#soobinxreader

“Be patient. Let it happen naturally.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝒾𝓍 ✧ ɞ˚‧｡⋆

January arrives like a door swinging open onto cold air — sudden, inevitable, the kind of thing you knew was coming and somehow still aren't ready for. Final semester. Last stretch. The end of something enormous that they've been inside so long it stopped feeling like an ending and started feeling like just the way things are.

The campus wakes up with a different kind of energy — quieter in some ways, louder in others. Seniors move through the quad with that specific expression of people who can see the finish line and aren't sure whether to sprint or stop and look around one more time. She feels it in her chest every morning: the particular anxiety of being almost done, which is somehow more terrifying than being in the middle of it. Almost done means having to figure out what comes next. Almost done means the structure she's been living inside for four years dissolves and something else has to take its place.

She doesn't think too hard about what that something is.

Soobin is already at the kitchen counter when she comes out most mornings — his things, her kitchen, this blurred arrangement that stopped being temporary somewhere around week three and never found its way back. Coffee made before she asks. Her mug on the left because he noticed she always reaches left first. The specific brand of creamer she likes on the second shelf because the first shelf gets too cold near the back and the creamer separates if it gets too cold and she complained about that once, months ago, and he has apparently filed it away alongside every other small detail of her existence.

She stopped noticing the small things. That's the part that matters — not that he does them, but that she stopped noticing, which means she started expecting, which means the absence of them would register as lack rather than normal. He built a floor under her feet so quietly that she forgot there was ever anything beneath her but his hands.

Thesis drafts take up most of January. She works at the dining table most evenings and he works across from her, his own pages spread, and they've developed a rhythm of productive silence broken by murmured questions and the occasional shared snack and the way he reaches over without looking to refill her water glass whenever it gets low. She's told three separate people that she works better with him there than she ever did alone, and she means it the way you mean true things — carelessly, without examining why it's true or when it became that way.

Beomgyu texts her one Thursday: you two are basically married. i'm sending a gift registry.

She sends back a middle finger emoji and doesn't show Soobin.

He already knows what Beomgyu thinks. He's known for a long time. He finds it useful.

The stress peaks in February the way it always does — deadlines compressing, every professor deciding this is the week to assign the difficult thing, her sleep getting thin and her temper getting shorter and the specific hormonal cocktail of finals-adjacent anxiety making her feel like her body is slightly too loud for her skin. She knows this version of herself. She doesn't like her but she recognizes her.

Soobin recognizes her too.

He shows up one evening with a heating pad she didn't ask for — it's not her period, just tension across her lower back — and a packet of the good painkillers and a container of whatever his mother used to make that involves ginger and enough warmth to soften the worst edges of a bad week. He sets everything on the coffee table without ceremony, drops onto the couch beside her, and pulls her sideways into him with one arm while he opens his own laptop with the other like this is just how evenings go now.

"You didn't have to," she says, already reaching for the ginger thing.

"Didn't have to do what?" he says, which is the only answer he ever gives to gratitude, which is the way he makes it feel like breathing — like something that just happens, like oxygen, like of course, why would there be any other option.

She eats the whole container. He doesn't comment. Just keeps working, one hand eventually drifting to her knee where it rests for the rest of the night, thumb making those slow absent circles she's stopped registering as anything except warmth.

Later — much later, the drafts put away, the apartment quiet — she ends up in his lap with her mouth on his jaw and his hands under her shirt and the particular urgency of people who've been sitting very close to each other for too many hours and have reached the natural end of the tension that produces. They've stopped discussing it. It just happens now the same way the coffee happens — naturally, without ceremony, an arrangement that suits them both. She tells herself this because it's comfortable. He lets her tell herself this because it's useful.

"Stay," he says against her throat, the word barely above a breath, which she understands to mean in my bed tonight, because she still sometimes retreats to the pull-out when the evening ends with them tangled on the couch rather than moving to the bedroom, a small preservation of the idea that this is still flexible, still a choice being made, still something she could step back from if she decided to.

She goes to the bedroom.

She always goes to the bedroom.

It starts with the condom conversation.

Which isn't really a conversation so much as a moment, a Tuesday night, the two of them already past the point of slowing down, his mouth on her neck and her hands in his hair and the drawer of the nightstand open where the condoms live, except his hand pauses on the way there and he turns his face against her cheek instead, voice low and careful in the way he gets when he's about to suggest something he's already decided on.

"I want to feel you," he murmurs, and the words land in the specific register he uses when he wants them to bypass her thinking brain and go somewhere warmer and less rational. "Just once. Just us. I'll get the pill tomorrow — the expensive one, the one that actually works. I just—" his mouth drags to her ear "—I want to know what it feels like."

She should think about it longer than she does.

She doesn't.

"Okay," she breathes, which is the word her body has apparently decided is correct, and then his hands are moving again and the drawer stays closed and the particular desperate warmth of skin without barrier is enough to make the thinking brain go offline entirely.

Afterward — the warmth of him still inside her, both of them slow and wrecked and his face pressed to her shoulder — she thinks: tomorrow he'll get the pill, we'll be fine, this was a one-time thing because he asked so well and she was already too far gone to be sensible about it.

She doesn't notice that the drawer stays closed the next night too.

Or the night after.

What she does notice — weeks later, without connecting the dots she doesn't know are there to connect — is that the nightstand has been subtly reorganized. The things she reaches for most are at the front now. The condoms are still technically there, just toward the back, under some things, slightly less immediately available. She assumes she moved them herself.

She didn't.

He goes to the pharmacy on a Wednesday morning while she's in her 9am lecture.

He knows her schedule. He always knows her schedule.

He takes his time in the aisle — this is not a trip he makes carelessly, this is a trip he has thought about since the baby clothes in the mall, since he felt something unlock in his chest standing behind her at that shop window, since he looked at the tiny Eevee paw shoes and thought: I want this, and the wanting arrived so clean and certain that it frightened him briefly before it didn't anymore.

He picks up her period products first — the right ones, the specific brand she likes, the overnight pads she always forgets to buy herself, the liners because she mentioned once being caught without them. Sets them in the basket.

Then he takes his time with the vitamins.

Prenatal vitamins, it turns out, look remarkably like regular women's health supplements. Same aisle. Similar packaging. He picks up two bottles — compares them with the ones she already takes, the ones she keeps on the bathroom shelf — and selects the ones closest in appearance to her regular brand. Same amber bottle. Similar capsule color. Different contents.

He adds them to the basket without hurry.

He adds the after-pill she asked for too — the expensive one, the one he told her works — and pockets it on the way out of the pharmacy without putting it in the bag.

She never asks to see the receipt.

She never asks about the vitamins.

She takes them every morning the way she takes everything he sets in front of her: because he's always been right about what she needs, because she trusts him completely, because four years of being known this precisely has trained her body to accept care from his hands without question.

He watches her take the first one over coffee on a Thursday morning — still in his hoodie, hair unstyled, squinting slightly at the light — and feels something patient and enormous settle in his chest.

He was always going to get here.

He just had to be careful about the route.

The last semester has a specific quality to it that she can only describe as pressure — everything compressed, every deadline tighter, every emotion closer to the surface. She cries twice over thesis footnotes. She laughs too loud at things that aren't that funny. She wakes at 4am with her heart already going and her mind cataloguing every unfinished thing, and the only thing that reliably puts her back to sleep is the weight of his arm across her waist and the slow even rhythm of his breathing against her shoulder.

She's also, she notices with a detachment that feels like someone else's observation, the horniest she has ever been in her adult life.

She doesn't analyze this too deeply. Stress, she tells herself. The body compensating. Senior year hormones. The fact that she's been sleeping next to someone warm and large and genuinely excellent at the specific activity for months now and her body has recalibrated its baseline accordingly.

Whatever the reason, the effect is this: they fuck constantly.

Not carelessly — they're never careless, even when they're frantic, even when it's 11pm and she has a 7am alarm and she's the one climbing into his lap instead of sleeping like a reasonable person. There's always intention in it. His, she will understand later, has always been very specific. Hers is just want — uncomplicated, immediate, the particular hunger of a person who has been given something extraordinary and can't stop reaching for it.

Tuesday morning before her seminar — quick, efficient, him sitting on the edge of the bed with her straddling his lap, face in his neck, his hands gripping her hips to set the pace, both of them quiet because the walls are thin and it's 7am and the world hasn't fully started yet.

Thursday night after she finishes her last draft revision — slow, thorough, him taking his time with her in the particular way he does when they have nowhere to be, no urgency except the kind that builds and builds until she's shaking and he's still moving like he could do this forever.

Sunday afternoon — twice, because the first time ends too fast and he pulls her back before she's even caught her breath, mouth at her ear saying stay and his hands already finding the places that make staying the only possible response.

She stops keeping track of what's protected and what isn't. She trusts him. She has always trusted him. He said he'd handle it — the expensive pill, the good brand, we're covered — and she accepted that the way she accepts everything from him, which is to say: fully, without verification, because he's never been wrong before.

He is not wrong now either, technically.

He's just not doing what she thinks he's doing.

The tension doesn’t break so much as it simply stops pretending to exist.

It starts on a random Tuesday in late February, the kind of gray afternoon where the light never quite decides to commit. She’s been hunched over her laptop for six straight hours, shoulders tight, eyes burning, when Soobin appears behind her chair without a sound. His hands settle on her shoulders first, warm, sure, thumbs pressing into the knots with the exact pressure she likes because he’s mapped every inch of her tension over months.

“You’ve been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes,” he murmurs, voice low and close to her ear.

She exhales shakily. “It’s not working.”

“Then stop.”

He doesn’t wait for permission. He never really does anymore. His fingers slide under the collar of her hoodie (his hoodie) and peel it upward. She lifts her arms automatically, letting him strip it off her like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The cool air hits her bare skin and she shivers once. He notices. Of course he does.

He turns her chair slowly until she’s facing him. Then he drops to his knees between her spread thighs like it’s nothing — like kneeling for her is just another Tuesday evening task.

“Soobin—”

“Shh.” His palms glide up her thighs, pushing the soft fabric of her shorts higher until his thumbs brush the crease where leg meets hip. “Let me take care of you.”

He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh, then another, higher. When he reaches the edge of her panties he hooks his fingers in the waistband and tugs them down with one smooth motion. She lifts her hips to help without thinking. The trust is bone-deep now; her body has learned that his hands only ever bring relief.

He doesn’t tease tonight. There’s no slow build, no playful denial. He simply spreads her open with his thumbs and puts his mouth on her like he’s starving.

The first lick is broad and wet and perfect. She jolts, one hand flying to his hair. He hums against her, the vibration shooting straight up her spine, and then he settles in, slow, deliberate drags of his tongue over her clit, two fingers sliding inside her without resistance because she’s already soaked from the sheer relief of his attention.

“Fuck— Soobin,” she gasps, hips twitching.

He doesn’t answer with words. He answers by curling his fingers, finding that spot that makes her see white, and sucking her clit into his mouth with steady, rhythmic pressure. The wet sounds fill the quiet apartment, obscene and intimate at the same time. Her thighs start to tremble around his ears. He doesn’t let up. He never lets up when he decides she needs to come.

She comes the first time with a broken cry, back arching off the chair, fingers tightening painfully in his hair. He rides her through it, gentling his tongue but keeping his fingers moving until the last spasm fades.

Only then does he pull back, lips shiny, eyes dark and focused entirely on her flushed face. He rises to his feet, towering over her, and strips his own shirt off in one fluid motion. His sweatpants follow. His cock is already hard, flushed dark, the tip glistening.

He doesn’t ask. He simply pulls her up from the chair, turns her around, and bends her over the dining table where her thesis pages are still scattered.

The wood is cool against her breasts. She braces her palms flat as he kicks her feet wider apart.

“Stay just like this,” he says quietly, one large hand smoothing down her spine.

Then he’s pushing inside her — bare, hot, thick — in one long, steady stroke.

They both groan. The feeling without the latex is overwhelming: every ridge, every vein, the blunt head pressing right against her cervix when he bottoms out. He stays there for a moment, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust, letting himself feel her clench around him raw.

“So tight,” he breathes, voice rough. “Always so fucking perfect for me.”

He starts moving — slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that drag against every sensitive spot inside her. One hand grips her hip, the other slides up her back to fist gently in her hair, not pulling, just holding. Anchoring.

The pace builds. The table creaks under them. Her moans turn into whimpers, then sharp cries as he angles his hips and hits that spot again and again. The second orgasm crashes into her without warning. She clenches hard around him, vision blurring, and he curses under his breath, pace faltering for the first time.

He doesn’t pull out.

He fucks her through it, harder now, chasing his own release. When he comes it’s with a low, guttural sound, hips snapping forward as he spills deep inside her, hot pulses that seem to last forever. He grinds against her ass, making sure every drop stays where he wants it.

She’s still bent over the dining table, chest heaving, when Soobin’s hands slide up her sides with deliberate slowness. His cock is still buried deep inside her, softening only slightly, and the feeling of him twitching against her walls makes her whimper softly. He doesn’t pull out. Instead, he leans down, pressing his broad chest fully against her back, caging her between the cool wood and the heat of his body.

His lips find the shell of her ear first.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice low and rough, breath hot against her skin. “How perfectly you take me?. Nothing between us.”

A shiver runs through her. She nods, unable to form words yet. His hips give one lazy roll, pushing his cum deeper, and she clenches around him instinctively. The wet, filthy sound it makes should embarrass her. It doesn’t. Not with him.

Soobin’s mouth trails down to her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive column. He sucks lightly at the spot just below her ear, the one that always makes her melt, then soothes it with his tongue. His hands aren’t idle. One large palm smooths up her spine, fingers splaying wide between her shoulder blades, while the other slips around to her front, cupping her breast and thumbing over her nipple until it pebbles under his touch.

“Such a good girl for me,” he whispers between kisses, voice dripping with that quiet intensity he only ever uses when they’re like this. “Letting me have you exactly how I want. Just us.”

He starts moving again — not thrusting hard, but slow, deep grinds that keep him pressed flush against her, his cock stirring back to full hardness inside her slick heat. Every roll of his hips drags against that sensitive spot, making her gasp and push back against him. His free hand leaves her breast to trace down her stomach, fingers brushing lightly over her clit in teasing circles that match the rhythm of his hips.

She turns her head, seeking his mouth. He meets her instantly, kissing her deeply, tongue sliding against hers in the same unhurried way he’s fucking her. The kiss is messy, wet, full of shared breath and quiet moans. His lips are soft but demanding, sucking on her lower lip, nipping gently, then soothing with his tongue again. He tastes like her, and the realization sends another wave of heat through her body.

His hand on her back slides up to tangle in her hair, just holding her head in place so he can kiss her harder. The other hand continues its slow torture between her legs — fingers circling her swollen clit with perfect pressure, occasionally dipping lower to feel where they’re joined, where his cock stretches her and his cum leaks out around him with every shallow thrust.

“You’re getting wetter,” he breathes against her mouth, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. “My cum inside you… you like that, don’t you? Feeling me drip out while I’m still fucking it back in.”

She moans into the kiss, nodding frantically. Her walls flutter around him, and he groans, the sound vibrating through his chest into her back. The kissing grows more heated — tongues tangling, teeth grazing, desperate little sounds escaping both of them. His hips pick up a fraction more speed, still controlled, still deep, each thrust accompanied by another slow circle over her clit.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips along her jaw, down her throat, sucking another mark just above her collarbone. His fingers in her hair tighten slightly, tilting her head to give him better access. Every touch is reverent and possessive at once — his palm mapping her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her breast, then back down to pinch her nipple lightly while his mouth claims her neck.

“So pretty when you’re like this,” he murmurs between kisses and soft bites. “All flushed and needy. Taking everything I give you.”

Her breathing is ragged now, hips rocking back to meet his slow thrusts. The combination of his cock moving inside her, his fingers on her clit, and his mouth worshiping every inch of skin he can reach is overwhelming in the best way. She feels completely surrounded by him, his heat, his scent, his quiet control.

Soobin kisses the corner of her mouth again, softer this time, then whispers against her lips:

“Turn around for me, baby. I want to see your face while I touch you.”

He pulls out slowly, both of them groaning at the loss, a thick trickle of his release sliding down her thigh. He helps her straighten and turn, his hands gentle but firm on her hips. When she’s facing him, he lifts her effortlessly onto the table, spreading her legs wide and stepping between them.

His mouth finds hers again immediately, deep, consuming kisses that make her dizzy. His hands roam freely now: one cupping her face, thumb stroking her cheek, the other sliding between her thighs to push two fingers back inside her cum-filled pussy, curling them slowly while his thumb works her clit.

The kissing never stops. Slow and filthy, then soft and sweet, then hungry again. He drinks every moan from her lips, every gasp, every broken whisper of his name. His fingers move in perfect rhythm, scissoring gently, spreading his cum and her wetness, preparing her for more.

He only pulls back when she’s trembling, lips swollen and shiny, eyes glassy with need.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

She does.

And in that moment, with his fingers buried inside her and his gaze locked on hers, she feels the depth of how completely she belongs to this, to him, even if she still calls it friendship.

Soobin’s fingers are still buried deep inside her, curling slowly, when he pulls back just enough to look at her properly. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, but his voice stays soft, almost reverent.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb stroking her clit in lazy circles while his other hand cradles her jaw. “Sitting on the table all spread open for me… so fucking beautiful.”

She bites her lip, cheeks burning under his gaze. “Soobin… you don’t have to say that every time.”

“But I do,” he replies instantly, leaning in to press a slow, deep kiss to her mouth. When he pulls away, his fingers keep moving. “Because it’s true. Every inch of you drives me crazy. I’ve wanted this for so long… wanted you like this.”

Her breath hitches as he curls his fingers again, hitting that spot that makes her thighs tremble. “You already have me,” she whispers, voice shaky. “You know that.”

A small, satisfied smile curves his lips. “Yeah… I do. And I’m never letting go.”

He withdraws his fingers slowly, making her whimper at the loss, then brings them to his mouth and licks them clean without breaking eye contact. She watches, mesmerized and flushed.

“Soobin—”

“Shh. Let me worship you properly tonight.” His hands slide up her thighs, spreading them wider as he leans down. His mouth starts at her collarbone, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the line. “You’ve been so stressed with the thesis… let me take care of every part of you.”

He trails lower, lips brushing the swell of her breasts, then down her stomach. Every kiss is deliberate, slow, like he’s mapping her. “This spot right here,” he murmurs against her ribs, sucking lightly, “makes you shiver every time.” He proves it by doing it again, smiling when she gasps.

“You remember everything,” she breathes, fingers threading through his hair.

“Of course I do.” His voice is low, intimate. “I’ve been paying attention for years. Every sound you make, every place that makes you wetter… all mine to learn.”

He moves back up, mouth finding the sensitive skin just below her ear while his hands roam — one palm smoothing over her hip, the other cupping her ass, squeezing gently. “Tell me how it feels, baby. Tell me what you need.”

“It feels… so good,” she moans softly as his fingers trace circles on her inner thigh. “Your hands are everywhere. I can’t think when you touch me like this.”

“Good,” he whispers, nipping at her jaw. “You don’t need to think. Just feel. Just let me love on you.”

He kisses down her neck again, slower this time, sucking a faint mark into the hollow of her throat. “This neck… always smells like your shampoo and a little like me now.” He inhales deeply, then licks the spot. “Fuck, I love that.”

She arches into him, a soft laugh escaping despite the heat building again. “You’re so obsessed.”

“With you? Yeah.” His eyes meet hers, serious and heated. “Completely. Every curve, every sound, every time you say my name like that.”

His hands slide under her thighs, lifting her slightly as he kisses lower, across her stomach, tongue dipping into her navel. “This little spot right here always makes your hips twitch.” He demonstrates, and she does exactly that, giggling breathlessly before it turns into a moan.

“Soobin, please… I need more.”

He looks up at her, chin resting on her lower stomach, eyes dark with promise. “Patience, baby. I’m not rushing tonight. I want to taste every part of you first. Tell me, does this feel good?” He presses a kiss just above her mound, then another on the inside of her thigh.

“Yes— fuck, yes,” she gasps, legs spreading wider on instinct. “Your mouth is so warm… I love when you kiss me there.”

He hums in approval, the vibration traveling through her skin. “Good girl. Keep talking to me. I love hearing how much you need me.”

His palms stroke up and down her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts as his mouth continues its slow worship — kissing, licking, sucking gently on every inch of skin he can reach. He pauses at her hip bone, biting lightly, then soothing with his tongue.

“You’re shaking,” he observes softly, voice full of quiet pride. “Already so sensitive for me. That’s because your body knows who it belongs to now, doesn’t it?”

She nods, breath coming in short pants. “It does… it’s yours, Soobin. All of it.”

His eyes flash with something deep and satisfied. He rises slightly, capturing her mouth in another slow, filthy kiss while his hands continue exploring — squeezing her ass, tracing her waist, thumbs circling her nipples until they’re tight and aching.

“Say it again,” he whispers against her lips, voice husky. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” she breathes, kissing him back desperately. “I belong to you.”

He groans softly into the kiss, one hand sliding between her legs again to tease her entrance with two fingers. “That’s my girl. So perfect. So mine.”

The touching never stops — slow, reverent strokes mixed with firmer grips, every movement designed to make her feel completely adored and completely claimed at the same time. His mouth stays busy on her skin, murmuring praises between kisses.

“You’re so soft here… so warm… I could spend hours just touching you like this.”

She whimpers, hips rocking against his hand. “Soobin… I’m getting close again just from this.”

“Then come for me whenever you want, baby,” he murmurs, kissing her deeply once more. “But I’m nowhere near done worshipping you tonight.”

She’s still trembling from his slow worship, thighs spread wide on the dining table, when Soobin straightens up and cups her face with both hands. His thumbs brush her flushed cheeks, eyes locked on hers with that quiet intensity that always makes her stomach flip.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice low and rough around the edges, “you’re so good for me. Letting me touch you everywhere… but I need your mouth now. Can you do that for me?”

Her breath catches. She nods quickly, lips parting. “Yes… I want to. I love making you feel good too.”

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face. “That’s my girl. Come here.”

He helps her slide off the table, legs still shaky, and guides her gently down until she’s on her knees in front of him. The apartment floor is cool against her skin, but the heat radiating from his body makes her forget everything else. His cock stands hard and flushed in front of her, still slick from being inside her earlier, the tip glistening with a mix of their arousal.

Soobin threads his fingers gently through her hair. “Look at me while you do it,” he says softly. “I want to see your eyes.”

She looks up at him, heart racing, and wraps one hand around the base of his thick length. He’s big, always has been, and the weight of him in her palm feels familiar and intoxicating. She leans in and presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the head, tasting the salty tang of him mixed with her own wetness.

“Fuck…” Soobin hisses, his grip tightening slightly in her hair. “Just like that. Start slow, baby. I want to feel every second.”

She obeys, licking a long, slow stripe from base to tip, swirling her tongue around the sensitive head before taking him into her mouth. The groan that escapes him is deep and guttural, his hips twitching forward just a little.

“Oh shit, your mouth feels incredible,” he breathes, watching her with dark, hooded eyes. “So warm… so wet. You always take me so well.”

She hums around him, the vibration making his cock twitch against her tongue. Encouraged, she takes him deeper, bobbing her head slowly while her hand strokes what she can’t fit. Her other hand rests on his thigh, feeling the muscle tense under her palm.

Soobin’s breathing grows heavier. “That’s it… just like that. Use your tongue more on the underside — yes, fuck, right there.” His voice drops lower, almost reverent. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this. You on your knees, looking up at me with those pretty eyes while you suck my cock.”

She pulls back for a moment, lips shiny, breathing hard. “Do you really think about me like that?” she asks, voice husky, giving him a few slow pumps with her hand. “Even when we’re just… hanging out?”

“Every day,” he admits, thumb stroking her cheek. “Sometimes when you’re studying across from me, all focused and biting your lip, I imagine pulling you under the table and letting you worship me while you try to stay quiet.” He guides her mouth back to him gently. “But this is better. This is real. Suck a little harder, baby — yeah, just like that. Good girl.”

She moans around his length, taking him deeper until he hits the back of her throat. She relaxes, swallowing around him, and Soobin curses under his breath, head tipping back for a second before he forces himself to look down again.

“God, you’re perfect,” he groans, hips starting to rock shallowly. “The way your throat squeezes me… fuck, I could stay in your mouth forever. You like tasting us together? My cum and your pussy all over my cock?”

She nods as best she can, eyes watering slightly but never breaking eye contact. The filthy words send heat straight between her legs again. She hollows her cheeks, sucking harder, tongue working the underside while her hand twists gently at the base.

Soobin’s grip in her hair tightens, but he’s still careful, never forcing her. “Slow down a little or I’m gonna come too fast,” he warns, voice strained. “I want to enjoy this. Want to watch you take every inch. You’re so fucking eager for it… my sweet best friend on her knees sucking me like she was made for it.”

She pulls off with a wet pop, stroking him firmly while she catches her breath. “I was made for you,” she whispers, pressing sloppy kisses along his shaft. “I love how you feel in my mouth… how heavy you are on my tongue. Tell me what else you want.”

His eyes darken further. “Lick my balls while you stroke me. Then take me deep again.”

She does exactly that — tongue laving over his sack, sucking one into her mouth gently while her hand works his cock in long, steady strokes. Soobin’s thighs tremble, a low moan escaping him.

“Fuck yes… just like that, baby. You’re so good at this. No one else could ever make me feel this way. Only you.”

She switches to the other side, then licks back up to the head and swallows him down again, taking him as deep as she can. Soobin’s hand guides her rhythm now, gentle but firm.

“Look at me,” he says again, voice rough. “I want to see how much you love having my cock in your throat.”

Their eyes lock. Tears cling to her lashes, but she doesn’t stop, humming and swallowing around him. Soobin’s breathing turns ragged.

“You’re gonna make me come if you keep that up,” he warns, though his hips keep moving in shallow thrusts. “But not yet… I still want to fuck you properly tonight. Want to fill you up again while you’re moaning my name.”

She pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing the tip. “Then use my mouth however you want first. I can take it.”

Soobin pulls her up from her knees with gentle but firm hands, his mouth immediately claiming hers in a deep, messy kiss. He can still taste himself on her tongue, and the thought makes him groan softly into her mouth. He walks her backward until her hips hit the edge of the dining table again, then lifts her effortlessly so she’s sitting on it once more, legs wrapping around his waist.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs against her lips, breaking the kiss only to trail his mouth along her jaw. “The way you looked up at me with my cock down your throat… fuck, I almost lost it.”

She smiles breathlessly, hands sliding up his chest. “I love making you feel like that. You always take such good care of me… I want to do the same for you.”

His eyes soften for a moment, something deep and possessive flickering behind the heat. “You do. More than you know.” Then his voice drops lower, hands sliding up her sides. “But right now, I need to taste you again. Spread your legs wider for me, baby.”

She obeys instantly, leaning back on her elbows on the table as he drops to his knees between her thighs once more. His large hands grip her inner thighs, spreading her open, and he stares at her glistening pussy with open hunger.

“Look at this pretty little pussy,” he says, voice rough with want. “All wet and swollen from my cock and your mouth. Still leaking my cum… that’s so fucking hot.”

She whimpers, hips twitching. “Soobin… please.”

“Please what?” he asks, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her thigh, then another higher up. “Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

“I want your mouth on me,” she breathes, cheeks burning. “Please lick me… make me come with your tongue.”

A low, satisfied sound rumbles in his chest. “Good girl. So honest for me.”

He doesn’t tease this time. He dives in, licking a broad, slow stripe from her entrance up to her clit, tasting the mix of their arousal. She gasps sharply, one hand flying to his hair.

“Oh god— Soobin!”

He hums against her, the vibration sending sparks through her body. “You taste so good,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak. “Sweet and a little salty from us… I could eat you for hours.”

His tongue circles her clit with precise, firm strokes, then flattens to lap at her entrance, pushing inside her as far as it can go. She moans loudly, back arching off the table.

“Yes— right there,” she pants. “Your tongue feels so good inside me… deeper, please.”

He obliges, fucking her with his tongue while his nose nudges her clit. Two fingers replace his tongue after a moment, curling upward to hit that perfect spot as his mouth latches onto her clit and sucks gently.

“Fuck, Soobin— I’m— I’m close already,” she cries, thighs trembling around his head. “Don’t stop… please don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he promises, voice muffled against her. He looks up at her, eyes dark and intense. “Come on my tongue, baby. Let me feel you fall apart. You’re so beautiful when you come for me.”

His fingers pump faster, curling perfectly, while his tongue flicks rapidly over her clit. She’s gasping, moaning his name like a chant, hips grinding against his face.

“Soobin— oh fuck, I’m coming—!”

Her orgasm hits hard, walls clenching around his fingers, a gush of wetness coating his tongue. He doesn’t pull away, riding her through it with slow, soothing licks and gentle thrusts of his fingers until she’s shaking and oversensitive.

When she finally slumps back, breathing hard, he rises to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His cock is rock hard again, flushed and leaking.

He leans over her, kissing her deeply so she can taste herself on his lips. “Did that feel good?” he whispers.

“So good,” she sighs, wrapping her arms around his neck. “You always make me come so hard… I don’t know how you do it.”

“Because I know you,” he says simply, nipping at her lower lip. “Every spot, every sound, every way you like to be touched. You’re mine to please.”

She pulls him closer, kissing him again. “Then please fuck me now. I need you inside me again.”

He smiles against her mouth, voice low and promising. “Not yet, baby. I still want to play with these perfect tits first.”

Soobin’s words hang in the air, low and heated, as he leans over her on the table. His hands slide up her sides slowly, cupping her breasts and lifting them slightly, thumbs brushing over her already sensitive nipples.

“These perfect tits,” he murmurs, eyes dark with hunger. “I’ve been dying to give them the attention they deserve.”

She arches into his touch, a soft moan escaping. “Soobin… they’re not that special.”

He shakes his head, leaning down to press a reverent kiss to the swell of one breast. “Don’t say that. They’re fucking gorgeous. Soft, full, and they fit perfectly in my hands.” He squeezes gently, watching her reaction. “See? Made for me.”

He lowers his mouth to her left nipple, sucking it into his mouth with slow, deliberate pulls while his hand kneads the other breast. She gasps, fingers threading through his hair again.

“Oh— that feels so good,” she breathes. “Your mouth is so warm… suck a little harder.”

He does exactly that, hollowing his cheeks and flicking his tongue over the stiff peak. “Like this?” he asks, pulling back just enough to speak before switching to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment.

“Yes— fuck, yes,” she whimpers, back arching off the table. “I love when you play with my boobs… it goes straight between my legs.”

Soobin hums in approval, the vibration traveling through her nipple. “Good. Because I could do this all night.” He switches back and forth, licking, sucking, and gently biting, leaving faint red marks on the soft skin. “They get so hard for me… look at them. So pretty and sensitive.”

His free hand continues kneading the neglected breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers, pinching lightly until she’s squirming beneath him.

“Tell me how it feels,” he says, voice rough as he looks up at her, lips shiny. “Talk to me while I worship these.”

“It tingles… everywhere,” she pants, hips rocking uselessly against nothing. “Every time you suck, I feel it in my clit. You’re making me so wet again, Soobin.”

“That’s exactly what I want,” he growls softly, sucking harder on one nipple while twisting the other. “I want you dripping for me. Want your pussy aching while I take my time with your tits.”

He presses them together, burying his face between them, licking and kissing the valley. “So soft… so warm. I love how they spill over my hands.” He nips at the underside of one, then soothes it with his tongue. “You have no idea how many times I’ve stared at you in those tight shirts, imagining doing exactly this.”

She laughs breathlessly, tugging his hair. “Pervert.”

“Your pervert,” he corrects, grinning against her skin before sucking a nipple back into his mouth. “Only yours. And you love it. Say it.”

“I love it,” she moans, voice breaking as he bites down gently. “I love when you’re obsessed with my body… love how you touch me like I’m yours.”

“You are mine,” he says firmly, switching breasts again, lavishing the same slow, filthy attention on the other. His hips press forward, letting his hard cock rest against her inner thigh, hot and leaking. “These tits are mine to play with, to suck, to mark. Every time you wear that blue dress, I’m going to remember how they look right now — all flushed and covered in my mouth.”

She whimpers louder, one hand reaching down to stroke his cock slowly. “Then mark them more… please. I want to feel you tomorrow when I’m trying to study.”

Soobin groans, hips bucking into her hand. “Fuck, baby. You’re going to kill me.” He sucks harder, leaving a visible hickey on the inner curve of one breast, then another on the other side. “There. So everyone knows who these belong to, even if they can’t see.”

His tongue swirls around her nipples again, alternating between soft licks and firm sucks while his hands squeeze and mold her breasts. She’s panting now, thighs clenching around his waist.

“Soobin… I need you inside me,” she begs, voice shaky. “I’m so empty… please fuck me.”

He pulls back slightly, lips red and swollen, eyes blazing. “Not yet. Turn over for me first. I want you on your hands and knees.”

Soobin steps back just enough to give her room, his hands steady on her hips as she turns over on the dining table. She braces herself on her forearms, arching her back instinctively, ass presented to him. The position makes her feel exposed and desired at the same time, completely open for whatever he wants.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes, voice thick with lust. One large hand smooths down her spine, then cups her ass, squeezing firmly. “So pretty like this. Bent over and waiting for me.”

She glances back at him over her shoulder, cheeks flushed. “Is this how you want me?”

“Exactly like this,” he replies, stepping closer until his cock rests heavy against her ass. He rubs the thick length between her cheeks slowly, teasing. “Ass up, back arched… my perfect girl. You’re dripping down your thighs. All that from me playing with your tits?”

“Yes,” she admits, pushing back against him. “Everything you do makes me wet. Please, Soobin… I need you inside me now. I’ve been waiting.”

He groans, gripping her hips tighter. “You beg so sweetly. How can I say no to that?”

He lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging her entrance, still slick from her earlier orgasm and his precum. With one slow, deliberate push, he sinks into her from behind — bare, deep, stretching her perfectly.

Both of them moan loudly at the feeling.

“Oh my god— Soobin,” she gasps, fingers curling against the table. “You’re so deep like this… I can feel every inch.”

“That’s right,” he says, voice strained as he bottoms out, hips flush against her ass. “Feel how well you take me? Your pussy was made for my cock bunny.”

He stays still for a moment, letting her adjust, one hand rubbing soothing circles on her lower back while the other grips her hip. Then he starts moving, slow, powerful thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside her.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, picking up a steady rhythm. “So warm and wet… gripping me like you never want me to leave.”

She pushes back to meet his thrusts, moaning with each deep stroke. “Harder… please. I can take it. I want to feel you tomorrow.”

Soobin’s grip tightens, and he gives her what she asks for — snapping his hips faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the apartment. “Like this? You want me to fuck you like I own you?”

“Yes— yes, just like that,” she cries out, head dropping forward. “You do own me… fuck, right there— don’t stop!”

He angles his hips, hitting that perfect spot over and over, one hand sliding around to rub her clit in tight circles. “That’s my good girl. Taking my cock so well in this position. Your ass looks incredible bouncing against me.”

He leans over her, chest pressing to her back, and presses open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder. “Tell me how it feels, baby. Tell me you love getting fucked like this.”

“I love it,” she moans, voice breaking with every thrust. “I love when you fuck me from behind… so deep, so rough. Your cock is hitting everything— I’m gonna come again if you keep going.”

“Then come,” he growls against her ear, thrusting harder. “Come on my cock while I’m buried inside you. I want to feel you squeeze me.”

His fingers move faster on her clit, and his pace turns punishing — deep, relentless strokes that make the table creak beneath them. She’s whimpering and moaning, pushing back desperately.

“Soobin— I’m close— fuck, I’m coming—!”

Her second orgasm crashes over her, walls clenching hard around his cock. Soobin curses, slowing his thrusts to ride her through it, but not stopping completely.

“That’s it… good girl. Milk my cock with that tight pussy,” he praises, voice rough. He keeps moving through her spasms, drawing it out until she’s shaking.

When she starts to come down, he straightens up, hands gripping her hips again. “I’m not done with you yet. I want to fill you up one more time… but first, turn over. I need to see your face when I come inside you.”

Soobin doesn’t let her catch her breath for long. He slides his arms under her, one beneath her knees, the other around her back, and lifts her effortlessly off the dining table. Her legs wrap around his waist instinctively, arms looping around his neck as he carries her through the apartment. His cock, still hard and slick with her release, brushes against her ass with every step, making her whimper softly against his shoulder.

“Where are we going?” she murmurs, pressing lazy kisses to his neck.

“To bed,” he answers, voice low and rough. “I want you spread out properly under me. I want to look at you while I fill you up one more time.”

He kicks the bedroom door open with his foot and lays her down gently on the center of her bed,  their bed now, really, the sheets already rumpled from the night before. The room is dim, only the soft glow from the hallway light spilling in, casting warm shadows across her body.

Soobin climbs over her immediately, settling between her spread thighs in missionary. He braces himself on his forearms, caging her in, his broad frame hovering just above hers. His cock nudges her entrance again, hot and insistent.

“Look at me, baby,” he says softly, one hand brushing damp strands of hair from her face. “I want your eyes on me the whole time.”

She meets his gaze, her own eyes glassy with lingering pleasure and fresh need. “I’m looking… I always look at you.”

He smiles, that small, secret smile, and slowly pushes back inside her in one smooth thrust. They both moan at the familiar stretch, the wet heat, the perfect fit.

“Fuck… still so tight,” he groans, bottoming out and grinding his hips in slow circles. “Even after coming… your pussy keeps pulling me back in.”

She wraps her legs higher around his waist, heels digging into his lower back. “Because I need you there. Deeper, Soobin… please. I want to feel you everywhere.”

He starts moving — long, deep strokes that press her into the mattress. Unlike the rough pace, this is slower, more intentional, every thrust deliberate and grinding. His hips roll against hers, pubic bone pressing against her clit with each downward motion.

“So good,” she gasps, hands sliding up his back, nails lightly scratching. “This position… I can feel all of you. Your cock is so deep… hitting everything.”

“That’s the point,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss her deeply, tongue sliding against hers in time with his thrusts. “I want you to feel every inch. Want you to remember exactly who’s inside you, who’s taking care of you.”

He breaks the kiss to trail his mouth down her neck, sucking lightly at the marks he left earlier. One hand slides between them to cup her breast again, thumb circling the nipple while he continues those deep, steady rolls of his hips.

“Tell me how it feels now,” he whispers against her skin. “Being in your own bed, legs wrapped around me while I fuck you raw.”

“It feels… safe,” she breathes, then moans as he hits a particularly sensitive spot. “And dirty. And perfect. I love having you on top of me like this… love how heavy you are, how you fill me completely.”

Soobin groans, pace faltering for a second before he steadies again. “You have no idea what you do to me when you say things like that.” He thrusts a little harder, making the bed creak. “Your pussy is clenching around me so nicely… you’re going to make me come soon if you keep squeezing like that.”

She tightens her walls deliberately around him, smiling breathlessly when he curses. “Then come inside me. I want it. I want to feel you spill deep… want you to stay there after.”

His eyes darken. “Yeah? You want me to breed you tonight? Fill this pretty cunt until it’s overflowing?”

The word “breed” makes her whimper loudly, hips bucking up to meet him. “Yes… do it. Fill me up, Soobin. I’m yours.”

That seems to snap something in him. He kisses her hard, messy and desperate, while his hips pick up speed, still deep, but faster now, chasing his release while making sure she feels every thrust. His hand stays on her breast, squeezing and playing with her nipple as he drives into her.

“Come with me,” he pants against her mouth. “One more time, baby. Come on my cock while I come inside you.”

She nods frantically, one hand slipping between them to rub her clit in quick circles. The combination — his thick cock pounding deep, his weight pressing her down, his mouth on hers, his hand on her breast — pushes her over the edge again.

“Soobin— I’m coming— fuck!”

Her third orgasm hits her hard, walls fluttering and clenching rhythmically around him. Soobin groans loudly, burying his face in her neck as his own release crashes over him. He thrusts deep one final time and stays there, cock pulsing as he spills hot and thick inside her, filling her completely.

Soobin stays buried deep inside her, his weight a comforting blanket as their breathing slowly evens out. He presses soft, lingering kisses along her collarbone, her jaw, the corner of her mouth, never pulling out. The feeling of him still thick and warm inside her makes her hum contentedly, legs still loosely wrapped around his hips.

He shifts carefully, keeping them connected, and rolls them both until she’s on top, straddling him. But instead of letting her ride him hard, he pulls her down so her chest is flush against his, arms wrapping around her back to hold her close. Their faces are inches apart, breaths mingling.

“Like this,” he murmurs, guiding her hips into a slow, rolling grind. “Nice and deep. I want to feel every little movement.”

She rocks gently against him, the new angle letting him press even deeper. A soft moan escapes her as the head of his cock nudges that sensitive spot inside with every subtle shift.

“Soobin… you feel so good,” she breathes, eyes half-lidded as she looks down at him. “So full…”

His hands slide up and down her back in long, soothing strokes, one eventually cupping the back of her neck while the other rests possessively on her ass, encouraging her slow rhythm. “That’s it, baby. Just like that. No rush tonight. I want to make love to you until you forget everything except how we fit together.”

He lifts his head to kiss her, slow, deep, unhurried kisses that match the lazy roll of their hips. Their tongues slide together gently, savoring, tasting. Every time she sinks down fully onto him, he groans softly into her mouth, the sound vibrating through both of them.

“You’re so warm inside,” she whispers between kisses, forehead resting against his. “I love feeling you throb like this… like your body is telling me how much you need me too.”

“I do need you,” he replies, voice husky but soft. “Every day. Every night. This — being inside you, with nothing between us… it’s everything I’ve wanted.” He thrusts up gently to meet her next roll, grinding deep. “Feel that? That’s me loving you. Slow and deep, just like you deserve.”

She whimpers quietly, clenching around him as the pleasure builds in a warm, steady wave rather than a sharp peak. “Soobin… it’s so intimate like this. I can feel your heartbeat inside me.”

His arms tighten around her, one hand slipping into her hair while the other traces her spine. “Good. I want you to feel all of me.” He kisses her again, slower this time, then trails his lips to her ear. “You’re my safe place. My home. Let me stay right here and love you like this for as long as you need.”

They move together in a gentle rhythm — not frantic fucking, but something softer, deeper. Making love. Her breasts press against his chest with every roll, nipples brushing his skin. His hands never stop touching her: stroking her back, squeezing her ass lightly, cradling her face so he can look into her eyes.

“Kiss me again,” she murmurs.

He does, pouring everything into it — the years of quiet longing, the careful way he’s built this life around her, the overwhelming tenderness he only lets show when they’re like this. Their hips keep that slow, sensual grind, his cock sliding in and out in long, luxurious strokes that make her toes curl.

“You’re clenching so sweetly around me,” he whispers against her lips. “Squeezing me like you never want me to leave your body.”

“I don’t,” she admits breathlessly, nipping at his lower lip. “Stay inside me forever if you could.”

Soobin lets out a low, pleased sound, thrusting up a little deeper on the next roll. “One day I will. But tonight… just feel me loving you. No ending yet.”

He flips them once more with careful strength, settling back on top of her in missionary without ever fully pulling out. Now he’s the one setting the slow pace, hips rocking in deep, unhurried circles while he holds her gaze.

“Tell me you feel it too,” he says softly, brushing his nose against hers. “Tell me how much you love having me inside you like this.”

“I love it,” she gasps, legs tightening around him. “I love you inside me… making love to me. It feels like we’re the only two people in the world.”

“We are right now,” he murmurs, kissing her deeply again as their bodies continue that slow, intimate dance.

He doesn’t chase his orgasm. He simply savors her — every flutter of her walls, every soft moan, every time her fingers dig into his shoulders. The pleasure builds gradually, warm and overwhelming, like sinking into something endless and safe.

In the quiet of her bed, with the last semester pressing in from outside, they make love like time has stopped — slow, deep, and dangerously close to something far more permanent than either of them is admitting.

They stay locked together for a long time, bodies still joined, hips moving in that same slow, lazy rhythm. The pleasure has built into something warm and endless, a gentle wave rather than a crash. Soobin’s forehead rests against hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet dark of the bedroom.

“I’m close,” he finally whispers, voice rough but tender. “Been holding it for you… but I need to come now, baby. Need to fill you one last time.”

She nods, legs tightening around his waist, fingers stroking the back of his neck. “Come inside me. Please. I want to feel it… all of it.”

He kisses her deeply as his pace shifts — still deep and intentional, but with a little more urgency now. One hand slides between them to circle her clit with slow, perfect pressure while he thrusts. Their mouths stay connected, soft and open, sharing every moan and gasp.

When her fourth orgasm finally washes over her — slow, rolling, and devastatingly sweet — she clenches hard around him, whimpering his name into his mouth. That’s all it takes.

Soobin groans low and broken, burying himself as deep as he can go. His cock pulses inside her, spilling hot and thick in long, rhythmic waves. He keeps rocking gently through it, pushing every drop deeper, like he’s sealing something between them.

“Take it all,” he breathes against her lips. “That’s it… good girl. All for you.”

They stay like that, trembling and connected, until the last aftershocks fade. Only then does Soobin carefully pull out, a thick trickle of his release following. He doesn’t let the mess bother either of them. Instead, he rolls onto his back and pulls her on top of him, wrapping both arms around her body like he never plans to let go.

The aftercare begins without words at first.

He strokes her back in long, soothing lines, fingertips tracing her spine, then her shoulders, then down to the curve of her ass. His other hand cups the back of her head, threading gently through her damp hair. Soft kisses land on her forehead, her temple, the tip of her nose, quiet, reverent presses of his lips that say everything he doesn’t voice yet.

“You okay?” he murmurs eventually, voice low and warm in the darkness.

She nods against his chest, ear pressed over his heartbeat. “More than okay. I feel… floaty. Safe. Like nothing bad can touch me when I’m with you like this.”

A small, satisfied sound rumbles in his chest. “Good. That’s exactly how I want you to feel.” He presses another kiss to the top of her head. “You were perfect tonight. Took everything I gave you so beautifully. I’m so proud of you, baby.”

She smiles sleepily, nuzzling closer. “You always take such good care of me. Even when we’re… like that. Especially when we’re like that.”

“Because you’re mine to take care of,” he says simply, one hand continuing its slow strokes down her back while the other reaches for the nightstand. He grabs a soft towel he’d left there earlier (always prepared) and gently cleans between her thighs with careful, tender wipes. “There… better?”

“Mhm.” She sighs contentedly as he finishes and tosses the towel aside, then pulls the blanket up over both of them. “Stay like this? Don’t move away yet.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, shifting them so she’s tucked perfectly against his side, head on his chest, one of her legs thrown over his. His arm curls protectively around her waist, hand splaying wide over her lower back. “I’ve got you. Sleep if you want. I’ll be right here.”

She traces idle patterns on his chest with her fingertip. “You always know what I need before I even ask. The towel… the way you hold me after… everything. How do you do that?”

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating under her ear. “I pay attention. To every little thing about you.” His fingers keep stroking her hair, slow and rhythmic. “You’ve been carrying so much with the thesis and finals. You deserve to be taken care of like this. Deserve to feel loved and safe every single night.”

The word “loved” lands softly between them. She doesn’t pull away from it — just lets it settle in her chest like something warm and familiar.

“I do feel loved,” she whispers after a moment. “With you. Even if we still call this… whatever it is between best friends.”

Soobin’s arms tighten around her just a fraction. His voice stays calm, but there’s a depth of satisfaction underneath. “Then keep feeling it. Because I’m not stopping anytime soon.”

He reaches over and turns off the small lamp on the nightstand, plunging the room into comfortable darkness. The only sounds are their breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. He keeps holding her close, one hand never stopping its gentle caresses, down her arm, across her back, along her hip, grounding her, soothing every last bit of tension from her body.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs. “I’ve got the whole night. Tomorrow I’ll make you breakfast, run you a bath if you’re sore, whatever you need. But right now… just let me hold you.”

She yawns softly, already drifting. “Love you, Soobin… thank you for always being here.”

He presses one final, lingering kiss to her forehead, eyes closing as he breathes her in.

“I love you too,” he whispers, so quietly she might not fully register it. “More than you know. Sleep now, baby. I’m right here.”

In the quiet afterglow, with his cum still warm inside her and his arms wrapped securely around her body, she falls asleep feeling completely cherished, completely safe, and completely his — even if she still believes it’s all harmless.

Soobin stays awake a little longer, listening to her breathing even out, one hand resting possessively over her lower stomach.

He smiles into the dark.

Everything was going exactly as planned.

The notebook gets a new entry around week six of the semester, written in the bathroom of her apartment while she's in the shower, his handwriting smaller than usual like he's containing something:

*Ovulation window opens Thursday. She has a seminar until 6. I'll have dinner ready. She always relaxes after eating. Be patient. Let it happen naturally. It always happens naturally with her.*

*She took the vitamins again this morning. Third week. She thinks they're the same ones.*

*She said I don't know what I'd do without you last night when I fixed her laptop. She said it like it was nothing. She doesn't know it's everything.*

He closes the notebook. Listens to the shower running. Thinks about the Eevee onesie and the tiny paw shoes and the annotated map of the city with the good school district circled in blue pen.

He thinks: we're so close.

He thinks: she just needs a little more time to catch up.

He puts the notebook back in the bag where it always lives — deep, under folded clothes, the corner just barely visible if you know to look for it — and goes back to the kitchen to finish dinner.

She comes out of the shower in his hoodie twenty minutes later, hair damp, smelling like her shampoo and a little like him, and the sight of her in his space, in his clothes, building a life in the shape he's been quietly constructing around her for years — it lands in his chest the way it always lands, like coming home.

"Smells good," she says, dropping into her chair at the table.

"Chicken," he says. "You said you were craving it."

She said that Tuesday. Offhand. In the middle of a different conversation.

She doesn't remember saying it.

He does.

It happens on a Thursday afternoon — late sun cutting through the crooked blinds in narrow gold strips, the apartment carrying the stale-coffee smell of a day spent working at home, the ceiling fan doing its slow whining rotation. She's curled on the couch in his hoodie, phone face-down on the armrest, something unresolved sitting between her shoulder blades that she can't quite name.

He's on the floor with his back against the couch, textbook open across his lap, thumb tracing the edge of page 187 the way he does when he's reading but also thinking about something else.

She drops the phone onto the armrest and exhales through her nose.

"So," she starts, and stops. Tries again. "Have you ever — been with a girl and a guy, like, at the same time in your life? Overlapping?"

His thumb stills on the page. He tilts his head two centimeters left — that listening posture she knows — and lifts his eyes slowly.

"Why now?" he asks, voice soft with a tiny hook at the corner of his mouth.

She shrugs inside the oversized sleeves, pulling both cuffs down until her hands vanish. "Just thinking. You talk about hot guys the same way you talk about hot girls. It feels easier for you. More natural."

He closes the book carefully. Sets it beside his thigh, edges aligned.

"Easier with what?" His torso shifts toward her; his knee brushes her calf where she's curled on the cushion above him and stays there, warm.

She doesn't move her leg. "With bodies. Touch. Everything. You don't flinch. Guy or girl — it's the same to you."

He rests his elbow on the cushion by her knee, face tilted up toward hers. "Does that bother you?"

"No." She shakes her head, a loose strand falling across her eye that she pushes back with a sleeved knuckle. "I think it's nice. You just exist like that. No categories."

The fan whines once. A gold bar of light slides across the bridge of his nose.

"So what do you think I am?" he asks, barely above a whisper.

She swallows. "Someone who likes people. In different ways. At once, or one after the other. Doesn't matter."

His thumb traces a slow circle on the book cover. His gaze flicks to her mouth for half a second.

"Would knowing change anything for you?"

Her stomach executes a slow, rolling flip. "No." Fast, then softer: "I mean — it wouldn't change what we're already doing."

He lifts his right hand. The backs of his fingers brush the inside of her wrist where the hoodie sleeve has slipped — dry, warm, almost accidental. Almost. His thumb settles over her pulse — no pressure, just resting, feeling the quick rhythm underneath.

"Good to know," he murmurs.

She feels the last piece click into place in the back of her mind and slide a drawer shut: bi. Of course. That explains the way he talks about bodies, the way he's never had a label that fit, the way he dated that one guy in high school and then no one seriously after. That explains all of it. She's not his girl — she's his safe person, his most trusted body, the one constant in a life that keeps its real desires in a quieter room.

She breathes out slowly.

"You're really good at being human," she says, trying for playful, landing somewhere rougher.

He smiles sideways — small, secret. "And you're really good at letting me be."

His thumb stays exactly where it is over her pulse.

The light shifts from gold to orange and neither of them moves and she settles into the version of him she's just constructed — bi, complicated, hers in the way that doesn't require explanation — and feels the relief of it, the neat click of a label that makes everything make sense.

She doesn't see him watching her settle.

She doesn't see the small satisfied thing that moves across his face when he feels her relax.

He was never bi.

He was never gay.

He is a man who has been in love with one specific woman for four years and has been willing to be anything she needed him to be in order to stay close enough to matter.

He keeps his thumb on her pulse a little longer.

Feels it slow.

Feels her trust him completely.

March.

The period tracker app on his phone — the one synced silently to hers since September, the one she has no idea he has — shows a seven-day window starting the fourteenth.

He doesn't change anything about how he acts during those seven days. That's the discipline of it, the thing he's practiced and refined over months of quiet watching: he doesn't become different during the window, he just becomes more of what he already is. More present. More warm. More inclined to touch her without reason, to pull her into him from behind in the kitchen while she's reading something on her phone, to end evenings by pulling her into the bedroom instead of letting her drift to the pull-out, which she almost never uses anymore but still theoretically could.

The fourteenth falls on a Friday. She has a seminar until six. He has dinner ready at six-thirty. She comes through the door already half-unraveling from the week — bag dropped, shoes kicked, the exhale of someone who has been holding herself together through a long day and can finally let the seams loosen — and walks straight into the kitchen where he's plating food and leans her forehead against his shoulder blade without a word.

He reaches back and puts his hand on her hip without turning around.

"Hard day?" he asks.

"The worst," she says into his shoulder.

"Sit down. It's ready."

She sits. He brings everything over. They eat with the window cracked, the early March air just beginning to smell like something other than winter, and she talks about the seminar and he listens the way he always listens — fully, with his eyes on her face, asking the questions that extend what she's saying rather than redirecting it. This is one of the things she tells Lia about him when Lia asks — he actually listens, like, actually — and she doesn't know that she's describing something he cultivated deliberately over years because the research he did on emotional connection in long-term partnerships said that attentive listening was the highest-rated quality in relationship satisfaction across all studies.

He did the research.

Of course he did the research.

After dinner she ends up on his lap on the couch — not because she made a decision, just because the gravitational pull between them at this point is essentially physics — and his hand finds the back of her neck and she closes her eyes and his mouth finds her ear and it proceeds the way it always proceeds from here: inevitable, warm, without ceremony.

She doesn't think about protection.

She doesn't think about anything except the warmth of him and the weight of the week leaving her body and how this, right here, is the only place in the world where everything quiet down.

He thinks about the window.

He thinks: this is how it was always going to happen — naturally, warmly, in the middle of an ordinary evening, without her knowing what it is.

He thinks: she'll understand later. She'll choose this later. She always chooses me eventually — I just have to be patient enough to let her arrive.

He pulls her closer.

She melts into him without question.

Outside, early spring comes in quietly through the cracked window, carrying the smell of something new beginning.

April arrives and the thesis is submitted and the relief of it is enormous and clean and she screams in the apartment at 11:47pm when the portal confirms receipt and Soobin picks her up from the floor and spins her once, laughing, and she's laughing too and the apartment smells like the celebration dinner he started at ten in case it finished early — because he knew it would finish around now, because he checked her submitted draft schedule three days ago and calculated the revision time she'd need — and everything is warm and good and full of the specific joy of something enormous finally being done.

They're drunk by one. Not sloppy-drunk — happy-drunk, the kind where everything is funny and the music is too loud and she ends up on the kitchen counter while he dances extremely badly in front of her and she's laughing so hard her stomach hurts, and he grabs her hands and makes her dance with him standing on the floor while she's on the counter so they're almost the same height and she cups his face and kisses him — sweet this time, soft, grateful — and feels the whole weight of this year, of this person, of this strange warm life they've built in the space between what she thought he was and what he actually is.

"We're going to graduate," she says against his mouth, the fact of it landing new each time she says it.

"We're going to graduate," he agrees, hands on her waist, steady.

She leans her forehead against his. Thinks about May. Thinks about the families coming and the gowns and the photographs and what comes after and the particular terrifying freedom of after.

"Are you scared?" she asks.

"No," he says, which is true. He has been building after for years. He knows exactly what it looks like. "Are you?"

"A little," she admits.

He pulls her closer. "I'll be there," he says. "Whatever comes after. I'm there."

She believes him completely.

She has no idea how literal he means it.

May arrives in three weeks and leaves a month of chaos in its wake — final presentations, departmental dinners, the strange suspended quality of last things, last lectures, last times walking routes she's walked four years of mornings. She takes photos of things she never photographed before: the library window. The bench near the science building where she ate lunch a hundred times. The coffee place two blocks over where he introduced her to the order that's been hers for two years now.

She texts one to him with the caption: this is because of you.

He texts back: all the good ones are.

She screenshots it and doesn't tell him.

He already knows.

The families arrive the Thursday before graduation.

It's been planned for weeks — both sets of parents, a restaurant in the city, the kind of dinner that requires a reservation and actual shoes and the specific performance of adulthood that comes with presenting your life to people who remember when you were smaller. She spends an hour getting dressed and changes twice and Soobin sits on the edge of her bed watching her with the patience of a man who genuinely does not care which dress she wears as long as she's in the room.

"The blue one," he says, when she holds up two options.

"You always pick the blue one."

"Because you always look best in the blue one." Flat. Obvious. Like this is not a compliment but a fact, which is exactly how he always delivers compliments, which is exactly why they land.

She puts on the blue one.

The restaurant is warm and candlelit and the tables are close enough together that everything feels intimate whether you want it to be or not. Her parents are already there when they arrive — her mother standing up immediately, arms open, the specific warmth of a hug from a woman who has been waiting to see her daughter for months and is not going to underdeliver on the reunion. Her father shakes Soobin's hand — firm, measured, the handshake of a man who is taking stock — and Soobin meets it evenly, which her father notices, which is the first point in Soobin's favor.

His parents arrive five minutes later. His mother is warm and effortlessly elegant in the way of women who have been comfortable for a long time. His father has Soobin's height and Soobin's quality of stillness and the specific observant quiet of a man who built something and would like to see who his son is becoming.

The table settles. Wine is poured. The conversation finds its feet.

She watches it happen without fully understanding what she's watching — the way the two sets of parents orient toward each other with a comfort that feels less like strangers getting acquainted and more like people who already have an opinion and are spending the evening confirming it. Her mother laughs at something Soobin's mother says and touches her arm and the gesture is too warm for first meeting, like they've been in the same orbit before and simply haven't occupied the same room until now.

She goes to the bathroom midway through the main course and comes back to find her father and Soobin in the corner of the conversation, the rest of the table temporarily occupied with something else, her father leaning forward slightly — not hostile but focused — and Soobin meeting every question with the easy confidence of a man who prepared for this meeting long before it was scheduled.

She watches from across the room for a moment before they see her.

Her father nods once. Deliberate.

Soobin catches her eye over the table — quick, barely a flicker — and she can't read it from here, except that it's warm.

She sits back down. Her mother squeezes her hand under the table.

"He's wonderful," her mother says quietly, very close to her ear. "He's always been wonderful."

She thinks: she means as a friend. She means it the way she always means it — Soobin is wonderful, what a good friend, what a lucky thing you found him.

She doesn't think anything more careful than that.

After dinner — families separating, hotel directions exchanged, hugs distributed — she and Soobin walk back to the apartment in the cool May evening with the city noise low around them. He has his jacket over her shoulders because she was cold three blocks ago and he took it off without being asked, which is, she thinks distantly, so completely him that she doesn't even think of it as remarkable anymore.

"My dad asked you about your plans," she says.

"I know. I told him."

She glances at him. "What did you tell him?"

"The truth." His hands are in his pockets, step unhurried. "That I have a position with my father's company starting in July. That I'm looking at apartments in this city. That I plan to be around."

She absorbs this. The position she knew about. The apartments — she hasn't heard about apartments. "Looking at apartments?"

"Casually," he says, which is not true at all, but he says it so evenly that it lands as true. "Just thinking about the next step. It makes sense to stay near campus for a while. We both have reasons to stay near campus."

She nods slowly. She doesn't ask why he's framing it as we — it just sounds right, it slots in beside all the other things that have started sounding right without her consciously deciding they should.

"He seemed to approve," she says.

"He asked good questions. I respect him." A pause. "He loves you. Wants to know you're taken care of."

The phrase lands softly and she doesn't examine it. Just walks beside him with his jacket over her shoulders and the city lights turning everything amber and thinks: this is what after looks like, maybe. This warm ordinary thing. This person walking beside her who knows her schedule and her coffee order and her worst fears and her best jokes and who has made himself so completely necessary that she stopped being able to locate the seam between where she ends and where he begins.

She hooks her pinky through his — the old habit, the childhood reflex, the one that means crowds and closeness and I don't want to lose you in this.

He hooks back.

They walk the last three blocks in comfortable silence.

The night before graduation she can't sleep.

This is not unusual — she's been a bad sleeper before big things her whole life — but the particular shape of this restlessness is different. It's not the thesis anxiety or the seminar-deadline 4am alarm-heart. It's something lower and stranger, something in her body rather than her mind, a low-grade wrongness she can't locate precisely. She's been a little off for the past week. Not sick exactly — nothing she could point to and name — just slightly not herself, a degree or two off her usual temperature, a faint nausea some mornings that she blames on stress and then forgets by afternoon.

She chalks it up to the enormity of tomorrow.

Soobin is asleep behind her — arm over her waist, face close to her shoulder, breathing slow and even. He fell asleep fast the way he always does after she stops moving, like her stillness is the signal his body was waiting for.

She stares at the ceiling.

She thinks about four years. She thinks about the girl who arrived at this school with a perfectly organized planner and a very clear idea of what the next four years would look like, and looks for the seam between that girl and this one — lying in a bed that has become shared so gradually she couldn't tell you which night the pronoun changed from his bed to our bed — and finds the seam is very thin. Almost invisible. The kind that a good tailor makes deliberately so you can't see the work.

She thinks: I'm really happy.

The thought arrives simply, without the guilty hedging she might have expected. She's really happy. This is her life and she likes it and tomorrow she's going to wear a gown and her parents will cry and Soobin will be right there the way he always is and after after comes and she'll figure it out — they'll figure it out, the we that has become natural — and everything is going to be fine.

She doesn't think about the slight wrongness in her body. She's tired and stressed and tomorrow is enormous and everything strange is explainable.

She turns over. Faces him.

In the dark his face is soft the way it gets in sleep — the careful composure he carries through waking hours gentled down to something younger, the boy inside the man, the person who has apparently been in love with her since they were nineteen and showed it in every way except the most obvious one.

She thinks: I love you.

The thought arrives without fanfare. Not a revelation — just a recognition, quiet and deep, like something that has been true for a long time finally being acknowledged in the right language.

She doesn't say it out loud.

But she tucks it close.

Closes her eyes.

And finally, finally, sleeps.

The next morning she wakes up to the smell of coffee and the sound of him moving quietly in the kitchen and the pale particular light of a May morning that is going to be a beautiful day. She lies there for a moment — ceiling, light, the distant sound of campus beginning to wake — and notices, without urgency, that her stomach feels faintly wrong again.

She ignores it.

Gets up. Gets dressed. Puts on the earrings he picked out last week when she held up options — simple silver ones he said would catch the light under the ceremony tent, because of course he thought about that.

He appears in the doorway with two mugs. "How do you feel?"

"Good," she says, and mostly means it. "Nervous. Ready."

He hands her the coffee. His thumb brushes her wrist when she takes it — just a second, just contact — and she feels it move through her the way it always moves through her, warm and sure and impossible to locate properly because it's everywhere now, woven into the whole fabric of her days.

"You're going to be great," he says.

"We're going to be great," she corrects.

He smiles — small, real, the one with the dimples — and it's a smile she doesn't quite have the context for, layered with a satisfaction she can't fully see.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We are."

She drinks her coffee.

Outside, the May morning opens up clear and warm and full of beginnings.

And in her body, very quietly, something has already begun.

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𝓊𝓅𝒸𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝓰 ꒰ა𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒲𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒶 𝒞𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇-𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓂໒꒱ 𝒸𝒽𝑜𝒾 𝓈𝑜𝑜𝒷𝒾𝓃 × 𝒻𝑒𝓂!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 ໒꒱ Hogwarts AU

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

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

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

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

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

She twists the ring again. Faster this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She snorts. "Understatement of the year."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s perfect cus It’s easy.

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

She exhales, slow and smug in her own certainty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How perfectly, tragically lucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep dreaming, Gyu.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She blinks. “He talks about me?”

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

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

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

“See? Married. I told you.”

She elbows him in the ribs. Hard.

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

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

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

“Stay close. Things might get messy fast.”

She nods, shot burning sweet down her throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She rolls her eyes but leans into his side anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room roars.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bottle spins again. The party keeps raging.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t.

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

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

“Who said anything about being gay tonight?”

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

She stops breathing.

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

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

He realizes it then—really realizes it.

She’s turned on by him.

Not Yeonjun. Not the party. Him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She swallows, throat clicking. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.”

The words land heavy. Final.

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

Then she snaps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words snap something inside her.

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

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

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

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

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

She sobs his name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She freezes.

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

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

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

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

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

Her stomach drops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But everything has.

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

The door to the garage swings shut behind her.

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

He exhales once—long, shaky.

Then he walks back inside.

Closes the door. Locks it.

Crosses to his bedroom without looking at the couch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is the opening.

Finally.

୨ৎ ݁ ˖ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ˖ ݁ ୨ৎ

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

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝓌𝑜 – 𝓇𝑜𝒶𝒹 𝓉𝓇𝒾𝓅

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑒𝑒 – 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓃𝑜𝓌𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓂

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓇 – 𝒾𝓃𝓋𝒾𝓈𝒾𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝒾𝓋𝑒 – 𝓁𝒾𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑒

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝒾𝓍 – 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓀

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

⋆｡‧˚ʚ upcoming....ʚ˚‧｡⋆

✧ 𝓂𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ✧

𝓌𝑒𝓁𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓇𝓃𝑒𝓇 ♡

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

✧ 𝓊𝓅𝒸𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒿𝑒𝒸𝓉𝓈 → [𝓈𝑜𝑜𝓃]

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

🩷 𝓊𝓅𝒹𝒶𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒾𝓀𝑒𝓈

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

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

It starts with coffee.

Just coffee, the same order from the same place two blocks over, the one Soobin introduced her to and that has been hers for two years now, the one she brings to her lips on a Tuesday morning three weeks after graduation and her stomach turns so hard and so fast she has to set the cup down and press both palms flat to the counter and breathe through her nose for a full ten seconds.

She blames the milk. The milk is probably off.

Wednesday it happens again, this time with eggs — Soobin at the stove, the kitchen bright and warm and smelling like something good — and she has to leave the room fast, murmuring something about her phone charger, and stands in the hallway of the apartment she shares with Lia, the apartment that has been just hers since January when Lia's mother got sick and Lia packed a bag and said I don't know how long and kissed her cheek and left. She stands with her back against the wall outside her own bathroom and waits for her stomach to remember where it lives.

She blames stress. Post-graduation decompression. Her body finally releasing four years of held tension all at once.

Thursday she throws up.

Quietly, efficiently, tap running, hand pressed to her mouth. She sits on the bathroom tile after — the same tile Lia picked out freshman year because it was the cheapest option that didn't look cheap — and stares at the ceiling and counts backward and then counts again because the first answer cannot be right and the second answer is the same as the first.

She is late.

She is never late.

She knows this because he tracks it — the thought arrives and she lets it pass without examining it, the way she lets most thoughts about how much he knows pass without examining them, because examining them leads somewhere she isn't ready to go. She just knows she is late and her stomach has been wrong for a week and the coffee she has drunk every morning for two years suddenly smells like a threat.

She comes out of the bathroom looking completely fine. She is excellent at looking fine. He is at the kitchen counter reading something on his phone, and he hands her a glass of water without looking up — just reaches for it and holds it out, already poured, already room temperature because he knows she can't stand cold water first thing in the morning — and she takes it without comment and drinks it all and tells herself: probably nothing. definitely nothing. she'll wait one more day and then it will be nothing.

She waits two more days.

It is not nothing.

Lia answers on the second ring, voice warm and slightly rough the way it always is in the morning, and the relief of hearing her is so immediate and physical that she has to sit down on the edge of the bed.

"Hey," Lia says. "You sound weird. What happened."

"Nothing yet," she says. "I need you to stay on the phone with me while I go to the pharmacy."

A pause. Then, very carefully: "Okay. I'm here. Go."

She goes.

The pharmacy near campus is small and bright and mercifully quiet at nine in the morning. Lia talks her through the aisle — this one, yes the three-pack, and grab the gummy bears from the front because you're going to need them, trust me — and she puts everything in the basket without looking at the prices and pays with her card and walks back to the apartment with her bag and her phone and the specific feeling of a person who already knows the answer and is just completing the formality of being told.

Soobin is out. She checked before she left — morning run, he goes at eight-thirty every day, back by ten, she knows this the way she knows everything about his schedule now, which is to say completely and without having to think about it.

She takes all three tests.

She sits on the bathroom floor between each one with her phone pressed to her ear and Lia on the other end not talking, just breathing, which is exactly the right thing and exactly why Lia is her person even from eight hours away.

All three say the same thing.

She looks at them lined up on the sink edge and feels everything simultaneously, which means she feels nothing for about thirty seconds, and then she puts her face in her hands.

"Lia," she says.

"I know," Lia says, voice soft and steady across the distance. "I know. Breathe."

"How did this—" she stops. She knows how. She's been telling herself for weeks that he handled it, the expensive pill, the good brand, we're covered, and she accepted that the way she accepts everything from him — fully, without verification, because he has never been wrong and she trusts him completely. "I was careful," she says, and even as the words leave her mouth they feel slightly wrong, slightly imprecise, like she's describing something she only has half the information for.

Lia is quiet for a moment. "Were you?"

She thinks about the drawer. The condoms she stopped tracking. The vitamins she takes every morning without checking the label because he sets them out and she takes them because he's always right about what she needs.

She thinks: were you.

She doesn't have an answer yet.

"He's going to be calm about this," she says instead, into her palms, the words muffled. "He's going to be so unbearably calm and I'm going to want to scream."

"Is that the worst thing?" Lia asks. "Him being calm?"

She thinks about it honestly — sitting on the bathroom floor of the apartment they share, the apartment he has been living in for months, his shampoo on the second shelf, his running shoes by the door, his handwriting on the grocery list on the fridge.

"No," she admits. "Right now it might be the only thing that doesn't make me fall apart completely."

She hears the front door open at ten-oh-four.

He reads the room from the hallway.

She knows he does this — she's watched him do it a hundred times, the small pause before he enters any space where she is, the half second of assessment that tells him everything before a word is spoken. She used to think it was just attentiveness, the natural result of knowing someone this well. She is beginning to think it is something more precise than that.

He appears in the living room doorway, jacket unzipped, hair wind-messed from the run, cheeks pink, and takes in the scene in one sweep: her on the armchair with her knees pulled up, the bathroom door open behind her, the specific quality of her stillness that is not calm but the performance of calm. His eyes find hers and stay.

He understands. She watches him understand — the fractional widening of his eyes, the long exhale through his nose, the way his shoulders drop in a motion so small anyone else would miss it. Not surprise exactly. More like confirmation.

Not surprised, she thinks. He's not surprised.

She puts that away for later.

"I've got her," he says quietly toward her phone, which she's still holding, and she realizes he could hear Lia's breathing from across the room — that's how quiet the apartment is, that's how attuned he is. She tells Lia she'll call back, and Lia says I love you and she says I love you and the call ends and then it's just them in the apartment and the three tests on the bathroom sink and the grocery list in his handwriting on the fridge.

He crosses to the armchair. Crouches in front of her so his face is level with hers, lower than hers, actually, which changes the geometry of them in a way she isn't used to, him looking up at her for once — and waits.

"I'm pregnant," she says.

"I know," he says, soft as an exhale.

She stares at him. "Say it. Say you already knew."

"I suspected," he says. "A few days. The nausea. Wednesday when you left the kitchen. I didn't want to say anything until you knew for yourself."

She nods slowly. "Of course you knew."

"I—"

"Of course," she says again, not unkindly, just tired and true and still processing the thing she's been not-quite-letting-herself-think for four days. "You know everything about my body before I do. You track my cycle. You noticed before I put it together." She pauses. "Were you surprised?"

He holds her gaze. The pause that follows is the most honest thing he's done in months — not because it contains an admission, but because it doesn't contain a denial.

"No," he says finally. Quietly.

The word lands like a stone in deep water. She watches the circles move out and doesn't try to stop them.

"How did this happen," she says, and even as she asks it she's not sure what answer she's looking for — the biological one she already knows or the other one, the one underneath, the one she can almost see the shape of but can't quite bring herself to name yet.

He doesn't answer the biological version. He says: "I wasn't careful. And I knew what that could mean."

"That's not the same as an accident."

"No," he agrees. "It isn't."

She puts her face in her hands again. Stays there. He doesn't reach for her — just waits, crouched in front of her chair, giving her the space she needs to process without trying to fill it, which is exactly what she needs and exactly what she can't figure out whether to be grateful for.

"What do you want?" she asks into her palms. The only question that matters right now.

"Whatever you decide," he says, immediately, steady. "Fully, completely, no conditions. If you can't do this right now I will take care of everything and hold your hand through it and we will not speak of it until you want to. If you want to keep it—" a pause, and in it she hears something she can't quite name, something enormous and patient finally permitted to be itself "—I will spend every day making sure neither of you needs a single thing I can give you."

She lifts her face. Studies his. "You already know what you want."

"This isn't about what I want."

"Soobin."

He holds her gaze — and there, just underneath the careful and the steady, she sees it. The yes. The already. The quiet certainty of a man who has been imagining this from inside a plan he hasn't shown her yet.

"Yes," he says softly. "I know what I want."

She wipes her face with her wrist. Breathes. "I need time. A few days."

"Take all the time you need."

"Stop being so reasonable," she says, and her voice wobbles between tears and a laugh. "It's making it harder."

He reaches out — slow, careful — and takes her hand. Doesn't grip. Just holds it in both of his, warm and steady, thumb resting over her pulse the way it always does, the way it has done since the very beginning, since long before she understood what that meant.

She lets him.

She gives herself three days.

The first she spends mostly on the couch in Lia's side of the apartment — the side that still smells a little like Lia's perfume even though she's been gone for months, the side with the dying succulent Lia asked her to water and she keeps forgetting and then watering too much to compensate, curled around a blanket that is technically Lia's and calling her mother without telling her why and just listening to her talk about the garden and the neighbor's dog and the normalcy of a world that hasn't changed yet.

She doesn't call her father.

The second day she goes to the shelter alone, without telling Soobin where she's going. She sits in run 14 with Max's enormous golden head in her lap for forty minutes and scratches behind his ears and thinks about things she doesn't have words for yet. Max asks nothing of her. This is currently his greatest quality. She thinks about the baby clothes in the mall window — the Eevee onesie, the tiny paw shoes, the way her chest had gone warm and aching looking at them, and thinks about Soobin's arms coming around her from behind, his chin on her shoulder, his voice saying just to look. She thinks about how sure he was. How already he felt, even then. She thinks: he has been several steps ahead of me for a very long time and I have been so comfortable in that I never looked up to see how far.

On the third night she turns over in the dark and faces him.

He's awake. Of course he's awake. Watching her with those dark steady eyes that have been watching her for years and waiting for her to be ready to look back.

"I'm keeping it," she says.

He closes his eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough for something enormous to move through him. When he opens them again they're bright in the dark in a way she's never quite seen before — not tears, just light, like something that has been under pressure for a long time finally being given room to breathe.

"Okay," he says, and his voice comes out rough at the edges. "Okay."

"Say something real," she says. "Not just okay."

He reaches for her — slow — cups the back of her head and pulls her forward until her forehead rests against his. His thumb moves through her hair, back and forth, the rhythm of it like breathing.

"We're having a baby," he whispers, and stops. Starts again. "I'm—" his breath shakes, just slightly. "I'm so—"

He doesn't finish.

She understands everything he doesn't finish.

"I know," she whispers back.

She falls asleep with his hand in her hair and doesn't dream of anything.

She wakes to ginger tea on her nightstand.

Ginger tea, which she has not asked for, which she didn't know was in the apartment, which is apparently what you're supposed to drink for first trimester nausea and which Soobin has clearly researched in the seventy-two hours since she told him, because of course he has, because there is no version of a thing she needs that he doesn't immediately move to provide. There is also a sleeve of crackers. A banana. A small folded note in his handwriting: eat before you stand up. body needs it first. trust me.

She eats the crackers before her feet touch the floor. The nausea, when she stands, is slightly less devastating than yesterday. She credits the crackers. She would like to not credit him for this but she does.

She pulls his hoodie over her head — it's hers now in every practical sense, has been hers for so long she can't remember which specific act of theft initiated it — and pads out to the apartment.

He is at the dining table.

This is not unusual. He is often at the table in the mornings, coffee to his left, something open on his laptop. The domestic geometry of him in Lia's apartment — the apartment she's been living in alone since January, the one he gradually filled with his presence the way weather fills a room — stopped being remarkable to her months ago. She walks past him toward the kitchen without really registering him.

Then she registers what's on the table.

She stops.

Laptop open — property listings, multiple tabs, each one a different apartment in the city, prices and square footages visible from here. A notepad covered in his handwriting — addresses, travel times, proximity notes. A printed city map with circles drawn in blue pen around specific neighborhoods, each one annotated in his small precise script.

She crosses to the table slowly. Picks up the map without sitting down.

good school district, one circle reads, in his handwriting, in blue pen, drawn around a neighborhood she knows is twenty minutes from both their family homes.

park nearby. the circle next to it.

close to hospital, the third one.

She sets the map down.

Looks at him.

He looks back — unhurried, prepared, a man who has known this moment was coming and has had time to decide how he wants to inhabit it.

"We've been living together for months," he says, before she can speak. "You said yes when I needed somewhere to stay and then I just... stayed. Which isn't the same as deciding. We're going to have a baby. We graduated. It makes sense to find something that's actually ours." He turns the laptop toward her so she can see the listings more clearly. "I was looking at two-bedrooms mostly. But there's a three-bedroom—" he pulls up the tab "—good light. Room for a nursery and an office. Building is quiet. Near that park."

She stares at the screen. She stares at the map. She stares at the note on the page that says good school district in his handwriting, which means he was thinking about school districts, which means this goes further than apartment hunting, which means—

She looks down.

The notebook is under the edge of the laptop. Just the corner of it — slim black cover, edges worn soft, peeking out like it slipped during all the papers and maps and lists. She wouldn't have seen it if she hadn't been looking at the table in this specific way, standing at this specific angle.

She wouldn't have seen it.

But she does.

And he reaches for it — one small reflexive motion, hand moving toward it before he stops himself, before he makes himself go still.

She looks at his hand.

Looks at the notebook.

Looks at his face.

"What is that," she says.

He is perfectly still.

"Soobin." Her voice is quiet. Careful. The voice she uses when she already knows the answer and is giving him the chance to be the one to say it. "What is that."

He doesn't try to hide it.

That is the thing she keeps coming back to — when she reaches across the table and slides it out from under the laptop, he doesn't stop her. Doesn't move at all. Just sits with his hands flat on the table and watches her face with the complete, careful attention of a man who has catalogued every expression she makes and has prepared for most of them and is not sure, for the first time in a long time, whether he has prepared for this one.

She opens it.

His handwriting. Obviously. She'd know it anywhere — small, slanted, precise, every letter formed like it means something. She starts at the beginning because she always starts at the beginning. She needs the full shape of a thing.

The first entries are old. Months old. Some from before the party, before the snow trip, before any of it.

She hates olives. coffee iced even in winter. don't play that song — it makes her sad.

rubs her left temple when the coffee's too strong. prefers the left side of the couch — better view of the window.

She keeps reading.

ovulation window opens thursday. she has seminar until 6. dinner ready. let it happen naturally. it always happens naturally.

She stops.

Reads it again.

Her hands are very still on the pages. She can feel her own heartbeat in her fingertips. She turns the page.

don't rush. she needs to choose me.

speed up the plan. today.

she stopped at the baby clothes for four minutes. she didn't notice me counting. something shifted in her — I felt it. time to move faster.

talk to her mother about the storm forecast longer than necessary. she can't ask him to leave in that weather. she won't.

vitamins swapped week three. she hasn't noticed.

She looks up from the page.

He meets her eyes. Doesn't look away.

She looks back down.

beomgyu doesn't have girls over. he goes to them. she doesn't know that.

she said I don't know what I'd do without you when I fixed her laptop. she said it like it was nothing. it's everything. it's the whole point.

She keeps reading. She reads every page. She reads it the way you read something you know is going to change things — slowly, because speed won't help, because the point is not to finish but to understand.

The entries are not cruel.

That is the thing she keeps being caught on — they are not cruel. They are calculating and deliberate and yes, laid out in his handwriting like a blueprint she was never supposed to see — but they are not cruel. Because running alongside the strategy, threaded through every entry the same way his pinky finds hers in crowds, are the other things:

she laughs more when she eats strawberries. buy them thursday.

she was nervous before the seminar. she didn't say so. she braided and unbraided the same piece of hair four times. she's okay. she just needs someone to not make it a big deal.

she trusts me. completely. I don't know if I deserve it. I know I'm not going to stop.

she looked at me last night like she was about to say something. she didn't. I'm going to give her more time.

She closes the notebook.

Sets it on the table.

Looks at him for a long time.

His expression is the thing she keeps trying to read — waiting for the calculation, the composed certainty she'd expect from someone who kept a record like this. Instead she finds what she's been seeing more of lately and still isn't fully prepared for: fear. The real kind. The kind that doesn't have a plan behind it.

"How long," she says.

"The notebook — before the party. The period app — September. The vitamins—" he pauses "—January."

January. She takes the vitamins he sets out every morning in January. She has not once checked the label.

"And the baby," she says. The sentence she has been building toward. "Was it an accident."

The apartment is very quiet. Lia's dying succulent on the windowsill. His handwriting on the grocery list on the fridge. His running shoes by the door beside hers.

"I wasn't careful," he says. "And I knew what that could mean. And I didn't stop."

"That's not an accident."

"No," he says quietly. "It isn't."

She nods. Very slow. Her hands are folded in her lap and she is very calm in the way that comes after something enormous, when the body has no panic left and only clarity remains.

"You planned all of it," she says. Not a question.

"Yes."

"The snow trip. The storm. Beomgyu's girls. The vitamins. The condoms." She says each word clean and separate. "All of it."

"Yes."

"You were never gay."

"No."

"You let me believe it for years."

"Yes."

She looks at the notebook on the table between them. Looks at the map with its blue circles. Looks at the laptop with the three-bedroom listing — good light, room for a nursery — and the park nearby and the good school district and the proximity to the hospital.

She thinks: he has been building this for years. She thinks: I have been living inside the house he built without seeing the walls. She thinks: I am pregnant and the father planned it and I am sitting here and I cannot locate the thing inside me that is supposed to be furious and only can find things that are warmer and more complicated and much harder to act on.

"Why are you not apologizing," she says.

"Because I'm not sorry for loving you," he says. "I'm sorry I was too afraid to just say it. Too afraid you'd pull away if you knew I wanted more than you'd decided I was allowed to want. I should have told you years ago. I'm sorry for that." He holds her gaze — steady, open, stripped of everything careful for once. "I'm not sorry for being here. I'm not sorry for the baby. I'm not sorry for any of the things I did to take care of you — those were real. Every one of them was real."

"The notebook is real too," she says.

"Yes," he says. "That's real too."

She stands up. Crosses to the window. Looks at the campus below — students passing, ordinary morning, the world continuing without awareness of the conversation happening in this apartment. She stands there long enough that she hears him stand behind her, hears him cross the room, feels him stop a careful distance back — not reaching, not closing the gap, just present, the way he is always present, the patient orbit of a planet that has been circling the same sun for years.

"My father," she says to the window. "He's going to—" she stops. Her father's voice in her head, the formal disappointed register. "He's going to have a lot to say."

"I know," Soobin says behind her. "I'll be there when you tell him."

She almost laughs. "Of course you will."

She turns around. He's right there — close but not crowding, giving her exactly the amount of space she needs, because he always gives her exactly the amount of space she needs, because he has studied her preferences with the precision of someone who has been in love for four years and has no intention of making a mistake at the finish line.

She looks at his face.

She looks at the notebook on the table.

She looks at the laptop with the three-bedroom and the good light.

"Show me the apartment," she says.

He goes absolutely still.

"The three-bedroom," she says. "The one with the park nearby."

He crosses to the laptop — and his hands, she notices, are not entirely steady when he pulls up the listing. She files that away. Holds it close. The unsteady hands are the most honest thing in this room.

She sits beside him at the table and looks at the apartment on the screen — high ceilings, good light, a room that could be anything — and feels the anger and the love and the complicated truth of two people who have been building something together without both of them knowing it.

"We need to talk about all of it," she says quietly. "The real talk. Not just the apartment. Everything in that notebook. What trust looks like going forward. What you owe me and what I'm willing to accept." She looks at him. "And I need you to understand that finding this—" she touches the notebook cover "—when I'm already terrified and pregnant and haven't called my father yet — it's a lot."

"I know," he says. "I know it is."

"But I'm still here," she says.

He looks at her. Really looks.

"I know," he says, softer this time. Like a man receiving something he wasn't sure he'd earned.

She turns back to the screen. Looks at the apartment. The park. The school district circled in blue pen.

"Tell me about the park," she says.

And he does.

She calls her mother first.

From the bedroom, door closed, Soobin in the kitchen making the ginger tea he's been making every morning for three days now, the sounds of him moving through the apartment she shares with Lia — Lia who is eight hours away in a hospital waiting room texting her updates about her mother's recovery, Lia who said when she called last week you sound different, you sound like someone who's figured something out, which she denied and which was not entirely a lie and not entirely the truth either.

Her mother answers on the third ring, warm and slightly breathless.

"Hey, baby. I was just thinking about you—"

"Mom." She stops. "I have something to tell you."

The particular silence of a mother calibrating. Then, soft: "Okay."

"I'm pregnant."

A pause — not shock, not panic — a long exhale that sounds like the releasing of something held tightly for a long time. "Oh, sweetheart."

"I know."

"How far?"

"Early. Just weeks."

"And Soobin."

She closes her eyes. "How did you know it was Soobin."

Her mother makes a sound — gentle, wry, the sound of a woman who has known something for years and has been waiting with extraordinary patience for the rest of the world to catch up. "I've known since you were both eighteen and you fell asleep on his shoulder at Christmas dinner and he didn't move for four hours because he didn't want to wake you." A pause. "I've been waiting a long time for you two to figure it out."

She laughs — short, wet. "Mom."

"Is he there?"

"In the kitchen."

"Of course he is." Unmistakable warmth. Then: "And you're keeping it."

Not a question. Her mother has always known her better than she knows herself, which is a quality she is beginning to recognize in more people in her life than she previously accounted for.

"Yes," she says. "We're keeping it."

Her mother is quiet for a moment. Then: "Your father will be difficult. He'll make it about propriety and expectations and what the family looks like from the outside. And then he'll hold his grandchild for the first time and forget every word of it." She pauses. "Soobin's a good man. I saw how he looked at you at that Christmas dinner. Knew then."

She wipes her face with the back of her wrist. "You never said anything."

"You weren't ready to hear it," her mother says simply. "Now you are."

She calls her father from the couch. Soobin sits beside her — not close enough to crowd, just there, the solid warm fact of him, his hand resting near hers on the cushion without touching.

Her father answers on the second ring.

The conversation is exactly what she expected — his voice going formal and careful, the specific silence of a man reorganizing something enormous inside himself, the pointed questions about plans and stability and what this means for her career trajectory and whether she has thought about — yes, she has thought about it, she's thought about little else for three days, yes he's staying, yes he has a position, yes they're looking at apartments, yes she's finishing what she needs to finish.

There is a long silence near the end.

"He was at the graduation dinner," her father says finally.

"Yes."

"He answered my questions well."

She glances at Soobin. Soobin does not react, which is its own kind of reaction. "Yes."

"I want a proper conversation with him," her father says. "Not at a restaurant. In person. At home."

"Okay."

Another pause. Then, rough at the edges — her father's version of undone: "I love you. We'll figure the rest out."

She hangs up. Sits for a moment. Lets out the breath she's been holding since she dialed.

Soobin's hand finds hers on the cushion.

"Well?" he says quietly.

"He wants to meet with you. Properly. He said you answered his questions well at the dinner." She looks at him. "You knew he was going to ask you things at that dinner."

"Yes," he says.

"You prepared."

"Yes."

She nods slowly. "Of course you did."

His thumb moves — one slow circle on the back of her hand. She doesn't pull away.

"I know this is a lot," he says. "I know it's—"

"It's a lot," she agrees. "And we're going to have a very long conversation about all of it. About the notebook and the vitamins and what honesty looks like going forward. I'm not — I'm not pretending none of that happened." She looks at him. "But I'm also not leaving. And I'm keeping the baby. And I want to see the three-bedroom." She squeezes his hand once, brief. "That's all I know tonight."

He looks at her for a long moment. Something settles in him — she can see it, the slow exhale of a man who has been bracing for an impact that landed differently than expected.

"Okay," he says. Quiet and real. "That's enough."

That night she wakes at 2am and can't go back to sleep.

Soobin is behind her — arm over her waist, breathing slow and even, the particular weight of him that she has gotten so used to that the nights he isn't there have started feeling like something missing rather than something normal. She lies still and stares at the wall of her room — the room she shares with Lia, who is getting better at her mother's bedside eight hours away, who texted today: mom had a good day. also you're going to tell me everything when I'm back and I mean everything.

She thinks about everything.

The notebook. The blue pen circles on the map. The vitamins she took every morning without checking. The condoms she stopped tracking because he said he'd handle it and she trusted him the way she trusts weather — not because it's infallible but because fighting it has never been a useful response.

She thinks about four years of him. Every braided hair. Every 2am ramyeon delivery. Every time he fixed a problem before she'd finished naming it, every careful touch that she filed under safe because the label she'd given him made safe the only category available. She thinks about a man who has been in love with her since they were nineteen and expressed it in the only language he trusted — action, proximity, permanence — because words without a plan behind them felt too risky to say.

She thinks about herself too. The times she called him when she wasn't really in crisis, just lonely. The times she let him carry things she could have carried herself because it was easier and she liked being held. The times she wore his hoodies not because she was cold but because she liked how it felt to smell like him all day and she let herself believe that was a thing without consequences. She thinks about Lia saying he's doing a lot for you and her saying he doesn't mind, he likes it, and Lia saying that's not what I asked and her changing the subject.

She has not been a passive participant in what they've built.

She has just been less aware of what she was building.

She turns over. Faces him.

He's asleep — face soft the way it gets in sleep, the careful composure of his waking hours gentled down to something younger. She looks at him for a long time in the dark. The man who tracked her cycle and planned a snowstorm and swapped her vitamins and built a floor under her feet so quietly she forgot there was ever anything else.

The man who didn't move for four hours at Christmas so he wouldn't wake her up.

The man who, somewhere in that notebook, wrote: she trusts me completely. I don't know if I deserve it.

She reaches out and puts her hand over his where it rests on the pillow between them. His fingers curl instinctively around hers even in sleep — automatic, reflexive, the body knowing what it wants before the mind catches up.

She thinks: this is real. All of it — the plan and the love and the manipulation and the four years — all of it is real, and real things are complicated, and complicated things are not the same as wrong, and she is going to have to spend a long time figuring out where exactly the line is between what she forgives and what she holds onto as important.

She also thinks: he is going to be an extraordinary father. She knows this the way she knows the left side of the couch is hers — not because anyone decided it, just because it became true.

She closes her eyes.

In the morning there will be ginger tea and an apartment listing and a call to schedule with her father and a very long conversation she owes both of them. There will be decisions and complications and the ongoing project of figuring out who she is in a life she didn't entirely choose and didn't entirely not choose.

But right now it is 2am and his hand is around hers and the room smells like cedar and something faintly warm and familiar and she is tired and pregnant and has found out more truth in one day than she can fully process and she is going to sleep.

She is going to sleep and in the morning things will still be complicated and she will still be here.

That's enough for tonight.

That is, she thinks, as her breathing slows and the dark closes in warm around her — enough.

౨ৎ prev ✧ next — 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝑒𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉: 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝑒𝓈𝓉

౨ৎ tag open: @black-startxt @buttersoob @idkguyslma @toru-saki @amelie-sama-blog @binniesbabe @ravenslocked @usuallyunlikelyfox @whoreforjongho

🩷 𝓊𝓅𝒹𝒶𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒾𝓀𝑒𝓈

𝓌𝑒𝓁𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓇𝓃𝑒𝓇 ♡

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

✧𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 → [𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒]

✧ 𝓊𝓅𝒸𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒿𝑒𝒸𝓉𝓈 → [𝓈𝑜𝑜𝓃]

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

𝓊𝓅𝒸𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝓰 ꒰ა𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒲𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒶 𝒞𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇-𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓂໒꒱ 𝒸𝒽𝑜𝒾 𝓈𝑜𝑜𝒷𝒾𝓃 × 𝒻𝑒𝓂!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 ໒꒱ Hogwarts AU

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓇 ✧ ɞ˚‧｡⋆

The snow doesn't let up for days—thick white layers piling higher on the porch roof, wind rattling the shutters at night like impatient guests. Inside the house everything feels suspended: warm air thick with the smell of Mom's cooking (chicken stew one night, beef and barley the next), wood smoke from the fireplace, the faint lavender she keeps in every drawer. The radio plays low oldies in the background most afternoons; the TV flickers with holiday reruns in the evenings. Time blurs—meals, board games, Mom's stories about when they were small, quiet moments when Mom steps out to check on neighbors or run errands in town.

They don't talk about it—the night they crossed the line, the way their hands find each other under blankets, the stolen kisses in the hallway when Mom's in the kitchen, the way Soobin's mouth finds her neck in the pantry while she's reaching for spices, the slow, heated makeouts on the couch after Mom goes to bed.

It just… happens.

Morning after morning she wakes up with his arm around her waist—spooned against his chest in her childhood bed—his breath warm on her neck, hand splayed possessive over her stomach like he's claiming something he's always wanted. She never tells him to leave. He never asks.

Afternoons they bundle up—scarves, coats, boots—and walk the yard or the quiet street, snow crunching underfoot, breath fogging between them. Sometimes they throw snowballs again—laughing, chasing—until she tackles him into a drift and they end up kissing slow and deep in the cold, snow melting in their hair.

Evenings are quieter—Mom watching from the kitchen doorway sometimes, eyes soft and knowing, never saying a word but smiling when she thinks they don't see. Soobin notices—always notices—catches Mom's gaze and gives her that small, polite nod like he's asking permission he already has.

One night after dinner—Mom clears the table, says she's "turning in early"—they end up in her room again. Door locked. Lights off. Just moonlight and the glow from the hallway nightlight under the door.

They start slow—kissing on the bed, clothes still on—then faster—hoodie shoved up, leggings tugged down, his sweats pushed to his thighs. She straddles him—sinking down slow—gasping at the stretch, the fullness, the way he fills her so completely she feels it in her chest.

"Fuck—so big," she breathes—voice wrecked—hips rocking once, twice. "Every time… feels like the first."

Soobin groans—hands gripping her hips—guiding her rhythm. "You take me so good—every inch—fuck—ride me—harder—"

She does—hips slamming down, grinding deep, clit rubbing against his pelvis on every stroke. They come together—her clenching hard around him, him spilling inside her with a choked moan—sweaty, trembling, tangled.

After—always after—he cleans her gently with a warm cloth from the bathroom, kisses her thighs, her stomach, her mouth. Pulls her against his chest, arm tight around her waist, hand splayed over her stomach like always.

They don't talk about what it means.

They just keep going—kisses in the hallway, hands under blankets, sex in her bed when the house is quiet—pretending it's casual.

The kitchen is bathed in pale winter light—sun weak behind thick clouds, snow still blanketing everything outside like a heavy quilt. Mom's at the stove stirring oatmeal—cinnamon and brown sugar bubbling softly, the smell warm and familiar—while the radio hums low with some old folk tune. She's in her favorite sweater, hair pulled back loose, apron tied around her waist like armor for the day.

She's been watching them since breakfast—quietly, carefully, the way mothers do when they think no one notices. The way Soobin refilled her daughter's coffee mug before she even asked. The way his hand brushed her lower back when he passed behind her to grab plates. The way she leaned into him—just a fraction—when they laughed at the same stupid joke on the radio.

Mom doesn't say anything at first. Just stirs. Tastes. Adds a pinch more cinnamon. But her eyes flick—quick, soft—every time they move in sync.

She turns off the burner, ladles oatmeal into three bowls, sets them on the table. Then—casual, almost too casual—she speaks.

"You two have been… close lately."

She freezes mid-reach for the brown sugar—spoon hovering. Soobin pauses too—hand on the back of her chair like he was about to pull it out for her.

Mom keeps her tone light—warm—but there's that mom-edge underneath, the one that sees everything.

"I mean… closer than usual. Not that I'm complaining. It's nice seeing you both so comfortable. Like old times, but… different."

She sets the milk jug down—gentle clink—then looks at Soobin directly.

"You're good to her, Soobin. Always have been. But I'm her mom. I notice things."

Soobin meets her gaze—calm, steady, no flinch. "I know. And I'd never hurt her. Not ever."

Mom nods—slow—eyes softening. "I believe you. I've always believed you."

She turns to her daughter—reaches across the table, squeezes her hand once.

"I just want you happy. Both of you. Whatever this is… or isn't… I'm not blind. And I'm not mad. Just… be careful. With each other. With your hearts."

Her daughter swallows—cheeks pink—nods small. "We are, Mom. Promise."

Mom smiles—small, knowing—pats her hand, then Soobin's too.

"Good. Now eat before it gets cold. And Soobin—extra brown sugar. I know you like it sweet."

Soobin laughs—quiet, relieved—takes the bowl she slides him. "Thanks, Auntie."

Mom waves it off—already turning back to the stove—but her smile lingers.

They eat—quiet at first—then conversation drifts back to safe things: Mom's neighbor's frozen pipes, the bake sale tomorrow, whether the snow will stop before New Year's.

But Mom keeps watching.

Subtle glances.

Soft smiles when Soobin tucks a strand of hair behind her daughter's ear without thinking.

When he refills her water glass before she asks.

When she leans into his shoulder—just a little—while laughing at something he said.

Mom doesn't comment again.

Doesn't need to. She sees.

And she approves—quietly, carefully—because she's always liked Soobin.

Always trusted him with her girl.

Even if she suspects—deep down—that "just friends" stopped being true a long time ago.

She sips her coffee—hides her smile behind the mug.

And lets them keep pretending for now.

The days blur soft and slow—snow still falling in lazy drifts, the house wrapped in that insulated hush where time feels optional. Mom comes and goes—bake sales, neighbor visits, quick errands—leaving pockets of quiet where it's just them. Soobin moves through the space like he's always belonged: refilling the wood rack before anyone asks, wiping counters after meals, folding blankets that get left on the couch. He never announces it. He just does it.

She notices—how could she not?—but she doesn't comment. Not yet.

He notices everything about her.

Morning three: She rubs her left temple when the coffee's too strong. He switches to half-decaf the next day without a word. She doesn't notice the swap at first—just sips, sighs content, headache gone by noon.

Afternoon four: She curls tighter under the throw blanket when the radiator clanks and cools. He adds another log to the fire before she even shivers. When she looks over—curious—he just shrugs. "Drafty spot. Figured it'd help."

Evening six: She hums off-key while washing dishes—some pop song stuck in her head. He starts humming the same tune the next morning while making toast. She freezes mid-bite, stares at him. He meets her eyes—innocent—and keeps humming. She laughs—soft, surprised—then joins in. Off-key harmony in the kitchen at 8 a.m.

Night eight: She twists her hair around her finger when she's tired but fighting sleep. He reaches over—casual—takes the strand from her fingers, twirls it once himself, then tucks it behind her ear. She blinks—startled—then relaxes into the touch. He doesn't say anything. Just keeps reading the book he borrowed from Mom's shelf.

Day nine: She prefers the left side of the couch when they watch movies—closer to the window, better view of the snow. He sits there first the next afternoon—leaves the right side open. She settles beside him without thinking, thigh pressed to his, head eventually dropping to his shoulder. He drapes an arm along the back—fingers brushing her hair every few minutes—still watching the screen like nothing's happening.

Soobin keeps his notebook tucked deep in his duffel—black moleskin, edges worn—pages filled in neat, small handwriting. He adds entries late at night when she's asleep:

"Rubs left temple when coffee's too strong. Switch to half-decaf." "Prefers left side of couch. Better snow view. Sits there first now." "Twists hair when tired. Fix it for her—calms her faster than she realizes." "Hums off-key when relaxed. Join in. Makes her laugh every time." "Leans into me more when Mom's watching. Still thinks I'm just being nice." He closes the notebook each time—quiet snap—slides it back under folded clothes at the bottom of the bag.

She never sees it.

But she feels the way he anticipates her—coffee, blanket, hair, seat, everything.

She tells herself it's just Soobin being Soobin.

Perfect best friend.

Always knowing.

Always there.

Always safe.

They're tangled in the guest bed—her back to his chest, his arm draped over her waist, hand resting warm on her stomach under the borrowed tee she stole from his bag. She's awake—has been for a while—listening to his steady breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against her back. His hand twitches once—sleep reflex—fingers curling slightly against her skin.

She shifts—small, careful—turns in his arms until they're face to face. His eyes open slowly—dark, sleepy, adjusting to the low light. He doesn't speak. Just watches her—quiet, patient—like he's been waiting for this moment all night.

She exhales—soft, shaky—fingers tracing the line of his collarbone through the thin fabric of his tee.

"Soobin…"

He hums—low, encouraging—hand sliding up her back in slow circles.

She swallows. "I need to say something. And… don't laugh. Or get weird. Okay?"

He nods—once—thumb brushing her spine. "Okay."

She takes another breath—eyes searching his face. "I know you're bi. Or… something. You never get awkward. Never correct me when I assume. And… I get it. I do. But why didn't you ever just tell me? We're besties, Binnie. We tell each other everything. Or… I thought we did."

Soobin doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away. His hand keeps its slow circles on her back—calm, steady. He looks at her—really looks—eyes soft in the moonlight.

"I never told you because… it didn't change anything," he says quietly. "You trusted me. You let me close. If I'd said something—anything—it might've made things weird. And I didn't want weird."

She frowns—small, confused. "But… you could've told me. I wouldn't have cared. I mean… I like you and if you're bi, or gay, or whatever… I just want to know where we stand. Because right now it feels like I'm… pushing you into something you might not actually want."

Soobin's hand stills on her back. He exhales slow—almost a sigh—then pulls her closer, forehead pressing to hers.

"You're not pushing me," he whispers. "I'm right here. Wanting this. Wanting you. Every kiss. Every touch. Every time I'm inside you. That's not confusion."

She searches his eyes—guilty, hopeful, confused. "But… you never dated. Anyone. Guy or girl. You always said it wasn't worth it. And when I talked about my exes, you'd just… listen. Rate their jawlines. Their arms. Like you were… helping me shop for them."

He smiles—small, almost sad. "I was. But being close to you—being the one you came to, the one you trusted—that is worth more than any relationship I could've chased."

She swallows—throat tight. "So… you're not… gay?"

He doesn't answer yes or no.

Just kisses her—slow, deep—hand sliding up to cradle the back of her neck.

"For now, I'm yours," he whispers against her lips. "That's all I know. That's all that matters."

She exhales—shaky—nods against his mouth. "Okay. Okay."

He kisses her again—deeper—rolling them so she's under him, bodies aligning perfectly. His hand slips under her tee—palm flat on her stomach—then higher, cupping her breast, thumb brushing her nipple slow and deliberate.

She arches—gasping—legs parting instinctively. "Soobin…"

He kisses down her neck—open-mouthed, sucking lightly. "Let me show you. How much I want this. How much I want you."

She nods—frantic—hands tugging at his tee. "Yes—please—show me."

He pulls back just enough to yank his shirt off—then hers—skin on skin, warm and electric. His mouth finds her breast—sucking hard, tongue swirling—while his hand slips between her legs, fingers finding her wet and ready, rubbing slow circles over her clit.

She moans—loud, broken—hips bucking up. "Fuck—yes—don't stop—"

Just keeps worshipping—mouth on her breasts, fingers inside her, thumb on her clit—until she's trembling, gasping, coming hard around his fingers with a muffled cry into his shoulder.

He kisses her through it—slow, deep—then pulls back, eyes dark and hungry.

"My turn," he whispers.

She nods—still shaking—pushes him onto his back.

And they keep going—slow, intense, filthy—pretending it's just stress.

The snow finally slows on the last day—thin flakes drifting lazy now, sky pale gray and heavy. Mom hugs them both too tight at the door—first her daughter, then Soobin, holding on a second longer like she's memorizing him. "Drive safe," she says, voice thick. "And come back soon. Both of you." She squeezes Soobin's arm once more—eyes soft, knowing—then lets them go.

The drive back is quieter than the drive there—snow melting on the roads, slush splashing under the tires, heater humming steady. She stares out the window most of the way—cheek against the glass, hoodie pulled up over her head—replaying the last ten days in her mind: stolen kisses in the pantry, slow mornings in bed, his mouth between her legs on the guest room floor, the way he looked at her when he thought she was asleep. She doesn't speak much. Neither does he. Just soft music, occasional small talk about the weather, his hand resting on her thigh when the road is straight.

They reach campus by evening—lights twinkling in dorm windows, slush piled along sidewalks, air sharp with cold and exhaust. He pulls into her building's lot first—parks, kills the engine. Silence settles heavy.

She unbuckles—slow—turns to him. "Thanks for the ride. And… everything."

He nods—small smile. "Anytime."

She hesitates—hand on the door handle—then leans over, kisses him quick, soft. "See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," he says—voice low. "Tomorrow."

She gets out—grabs her bag from the trunk—waves once before disappearing into the building.

Soobin watches her go—until the door shuts behind her—then exhales long and slow. He doesn't drive away right away. Just sits—hands on the wheel—staring at the empty spot where she stood.

Back at his apartment—Beomgyu's out somewhere, lights off—he drops his bag by the door, shrugs off his jacket, heads straight to his room. The suitcase thumps against the wall. He sits on the edge of the bed—pulls the black moleskin notebook from the bottom of the bag.

Flips to the last used page.

Pen in hand.

He writes—neat, small letters:

"Don't rush. She needs to choose me."

Underlines it once—twice.

Then closes the notebook.

Slides it back into the bag—deep, hidden.

He exhales again—leans back on his hands—stares at the ceiling.

Gives her space. Because she asked for it—without asking.

Because she still hesitates every time they get close—guilt flickering in her eyes like she's afraid she's forcing him.

He lets her keep believing.

For now.

Because the longer she believes it—the longer she thinks she's the one pushing—the more she'll lean into him to "make it right."

The more she'll choose him.

Without realizing she's already chosen.

He smiles—small, private—in the dark.

Then stands, grabs his phone and texts her: Home safe. Sleep well. See you tomorrow?

Her reply comes quick: Yeah. Tomorrow. Night, Binnie.

He sets the phone down—screen up—watches the message glow for a second.

Then turns off the light.

Lies back on his bed—alone.

And waits. Patient. Certain.

Because she's coming back.

She always does.

And when she does—he'll be ready.

Her apartment feels smaller than she remembers—Lia's side empty and tidy, plants watered by the neighbor before she left, the faint smell of old coffee lingering in the air. The window above the couch is cracked open; cold campus wind slips in, carrying the distant sound of students laughing somewhere down the block. Snow has melted into gray slush outside, streetlights buzzing early in the dusk. The radiator clanks once—warm air puffing out—then settles.

She drops her bag by the door—still in Soobin's navy hoodie, sleeves bunched at her elbows—kicks off her boots, and collapses onto the couch. The cushions sink under her weight; she pulls her knees up, wraps her arms around them, stares at the blank TV screen like it might give her answers.

The last ten days replay in fragments: his mouth on her neck in the pantry while Mom hummed in the kitchen, slow morning sex in her childhood bed with snow tapping the window, his hand on her lower back every time they passed each other in the hallway, the way he looked at her when she woke up tangled in his arms—like she was the only thing that mattered.

And now she's back.

Alone.

Reality crashes in hard.

She presses her forehead to her knees—breathes slow, shaky.

What the hell am I doing?

She's sleeping with her best friend. Her gay best friend. The one who's always been safe—always listened to her rant about guys, rated their jawlines like it was a hobby, never once got jealous, never once made her feel like she had to hide anything. The one who let her think he liked boys so she could be close without risk. The one who's now… inside her. Multiple times. Coming in her. Holding her after like it's normal.

She feels sick—guilty, confused, turned on all at once.

He's gay. Or bi. Or… something. And I'm using him. Like some confused experiment. Like he's my personal stress relief toy because he's too nice to say no.

She groans—low, muffled—digs her fingers into her scalp.

Maybe he's exploring. Maybe he's confused. Maybe he's always been curious and I'm just… convenient. The safe girl who won't judge. The one who already trusts him completely.

The thought makes her stomach twist harder.

She grabs her phone—scrolls through old texts without thinking. His name pops up—simple messages from the last ten days:

Morning. Coffee's on. Mom's making cinnamon rolls again. You okay? You were quiet at breakfast. Come back to bed. It's cold without you.

She stares at the last one—sent two mornings ago—feels tears prick her eyes.

He's too good. Too perfect. And I'm ruining it. Turning him into something he's not.

She drops the phone—curls tighter—tries to breathe.

Maybe I should stop. Tell him it was a mistake. Go back to normal. Best friends. No sex. No kissing. No waking up with his arms around me like I belong there.

But the thought makes her chest ache—sharp, sudden—like losing something she didn't know she had.

She presses her palms to her eyes—hard—until spots dance behind her lids.

He never says no. Never stops me. Never looks uncomfortable. Just… wants it. Wants me. Or says he does.

She exhales—shaky—looks at the ceiling.

What if he's not gay? What if he never was? What if I just… assumed? And he let me?

The idea feels impossible.

Terrifying.

Because if he's not gay—if he's straight, or bi, or whatever—then everything changes.

And she's not sure she's ready for that.

Not sure she wants to lose the safety of thinking it's just… temporary. Just stress. Just exploration.

She curls tighter—hoodie sleeves over her hands—tries to sleep.

But sleep doesn't come easy.

Because every time she closes her eyes, she sees him—his mouth on her, his cock inside her, his arms around her after—and wonders what the hell she's doing.

And why she doesn't want to stop.

The city outside hums low—distant car horns, wind rattling the window frame—but inside it's quiet except for Lia's voice crackling through the speaker.

Lia's tone is soft but sharp—concerned, curious, the way it always gets when she knows something's off.

"Okay, spill. You've been back three days and you sound like you're spiraling. What happened at your mom's? You were all 'everything's fine' in the texts, but I'm not buying it."

She exhales—long, shaky—rubs her forehead. "It's… Soobin."

A pause. Then Lia's voice drops lower. "What about Soobin?"

She hesitates—fingers twisting the hoodie strings. "We… hooked up. A lot. Like… every day. Multiple times. And it wasn't just drunk or stress. It was… intentional. Slow. Intense. And he… he wanted it. Kept saying he wanted it. Wanted me."

Lia whistles low—soft. "Okay. Wow. That's… a development. So the 'gay best friend' label is… off the table?"

She winces—voice small. "I don't know. That's the thing. I still think he's gay. Or… mostly gay. He never corrected me when I assumed. Never once. He talks about guys the same way he talks about girls—like it's all just… aesthetics to him. Jawlines, shoulders, whatever. And he never dated anyone seriously. That one guy in high school—Jihoon? Prom? Then nothing. Ever. So I thought… safe. No risk. But now…"

Lia's quiet for a second—processing. "Now he's fucking you like he's been waiting years for it."

"Yeah." She laughs—hollow. "And he's so… good at it. Like he knows exactly what to do. Where to touch. How to make me lose my mind. And after—he takes care of me. Cleans me up. Holds me. Kisses my forehead. Tells me he wants it. Wants me. But… what if he's just confused? Exploring? Using me as… safe territory? Because I'm the one person who'd never judge him?"

Lia exhales—slow. "Okay. Let's unpack that. First: he's not confused. Confused guys don't drive eight hours in a blizzard to spend ten days at your mom's house, sleep in your bed every night, and fuck you like they're trying to imprint on your soul. Confused guys don't look at you like you hung the moon when you're stealing their hoodies. That's not confusion. That's… obsession. In the best way."

She groans—drops her forehead to her knees. "But he never said he wasn't gay. Never corrected me. Not once. Even when I straight-up asked him if he was bi, he just… dodged. Said he was 'here.' With me. Wanting this. What does that even mean?"

Lia's voice softens—gentle. "It means he's letting you keep believing whatever makes you feel safe. Because if he tells you he's straight—or bi, or whatever—he's scared you'll pull away. That you'll think 'oh shit, this is real now.' And he's not willing to risk that. So he's giving you the out: 'I'm gay-ish, so this is just stress relief, no strings.' But he's still all in. He's just waiting for you to catch up."

She's quiet—long. Then, small: "I feel like I'm using him. Like he's too good to say no, and I'm… pushing boundaries he might not actually want crossed."

Lia's tone turns firm—loving. "Listen to me. If he was uncomfortable, he'd stop. Soobin's not the type to suffer in silence. He'd tell you. Gently. But he hasn't. He's leaning in. Hard. So maybe… stop assuming he's gay. Stop assuming he's confused. Start assuming he's been in love with you for years and finally got the chance to show it."

She exhales—shaky—rubs her eyes. "I don't know how to do that."

"You don't have to know yet," Lia says softly. "Just… watch him. Really watch. The way he looks at you. The way he touches you. The way he stays even when he could leave. If he's gay, he's doing a hell of a job faking straight. But if he's not… then you're not using him. You're giving him exactly what he's wanted."

Silence stretches—long, heavy.

She nods—even though Lia can't see.

"Yeah."

She ends the call—sets the phone down—stares at the ceiling.

The apartment feels too quiet.

Too empty.

She misses him already.

And the guilt is still there—small, nagging—but quieter now.

The apartment bathroom is steamy from the shower—mirror fogged, air thick with the smell of her vanilla body wash and Lia's citrus shampoo. The overhead light buzzes faintly; the small window is cracked, letting in cold night air that curls around their ankles. Music plays low from Lia's phone on the counter—some chill R&B playlist she swears "sets the mood for getting ready."

Lia's perched on the closed toilet lid, legs crossed, scrolling through her phone for outfit inspo while she waits. She's already dressed—black mini skirt, cropped sweater, silver hoops, hair in loose waves. Effortless. Confident.

She steps out of the shower wrapped in a towel—hair dripping, skin pink from the hot water—still looking a little lost. She's been quiet since the call with Lia yesterday, thoughts spinning in circles around Soobin, the snow days, the sex, the guilt, the want.

Lia looks up—smiles soft but firm. "Okay, first rule: no overthinking tonight. We're going out to have fun, dance, drink something stupidly sweet, and maybe flirt with a cute senior or two. No Soobin thoughts allowed after 9 p.m."

She laughs—small, shaky—grabs her towel tighter. "Easier said than done."

Lia stands—sets her phone down—steps closer. "Then let's make it hard to think about him. Come on. Let me see what we're working with."

She pulls her toward the bedroom—closet doors already flung open, clothes spilling out onto the bed from earlier panic-packing. Lia rifles through hangers—quick, decisive—pulls out a black slip dress with thin straps and a low back.

"This," she says, holding it up. "Sexy but classy. Shows off your shoulders and legs. He won't be able to stop staring."

Reader blinks—takes the dress. “You think?”

She blinks—takes the dress. "You think?"

"I know." Lia turns her toward the full-length mirror. "Try it on. Trust me."

She drops the towel—slips the dress over her head. It falls smooth and cool against her skin—hugging her curves, dipping low in the back, hem hitting mid-thigh. She smooths it down—turns side to side—sees herself: hair damp and wavy, cheeks still flushed from the shower, eyes wide and uncertain.

Lia steps behind her—hands on her shoulders, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "See? Hot. Confident. Untouchable."

She exhales—small laugh. "I feel… exposed."

"Good. That's the point." Lia reaches for the makeup bag on the dresser—pulls out a dark red lipstick. "This shade. Bold. Makes your lips look kissable as hell. And if you end up making out with someone tonight—Yeonjun or whoever—you'll leave a mark he won't forget."

Her cheeks heat. "I'm not… I don't know if I'm ready for that. I just want to… test it. See if I can feel something for someone else. To know if this thing with Soobin is real or just… proximity."

Lia nods—soft, understanding—uncaps the lipstick, turns her to face her. "Then tonight's your test. No pressure. If you feel nothing for Jungkook—or anyone—that's your answer. If you do… well, then you'll know. But either way, you're not doing anything wrong. You're figuring yourself out. And Soobin… if he's really your best friend, he'll understand."

She applies the lipstick—slow, careful—then steps back. "There. Perfect. Now mascara, a little shimmer on your collarbones, and those silver hoops. You're gonna walk in there like you own the room."

She looks in the mirror again—lips red and bold, eyes brighter, dress hugging every curve. She exhales—nods once.

"Okay. Let's do this."

Lia grins—proud—grabs her jacket. "That's my girl. Now come on. Jungkook's already asking if you're coming. Time to see what you really feel."

She takes one last look at herself—heart pounding—then follows Lia out the door.

Into the night. Into the test.

Hoping—against hope—that it proves something.

Anything.

The party house is a narrow off-campus duplex on the edge of the quad—porch light flickering yellow, music thumping muffled through the walls, laughter and shouts spilling out every time someone opens the front door. Snow has melted into dirty slush on the steps; someone's already lost a shoe in the puddle by the railing. The air smells like spilled beer, cheap cologne, and the faint pine from someone's half-hearted attempt at holiday decor.

Lia pushes the door open first—warm air rushes out like a hug, carrying the scent of bodies, perfume, and something vaguely like pizza. She grabs her wrist, pulls her inside before she can second-guess.

"First rule," Lia says over the noise, leaning close so she can hear, "no thinking. Just vibes. Drink something sweet, dance like an idiot, and if Jungkook shows up looking like a snack, you decide what you want. No pressure. No Soobin in your head after the first shot."

She nods—small, nervous laugh—lets Lia drag her through the crowded living room. The space is packed: people spilling across the couch, dancing in the cleared center, red cups everywhere. String lights hang crooked across the ceiling, casting pink and purple flickers over sweaty faces and too-loud conversations. Someone's already yelling "Shots!" from the kitchen.

Lia doesn't stop—heads straight for the makeshift bar on the dining table: bottles of vodka, rum, tequila, a half-empty jug of cranberry juice, and a stack of plastic cups. She pours fast—two drinks, bright red and strong—hands one over.

"Vodka-cran. Sweet enough to trick you into thinking it's juice. Drink half, then breathe. We're warming up."

She takes the cup—fingers brushing Lia's—sips. It's cold, tart, burns a little going down. She grimaces, then takes another sip. Warmth spreads fast—chest first, then stomach, then limbs.

Lia watches her—smiling small. "Better?"

"Yeah," she admits—exhales slow. "Feels… good. Normal."

Lia clinks her cup against hers. "To normal. And to maybe figuring out if your heart's actually in trouble or just confused."

She laughs—real this time—takes another sip. The music shifts—something bass-heavy, bodies moving closer on the makeshift dance floor. Lia grabs her hand again.

"Come on. Let's dance first. Burn off the overthinking."

They weave through the crowd—hips bumping, laughter spilling—until they find a small pocket of space near the speakers. Lia starts moving—easy, confident—hips rolling to the beat. She hesitates—then lets the alcohol and the rhythm pull her in. She sways at first—awkward—then closes her eyes, lets her body loosen. The beat sinks into her bones; she starts moving—slow, then freer—hips swaying, arms lifting, hair swinging.

Lia cheers—loud—grabs her waist, spins her once. "There she is! Look at you—hot as hell."

She laughs—breathless—spins back, arms around Lia's neck for a second. "This feels… good. Like I can breathe."

Lia grins—leans close. "Told you. Now drink up. Jungkook's over by the kitchen—tall, black hair, leather jacket. He's already looking this way. Your move whenever you're ready."

She glances over—spots him: senior, broad shoulders, easy smile, eyes already on her. He lifts his cup in a small toast—confident, interested.

Her stomach flips—not bad, just… different.

She looks back at Lia—takes another long sip.

"Okay," she says—voice steadier. "Let's see what happens."

Lia squeezes her hand once—proud. "That's my girl. No pressure. Just fun. And if it feels like nothing… then you've got your answer about Soobin."

She nods—finishes her drink—sets the empty cup on a nearby table.

The music pulses louder.

Bodies move closer.

And she lets herself get pulled into the crowd—dancing, laughing, warming up—trying to feel something.

Lia's dancing a few feet away—laughing with a group of girls, hips rolling easy to the beat, throwing her head back when the drop hits. She sways on her own for a bit—arms loose, eyes half-closed—trying to lose herself in the rhythm, trying to feel something other than the constant pull toward Soobin that's been sitting heavy in her chest since she got back.

Then Jungkook appears—tall, black hair falling into his eyes, leather jacket open over a fitted black tee, easy smile that shows dimples when he spots her. He's been watching from the kitchen doorway for a while; now he weaves through the crowd—smooth, confident—until he's right in front of her.

"Hey," he says—voice low but clear over the music, leaning close so she can hear. "You're the girl from econ last semester, right? The one who always had the best notes."

She blinks—surprised he remembers—then smiles small. "Yeah. And you're Jungkook. The senior who always sat in the back drawing instead of taking notes."

He laughs—bright, genuine—rubs the back of his neck. "Guilty. But I passed, so… worth it."

The song shifts—something slower, bass heavier, bodies pressing closer on the dance floor. Jungkook tilts his head toward the center.

"Wanna dance? Or is this spot your territory?"

She hesitates—half a second—then nods. "Yeah. Let's dance."

He takes her hand—gentle but sure—pulls her into the crowd. They find a small pocket of space—bodies bumping from all sides—and start moving. He's good—hips rolling smooth to the beat, hands light on her waist at first, then lower when she doesn't pull away. She matches him—hips swaying, arms lifting, letting the music pull her in.

The alcohol helps—makes her bolder. She turns—back to his chest—grinds slow against him. He groans low—barely audible over the music—hands sliding to her hips, guiding her rhythm. His breath is hot on her neck; she feels him harden against her ass—thick, insistent.

"Fuck," he murmurs in her ear—voice rough. "You feel good."

She smiles—small, testing—grinds harder once. "You're not bad yourself."

He laughs—low, warm—spins her around so they're face to face again. His hands slide up her sides—thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the dress—then back down to her hips. She loops her arms around his neck—pulls him closer—lets their bodies move together, heat building fast.

The song drops harder—bass thumping through her chest. She closes her eyes—lets herself feel it: his hands, his body, the way he moves like he knows exactly what he's doing. It's good—hot, easy—but something's missing. No butterflies. No ache in her chest. Just… physical. Nice. Safe.

Jungkook leans in—mouth brushing her ear. "You're killing me here. Wanna get out of this crowd? Somewhere quieter?"

She opens her eyes—looks at him: handsome, confident, interested. Her stomach flips—but not the way it does with Soobin. Not the same pull. Not the same need.

She smiles—small, apologetic—shakes her head gently. "Not tonight. Just… dancing. For now."

He nods—no push—smiles back. "Fair. I'll take what I can get."

They keep dancing—bodies close, rhythm easy—until the song fades into the next.

She feels… lighter. Clearer.

The party has reached that perfect chaotic peak—lights dimmed low, bass thumping so hard it rattles her ribcage, bodies pressed tight on the makeshift dance floor, laughter and shouts cutting through the music in sharp bursts. She's in the thick of it now—sweaty, loose from the drinks, dancing with Jungkook and a loose circle of friends. His hands are on her hips—light but confident—guiding her rhythm while she grinds back against him, letting the alcohol and the beat drown out the constant loop of Soobin in her head.

Lia's nearby—dancing with some guy from her lit class—throws a quick wink and a thumbs-up when their eyes meet. She laughs—breathless—spins once under Jungkook's arm, hair whipping across her face.

Then she sees him.

Soobin.

He's just stepped through the front door—hood up against the cold, jacket zipped to his chin, snow still melting in his hair and on his shoulders. He shakes it off once—scans the room—eyes finding her almost instantly.

Her heart slams—hard, sudden—smile breaking across her face before she can stop it. Relief floods her—sharp, warm—like she's been holding her breath for days and didn't realize. She lifts her hand—small wave—ready to push through the crowd, ready to drag him into a hug, ready to—

Then she sees who he's talking to.

Jihoon.

Tall, dark hair, easy smile—the same Jihoon from high school prom, the one Soobin took as his date, the one he kissed (or didn't kiss well, according to old stories). They're standing near the kitchen doorway—close, heads bent together to talk over the music. Soobin's laughing—head tipped back, dimples deep—hand resting light on Jihoon's arm for a second while he says something. Jihoon grins back—leans in closer—says something that makes Soobin laugh again, louder.

Her stomach drops—cold, sudden.

They look… comfortable. Familiar. Like two people who have history. Like two people who might have more than history now.

She freezes—smile fading—hand dropping to her side.

Jungkook notices—leans close, mouth near her ear. "You good?"

She doesn't answer right away. Just watches Soobin—watches him nod at something Jihoon says, watches Jihoon's hand brush Soobin's shoulder, watches Soobin not pull away.

Jealousy hits fast—hot, sharp, ugly. She's never felt it like this with him. Never had to. He was always safe. Always hers. Always the one who didn't want anyone else.

But now?

Now he's laughing with Jihoon—smiling that same smile he gives her—and she feels it crack open inside her chest.

She turns back to Jungkook—fast—grabs his jacket collar with both hands, pulls him down, kisses him hard.

Jungkook startles—then kisses back—hands sliding to her waist, pulling her flush against him. It's messy—open-mouthed, tongues sliding, teeth grazing lips—right in the middle of the dance floor. People whoop around them—someone whistles—someone yells "Get it!"—but she doesn't care.

She kisses Jungkook like she's trying to prove something—hands in his hair, body grinding against his, letting him deepen it, letting him bite her bottom lip, letting him groan into her mouth when she rolls her hips against him.

But her eyes flick open—just once—searching the room.

Soobin's still there—talking to Jihoon—but he's looking now.

Eyes locked on her.

On them.

His smile is gone—face blank for half a second—then something flickers in his expression. Something dark. Something sharp.

She kisses Jungkook harder—eyes closing again—pretending she didn't see it.

Pretending she doesn't care.

Pretending the jealousy burning in her chest isn't screaming his name.

Jungkook pulls back first—breathless, grinning. "Damn. Where'd that come from?"

She forces a laugh—shaky—shrugs. "Just… felt like it."

He leans in—mouth brushing her ear. "Wanna get out of here? My place is close."

She hesitates—glances back toward Soobin.

He's still watching—jaw tight, eyes unreadable.

She turns back to Jungkook—smiles—small, forced.

"Yeah. Let's go."

She lets him take her hand—lets him pull her toward the door—lets him think he's winning.

But every step feels heavier.

Because Soobin's eyes are on her back.

And she feels them like a brand.

The jealousy burns hotter and she hates that she likes it.

Soobin stands near the kitchen doorway, Jihoon still talking beside him—something about old high school memories, a laugh that dies halfway when Soobin's attention snaps across the room.

He sees her.

First the wave—small, bright, her face lighting up like she's been waiting for him all night. His chest does that familiar flip—warm, automatic, the one he's felt since they were kids. He starts to lift his hand in return, mouth already curving into the smile he saves only for her.

Then Jungkook.

The senior steps in—close, confident—hands on her waist, pulling her into the dance. She doesn't resist. Doesn't hesitate. Just turns into him, hips rolling smooth, arms looping around his neck. Soobin's hand freezes mid-air.

The smile drops.

Jihoon keeps talking—voice fading to background noise. Soobin doesn't hear it anymore. All he sees is her—head tipping back when Jungkook says something in her ear, lips parting on a laugh, body pressing flush against another man's in the middle of the dance floor.

Something hot and sharp coils in his gut—tight, sudden, unfamiliar.

Jealousy.

Raw. Ugly. Immediate.

He's never felt it like this. Not with her exes. Not with anyone. He's always been the safe one—the listener, the advisor, the one who rated jawlines and shoulders and told her "he's got nice arms, though" while swallowing the ache because she was happy. Because she was his in the ways that mattered most: trust, closeness, time. No one else got that.

But now someone else has his hoodie on her body, someone else has his lips on her neck in his mind, someone else has her grinding against him like she did with Soobin just days ago.

His jaw clenches—hard enough to ache. Fingers curl into fists at his sides. He feels the muscle tick in his cheek. Jihoon notices—trails off mid-sentence.

"You good, man?"

Soobin doesn't answer. Just watches.

She kisses Jungkook—hard, open-mouthed, hands in his hair, body arching into him like she's trying to prove something. The crowd whoops—someone whistles—music swallows the sound, but Soobin hears it all anyway. Every wet slide of lips, every muffled moan he imagines, every second she chooses someone else in front of him.

The coil in his gut tightens—burns.

He's not angry at her. Not really.

He's angry at himself—for letting her believe he's safe. For letting her think he's gay. For letting her think this is just stress relief, just exploration, just temporary.

Because if she knew—if she really knew—he's been straight for her all along, been waiting, been planning, been starving for years—

She wouldn't be kissing Jungkook right now.

She'd be kissing him.

He feels the shift inside—something dark, possessive, patient cracking open just a little wider.

Jihoon touches his arm—light, concerned. "Bin? You look like you're about to murder someone."

Soobin forces his face smooth—small, tight smile. "I'm fine."

He's not.

He watches her pull back from Jungkook—lips red, cheeks flushed—glances toward the door. Their eyes meet.

For half a second he lets her see it—the darkness, the hunger, the jealousy he's never shown her before.

Then he looks away—deliberate—turns back to Jihoon, laughs at something he didn't hear, claps a hand on Jihoon's shoulder like nothing's wrong.

But inside—he's burning.

Because she's leaving with Jungkook.

Because she's testing something.

Because she's still not sure.

And because he knows—deep down—she'll come back.

She always does.

He just has to wait.

And make sure the next time she chooses—there's no question who she's choosing.

He slips his phone out—texts her one word, casual, like it's nothing:

Have fun.

Then pockets it.

Turns back to Jihoon.

Smiles.

And waits.

Because jealousy isn't weakness.

It's fuel. And he's just getting started.

The door to Jungkook's apartment clicks shut behind them—soft, final. The hallway light from outside cuts off; the room is dark except for the blue glow of a neon sign on the wall (some retro arcade thing that says "GAME OVER" in flickering pink and cyan) and the faint city light leaking through half-closed blinds. It smells like clean laundry, his cologne (something woody and sharp), and the faint trace of weed from earlier. Music plays low from a Bluetooth speaker in the corner—slow R&B, bass-heavy, the kind that vibrates through the floor.

Jungkook doesn't waste time.

He backs her against the wall the second the door locks—hands on her hips, mouth crashing into hers. The kiss is hungry—open, wet, tongues sliding fast. She kisses back—hard—hands fisting in his leather jacket, pulling him closer. It's good—hot, urgent, bodies pressing tight. His hands slide up her sides—thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the dress—then down to grip her ass, lifting her slightly so her back arches against the wall.

"Fuck," he mutters against her lips—breath hot, ragged. "Been wanting this since I saw you dancing."

She moans—soft—when his thigh pushes between her legs, pressing firm against her core. The seam of her dress rides up; she grinds down instinctively—clit throbbing through the thin fabric of her underwear. "Then take it."

He groans—low, approving—lifts her easily, her legs wrapping around his waist. He carries her to the bedroom—short hallway, door kicked open—drops her onto the bed. She bounces once—laughing breathless—then pulls him down on top of her.

Clothes come off fast—his jacket hits the floor, her dress yanked over her head, his shirt tugged off, pants shoved down. No bra. Panties stay on for now—black lace, already damp. He's hard—cock thick and flushed, curving up against his stomach when he kneels between her legs.

She looks at him—eyes dark, hungry—reaches for him. "Come here."

He does—covers her body with his—mouth finding hers again while one hand slips between her thighs, pushing the lace aside. Fingers slide through her folds—wet, slick—two pushing inside slow, curling against that spot that makes her gasp.

"Fuck—you're soaked," he growls—kissing her neck, sucking hard. "All this for me?"

She nods—frantic—hips rocking into his hand. "Yeah—want you—inside—"

He pulls his fingers out—reaches for the nightstand—grabs a condom, rolls it on fast. Then he's back—nudging her entrance—slow at first—head breaching, stretching her open inch by thick inch.

She gasps—sharp—back arching. "Fuck—you're big—"

He groans—hips pausing halfway—letting her adjust. "You're tight—god—feel so good around me."

"More," she breathes—legs wrapping tighter. "All of it—please—"

He sinks in fully—deep, hard—until he's buried to the hilt. They both moan—loud, broken—bodies trembling together. He stays still for a second—forehead pressed to hers—breathing her in.

Then he moves—slow pulls out, hard thrust in—setting a rhythm that's deep, punishing, making the headboard tap the wall. She cries out—nails raking down his back—hips bucking up to meet every slam.

"Fuck—yes—harder—pound me—"

He does—hips snapping faster—deep, relentless thrusts that hit that spot over and over. His hand slips between them—thumb finding her clit, rubbing tight circles while he fucks her raw.

"You like that?" he growls—mouth on her neck, biting lightly. "Like my cock stretching you? Filling you up? Gonna come all over me?"

"Yes—fuck—yes—don't stop—gonna come—"

He speeds up—thumb grinding harder—cock slamming deep. She breaks—shuddering hard—walls pulsing around him, gushing wet as she comes with a loud, broken cry. He keeps thrusting—chasing his own—until he slams in one last time—groaning low as he comes inside the condom, hips jerking with each pulse.

They collapse—sweaty, shaking—bodies tangled, breaths shared.

He pulls out slow—kisses her shoulder, her neck, her mouth—soft now.

"You okay?" he asks—voice rough but gentle.

She nods—smiling small—curls against his chest.

"Yeah. Really good."

They lie there—quiet, warm—snow still falling outside.

And she feels… satisfied.

Physically.

But the ache in her chest—the one that looks like Soobin's face—doesn't go away.

It gets louder.

She closes her eyes—pretends it's nothing.

Pretends Jungkook is enough.

But deep down—she knows he's not.

And the guilt—the confusion—the want—comes rushing back twice as hard.

Because tonight proved one thing:

No one else feels like Soobin.

The cab ride back to her apartment is silent except for the low hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the driver's radio. Streetlights streak past in orange blurs; snow has turned to dirty slush on the sidewalks, reflecting wet and dull under the lamps. Jungkook had offered to walk her up—kissed her once more at the door, soft and lingering—but she'd smiled, said "I'm good, thanks," and slipped inside alone.

Now the apartment door shuts behind her—click too loud in the quiet. Lia's side is dark; she's out for the night. The living room lamp is still on from earlier—warm yellow circle on the couch where she sat talking to Lia on the phone. She drops her bag by the door, kicks off her boots, shrugs out of her coat. The slip dress clings—damp with sweat from dancing, from Jungkook's hands, from the heat of bodies pressed too close. She feels sticky, used, hollow.

She walks to the bathroom—flicks on the light—winces at her reflection: lipstick smudged, mascara slightly run from the cold air outside, hair tangled, eyes glassy and tired. She turns on the shower—hot as it'll go—steps in still wearing the dress for a second before peeling it off, letting it drop wet to the tile.

The water burns—good burn—scalding away the sweat, the smell of Jungkook's cologne, the faint taste of him still on her tongue. She scrubs—hard—soap lathering pink then white then pink again from where her lipstick bled. Her skin reddens under the heat and pressure, but she keeps scrubbing until it hurts.

She turns off the water—stands dripping—stares at the drain where the water swirls away.

The guilt hits harder now—cold, sharp, no alcohol to blunt it.

She wraps a towel around herself—walks to the bedroom—drops onto the bed still damp. The sheets are cold. Empty. She pulls the blanket over her head—curls into a ball—tries to breathe.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

She fucked Jungkook—hard, fast, good—came twice, left marks on his neck, let him come inside the condom while she moaned his name. It felt… fine. Nice. Physically satisfying. He was attentive, confident, knew what he was doing.

But it wasn't Soobin.

No butterflies. No ache in her chest when he looked at her. No feeling like the world narrowed to just his hands, his mouth, his voice whispering her name like a secret. With Jungkook it was just… sex. Bodies. Release.

With Soobin it's… everything.

She presses her palms to her eyes—hard—until stars burst behind her lids.

He's gay. Or bi. Or confused. And I'm using him. Letting him fuck me because he's safe. Because he won't leave. Because he'll always say yes. Because I'm too scared to admit I want him—really want him—and I'm terrified he doesn't want me back the same way.

The guilt twists deeper—hot, nauseating.

He let me believe he was gay for years. Let me lean on him. Let me cry on his shoulder about boys. Let me steal his hoodies and sleep in his bed and never once pushed. And now I'm pushing him into sex—into something he might not even want—because I'm selfish and lonely and he's the only one who's ever made me feel safe.

She curls tighter—knees to chest—tears slipping hot down her cheeks.

What if he's straight? What if he's always been straight? What if he let me think he was gay so he could stay close without risk? What if I'm the one who ruined everything by assuming?

She chokes on a sob—quiet, muffled into the pillow.

Or what if he is gay—and he's just… letting me use him? Because he loves me as a friend. Because he can't say no. Because he's too good. Too kind. Too Soobin.

The thought makes her feel sick—physically ill—like she's betrayed him. Betrayed them.

She grabs her phone—screen lighting her tear-streaked face—opens their text thread.

Last message from him: Have fun.

No emojis. No follow-up. Just that.

She stares at it—thumb hovering over the keyboard—types:

I'm sorry.

Deletes it.

Types:

I miss you.

Deletes it.

Types:

Can we talk tomorrow?

Hesitates—then hits send.

The message delivers.

No dots. No reply yet.

She drops the phone—curls back into the pillow—tears falling faster now.

The apartment stays quiet.

And the guilt sits heavy—cold, unrelenting—making her question everything.

Who he is.

Who she is.

What they've done.

And whether she's brave enough to face the truth.

Or if she'll keep hiding behind the lie she built.

Because if she lets herself believe he wants her—really wants her—then she has to admit she wants him back.

And she's not sure she's ready for what comes after that.

So she cries—quiet, alone—until exhaustion pulls her under.

Dreaming of Soobin's hands.

Soobin's mouth.

Soobin's voice whispering I want you.

And wondering—if it's real—why it hurts so much to hope.

Soobin's apartment is dark when he gets back—Beomgyu's out again, probably at some late-night study group or bar crawl, lights off, only the blue glow from the streetlamp outside filtering through the blinds. He drops his keys on the counter—soft clink—sheds his jacket, hangs it on the hook by the door. The silence feels heavier than usual. No music. No TV. Just the low hum of the fridge and the distant thump of bass from a party somewhere down the block.

He doesn't turn on the lights.

Walks straight to his room—sits on the edge of the bed—pulls out his phone.

His last text still sits there: Have fun.

No follow-up. No "I'm home." No "miss you." Nothing.

He stares at the screen—thumb hovering—then opens the group chat from the party. Someone posted a story clip: blurry, colorful, dance floor chaos. He scrolls—finds her. Dancing. Laughing. Jungkook behind her—hands on her hips, mouth close to her ear, bodies moving together like they've done it before.

His jaw tightens—muscle ticking once.

He watches the clip twice—three times—zooming in on her smile, the way her head tips back when Jungkook says something, the way her hips roll against him like she did with Soobin just days ago in her mom's guest room.

The coil in his chest pulls tighter—hot, sharp, possessive.

He sets the phone down—careful, deliberate—leans forward, elbows on knees, face in his hands for a long second.

Then he stands.

Walks to his desk—opens the bottom drawer—pulls out the black moleskin notebook. Flips to the last page.

Pen in hand.

He writes—neat, controlled:

"Went to party with Lia. Danced with Jungkook. Kissed him in front of everyone." "Looked at me when she saw me. Kissed him harder." "Testing. Still thinks I'm gay/confused. Still thinks this is safe." "Jealousy works. She's pushing back because she's scared of wanting me for real." "Next: give space. Let her feel the absence. Let her miss what only I give her." "Don't text first tomorrow. Wait for her to reach out. When she does—pull her closer. Make her choose." He underlines the last line twice.

Closes the notebook.

Slides it back into the drawer—locks it.

Then he grabs his phone again—opens her chat.

Types:

Home safe.

Hits send.

Types:

Saw you dancing. Looked happy. Glad you're having fun.

Deletes it.

Finally types nothing.

Turns the screen off.

Sets the phone face-down on the nightstand.

Lies back on the bed—fully clothed—stares at the ceiling.

He doesn't sleep right away.

Just lies there—breathing slow, controlled—feeling the burn in his chest.

Not anger.

Not heartbreak.

Control.

Because she kissed Jungkook tonight.

Because she wanted him to see.

Because she's testing—pushing—trying to prove something to herself.

And every push she makes only pulls her closer to the truth.

That no one else feels like him.

No one else will ever feel like him.

He smiles—small, private—in the dark.

Then closes his eyes.

Tomorrow she'll wake up. Tomorrow she'll feel the absence. Tomorrow she'll reach for him—because she always does.

And when she does—he'll be ready.

Beomgyu kicks the apartment door open with his heel—hands full of convenience store bags, snow still melting off his boots onto the entry mat. The place is dark except for the blue glow from the TV in Soobin's room, door cracked just enough to spill light into the hallway. He hears the low hum of a game soundtrack—some RPG Soobin's been grinding for weeks—and the occasional soft click of a controller.

"Yo, Bin! I got ramyeon, those spicy chips you pretend not to like, and beer. Your favorites, you ungrateful bastard."

No answer. Just the faint sound of the game pausing, then footsteps.

Soobin appears in the doorway—hair messy, hoodie zipped halfway, eyes tired but sharp. He leans against the frame, arms crossed.

"You're late. Thought you were crashing at Yeonjun's."

Beomgyu shrugs—drops the bags on the kitchen counter with a rustle. "Yeonjun's place was a zoo. Too many people. Needed quiet. And I missed your ugly face."

Soobin snorts—small, tired—walks over, starts unpacking the bags without being asked. He pulls out the ramyeon packs, lines them up neatly on the counter like always. Beomgyu watches him for a second—notes the way his shoulders are tense, the way his jaw keeps flexing like he's chewing on something he won't say.

"You good?" Beomgyu asks—casual—leaning back against the counter, arms crossed to mirror him.

Soobin doesn't look up. "Yeah. Just tired."

"Bullshit." Beomgyu grabs two beers from the bag, cracks one open, hands the other to Soobin. "You've been weird since you got back from her mom's place. Like… extra quiet weird. Not your usual 'I'm thinking about life' quiet. This is 'I'm about to snap someone's neck' quiet."

Soobin takes the beer—twists the cap off slow—takes a long pull. "I'm fine."

Beomgyu snorts. "You're a terrible liar. Always have been. Spill."

Soobin leans back against the counter opposite him—beer bottle dangling from his fingers. He's quiet for a long beat—staring at the floor like it owes him answers.

"She went to a party tonight," he says finally—voice low, flat. "With Lia. And Jungkook."

Beomgyu raises an eyebrow—takes a sip. "Jungkook? The senior with the leather jacket and the face card? Yeah, he's been circling her for weeks."

Soobin's jaw ticks—once, sharp. "She kissed him. In the middle of the dance floor. Looked right at me while she did it."

Beomgyu whistles low—slow. "Damn. That's… bold."

Soobin takes another long pull from the beer—sets it down harder than necessary. "She's testing something. Trying to prove she doesn't need me. Or that she can feel something else. Or… I don't know. Punishing me for something she thinks I did."

Beomgyu studies him—head tilted. "You're jealous."

Soobin doesn't deny it. Just looks at him—eyes dark, tired. "Yeah. I am."

Beomgyu exhales—leans forward, elbows on the counter. "You've been in love with her since we were kids, man. You let her think you were gay for years so she'd keep you close. You planned the whole snow trip. You've got that notebook like a fucking stalker. And now she's kissing Jungkook in front of you? Of course you're jealous."

Soobin's hand tightens around the bottle—knuckles white. "I'm not mad at her."

"You're mad at yourself," Beomgyu says quietly. "Because you let her believe the lie. Because you thought keeping her safe meant keeping her blind. And now she's blind—and she's running straight into someone else's arms to prove she doesn't need you."

Soobin closes his eyes—exhales slow. "I know."

Beomgyu watches him—softens a little. "So what's the move?"

Soobin opens his eyes—looks at him—something cold and certain flickering there.

"I give her space. Let her feel what it's like without me. Let her miss me. Let her realize no one else makes her feel safe the way I do. No one else anticipates her. No one else stays."

Beomgyu nods—slow. "And if she comes back?"

Soobin's smile is small—sharp. "Then I stop letting her believe the lie. I tell her the truth. All of it. And I make sure she never looks at anyone else again."

Beomgyu raises his beer—small toast. "To the endgame."

Soobin clinks his bottle against it—quiet, resolute.

"To the endgame."

The apartment feels too big now—Lia's side untouched, plants still green but starting to droop slightly at the edges, the faint echo of her laugh missing from the air. Lia left yesterday morning—bag slung over her shoulder, eyes red from crying on the phone with her dad. "Mom's tests came back worse than they thought," she'd said, voice cracking. "I don't know how long I'll be gone. Could be weeks. Maybe longer." She hugged her tight—too tight—whispered "text me if you need anything, okay? And don't do anything stupid with Soobin while I'm gone," then disappeared into the cab.

Three days pass like slow-motion.

She wakes up expecting a text from Soobin—something simple, like Morning or You okay after last night? Nothing. She stares at the blank screen for too long, then forces herself to shower, make coffee, scroll through lecture notes she hasn’t touched since before the break. She types Hey to him three times. Deletes it every time. Goes to bed early—phone face-down on the nightstand—tells herself it’s fine. He’s giving her space. She asked for space. This is what space feels like.

She wakes up expecting a text from Soobin—something simple, like Morning or You okay after last night? Nothing. She stares at the blank screen for too long, then forces herself to shower, make coffee, scroll through lecture notes she hasn't touched since before the break. She types Hey to him three times. Deletes it every time. Goes to bed early—phone face-down on the nightstand—tells herself it's fine. He's giving her space. She asked for space. This is what space feels like.

Day 2: The silence stretches. No messages. No calls. No random memes or voice notes at 2 a.m. like usual. She checks the chat history—last thing was his Have fun from the party night below it, hours later, the one-word reply. Home safe. Nothing since. She walks around the apartment in circles—picks up her phone, puts it down, picks it up again. Types You alive? Deletes it. Types Miss talking to you. Deletes it. Ends up crying in the shower—hot water hiding the tears—hating how pathetic it feels. Hating that she misses him this much after three days. Hating that she still doesn't know what he is—gay, bi, straight, confused—and hating that she slept with Jungkook to "test" it and felt nothing but empty afterward.

Day 3: The apartment is too quiet. She skips classes—lies on the couch in his hoodie (the one that still smells faintly of him), scrolls through old photos: them at the shelter with Max, them laughing in the snow at her mom's, him asleep on her shoulder during a movie night. She cries again—quiet, exhausted tears—then stares at the ceiling until her eyes burn.

She finally types—fingers shaking:

Hey. You okay? Haven't heard from you.

Sends it.

Waits.

The message delivers—no read receipt.

She sets the phone down—curls into the hoodie—breathes in the fading coconut scent.

Lia texts once—update on her mom: Stable but still in hospital. I'll be here at least another week. You good?

She replies: Yeah. Just… figuring things out. Take care of your mom. Love you.

No mention of Soobin.

No mention of the silence.

No mention of how the apartment feels like it's missing half its heartbeat.

She lies there—hoodie pulled over her head—phone clutched in her hand.

Waiting.

Hoping.

Dreading.

Because if he doesn't reply soon—if this silence stretches any longer—she's going to have to admit what she's been avoiding:

She's not just attracted to him.

Soobin's phone buzzes once—sharp, cutting through the quiet of his dark apartment. He's sitting on the edge of his bed—still in the same clothes from the party—elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it might give him answers. The screen lights up his face—blue-white glow catching the sharp line of his jaw, the tension in his mouth.

Her message:

Hey. You okay? Haven't heard from you.

He stares at it—longer than he should.

No emojis. No "miss you." No explanation. Just that—small, careful, reaching out after three days of silence.

His thumb hovers over the keyboard—types I'm fine—deletes it.

Types I'm not okay. I watched you kiss him. I wanted to break something.—doesn't even finish the sentence before deleting.

He exhales—slow, controlled—leans back until his shoulders hit the headboard. The room is too quiet. No music. No game in the background. Just the hum of the fridge and the faint thump of his own heartbeat in his ears.

He feels it—the jealousy still burning low in his gut, mixed now with something colder: calculation.

mething.

He opens the notebook app on his phone—same one synced to the moleskin he keeps hidden—adds a new entry:

"3 days silence. She texted first. 'You okay?' No explanation. No 'sorry.' Testing my reaction. "Response: short. Warm. Reassuring. No questions. Let her come to me. Let her feel the pull." "Next: give just enough to remind her what only I give. Then pull back again. Make the absence hurt more." He closes the app—locks the phone—sets it face-down on the nightstand.

Then he types—careful, measured:

Yeah. Just busy. You good?

Sends it. Waits.

The three dots appear—disappear—appear again.

He doesn't smile but something in his chest loosens—just a fraction.

Because she's texting back.

Because she's reaching.

Because even after Jungkook—even after trying to prove she doesn't need him—she's still coming back.

To him.

Like always.

He leans his head back against the headboard—closes his eyes—lets the silence settle again.

And waits.

Because the game isn't over.

It's just entering the next phase.

And he's been planning this one for years.

The apartment door knocks—three soft raps—exactly one week after the party night. She's on the couch in leggings and his faded navy hoodie (the one she never gave back), hair in a messy bun, half-watching some mindless drama on her laptop, half-staring at nothing. The sound startles her—heart jumping into her throat. Lia's still gone—mom's condition stabilized but not improving fast enough to leave—so the place has been hers alone. Quiet. Empty. Too big.

She pauses the show—sets the laptop aside—stands slowly. Her bare feet pad across the cold floor. She doesn't check the peephole. She knows who it is.

She opens the door.

Soobin stands there—hood up against the late winter chill, snowflakes melting in his dark hair, cheeks pink from the cold, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. He looks… normal. Tired around the eyes, but calm. Like he's been waiting for this moment all week.

"Hey," he says—voice low, rough around the edges.

She stares—chest tight—then steps aside. "Come in."

She steps aside—lets him in—closes the door behind him. He shrugs off his jacket, hangs it on the hook, kicks snow off his boots.

The living room lamp casts a soft yellow pool across the couch where they sit—close, but not touching yet. Soobin is slouched forward, elbows on knees, head bowed like the weight of exhaustion is literally pressing him down. His eyes are half-lidded, dark circles carved deep, hair falling into his face in messy strands. He looks smaller than usual—smaller than she's ever seen him—and it twists something sharp in her chest.

She sits beside him—close enough their thighs brush—watching him for a long moment before speaking.

"You look exhausted," she says quietly, eyes scanning his face. "Like you haven't slept in days."

Soobin exhales—small laugh that doesn't reach his eyes—rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah. Haven't really. Been… rough."

She frowns—steps closer, hand reaching out to touch his arm. "Why? What's going on?"

"Beomgyu. He's been bringing girls over nonstop. Soobin exhales—long, tired—rubs a hand over his face, fingers pressing into his eyes for a second like he's trying to push the fatigue away. "Yeah. It's… yeah. Every night. Loud music, laughing, doors slamming, beds creaking. I tried earplugs, the couch, even crashing at Yeonjun's one night, but his place is worse. I haven't had a full night in days. Just naps here and there. It's messing with my head."

"That sounds awful," she says, sitting beside him, knee brushing his. "Why didn't you say something sooner? I could've… I don't know, offered the couch here or something. Lia's gone for who knows how long—her mom's still in the hospital, tests keep coming back complicated. She texted this morning saying it could be another week, maybe more. The place is basically empty without her."

Soobin lifts his head slowly—gives her a tired half-smile. "I'm fine. Just need a few hours. I'll crash at home tonight. Beomgyu's probably out anyway."

She shakes her head—firm. "No. You're not going back there. Not like this. Beomgyu's been having girls over nonstop, right? Loud, no sleep, doors slamming… you said it yourself. And Lia's gone—her mom's still in the hospital, so the apartment's empty. Stay here. A couple of days. At least until you can actually sleep."

Soobin blinks—slow, surprised—then shakes his head once. "I can't do that. You've got your own stuff. Classes, space, time to think. I don't want to barge in and make everything… complicated. I've already been enough of a burden lately."

a burden. You're the one who always shows up. Always fixes things. Drives me eight hours. Makes sure I eat when I forget. Holds me when I'm falling apart. And now you're literally falling apart and I'm supposed to just… let you go back to that chaos? No."

He looks down—fingers twisting together in his lap. "I don't want to impose. You needed space after the party. After everything. I don't want to make you feel like you have to take care of me just because I'm here."

She reaches over—covers his hands with hers—squeezes gently. "I want to take care of you. For once. You always take care of me. You always put me first. Let me do it now. Please. The couch pulls out. Or Lia's room is empty—real bed, real quiet. No girls. No noise. Just sleep. Just rest. Stay. A couple of days. Until you don't look like you're about to pass out."

Soobin's eyes meet hers—tired, searching, something soft and vulnerable flickering there. "You sure? Really sure? Because if it's even a little weird for you—if you're still figuring things out—I can go. I don't want to make this harder."

She squeezes his hands tighter—leans closer. "It's not weird. It's… good. Having you here. Knowing you're safe. Knowing you're sleeping. Knowing you're not alone in that apartment with Beomgyu's chaos. Please, Binnie. Stay. I'm asking. Begging, even. Let me help you. You deserve it."

He's quiet for a long beat—eyes on their joined hands—then exhales slow, shoulders dropping like a weight just lifted.

"Okay," he says—voice rough, quiet. "A couple of days. If you're really sure."

"I am," she says—smiling small, relieved. "Come on. Let's set up the couch. Or Lia's room. Whichever you want."

He nods—stands slowly, like his body protests every movement. She stands too—leads him to the linen closet, pulls out extra blankets, pillows, a fresh set of sheets. They work together—quiet, domestic—unfolding the couch bed, spreading the fitted sheet, tucking corners, piling blankets high.

When it's done she steps back, hands on hips—looks at him.

"Bed made. Now get in it. Sleep. I'll be in my room if you need anything. Water, tea, whatever."

Soobin looks at the bed—then at her—eyes soft, grateful, exhausted.

"Thank you," he says—voice low, sincere. "Really."

She smiles—small, warm—steps closer, rises on her toes, kisses his cheek once—soft, quick.

"Sleep," she whispers. "We'll talk tomorrow. Or whenever you wake up."

He nods—leans down—kisses her forehead in return—lingering a second longer than necessary.

Then he sits—kicks off his socks—slides under the covers.

She turns off the lamp—leaves only the hallway nightlight on.

Walks to her room—door half-open.

Pauses.

Glances back.

He's already asleep—face slack, breathing deep and even, hand curled loose on the pillow.

She watches for a moment—heart twisting—then turns away.

Closes her door softly.

Curls into her own bed.

And for the first time in days—the apartment doesn't feel empty.

It feels… full.

Soobin lies on the pull-out couch in the living room—blankets piled high, pillows propped just right, the faint glow from the hallway nightlight spilling under her closed bedroom door. The apartment is silent except for the low hum of the city outside—distant cars, wind rattling the window frame, her soft breathing barely audible through the wall. He stares at the ceiling—hands folded behind his head—eyes open in the dark.

She asked me to stay.

The thought lands quiet, certain, a small victory blooming warm in his chest. Not triumph. Not yet. But progress. She saw the exhaustion he wore like a mask—circles under his eyes from three nights of deliberate insomnia, shoulders slumped from practice in the mirror—and she reacted exactly like he knew she would. Guilt. Concern. The need to help. To balance the scales. Because she's always felt like she takes more than she gives. Because he's made sure she feels that way—small favors piled high over years, never asking for much in return, always there when she needs.

Beomgyu's 'girls.' He almost smiles at that one—simple, believable, easy to plant. Beomgyu's out every night anyway—bars, friends, whatever. No girls. Never was. But she doesn't know that. She won't check. She trusts him. Completely.

And that trust is the key.

He shifts—turns on his side—stares at her door like he can see through it. She's in there now—probably curled up in his hoodie, hair splayed on the pillow, breathing deep and even. Missing him already. Feeling the empty bed. Feeling the guilt for "using" him. For the party. For Jungkook. For everything.

She thinks I'm gay. Still. The thought twists—bitter, but useful. He let her believe it. Let her assume. Because it kept her close. No barriers. No fear. Just him—safe, platonic, perfect best friend. The one who listens to her cry about boys, rates their jawlines, braids her hair, never pushes. And now she's questioning it—finally—but not enough to stop. Not enough to pull away. Because if he's gay (or bi, or confused), then this is safe. Temporary. Stress relief. No risk of losing him.

But it's not.

It never was.

He closes his eyes—exhales slow.

She'll choose me. Not because he forces her. Because he's made himself indispensable. Every favor. Every touch. Every late-night talk. Every time he anticipated her needs before she voiced them. She misses him after three days. She invites him to stay because he "needs" her. She'll keep pulling him closer—keep crossing lines—until she can't imagine life without him.

And when she finds the notebook—because she will, he'll make sure of it—she'll see the truth. The planning. The waiting. The love twisted into control.

And she'll choose him anyway.

Because she likes being taken care of.

Because she loves him—deep down—and love forgives a lot.

He feels the smile curve his mouth—small, private—in the dark.

Then he turns over—pulls the blanket higher.

And sleeps—deep, dreamless—for the first time in days.

The supermarket is bright and cold—fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, air conditioning blasting even though it's winter outside. Carts rattle past, freezers hum, the produce section smells like wet lettuce and citrus. She pushes the cart slowly down the aisle—leggings and his oversized navy hoodie (again), hair in a loose ponytail, cheeks pink from the cold walk over. Soobin walks beside her—casual gray sweatpants, black hoodie, hands in pockets—eyes scanning shelves like he's memorizing them.

They've fallen into a rhythm without discussing it: he grabs the cart handle when she slows down, she points at things she wants, he reaches for high shelves without being asked. It's quiet. Comfortable. Domestic in a way that feels new but not strange.

She stops in front of the cereal aisle—tilts her head at the boxes. "Should we get the chocolate one or the healthy one?"

Soobin glances at her—small smile. "Chocolate. You're gonna eat the healthy one once and then complain it tastes like cardboard. Might as well get what you actually want."

She laughs—soft, surprised—reaches for the chocolate box. "You know me too well."

"Years of practice," he says simply—takes the box from her hand, drops it in the cart.

They move on—pasta aisle, sauce aisle, frozen section. He adds things without asking: her favorite ice cream (strawberry cheesecake), the specific brand of yogurt she likes (Greek, vanilla, no fruit chunks), the exact kind of bread she prefers (sourdough, sliced thick). She notices—every time—but doesn't comment. Just watches him move through the store like he's done this a hundred times.

In the personal care aisle she slows—eyes on the period products shelf. Tampons, pads, liners, the usual suspects. She reaches for her regular brand—then hesitates.

Soobin doesn't.

He steps forward—calm, casual—grabs the box she usually buys, adds it to the cart without a word. Then reaches again—picks up a pack of the overnight pads she sometimes needs but forgets to buy, adds those too. Then—without breaking stride—grabs a bottle of the iron vitamins she mentioned once (months ago) that she takes when she's on her period because she gets lightheaded.

She stares—mouth open a little.

He notices—glances at her. "What?"

"You… remembered the vitamins. And the overnight ones. I mentioned those like… once. Months ago."

Soobin shrugs—small, almost shy. "You said they help. Figured we should have them on hand. In case."

She feels something warm bloom in her chest—soft, confusing. "You're… too good at this."

He smiles—small, genuine—reaches past her for the pain relievers she likes (ibuprofen, gel caps), adds them too. "Just paying attention."

They move on—checkout line, bags rustling, card swiped (he pays before she can protest). Outside the cold bites—snow turned to slush underfoot. He carries both bags—easy, no strain—walks beside her back to the apartment.

Inside—he sets the bags on the counter, starts unpacking like it's routine. She watches—leaning against the doorway—heart doing that strange flip again.

"You're always doing this," she says quietly. "Taking care of things. Me. Without me asking."

Soobin pauses—bag of apples in hand—looks at her. "Someone has to. And I like doing it."

She nods—small—steps closer. "I know. I just… sometimes feel like I don't deserve it."

He sets the apples down—turns fully to face her—hand reaching out to brush her cheek. "You do. Always have."

She leans into the touch—eyes closing for a second.

Then he steps back—smiles soft. "I'll cook tonight. You rest. Sit."

She nods—sits at the table—watches him move around her kitchen like he owns it. Pans out, ingredients lined up, knife chopping vegetables with quick, precise strokes.

She feels safe.

Cared for.

Loved.

And for the first time—she lets herself wonder if maybe he feels the same.

Even if she's still not sure what "the same" means.

He glances over—catches her staring—smiles again.

"Dinner in twenty. Stay there."

She laughs—soft.

"Okay."

And she stays.

Watching him cook.

Watching him take care of her.

Wondering how long she can keep pretending this is just friendship.

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He remembers the exact moment.

Not the first time he saw her — that was orientation week, crowded hallway, she was arguing with someone about the room assignments with the particular focused energy of a person who is always right and knows it, and he registered her the way you register weather: sudden, significant, impossible to ignore. That wasn't the moment. That was just the beginning of noticing.

The moment was a Tuesday in October of their first year. Study room on the third floor of the library, both of them there by coincidence, sitting at opposite ends of a long table with their separate materials and their separate silences until she knocked her coffee off the edge reaching for something and it went everywhere — across her notes, her laptop, her jeans — and she said a word so creative and so foul that it made him laugh out loud before he could stop himself, and she looked up at him with her jeans soaked in coffee and the look on her face shifting from mortified to surprised to something that wanted to laugh too.

He gave her his spare notes. He always had spare notes. He'd learned early that being useful was the fastest way to become necessary.

She fixed her coffee disaster. He helped without making it a thing. And then she sat back down at the same end of the table instead of the other end and said: I'm terrible with names, you're going to have to tell me yours again, and he told her and she repeated it once like she was checking the weight of it and then went back to her reading.

He walked back to his room that evening and sat on the edge of his bed and thought: that's the one. With the clarity of a person who has never been uncertain about anything important. Just: that's the one.

He didn't know what to do with that. He was nineteen and careful and his family had raised him to understand that wanting something very much was not sufficient reason to pursue it without a plan. His father built a company from nothing through patience and precision and the understanding that timing is not luck, it's preparation meeting opportunity. Soobin had absorbed that lesson at a cellular level.

So he waited. He built something first.

He was the one who refilled her water glass during long study sessions. The one who noticed she left her umbrella behind and ran it out to her. The one who remembered, without being told, that she liked her nails almond-shaped and that certain songs made her sad and that she needed twenty minutes of quiet after a hard lecture before she was ready to talk. He built himself into the infrastructure of her days piece by piece, carefully, without drawing attention to the construction.

And then one day — three months in, early December, the library closing and both of them gathering their things in the cold fluorescent quiet, she reached over and hugged him.

It wasn't a normal welcoming hug, much less a polite one. She moved closer to him as if she'd always planned to be there, her face against his collarbone, her arms around his waist, and exhaled, long and slowly and comfortably, as if something she'd been holding onto all day finally had somewhere to go.

He stood very still.

He was afraid to move, afraid to breathe wrong, afraid that any wrong motion would end it and she would step back and he would have to exist in the space where this had been.

She stayed for a long time. Long enough that his arms came up around her without him deciding to. Long enough that he felt the specific quality of her trust — total, uncomplicated, the trust of someone who has decided you are safe and means it completely.

He held her until she stepped back.

She said sorry, I'm just — it was a long day.

He said it's okay, which was the most catastrophic understatement of his life to that point because it was not okay, it was the opposite of okay, it was the thing that split his life into before and after with the clean precision of a key turning in a lock.

He walked home.

He sat in the parking garage for twenty minutes before he could make his hands stop shaking.

He thought: I cannot say anything yet. If I say anything now, she'll be careful with me. She'll create distance. She'll protect the friendship with that same total focus she brings to everything and I will be filed away under complicated and handled and the door will be not quite closed but almost.

He thought: I need to become indispensable first. I need to be so woven into her life that losing me isn't just uncomfortable, it's unimaginable.

He opened his notes app.

He typed: she likes her nails almond. coffee iced in winter. don't mention the song — it makes her sad.

The first entry.

The gay thing was her idea. He needs to be precise about this even inside his own head — he never said it, never implied it, never constructed the illusion deliberately. She arrived at it herself and he recognized immediately that it was useful and said nothing.

The specific day was a Wednesday in their second year. They were getting coffee and she was telling him about a guy from her communications seminar and he was listening with the careful attention he always brought to conversations about her life, not because he wanted to hear about other men but because she wanted to tell him and her wanting to tell him was the whole point, the trust being built one conversation at a time, and somewhere in the middle of it he made a comment about the guy's jawline being objectively strong and she stopped talking and looked at him with something clicking behind her eyes.

Oh, she said. Oh, are you— she made a gesture. Gay? Or like, bi?

He looked at her.

He thought about the hug in the library. He thought about the nineteen-year-old version of himself sitting on a bed making his hands stop shaking. He thought about what it would mean if he said no, the careful distance that would appear, the reclassification, the way she would become guarded around him in the specific way she became guarded around men she thought were interested, which was to say: polite, warm from a measured distance, nothing like the total unguarded trust of her face against his collarbone.

He shrugged. Said something noncommittal. Changed the subject.

She filled in the rest herself.

He understood immediately what it gave him: access. The particular access of a person who has been deemed safe, all the touching, all the closeness, all the late nights and the shared beds and the hoodies she stopped giving back and the way she talked to him about her body and her fear and her worst moments without filtering. He got all of it. Every piece of her that she kept in the category of too intimate for men who might want something.

He was a man who wanted everything. She just didn't know that yet.

He told himself it was harmless. He told himself he was just waiting for the right moment, that the moment would come naturally, that he wasn't deceiving her so much as allowing her to believe something comfortable while he built toward something true. He told himself a lot of things in those first years. Some of them were almost convincing.

The part he couldn't talk himself out of, late at night with the notebook open: she trusts me completely because she thinks I'm something I'm not. And I let her think it because I need her close and I am afraid of what she'll do if she finds out I've been here all along, wanting, planning, counting down.

He wrote it down. He wrote everything down. That was the discipline of it — not lying to himself about what he was doing, even if he couldn't stop doing it.

He loved her. Completely. Desperately. The real kind, the kind that builds a floor under someone's feet and calls it care. And underneath the love was the fear — the specific fear of a person whose family expressed love through provision rather than vulnerability, who grew up understanding that being needed was safer than being wanted, who had watched relationships fail for his entire childhood because someone needed and someone left and the someone who left always left because they had the option to.

He was making sure she didn't have the option.

Not through cruelty. Through the slow patient work of becoming the most necessary person in her life — the one who knew her schedule and her coffee and her cycle and her fears, the one who was always already there, the one whose absence would register as something wrong with the air itself.

He was not a good person, the way people mean it casually. He knew that.

But he loved her, the way people mean it when they mean it completely. He knew that too.

Both things were true. He had never been able to make them cancel each other out.

He knew she was ovulating.

He had known since September when he synced the app — quietly, while she was in the shower, her phone unlocked on the bathroom counter the way she always left it because she trusted him completely, and he had been tracking it since, adjusting his behavior during her windows in the subtle ways he had practiced: more touch, more warmth, more of everything that made her feel held and wanted and safe, which was the specific cocktail that had always made her lean into him rather than away.

The party was on a Friday. He checked the app Thursday night. Saw the window.

He told Beomgyu to throw the party weeks ago. Beomgyu had been talking about wanting to have people over anyway — Beomgyu rarely needed encouragement in this direction, and Soobin simply provided the timing. A large party was better than a small gathering. Enough people that the noise would be excuse enough for them to sit together, slightly apart from it all, the way they always sat slightly apart from it all, which was the dynamic he had spent years carefully cultivating because proximity in isolation had always moved things forward faster than proximity in crowds.

He didn't plan the dirty talk. That part was genuinely theirs — the escalating joke, the way they always pushed each other's limits in conversations that other people would have called outrageous but that for them was just normal, the particular latitude that came from years of being each other's most trusted person. When it started he followed it, which was not the same as initiating it, and when he leaned close to her ear and said the thing that finally made her breath hitch he did it because he felt her body shift against him and understood that she was further along than she was admitting.

The thing he said was true, by the way. Every word of it. He had been imagining it for years.

When she looked at him after — flushed, laughing it off, trying to play it casual, and said wow Soobin if I didn't know you, and trailed off, he felt the whole night change. Felt the air between them stop being hypothetical. Felt she wanted him, not only the safe version, not the label she'd given him, but him, specifically, the person who'd been sitting three feet away from her for four years waiting for exactly this.

He didn't perform calmly. He just was calm, the particular calm of a person who has been moving toward a thing for so long that arriving doesn't feel like surprise, it feels like recognition.

When she kissed him he kissed her back with everything he had.

He wasn't thinking six steps ahead in that moment. He was just there, with her, finally, his hands on her face and her breath on his mouth and four years of patient waiting dissolving into something that felt like the most natural thing he had ever done.

He was not performing when he held her after. He was not calculating when she laughed against his neck. He was just a man who loved a woman and had finally been allowed to show it, and the joy of that was clean and enormous and entirely real.

Even the good things in him were complicated. He had made peace with that.

When her phone rang — the specific emergency ringtone — he felt the shift before she did. Watched her pull away. Watched her face change from soft to alert in the space of a breath. Watched her become the person who had somewhere to be that wasn't here.

He let her go.

He walked back inside.

He stood in the wrecked apartment with Beomgyu snoring on the kitchen island and looked at the couch and felt the enormity of what had just happened settle into him like something taking root.

Then he crossed to his bedroom. Opened the closet. Looked at the suitcase — black, rolling, already packed, had been packed for days, clothes for a week and the charger and the notebook synced to her calendar — and thought: now.

He zipped it closed.

Sat on the edge of his bed.

Smiled in the darkness, and it wasn't a triumphant smile, just one of certainty. The smile of a man who has been building something for years and has finally seen that the foundation holds firm.

This is the opening, he thought. Finally.

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴

The mall was not in the plan.

That is the part he hasn't written in the notebook because it doesn't fit neatly into the language of strategy — the mall was a Tuesday afternoon errand, her shampoo and the matching conditioner, nothing significant, and then she stopped.

He was half a step behind her when she slowed in front of the new baby boutique — the grand opening banners, the Pokémon theme in the window, and right in the center of the display the Eevee onesie with the tiny ears and the paw shoes and the shorts with the little tail — and he nearly walked into her, caught himself, looked at her face instead.

She was looking at the onesie the way she looked at very few things in the world: completely, without performance, her face entirely open, the particular expression she got when something reached past whatever careful surface she kept in public and touched something underneath it. He had a whole entry in the notebook about this expression. He saw it rarely. He catalogued every instance.

She stood there for four minutes. He counted.

He had his arms around her before he fully decided to — chin on her shoulder, looking at the same window, her body leaning back into him slightly the way it always did now, automatic and warm and trusting — and he looked at the tiny paw shoes and felt something unlock in his chest that he didn't have a word for.

He had always planned the baby. It was in the notebook — planned for the future, the distant hypothetical future, the thing that would come after the relationship was established and she was his in every way that mattered. It was not supposed to happen yet. He was being patient.

But standing behind her at that shop window, her weight leaning back into him, looking at Eevee paw shoes in a size that fit no one he knew yet — he felt the future arrive in the present with such force that the distinction between them stopped making sense.

He thought: I want this now. Not someday. Now.

He thought: she's ready. She just doesn't know it yet.

He thought: I might need to help her know it.

He pressed a kiss to her temple. Suggested going inside just to look.

She said yes because she always said yes to him, and he held her hand through the baby boutique and watched her touch tiny soft things with the expression that made his chest ache and thought: this is what I'm building toward. This exact thing. This is the ending.

He went home and opened the notebook.

He wrote: speed up the plan. today.

And then, underneath, in smaller letters: she'd be an incredible mother. I've known this for years. she just needs someone to show her she's ready.

He believes this. He believes it completely.

That is the most complicated true thing about him.

He goes on a Wednesday morning while she has her nine o'clock.

He knows her schedule. He has known her schedule since October of their second year when she started sharing her calendar with him so he could help her prepare for exams, and he has kept it synced ever since, updated automatically, so that at any given moment he knows exactly where she is and how long she will be there and what state she will likely be in when she comes home.

She will be in her seminar until ten-thirty. He has ninety minutes.

The pharmacy near campus is small and well-lit and he moves through it with the efficiency of someone who has visited before, which he has, not for this specifically, but for her period products, her pain relievers, the specific brand of vitamins she mentioned once being low on. He knows this aisle. He knows what she reaches for.

He picks up her period products first. The right ones — the overnight pads she always forgets, the liners, the specific brand. He knows these the way he knows her coffee order: completely, without having to think about it, the knowledge built into him over years the way language is built, structural rather than conscious.

Then he takes his time with the vitamins.

He has done his research. This is not an impulse, nothing he does is an impulse, it is a decision made over several weeks, researched carefully, crosschecked. Prenatal vitamins in the correct dosage to support fertility without announcing their purpose. Same aisle as her usual supplements. Close enough in appearance — amber bottle, similar capsule — that substituting them is a matter of placement rather than concealment. She takes what he sets out. She has always taken what he sets out. This is the trust he has built, the floor beneath her feet, and he is now standing on it.

He adds them to the basket.

He picks up the after-pill too — the expensive one, the one he told her actually works — and holds it for a moment, then pockets it on the way to the register.

He is not a monster. He knows this not because he tells himself but because he checks regularly, holds his actions up against the light and looks at them clearly. He is a man who loves a woman and has decided that the natural pace of her arriving at what he already knows — that they are each other's, that this was always where they were going — is too slow, too vulnerable to interference, too dependent on her having the freedom to choose something else. He has removed some of that freedom. Quietly. Carefully. With the conviction of a person who believes he is making a choice she would ultimately make herself, given enough time and enough safety.

He knows this reasoning is not airtight.

He knows it anyway. Holds it alongside the love, which is enormous and genuine and the truest thing in him.

He pays for the basket. Walks back to the apartment. Sets the vitamins on her bathroom shelf in the place where her old ones were, same position, same angle, and puts the old bottle in his bag to dispose of elsewhere.

He makes coffee.

She comes home at ten-forty, bag over her shoulder, hair slightly windswept, and drops into her chair at the kitchen table and says something about her seminar professor that makes him laugh, and he puts the coffee in front of her and the specific brand of biscuit she likes and sits across from her and listens to her talk.

She is so easy to love.

That is the thing he could never explain to anyone who asked, not that he would ever explain any of this to anyone who asked — but the thing underneath all the planning, the thing that makes the planning feel like devotion rather than possession: she is so extraordinarily easy to love. Every small preference, every habit, every morning routine and late-night spiral and the specific way she laughs when something surprises her. He would have loved her without the notebook. He loved her before the notebook. The notebook is just what love looks like when you're terrified of losing it.

He watches her drink her coffee.

He thinks: she'll take the vitamins tomorrow. She already trusts me with everything. This is just one more thing.

He thinks: we're almost there.

He thinks: she's going to be an extraordinary mother. She doesn't know this yet. He has known it for years.

Her father was going to be the hardest part. He knew this going in.

He had been building toward the graduation dinner for months, not just the dinner itself, the whole sequence: the thesis help, the schedule management, the way he made himself so entirely reliable that by the time the families sat down together at that restaurant, her father would already have a picture of him built from her unconscious testimony. She talked about him constantly. He knew this because Beomgyu had told him — she mentions you in every context, Bin, it's actually kind of insane — and because he had read the texts she sent to Lia in January, which he shouldn't have read but did, because he had access to her phone and used it carefully and only when he needed to know something important.

She told Lia: he knows me better than I know myself sometimes and I don't know if that's beautiful or terrifying.

He read that text three times.

He thought: she's almost there.

The dinner itself went exactly as he'd anticipated. Her father was formal and probing and smart — he respected that, genuinely, it was not performance, and Soobin answered every question with the truthful version of the answer that also happened to be the most reassuring. His plans, his income, his intentions. The position with his father's company, the apartments he was already researching, the fact that he planned to be around — phrased carefully, not possessively, as a practical reality rather than an announcement.

Her father nodded once near the end. Deliberate. The nod of a man who has made a decision and is closing a file.

Soobin didn't smile. Just held the eye contact for the appropriate beat and then looked away.

He walked back to the apartment with her afterward and she was wearing his jacket and asking about what he'd said to her father and he told her the truth — he told her the truth about most things, which was not the same as telling her everything — and she nodded and seemed satisfied and hooked her pinky through his in that old instinctive way she had, the one that had started as a crowd habit and become something else entirely, and he hooked back and they walked the last three blocks without needing to say anything.

He thought: she doesn't know she's already chosen. She thinks she's still deciding.

He thought: that's fine. She can decide at her own pace. I've built the only house available.

He is not proud of all of it. He wants to be clear about this even inside his own head —is not performative clarity, real clarity, the kind that looks at what you've done and names it without flinching. He has manipulated her. He has removed choices from her without her knowledge. He has made her dependent on him carefully and deliberately and called it love, which it is, but love is not an excuse for the method — he knows this, he has always known this, it is the thing he writes in the notebook late at night when the careful composure slips.

He writes it and keeps going anyway.

Because the fear is bigger than the conscience. The specific fear of a man who has never trusted that being wanted is the same as being stayed for — that has always been his mother tongue, the original wound, the thing his expensive family and his formal upbringing never quite healed. The fear that says: if she has the option to leave, she will. Not because she doesn't love him. Because loving someone and staying with them are different skills and people get them confused.

He is making sure they don't get confused.

That is what he tells himself.

He is not entirely wrong. He is also not entirely right. Both things are true in the specific way that the most important truths are always complicated and resist the clean version.

She comes out of the bedroom holding the positive test and his first thought is: there it is.

Not I'm surprised or I didn't expect this — there it is, the clean arrival of something he's been moving toward, the confirmation that what he built was strong enough to reach the place he was building toward. He feels it in his chest like a key turning, like a door opening, like coming home.

His second thought is: she's terrified.

He sees it in the specific quality of her stillness — the way she holds herself when something enormous has arrived and she hasn't had time to construct a response yet, the controlled surface over a current running hard underneath. He has a whole section of the notebook about her fear responses, the difference between the fear that makes her go quiet and the fear that makes her go loud and which one means she needs space and which one means she needs contact.

This is the quiet kind.

He crosses the room. Sits in front of her, lower than her, the geometry shifted so she's above him for once because he knows — he has always known — that being looked up to rather than looked up at changes the dynamic of a hard moment, gives the person you're looking up to something they need without asking.

He waits for her to speak.

She says: I'm pregnant. Her voice is steadier than she feels. He knows this because he knows every register of her voice and the steady one costs her effort right now.

He says: I know. Soft. Without apology.

She asks the question: was it an accident?, and he answers honestly, which is the first time in a long time he answers something about the plan without the careful shaping he normally applies. He says: I wasn't careful, and I knew what that could mean, and I didn't stop. And she says: that's not an accident. And he says: no. It isn't.

He watches her absorb it.

He watches her decide not to run.

He watches her ask for time and he says: take all the time you need, and means it, because he has been patient for four years and three more days is nothing, is the blink between holding breath and finally letting it out.

He holds her hand. Feels her pulse — quick, frightened, working through something enormous — and keeps his thumb over it the way he has kept his thumb over it in a hundred difficult moments, the specific pressure that says: I'm here, I'm not leaving, you can do this.

She keeps her hand in his.

That is all he needs tonight.

The three days she gives herself he fills quietly — ginger tea researched at midnight and procured by morning, crackers on the nightstand, the note because he knows she reads better than she hears when she's processing something heavy, the apartment listings pulled up and the map annotated and the notebook moved to where it could be found.

He moves the notebook deliberately. Not to expose himself, not fully, not in a way he controls, but because he understands something she doesn't yet: the discovery needs to happen on her terms to mean anything. If he tells her, it's a confession. If she finds it, it's a choice she makes. He needs her to choose knowing, not be given it.

He moves the notebook to where it can be seen if she looks closely.

And then he does the most difficult thing he has done in four years of careful planning: he waits.

౨ৎ

She finds it on a Thursday morning.

He sees her see it — watches her eyes catch the corner peeking out from under the laptop, watches the still half-second of recognition, watches her look at his hand as he moves toward it and stops himself, too slow, she's already clocked the motion.

She picks it up.

He goes completely still.

He has imagined this moment many times. He has imagined her anger — the specific kind, cold and precise, the kind she deploys rarely and devastatingly. He has imagined her walking out. He has imagined her asking him to leave Lia's apartment, the apartment he has been living in for months, and he has thought about what he would do if that happened and the answer he arrived at was: I would go. And I would come back. Because I always come back, and eventually she always lets me, and that has been the rhythm of us since the beginning and I know it the way I know her coffee order, the way I know her cycle — completely, without doubt.

What he has not imagined is what he sees.

She reads every page. He watches her face as she reads — every flicker, every tightening, every moment where she stops and he watches her absorb something specific and then keeps reading. He watches her find the ovulation entries. He watches her find the storm forecast note. He watches her find the vitamins.

He watches her find: she trusts me completely. I don't know if I deserve it.

She closes the notebook.

Sets it on the table.

Looks at him.

And her face is not what he prepared for. It is not cold or precise or devastating. It is tired and complicated and something else underneath — something that looks, if he is reading her correctly, and he is always reading her correctly — like the expression of a person who has found something that confirms what they already knew and is deciding what to do with the confirmation rather than with the surprise.

She already knew.

Not specifically, not the notebook, or the vitamins — but the shape of it. She knew and she chose not to look closely because looking closely would have required her to act on what she found and she wasn't ready to act on it and she wanted to stay in the warmth of what they had more than she wanted to examine how it was built.

He understands her so completely in this moment that it steals his breath.

She is morally gray too. That is the truth he loves about her most — she is not innocent, she has never been innocent, she has been a willing participant in something she let herself not-quite-see because it suited her, and when he finally says yes to every question she asks him, gives her every confirmation, makes himself knowable in the full complicated real sense — she still looks at the apartment listing.

Still asks about the park.

Still stays.

He crouches in front of her chair. Puts his hands around hers. Feels her pulse — still fast, still working through something enormous — and keeps his thumb there, the same pressure, the same message: I'm here. I'm not leaving. You can do this.

She doesn't pull away.

She says: I'm still here.

And he thinks: I know. You have always been here. I built toward here and you walked the whole way and neither of us fully admits that you walked it willingly.

He says: I know. Soft. Like a man receiving something he wasn't sure he'd earned.

She says: tell me about the park.

And he does.

He tells her about the park — the one with the good light in the mornings, the one near the apartment building with the quiet hallways and the room that could be a nursery or an office or both, the one he drove past twice in February to confirm it was the right choice, the one twenty minutes from both their families and close enough to the hospital and far enough from campus to feel like after instead of still. He tells her all of it, and she listens, and gradually the tension in her hands eases, and the apartment that smells like cedar and ginger tea and the particular warmth of two people who have been building a life together without naming it holds them both without asking for anything more.

Later — much later, 2am, her asleep against his side, her hand curled under his in sleep the way it always finds him — he opens the notebook app on his phone in the dark.

He types the last entry he will write for a long time:

she found it. she stayed.

she asked about the park.

that's everything. that's always been everything.

He locks the phone.

Closes his eyes.

Listens to her breathe.

౨ৎ prev ✧ next — 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝑒𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉: 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝑒𝓈𝓉

౨ৎ tag open: @black-startxt @buttersoob @idkguyslma @toru-saki @amelie-sama-blog @binniesbabe @ravenslocked @usuallyunlikelyfox @whoreforjongho @kpoploserr

🩷 𝓊𝓅𝒹𝒶𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒾𝓀𝑒𝓈

𝓌𝑒𝓁𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓇𝓃𝑒𝓇 ♡

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

✧𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 → [𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒]

✧ 𝓊𝓅𝒸𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒿𝑒𝒸𝓉𝓈 → [𝓈𝑜𝑜𝓃]

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

𝓊𝓅𝒸𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝓰 ꒰ა𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒲𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒶 𝒞𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇-𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓂໒꒱ 𝒸𝒽𝑜𝒾 𝓈𝑜𝑜𝒷𝒾𝓃 × 𝒻𝑒𝓂!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 ໒꒱ Hogwarts AU

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑒𝑒 ✧ ɞ˚‧｡⋆

The driveway's already thick with snow—tires crunching and sliding a little as Soobin eases the car to a stop right in front of the porch steps. The house looks exactly like she remembers: white clapboard glowing soft under the porch light, black shutters half-buried in white, chimney puffing steady smoke that smells like oak and comfort even from inside the car. Pine trees lean heavy with fresh powder, branches creaking under the weight. Wind rattles the loose flakes off the roof in soft drifts that catch the headlights before disappearing. The air when they open the doors is sharp, clean, biting—pine sap, wood smoke, and that cold metallic bite of coming storm.

Her mom must have been watching from the window because the front door flies open before Soobin's even turned the engine off. Mom steps out onto the porch in thick socks and her favorite oversized cardigan, arms wrapped around herself against the cold, dark hair pulled back in a messy knot, face lighting up the second she sees them.

"There's my babies!" Mom calls, voice carrying warm over the wind. She doesn't wait—barely lets them get out of the car before she's down the steps, snow crunching under her socks, arms open wide.

She meets Mom halfway up the path, drops her bag in the snow, and crashes into the hug. Mom smells like cinnamon, bread dough, and home. They rock side to side for a second, Mom squeezing hard like she hasn't seen her in years instead of months.

"You made it," Mom murmurs into her hair. "I was starting to worry with the snow picking up again."

"Barely," she laughs, pulling back a little. "Soobin drove the whole way. I was useless."

Mom's eyes slide past her to Soobin, who's already out of the car, closing the trunk after stowing the bags. He's got snow dusting his hair and shoulders, cheeks pink from the cold, but he's smiling—small, familiar, the same smile he used to give Mom when he was twelve and she'd sneak him extra cookies.

Mom's whole face softens, eyes going shiny. "Soobin Choi. Look at you."

She steps forward, arms open, and pulls him into a hug just as tight as the one she gave her daughter. Soobin bends a little to meet it, pats her back gently, then relaxes when Mom doesn't let go right away.

"It's been too long," Mom says, pulling back but keeping her hands on his arms, looking up at him like she's cataloging every change. "You were still a skinny kid last time I saw you. Now look—taller than the porch light, handsome as ever. You grew up on me."

Soobin ducks his head, cheeks going pinker—whether from cold or embarrassment, hard to tell. "Hi, Auntie. Good to see you too. You look exactly the same."

Mom laughs—bright, delighted—and swats his arm lightly. "Flatterer. And it's still 'Auntie' to you, young man. None of that Mrs. nonsense. You've been eating my cookies since you were six."

She glances between them, smiling despite the exhaustion. "He drove eight hours in this mess just to make sure I didn't fall asleep at the wheel."

Mom's eyes go soft again, hand squeezing Soobin's arm once more before letting go. "Of course he did. Always looking out for my girl." She turns to her daughter, eyes twinkling. "You picked a good one to keep around."

"Mom," she groans, cheeks warming. "It's just a ride."

Mom waves it off, already ushering them toward the door. "Come on, both of you—inside before you freeze solid. Soup's ready, bread's hot, and I've got the guest room made up. You're not driving back in this tonight, Soobin, so don't even try."

Soobin opens his mouth—polite refusal forming—but Mom cuts him off with a look.

"No arguments. You're staying. I insist. Now move."

She picks up one of the smaller bags; Soobin grabs the rest without being asked. They follow Mom inside—porch light spilling warm across the threshold, snow swirling behind them.

The door shuts with a soft click.

Warmth wraps around them instantly—chicken broth simmering, fresh bread, pine from the little tree in the corner, cinnamon lingering from whatever Mom baked earlier. Home.

Mom turns in the entryway, hands on hips, smiling wide at Soobin again. "It really is good to see you, kiddo. Been way too long."

Soobin nods, expression warm. "Missed your cooking."

Mom laughs, delighted, and shoos them toward the kitchen.

"Soup first. Then you can tell me everything I've missed."

She catches Soobin's eye over Mom's shoulder—quick, quiet, warm.

He winks once—small, playful.

The kitchen is warm and bright—overhead light soft above the round oak table, steam rising from the big pot of chicken noodle soup, bread still crackling faintly in the cooling oven. Snow taps steady against the windowpanes, wind whistling once in a while around the eaves. Mom has already set three bowls, spoons lined up neat, napkins folded in triangles like she's hosting company instead of her own kid and the boy next door. The air smells like broth, fresh dill, buttered bread, and that faint lavender she always keeps in the linen drawer.

They sit—Mom at the head, her daughter to her right, Soobin across from her. Mom ladles soup with quick, practiced scoops, broth thick with carrots, celery, and chunks of chicken that fall apart at the touch of the spoon. She pushes the bread basket toward Soobin first.

"Eat, honey. You drove eight hours—you must be starving."

Soobin takes a piece, tears it in half, steam curling up from the soft center. "Smells exactly like I remember. Better, maybe."

Mom beams, sits down, and starts eating too. "I added extra carrots this time. You always picked them out when you were little, but you'd sneak back for seconds anyway."

Soobin laughs—quiet, fond—spoon pausing halfway to his mouth. "Guilty. I'd pretend I hated them so I could have your whole bowl."

She snorts into her soup, almost choking. "You were such a little liar. Remember when you told Mom the treehouse was 'structurally unsound' just so we could go get ice cream instead?"

His eyes crinkle. "It was unsound. That board on the left side was half-rotted. I saved our lives."

Mom leans forward, spoon resting in her bowl. "You two were always plotting something. I'd hear you whispering in the backyard, planning 'missions' like you were spies. Then you'd come in covered in mud, asking for Band-Aids and cookies."

She grins, wiping her mouth with the napkin. "And you always gave us both. Even when we tracked mud through the whole house."

Mom shrugs, smiling soft. "You were kids. And Soobin was always the polite one—'Thank you, Auntie, sorry about the floor.' Meanwhile my daughter would just run past yelling 'We're fine!'"

Soobin chuckles into his bowl. "She still does that. 'We're fine!'—even when she's clearly not."

"Hey," she protests, kicking his shin lightly under the table. "I'm fine right now. Soup's amazing, company's good, snow's pretty. What more do I need?"

Mom's eyes go soft, looking between them. "You two haven't changed. Still thick as thieves. Still finishing each other's sentences."

Soobin meets her gaze over the rim of his bowl—quiet, steady. "Some things don't need to change."

She feels the words settle warm in her chest, simple and true. Mom reaches over, squeezes her hand once, then Soobin's too, like she's blessing the moment.

"Eat up," Mom says, voice gentle. "There's seconds. And pie after. Apple—your favorite, Soobin."

The corner of his mouth curves—dimples deep. "You remembered."

"Of course I did. You're family."

The snow keeps falling outside—thick, relentless, sealing them in. Inside the kitchen is warm, full of spoons clinking, soft laughter, stories spilling out easy and unhurried.

Childhood memories float between them like the steam from the soup—light, sweet, a little messy.

And for the first time in years, the three of them sit at the table together, eating, talking, laughing like no time has passed at all.

They're halfway through second bowls when Soobin's phone lights up on the table—soft blue glow cutting across the bread crumbs and empty soup spoons. He glances down, thumb swiping once, eyes narrowing just a touch at the screen. The weather app map is angry red over half the region, wind warnings flashing, snow accumulation predictions climbing by the minute.

He exhales through his nose—quiet, almost amused—and sets the phone face-down again.

Mom catches it immediately, spoon pausing mid-air. "What's that face for?"

"Storm's picking up faster than they said. Roads are already getting bad. I should probably head out soon if I want to make it back before it turns into a whiteout."

Mom's brows shoot up. "Tonight? In this?"

He lifts one shoulder, already half-rising like he's testing the idea. "It's only eight hours. I've driven worse. I'll be fine."

She sets her spoon down with a soft clink, eyes flicking between him and the window where snow is now whipping sideways against the glass. "Absolutely not. You're not going anywhere."

Soobin sits back down, hands up in playful surrender. "I don't want to impose. You've already fed me twice and put up with my terrible table manners."

Mom snorts, waving him off. "Your table manners are perfect. And you're not imposing—you're staying. End of discussion."

He opens his mouth—another polite protest forming—but she cuts him off with a look that's pure mom, the one that says try me.

She turns to her daughter, softer but just as firm. "Tell him. He's not driving in that. Look outside—it's practically a blizzard already."

She glances at the window—snow coming down so thick the porch light is just a fuzzy halo now. Then back at Soobin, who's watching her with that calm, steady gaze, waiting.

She exhales. "She's right. It's dangerous. The roads were already sketchy coming in, and this is way worse. Stay. Please."

Soobin looks between them—Mom with her arms crossed, her daughter with that quiet, tired plea in her eyes—and something softens in his expression. He leans back in the chair, rubs a hand over his face, then lets out a small laugh.

"Okay. You win. Both of you." He holds up both hands. "I'm staying. But only because I'm scared of your mom's disappointed face."

Mom laughs—bright, triumphant—and reaches over to pat his cheek. "Good boy. Now finish your soup before it gets cold. I'll go make up the guest room extra cozy."

She stands, starts clearing bowls, humming under her breath like she just won a small war.

Soobin watches her go, then looks across the table—eyes warm, a little amused, a little something deeper.

"Thanks," he says quietly. "For the backup."

She picks up her spoon again but smiles small. "Couldn't let you die out there. Who'd drive me around next time?"

He chuckles—low, fond. "Fair."

Outside the wind howls louder, snow piling against the windowpanes. Inside the kitchen stays warm—bowls clinking, chairs creaking, Mom's footsteps overhead as she drags out extra blankets.

And under the table, Soobin's foot nudges hers once—light, playful, secret.

She nudges back.

Dinner bowls are cleared, bread crumbs swept into a pile Mom brushes off the table with one efficient swipe of her hand.

Mom claps her hands once, bright and decisive. "Right. No one's going anywhere tonight, so we're doing family game night. Like old times. Soobin, you remember how this works—loser does dishes."

Soobin leans back in his chair, arms crossed, already grinning. "I remember. And I remember your daughter cheats at Uno."

She gasps, mock-offended, kicking his shin under the table again. "I do not cheat. I strategize. There's a difference."

Mom laughs—full, delighted—and pulls the battered Uno deck from the sideboard drawer like she's been waiting for this moment. "Strategize, cheat—same thing when you're winning. Sit, both of you. I'll grab the hot chocolate."

They migrate to the living room—Mom first, carrying a tray with three mugs of steaming cocoa topped with mini marshmallows that bob like tiny boats. The fireplace crackles, logs popping softly, throwing orange light across the worn rug and the old sectional. Soobin drops onto one end of the couch, legs stretched long; she curls up on the other end, knees tucked under the throw blanket Mom tosses her way. Mom settles in the armchair across from them, dealing cards with quick, practiced flicks.

First round goes fast. Soobin draws four—groans dramatically, slaps the card down like it personally betrayed him. She laughs so hard cocoa almost comes out her nose when Mom hits him with a skip and a reverse in the same turn.

"You're both ganging up on me," he complains, eyes sparkling, dimples deep. "This is rigged."

Mom lifts her shoulders innocently, sips her cocoa. "You're just rusty, honey. You used to destroy us."

Second round she gets cocky—holds a wild card too long, thinking she's safe. Soobin spots it, smirks, lays down a draw-four of his own.

"Color's red," he says sweetly. "And you're drawing four."

She stares at him, mouth open. "Traitor."

He leans forward, elbows on knees, grin pure evil. "Payback for the treehouse. You left me hanging with the last board."

Mom cackles so hard she has to set her mug down. "You two haven't changed one bit. Still bickering like you're ten."

She draws the four cards—grumbling the whole time—then slaps a red skip on Soobin just to watch his face fall.

"Uno!" Mom calls triumphantly, slamming her last card down before either of them can react.

Soobin throws his head back against the couch, laughing loud and helpless. "You hustled us. Again."

Mom collects the cards, smug as anything. "Years of practice. Now—who's doing dishes?"

Soobin raises his hand immediately, still chuckling. "Me. I lost fair and square."

She nudges him with her foot under the blanket. "You're just trying to look good in front of my mom."

He glances sideways at her—quick, playful. "Is it working?"

Mom stands, already gathering mugs. "It's working on me. Go on, hero. Sink's waiting."

Soobin gets up, stretches, then heads to the kitchen—rolling up his sleeves as he goes. Mom watches him for a second, then turns to her daughter with soft eyes.

"He's a keeper," Mom says quietly. "Always was."

She looks toward the kitchen—Soobin already rinsing bowls, humming under his breath—and feels that same warm tug in her chest.

"Yeah," she murmurs. "He is."

The hallway upstairs is narrow, lined with family photos and the faint smell of lavender sachets tucked into drawers. Guest room first—door already cracked open, light spilling warm across the threshold. Mom pushes it wide, gestures proudly.

"Fresh sheets, extra blankets, the good pillows. And I put a hot water bottle in there because the radiator's finicky when it's this cold."

Soobin steps inside, takes one look at the bed—queen-sized, piled high with quilts and a thick down comforter—and lets out a low whistle. “This is luxury. I feel like I should take my shoes off before I even touch the floor.”

Mom laughs, pats his arm. “You’re family. Shoes can stay on until you’re actually in bed. Now—” she turns to her daughter, eyes twinkling “—your room’s the same as always. But if the storm knocks the power out, come down to the living room. Couch is big enough for both of you.”

She feels her cheeks heat instantly. “Mom.”

“What? It’s practical. And warmer than freezing upstairs alone.” Mom winks at Soobin, who’s suddenly very interested in straightening the already-perfect comforter. “Goodnight, you two. Don’t stay up too late whispering like you used to.”

Mom disappears down the hall, footsteps fading, door clicking shut.

Soobin turns slowly, one eyebrow raised, a grin already pulling at his mouth. "Whispering like we used to. She remembers everything."

She groans, drops her face into her hands. “She’s impossible. She’s been trying to marry us off since we were eight.”

He laughs—quiet, warm—steps closer, reaches out and tugs one of her sleeves down over her hand like he’s fixing her. “She’s not wrong about the cold. Power’s flickering already.”

As if on cue, the overhead light buzzes once, dims, then steadies. Outside the wind howls louder, rattling the windowpane.

She exhales, looks at her childhood bedroom door—same faded blue paint, same constellation stickers still stuck crooked on the ceiling. "Guess I'll grab my stuff. You take the guest room. It's got the better mattress anyway."

Soobin tilts his head. "You sure? Couch is big enough for two. Like old times. We could build a blanket fort. Maximum warmth."

She stares at him—half-laughing, half-shocked. "A blanket fort. We're not twelve."

He lifts both shoulders, innocent as anything. "We're in a blizzard. Survival mode. Blanket fort is peak survival. Plus I'm an excellent architect. Remember the pillow palace of '09?"

She snorts, already walking toward her room. "That thing collapsed on us at 2 a.m. and we both screamed like babies."

"Character-building," he calls after her. "Come on. I'll even let you have the corner with the good pillow."

She pauses in her doorway, looks back—him standing in the hall light, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair messy from the drive, eyes soft and teasing and something warmer underneath.

Her stomach does a slow flip.

"Fine," she says, trying to sound exasperated but landing somewhere closer to fond. "But if you hog the blankets, I'm kicking you to the floor."

He grins—wide, victorious. "Deal. I'll bring the extra quilts."

She ducks into her room, heart thudding too loud, grabs pajamas, toothbrush, the softest hoodie she owns—his, actually, the navy one she stole months ago and never gave back.

When she steps back into the hall, he's already hauling armfuls of blankets and pillows from the linen closet, building what can only be described as a fortress on the living room floor in front of the fireplace.

She stops at the bottom of the stairs, watching him arrange pillows like it's a military operation.

"You're ridiculous," she says, but she's smiling so wide it hurts.

He looks up, snow still melting in his hair from earlier, eyes bright in the firelight. "Ridiculously cozy. Get in here before I start without you."

She laughs—soft, helpless—and steps into the blanket pile.

Mom's bedroom door clicked shut twenty minutes ago, the last creak of floorboards fading down the hall. Downstairs the fire is low now, just glowing embers that throw soft orange pulses across the living room walls. The blanket fort is still standing—pillows piled high against the couch, quilts draped over chairs like a makeshift roof, string lights Mom dug out of the holiday box looped through the top and plugged in. Tiny warm bulbs flicker gold inside the space, turning the whole thing into a small, glowing cave.

They're lying on their sides facing each other—blanket pulled up to their chins, knees almost touching under the quilts. She's wearing his navy hoodie (the one she borrowed from the car), sleeves bunched at her wrists. Soobin's in a fresh long-sleeve tee and sweats, hair still messy from the drive, one arm tucked under his head.

The quiet stretches for a while—comfortable, not awkward. Just the fire popping, wind rattling the house.

She breaks it first, voice low. "You ever think about after graduation? Like… real life?"

He exhales through his nose, eyes on the string lights above them. "All the time. Dad keeps dropping hints about the company—'when you're ready,' he says. Like I'm supposed to wake up one day and magically know how to run everything."

She snorts softly. "You'll figure it out. You always do. Me? I'm still pretending my degree is gonna magically turn into a job that doesn't make me cry in the bathroom on lunch breaks."

He chuckles—quiet, warm. "You'll be fine. You're too stubborn to fail. And if it sucks, you can just move into my office and be my emotional support employee."

She kicks his shin lightly under the blanket. "Wow. Glamorous. Do I get benefits?"

"Unlimited hoodies. Free coffee. And I'll pretend to listen when you complain about your boss."

She laughs—small, breathy—then quiets again. "Seriously though… it's weird. We've spent our whole lives in this little bubble—school, campus, each other. And then suddenly it's over. Jobs. Apartments. Bills. Maybe moving away. Feels like the ground's about to drop out."

He turns his head toward her—eyes soft in the low light. "It's gonna change. But not everything."

She meets his gaze. "No?"

"No." He shifts a little closer—barely, just enough that their knees touch under the quilts. "Some things stay. Like… this. Late nights. Talking about nothing and everything. You stealing my hoodies. Me driving you places because you hate parallel parking."

She smiles—small, real. "You're still gonna drive me when I'm thirty and complaining about traffic?"

"Probably. Unless you get a self-driving car. Then I'll just sit in the passenger seat and judge your music taste."

She laughs again—quieter this time—and reaches out, pokes his chest once. "You love my music taste."

"I tolerate it. Big difference."

They both go quiet after that—smiles lingering, breathing syncing up slow.

His voice drops lower, almost a murmur. "We'll figure it out. Whatever comes next. Together. Like always."

She doesn't answer right away. Just looks at him—firelight flickering across his face, eyes steady and warm.

She nods—small, certain. "Yeah. Together."

They’re lying on their sides facing each other, blankets pulled up to their shoulders, knees brushing under the quilts. She’s still wearing his navy hoodie, sleeves bunched at her wrists, and her black leggings; he’s in a fresh long-sleeve tee and sweats, hair still messy from the long drive. The space between them feels smaller than it should—charged, restless.

She shifts first, small and fidgety, trying to get comfortable. Her leg slides over his, thigh pressing warm against his hip. She freezes for half a second when she feels him harden against her through the thin fabric, but she doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t either.

Soobin’s hand finds her waist under the hoodie—slow, careful—fingers splaying across bare skin. His thumb brushes the soft curve above her hipbone, once, then again. She inhales sharply but arches into it instead of flinching.

“Still cold?” he murmurs, voice low and rough in the quiet room.

“A little,” she whispers, even though her skin is burning everywhere he touches.

His hand slides higher, slipping fully under the hoodie until he’s cupping her breast, thumb circling her nipple in lazy, deliberate strokes. It hardens instantly; she bites her lip to keep quiet. Her own hand moves on its own—sliding up his chest, fingers curling into his tee, feeling the fast thump of his heart.

He leans in first, mouth brushing hers in a soft, questioning kiss. She kisses him back—gentle at first, then deeper, tongues sliding together in slow, wet strokes. No rush. Just heat building quiet and steady.

Their hands wander. His slides down to grip her ass through the leggings, pulling her closer so her thigh presses tighter against him. Hers slips under his tee, nails dragging lightly down his back. He groans low into her mouth, hips rocking once—subtle, instinctive—grinding against her leg. She whimpers and hooks her leg higher over his hip.

They kiss like they’re starving—mouths open, tongues messy, teeth grazing, breaths ragged and shared. His hand slips between them again, fingers finding her nipple and pinching lightly. Hers slides down to cup him through his sweats, stroking slow and firm until he’s leaking against her palm.

“Fuck,” he breathes against her lips, voice wrecked. “We should… stop.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, but she kisses him harder instead, biting his bottom lip and soothing it with her tongue. “We’re just stressed. Finals. Everything piling up. We’re both losing it.”

He nods jerkily, then kisses her neck, sucking lightly at the spot below her ear. “Stress,” he echoes, hoarse. “Definitely.”

They keep going—hands roaming, hips rocking slow and desperate through their clothes. No more words. Just quiet gasps, soft moans muffled against skin, the rustle of blankets, and the crackle of dying coals.

“Still cold?” he murmurs later, voice low against her ear.

She laughs, soft and shaky. “No. The opposite.”

“Fuck… you’re gonna kill me.”

She grins, tipsy on the heat between them, and slides her hand down his chest, under his tee, nails dragging lightly over his stomach. When her fingers dip beneath his waistband and wrap around him—thick, hot, already slick—she strokes once, slow and firm. He bucks into her hand with a groan.

“Careful,” he mutters, wrecked. “You keep that up and I’m gonna make a mess in my pants again.”

She laughs breathlessly and kisses him harder.

He breaks the kiss first, panting, mouth moving to her neck, sucking harder this time. “God, you taste so good. Been thinking about this since last night.”

She whimpers, hips rolling faster against his thigh, the seam of her leggings catching her clit just right. “Then stop thinking and do something about it.”

He growls quietly and flips them so she’s straddling his lap, blankets pooling around their waists. His hands shove back under her hoodie, palms cupping her breasts, thumbs flicking her nipples while she grinds down hard on his cock through the layers of fabric. The friction is filthy and desperate, her leggings already soaked where she’s pressing against him.

“Fuck—ride it,” he whispers against her throat. “Use me. Just like that.”

She does—hips rocking faster, grinding in tight circles, nails digging into his shoulders. He keeps one hand on her breast, the other sliding to her ass, guiding her rhythm, fingers digging in.

She comes first—sudden and shuddering—face buried in his neck to muffle her cry, thighs clamping tight around his hips. He follows seconds later, hips jerking up as he spills hot into his sweats with a choked groan against her shoulder.

They're tangled together in the quiet aftermath—her head on his chest, his arm loose around her waist, the blanket fort glowing gold above them. Her breathing has slowed. Neither has moved to separate.

The quiet stretches long and comfortable until her voice comes small, hesitant.

“Soobin?”

“Hmm?” His thumb strokes once along her spine.

She swallows, fingers tracing the hem of his tee. “Last night… and just now… you’re not really into this, right? I know you’re gay—or mostly gay—and I get it if this is just stress, or if you’re only letting me use you because I’m falling apart and you feel responsible…”

“Stop.” His voice is quiet but firm. He cups her jaw, thumb tilting her face up so she can’t hide. “Look at me.”

She does, eyes wide and uncertain in the dim light.

“I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do,” he says steadily. “You’re not dragging me anywhere. I’m right here because I want to be.”

She searches his face. “But you never corrected me when I assumed…”

“I didn’t need to.” His hand slides to the back of her neck, warm and grounding. “I’m choosing this. Every second.”

She closes her eyes, tears prickling. “I don’t want to hurt you. Or take advantage of how good you are to me.”

“You’re not.” He pulls her closer, forehead resting against hers. “You’ve always taken care of everyone else. Let me take care of you too—without you worrying about me the whole time.”

He kisses her again—slow and deep—then reaches over the side of the bed with his free hand. He rummages quietly in his duffel bag and comes back with a small unopened box of condoms, setting it on the nightstand without comment.

She notices but doesn’t say anything, just watches him with glassy eyes.

He takes her wrist gently and guides her hand back inside his sweats, wrapping her fingers around him again. He’s still half-hard, hot and slick in her palm.

“Feel that?” he whispers against her lips. “That’s me wanting you. Not pity. Not obligation. Just want.”

She swallows hard, guilt slowly melting under the heat. Her hand starts moving again—slow, tight strokes.

He slides his own hand into her leggings, fingers finding her soaked folds and pushing two inside her, curling just right while his thumb circles her clit.

“Like this,” he murmurs. “Just us. Watch me while I watch you.”

She nods shakily, eyes locked on his as they touch each other—slow at first, then faster, breaths mingling, quiet moans shared in the dark.

“Fuck,” he groans against her lips. “You feel how hard you make me?”

She whimpers, grinding down on his thigh. “Keep talking…”

He nips her bottom lip. “You’re so wet, dripping down my hand. Clench around my fingers—yeah, just like that.”

She moans and her hand speeds up on him, squeezing at the base. "Yeah? Then do it. Touch me."

He cuts her off with another kiss—harder, desperate—then rolls them slow so they're side by side, He takes her hand again—guides it back inside his sweats, wrapping her fingers around his cock while his own hand slides into her leggings, fingers finding her clit and rubbing firm circles.

"Like this," he whispers against her mouth. "Watch each other. Touch each other."

She nods—shaky—eyes locked on his as her hand starts stroking him again—slow, tight pulls from base to tip. "Okay. Yeah. Like this."

His fingers dip lower—sliding through her folds again, two pushing inside her slow, curling against that spot that makes her back arch. "Fuck—you're so wet. So tight. Keep stroking me like that—yeah, just like that. Squeeze the head."

She does—thumb pressing the slit, spreading his precome, hand twisting on the upstroke. He groans low, hips bucking into her fist. "God—your hand feels so good. Faster. Please."

She speeds up, breathing ragged against his lips. "Like this? You like it when I jerk you off like this?"

"Yeah—fuck—don't stop." His fingers fuck into her deeper, thumb grinding her clit. "Touch yourself too. Let me see you rub your clit while I finger you."

She shakes her head—hesitant, guilty flickering in her eyes. "But if you're not—"

He kisses her again—slow, deep—then pulls back just enough. “You really think that?” His voice is low, careful. “That I’m lying here hard as fuck, leaking in your hand, because I feel obligated? Because I’m too nice to tell my best friend no?”

She bites her lip—eyes glassy. “I don’t know. You never say no to me. You never have. You fix everything. You drive eight hours in a blizzard. You let me grind on you like this. What if this is just… you being you? And I’m the selfish one using that?”

He shifts closer—forehead pressing to hers, breath warm on her lips. His fingers curl once inside her—slow, deliberate—making her gasp softly. “Listen to me. I’m not saying no because I don’t want to say no. I’m saying yes because I want this. Because feeling you clench around my fingers, hearing those little sounds you make when I rub your clit just right—it’s driving me crazy. If anything, you’re the one who could stop this right now and I’d still be begging you to keep going.”

“I’m here,” he cuts in gently, voice dropping lower. “Wanting you. Needing you to keep stroking me like that. Needing to feel you come on my hand again. If that makes me a bad friend… then I’m a bad friend. But don’t tell yourself I’m suffering through this. I’m not.”

His thumb circles her clit again—slow, firm. She whimpers, hand tightening on his cock instinctively, stroking once more.

“See?” he whispers against her mouth. “You touch me and I get harder. That’s not pity. That’s want. Keep going. Please.”

She nods—shaky—guilt fading under the heat, her hand resuming its slow, tight pulls. “Okay… okay. Like this?”

“Faster,” he groans, hips rocking into her grip. “Twist your wrist—fuck, yes. Just like that. Don’t stop.”

His fingers fuck into her deeper—curling against that spot, palm grinding her clit. “You’re so wet—dripping down my wrist. Keep rubbing your clit for me. Let me watch you fall apart.”

She does—fingers circling fast, hips bucking into his hand. “Your cock’s throbbing—leaking so much. You want to come in my hand? Spill all over my fingers while I clench around yours?”

He groans—hips jerking. "Yeah—god—keep talking dirty like that. Tell me how wet you are for me."

"So wet—dripping down your hand. Your fingers feel so good stretching me. Harder—please—fuck me with them harder."

He does—fingers slamming in deep, palm grinding her clit. She strokes him faster, twisting her wrist. "Come for me, Soobin. I want to feel you pulse in my hand."

They move together—hands frantic now, breaths shared, quiet moans muffled against skin. She comes first—shuddering hard, walls pulsing around his fingers with a broken whimper. He follows—cock jerking in her grip, spilling hot ropes over her knuckles with a choked groan into her neck.

This time they come together—her clenching around his fingers with a broken whimper, him spilling over her hand again with a low, wrecked groan into her neck.

They stay tangled afterward, sweaty and trembling, her leggings still on, his hoodie still covering her, the quiet crackle of the dying fire the only sound left in the room.

Morning light filters through the kitchen curtains—thin, pale gray, softened by the snow still falling outside in slow, endless drifts. The room smells like fresh coffee, cinnamon from last night's leftover rolls, and the faint wood-smoke clinging to everything from the dying fire. The radiator in the corner hisses softly, fighting the cold that seeps through the old windows. A small radio on the counter plays low oldies—something soft and crackly, barely audible over the wind rattling the panes.

Mom's already gone to the neighbor's to check on the pipes—leaving a note on the fridge: Back by lunch. Don't burn the house down. Love you both. The kitchen table is still scattered with breakfast crumbs, two mugs half-full of coffee, a plate of cooling cinnamon rolls Mom baked before dawn.

She stands at the counter in Soobin's hoodie (again), sleeves pushed up, hair in a loose ponytail, stirring eggs in a bowl with a whisk. The motion is automatic—comforting, normal. Soobin leans against the island opposite her, arms crossed, watching with that quiet, amused look he gets when she's trying to act like everything's fine.

"You're whisking those eggs like they owe you money," he says, voice low and teasing.

She glances up—half-smiling despite herself. "They do. They're taking forever to get fluffy."

He pushes off the counter, steps closer—close enough his hip brushes hers when he reaches past her for the salt. His hand lingers on her lower back for half a second—light, easy—before he steps back.

"Let me help. You're gonna give yourself tennis elbow."

She rolls her eyes but hands him the whisk. "Fine. Show-off."

He takes over—whisk moving smooth and easy, eggs turning pale yellow and airy in seconds. She watches his forearms flex under the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, the way his shoulders shift with each turn.

"See? Technique," he says, glancing sideways at her. "You just gotta be patient."

She snorts. "Says the guy who once burned instant ramen because he was 'multitasking.'"

"That was one time. And the smoke alarm was dramatic."

They both laugh—quiet, easy—and the sound bounces soft around the kitchen. She turns to grab the pan, hip bumping his deliberately this time. He doesn't move away. Just smiles—knowing—and keeps whisking.

She sets the pan on the stove, adds butter, watches it melt and sizzle. "Mom's gonna be gone a while. Neighbor's pipes froze again."

He nods, pours the eggs into the pan. They hiss immediately—loud in the quiet room. "We've got time then. What do you want? Scrambled? Omelet? I can do that fancy folded thing if you're feeling bougie."

She leans against the counter next to him, shoulder touching his. "Scrambled. With cheese. And don't burn them."

He scoffs playfully. “I’ve never burned eggs in my life.”

“Liar. Sophomore year. Microwave incident. Ring any bells?”

He laughs—low, warm. “Okay, fine. One time. But I was distracted.”

“By what?”

He glances at her—quick, soft. “You. You were ranting about your bio prof. I got lost in the lecture.”

She feels her cheeks heat—small, sudden. “Smooth.”

“Not trying to be smooth. Just honest.”

The eggs bubble and set. He folds them gently with the spatula, adds shredded cheese, lets it melt slow. She reaches over—steals a pinch of cheese straight from the bag. He swats her hand lightly.

“Thief.”

“Quality control.”

They eat standing up—plates balanced on the counter, forks clinking, shoulders brushing every time one of them moves. No big declarations. No heavy talks. Just breakfast. Coffee. Snow outside. Him making her laugh when he pretends to drop a forkful of eggs on purpose.

She's leaning against the counter, arms crossed inside the oversized navy hoodie, watching Soobin wipe down the last spot on the island with slow, careful circles of the dish towel. He's in a fresh gray tee and sweats, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair still a little messy from sleep. Every time he reaches across the counter his arm brushes hers—light, accidental, lingering just long enough that she notices.

"You're very thorough," she says, voice teasing but soft. "Afraid Mom's gonna come back and give you a white-glove inspection?"

Soobin glances up—mouth curving small. “Maybe. She used to make us clean the treehouse after every ‘mission.’ Said if we were gonna play spies we had to leave no trace.”

She laughs—quiet, fond—reaches over and steals the towel from his hand. "You always let her boss you around. Even when we were kids."

He shrugs one shoulder, leans his hip against the counter next to hers. “She’s scary when she wants to be. And she made the best cookies. Worth it.”

She dries her hands slow, eyes on the towel. “You were always the polite one. ‘Yes, Mrs. [Last Name]. No, Mrs. [Last Name].’ Meanwhile I was yelling ‘We’re fine!’ while covered in mud.”

Soobin chuckles low—warm. “You still do that. ‘We’re fine.’ Even when you’re clearly not.”

She nudges him with her elbow—light. "Shut up. I'm fine right now."

He turns a little—facing her more fully. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She meets his eyes. "Just… thinking. About how you've always been around. Even when I was dating idiots. You never got jealous. Never acted weird. Just… listened. Gave advice. Told me which guys had nice arms and which ones were trash."

Soobin’s smile fades a fraction—still there, but softer. “Someone had to keep you from dating total disasters.”

She laughs—smaller this time. "You did. Every time. And you'd always say stuff like 'He's got good shoulders, though' or 'His jawline's objectively strong.' Like you were rating them for me."

He shrugs—casual. “I have good taste. In shoulders. In jaws. In people.”

She tilts her head. “You talk about guys the same way you talk about girls. Never gets awkward. Never gets weird. It’s… nice.”

Soobin looks down at the counter, fingers tracing the edge of the towel. “Just being honest. People are people. Some have nice shoulders. Some have nice… everything.”

She watches him—quiet, curious. "You never dated much, though. That one guy in high school—Jihoon? You went to prom with him, right? Then nothing after."

Soobin’s fingers pause. “Yeah. Jihoon. He was nice. Good dancer. Terrible kisser.”

She snorts. “You told me that after. Said his tongue was like a washing machine.”

He laughs—quiet, self-deprecating. “It was. Never kissed him again. Never kissed anyone much after that. Too much hassle.”

She nods—slow. "You always said dating was overrated. That most people weren't worth the drama. And when I'd complain about my exes, you'd just… listen, you never got mad, never got jealous."

Soobin looks up at her eyes soft, unreadable. “I didn’t need to get jealous. I had you. That was enough.”

The words land quiet, simple,but they sit heavy between them. Something shifts in her chest, small, confused, warm.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “It was.”

He reaches over—slow, brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers linger on her cheek for half a second, warm, gentle—then drop away.

"Still is," he says quietly.

She nods, small, uncertain.

The radio switches to another slow song—something about holding on through the cold.

The living room feels like a warm pocket carved out of the storm—curtains mostly drawn, fire crackling low and steady in the grate, throwing soft orange flickers across the rug and the worn sectional. Snow keeps falling outside in thick, silent sheets, muffling everything until the house feels like it's the only thing left in the world. Mom's still at Mrs. Kim's—texted half an hour ago that the plumber was "swearing in three languages" and she'd be back "when the pipes stop being dramatic." The TV screen glows blue-white, paused on the menu of Mom's ancient streaming app, some old rom-com thumbnail frozen mid-laugh.

She's curled on one end of the couch under a thick throw blanket, knees up, drowning in Soobin's navy hoodie. Soobin's on the other end—long legs stretched out, one arm draped along the back of the couch, remote in his hand as he scrolls through titles with lazy flicks of his thumb.

He pauses on a cheesy holiday comedy—couple in matching ugly sweaters, snow everywhere, title in curly red font. "This one? Looks brainless enough to match the weather."

She glances at the screen, then at him. "You hate holiday movies. You always say they're the same plot with different sweaters."

"Sometimes same is nice," he says, hitting play before she can argue. "No surprises. Just… cozy. And it's snowing. Feels thematic."

She snorts, pulling the blanket higher. "Since when are you into thematic?"

“Since I’m stuck in a blizzard with my favorite person and zero cell service,” he says easily, hitting play before she can argue. The opening credits roll—cheerful jingle bells, wide shot of a snowy town square.

She watches him for a second—profile lit by the TV glow, eyes on the screen but soft around the edges. “You’re actually gonna sit through this.”

He doesn’t look away from the movie. “It’s not terrible. The snow looks real. And the guy’s got decent shoulders.”

She bursts out laughing—sharp, surprised—nudges his side with her foot under the blanket. "There it is. You can't help yourself."

He finally glances over—eyes crinkling. "What? Solid shoulders. He'd look good in a coat."

"You're impossible," she says, still grinning. "Remember when I was dating that guy from econ—Minho? You said 'he's got nice arms, though' like it was a consolation prize."

Soobin chuckles low—warm. “I was being supportive. Objectively nice arms. Terrible personality. I stand by it.”

She rolls her eyes but leans sideways until her shoulder bumps his. “You’re the only guy I know who can rate my exes like you’re judging a lineup and never once get weird about it.”

His arm drops from the back of the couch to rest along her shoulders instead—fingers brushing her sleeve—light, easy. "Why would I get weird? I had front-row seats to your life. Still do."

Her cheeks warm—small, sudden—but she doesn't move away. Just leans into him a little more, head tipping toward his shoulder. "You're too good at this not-judging thing. It's unfair."

"Not unfair," he says quietly, arm settling more comfortably around her. "Just how it's always been."

The movie couple is laughing in the snow now—holding hands, everything easy and predictable.

She leans her head on his shoulder—slow, natural—like gravity decided it for her. He doesn't tense. Just adjusts so she's more comfortable—arm draping along her back, hand resting warm on her side.

They watch in silence for a while—movie dialogue soft and distant, fire popping, snow falling outside.

The snow has stopped falling for the first time in days—thick white blanket covering everything, air crisp and still. Mom left again after lunch—something about the church bake sale needing "emergency reinforcements"—so the house is empty except for them. She's bundled in one of Mom's old parkas over Soobin's hoodie, scarf wrapped twice around her neck, boots borrowed from the hall closet. Soobin's in his jacket and gloves, hood up, breath fogging white every time he exhales.

They step off the porch together—snow crunching under their boots like brittle sugar. The yard slopes gently down toward the tree line, pines heavy with white, branches bending low. No tracks yet—just pristine, untouched powder that swallows their steps up to the ankles.

She takes a few steps forward, then stops—turns back with a grin. "Race you to the big pine?"

He raises an eyebrow—expression easy, teasing. "You'll lose. Your legs are short."

“Excuse me?” She scoops a handful of snow, packs it quick, and lobs it at his chest. It hits with a soft thud—snow exploding across his jacket.

He looks down at the white splatter, then up at her, eyes narrowing playfully. “Oh, we’re doing this?”

Before she can answer he bends, scoops snow, packs it fast, and throws—gentle arc, hits her shoulder. She squeals—laughing—ducks behind a tree, packs another snowball, peeks out and fires. It smacks his arm; he pretends to stagger, hand to chest like he’s been shot.

“Tragic,” he deadpans. “I’m wounded. You’ll have to carry me back.”

She steps out, hands up in mock surrender. “Fine. Truce. No more snowballs. Just… walk.”

He straightens—brushes snow off his jacket—and falls into step beside her. They move slow—boots crunching, breath fogging, shoulders brushing every few steps. The path winds down toward the frozen creek at the bottom of the yard—ice thick enough to walk on, snow dusting the surface like powdered sugar.

She stops at the edge, looks down at the creek. "Remember when we tried to ice skate here in middle school? You brought those old hockey skates from your cousin, and I wore Mom's ancient figure skates."

He nods—expression fond. "We lasted five minutes before you fell and dragged me down with you. We ended up soaked and freezing, sitting on the bank eating stolen cookies."

She laughs—quiet, fond. "And you never told Mom we went on the ice. Said we just 'fell in a puddle' when we came home dripping."

"Solid cover story. Still proud of that one."

They keep walking—slow loop around the yard, snow crunching, breath visible. Every few steps her arm brushes his; sometimes he lets his pinky hook hers—just for a second—then lets go like it's nothing.

"You're quiet today," she says after a while, glancing sideways at him.

"Just thinking," he says. "About how this feels… normal. Good. Like we're still kids playing in the snow, but… not."

She nods—small. "Yeah. It's nice. No deadlines. No campus drama. Just… this."

He stops—turns to face her. Snowflakes catch in his lashes, melt slow. "We could do more of this. After graduation. Weekends. Snow. Whatever."

She looks up at him—heart doing that small, confused flip again. "You'd want that?"

He nods—simple. "Yeah. I would."

She smiles—small, real—then scoops another handful of snow, packs it quick, and smashes it gently against his chest.

"Truce over," she says, laughing.

He laughs too—low, warm—grabs her wrist before she can run, pulls her close. Snow dusts their hair, their shoulders.

They stand there—close, breath fogging between them—snow falling soft and silent.

No kiss. No big moment.

Just them—laughing in the snow, like always.

And she still doesn't quite ask the question she keeps circling.

Because right now—snow in his hair, his hand on her wrist, world quiet and white—it's easier not to.

Easier to just… be.

The blanket fort from the first night is still half-standing in the corner—pillows scattered, quilts dragged onto the sectional where they're curled now, side by side under a thick throw, legs tangled casually like it's nothing.

Mom pulled out the old whiskey stash earlier—"for the cold," she'd said with a wink—poured them each a small glass after dinner. They sipped slow at first—talking about nothing, everything—then the bottle crept closer, refills happened without asking, laughter got looser, words softer around the edges. Now the glasses sit empty on the coffee table, amber residue catching the lamplight.

She's leaning into his side—head on his shoulder, one hand resting loose on his thigh over the blanket. He's got an arm behind her along the back of the couch, fingers playing with the ends of her hair. The TV's on mute—some late-night rerun flickering blue-white across their faces, forgotten.

She tilts her head back a little, looks up at him—eyes glassy from the whiskey, cheeks flushed. "You remember that time we snuck into your dad's liquor cabinet? We were what—sixteen? Stole that bottle of peach schnapps and thought we were so cool."

He chuckles—vibrating through his chest into hers. "We drank half, then spent the next hour trying to convince ourselves it tasted good. You kept saying 'it's fruity, it's basically juice.'"

She laughs—soft, breathy—nose brushing his collarbone. "And you kept gagging but drank anyway because 'solidarity.' We hid the bottle in your closet and your mom found it two days later. She never said anything—just left a note that said 'nice try.'"

He smiles—small, fond—fingers sliding from her hair to trace the line of her jaw. “She still brings it up every Christmas. ‘Remember when you two thought peach schnapps was sophisticated?’”

She shifts—turns more toward him, knee sliding over his thigh under the blanket. “We were idiots. Still are, probably.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, hand settling on her neck—thumb brushing the pulse there, slow circles. “But good idiots.”

Her breath hitches—just a little. She looks at his mouth—close, soft in the low light—then back up to his eyes. “Soobin…”

He doesn’t answer with words. Just leans in—slow—mouth brushing hers in a soft, questioning kiss. She kisses back—gentle at first, whiskey-sweet, then deeper, tongues sliding together lazy and warm. No rush. Just heat blooming slow and steady.

His hand slides down her neck, over her shoulder, under the hoodie—palm flat against her bare back, pulling her closer. She sighs into his mouth, hand slipping up his chest, fingers curling into his tee. The kiss turns hungrier—teeth grazing lips, breaths shared, quiet moans muffled against skin.

She breaks it first—panting—forehead pressed to his. “We’re drunk.”

"A little," he whispers, kissing her jaw, then her neck. "Doesn't mean we have to stop."

Her hand slides lower—fingers tracing the waistband of his sweats. “We probably should.”

“Probably,” he agrees, but his mouth moves back to hers—deeper this time, tongue brushing hers in slow, filthy strokes.

Now they’re not lazy anymore. His mouth is on her neck—open, wet, sucking lightly at the spot that makes her gasp; her fingers are in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against her skin.

She pulls back—breathless—forehead pressed to his. “We should… go to bed. It’s late.”

Soobin kisses her again—slow, deep—hand sliding up her back under the hoodie, palm flat and warm. “We are in bed,” he murmurs against her lips. “Sort of.”

She laughs—shaky—tries to push at his chest lightly. “I mean… separate beds. My room. Yours. Mom’s gonna wake up and—”

He cuts her off with another kiss—harder this time, tongue sliding against hers, stealing the words. His hand slips lower—cupping her ass through her leggings, pulling her tighter against him so she feels exactly how hard he is. She whimpers into his mouth, hips rocking once on instinct.

“See?” he whispers, breaking the kiss just enough to speak against her lips. “You don’t want to stop. Neither do I.”

She hesitates—guilt flickering in her eyes. “But… this is… we’re drunk. And you’re—you know. And I don’t want to—”

Soobin kisses her again—gentle this time—then pulls back, forehead resting on hers. “Hey. Look at me.”

She does—eyes glassy, uncertain.

“I’m not drunk enough to not know what I want,” he says quietly, voice steady. “And I want you. Right now. In your room. In your bed. With the door closed and the lights off and no one else around to interrupt. I’ve wanted this for longer than you think.”

Her breath hitches. “But if you’re—”

“I’m here,” he cuts in softly, thumb brushing her cheek. “Wanting this. Wanting you. If you tell me no, I’ll stop. I’ll go to the guest room and pretend this never happened. But if you’re only stopping because you think I’m doing this for you… I’m not. I’m doing it for me.”

She searches his face—guilty, confused, heart pounding. He doesn’t flinch. Just waits—patient, steady—hand still warm on her waist.

After a long beat she nods—small, shaky. “Okay. My room.”

He smiles—small, relieved—kisses her once more, quick and soft. Then stands, pulling her up with him. She stumbles a little—whiskey and want making her legs unsteady. He steadies her with hands on her hips, kisses her forehead.

“Come on,” he whispers.

She laughs—quiet, nervous—and lets him lead her upstairs, hand in hand, steps soft on the creaking stairs, hearts loud in the dark.

The bedroom door clicks shut behind them—soft, final. Moonlight spills through the half-open curtains in silver-blue streaks across the quilt. Soobin turns to her first—slow—hands coming up to cup her face. His thumbs brush her cheeks once, then he kisses her—deep, unhurried, like they have all night. She kisses back—hungry now—hands fisting in his tee, pulling him closer until their bodies press flush.

“Still okay?” he asks quietly.

She nods—shaky but sure.

He walks her backward until her calves hit the edge of the bed. She sits. He follows—kneeling between her legs on the mattress, never breaking the kiss. His hands slide down her neck, over her shoulders, fingers catching the hem of the hoodie she’s wearing (his hoodie). He pulls back just enough to whisper against her lips.

“Off?”

She nods—breathless—lifts her arms. He peels it over her head in one smooth motion. No bra underneath—just bare skin, nipples already hard from the cold room and the heat between them. He exhales sharp—eyes dark, reverent—then leans in, kissing the hollow of her throat, slow open-mouthed presses down her sternum.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against her skin. “Always have been. These tits… fuck, look at them. Already begging for my mouth.”

She laughs—shaky, self-conscious—but it turns into a gasp when his mouth closes over one nipple—warm, wet, tongue circling slow. His hand cups the other breast, thumb brushing the peak in time with his tongue. She arches—fingers threading into his hair.

She shivers—half-laugh, half-moan—arches into his hands. “Then touch me.”

He does—palms closing fully around her breasts, squeezing softly, thumbs finally brushing the peaks. They pebble instantly under his touch; she gasps—quiet, broken—fingers threading into his hair.

He lowers his mouth—kisses the swell of one breast, then the other—slow, worshipful. Tongue traces the curve, then flicks the nipple once—light, teasing. She whimpers—back arching higher—pushing herself closer to his mouth.

“So sensitive,” he breathes—voice low, almost awed. “Look at you—already so fucking hard for me. You like when I suck on these pretty little nipples? Want me to bite them? Make them all swollen and sore tomorrow so every time you move you remember my mouth was here?”

He closes his mouth over one nipple—warm, wet—sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue swirling slow circles around the peak. His hand works the other breast—pinching lightly, rolling the nipple between thumb and finger, tugging just enough to make her gasp louder.

“Fuck—Soobin—yes—like that—”

He switches—mouth moving to the other side, sucking harder now, teeth grazing the sensitive bud while his hand kneads the first breast, thumb flicking the wet nipple he just left. She’s trembling—thighs pressing together, hips rocking once against nothing—needy sounds slipping out every time he sucks or pinches.

“God—your mouth—feels so good—don’t stop—”

He groans against her skin—vibration making her nipple throb—then pulls back just enough to blow cool air over the wet peak. She shivers hard—moaning—hands tugging his hair to pull him back.

“More—please—”

He obliges—mouth closing over her again, sucking deep, tongue flicking fast now, then slow, then fast—alternating until she’s whimpering, back bowed, thighs shaking.

“You like this?” he murmurs—pulling off with a wet pop, voice rough. “Like when I suck your tits? Pinch them? Make them all sensitive and swollen for me?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—keep going—bite a little—”

He does—teeth grazing, then nipping gently—then soothing with his tongue while his other hand pinches and rolls the neglected peak. She’s trembling, thighs pressing together, hips rocking against nothing.

“God—your mouth—feels so good—don’t stop—please—”

“So pretty like this,” he whispers—kissing between her breasts, then up to her collarbone, then back down. “All flushed. All mine.”

She moans—loud, broken—hips bucking again. “Soobin—please—touch me lower—”

He smiles against her skin—wicked, slow. “Patience. I’m not done worshipping these yet.”

He keeps going—mouth and hands working her breasts in tandem—sucking, licking, pinching, kneading—until she’s trembling, thighs slick, breathing ragged, begging softly between moans.

He groans against her skin, the vibration making her whimper louder. “That’s it, baby. Moan for me. Let me hear how much you need this.”

She’s panting, voice wrecked. “Wait… if we’re gonna… you know… do you have… stuff? Like, prep? I’ve never… with a guy who…”

Soobin stills—just a fraction—eyes flicking to hers. He doesn’t flinch. Just nods once, calm.

“Yeah. I’ve got some. In my bag.”

She blinks—surprised. “You… brought lube? And condoms?”

He exhales a small laugh—almost sheepish—leans over the side of the bed, rummages in his duffel on the floor. Pulls out a small black bottle and a strip of condoms, sets them on the nightstand. The bottle is clear, unscented, the label simple. Nothing flashy.

“I always carry,” he says quietly, voice steady. “Habit. You never know when things might… go that way.”

She watches him—head tilted, processing. “You… always carry lube? For… guys?”

Soobin pauses, hand still on the bottle, then looks back at her. No defensiveness. Just that steady, warm gaze. “Friends talk. Beomgyu and Yeonjun go on and on about prep, lube, taking it slow. Said it makes everything better. Safer. Hotter. I listened. Figured it was smart.” He leans down, kisses her slow and deep, then murmurs against her lips, “I’ve learned what feels good. What makes someone relax. What makes it really fucking good. And I want that for you. Right now.”

Her breath catches—guilt and want twisting together. “But if you’re—”

“I’m here,” he cuts in gently, kissing her jaw, then her neck. “Wanting this. Wanting you. That’s all that matters.”

She searches his eyes. Finds nothing but heat and honesty. She nods—small, shaky—then pulls him down for another kiss. “Okay. Show me what you learned.”

“I’ve learned what feels good,” he murmurs against her lips. “What makes someone relax. What makes it easier. What makes it… really fucking good. And I want that for you. Right now.”

He smiles—small, wicked—pops the cap on the lube and warms it between his fingers. “Lie back. Legs open for me. I’ll go slow. Tell me if anything’s too much.” kissing across to the other side, sucking gently, teeth grazing just enough to make her whimper. “Remember that party?” he whispers against her skin. “Yeonjun with the soju. Licking it off your stomach like he won a prize.”

She shivers—half-embarrassed, half-turned on. “Yeah…”

Soobin kisses lower—slow trail down her sternum, over her ribs, tongue dipping into her navel. “He did it wrong,” he says, voice low and rough. “Too fast and too showy.”

He presses a kiss just below her belly button—open-mouthed, lingering—then looks up at her through his lashes. “I’d do it better. with no drink just you.”

Before she can answer he hooks his fingers in the waistband of her leggings—slow—pulls them down her hips along with her underwear in one smooth drag. She lifts her hips to help; he slides them off completely, tosses them aside.

Now she’s bare—legs parted, skin flushed in the moonlight. He settles between her thighs, kisses the inside of one, then the other, tongue tracing the crease where thigh meets hip.

“Soobin…” she breathes.

He smiles against her skin. “Patience, baby. I’m gonna eat this pretty pussy until you’re dripping down my chin, then I’m gonna fuck you so deep you forget every other guy you’ve ever had.”

He licks a long, flat stripe up her slit, tongue pressing against her clit at the top. She gasps, back arching. He groans—low, hungry. “Fuck, you taste so good. Better than I imagined. So wet already… this cunt is dripping for me.”

He licks again—slow circles, then flicks, then sucks gently—hands gripping her thighs to keep her spread wide. “That’s it. Ride my face. Use me. Fuck—look how greedy you are.”

She moans—hips rocking up—while he thrusts his tongue inside her, nose grinding against her clit. One hand slides up to pinch her nipple; the other grips her ass, lifting her higher so he can bury his face deeper.

“You’re soaking me,” he growls against her. “Gonna come on my tongue like a good girl? Let me taste how hard I make you.”

He adds two fingers—slow, scissoring—then three, curling them just right while his tongue flicks fast over her clit. She’s trembling, thighs shaking.

“Fuck—Soobin—your fingers—so deep—gonna come—”

He obeys—tongue thrusting harder, nose rubbing her clit in tight circles. One hand slides up—fingers finding her nipple, pinching and rolling while his mouth never stops. The other hand grips her ass, lifting her higher so he can bury his face deeper.

He curls them harder—hitting that spot—watching her face the whole time. “You’re so tight. So wet. Taking me so good. Gonna feel even better when it’s my cock.”

She whimpers “Want it. Want you inside me.”

“Soon,” he promises—kissing her hard. “Gonna make sure you’re ready first. Gonna make you come again on my fingers. Then I’ll fuck you slow. Deep. Fill you up.”

She nods—frantic—hips bucking faster. “Yes—please—make me come—”

“You’re dripping,” he growls against her. “Soaking my chin. My tongue. Fuck—come on my face. Let me taste it all.”

He adds a fourth finger—slow stretch—thumb grinding her clit harder. She’s trembling—thighs shaking, breath hitching.

She’s close—body tensing, hips bucking harder. “Yes—yes—don’t stop—gonna come—”

“Come for me,” he demands, voice rough. “Right now. Soak my face. Then I’m sliding my cock in and fucking you full.”

He sucks her clit hard—tongue flicking fast—and she breaks—shuddering hard, walls pulsing, gushing against his mouth with a muffled cry into her hand. He keeps going—lapping slow and thorough through her orgasm, tongue gentle now, cleaning every drop like he’s savoring it.

When she finally collapses—panting, trembling gushing wet against his hand with a muffled cry—he kisses her inner thigh once—soft—then crawls up her body, mouth finding hers again. She tastes herself on his tongue—salty-sweet—and moans into the kiss.

He keeps moving—gentle now—through her orgasm, kissing her neck, her jaw, her mouth.

He pulls back just enough to whisper against her lips.

“That was just the start.”

She laughs—shaky, wrecked—hands already tugging at his tee.

“Then keep going.”

The bedroom is hushed—moonlight slicing silver-blue across the quilt, radiator hissing faintly in the corner, snow still tapping soft against the window like distant applause. She’s on her knees between his legs now. Soobin’s propped against the headboard—pillows shoved behind his back—sweats pushed down just enough to free his cock, thick and flushed dark in the low light, already glistening at the tip from how long they’ve been teasing each other.

She’s confident now—eyes dark with want, small smile tugging her lips as she wraps her hand around the base. He’s warm, heavy, pulsing in her palm. She strokes once—slow, firm—watching his stomach tense, abs tightening under her other hand where it rests on his hip.

“Fuck,” he breathes—voice rough, almost surprised. “Your hand… already feels too good.”

She grins—playful, teasing—leans down and presses a soft kiss to the inside of his thigh first, then another higher up. “Relax. I’ve got you. Just tell me what feels good. Or what you like.”

Soobin exhales shaky—head tipping back against the headboard for a second. “I… uh… this is my first time getting this.”

She pauses—lips hovering over the base of him—looks up, eyes widening a fraction. “Wait… really? No one’s ever…?”

He nods once—slow, cheeks flushing darker. “Yeah. Never. Not with… anyone. Just never happened.”

She blinks—surprised, then softens, smile turning gentler. “Okay. That’s… okay. We’ll go slow. Really slow. Tell me if anything’s too much or you want to stop. Promise?”

He nods again—quick, relieved. “Promise. Just… fuck—your mouth looks so good right there. I’m already losing it.”

She laughs—soft, breathy—then drags her tongue flat along the underside from root to tip in one long, slow lick. He hisses through his teeth—hips jerking up once before he catches himself.

“Shit—that—fuck—”

“Good?” she asks, voice low and teasing, looking up at him through her lashes.

“So fucking good,” he groans—hand coming up to thread gently into her hair, not pushing, just holding. “Your tongue—god—keep doing that. Please.”

She does—licks again—slow, flat presses along the underside, then circles the head with the tip of her tongue, tasting the salty bead of precome at the slit. He twitches hard—breath hitching.

“Fuck—yes—right there. Suck the head, baby—please—”

She takes him into her mouth—slow, careful—lips stretching around the head, tongue swirling. He’s thick—fills her mouth fast—and she has to breathe through her nose, jaw aching already. She sucks gently—hollowing her cheeks—then bobs shallow, taking more each time until he hits the back of her throat. She gags a little—eyes watering—but doesn’t pull off. Just breathes—slow—trying to relax.

Soobin’s hand tightens in her hair—gentle. “Easy—fuck—you don’t have to take it all. Just—god—your mouth feels incredible. So warm. So wet. Just suck the head—yeah—like that—fuck—”

She moans softly—vibration making him buck—then pulls back—lips dragging along his length, tongue flat on the underside—then sinks down again—deeper this time. She finds a rhythm—slow bobs, hand stroking what her mouth can’t reach, twisting at the base. Saliva drips down his shaft; she uses it to slick her hand, stroking faster while she sucks harder on the head.

“Fuck—yes—just like that—twist your hand—shit—harder—please—”

She speeds up—strokes tight and fast, tongue flicking the slit every upstroke. His hips rock up in tiny, helpless thrusts—breathing turning ragged.

“God—you’re so good at this—fuck—your tongue on the head—keep sucking—don’t stop—”

She hollows her cheeks more—sucks tight—takes him deeper until he hits her throat again. She gags—tears pricking—but keeps going, hand pumping the base in time with her mouth.

Soobin’s thighs tense—abs clenching—breath hitching. “Close—fuck yes, just like that—your mouth is so wet and hot—gonna lose it—suck harder—god, you look so pretty with my cock in your throat—”

She moans around him, taking him deeper, gagging a little but not stopping. His hand tightens gently in her hair.

“Close—fuck—gonna come—where—”

She pulls off just enough to whisper—voice hoarse, wrecked—“In my mouth. Want to taste you. First time, right? Let me make it good.”

He groans—deep, broken—hips jerking up once more. “Fuck—yes—”

He comes hard—hot pulses across her tongue, thick and salty. She swallows—messy, some dripping down her chin—keeps sucking gently through it until he’s shuddering, oversensitive, hand tugging her hair lightly to pull her off.

She sits back—lips swollen, chin wet—eyes glassy, proud. He looks wrecked—chest heaving, eyes dark, hand still in her hair.

“Fuck,” he breathes—pulling her up—kissing her hard, tasting himself on her tongue. “That was… holy shit. You’re incredible, Thank you. Ready for me now?”?” he asks—voice soft, eyes locked on hers.

“Yeah. I’m ready.” She nods—pulls him down for another kiss.

The condom is on—rolled down slow, careful—Soobin’s hand steady even though his breathing is ragged, chest heaving. She’s on her back beneath him—legs spread wide, knees hooked over his hips, hands gripping his shoulders like anchors. The room is dark except for the silver-blue moonlight cutting through the curtains, painting their skin in cool streaks and deep shadows. The radiator hisses faintly; outside the wind moans low and constant, snow scraping the windows like it’s trying to listen in.

He settles between her thighs—cock nudging her entrance, thick head slick from her mouth and the lube he warmed on his fingers earlier. He doesn’t push in yet. Just rocks—slow, teasing—letting the head slide through her folds, bumping her clit on every pass until she’s whimpering, hips lifting, chasing.

“So wet,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to hers. “Feel how hard you make me? Been aching to be inside this tight little pussy since last night. Gonna fuck you so good, baby. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

She nods—frantic—nails digging into his shoulders. “Please—Soobin—need you—now—”

He kisses her—deep, filthy—then pulls back just enough to watch her face. “Gonna go slow. Tell me if it’s too much.”

She nods again—breath hitching—legs wrapping tighter around his waist.

He pushes in—slow—head breaching her entrance, stretching her open inch by thick inch. She gasps—sharp, high—back arching off the bed as he fills her. He’s big—bigger than his fingers—stretching her wide, walls fluttering around him, trying to adjust.

“Fuck—tight—so fucking tight,” he groans, hips pausing halfway. “You okay? Breathe for me, baby. Taking my cock so well already.”

She nods, hands sliding down to grip his ass, pulling him deeper. “More—want all of you—fuck me—”

He sinks in the rest of the way—slow, deliberate—until he’s buried deep, hips flush against hers. They both freeze—moaning low, broken—bodies trembling together. He’s so deep she feels him in her stomach, thick and throbbing, stretching her full.

“God—you feel… so fucking good inside me,” she whispers—voice wrecked—hips rocking once, testing the fullness.

“You feel that?” he rasps, voice wrecked. “How deep I am? This pussy was made for my cock—squeezing me so fucking perfect. So wet. So hot. Gonna fuck you until you’re dripping down my balls.”

He starts moving—slow at first—long, deep rolls of his hips, pulling almost all the way out then sliding back in—letting her feel every inch, every ridge. She moans—loud, unrestrained—nails raking down his back, leaving red trails.

“Fuck—Soobin—you’re so big,” she chokes out—voice wrecked, high, almost surprised. “I can feel you… everywhere. Stretching me so full—god—”

He groans—low, guttural—hips rocking once—slow, deep—letting her feel every ridge, every vein dragging inside her. “You’re taking me so good—fuck—so tight—squeezing me like you never want me to pull out.”

She whimpers—hips bucking up to meet him—trying to take more, faster. “Don’t—don’t go slow—please—fuck me—hard—want to feel all of you—need it—”

He does—hips snapping forward—deep, hard thrusts that make the headboard tap the wall once, twice. She cries out—sharp, needy—hips bucking up to meet him, chasing the stretch, the fullness, the drag of his cock against every sensitive spot inside her.

He doesn’t need more encouragement. His control snaps. He slams in—fast, deep, relentless—headboard smacking the wall. “That’s it. Take it. Take every fucking inch. This cunt is mine tonight—gonna fill you up and make you scream my name.”

“Fuck—yes—like that—harder—god—you’re so deep—hitting so good—don’t stop—”

He growls—mouth on her neck, sucking hard enough to bruise—hips snapping faster, balls slapping wet against her ass with every thrust. The sound is filthy—skin on skin, wet squelching, her moans mixing with his groans—filling the quiet room.

“You feel that?” he rasps—voice rough, wrecked—pulling almost all the way out then slamming back in. “How deep I am? How full you are? This pussy was made for my cock—taking every inch—fuck—so wet—so tight”

She’s losing it—mind blank, body on fire—hips bucking wildly to meet him, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails. “Yes—ruin me—fuck—your cock’s so big—stretching me—filling me—gonna come—gonna come so hard—”

He slams in deeper—faster now—wet, obscene sounds filling the room every time he bottoms out. His hand slips between them—thumb finding her clit, rubbing tight, fast circles while he fucks her relentlessly. She’s trembling—thighs shaking, walls fluttering around him—close, so close.

“Do it,” he growls—hips slamming harder, balls slapping wet against her ass. “Come for me. Squeeze me. Milk me. Let me feel you.”

He shifts—hooks one of her legs over his shoulder—changing the angle—driving even deeper, hitting that spot over and over. She screams—muffled into his shoulder—walls fluttering, clenching hard around him.

“Come for me,” he growls—thumb finding her clit, rubbing fast, sloppy circles. “Come on my cock—squeeze me—milk me—let me feel you come all over me like the greedy little slut you are for me.”

She breaks—shuddering violently, walls pulsing hard around him, gushing wet as she comes with a muffled scream against his shoulder. He fucks her through it, hips never slowing.

“Fuck—gonna come—inside? Tell me—”

“Inside,” she gasps, still clenching around him. “Fill me—please—I want to feel it—”

He slams in one last time—deep, hard—groaning low and broken as he comes, cock pulsing inside the condom, spilling hot while he keeps rocking slow and shallow, milking every drop.

They collapse—sweaty, shaking, tangled. He stays buried in her for a long moment, forehead to hers, breaths mingling, then kissing her soft and slow. Then he carefully pulls out, ties off the condom and sets it aside before grabbing the hoodie from the floor and gently pressing it between her thighs to catch the mess.

“Easy,” he murmurs—voice rough but tender—kissing her temple, then her cheek. “You okay? Was that… too much?”

She shakes her head—small—still catching her breath. “No. Just… intense. You’re… a lot.”

He smiles—small, almost shy—kisses her forehead again. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

He takes care of her quietly and carefully—warm, unhurried. When he's done he climbs back into bed, pulls her against his chest, arms wrapping around her tight. His hand finds her lower back—rubbing slow circles.

She curls into him—face pressed to his collarbone—breathing him in. "You always do this? After?"

He kisses the top of her head. "Only with you."

Something warm blooms in her chest—soft, confusing—but she doesn't name it. Just presses closer.

"Stay like this?" she asks—voice small, sleepy.

"Wasn't planning on moving," he murmurs. "You're stuck with me tonight. All night."

She smiles—hidden against his skin. "Good."

He pulls the quilt higher—tucking it around her shoulders—then reaches over to the nightstand, grabs the bottle of water Mom always keeps there. Opens it, holds it to her lips.

"Drink. You're dehydrated."

She laughs—soft—takes a sip, then another. "You're bossy after."

"Only when you need it," he says—kissing her temple. "Now sleep. I've got you."

She nods—eyes already heavy—curls tighter against him, one leg hooking over his hip, hand resting on his chest right over his heartbeat.

He keeps stroking her back—slow, soothing circles—until her breathing evens out, body going soft and heavy against him.

He doesn't sleep right away.

Just holds her—arm tight around her waist, hand splayed gentle over her stomach—listening to her breathe, feeling her heartbeat against his chest.

Watching her sleep.

Thumb brushing slow circles on her skin.

He kisses her forehead once—barely a whisper—then closes his eyes.

౨ৎ prev ✧ next ౨ৎtag open: @black-startxt, @buttersoob,@idkguyslma @toru-saki @amelie-sama-blog @binniesbabe @ravenslocked

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The library corner on the third floor has become their unofficial spot—same table by the window every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, sunlight slanting through the glass in long golden bars across their open notebooks. She's hunched over her laptop today, chewing the end of her pen while she tries to untangle a paragraph that refuses to make sense. Soobin sits across from her—textbook open but unread—watching her with that quiet, patient focus he always has when she's working.

She exhales sharply through her nose, drops the pen, rubs her temples. "This is stupid. I can't figure out how to connect the second argument to the conclusion without sounding like I'm forcing it."

He leans forward—elbows on the table—tilts his head to read the screen upside down. "You're overcomplicating the transition. Just say what you already know: the evidence from the first study supports the second because both show the same pattern in different populations. Then link it back to your thesis in the next sentence."

She stares at him—blinks. "How do you do that? You haven't even read the articles."

"I read your outline last night while you were showering," he says—reaches across, turns her laptop slightly so he can see better. "And you talk out loud when you're stuck."

Warmth climbs her cheeks—small, sudden—but she doesn't pull away when his fingers brush hers on the keyboard. "You're scary good at this."

"I know." The words come out soft, like the most obvious thing in the world. Then he glances at her phone when it lights up on the table—notification from some dating app she downloaded months ago and mostly forgot about. A message preview pops up: Hey cutie, saw your pics… that smile is dangerous 😏

She reaches to flip the phone over—fast—but he's already seen it.

He doesn't react the way most guys would—no tightening of the jaw, no forced casualness. Just a small tilt of his head, curious.

"New match?"

She sighs—leans back in her chair. "Yeah. Some guy from the gym app. He messaged yesterday. I haven't answered yet."

Soobin nods—slow—leans back too, mirroring her posture. "What's he like?"

She shrugs—scrolls open the profile just to have something to do with her hands. "Tall. Works out. Posts gym selfies every other day. Bio says 'looking for someone who can keep up.' Classic."

He hums—thoughtful—then leans forward again, elbows on the table. "Sounds confident. Good shoulders in the pics?"

She laughs—surprised—glances at him. "You're doing the shoulder thing again."

"Shoulders matter," he says—deadpan—but there's a tiny glint in his eye. "They tell you a lot. Strong shoulders usually mean he can carry his own weight. And yours if you need it."

She rolls her eyes but smiles anyway. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe." He reaches over—takes her phone gently from her hand, scrolls through the profile pictures with clinical detachment. "Nice arms too. Decent jawline. He'd look good in photos."

She snatches the phone back—laughing despite herself. "Stop rating my potential dates. It's weird."

"Not weird," he says—one shoulder lifting. "Just helping. You always ask me what I think anyway."

She sighs—sets the phone face-down. "Yeah. I do. Because you're honest. Brutally honest sometimes."

"Only when it matters." He leans closer—voice dropping. "If he's worth your time, go for it. You deserve someone who shows up. Who listens. Who makes you feel… safe."

She looks at him—really looks. "Like you do."

He doesn't flinch. Just holds her gaze—steady, soft. "Exactly like that."

The library hums around them—pages turning, keyboards clicking, distant coughs—but it feels like the air between them has gone still.

She swallows. "You never get jealous. Not once. Not with any of them."

He lifts one shoulder—small, almost careless. "Why would I? If he's good for you, I'm happy. If he's not… you'll figure it out. You always do. And I'll be here. Same as always."

She feels something twist—sharp, confusing—in her chest. "You make it sound so easy."

"It is easy," he says quietly. "You're my best friend. I want you to be happy. Even if it's not with me."

The words land heavy—simple, honest—and she feels them settle somewhere within her.

She looks down at her laptop—screen gone dark—then back up at him.

"You're too good, Binnie. Too good for me."

He smiles—small, almost sad. "I'm just me."

She nods—slow—reaches across the table, squeezes his hand once.

"Thanks. For… everything."

He squeezes back—thumb brushing her knuckles.

"Anytime."

They go back to work—her typing, him reading—but the air feels different now.

Charged. Unspoken.

Because he encouraged her again. Told her to try.

Rated the guy's shoulders like it was nothing. And somewhere underneath it all, she's starting to wonder why that bothers her more than it should.

Soobin lies awake on the pull-out couch long after the apartment has gone still. The clock on the microwave glows 2:47 a.m. in dull red numbers. He can hear the faint rhythm of her breathing through the thin bedroom door—slow, even, trusting. She fell asleep curled against him earlier, face tucked into his neck, leg thrown over his hip like she was afraid he’d disappear if she let go. He stayed until her grip loosened, until her breaths deepened, then carefully untangled himself and slipped out here.

Now the living room is too quiet. Too dark. Too empty.

He sits up slowly—blanket pooling around his waist—rubs both hands over his face. His skin feels too tight. His pulse is already hammering low in his groin, insistent, familiar. It’s been like this every night since the snow trip. Since he tasted her. Since he felt her clench around him and heard his name break on her lips like a plea.

He stands—bare feet silent on the cold floor—walks to the bathroom without turning on any lights. Closes the door. Locks it. The click feels louder than it should.

The bathtub is cool against his back when he lowers himself into it—still clothed in boxers and the loose tee he slept in. He doesn’t bother with the faucet. Doesn’t need water for this. Just needs… relief. Privacy. A moment to let the mask slip.

He exhales—shaky—leans his head back against the porcelain edge. The cold shocks his scalp but he barely registers it. His hand is already moving—sliding under the waistband of his boxers, wrapping around himself. He’s hard—painfully so—just from the memory of her earlier: the way she sighed when he kissed her neck while washing dishes, the way her hips shifted against him when they sat too close on the couch, the way she looked at him when he said “anytime” like she was trying to decide whether to believe him.

He strokes once—slow, firm—from base to tip. A low groan slips out before he can catch it.

Fuck.

He remembers her moans from the snow trip—soft at first, then desperate, then broken when he hit that spot inside her. He remembers the way she whispered his name like it was a secret only they shared. He remembers the way she tasted—sweet, wet, addictive.

His hips buck up into his fist—waterless, but the motion is the same. Desperate. Hungry.

What would you do if you knew?

The thought hits him hard—makes his hand speed up.

If you knew I’m not gay. Never was. That I’ve been touching myself to the thought of you for years. That every time you sigh, every time you stretch and your shirt rides up just enough to show a strip of skin, every time you laugh too loud at one of my stupid jokes—I lose it. I come home and lock myself in the bathroom and fuck my own hand thinking about bending you over the counter, about spanking your ass red until you beg, about fucking you so hard the headboard dents the wall.

He bites his lip—hard—to keep the groan quiet. His other hand grips the edge of the tub—knuckles white.

You’d run. You’d think I’m a creep. A liar. You’d think I manipulated you. And maybe I did. But I’d do it again. I’d do anything to keep you close. To keep you mine.

His hips snap up faster—thrusting into his fist—waterless but frantic. The porcelain is cold against his back, but he doesn’t care. Pain barely registers.

What would you sound like if I was rougher? If I pinned your wrists above your head and fucked you until you cried? If I spanked you until your skin bloomed pink and you begged for more? Would you like it? Would you come harder? Or would you pull away? Would you look at me like I scared you?

The uncertainty only makes him harder—makes the ache sharper.

He’s close—dangerously close—thighs shaking, abs clenching, breath coming in short, harsh pants.

All the waiting… all the patience… it’ll be worth it. Because when you finally choose me—when you finally admit you want me the way I want you—I’ll give you everything. Slow. Rough. Gentle. Whatever you need. But I’ll never let you go.

A few more desperate thrusts—fast, erratic—and he comes—hard—hot ropes spilling over his fist, painting his stomach and chest. His head snaps back—cracking against the porcelain edge—but the pain barely registers. His legs shake violently, toes curling, vision whiting out for a long second.

He rides it out—hand slowing, milking every last pulse—until he’s trembling, oversensitive, chest heaving.

When he finally stills—breath ragged—he opens his eyes.

She doesn’t know yet.

He reaches for the washcloth—wipes himself clean—slow, methodical.

Then stands—legs still shaky—pulls his boxers back up.

Walks back to the couch.

Slips under the blankets.

Closes his eyes.

And sleeps deeply and dreamless, knowing she’s only a few steps down the hall.

“So you’re really sticking with the extra cheese on everything now?” she asks, leaning her hip against the kitchen counter while she watches him grate parmesan over the pasta, the rasp of the grater filling the small space between them.

Soobin glances up, one corner of his mouth lifting in that quiet way he has when he’s amused but trying not to show it too much. “It’s not extra if it tastes right. You’re the one who complained last week that the sauce was ‘too tomato-forward’.”

She rolls her eyes but reaches over anyway, stealing a pinch of the grated cheese straight from the pile he’s building. “I stand by that. Tomato-forward is code for boring, and cheese fixes boring.”

He snorts softly, shaking his head while he keeps grating, the motion steady and unhurried. “You fix boring by drowning it in dairy. Noted for next time.”

“Next time you’re cooking, you mean.” She hops up to sit on the counter beside the stove, legs swinging a little, bare feet brushing his thigh when he shifts to stir the sauce. “Because I’m still recovering from the last time I tried to make risotto. We both remember how that ended.”

“With smoke alarms and takeout,” he finishes for her, voice warm with the memory. He sets the grater down, wipes his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder, then turns the burner to low so the sauce can simmer. “You’re banned from risotto for life. I’m serious.”

She laughs—bright and easy—tipping her head back until it rests against the cabinet door. “Harsh, but fair. At least I’m good at eating what you make.”

“You’re good at a lot of things.” He steps between her knees without thinking, hands settling on the counter on either side of her hips, caging her in a way that feels casual but isn’t. “Like distracting me while I’m trying to keep this from burning.”

She tilts her head, meeting his eyes, close enough now that she can see the faint freckles across his nose that only show up in this light. “Am I distracting you?”

“Constantly,” he says, and the word comes out quieter than he probably means it to, almost like a confession he didn’t plan on making.

For a second neither of them moves. The pasta bubbles gently behind him, steam curling up between them, carrying the smell of garlic and butter and something warmer underneath. She feels the heat of his palms through the fabric of her leggings where his thumbs have drifted to rest against the outside of her thighs, not pushing, just… there.

She swallows, keeps her voice light even though her pulse has kicked up. “Then maybe you should finish cooking before you get distracted any more.”

He exhales through his nose—almost a laugh—then leans in just enough that his forehead brushes hers for half a heartbeat. “Maybe I should.”

But he doesn’t step back right away. Instead he stays close, breathing the same air, watching her face like he’s trying to memorize every flicker of expression. His thumbs move—tiny, unconscious strokes along the seam of her leggings—and she feels the shiver chase up her spine even though she tries to keep her face neutral.

“Binnie,” she says, softer now, “the sauce.”

“Right.” He pulls away slowly, reluctantly, like it costs him something to do it. “Sauce. Food. Priorities.”

She watches him turn back to the stove—shoulders a little tense, neck flushed at the tips of his ears—and something tightens in her own chest, familiar and confusing all at once. She hops down from the counter, moves to stand beside him instead, shoulder brushing his while she grabs plates from the cabinet.

They plate the pasta together—quiet teamwork, elbows bumping, fingers brushing when they pass the serving spoon—and carry everything to the small table by the window. Outside the city lights are starting to come on, reflecting off the wet pavement, turning everything gold and blurry.

He sits first, waits for her to settle across from him, then picks up his fork but doesn’t eat yet. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

She twirls pasta around her fork, shrugs one shoulder. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

She meets his eyes—steady, searching—and decides to keep it simple. “About how nice this is. Having you here. Eating dinner like normal people. No chaos. No running around. Just… this.”

His expression softens—something warm and unguarded flickering across his face before he covers it with a small smile. “Yeah. It’s nice.”

They eat then—slow, comfortable—talking about nothing important: the professor who keeps canceling office hours, the new coffee shop that opened near campus, whether they should try making bread next weekend even though neither of them knows how. Every once in a while their knees bump under the table and neither pulls away. Every once in a while his foot nudges hers and stays there, warm through their socks.

After dinner he insists on washing up while she dries. They stand side by side at the sink—elbows brushing, hips close—passing plates and forks in easy rhythm. When the last dish is stacked he turns off the faucet, dries his hands, then turns to her instead of stepping away.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at her—really looks—like he’s seeing something he’s been waiting to see for a long time.

Then, quietly: “I like this. Being here. With you. Like this.”

She feels her throat tighten—small, sudden. “Me too.”

He reaches out—slow—brushes his knuckles along her cheek, then tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers linger there, warm against her skin.

“I could get used to it,” he says, voice so low she almost misses it. “To coming home to you. To cooking with you. To… all of it.”

Her heart stutters—hard. She opens her mouth to say something—anything—but the words stick.

He doesn’t push. Just leans in—forehead resting gently against hers for a long moment—then pulls back, smiles that small, crooked smile she’s known since they were kids.

“Night,” he says softly. “Sleep well.”

He walks to the pull-out couch—starts unfolding it like always.

She stands there—rooted—watching him move with that quiet efficiency he has.

Then she speaks—voice barely above a whisper.

“Binnie?”

He pauses—looks over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

She swallows. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch tonight. If… if you don’t want to.”

His eyes darken—just a fraction—but he keeps his voice steady. “You sure?”

She nods—small, certain. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

He straightens—walks back to her—slow, deliberate—until he’s close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating off him.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Then I won’t.”

He takes her hand—threads their fingers together—leads her toward her bedroom.

The door closes behind them—soft click and the apartment stays quiet.

Weeks slip by almost without notice, the kind of quiet stretch where days start to feel the same but better—warmer, softer, easier. The snow has mostly melted into gray puddles that reflect the campus lights at night, and the apartment has slowly rearranged itself around two people instead of one. His shoes by the door next to hers. His charger plugged in beside the couch. His hoodie hanging on the back of her chair like it's always belonged there.

He pays for things so quietly she almost doesn't catch it at first. A coffee run turns into him sliding his card across the counter before she can even open her wallet. When she frowns and reaches for her phone to Venmo him back, he just shakes his head—small smile, casual shrug. "I got it. You paid last time." Except she didn't. Not really. Not lately. The pattern repeats: groceries, late-night takeout when she's buried in notes, even the small bottle of pain relievers she mentioned running low on—he brings home two without a word, sets them on the bathroom shelf like they've always been there.

She starts to notice the paperwork next. The financial aid form she's been avoiding because the questions make her head hurt—he sits beside her one evening, pulls the laptop closer, asks gentle questions until the boxes are filled out. "There. Submitted. Deadline was tomorrow, by the way." She stares at the confirmation email, then at him. "How did you even know the deadline?" He lifts one shoulder—easy, like it's nothing. "You mentioned it last week. I wrote it down."

He picks her up from class more often than not now. Not every day at first, but enough that she stops looking surprised when she steps out of the lecture hall and sees him leaning against the wall—phone in hand, hood up, small lift of his chin when their eyes meet. "Figured it was raining," he says one afternoon, even though the sky is only threatening. He holds an umbrella anyway. She slips under it without thinking, shoulder brushing his, their hands finding each other halfway across campus like it's the most natural thing.

She doesn't notice how dependent she's becoming. Not at first. It happens in pieces. She stops checking the weather because he always knows if she needs a jacket. She stops planning dinner because he's already asked what she's craving by the time she gets home. She stops double-checking her schedule because he remembers her exam dates better than she does, leaves sticky notes on the fridge with gentle reminders: Bio quiz tomorrow—flashcards on the table. When she's anxious before a presentation he sits with her until midnight, reading her slides aloud in that calm, steady voice until the words stop feeling scary.

And at night—when the apartment is dark and the city hums faintly outside—she tells him things she's never told anyone else.

One evening she's curled against his side on the couch, head on his chest, his fingers tracing absent patterns on her arm while some documentary neither of them is really watching plays in the background.

"I used to think I wasn't good enough," she says suddenly—voice small, almost lost under the narrator's voice. "In high school. Everyone had plans—college, careers, boyfriends who looked good on paper. I just… floated. Mom and Dad never pushed, but I felt it anyway. Like I was supposed to have it all figured out by seventeen. I still feel like that sometimes. Like I'm behind. Like I'm faking it."

Soobin's fingers pause—just for a second—then resume their slow circles. He doesn't interrupt. Just listens.

"I never told anyone that," she continues, quieter now. "Not even Lia. She'd tell me I'm being dramatic. But with you… I don't feel dramatic. I just feel… seen."

He presses his lips to the top of her head—soft, barely there. "You're not behind. You're just… you. And you're exactly where you're supposed to be."

She turns her face into his chest—hides the way her eyes sting. "You always say the right thing."

"I say what's true," he murmurs. "You've never had to fake it with me. You never will."

She believes him.

Because he's never given her a reason not to, because every time she reaches—he's already there, because the small problems disappear before she even names them, because he pays, he plans, he waits, he holds, and she lets him.

Without questioning why it feels so easy. Without noticing how completely she's started to rely on him. Without seeing how perfectly he's woven himself into every corner of her life.

One Tuesday evening she's sprawled on the couch grading discussion posts—laptop balanced on her thighs, glasses slipping down her nose—when Soobin walks in from the kitchen with two mugs of tea. Chamomile for her, black for him. He sets hers on the coffee table without a word, then sits beside her—close enough that their shoulders touch when he leans back.

She glances over—smiles automatically. "Thanks. You're a mind-reader."

His shoulder lifts in that familiar half-shrug, sipping his own tea. "You always grade better when you're calm. Chamomile helps."

She hums agreement, takes a sip—warmth spreading through her chest. "You know me too well."

"Always," he says quietly, eyes on the screen over her shoulder. "You've got that little frown when you're reading something you disagree with. Right… there."

He reaches over—gentle—smooths the crease between her brows with his thumb. She laughs softly, leans into the touch for a second before catching herself.

"You always notice everything."

"I notice you," he says—matter-of-fact—then drops his hand, picks up his phone instead. "You have that group presentation Thursday, right? I added it to my calendar so I can pick you up after. Parking lot B again?"

She blinks—startled. "I didn't tell you the room number."

"You mentioned it last week when you were ranting about the projector not working in 214. I remembered."

She stares at him—heart doing that strange flutter it's been doing more often lately. "You… sync my schedule?"

He doesn't look up from his phone—keeps tapping. "Yeah. Shared calendar. Makes it easier. You forget things when you're stressed."

She opens her mouth—closes it—then laughs, small and disbelieving. "You're terrifyingly organized."

"Someone has to be." He finally meets her eyes—the corner of his mouth curving upward. "You focus on the important stuff. I handle the rest."

She feels something settle—warm, heavy—in her chest. Dependence. Comfort. Safety. She doesn't name it. Just leans her head on his shoulder while she keeps grading.

He doesn't comment.

Just wraps his arm around her—pulls her closer—thumb stroking slow circles on her upper arm.

Later that night—when she's brushing her teeth—he's already in bed, propped against the headboard with his phone. She climbs in beside him—curls against his side without asking. He sets the phone aside immediately, arm coming around her shoulders like it's reflex.

She rests her head on his chest—listens to his heartbeat—then speaks quietly. "You track my period app too, don't you?"

He goes still—just for a second—then exhales slow. "Yeah."

She lifts her head—looks at him. "Why?"

"Because you get headaches the day before. And you're extra tired the first two days. And you crave chocolate the week leading up. I like knowing so I can… help. Chocolate in the fridge. Heating pad ready. Extra hugs when you need them."

She feels her throat tighten—small, unexpected. "You hug me more those days."

"I do," he admits—voice low. "You seem to like it. And I like holding you."

She searches his face—looking for something she can't name. "You're… too good at this."

“Like I said I pay attention,” he says simply—hand sliding up to cradle the back of her neck. “To you.”

She nods—small—leans up, kisses him once on the cheek—soft, lingering. When she pulls back she curls against him again—head on his chest, leg thrown over his hip.

He holds her tighter—chin resting on her head—thumb making slow circles on her back.

She falls asleep like that—warm, safe, held.

And he stays awake a little longer—phone in hand—opening the period tracking app he synced to hers months ago.

Ovulation in four days.

He adds a note to his calendar—quiet, private.

Extra hugs. Extra touches. Extra closeness.

Then he turns off the screen, sets the phone aside, and wraps both arms around her—pulling her flush against his chest.

And closes his eyes.

They only came to the mall for a few things—her favorite expensive shampoo that the campus store never stocks, the matching conditioner that actually makes her hair feel like silk instead of straw, and maybe a new hair mask because the last one disappeared into the void of her bathroom cabinet. Soobin suggested the trip himself this morning over coffee, casual as anything: "I'm heading that way anyway. Come with?" She said yes without thinking—because she always says yes to him lately—and now the small paper bag from the beauty store swings lightly from his wrist while they walk side by side through the corridor.

The mall is busy but not overwhelming—holiday music playing faintly overhead, people drifting in and out of stores, the occasional burst of laughter from a group near the escalators. She's in jeans and his oversized gray hoodie (the one she "borrowed" permanently weeks ago), hair loose and slightly tangled from the wind outside. Soobin walks beside her—hands in his pockets, hood down now that they're inside—eyes scanning the storefronts like he's mapping the place in his head.

She slows in front of a boutique window—soft home goods on display: cashmere throws folded neatly, scented candles in glass jars, a small shelf with folded blankets in pastel shades. She stops without meaning to—fingers brushing the edge of a pale lavender throw through the glass.

Soobin stops too. Doesn't say anything. Just watches her.

She tilts her head, voice quiet. "This looks so soft. Like the kind of thing you'd wrap up in on a cold day and never want to move."

He steps closer—shoulder brushing hers—leans in slightly to see what she's looking at. "It does. Heavy enough to feel like a hug, light enough not to smother you."

She nods—fingers still tracing the texture through the window. "I like things like that. Simple. Warm. Nothing too loud or scratchy. Just… comfortable."

He doesn't speak right away. Just stands there—close, quiet—watching the way her expression softens, the way her breathing slows like she's slipping into a small, private daydream.

She finally pulls her hand back—lets out a small breath—turns to him with a half-smile. "Sorry. Got distracted. We should keep going."

He shakes his head—barely perceptible. "Don't apologize. I like watching you look at things. You get this expression—like you're already imagining how it'll feel."

She laughs—soft, self-conscious—tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "That's embarrassing."

"It's not." His voice stays low, steady. "It's nice. Makes me want to buy everything you touch just so you can have it."

Warmth climbs her cheeks—quick, sudden—but she doesn't look away. "You're gonna bankrupt yourself if you do that."

"Worth it," he says—then reaches for her hand, threads their fingers together like it's the most natural thing. "Come on."

They keep walking—hands linked, bag swinging between them—past clothing stores, a jewelry kiosk, a place selling scented candles. Every few steps her shoulder brushes his arm, his thumb strokes the back of her hand once, twice, absent but deliberate.

She doesn't pull away.

He doesn't let go.

She's in the middle of telling him about a new scent she wants to try—something with vanilla and bergamot—when she stops walking mid-sentence.

Soobin stops too, following her gaze.

A new baby boutique has opened right in the middle of the corridor—grand opening banners fluttering in bright red and white, balloons tied to the entrance in clusters of pastel and silver. The display windows are themed around Pokémon: tiny onesies with Pikachu ears, a little Eevee romper hanging front and center, matching shorts with fluffy brown tails, and even miniature shoes shaped like Eevee paws. Soft yellow lighting makes everything look warm and inviting, like a tiny world built for daydreams.

She doesn't say anything at first. Just stares.

The Eevee set is impossible to miss: cream-colored onesie with big brown eyes printed on the chest, little ears flopping over the hood, the shorts fuzzy at the edges, and those paw-shaped booties with tiny pink pads on the bottom. It's cute—ridiculously cute—and something in her softens so fast she feels it like a physical ache.

Soobin watches her silently—hands still in his pockets, bag hanging forgotten from his fingers. He sees the way her lips part slightly, the way her eyes go wide and glassy, the way she takes one unconscious step closer to the window.

She finally speaks—voice small, almost embarrassed. "That's… Eevee. My favorite since I was little. Look at the little paws. And the tail on the shorts. It's so… tiny."

He doesn't laugh. Doesn't tease. Just steps up beside her so their shoulders touch.

"It's perfect," he says quietly. "Exactly your kind of cute."

She laughs under her breath—soft, self-conscious—but doesn't move away from the window. "I used to have the plushie. The big one with the fluffy mane. I slept with it until I was… way too old to admit."

Soobin tilts his head—watching her profile more than the display. "You still have it?"

"Maybe," she admits—cheeks going pink. "In a box somewhere. Don't judge."

"I'm not." His voice stays low—gentle. "It's sweet. You'd probably still hug it if you found it."

She glances at him—half-smiling. "Probably."

They stand there another moment—her eyes glued to the Eevee outfit, his eyes glued to her.

Something shifts in him then—quiet and certain, like a door clicking shut on everything he's been holding back.

He steps closer—until his chest brushes her back. His arms come around her waist—gentle—chin resting on her shoulder so he can see the display too.

"It'd look good on someone small," he says quietly—voice low, almost reverent. "Eevee ears. Little paws."

She laughs—small, surprised—but leans back into him anyway. "You think?"

"I know."

His hand slides over hers—fingers threading between hers.

She feels it—the shift. The weight of his arms. The warmth of his chest. The way his breath brushes her ear when he speaks.

She doesn't pull away.

He presses a kiss to her temple—soft, lingering.

"Let's go inside," he says—barely above a whisper. "Just to look."

She nods—small—almost without thinking.

"Yeah. Just to look."

They step inside—hand in hand—into the soft pastel world of tiny clothes and quiet dreams.

Snowflakes are starting again—small, hesitant ones that melt the second they hit the windshield as they pull out of the parking lot.

She's in the passenger seat, legs tucked under her, still wearing his gray hoodie with the sleeves pushed up. The heater hums low, warm air curling around them, carrying the faint vanilla from her hair. She's quiet at first—looking out the window at the lights blurring past—then glances over at him.

"You're taking the long way," she says, not accusing, just noticing.

Soobin keeps his eyes on the road—thumb tapping once against the steering wheel. "Yeah. Thought we could stop somewhere on the way. There's that liquor store with the good selection. I want to grab something for tonight."

She tilts her head—curious. "Like what?"

"Your favorite wine," he says. "The red one with the black label you always get when we do movie nights. And maybe champagne. And apple cider—non-alcoholic, the spiced kind you like when it's cold. Figured we could open something nice. Stay in. Just us."

Warmth blooms in her chest—small, sudden—spreading out to her fingertips.

She doesn't say anything right away. Just watches him drive—profile lit by passing streetlights, jaw relaxed, hands steady on the wheel. The silence between them isn't heavy; it's comfortable, full of things they haven't said yet but don't need to rush.

The liquor store is small—warm yellow light spilling out onto the snowy sidewalk, bell jingling when they step inside. The air smells like wood and wine and cinnamon from the spiced cider display near the door. Soobin heads straight for the shelves—confident, like he's done this run before.

He finds the red wine first—a dark bottle, deep burgundy glass, simple black label—holds it up so she can see. "This one?"

She smiles—nods. "Yeah. Perfect."

Then the champagne—something crisp and dry, not too sweet. He sets it in the basket. Finally the apple cider—glass bottles with red ribbons around the neck, spiced with clove and nutmeg. He picks up two—looks at her.

"Two? In case we want more than one night."

She laughs—soft. "You're planning ahead."

"Always," he says—quiet, almost serious—then adds a small bottle of sparkling water for her because she gets headaches if she drinks too much wine without it.

At the counter he pays before she can reach for her wallet—smooth, practiced—takes the bag from the cashier with a nod. She doesn't protest this time. Just watches him—heart doing that familiar flutter she's stopped trying to ignore.

Outside the cold bites again—snowflakes catching in his hair, melting on his lashes. He shifts both bags to one hand—reaches for hers with the other—threads their fingers together like it's nothing.

They walk to the car—hands linked, breath fogging white between them.

In the car he sets the bags in the back seat—starts the engine—turns the heat up. Then he looks at her—really looks—eyes soft in the dashboard glow.

"Movie night?" he asks. "Your pick. I'll make popcorn."

She smiles—small, real—leans over the console, kisses his cheek once—quick, warm.

"Yeah. Movie night."

He starts driving—slow, careful—hand resting on her thigh the whole way home.

The living room is already dim when Soobin walks back in from the kitchen, arms loaded with supplies: the red wine, the chilled champagne, the spiced apple cider, a bowl of popcorn, a plate of cut cheese and crackers, a bag of her favorite chocolate-dipped pretzels, and a small bowl of gummy bears because he knows she'll eat them by the handful when she's relaxed. He sets everything down on the coffee table with careful movements, the bottles clinking softly against each other.

She's curled on the couch under the big throw blanket—legs tucked under her, remote in hand, scrolling through the streaming menu. The lamp beside her throws warm light across her face, catching the loose strands of hair that escaped her bun. She looks up when he enters—smiles small, tired but content.

"You're spoiling me," she says, nodding at the spread. "That's enough for a small party."

He drops down beside her—close enough that their thighs press together under the blanket. "We've earned it. And if we're doing movie night, we should do it right."

She laughs quietly—leans her head against his shoulder for a second before straightening again. "Okay, fine. But I'm picking the movie. You always choose the same three thrillers."

He raises both hands in surrender—a small grin tugging at his mouth. "I'm not complaining. Pick whatever you want. I just want to see the one you've been talking about for weeks—the new romance, the couple in Paris. You kept saying the trailer made you cry in the best way."

Her cheeks warm—quick, surprised.

He reaches for the wine opener, starts working the cork. "So put it on. I'll pour."

She hesitates—only for a second—then navigates to the movie, presses play. The opening credits roll—soft piano music, wide shots of Paris at dawn, golden light spilling over cobblestones. She dims the lamp a little more with the remote—blanket pulled higher over her lap.

Soobin finishes opening the wine—pours two generous glasses, hands her one. Their fingers brush when she takes it; he lets the touch linger just a beat longer than necessary before pulling back. He opens the cider next—pours her a small glass of that too, sets it beside the wine.

"In case you want something lighter later," he says quietly—then settles back, arm stretching along the back of the couch behind her shoulders.

She takes a sip of the wine—rich, warm, berry notes spreading across her tongue. "This is perfect. Thank you."

He hums—small sound of acknowledgment—then reaches for the popcorn bowl, sets it between them. "Eat. You always forget when you're watching something good."

She laughs again—soft—and grabs a handful, popping one into her mouth.

The movie plays—slow burn romance, lingering shots, quiet confessions in French cafés. She sips the wine steadily—glass emptying faster than she realizes. Soobin refills it without asking—topping off her cider too when she switches. He keeps the snacks coming—pushing the pretzels closer when she finishes the popcorn, handing her a gummy bear when she starts fidgeting during a tense scene.

Halfway through—when the couple on screen is dancing in the rain—she's leaning against his side, head on his shoulder, blanket pulled over both their laps. Her glass is almost empty again; he refills it without comment.

"You okay?" he asks—voice low, close to her ear.

She nods—hums. "Yeah. Just… cozy. The wine's good. Everything's good."

The corner of his mouth curves against her hair—arm sliding around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

"Good," he murmurs. "That's all I want."

She sighs—content—snuggles deeper into his side, hand resting on his thigh under the blanket.

They keep watching—wine flowing, snacks disappearing, her laughter soft when the couple does something silly on screen.

He keeps watching her more than the movie.

Keeps waiting.

Because she's relaxing—slowly, steadily—cheeks flushed from the wine, body loose against his.

He refills her glass one more time—slow, careful.

Leans down—kisses the top of her head.

"Still good?" he whispers.

She nods—sleepy, happy—turns her face into his neck.

"Perfect."

His arm tightens around her.

Perfect.

Empty wine glasses sit on the coffee table next to the half-eaten bowl of popcorn and the bag of chocolate pretzels. The apple cider has gone cold in their mugs, forgotten.

She's curled against his side under the thick throw blanket—head resting on his shoulder, legs tucked beneath her, one hand loosely holding the edge of his hoodie sleeve. Her breathing is slow, relaxed, the wine and the warmth making her limbs heavy. Soobin has one arm draped along the back of the couch behind her, fingers occasionally brushing the ends of her hair in absent, gentle strokes.

For a long while neither speaks. The movie characters murmur something sentimental on screen; she sighs softly, shifting a little closer without thinking.

Soobin feels it—the small movement, the way her body settles more fully against his, the quiet trust in how she fits there. His pulse kicks up—steady but faster—heat pooling low in his stomach. He’s been patient for weeks—months, really—letting her set the pace, letting her lean in first, letting her believe she’s the one choosing every step.

But tonight—tonight the air feels different. Thicker. Hungrier.

He turns his head slightly—nose brushing the top of her hair—inhales the faint vanilla from her shampoo mixed with the red wine on her breath.

"You still awake?" he asks—voice low, rougher than usual.

She hums—sleepy affirmative—tilts her head up just enough to meet his eyes. "Mhm. Barely."

The corner of his mouth lifts—slow—his free hand tracing the line of her jaw with the back of his knuckles. The touch is light—barely there—but it makes her breath catch.

"You look pretty like this," he murmurs. "Relaxed. Warm."

Her eyes flutter half-closed—leaning into his hand without thinking.

Their mouths meet—soft at first, tentative, like they're testing the air between them. Her hand slides up his chest—fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie—pulling him closer.

She pulls back—just slightly—and in the quiet between them, almost shy, she whispers against his mouth:

"Can I kiss you?"

He freezes.

His eyes widen—something cracking open in his expression, wide and unguarded. He heard her right. He knows he did. The words hang there—simple, soft, devastating—and for the first time in all the years he's waited, planned, held back, he feels the ground shift beneath him.

She's asking.

Not taking. Not assuming. Asking.

His heart slams against his ribs—once, twice—hard enough he's sure she can feel it where their chests press together. He scans her face—every flicker, every shadow—searching for doubt or hesitation.

He doesn't find it.

Just her—eyes locked on his, lips parted, waiting.

Something inside him cracks open—wide, raw, unguarded.

His hands rise—trembling slightly—cradling her face with a tenderness that feels almost too soft for the heat simmering between them. His thumbs stroke the delicate skin under her eyes—slow, worshipful—like he's holding something precious.

He doesn't speak.

He just leans in—slow—giving her every second to change her mind.

She doesn't.

Their mouths meet again—this time different.

Not hungry. Not frantic.

Tender.

So tender it aches.

He kisses her like she's the first breath after drowning—like she's everything he's been starving for without knowing how to name it. His lips move over hers—soft, deliberate—tasting every corner, every sigh. His tongue brushes hers—gentle, coaxing—not demanding, inviting her to open for him, to meet him halfway.

She does.

The kiss is grounding—warm, steady, like coming home after years away—but it lifts her off the ground at the same time, unmoors her, sends her floating somewhere gravity doesn't reach. There are notes in it she's never heard before—longing, relief, something so quiet and tender it feels almost sacred.

She makes a small sound—half-whimper, half-sigh—into his mouth. Her hands slide up his arms—fingers curling around his biceps—holding on like she's afraid she'll drift away if she lets go.

He pulls back—just enough to breathe—forehead pressed to hers again, eyes closed.

"You okay?" he whispers—voice rough, trembling at the edges.

She nods—small, frantic—eyes opening slowly, glassy and wide.

"More than okay," she breathes. "That was…"

She doesn't finish.

She doesn't need to.

He kisses her again—soft, lingering—then pulls her closer, rolling them so she's tucked against his chest, arms wrapped tight around her.

There's no hurry.

Just them—breathing together—feeling the weight of what just happened settle between them like something permanent.

He shifts—turns more fully toward her—hand sliding from her jaw to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair. She makes a small sound—needy, surprised—opens her mouth wider, letting him take control. His other arm wraps around her waist—pulls her across his lap until she’s straddling him, knees bracketing his hips.

She gasps into his mouth—hands gripping his shoulders—feels him hard beneath her, pressing insistently against her core through their clothes. The friction makes her hips roll forward on instinct—slow, searching—and he groans low against her lips, hips lifting to meet the movement.

“Fuck,” he breathes—pulling back just enough to look at her—eyes dark, pupils blown wide. “You feel so good.”

She rocks again—deliberate this time—watching his face tighten with pleasure. “So do you.”

His hands slide under the hoodie—palms flat against her bare back—pulling her closer until her chest presses against his. He kisses her harder closer now,—tongue sliding against hers in slow, filthy strokes while his hands roam—up her spine, down to her hips, gripping her ass to guide her rhythm against him.

She moans—soft, broken—grinds down harder, chasing the pressure. “Soobin…”

He kisses down her jaw—open-mouthed—sucks lightly at the spot below her ear that makes her shiver. “Tell me what you want,” he whispers—voice rough, wrecked. “Anything. I’ll give it to you.”

She pulls back just enough to look at him—eyes glassy, cheeks flushed. “I want… you. All of you. No more waiting. No more pretending this is just… comfort.”

His breath catches—sharp—then he kisses her again—fierce, claiming—hands sliding under her thighs, lifting her easily as he stands.

She wraps her legs around his waist—arms around his neck—kissing him desperately while he carries her toward her bedroom.

The door closes behind them—soft click.

Clothes hit the floor in a hurried trail—hoodie, leggings, tee, sweats—until it’s just skin on skin, warm and trembling.

He lays her down on the bed—follows her down—mouth never leaving hers.

He lays her down on the bed—follows her down—mouth never leaving hers, kissing her like he’s been starving for it, like every second apart was punishment. His hands slide up her sides—slow, reverent—mapping every inch he’s memorized but never allowed himself to linger on quite like this. She arches under him—small gasp swallowed by his lips—fingers threading into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan low against her mouth.

They break apart—barely—to breathe. Her chest rises and falls fast against his; his forehead presses to hers, eyes searching her face in the dim moonlight slipping through the curtains. She’s flushed—lips swollen, eyes glassy and wide—and for a moment neither speaks, just the sound of their breathing filling the space between them.

His hands—steady until now—tremble just slightly as they rise. He cradles her face—palms cupping her cheeks with a tenderness that feels almost too soft, too precious for the heat still simmering between them. His thumbs stroke the delicate skin under her eyes—slow, worshipful—like he’s touching something fragile he’s afraid might shatter.

He feels it too—the shift.

The moment everything changes.

There's no hurry, just them skin on skin, breathing together—feeling the weight of what just happened settle between them.

He presses his lips to her forehead—long, lingering.

Then—slowly—his hands begin to move.

They slide up her sides—palms flat against her ribs—until his thumbs brush the undersides of her breasts. He cups them gently—weight settling perfectly in his hands—and she sighs, arching just a fraction into the touch.

Soobin’s breath catches.

God.

They're soft—fuller than he remembered from the last few nights, weeks ago, and from the new furtive glances, he imagined, or had her breasts simply grown warmer? His thumbs caress the outer curves—slowly, reverently—then circle inward, brushing against her nipples without yet touching them. Her nipples harden at the proximity—small, tight buttons begging for attention.

He lowers his head—kisses the swell of one breast, then the other—open-mouthed, warm. Tongue traces the underside, then flicks the nipple once—light, teasing. She whimpers—back arching higher—pushing herself closer to his mouth.

“So sensitive,” he breathes against her skin—voice rough with awe. "Look at you… you're already falling apart for me."

He closes his mouth over one nipple—warm, wet—sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue swirling slow circles around the peak. His hand works the other breast—pinching lightly, rolling the nipple between thumb and finger, tugging just enough to make her gasp louder.

“Fuck—Soobin—yes—like that—”

He switches—mouth moving to the other side, sucking harder now, teeth grazing the sensitive bud while his hand kneads the first breast, thumb flicking the wet nipple he just left. She’s trembling—thighs pressing together, hips rocking once against nothing—needy sounds slipping out every time he sucks or pinches.

“God—Soobin—”

He hums against her skin—vibration making her nipple throb—then lifts his head, eyes dark and hungry as he looks down at her breasts—flushed, swollen, glistening from his mouth.

They’ll get heavier, he thinks—dark, possessive heat flooding him. When you’re pregnant. Fuller. Rounder. Aching. I’ll hold them just like this—kiss them—suck them until you’re begging. Until milk beads at the tips and I can taste you again... different, sweeter and mine.

The thought makes him groan—low, primal—mouth returning to her breast, sucking harder, tongue flicking fast then slow then fast—alternating until she’s whimpering, back bowed, thighs shaking.

“You like this?” he murmurs—pulling off with a wet pop, voice wrecked. “Like when I suck your tits? Pinch them? Make them all sensitive and swollen for me?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—keep going—bite a little—”

He does—teeth grazing the nipple, then nipping gently—then soothing with his tongue. His other hand pinches the neglected one—rolling, tugging, making her cry out softly.

“So pretty like this,” he whispers—kissing between her breasts, then up to her collarbone, then back down. “All flushed.”

She moans—loud, broken—hips bucking again. “Soobin—please—touch me lower—”

He smiles against her skin—wicked, slow. “Patience.”

He kisses lower—slow trail down her sternum, over her ribs, tongue dipping into her navel—then back up, worshipping every inch of her torso with open-mouthed kisses, small nips, soothing licks. His hands roam—palms sliding over her stomach, thumbs tracing the soft skin just below her breasts, then up again to cup them once more, squeezing gently while his mouth returns to her nipples—sucking, licking, biting lightly—marking her with soft red blooms that will fade to faint purple by morning.

She’s moaning now—soft, broken—hips rocking against nothing, thighs pressing together. “Soobin—please—more—”

He lifts his head—kisses the valley between her breasts—then looks up at her, voice rough with want.

“More?” he murmurs. “I’m not done yet. I want every inch of you marked. Want you to feel me everywhere. Want you to remember this—remember me—every time you look at yourself.”

She whimpers—nodding frantically—hands gripping his hair, pulling him back down.

He obeys—mouth returning to her breasts—sucking harder, leaving small love bites along the curves, the undersides, the sensitive skin where breast meets ribcage. His hands knead—gentle then firmer—thumbs rolling her nipples, pinching just enough to make her cry out softly.

“You’re so responsive,” he whispers against her skin—voice wrecked. “So perfect. These—fuck—these are mine. Every mark. Every bruise. Every shiver. Mine.”

She arches—moaning louder—body trembling under his mouth, his hands, his words.

He keeps going—slow, thorough, devoted—worshipping her breasts until they’re flushed dark, swollen, glistening, marked with his mouth in soft red and purple blooms.

He kisses down her tummy—slow, deliberate—lips brushing the soft skin just above her navel, then lower, tracing the faint line where her stomach dips toward her hips. She shivers beneath him, fingers tightening in his hair, breath catching every time his mouth lingers. The room is quiet except for their breathing and the faint rustle of sheets when her legs shift wider, inviting without words.

Soobin settles between her thighs—broad shoulders nudging her knees farther apart—hands sliding up the backs of her legs, thumbs pressing into the crease where thigh meets hip. He looks up at her once—eyes dark, pupils blown wide—then lowers his head.

His first lick is long and flat—tongue dragging from her entrance all the way up to her clit in one unhurried stroke. She gasps—sharp, high—hips jerking up toward his mouth. He groans low against her—vibration rumbling through her core—then does it again, slower this time, savoring the taste, the slick heat, the way she’s already dripping for him.

“Fuck,” he mutters—voice muffled, rough—“you’re so wet already. Soaking my chin. Look at you—creaming for me before I’ve even started.”

She whimpers—legs trembling—trying to press closer but he holds her thighs open with firm hands, keeping her spread exactly how he wants.

He dives in deeper—tongue pushing inside her, curling, thrusting slow and filthy while his nose grinds against her clit. She moans—loud, broken—back arching off the bed, fingers yanking his hair harder. He doesn’t stop—fucks her with his tongue like he’s trying to reach something deeper, something only he can touch, then pulls back just enough to suck her clit between his lips—hard, pulsing suction—tongue flicking fast over the swollen bud.

Her thighs shake violently—breath coming in short, desperate pants. “Soobin—god—your tongue—don’t stop—please—”

He growls against her—vibration making her clit throb—then slides two fingers inside her—slow at first—curling against that spot that makes her cry out. He pumps them steadily, deliberately, fully—while his mouth works her clit in relentless circles, tongue flat then pointed then flat again, sucking, licking, slurping like he’s trying to drink every drop she gives him.

“You taste like fucking heaven,” he rasps between licks—voice wrecked, lips shiny with her. “So sweet. So creamy. Dripping down my chin—down my throat. Gonna make you leak for me—gonna make you soak the sheets—want every bit of you messy and desperate.”

She’s trembling—whole body taut—hips bucking against his mouth, chasing the pressure, the stretch, the wet heat. “Yes—yes—fuck—right there—don’t stop—gonna come—gonna—”

He pulls back suddenly—mouth leaving her clit with a wet pop—fingers sliding out slow, glistening. She whines—high, frustrated—hips chasing his hand, thighs shaking.

“Not yet,” he murmurs—voice dark, commanding—kissing the inside of her thigh instead. “Not until I say. I want you dripping. I want you begging. I want you so close you can’t think straight.”

She sobs—soft, needy—head thrashing against the pillow. “Please—Soobin—need it—need to come—please—”

He blows cool air over her clit—watching her hips jerk—then licks once—slow, teasing—tongue barely touching. She cries out—body bowing off the bed.

“Shh,” he soothes—kissing her folds gently, almost sweetly. “You can take it. You’re doing so good for me. Look how wet you are—creaming all over my fingers—dripping down your thighs. So pretty. So messy. baby”

He slides his fingers back in—three this time—slow stretch—curling further while his tongue returns to her clit—light flicks, then slow circles, then nothing—just breathing hot against her until she’s whimpering, hips grinding against air.

“Tell me how it feels,” he demands—voice rough—fingers pumping unhurried, deliberate. “Tell me how bad you need to come.”

“So bad,” she sobs—voice breaking. “So close—please—your tongue—your fingers—everything—gonna explode—please let me—”

“Not yet,” he growls—pulling his fingers out again—watching her clench around nothing, slick dripping down onto the sheets. “Look at this pussy—clenching for me—begging to be filled. So wet it’s obscene. You’re making a mess of the bed. My good girl—making such a pretty mess.”

She’s crying now—tears slipping down her temples—body shaking, thighs quivering. “Soobin—please—I can’t—need it—need you—please—”

He kisses her clit once—soft—then looks up at her—eyes dark, possessive.

“Soon,” he promises—voice wrecked. “Soon. But not yet. I want you addicted to this—to me. I want you to come so hard you forget your own name. But only when I say.”

He dives back in—tongue flat and slow—fingers sliding in again—curling, thrusting, thumb circling her clit in tight, relentless circles—bringing her right to the edge—

Then stopping.

Again.

And again.

Until she’s sobbing—desperate—begging—body trembling on the brink—wet, creamy, dripping—completely his.

And he keeps going.

Slow. Filthy. Merciless.

Because he wants her ruined.

Addicted. His.

And she’s so close—

So fucking close—

He blows cool air over her clit—watching her hips jerk—then dives back in—tongue flat and broad—lapping slow, thorough circles around her clit while his fingers slide back inside—three again—curling hard, thrusting deep, palm grinding against her clit with every stroke.

“Gonna let you come now,” he growls—voice dark, possessive—sucking her clit harder, tongue flicking mercilessly. “Come on my tongue—flood my mouth—give me everything—let me drink you down—make a mess of my face—come for me—now.”

She breaks—shattering hard—walls clamping around his fingers, gushing wet and hot against his tongue as she comes with a loud, broken scream—body convulsing, thighs shaking violently around his head. He keeps going—lapping slowly, tongue thrusting inside her to catch every pulse, every drop—sucking her clit gently through the aftershocks until she’s whimpering, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.

He pulls back—slow—lips and chin glistening—eyes dark, satisfied—kisses her inner thigh once—soft—then crawls up her body.

She’s trembling—breathless—eyes glassy—reaches for him weakly.

He kisses her again, slow and shameless, letting her taste the lingering sweetness on his tongue.

“Perfect,” he whispers—voice wrecked. “So fucking perfect.”

“Please,” she whispers—voice cracking on the word, raw and desperate—hips lifting off the mattress, chasing the heat of him. “Soobin—please—I need you inside me—can’t take it anymore—please fuck me—need your cock—need to feel you stretch me—please—”

Soobin hovers over her—breath ragged—cock heavy and slick against her folds, tip nudging her entrance but not pushing in. He’s hard—painfully so—precome beading at the slit, smearing wet across her clit every time he rocks forward just enough to tease. His hands grip her hips—holding her down—keeping her exactly where he wants while she writhes beneath him.

“Not yet,” he murmurs—voice low, wrecked—eyes locked on hers, dark and possessive. “Look at you—begging so pretty. Pussy dripping all over my tip—making me so fucking wet. You want it that bad?”

“Yes—god—yes—” she sobs—legs shaking, thighs spread wide—trying to arch up, trying to force him inside. “Please—Soobin—I’m so empty—need you to fill me—need you closer—please—can’t wait anymore—”

He lets out a raw, guttural groan—hips rocking forward again—slow—letting the head catch on her entrance, stretching her just enough to make her gasp, then pulling back completely. Slick strings between them—thick, obscene—dripping down her ass, pooling on the sheets.

“Fuck—you’re so wet it’s dripping everywhere,” he rasps—watching the mess with hooded eyes. “Look at this pretty pussy—clenching on nothing—begging for my cock. You’re making such a filthy mess, baby. All creamy and slick—just for me.”

She cries out—frustrated, needy—hands grabbing his hips, trying to pull him closer. “Soobin—please—I’m dying—need you inside—need to feel you—please—just the tip—anything—please—”

He leans down—mouth brushing her ear—voice dark, filthy. “You want the tip? Want me to tease this tight little hole until you’re sobbing? Want me to rub my cock all over your clit until you’re shaking?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—do it—please—”

He does—slow, torturous—slides the head through her folds again—coating himself in her slick—then presses just the tip inside—barely breaching her—stretching her open just enough to make her whimper. She clenches—hard—trying to pull him all the way—but he holds still—hips locked—letting her feel the burn, the ache, the emptiness.

“So tight,” he growls—voice trembling with restraint. “Squeezing just the tip—trying to suck me in. You’re so greedy for it—pussy fluttering like it’s starving. Look how creamy you’re getting—dripping down my balls already. Such a messy girl.”

"Please—come in—Soobin—please—I'll behave, I—I promise—I need you—all of you."

He rocks—tiny, shallow thrusts—just the head dipping in and out—stretching her over and over—never giving her more. Slick sounds fill the room—wet, obscene—every time he pulls back she clenches, every time he pushes in she sobs.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs—kissing her neck—sucking a mark into the skin. “So close already—just from the tip. Gonna come like this? Gonna cream all over my cock without me even fucking you properly?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—gonna come—please—let me—please—”

He pulls out completely—tip rubbing slow circles around her clit—watching her hips jerk, watching her pussy clench on nothing, watching fresh slick gush out.

“Not yet,” he whispers—voice dark, commanding. “Not until I’m inside. Not until you’re begging so hard you can’t breathe. I want you ruined—desperate for my cock. I want you to come so hard you forget your own name. But only when I say.”

She sobs—tears slipping down her temples—body trembling on the brink—wet, creamy, dripping—completely at his mercy.

“Please—Soobin—I can’t—need you—need you inside—please—fuck me—please—”

He kisses her again—enveloping her in a sinful, passionate kiss—then pulls back—and aligns himself again—the tip of his body brushes against her entrance once more.

“Beg one more time,” he growls—voice wrecked. “Beg like you mean it. Beg like you’ll die without me inside you.”

She does—voice breaking, raw, desperate.

“Please—Soobin—please,” she breathes desperately. “I need you—need you so bad—please—don’t tease me anymore—”

He groans, low and strained, and finally moves. Slowly he pushes in, inch by inch, stretching her as he fills her completely until his hips press flush against hers.

They both moan—loud, shattered—bodies trembling together.

And he finally—finally—starts to move.

He starts moving—slow—pulling out almost all the way, letting her feel the drag of every inch, then sliding back in with a single, sinking with a roll of his hips. The first thrust is measured, careful, giving her time to adjust to the thickness splitting her open again. She gasps—soft, trembling—nails digging into his shoulders as he fills her completely, hips flush against hers, staying buried for a long heartbeat before retreating once more.

“Feel that?” he whispers against her ear, voice rough, breath hot against her skin. “How far in I am? The way you’re wrapped around me?”

She nods frantically, legs tightening around his waist, heels pressing into his lower back to keep him close.“Right there—don’t stop—please—just like that—”

He doesn’t. Instead, he settles into a slow rhythm, long, unhurried strokes that make her feel everything: the drag of him inside her, the way the head catches on that sensitive spot inside her every time he bottoms out, the way her slick coats him completely, making every movement smoother and louder.

“Listen to you,” he murmurs—pulling out slowly again, watching the way her pussy clenches around nothing, trying to keep him inside. “So wet—making such filthy sounds every time I move. You’re dripping down my balls—making a mess of us both.”

A broken moan slips from her as her hips rise to meet him, chasing the next movement. Trying to take him fully, faster. ““Soobin—please—more. I need you to go harder—”

He gives a dark, quiet chuckle against her neck, teeth brushing her pulse.“Relax, baby. You’ll get everything. Right now, just feel it.”

He rolls his hips again—all the way in this time—grinding against her clit when he’s fully seated, staying there for a long second, letting her feel the pressure, the stretch, the fullness. 

She lets out a high, desperate sob, her walls fluttering around him as if trying to draw him even closer.

“You’re clenching so hard,” he groans, voice tight with restraint. “Holding onto me like you don’t want to let me go. Fuck… you feel so good. Warm. Tight. Like you were made for me.”

Her whole body trembles now, legs shaking around his waist, fingers digging into his back. “Please—harder, Soobin—I can take it. I need more. I need to feel you lose control—”

He exhales shakily, then finally gives in.

The next thrust lands harder. Lingering, fully, but with more force, more weight behind it. The headboard taps the wall once, then again as he starts to build a rhythm. Not fast yet, but heavier with every stroke, pulling louder gasps from her as the wet sounds between them grow unmistakable.

“Like that?” he growls, drawing out slowly, watching the way her pussy grips him, trying to keep him inside—then slamming back in—hard—making her cry out. “You like feeling me this close? Like feeling every inch stretch you open? Like knowing no one else can fill you like this?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—don’t stop—”

He keeps the pace steady and punishing, each thrust deliberate and powerful.His hips drive forward with controlled force, grinding against her clit every time he bottoms out, staying there for a heartbeat before pulling back again. She’s completely soaked, slick warmth coating him, spreading over their skin and the sheets beneath her.

“You’re creaming so much,” he rasps—voice trembling with restraint. “Look at you… making a mess of my cock. dripping down my balls. Such a good girl, falling apart for me like this. Gonna make you come like this slow… keep you right here until you can’t breathe.”

She’s sobbing now, tears slipping down her temples, her whole body trembling as her thighs shake around his waist.“Soobin—please—I’m close—I can’t hold it—need to—please—”

“Not yet,” he murmurs, the warning low in his throat as his pace eases further. He pushes forward and stays there, hips rolling against her clit, letting the pressure build without giving her the release she wants.

A broken cry slips from her as her hips jerk upward, chasing the friction he’s denying her. “Please—I need it—I can’t—Soobin—please—”

He silences her with a kiss, messy and breathless, before drawing back again. His rhythm returns in slow, powerful strokes, the bed shifting beneath them as the pace begins to build again, each movement heavier than the last.

“Soon,” he promises quietly, his voice rough and strained.

He keeps going. The pace stays deliberate, relentless, keeping her balanced right on the edge. Her body is trembling, slick warmth spreading between them, her breath breaking into uneven sounds as she clings to him.

And she keeps begging.

Again.

And again.

Until her voice breaks.

Until her whole body shakes with the strain of holding on.

And still—

He keeps her right there on the brink.

Soobin shifts above her—slow at first—sliding one arm under her pillow, fingers threading through her hair at the nape of her neck so he can cradle the back of her head, tilting her face up toward his. His other hand hooks under her knee, lifting her leg higher over his shoulder—opening her wider, fully—until her calf rests against his back and her body arches instinctively into the new angle.

He lowers himself again, chest pressing to hers, his forehead resting briefly against hers while he adjusts, letting her feel the shift in pressure, the way he sinks—seated completely now, every inch claiming more space inside her. She gasps—soft, startled—nails digging into his shoulders as the new position makes him hit places that steal her breath.

“There,” he breathes, voice low and strained, lips brushing hers.“Right there. Feel how much deeper I am now? How much more of you can I reach? Do you feel the difference?”

She nods quickly, eyes fluttering shut for a second before opening again, glassy and pleading. “Yes—god—yes—feels like you’re everywhere—”

He starts moving again, quicker now but still controlled, his hips driving forward in steady motions that make the headboard tap softly against the wall. Each thrust rolls against her clit when he settles fully against her, lingering there for a heartbeat before pulling back almost all the way, only to drive in again harder, faster, building the pace without ever losing that growing intensity.

His hand in her hair tightens, fingers supporting the back of her head to keep her face angled toward his so their mouths stay close, breaths mingling, lips brushing even when they’re not kissing. Then he kisses her. Messy, hungry, his tongue sliding against hers while his thrusts continues beneath them, swallowing every sound she makes.

“You’re taking me so well,” he murmurs between kisses , his voice rough, trembling with restraint. “So tight—so wet—clenching around me every time I pull back like you’re scared I’ll leave. Don’t worry, baby—I’m not going anywhere. Gonna stay right here—fucking you deep—making sure you feel every inch.”

She whimpers into his mouth, legs tightening around him as her hips lift to meet every thrust, chasing the growing friction that’s beginning to blur the edges of her vision.

“Harder,” she gasps, voice breaking as her nails drag down his back. “Please—harder—I want to feel you lose control—”

A low groan escapes him as his pace climbs another notch. He still keeps it measured enough to savor every slide, every drag, but there’s more force behind it now, with each thrust of his hips drawing louder cries from her as the bed creaks beneath them.

“Like this?” he rasps, his mouth dropping to her neck as he sucks a mark just below her ear.  “Like me fucking you like I own you? Like I’m trying to leave my shape inside you so no one else will ever fit?”

“Yes—god, yes,” she breathes, her voice trembling. “Don’t stop. I want everyone to see it. I want them to know exactly who had me like this.”

He kisses her again, rougher this time, his tongue claiming her mouth while his hips keep that punishing rhythm, rolling forward and grinding against her clit whenever he settles fully inside her, staying there to let her feel the pressure build without release.

“You’re dripping everywhere,” he growls against her lips, his voice shaking. “Soaking my cock—dripping down my balls—making everything so fucking wet. You’re gonna leave a puddle on the sheets, baby. Gonna make me smell like you for days.”

She lets out a broken sound, her body trembling as she clings to him, her legs tightening around his waist while her walls flutter around him.

“Soobin—I’m right there,” she says breathlessly. “If you keep moving like that I’m going to lose it. I can feel everything you’re doing.”

He slows again, just enough—thrusting deep and holding—grinding slow circles with his hips—keeping her right on the brink without letting her tip over.

“Wait a little longer, baby, it will be worth it, I promise.” he whispers, kissing her more softly now, the tenderness of it clashing with the way his cock moves inside her.  “I want to feel you fall apart properly... I want to hear you beg for it. I want to mark you more, I want your insides to be shaped like me, so only I will be able to fill you so well, I want you to always remember how good I make you feel.”

She whimpers, frustrated but needy, her hips move weakly but with a contagious rhythm, trying to find friction. “Then stop holding back,” she murmurs against his mouth. “You’re the one making me desperate. If you want me begging, keep going like that… because you feel too good for me to stay quiet.”

He kisses her again, slow and claiming —then pulls back—thrusting slow once more—building the pace again— he picks up speed, but the rhythm turns sharper, hips driving forward with more force, each thrust landing harder, wetter, the slick sound of their bodies colliding filling the room like a filthy heartbeat. She’s dripping now—gushing around him every time he pulls back—coating his cock, his balls, the sheets beneath her ass in a warm, sticky mess that makes every slide smoother, louder, more obscene.

Her hands clutch at him as she trembles beneath him, her voice breaking again as she tries to keep up with him.

“Soobin… don’t stop now,” she breathes. “If you keep moving like that, I’m not going to last.”

“Listen to this,” he whispers hoarsely against her mouth, his voice rough with effort. “Listen to how wet you are? How creamy you are? You’re soaking everything—making a mess for me, do you hear how good we sound together? Our harmony? Your pussy squeezing me so tightly every time I try to pull away—like you never want me to leave and I know you don’t want me to go.”

A sharp, desperate sob escapes her as her nails scratching down his back, leaving red burning lines across his skin that marks him in the best possible way. “Soobin—please,” she gasps. “You can’t keep doing this to me. I can’t take it anymore. I didn’t know you were so mean… you've never been this mean to me before."

“I’m sorry my love, I know I’m being mean… but you deserve it, don’t be sad, it will be worth it— I know it will.” he whispers, his voice softer now, kissing her slowly and passionately, his tongue sliding against hers in a slow, maddening rhythm. “I’ll let you come” he continues quietly against her lips, “But only when you tell me what you want. Tell me exactly where you want me. Tell me you need this—that you need me inside—that you need me to fill you up— you'll thank me for it later.”

She cries out beneath him, frustration and desperation mixing together as her hips move restlessly against his. “Inside—please—need to feel you,” she breathes, her voice breaking. “I want you to come inside me. Don’t pull away… just stay right there and make me yours— I want to feel you when it happens.”

He groans—rough, broken—pace faltering for a second as her words hit him. “Say it again,” he demands, his voice darker now as his pace picks up again “Beg for it. Beg me to come inside you. Beg me to breed you—fill you so full you’ll feel me for days.”

Her fingers tighten against his shoulders as she meets his gaze. “Please—Soobin—come inside me—breed me—fill me up—want your cum—want to feel you leaking out of me—please—need it—need you—please—”she says breathlessly. “Don’t… don't hold back anymore.”

“Good girl,”He kisses her fiercely, like he’s claiming her breath for himself, then pulls back just enough to look at her. His eyes are dark, hungry, almost reverent.

“Good girl,” he growls—voice wrecked. “That’s it—beg for it—beg for my cum—beg to be filled.”

Her voice breaks when she answers, raw with emotion.

“Please… don’t stop. Come inside. I need you.”

He moves again, holding her close as the tension finally snaps between them.

“Come for me,” he whispers, the command low and steady. “Come on my cock—milk me—squeeze every drop out of me—let me fill you—Let go.”

She does.

The sound that leaves her is half-sob, half-cry as the release hits her all at once. walls clamping down hard around him, pulsing violently as she comes—gushing wet, soaking him, soaking the sheets—body convulsing, thighs shaking, nails digging into his back hard enough to draw blood and clings to him like he’s the only thing holding her together.

He follows moments later, a low groan breaking from his chest as he buries his face against her shoulder—cock pulsing thick ropes fully deep inside her, filling her until it leaks out around his base, dripping down her thighs in warm, sticky trails. holding her tightly while the last of the tension drains from them both.

He keeps moving against her in slow, gentle motions, milking every last drop of sensation from them both until they’re both trembling, oversensitive and spent. and for a while they just stay there, breathing hard, bodies still shaking.

Eventually he collapses gently over her, careful not to crush her, his forehead resting against hers.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, his voice hoarse now instead of rough. “You okay?”

She nods weakly, curling closer to him and hiding her face in the warmth of his neck.

“Yes,” she breathes.

He presses a slow kiss to her temple, holding it there for a moment as his arms tighten around her.

A quiet smile spreads across his face, subtle but certain and victorious

Because she asked for him. Because she fell apart in his arms. Because she just begged him to breed her. Because, in this moment, she chose him completely.

The room quiets after the storm passes—only their breathing left, uneven at first, then slowing together until it syncs, soft and even, like the tide pulling back after a wave. Soobin stays inside her a little longer—still half-hard—rocking gently through the aftershocks while she clings to him, thighs trembling around his hips, face buried in the crook of his neck.

He finally eases out—slow—both of them wincing at the sudden emptiness. Slick leaks out immediately—warm, thick—dripping down her thighs and onto the sheets beneath her. She makes a small, embarrassed sound; he shushes her with a kiss to her temple, hand sliding between her legs to cup her gently, palm pressing against her swollen folds like he’s holding everything in place.

“Stay still,” he murmurs—voice hoarse, tender. “Let me take care of you.”

She nods—too spent to argue—lets him roll off her and disappear for a moment. He returns with a warm washcloth, kneels between her parted thighs again, cleans her with careful strokes—gentle over her clit, thorough between her folds—then wipes himself down before tossing the cloth aside. He pulls the comforter up over them both, tucking it around her shoulders, then gathers her against his chest—arm around her waist, hand splayed protective over her stomach.

She curls into him immediately—face pressed to his collarbone, leg thrown over his hip—still trembling faintly from the intensity. He strokes her back in long, soothing lines, fingers tracing her spine, then circling back up to thread through her hair.

“You okay?” he asks after a while voice soft, almost careful, like he’s afraid the answer might change everything.

She nods against his skin—small, sleepy. “More than okay. Just… overwhelmed. In a good way.”

He exhales relieved and kisses the top of her head. “Good. That’s all I want.”

Silence settles again, warm and easy. Her breathing evens out as her body relaxes against his. He keeps stroking her back in slow, steady passes until she’s completely at ease.

Came apart on his tongue, around his cock, screaming his name like a prayer.

She chose him and he has no intention of letting her go.

౨ৎ ݁ ˖𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒: Hey guys, so things are getting goooood… so I think it's best to let you know that we'll probably only have 1 or 2 more chapters until the end of this fanfic. I had a lot of fun, but new ideas came up and you know how it is, right… I think I must be in my Soobin-core era. Until 2 weeks ago it was Yeonjun, now it was Soobin, and I can already see Gyu at the top of the hill, which I'll climb when I have the courage lol. I'm finishing this fanfic here and I already have others on the way, but I'm curious what you want to read? Like, with whom? Does anyone have any requests? ♡

౨ৎ prev ✧ next ౨ৎtag open: @black-startxt, @buttersoob,@idkguyslma @toru-saki @amelie-sama-blog @binniesbabe @ravenslocked @usuallyunlikelyfox