, his voice low enough that only you could hear it over the soft jazz playing in the background. "You're not the one who's gonna get recognized and end up on some fan forum as 'TXT’s Choi Beomgyu spotted buying... stuff.'"

His eyes darted again, this time landing briefly on a display of silk restraints before snapping away like he'd been burned. His free hand came up to rub the back of his neck, a nervous habit you'd seen during press conferences, but here it only amplified his discomfort.

You bit your lip to stifle another giggle, squeezing his arm reassuringly.

The shop was mostly empty—a couple browsing lotions in the far corner, a lone clerk behind the counter who gave you a polite nod without a hint of judgment. 

"Come on, Mr. Superstar," you teased, steering him toward the section you'd researched online: vibrators and couples' toys. "Think of it as research. For science—anatomy and what not"

Beomgyu's flush deepened, spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, visible even under the hood. He let out a huffed breath, but he didn't pull away, his fingers intertwining with yours in a silent concession.

As you scanned the shelves, your eyes lit up at the variety. There were sleek vibrators with dual stimulation, app-controlled devices promising long-distance fun, and even some that looked like they belonged in a display case. 

You picked up a deep purple one, curved elegantly with a soft silicone finish, and held it up for his inspection.

"What about this? It has thrusting action and heats up. Perfect for those cold nights without you."

He glanced at it quickly, then away, his gaze landing on a harmless bottle of lube nearby as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. 

"Yeah, sure, whatever," he mumbled, but you caught the way his throat bobbed, the subtle shift in his stance. 

Despite his embarrassment, there was a spark of curiosity in his eyes when they flickered back to the toy, remembering perhaps that afternoon weeks ago when he'd discovered your secret drawer and turned jealousy into an unforgettable shared experience.

You laughed again, the sound bubbling out freely this time, drawing a reluctant smile from him. "You're adorable when you're flustered, you know that?" 

Setting the toy back, you selected another—a wireless egg vibrator with a remote, imagining the teasing possibilities even after his return. But then your eyes landed on the one: a high-end rabbit with clitoral suction, multiple patterns, and that app feature for remote control. 

"This," you declared, holding it up triumphantly. "This is the one. You can control it from anywhere—think about it, Gyu. You on stage in Tokyo, me here... connected."

His eyes widened fractionally, darting from the toy to your face, then to the floor again.

"You're evil," he whispered, but there was a husky edge to his voice now, the embarrassment mingling with intrigue.

He nodded toward the counter, resigned. "Okay. Fine. Let's just buy it and get out before someone snaps a photo."

You beamed, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before leading him to the register. The clerk rang it up efficiently, wrapping it in tissue paper and sliding it into a nondescript black bag. 

Beomgyu paid with cash—insisting on it to avoid any digital trail—and you stepped back out into the cool evening air, the bag swinging lightly from your hand.

As you walked to the car, you nudged him playfully. "See? That wasn't so bad. You survived."

He rolled his eyes, but his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you close. "Barely," he grumbled, though his thumb traced soothing circles on your hip.

The drive home was filled with your lighthearted chatter and his occasional quips, the tension from the shop easing into familiar comfort.

Back in your shared apartment, the familiar scents of home—fresh laundry and the lingering aroma of the takeout you'd had last night—welcomed you. You kicked off your shoes by the door, hanging your coat as Beomgyu did the same, his movements still a touch awkward, like the shop's atmosphere clung to him.

The black bag from Pleasure Emporium sat innocently on the coffee table, its contents still wrapped in tissue paper, but the air hummed with unspoken anticipation. You had teased him mercilessly in the car—about his flushed cheeks, his darting eyes, the way he'd hovered near the exit like a deer caught in headlights.

"You looked like you were about to bolt every time someone walked by," you laughed earlier, your hand on his thigh as he gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly.

Now, in the quiet sanctuary of home, that laughter had faded into something thicker, more charged, as you unpacked the toy under the warm lamp light, admiring its sleek design under the warm overhead light.

It was indigo, smooth to the touch, with buttons that promised a world of sensations. Beomgyu leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with a mix of amusement and skepticism. 

"You know, you're being ridiculous about this whole thing," he said finally, his voice breaking the comfortable silence. He pushed off the frame, sauntering closer, his dark hair falling into his eyes in that effortlessly charming way. "It's only a few months. It’s not like this is the first time I’m leaving for a tour. You'll be fine."

He reached over, plucking the indigo rabbit vibrator from your hands, turning it over with feigned disinterest. The silicone was velvety smooth under his fingertips, the curved shaft and clitoral stimulator promising sensations that made his mind wander despite his protests. 

"We've done longer separations before. You'll survive without... this." He gestured vaguely at the toy, but his eyes lingered on it a second too long, betraying the flicker of intrigue.

You shifted closer, your knee brushing his, the simple contact sending a spark up your leg. The apartment felt smaller somehow, the familiar scents of his citrus shampoo mingling with the faint vanilla from a candle you'd lit earlier, creating an intimate cocoon. 

"Survive?" you echoed, your tone light but edged with genuine frustration as you took the toy back, your fingers brushing his in a deliberate tease. "It's a few months without you, Gyu. Without waking up to your messy hair and that goofy morning smile. Without your hands on me, your voice whispering in my ear. I get it—your career, the fans, all that. But don't downplay how much I'll ache for you."

You paused, letting the words settle between you, your fingers still resting lightly against his chest where you could feel the quick, unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat.

The vulnerability in your voice lingered in the quiet air, and when you spoke again, it was softer, as if sharing a secret you'd both already half-known.

"And honestly? After catching you with my old one... I think you get it more than you're admitting."

His expression softened, the skepticism fading as he cupped your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks. His eyes searched yours, and you saw the flicker of guilt, the understanding dawning. 

"Baby…" he murmured, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. The warmth of his breath fanned over your lips, sending a shiver down your spine. "I hate leaving too. You think I don't count down the days?"

His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the heat of his body, the subtle hardness already stirring from your proximity as he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, leaving it even more tousled. 

"Fine," he conceded, his dark eyes meeting yours with that intense stare that always made your pulse quicken. "If this helps... we'll try it together. Right now."

He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. "I want to see exactly how this thing is supposed to satisfy you when I'm gone. But don't get too attached—I'm still better." 

His lips curved into a smirk, but there was a challenge in his words, a possessive glint in his eyes that promised this ‘test’ would be anything but objective.

Your heart raced as you nodded, standing and tugging him toward the bedroom. The hallway seemed longer in the dim light, each step building the tension like a slow-burning fuse. 

Once inside, you flicked on the bedside lamp, the soft golden glow illuminating the rumpled bed sheets from that morning—evidence of a hurried goodbye before your classes. 

Beomgyu plugged in the toy to charge, his movements efficient but deliberate. He watched you from the corner of his eye, his own hoodie coming off in one fluid motion, revealing the lean muscles of his arms and the way his t-shirt clung to his chest from the slight dampness of the evening air outside.

"Strip for me," he said softly, his voice carrying that commanding edge he reserved for moments like this.

You complied, peeling off your shirt slowly, letting the fabric drag against your skin as it fell to the floor. Your bra followed, and you felt his gaze like a physical touch, heating your exposed skin. Pants and underwear next, until you stood bare before him, the cool air raising goosebumps along your arms and thighs.

Beomgyu's eyes darkened, raking over you with unabashed hunger, but he held back, picking up his phone to sync the app. 

"Lie down," he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument, though his hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the settings with a mix of nerves and excitement.

You settle onto the bed, the sheets cool against your back, propping yourself up on the pillows to watch him. He stripped down to his boxers, the outline of his arousal already evident, straining against the fabric. The sight made your mouth water, but you stayed put, letting him take the lead. 

He knelt between your parted legs, one hand trailing up your calf, his touch light and teasing, sending sparks straight to your core. 

"Spread wider," he murmured, his free hand testing the toy's buttons. A low hum filled the air as it vibrated to life on the lowest setting, the sound almost polite in the quiet room.

He started slowly, pressing the clitoral stimulator against your inner thigh first, letting you feel the gentle pulsations travel up your skin. You bit your lip, a soft gasp escaping as he inched it higher, the vibrations teasing the sensitive flesh just shy of where you needed it most. 

"Gyu..." you whispered, your hips shifting instinctively toward the sensation.

He smirked, his eyes locked on your face, studying every flicker of expression—the way your brows furrowed, your lips parted on a breath.

"Tell me how it feels," he said, his voice low and rough, as he finally pressed it against your clit. 

The suction kicked in gently, a rhythmic pull that mimicked the warmth of his mouth, combined with the vibrations that sent jolts of pleasure radiating outward. Your back arched slightly, a moan slipping out as the dual sensations hit you.

It was different—mechanical yet precise, building a steady pressure without the variability of human touch.

"Good... it's good," you managed, your fingers clutching the sheets. 

Beomgyu adjusted the app on his phone, increasing the intensity a notch, and the thrusting shaft came to life, curving slightly as he guided it toward your entrance. He teased the tip against you, the warmth from the heating feature surprising you, making it feel almost lifelike. 

"More," you breathed, and he obliged, sliding it in slowly, inch by inch, until it filled you completely. 

The internal vibrations synced with the external suction, creating a symphony of pleasure that had your toes curling. Beomgyu watched intently, his own breathing growing ragged. 

"Fuck, you look incredible," he muttered, one hand leaving the toy to trace patterns on your stomach, dipping lower to circle your navel. Jealousy fought with arousal in his expression as he observed how this device was doing things to you, making you writhe and gasp without him—but it also fueled him. 

He leaned down, capturing a nipple in his mouth, sucking gently in time with the toy's rhythm. The added sensation of his tongue, warm and wet, pushed you higher, your hips bucking against the vibrator. He pulled back slightly, his lips glistening, eyes dark with desire. 

"Does it feel like me?" he asked, a hint of challenge in his tone as he ramped up the thrusting using the app. The shaft moved in steady, deliberate strokes, hitting that spot inside you with unerring accuracy.

"No... not exactly," you panted, reaching for him. "It's... consistent, but you're... you're warmer, rougher. I need your hands, your mouth." 

Your words seemed to spur him on; he set the phone aside, taking full manual control, twisting the toy slightly to change the angle, drawing a sharp cry from you.

"Good," he growled, his free hand sliding between your bodies to rub circles around where the toy met your skin, amplifying everything. "Because this is just a toy. I'm the one who knows your body." 

He kissed down your neck, nipping at your collarbone, leaving faint marks that would remind you of him later. The room filled with the sounds of your moans, the low buzz of the vibrator, and his whispered encouragement.

"That's it, baby. Let go for me."

The build was relentless, the suction pulling you toward the edge while the internal thrusts pushed you over. Your vision blurred, muscles tensing as the orgasm crashed through you, waves of ecstasy rippling from your core outward, leaving you trembling and breathless. 

Beomgyu eased the toy out gently, turning it off and setting it aside, then gathered you into his arms, his lips pressing soft kisses to your forehead.

"Satisfied?" he asked, his voice smug but tender, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back as you caught your breath.You nodded against his chest, the afterglow warming you from within. 

"It was intense... but it's not you, Gyu. Nothing replaces this." You gestured vaguely between you, the intimacy of skin on skin, heartbeats syncing.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. "of course it doesn’t" 

But as you lay there, entwined, he picked up his phone again, fiddling with the app.

“We should test the patterns. All of them. Just to be thorough." His eyes sparkled with mischief, and you laughed, knowing the night was far from over.

The testing stretched on, each new setting a discovery. He started with the pulsating pattern—a rhythmic throb that mimicked a heartbeat, slow and teasing. You guided his hand this time, showing him how to angle it just right, your moans guiding his adjustments. 

"Like that... yes," you whispered, your head falling back against the pillows as he kissed along your jawline, his breath hot and uneven.

Beomgyu's arousal was impossible to ignore now, pressing insistently against your thigh as he focused on you.

“You're so wet," he murmured, his voice strained, slipping a finger alongside the toy to feel for himself. The added fullness made you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. 

He groaned at the sight, his control fraying. "Fuck, I could watch you like this all night."

But he didn't stop there. 

Switching to a wave pattern, the vibrations rolled in building surges, like ocean tides pulling you under. He held you through it, his mouth on yours, swallowing your cries as another climax built, slower this time, more profound. 

"Come on, baby," he urged, his thumb pressing against your clit outside the toy's suction. The combination shattered you again, leaving you limp and glowing. 

Hours blurred as you explored—him using the app to surprise you with random intensities, you taking turns controlling it on him briefly, just to hear his ragged breaths and see his eyes flutter shut.

 "See? It's not so bad," you teased, pressing it against his length through his boxers, watching him buck into the sensation.

"Cheater," he panted, flipping you onto your stomach for the next round, the toy now pressed from behind while his body covered yours, his lips at your ear whispering filthy praises. 

The position changed everything, the thrusts hitting deeper, the suction pulling harder, and you came with his name on your lips, his arms the only thing grounding you. By the time the sky brightened with the approaching dawn, the toy lay discarded on the nightstand, battery drained. 

You'd lost count of the orgasms, the laughs shared between gasps, the tender moments when he'd pull back to check on you, ensuring it was pleasure, not overwhelm. Beomgyu held you close, your bodies slick with sweat, hearts pounding in unison.

"Okay, maybe it's not ridiculous," he admitted softly, kissing your temple. "But when I'm gone... use it and think of me. And when I get back? We'll break it in properly—together."

One evening, after a grueling rehearsal just a few weeks before Beomgyu had to leave, he came home exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, but the moment he saw you with the toy charging, a spark ignited. 

"Again?" he asked, a tired smile playing on his lips as he shed his practice clothes.

"Pattern number seven," you replied, pulling him into the shower first, the hot water cascading over you both as you lathered him up, your hands exploring the familiar planes of his body. 

Under the steam, you pressed the toy against him experimentally, the waterproof feature a delightful discovery. He braced against the tile, head bowed, water dripping from his hair as vibrations coursed through him. 

A low, broken groan rumbled from his chest, hips jerking forward on instinct as the steady buzz traveled up the underside of his cock. You kept it there, watching the way his long fingers splayed against the wet wall, knuckles whitening.

“Shit—baby—” His voice cracked, already wrecked.

Water streamed down the tense line of his back, tracing rivulets over the dip of his spine, the curve of his ass. You stepped closer, pressing your breasts to his back, nipples hard against his slick skin, and reached around to wrap your free hand loosely around his shaft. 

The toy stayed pinned beneath your palm, vibrating through both your grip and his length, every pulse made him twitch inside your fingers as you kissed the back of his shoulder. 

“Feels good?” you whispered, sliding the toy slowly upward until the suction cup kissed the flushed head. He hissed, hips snapping forward into your hand.

“Too good,” he panted. “Gonna—fuck—gonna come if you keep—”

You pulled the toy away just as his thighs started to shake. He spun so fast the water sprayed in an arc, eyes were darkening, hair plastered to his forehead. 

“Your turn,” he growled, voice gravel-rough from restraint.

Beomgyu took the toy from your fingers, spun you around, and pinned you chest-first against the cool tile. The sudden contrast made you gasp—cold ceramic on overheated skin. He kicked your feet wider apart, one thigh sliding between yours to spread you open. 

Water pounded against your back as he pressed himself flush behind you, cock hard and leaking against the small of your back. He dragged the toy down your stomach first, letting the vibrations tease your navel, then lower, circling your clit without mercy, the suction attached instantly, pulling a sharp cry from your throat.

At the same moment, he notched himself at your entrance and pushed in, stretching you open while the toy kept working your clit in relentless pulses. You both moaned at the same time.

The dual fullness was obscene. 

His thick length sliding deep, hot and alive inside you, while the toy’s internal arm curved up to press against your front wall in perfect counterpoint to his thrusts.

Every time he bottomed out, the toy’s vibrations traveled through him too, through the thin wall separating you, making his rhythm stutter and his hips slamming harder.

“Feel that?” he rasped against your ear, one arm banded around your waist to hold you steady, the other guiding the toy with devastating precision. “That’s both of us. Me, fucking you and this thing humming right where I hit that spot you love.”

You couldn’t speak.

 Only broken sounds—whimpers, gasps, his name—fell from your lips as the water cascaded over you both, amplifying every wet slap of skin, every slick glide, every low buzz that seemed to echo inside your skull. He changed the pattern mid-thrust—short, sharp pulses that made your knees buckle. He caught you, forearm flexing as he pinned you tighter to the wall. 

“Don’t you dare come yet,” he warned, voice strained. “Not until I say so.”

But he was suffering too. You could feel it in the way his cock throbbed inside you, the way his breathing turned ragged against your neck. He was close—dangerously close—and still tried to edge you both.

You reached back, nails digging into his hip. “Then come with me,” you begged. “Please—Gyu—together—”

Something in him snapped. 

He slammed the toy’s intensity to maximum—thrusting arm pistoning fast and deep, suction clamping down hard on your clit—and fucked into you with punishing strokes.

The angle was brutal, perfect, every drive forcing the toy deeper, grinding it against that swollen spot inside while the external stim never let up.

You shattered first. The orgasm hit like a shockwave—blinding, ripping through your core and clamping down so hard around him that he choked on a curse. Your walls fluttered and spasmed, milking him, pulling him under with you. 

He buried himself to the hilt, hips jerking erratically as he came—hot pulses flooding you while the toy kept buzzing through both your climaxes, drawing out every aftershock until you were both trembling, oversensitive, clinging to each other under the spray.

He fumbled the toy off with shaking fingers, letting it clatter to the shower floor.

His arms wrapped around you fully now, turning you so you faced him. Foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling with steam, he kissed you slow and filthy—tongue sliding against yours like he was trying to taste the pleasure he’d just wrung from you.

When you finally pulled back, water still pouring over you both, he rested his forehead against yours again.

“Send me videos when I’m gone,” he murmured desperately. “I want to see your face when you use it. I want to hear you say my name while it’s inside you.”

You laughed, breathless, fingers threading through his soaked hair. “Only if you do the same. I want to watch you fall apart thinking about me.”

A few nights after that, you found yourself testing again but this time, blindfolds were incorporated to heighten your senses.

With silk over your eyes, every touch was electric—the toy's approach a surprise, his fingers trailing fire in its wake. 

"Guess what's next," he'd tease, switching patterns mid-stroke, drawing out your pleasure until you begged.

Then roles reversed, him blindfolded, your voice guiding him, the app in your hands as you controlled the intensity from across the room, watching him writhe.

The silk blindfold was still knotted loosely around his head when you straddled his hips, the toy pressed lightly against the underside of his cock through the thin fabric of his boxers. He hissed through his teeth, hips jerking up instinctively, chasing the vibration even as his hands flexed uselessly against the headboard where you'd told him to keep them.

You leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear. 

"Remember the first time you found my little secret in the drawer?" Your voice was low, teasing, laced with mock innocence. "You were so curious... so possessive. Muttering to yourself about how I didn't need it when I had you right there."

Beomgyu let out a choked laugh that quickly melted into a groan as you nudged the toy higher, letting the lowest setting buzz right against the sensitive head.

"Don't—fuck—don't start with that now," he managed, voice strained, but the flush creeping down his neck told you he was already half-gone.

"Oh, but I think about it all the time, baby" you continued, dragging the toy in slow, lazy circles, watching the way his abs tensed and his thighs trembled. 

"You, legs spread on our bed, sweatpants shoved down just enough, holding my vibrator against yourself like it owed you answers. Panting. Swearing at me even though I wasn't even there." 

You clicked the intensity up one notch. His whole body arched, a rough sound tearing from his throat. "You were so close when I walked in. Lips parted, cheeks flushed, whispering 'shouldn't even need it—got me right fucking here' like the toy personally offended you."

You clicked the app to the next setting—short, sharp pulses—and pressed it firmer against him. The fabric darkened where precome leaked through.

“Admit it,” you whispered, dragging the toy in lazy figure-eights now, watching the muscles in his stomach jump with every pass. “You liked it. Liked how precise it was. How it didn’t get tired. How it made you leak all over your hand while you imagined me watching.”

He turned his head toward your voice, blindfold slipping slightly, cheeks burning crimson even in the dim light. “I—shit—I was jealous, okay? Thought about you coming on it without me and it drove me insane.”

You rewarded the confession by sliding his boxers down just enough to free him, his cock springing up, flushed dark and glistening at the tip.

You let the toy hover for a teasing second before pressing the vibrating shaft along the underside, letting it nestle right where the head met the shaft, the same spot he’d discovered months ago.

Beomgyu’s entire body locked up, a broken moan tore out of him, hips snapping up instinctively.

“There it is,” you purred, keeping the pressure steady while you stroked him slowly with your free hand, matching the toy’s rhythm. “Same place you had it pressed that day. Same setting you stole from me. Second level, right? The one that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back.”

He was panting now, blindfold damp at the corners from how hard he was clenching his eyes shut beneath it.

“You’re evil,” he gasped, but his hips rolled shamelessly into every stroke, chasing both your hand and the relentless buzz. “Evil—and I fucking love it.”

You laughed softly, leaning down to lick a slow stripe up the side of his neck. “You loved it then too. Loved the idea of me walking in and seeing you like this—desperate, shameless, using my toy like it was yours to begin with.” 

He swallowed hard, blindfold hiding his eyes but not the way his mouth fell open on a silent moan. 

"You—ngh—you never let me live that down, do you?"

"Would you want me to?" You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before trailing your lips down his jaw. "It was the hottest thing I've ever seen. My boyfriend—Choi Beomgyu, idol heartthrob—jealous of a piece of silicone. Stealing my toy to jerk off with it because he couldn't stand the idea of me getting off without him."

You crawled up his body until you were straddling his hips, the toy still humming in your hand, pressing it lightly against your own clit for a second, just long enough to let him hear the wet sound of it against you, then dragged it down his length again, slicking him with your arousal.

“Look how wet you made me just talking about it,” you whispered, guiding the toy so the curved shaft slid along his cock while the external stimulator nudged the sensitive frenulum. “All because you were such a greedy boy with my vibrator months ago.”

His hips jerked hard, a string of curses falling from his lips. “I’m sorry—fuck—I’m sorry I snooped—I just—wanted to feel what you feel—”

Smiling against his jaw, you kissed the corner of his mouth. “I know. And I love that you did.” 

You finally pressed the toy flush against him again both in full contact and power, stroking him fast and firm with your hand wrapped around both shaft and vibrator.

“Come for me, baby,” you breathed. “Come the same way you did that day—thinking about me, jealous and needy and so fucking hard you couldn’t think straight.”

He broke with a shout of your name, back bowing off the mattress, hips snapping up as he spilled hot and thick over his stomach and your fingers.

The toy kept buzzing through his orgasm, drawing out every shudder, every aftershock, until he was trembling and oversensitive and gasping for mercy.

Only then did you switch it off, tossing it aside and yanking the blindfold free.

His eyes—dark, glassy, wrecked—locked onto yours immediately. He surged up, crashing his mouth against yours in a messy, desperate kiss, hands tangling in your hair like he needed to anchor himself to you.

When you finally broke apart, both panting, he rested his forehead against yours, voice hoarse.

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“…Yeah.” He sighed, arms tightening around you. “I really fucking do.”

As departure neared, the sessions grew more emotional—each one quieter, slower, laced with the unspoken weight of goodbye.

On the final night, his luggage stood packed by the door. The bedroom was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp and the city bleeding through the curtains.

Beomgyu pulled you onto the bed without a word, the indigo toy left forgotten on the nightstand. 

No games tonight. No blindfolds, no apps, no teasing edges.

Just skin on skin.

He undressed you with reverent hands, kissing every inch he uncovered as if committing it to memory: the curve of your shoulder, the dip of your waist, the sensitive spot behind your knee that always made you shiver. 

When he finally settled between your thighs and slid inside you, your breath caught at the familiar stretch, the heat, the way he filled you completely without need for anything else.

No rush.

No performance.

He moved like he had all the time in the world, deep and unhurried, hips rolling in the rhythm you both knew by heart. His forehead pressed to yours, breaths mingling, eyes locked even in the low light.

Every sigh you gave, he answered with a soft kiss.

Every tremble that ran through you, he absorbed with his palms smoothing down your sides, grounding you.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips, voice rough with everything he wasn’t saying.

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing the faint shadows under his eyes—marks of late rehearsals and longer goodbyes. 

“I love you too,” you breathed. “Always.”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck as the pleasure built quiet and inevitable, less fireworks and more slow-burning tide. You both came together in soft gasps, clinging hands, a shared shudder that felt like a promise carved into bone.

Afterward he didn’t pull away. He stayed inside you, softening slowly, arms wrapped tight around your back as if he could hold time still. 

His lips found your temple.