#sohee fluff

“Truth or dare is boring,” Hana groans, flopping backward dramatically. “We already know too much about each other.”

“That’s because you keep making people choose truth,” someone complains from the floor.

You glance up, amused, just in time to catch a familiar profile across the room.

Lee Sohee is sitting on the floor with his back against the opposite wall, long legs folded awkwardly. He’s holding a cup with both hands like it’s a lifeline. His shoulders are slightly hunched, as if he’s trying to take up less space than he actually does. Dark hair falls over his forehead, almost covering his eyes, and he keeps pushing it back only for it to fall forward again.

He’s quiet, as usual. Watching. Listening. Occasionally smiling at something someone says, but never quite jumping into the center of the conversation.

Your mouth quirks.

You know him well enough by now to recognize the difference between uncomfortable and shy. Sohee is the latter: aloof to the point of seeming cold to people who don’t know him, but with a softness underneath that you’ve grown more and more aware of.

You’ve also grown more and more aware of how attractive that softness is.

“Alright,” declares Minjae, clapping his hands loudly enough to make a few people jump. “New game. Since you children can’t commit to anything—”

“Children?” Hana splutters. “You’re literally only a year older than me.”

“—we are playing,” he continues dramatically, ignoring her, “seven minutes in heaven.”

Groans, cheers, an impressed whistle. You raise an eyebrow, interest piqued.

“Seriously?” you ask. “What are we, fifteen?”

Minjae smirks. “You scared, Y/N?”

You smile back, slow and unbothered. “Should I be?”

The room erupts in teasing oohs. Minjae throws a cushion at you, which you dodge easily.

“We’ll use the laundry room,” suggests Jisoo, pointing down the hallway. “It’s the only room with a door that fully closes and doesn’t have people’s stuff all over the place.”

“And it locks,” someone adds.

You notice, out of the corner of your eye, Sohee shifting in his seat. His shoulders tense just enough for you to catch it. You resist the urge to walk over to him and poke fun at him for looking vaguely terrified.

“Okay, okay,” Minjae says. “We need a volunteer couple to go first.”

“I’ll go,” Hana announces immediately, raising her hand.

“Of course you will,” Jisoo mutters under her breath.

“I’m not going alone,” Hana continues. She scans the room, then points at the guy sitting beside Sohee, who nearly chokes on his drink.

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” she insists. “Come on, Jihoon, don’t be a coward.”

Jihoon grumbles but stands, and there’s more cheering, more laughing, more half-drunken jeering. They head down the hallway amid dramatic commentary from Minjae. A minute later there’s the click of a door, muffled laughter, and the sound of someone twisting the lock.

Seven minutes, they say.

You’re not really paying attention to how long it actually is. You’re more focused on the way Sohee keeps avoiding everyone’s gaze, staring into his cup like it suddenly got interesting.

He looks up and accidentally locks eyes with you.

You grin.

He quickly looks away, the tips of his ears going pink.

Cute.

The door finally opens. Hana emerges first, hair slightly mussed, lipstick smudged at the corner of her mouth. Jihoon follows, looking dazed and trying—and failing—not to grin.

“Well?” Minjae demands.

Hana just winks. “Trade secret.”

There’s more noise, more laughter, people calling them disgusting. You tip your head back and laugh with them, but your attention sharpens when Hana’s gaze sweeps the room and lands squarely on you.

Oh.

You see it then—the quick, conspiratorial look she shares with Jisoo. The way Minjae’s smirk grows just a little too smug.

This is a setup.

“Okay,” Hana says sweetly. “Next…” She pretends to think about it, tapping her lip with one finger. “Y/N.”

You blink, then huff a soundless laugh as everyone turns to look at you. “Me?”

“Don’t act so surprised,” someone snorts. “You’re always talking big.”

“Yeah, time to put your money where your mouth is,” Minjae adds.

You roll your eyes, but you’re still smiling. “Fine, fine. And my lucky partner is…?”

You already know the answer before Hana turns her head.

“…Sohee,” she finishes, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

The room collectively reacts. A handful of your friends howl in approval. Someone whistles. Another person gasps loudly just for effect.

Across from you, Sohee goes completely still.

His eyes widen, his hand tightening around his cup. You watch his throat bob as he swallows, like he’s trying to force down his surprise.

You’re shocked too—but only for a second. Then you’re grinning.

“Seriously?” you ask, though it’s more amused than protesting. “You guys are shameless.”

Jisoo leans closer to Hana, stage-whispering loud enough for everyone to hear. “You’re welcome.”

Your heart thumps once, hard. You’re not about to let them see that.

You slide off the arm of the couch and smooth your clothes down in a deliberately unhurried motion, then glance over at Sohee again. He’s staring at you with a look that could only be described as mortified.

“Come on,” you say, offering your hand as you approach him. “Rules are rules.”

He hesitates for half a second before putting his cup down and taking your hand. His palm is warm and a little damp, his grip careful like he’s worried about holding on too tight.

“Yah, Sohee, don’t die in there,” Jihoon calls out, grinning.

“Don’t break him,” Hana adds to you, smirking.

You wink over your shoulder. “No promises.”

That earns another round of laughter and teasing. You tug gently on Sohee’s hand, and he follows you down the short hallway like he’s heading toward his execution rather than a tiny laundry room.

The hall is quieter. The loud music and chatter of your friends dampen behind you, replaced by the hum of the refrigerator and the slightly echoing sound of your footsteps on the wooden floor.

You reach the laundry room door and push it open. The space is small: a washer and dryer stacked to one side, a narrow shelf lined with detergent and cleaning supplies, and a low, slightly sagging twin bed shoved against the wall—probably there to serve as a makeshift guest bed when needed.

You flick on the light. The room brightens with an almost too-harsh glow.

Then you turn to him.

“So,” you say, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe. “Do you want the lights on… or off?”

His eyes flick up to the lamp, then back to your face. You can see the debate happening in real time.

“Uh,” he starts, then clears his throat. “We’re… really doing this?”

You tilt your head, watching him. “What, did you want to fake it?” you tease. “Tell them we kissed and then just stare at each other for seven minutes?”

Color floods his cheeks. “No, I just—” He fumbles for words, shoulders hunching slightly. “I mean, it’s—this is kind of… manufactured, right? Like they set this up.”

“Obviously.” You step closer, closing some of the distance between you. “But that just means we have an excuse. We might as well take advantage of it.”

His breath catches, eyes widening just a little.

“Unless,” you add lightly, watching his reaction carefully, “you don’t want to kiss me?”

The panic that flashes across his face is immediate and almost comical.

“No! I mean—” He winces at his own volume and lowers his voice. “I do. I… I want to.” He runs a hand through his hair, tugging it back from his forehead. “It’s just… weird, that they… forced it like this. That’s all.”

Your chest warms.

He’s not denying wanting you. He’s just awkward about the context.

You offer him a softer smile. “I get it,” you say. “But honestly? I’m not going to overthink it if you aren’t.”

He swallows. “Okay,” he says quietly.

You reach past him and flip the light switch off.

The room plunges into darkness, only the faint glow from the hallway sneaking in around the edges of the closed door.

“Better?” you ask.

He lets out a short, breathy laugh. “A little.”

You guide him toward the bed, your hand still wrapped around his wrist, fingers sliding down until you’re loosely holding his hand again. The mattress dips as you sit on the edge and tug gently.

He sits beside you, stiff as a board.

You can’t see his face clearly, but you can feel the tension radiating off of him. His hands are planted on his knees, fingers curled into the fabric of his jeans. Even in the dimness, you can see the way his knuckles stand out sharp and white.

“Nervous?” you ask softly.

He exhales slowly through his nose. “Yeah.” There’s no point in him lying; it’s obvious.

You smile, even though he can barely see it. “Relax, Sohee. It’s just a kiss. We’re supposed to be having fun, remember?”

“Easy for you to say,” he mutters.

You chuckle. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed, you know that?” you tease.

His head snaps toward you, even though the darkness hides his expression. “Don’t say things like that,” he mumbles, voice tight. “You’re just making it worse.”

You bite back a laugh. “Alright, alright. I’ll be nice.”

You shift closer, the side of your thigh brushing his. He goes rigid again.

“Sohee,” you say quietly.

“Mm?”

“Look at me.”

There’s a heartbeat of hesitation. Then he turns his head, and even without seeing him clearly, you can feel his attention on you.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you murmur. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

You feel him brace. His shoulders square. His hands press even more firmly into his knees. You can practically feel him squeezing his eyes shut.

You lean in slowly, giving him time to hear your breath getting closer. Your nose almost brushes his, your mouth hovering above his.

You pause just long enough to feel his breath hitch.

Then you close the distance.

Your lips touch his.

He goes completely still.

His mouth is soft and warm beneath yours, the faint taste of beer and something sweet lingering on his lips. You press gently at first, testing, the kiss slow and deliberate, intending to coax rather than rush.

He does not move.

His breath stutters, his whole body tensing like he’s afraid to do anything wrong. His hands are still glued to his knees. You feel the hammering of his heartbeat more than hear it, the way his chest rises and falls in a shallow pattern.

You pull back after a few seconds, your lips tingling.

He makes a small, involuntary sound—almost a whimper, surprised and unhappy at the sudden loss.

You can’t help it: you smile.

He blinks his eyes open, turning to you in the dark. You’re close enough that you can make out the faint lines of his face, the outline of his lips parted slightly.

“Why’d you stop?” he asks, genuine confusion threading through his voice. There’s a faint, almost petulant note under it, like he isn’t even aware how he sounds.

You huff out a quiet laugh.

“Because you weren’t responding,” you say, amusement clear. “Aren’t you going to kiss me back? Or do you not want to?”

He makes a strangled sound. “I—no, I do. I really do.” You can hear the mortification crawling up his throat. “I just… froze. Sorry. I…”

You shift closer, your knee pressing more firmly against his. “Don’t apologize,” you murmur. “Just… kiss me like you mean it. Okay?”

There’s a moment of silence. You can feel the weight of it, his decision hanging there.

“Okay,” he says finally, voice soft but sure.

You don’t move this time.

You let him.

You feel him inhale slowly, like he’s gathering courage. His hands unclench from his knees, fingers flexing in the empty air between you.

Then he leans in.

He moves carefully at first, like he’s afraid of bumping noses. His breath ghosts over your lips before his mouth finds yours again.

This time, he’s not frozen.

He presses in, firmer, lips moving tentatively against yours. He tilts his head just enough to fit better, the awkwardness giving way to something smoother as instinct kicks in.

You keep your eyes open to watch him until the very last second, a thrill sparking in your chest at how focused he looks even in the dimness. Then you let your eyes slide shut, hands resting loosely on your thighs as you meet him halfway.

He kisses you again, a little more confident this time. Your lips part slightly in response, and his breath stutters. You feel the tiny hitch, the way he hesitates but doesn’t pull away.

“See?” you murmur against his mouth. “You’re good at this.”

He makes a soft, embarrassed sound that could be a laugh.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, the word muffled by your lips.

You smile into the kiss, then lift your hands.

Your fingers find his face, palms cupping the angles of his jaw. His skin is warm beneath your touch, and you feel him jolt slightly at the contact, a tiny shiver running through him.

“Relax,” you whisper.

Then you deepen the kiss.

You angle his head with gentle pressure from your hands, slotting your mouth more firmly against his. Your lips move more deliberately, pulling, teasing, tasting.

He lets out a low, surprised noise into your mouth—half-groan, half-breath. You can feel his focus narrow to just this: your hands on his face, your mouth on his, the darkness pressing close around you.

He leans into you without meaning to, his body’s weight shifting your way. Your thumbs brush up along his cheekbones, and he inhales sharply, returning the kiss with a growing urgency that makes your pulse race.

The bed creaks when you both shift, the old frame complaining under the movement.

You break away just long enough to murmur, a little breathless, “Can I get on your lap?”

Silence. You can almost hear his brain short-circuiting.

“Y-yeah,” he finally says, voice a little strangled. “Yeah. Okay.”

You bite back a smile.

You push yourself up, feeling the mattress dip and shift. Your knees brush his as you move, fingers sliding from his jaw to his shoulders for balance. Then, slowly, you swing one leg over his lap and lower yourself down.

His breath catches audibly.

His thighs are solid under you, tense, every muscle tight like he’s trying desperately not to move in the wrong way. Your knees settle on either side of his hips, and the proximity makes your head spin for a second.

You’re close enough now that you can feel every shallow rise and fall of his chest against yours.

Your hands trail from his shoulders up to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. The strands are soft and slightly damp from nervous sweat. He shivers when your nails graze his scalp.

“Sohee,” you say softly, your forehead nearly touching his.

“Mm?” His voice comes out hoarse.

“You can touch me, you know.”

It takes him a second.

Then his hands, which have been planted like anchors beside his thighs this entire time, finally move.

Slowly, cautiously, his fingers lift and find your thighs.

His touch is feather-light at first, barely there. His fingertips trace the outline where your clothes meet skin, then press a little more firmly, testing the weight, the warmth.

You smile, unseen in the dark.

Your chest brushes his with every breath. You can feel his heart pounding wildly beneath his ribs, the rhythm erratic, like it’s trying to beat its way out.

The way he’s trembling slightly under your touch sends a thrill down your spine.

You tilt your head and lean in again, capturing his mouth with yours.

This time, you don’t hold back.

You kiss him deeper, your lips moving with more insistence. You part your lips and let your tongue just barely slide along his lower lip.

He shudders.

For a second, he freezes again, caught off guard. Then something in him loosens. His fingers flex against your thighs and tighten, pulling you just a fraction closer.

You take that as permission.

Your tongue slips past his lips, brushing against his. The contact is light, a question more than a demand.

He answers.

Sohee exhales a hot, shaky breath into your mouth and responds shyly, his tongue meeting yours with a hesitance that melts quickly into curiosity. The kiss turns slow and searching, the awkwardness replaced by something more natural, more him.

You feel your own heartbeat climb, your body warming where it’s pressed against his. Your fingers curl tighter in his hair, and you tilt your hips just enough to feel him suck in a breath.

He groans quietly into the kiss, the sound low and involuntary.

You smile against his lips.

Your hands slide down from his hair to the back of his neck, thumbs brushing the line of his jaw. You can feel the tension there, the way he’s trying so hard to keep himself in check.

“God,” you murmur against his mouth, pulling back the tiniest bit to breathe, your lips still brushing his, “you really are good at this.”

He laughs once, weak and breathless. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m really not.” You nip lightly at his lower lip. He inhales sharply. “You’re… surprising me.”

“I’m surprising myself,” he admits, voice low.

You slip your tongue over his again, slower this time, savoring the way he follows your lead. His fingers, once tentative on your thighs, grow bolder. His thumbs make small, nervous circles against your skin, like he can’t decide if he’s allowed to roam further.

Each small movement sends a little flare of heat up your spine.

His other hand edges from your outer thigh inward just a fraction. He swallows hard, as if he can feel every millimeter.

The room feels smaller, tighter, filled with the sound of your uneven breaths and the soft, wet slide of your mouths moving together. The rest of the world—the party, the music, the drunken laughter—fades to a distant, muffled blur.

It’s just you and him.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that—time stretches, loses shape. It could be a minute. It could be five. All you know is the way his mouth moves against yours, the way his hands slowly grow more assured, the way your chest presses to his every time you inhale.

Then there’s a sharp knock on the door.

You both jolt.

“Times up!” Minjae’s voice singsongs from the other side. “No extra credit!”

You pull back, breathing hard, your forehead resting against Sohee’s for a second as you catch your breath. You can feel his lungs working overtime.

Slowly, you straighten up.

He reluctantly drops his hands from your thighs, like he has to force them to let go. You lift yourself off his lap, the mattress creaking in protest as your weight shifts.

In the darkness, you can’t see the full extent of his expression, but you can see enough: the flushed cheeks, the swollen lips, the wide eyes that won’t quite look away from you.

You smile, though your own heart is still racing.

“Guess that’s our cue,” you say lightly.

He reaches up and rakes his fingers through his hair, trying to tame it back into place. It’s pointless; you’ve thoroughly messed it up. His hand shakes faintly.

You find the light switch and flip it on. The sudden brightness makes both of you squint.

You take him in properly now—the disheveled hair, the parted lips, the dazed look. The sight sends a little rush of satisfaction through you.

You offer him a cheeky shrug. “We should probably go before they start making up stories worse than what actually happened.”

His mouth opens, then closes again. He nods, slowly, and stands on slightly shaky legs.

You reach for the doorknob.

He falls into step behind you.

As you pull the door open, the noise from the living room rushes back in: loud music, laughter, the unmistakable sound of your friends getting way too invested in a game that really should have stayed in middle school.

You step out first, schooling your expression into something breezy.

Sohee emerges a second later, one hand still hurriedly smoothing his hair, the other hanging stiffly at his side. His cheeks are still a little red.

The room erupts.

“Oooh!”

“Look at them!”

“Damn, you two took your time.”

“Rate it out of ten!”

Hana leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Well?” she asks, gaze flicking between you and Sohee. “Did you enjoy your seven minutes?”

You glance at him.

He’s looking everywhere but at the group, but his eyes flick to you for a split second.

You catch his gaze.

You smile.

“Yeah,” you say lightly, turning back to the others. “We really did.”

There’s another wave of shouts and laughter, people demanding details you have no intention of giving them. You throw a teasing remark back at Hana, something about her setting a high standard to live up to, before letting the subject drift to the next pair of victims.

In the middle of the chaos, you feel a light brush against your elbow.

You glance to the side.

Sohee is there, closer than before, voice low enough that only you can hear.

“Um,” he says, cheeks still pink but eyes steadier now. “About earlier.” He swallows. “I… meant it.”

You blink. “Meant what?”

“That I wanted to,” he says, looking at you directly this time. “Kiss you. It wasn’t just because of the game.”

Your pulse skips.

You let a slow smile curve your mouth. “Good,” you murmur. “Because we don’t need a game next time.”

His breath catches.

“Next time?” he echoes.

You bump your shoulder lightly against his. “If you want there to be.”

For a second, the noise of the party seems to fade, just a little.

Then, slowly, that soft, shy smile you’ve always liked spreads across his face.

“I do,” he says quietly.