#stepbro!sunghoon

You can’t actually see him. The lights are too bright, the crowd too dense. But for a split second, it feels like you’re looking at him. Through him. Like you know exactly who he is. And performed for him. Like you’ve already decided what that secret meeting meant. 

It guts him. 

The applause detonates, snapping everyone else out of their trance, but Sunghoon doesn’t clap. His fists are already clenched so tight his knuckles burn.

By the time he reaches the doors, his hand crashes into the wall with a hollow, bone-jarring thud. Pain blooms up his arm. Blood smears the pristine paint behind him. But he rushed so fast out, he didn't stop to look.

Sunghoon barely knows you. But he already knows he’s going to hate you. Maybe more than he hates himself.

You don’t come back to yourself until the applause detonates. The lights warm and bloom across the theater, resurrecting reality. People stand. People cheer. They clap until their palms sting, but none of them feel real — like a mirage conjured just to watch you. Compliments fly like rose petals. Flowers land in your arms. You smile, bow, let them paint you in praise.

Your instructor kisses your cheek with wet lips that make your skin crawl. Hands — always too many hands — land on your hips, on your shoulder blades, as strangers purr, “Exquisite control.” “You really feel the music.” “Such a shame about the Bolshoi opportunity… your mother should’ve pushed harder.”

You smile. You thank. You nod like a good girl.

And you would be lying if you said you didn’t love it a little. The thrill. The hunger in their eyes. The way your name hangs in the air like smoke, like perfume, like a promise.

Until she appears.

Your mother glides toward you in a gown that costs more than your tuition, with a smile you know was cut and stitched together in front of a mirror. Her arm snakes around yours, grip deceptively light for something bruising. “Your foot rolled on the last turn,” she whispers, lips curling in a way the cameras will think is maternal. “Not bad enough for them to notice. But I noticed.”

Her nails dig in deeper than her praise ever has.

“The cry thing wasn’t bad, though,” she adds with a laugh that’s real in the ugliest way. “Almost felt real. My daughter might become an actress, who knows.”

It takes you a moment to realize she’s not even talking to you anymore. She’s talking to them. Always them. The plié of benefactors and critics she adores more than her own blood.

And then she leans closer. The fake smile doesn’t move. “Your future father-in-law brought his son tonight. You better play it well.”

Your eyes do the speaking for you. She hates that. “Stop overreacting,” she hisses. “Just… make a good impression. He’s been generous with our family. We owe him that much.”

You don’t say it. How owing men anything has never ended well for her. Or especially for you.

But still, dating the CEO of her company seems to be serving her well enough. For now.

It takes ten minutes and a polite excuse to pry yourself out of her talons. Ten minutes before you’re weaving through a labyrinth of sharp suits, fine linen, fine lighting, fine dining, the suffocating finery choking you as badly as her touch.

You need air. Loneliness. And maybe a bandage for the foot you’re definitely walking on broken.

By the time you reach the elevator, your hands are shaking. You stare at your reflection in the mirrored walls and don’t recognize yourself. The girl in the glass is someone your mother built.

The doors slide open.

And you see him.

A boy around your age. Black suit, black hair, black gaze. His eyes are wet in a way that makes you freeze—but not from softness. From something else. Something heavier. He looks at you half surprise half like he could cut you open with a glance.

Fuck.

You hesitate. But not stepping in would be stranger. You wipe at your eyes quickly and step inside. The rooftop button’s already lit.

The silence is practically unbearable. You steal glances at him from the corner of your eyes. His hand is bruised, scraped raw, blood drying at the knuckles.

“Y-your hand…” you blurt. “It’s—”

“I know,” he responded, flatly.

And now you’re here, huh. Sunghoon thoughts. Why did you have to appear where I wanted you gone?

Too-close in a gilded elevator, smelling faintly of a familiar expensive perfume and sweat from the stage. Your eyes are red, and on the verge of breaking into tears, but your chin is up like you’re trying to hide it for good figure. You loser. He wants to press you back against the wall just to see if that chin would stay there.

And now he knows something dangerous: you’ve been crying for some reason he might use.

But which one?

—

The rooftop air tastes different. Less expensive. Colder on that thin silk dress.

He sits at the far end of a bench, posture loose but coiled, like a lonely soul that wants to be left alone. You. You hover near the exit for a moment, the polite thing would be to leave him alone— but something about him refuses to let you.

You gather the scraps of your courage and walk over. “You should clean that,” you say, holding out the little emergency bandage kit you carry for yourself.

His gaze drops to it, then to you. Curious, but acting unimpressed. “I don’t need—”

“Take it,” you insist, softer than you intend to.

He must say no. But he doesn’t. He takes it, almost irritated in his move, but the way he fumbles with it like a kid, almost makes you laugh.

“Do you… want help?” You smirk.

He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t stop you when you kneel beside him, and even lends you his hand. You eye him and it’s like being with a black stray cat. It looks like he might bite but still let you do.

Your fingers are delicate, careful as you sanitize and wrap the bandage around his knuckles, avoiding the rawest parts. You don’t notice his stare, the way he studies your bent head, your flushed cheeks, the tremble in your lashes as you concentrate on touching him without hurting him. You don’t notice the way his jaw flexes when he imagines those same careful small fingers trapped in his bigger, stronger hands.

He hates this kindness of yours. He hates you. He hated you before you even spoke. Hated when he met you in the elevator. And hated when you spoke to him. 

And yet.

You’re so close he can smell the faint perfume clinging to your hair. You look so delicate right now, so breakable, so fucking sincere and simple it’s weird, but so pretty with those wet bambi eyes.

“Why were you crying?” His voice slices through the quiet, blunt and uninvited.

You flinch. “That’s… I-I didn’t—”

Sunghoon likes the way you flinch.  “You don’t have to tell me. But you clearly were.”

You swallow. “I… I just thought… I just wished… I didn’t have to live by my people's choices.” The words come out before you can catch them. “I’m supposed to meet someone important tonight. But I’m scared. If I don’t please them… They, can be… Very…”

“Cruel?” he offers.

You nod, after a second of hesitation.

Sunghoon wants to laugh. The little prodigy with the sad eyes—more like him than expected. And he says something that surprises you. 

“Then fuck them. Go do or find what pleases you.”

You look at him, startled, and find no sarcasm in his face.

“And you ? Why are you here?” you ask softly.

He hesitates, smirking as he lets his head fall back. “Avoiding someone. Didn’t work.”

“Oh.”

“But it wasn’t all bad,” he adds. I found something interesting in the meantime.” And it almost sounds like he means you.

The silence stretches. Your eyes drift to his hand for a bit of time. “You were crying too?” you say smug's.

He leans back, jaw tight. “One of my parents died recently…” Your smirk drops. “And the other… replaced them. And me, I guess... Came home one day and I didn’t recognize my family anymore.”

Your throat closes, your face crumples like you felt it. “That’s so… unfair.”

“Yeah.” He laughs, dropping his eyes to you, just to surprisingly find you sobbing. “Hey…” 

You don’t even notice it at first—the way you look at him all tears gather in your lashes, threatening to spill, until it finally does. His hand moves before you can flinch away. Fingers cold, calloused, pressing to your cheek with a touch that’s far too intimate for a stranger. He doesn’t just wipe it away—no, Sunghoon drags his thumb slowly through the wetness, spreading it, smearing it like he’s testing the texture.

“Thought you were holding it good.” His voice drips with quiet mockery, but his touch… it’s too careful to match his words. “... Guess I was wrong.”

“Why are you even crying for now, huh?”

You should pull back. But you don’t. 

“That’s just…” you’re a mess, that even speaking is complicated. “It’s so sad,” you hiccup. “I feel so sorry for you…that’s…Fuck…”

He laugh and nod, “Hm, Fuck.”

And for one sharp, dizzying second, you’re caught in the feeling of his skin against yours—rough, unyielding—and the heavy, unreadable look in his eyes as he studies the evidence of your weakness like it’s something rare and valuable.

You want to tell him you know what that feels like. That you’ve been replaced by a version of yourself too, but even that doesn’t feel as sad as his story.

“Why do we have to… Live like this?” you hiccup. “Why do we have to live up to their choices?”

For the first time, he doesn’t answer like he has something sharp to say.

You sit together for almost half an hour, two strangers on the edge of the city, quietly sharing pieces of yourselves neither of you meant to really give away. 

It hits him as you avoid his gaze, fiddling with your dress like it’ll shield you.

He misjudged you.

You’re not what he expected you to be. There’s something coiled in you, restrained and begging to snap. And Sunghoon’s very good at making things snap. Maybe you’re not worthless after all. Maybe you’re valuable. 

And valuable things?

He always keeps them close… 

Until he’s bored.

—

When you realize how long you’ve been gone, you panic. You stand so quickly you nearly trip, mumbling a goodbye.

But before you leave, you rush back and grab back his bruised hand. “I hope we both find our escape,” you say, giving him a shaky little “fighting~” gesture.

His lips almost twitch into a smile. 

When you’re gone his thumb finds his lips. Caressing the salt of tears on the verge of his tongue. 

His mind remembering how you cried for him. Then his eyes catch something in the corner of the bench. You forget your purse.

A smirk traced his lips, maybe it’s not gonna be this boring having a new family.

You come back from the restroom — lipstick touched up, smile rehearsed, every part of you adjusted into place — and stop.

The dining table feels like a trap now.

Your mother, dazzling like a diamond with teeth. Your stepfather, smug with wine and wealth. The chandelier casting everything in golden judgment.

And him.

Park Sunghoon.

Not the boy you knelt beside on a rooftop, wrapping his bruised knuckles. Not the boy who wiped your tears like he wanted to taste them. No.

The CEO’s son.

He sits at the table like he was born in that chair. Crisp suit. Bored posture. A prince in exile who decided the kingdom could burn.

“Ah—” your mother’s voice snags you by the throat. “There you are. Sit, darling.”

He turns his head lazily, like you’re background noise. But his eyes — God, his eyes — cut through you like you’re still kneeling there in the dark, still bleeding confessions.

He extends his hand across the table. Perfect stranger.

“Nice to meet you.”

You take it. Pretend your pulse isn’t rabbiting in your neck.

“Nice to meet you too.”

And just like that, the rooftop vanishes. Packed up and buried where no one else can touch it.

Dinner is suffocatingly civil. Your stepfather drones about quarterly earnings, your mother performs the role of charming wife. Sunghoon cuts his steak with surgical precision, silent but present, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

Then your mother turns her performance on you. “She’s been improving,” she says sweetly, the kind of sweet that hurts. “But her landing was sloppy last week. She needs discipline if she wants to impress the right people.”

You laugh it off. Like you always do. Like you were taught.

And then Sunghoon speaks.

“I liked it.”

The words are mild. But the room tilts.

All eyes swing to him. His face doesn’t move. His voice is almost lazy. “I’ve been incorporating dance into my skating. Her movements… they were... hypnotic.”

Hypnotic?

You can’t breathe.

Your mother blinks, knocked off balance for once. “That’s… generous of you, Sunghoon.”

He shrugs. Stabs another piece of steak. Like he didn’t just pull you out from under her heel with a single, lazy sentence.

But when dessert arrives, he leans in — close enough you smell his cologne, expensive and sharp.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he murmurs, low enough for only you.

And then he pulls back like nothing happened.

The weeks after are worse.

No one talks about the rooftop. No one mentions that night. But his words—Go find what pleases you—rot in your head.

Your parents fade out of the house almost entirely. All the conversations become indirect: “Dad said.” “Mom sent this.” You don’t see them except when they need you polished and pretty. The house becomes Sunghoon’s — or maybe it always was.

There’s not a single picture of his mother. Not in the halls, not on the mantle. The only face staring down at you is his father’s.

And Sunghoon. The actual one and only.

Front stranger to stepbrother, he became a storm you can’t read.

One day he ignores you like you’re furniture. The next, there’s a package on your bed: a dress your mother would call “inappropriate,” with a handwritten note — For your next recital. Don’t embarrass big bro. Hwaiting~ He offer help on day, than suddenly leaves in the middle of a party you know no one. Enter your room without being invited but also brings you soup when your sick and cancel his training to stay with you sitted at the foot of your bed.

Yeah, that type of shitty guy...

And you want to be angry. But can’t find yourself speaking up. Something about him makes you weaker than usallly.

One night, before a gala, you’re standing in your room struggling with the zipper of a dress. You curse under your breath, twisting your arm uselessly when you hear a knock.

“Come in,” you say, distracted.

The door opens. Sunghoon.

You freeze. “I—I thought it was—”

“Your mom?” He half smirks, closing the door behind him without waiting for an invitation. “She’s waiting downstairs.”

Your back is to him. You don’t know whether to run or stay still.

“Need help?”

You should say no. Actually you were about to, but then—

You feel him step closer, his heat behind you, and then, with feather-light fingers, he brush your bare back. Slow, deliberate, as he takes hold of the zipper and drags it up, teeth by teeth, until the dress is tight against your skin.

But he doesn’t stop there. His fingertips, they skim up your spine, barely there, until they rest at the nape of your neck.

“Better,” he murmurs, looking in the mirror. His breath grazes your ear. “You should thank me, little one.”

You can’t speak. You can’t even look up or turn. And when you finally do, he’s already walking away like nothing happened.

You find yourself changing your training complex, waiting for him after practice. Pretending it’s convenient. When really, you just want to watch him.

He’s… 

Magnetic. The way he glides across the ice, sharp and fluid at once, like he’s cutting the world open and stitching it back together. You learn the names of his jumps, the rhythm of his breathing. It makes something ache in you, watching him free in a way you’ve never been.

And then he starts showing up to your training. Always at the back, just a shadow. He never says anything. But he’s there, waiting for you too.

And then, small things begin.

In the training complex’s hallway, you would pass each other and his fingers would graze the inside of your wrist. Light. Too fucking light. And when you turn around he doesn’t even look at you, still laughing at his friends.

At breakfast, he would take food off your plate without asking, pop things like strawberries into his mouth, and smirks when you glare. “What? You weren’t eating it.”

Once, you found a new pair of skates in your room. The exact ones you’d been eyeing online to begin skating. No note this time. But you knew it’s him.

And then there’s the worst one.

You’re sitting on the bottom step of the grand staircase, hair still a bit wet, scrolling your phone half-asleep, when his shadow blocks the light of the sunset. He crouches down to your level, elbows on your knees.

“You’re always zoning here,” he says, voice soft. “Like a cat waiting at the door.”

You roll your eyes. “I live here, Sunghoon.”

He smiles—the slow, predatory kind. “So do I…”

And then he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Just like that. Like it means nothing. Like he doesn’t notice the way your breath stops, the way you blush and look down.

“You should be careful,” he adds. “You’ll catch a cold like that. Come downstairs, I'll dry your hair.”

And he did. 

He towels you off like it’s nothing. Like it's a domestic routine. The fabric against your skin makes you shiver, or his hand lingering at your shoulders, the way he seems to love grazing the back of your neck and massaging it.

“You should take better care of yourself.”

You can’t look at him. You can’t breathe. You can’t understand his games. When you finally meet his eyes, there’s nothing to read there.

Nothing but that quiet, infuriating smirk.

You get used to it. The moods, his provocations. The way he lingers in doorways like he’s deciding whether to bite.

Sometimes he’s protective. He cut off boys who made a crude joke about you at the rink when you waited for him—didn’t even raise his voice, just said his name, low and cold, and the boy stammered out an apology.

At your performances when he showed up, he would stay next to you making sure no one could come close enough for unwanted touch and comments. He had it in him, that thing that made people respect him anywhere anytime. 

But sometimes he was cruel. “You cry too easy..." he told you once when you teared up after a mistake. “Stop asking for it,” He told you after some dance partner made a move on you. He wouldn’t talk to you for weeks. Then sometimes he was… almost kind, and even soft in his moves toward you.

But you can never tell which version of him you’ll get.

And the worst part?

It was for his pure enjoyment, you weren’t naive enough not to snap out of it most times. But… God… You actually enjoyed it a bit… Maybe a bit too much sometimes...

You try to tell yourself it’s innocent. That you’re just a girl with a small crush, the way everyone your age have.

How long has it been since someone touched you in a way that pleased you? In a way you wanted? What experience do you have with these things?

But then he catches you staring, and you get shy. And he smirks like it’s a private joke. And sometimes you think—no, you feel— that he’s staring too. And that’s when it gets dangerous.

Because you can’t tell anymore if he’s protecting you. Or hunting you.

Or both… 

But like the rest you got used to it.

For exemple, today.

The garden was blinding in its prettiness.

Perfect hedges. Perfect white chairs. Perfect little patch of sunlight you’d claimed like a starving animal. You were curled up on one of the loungers, pajamas thin like joke, hair messy, pretending your book mattered more than the rare chance to actually do nothing and feel the sun on your skin.

And then his shadow fell over you.

“You look ridiculous,” Sunghoon’s voice cut in, flat and amused.

You didn’t look up. “Don’t you have training or brooding to do?”

He ignored that. “Pajamas in the garden? You’re going to burn.”

“I’ll be fine.”

His foot nudged the lounger. “Go inside.”

“No.” You clung to the book like it was proof you belonged there. “It’s called touching grass, Sunghoon. Try it sometime.”

He crouched so you had no choice but to see his face—that pretty, infuriating face, half-shadowed, hair falling into his eyes. “I’m telling you. You’re about to regret it.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not moving.”

The smirk sharpened. “I warned you.”

he counted. 3. 2. 1.

And then, with a hiss of pipes, the auto-sprinklers kicked on.

Cold water exploded from every corner of the garden, drenching you in seconds. Your book wilted in your hands. Your pajamas clung to every inch of your body.

“Fuck!” You scrambled to your feet, dripping and sputtering. “Are you serious?!”

Behind you, Sunghoon laughed. Really laughed. Low and pleased.

You bolted for the house, leaving your book to die in the grass, and tore through the hall to the downstairs bathroom. It was a sanctuary of white marble and gold fixtures — too pristine for how frantic you were as you grabbed at a towel, patting yourself uselessly.

You didn’t even hear him until he spoke.

“Told you.”

You spun. He was in the doorway, also soaked, his white loose shirt clinging obscenely to his chest. He peeled it off in one motion, tossing it over the towel rack like he's the owner.

“Don’t look so smug,” you snapped, flustered and shivering.

His grin widened. “You make it too easy.”

“Why didn’t you just warn me?”

“I did,” he said simply, stepping inside, shutting the door as he took a towel.

Both of you were small laughing stocks until you faced each other. His smirk softened into something quieter—heavier—as his eyes, still lit with laughter, dropped slowly. He traced over you like he wasn’t allowed to, but did it anyway, memorizing every place that thin fabric kissed your skin.

You tried for a scoff, some defense. “You’re... really... an—”

But it faltered as he let the towel on his head fall off to put back on your shirt strap as he stepped forward.

The faint laugh between you both died slow. Like a flame burning out. And then there was nothing but the sound of your breathing heavier and heavier. And that water, dripping off you both, dotting the tile.

You didn’t notice you were backing up until your hips hit the edge of the marble sink. He didn’t stop coming until you were perched on it, barefoot and trembling.

His gaze met yours. For a second, the world narrowed to that—two pairs of eyes locked, neither looking away, both daring the other to admit what was happening.

And then his hand lifted.

Fingertips on your lips tracing them.

Then pushing your hair back, slowly, fingers grazing your temple, trailing deliberately down to your neck. Light. Feather-soft. Cruel in how delicate it felt when everything in him wanted to grip bad.

You swallowed hard. The bathroom felt too small suddenly, too white, too quiet for this.

“Hey… Please, Hoon…”

Your voice. Barely above a whisper. Weak. Like it cracked open something in you you didn’t want him to see.

He froze. Then—cupped your face in one hand, his thumb brushing over your lips, slow and deliberate.

Not outwardly, not violent, but something broke, where the coil of restraint he always wore so well pulled taut. The sound of his name on your lips like that… it wasn’t innocent. Not to him. It sounded like a plea.

And maybe you didn’t even know it, but to Sunghoon it felt like you were begging.

Begging him to close the distance even more, between your thighs. Begging him to ruin you like he does every time he pictured you since that night he saw you.

His hand slid lower, from your neck to your shoulder, grazing your collarbone, the inside of your arm, until both of his palms framed your hips.

And then he pulled you flush against him. You jolted, breath ticking.

The grind was slow. Obscene. Deliberate. From him first, or you… None of you really knew. 

But it felt like he wanted you to feel exactly what you were doing to him in his eyes, what he could do to you if either of you stopped pretending this was just some game.

You gasped—shaky, surprised at yourself.

Was he dick the massive bulge humping you?

Fuck it's scary.

His head dipped, lips hovering dangerously close to yours, almost caressing over his thumb. His breath fanned your cheek. His eyes were heavy, blackened with something dark and raw, tracking every twitch of your lips, every quiver of your body like it was his private show.

To him, you looked like a vision you didn’t even understand you were offering. Breakable. Naive. Too soft for the monster in the room with you.

And that made it worse. Because Sunghoon lived for dangerous things recently.

His thumb brushed the side of your mouth under his desireful gaze. His breath hitched when your hips unconsciously rolled harder, chasing friction.

“Do you even know,” he murmured, so low you barely heard it, “how dangerous it is… around me?”

You couldn’t answer. You shaked your head as much as he allowed it.

And then the footsteps.

Someone was calling faintly from the hall.

You tried to jerk like you’d been electrocuted. But he kept you there. Gripping at the back of your neck and hip, humping faster and messier searching for something he knew was coming. 

“Sunghoon—St—”, then his hand clapped at your mouth, shushing your moans. When you jolted, a filling filled your belly, something new and raw, you shoved off the counter as he stepped back both of you heavy breathing, almost tripping.

By the time the maid’s voice grew closer, he had his wet shirt back on and no practiced smirk plastered to his face anymore, just realisation of what happened.

He slipped out without a word, leaving you, still shaking, soaked, and achingly aware of how far that almost went.

The bathroom incident should have changed everything.

But instead, it changed nothing. Or maybe it changed too much.

For days after, you and Sunghoon circled each other like nothing had happened—only everything had. The touches stayed unspoken, the breathless almost-kiss buried under silence, but it lived in the air between you.

Glances lingered too long. Passing each other in the hallway felt like stepping on live wire.

And somehow, that strange moment had made you… closer.

You ate breakfast together without speaking, him scrolling his phone at the counter, you pretending to read. He'd hand you the honey jar without you asking, and you’d notice his fingers brushing yours deliberately—or maybe accidentally.

But it also made you farther.

You didn’t talk about it. Didn’t even look directly at him for too long, because when you did, it felt like inviting trouble.

And now, with both your parents finally home for a stretch of time, the house felt suffocating in a different way.

You threw yourself into preparations for the year’s big event. Your mother’s words still echoed in your head: “This is your season to prove yourself. No excuses.”

It meant late nights at the studio, hours of practice, and—as if to twist the knife—meeting your new partner for the performance.

He was handsome, talented, and disarmingly passionate. The kind of boy who threw himself into the music without reservation, who learned your rhythms quickly, who held you like you were meant to be held when the choreography demanded it.

And yet, every time his hand slid to your waist or your shoulder, every time his breath fanned your cheek in a turn, you thought of Sunghoon.

The ache Sunghoon had left in you that night didn’t fade. Of his fingers in your hair. Of his voice in your ear. Of that massive rock.

If anything, it only grew. How many times had you tried to recreate that friction—only to fall short, never building it enough to actually make yourself come?

“Would you… maybe like to grab dinner tomorrow?” your partner asked one evening after practice, scratching at his neck, trying to look casual but failing. "Like... A date."

“Okay!” you blurted, too quickly, like agreeing would keep you from thinking too hard about it. About what Sunghoon would say if he knew. About why you cared what Sunghoon would say at all.

That’s how you find yourself throwing dresses around like none of them are good enough.

They all were. But none of them felt right.

Too demure. Too flashy. Too much like your mother’s taste, too little like your own. Until your eyes landed on it.

The one Sunghoon bought you.

That burgundy back-ribbon dress your mother hated. The one you’d only worn once, just to piss her off.

You pull it out, smoothing the fabric over your bed like it’s nothing — like you’re not aware of what you’re doing.

But you are.

Fuck.

Even you know what you’re trying to do. You tell yourself it’s because it’s the perfect dress. That it matches the restaurant’s mood. It's short and fun but still classy.

But the truth?

You’re thinking about what Sunghoon's face will look like when he sees it on you. And that’s how you end up zipping yourself into the softest rebellion you’ve ever worn — Sunghoon’s choice, Sunghoon’s taste — curling your hair just enough, painting your lips cherry-gloss sweet.

Perfect.

Perfect enough to strike Sunghoon silent? No, no, no, for your date...

___

You didn’t mean to run into him. Not like this.

The clack of your heels against marble betrayed you first, and then he appeared—Sunghoon—fresh from the gym, hair damp, shirt loose over broad shoulders, a towel slung lazily around his neck like he owned every inch of this house.

His gaze hit you like a hand. Lingering. Slow. From your ponytail to the exposed ribbon-tied back, down your bare legs.

“The hell is that?” he asked finally, voice too casual to be real.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of every inch of yourself under his stare. “A dress.”

“Where are you going?”

“Dinner,” you said, breezy, trying to walk past.

He shifted. Blocking the doorframe without touching you. A wall of quiet, unreadable boy.

“With who?”

You tilted your chin up. “Someone.”

His jaw twitched. “A date? Tch...”

You rolled your eyes. “You told me once to go find what makes me happy. So—”

“Don’t.” He cut you off, voice low. “Don’t throw my words at me like you even understand, or remember them.”

You tried to move past him. He didn’t budge.

“What are you trying to find?” he asked, and the way he said it wasn’t a question. It was a knife. “A dude who’s gonna crave you? Someone who’ll sit there the whole night wondering how fast he can get you alone ? Fuck you first date ?”

“Excuse me ?”

He leaned down, his words suddenly against your ear, dark and deliberate.

“‘Cause that’s what I’d be thinking. If you walked in wearing that for me.”

Your breath caught.

His hand rose—not touching—but close enough to graze the dangling ribbon at your back.

“I’d be wondering how easy it would be to untie this,” he murmured, “and watch it slip off your shoulders. How your back would arch if I touched it a litlle. How that ponytail would bounce when—”

“Stop!” Your voice cracked.

He smiled—not kind. “Find your own thing, right? That what you told yourself?”

You hated how your knees felt weak. How your heartbeat tripped over itself.

And then he stepped back. Just like that.

“Go on, then,” he said, that smirk sharpened to cruelty. “Let’s see if he’s worth my..."

"Dress...”

You left before he could see your hands shaking.

—

You hated yourself for it.

For the way his words followed you. Sat across from you at the table, louder than the music in the restaurant, drowning out the voice of the perfectly nice boy sitting across from you.

“Someone who’ll crave you.” “Wondering how fast he can get you alone.” “I’d be thinking about untying that ribbon.”

You could still feel his breath in your ear. The ghost of his words crawling down your spine.

Your date—Eunwoo, right?—was good. Handsome. Sweet. Polite. He complimented your dress in the safest, most boring way imaginable. He held the door. He laughed at your jokes.

He didn’t touch you. Not once. Not a hand on your lower back. Not a brush of his fingers when he took your menu. Even when you stood too close outside the restaurant, post-wine warm, hoping for something— actually anythin he just gave you a soft smile and chaste kiss on your cheek.

And that was it.

Your mom would love him. She would approve the hell out of Eunwoo. But you didn’t want your mom’s approval. You wanted the thing Sunghoon had put in your head in that hallway. You wanted ugly. You wanted to be wanted.

By the time you got home, you were more than tipsy, your cherry lip gloss smudged a bit and sadly not from a kiss, your heels dangling from your fingers. And you were depressed. Actually pouting. Like some teenager with a crush. All because : safe boy didn’t even try.

You hated it.

But most of all—you hated how you couldn’t stop replaying Sunghoon’s voice, low and sure and dangerous :

"If you walked in wearing that for me…"

You yanked open the fridge, grabbed the first bottle of anything cold, and made your way to the living room.

Sunghoon was there.

Loose pajama pants. A plain t-shirt. Lounged like sin itself had found a couch and decided to stay a while, eyes lazily tracking the screen of some movie you couldn’t care less about.

Yeah. Maybe you should’ve just stayed home like him. It would’ve saved your feet. And your pride.

Big girl adventure to the big world: 0–1.

You plopped on the couch as far from him as you could get, dropping your head back like you were waiting for the ceiling to swallow you whole.

He glanced over, a smirk playing on his mouth. “What? Didn’t go how you expected?”

You hated him for that.

For the way he made you feel sexy and still caused you shame. For being the one person you wanted to lean on and vent to. For making it all feel like a game you were never going to win.

“No,” you muttered, too tired to lie. “You were right.”

“Poor little girl.” He chuckled.

But you didn’t join him. For the first time, you were unreadable—head tilted back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. And drunk too...

“I had to tell him what to do,” you said finally, voice light, casual, but your heart was hammering. “It was… cute.”

It wasn’t smart. Lying to him.

But God, you wanted to see that composure of his break.

And it worked—his smirk faltered, the tiniest twitch in his jaw. You almost smiled in triumph.

“What?”

You shrugged lazily, feigning innocence. “He was so shy about touching me. You know… since it’s our first date.” You let the words hang, soft and teasing, and then added with a sly curl of your lips, “It actually turned me on.”

That did it.

His head turned fully now, eyes sharpening, tracking you like a predator zeroing in.

“Really?” His voice dropped—slow, deliberate, dangerous. “And what did you do then?”

You smirked back, alcohol making you bolder, reckless. “Why so curious?”

“Indulge me,” he said, each word bitten off, a demand dressed as a request.

You tilted your head, studying him through your lashes, savoring the burn of his stare. And then you told him.

A fake story.

One where you’d taken Eunwoo’s hand under the table, dragged it high up your thigh, your skirt hitched just enough to make him stutter. Where you’d leaned in close enough that your lip gloss smeared on his cheek, smiling sweetly while your words dripped filth into his ear. Where you led him outside after dinner, shoved him into his car, kissed him until he couldn’t breathe, until he forgot his own name. Where your fingers toyed with his belt, rolling your hips into him until you felt him hard through his slacks, whispering every dirty little thought you’d never dared say out loud.

“And then,” you said, smiling like you’d just confessed something scandalous, “I kissed him goodnight. Because good girls don’t go all the way first date.”

You laughed softly, wicked and tipsy, like you weren’t spilling this just to watch Sunghoon unravel.

His jaw flexed.

Sunghoon didn’t move for a long moment. He just stared at you, his gaze molten, dark.

Then he shifted forward, elbows on his knees, closing the distance until you could feel the heat of him.

“Cute,” he said finally, voice a low rasp. “You really expect me to believe that?”

You tilted your chin up, unflinching. “Believe what you want.”

His hand moved before you could flinch—fingers brushing your jaw, then dragging lazily across your bottom lip. He pressed there, thumb grazing the soft gloss like he owned it.

“You let him kiss you with this mouth?” he murmured, eyes fixed on your lips. “Let him touch you with his clumsy little hands?”

Your breath hitched. “Why do you care?”

His thumb pressed harder, enough to still your words. “Because I think you’re lying.”

You tried to pull back, but his other hand caught your wrist. “Sunghoon—”

“What else?” he cut you off, leaning closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “Did you grind on him like you’re telling me? Did you make him think he was special? Did you let him put his hands all over you…” His fingers trailed deliberately down your neck, to your collarbone, where the ribbon strap met your skin. “…here?”

You couldn’t answer. And that’s when he snapped out of enjoyment.

In one swift move, he dragged you across the couch, onto his lap like you weighed nothing. You gasped, hands braced against his chest, your knees straddling him.

“Sunghoon—!”

He tilted his head, studying you like a predator. “Did it feel that good? Is that why you’re all smug now? Smiling like you’ve figured something out?”

You tried to twist away, but his grip on your hips tightened.

“Tell me,” he said, voice low and rough, “did he make you feel like me?”

You didn’t even know what to answer. Because the truth was, no. No one made you feel like this.

He felt your hesitation. Smirked. “Didn’t think so.”

And then his hands were moving, slow and possessive, tracing your thighs under the hem of the dress, dragging up until his fingers grazed dangerously close to where you were already trembling.

You whimpered, breathless, “Stop—”

But your hips betrayed you, rocking once, needy, against him.

His head dropped to your neck, lips brushing your skin as he exhaled hard. “Don’t stop,” he corrected in a low growl. “Not when you’re like this. I’ll take care of everything you need. Keep going.”

And when his fingers finally found you, hot and desperate, the rest of the world blurred until it was only you and him, lost in the kind of secret pleasure that felt too good to name.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your neck, the sound guttural, like it was pulled out of him. “You don’t even know what you’re doing...”

“Sunghoon—I…”

“S-say my name like that again,” His voice was sharp, command-like, his teeth grazing your jaw before his lips brushed it in the softest kiss that made you shiver. “It sounds like begging.”

You shuddered, hips stuttering against him. And then he couldn’t take it anymore.

You heard the rasp of his zipper before you felt him—hot, heavy, freed from his pants. He hissed as he gripped himself once, twice, and then pressed forward, grinding against you through the soaked fabric of your panties.

The drag of him against your clothed core made you cry out, the friction unbearable, filthy. He groaned into your ear, rutting slow but deep, deliberately angling his hips so you felt every thick inch of him through the thin barrier.

“God—” his voice broke, harsh and low, “—you’re so fucking wet. Through the fabric. For me.”

He pressed harder, grinding against you like he wanted to force himself inside without even bothering to move the panties out of the way.

Your breath hitched when his tip caught right at your entrance, the thin lace clinging to your skin, sticking between you and him like a boundary begging to be broken.

For one wild second, you felt him hesitate—felt him still—like he was about to push forward, about to bury himself inside you and never stop.

He almost did. He almost gave in.

For one wild second, you felt it—his cock pressed right against your entrance, like he was seconds away from shoving himself inside and taking what he wanted. But then he pulled back with a ragged breath, head falling back, his whole body trembling with restraint.

You couldn’t help yourself. You rocked against his lap again, harder this time, desperate for more of that unbearable friction through the thin layers separating you.

“Sung...hoon,” you breathed, his name spilling out like a prayer, shameless and needy.

His breath hitched, sharp and guttural. “Keep moving like that,” he growled, low and dangerous.

His hand slid lower, finding you through the damp fabric of your panties. He stilled, almost as if he needed a moment to process the state you were already in.

“Already this fucking wet?” he muttered, his voice hushed and laced with awe. “Didn’t need him at all. You realise now.”

A humiliating sound left your throat as you buried your face against his, but he wasn’t done. He hooked a finger under the soaked fabric and dragged it aside, letting the cool air kiss your swollen skin before his fingers touched you directly.

You jolted at the contact, a choked cry escaping.

“Shh,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, deceptively gentle. “I’ve got you.”

And then he pushed inside—two fingers at once, stretching you open in one deliberate, relentless motion that made your whole body seize.

“Ffffuck,” you gasped, the sting morphing quickly into raw, liquid heat.

His other arm tightened around your waist, locking you against him as his fingers drove deep, slow at first, but with purpose—each curl hitting something that made your vision blur.

“Ride my hand,” he murmured into your ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there. “Show me how badly my little virgin needs it. My poor, neglected girl. My fucking charity case.”

Your hips moved before your brain could catch up, grinding down against his hand like you were built for it. Every time his fingers curled, pleasure tore through you like lightning, your walls clenching tight around him.

“That’s it,” he praised, his tone dark and soft, like he’d been waiting his whole life for this. “Just like that. Use me.”

Your thighs quivered as he shifted, his thumb finding your clit over your panties and rubbing slow, deliberate circles that sent shockwaves up your spine.

You whimpered, broken and lost, unable to form words.

His thumb pressed harder against your clit, fingers buried so deep you felt every pulse of his hand inside you. His forehead stayed pressed to yours, his voice breaking into a low, dangerous growl.

“Just imagine it,” he hissed, hips rolling up into you, letting you feel exactly how hard he was through his pants. “The day I fuck you open with my cock. No fingers. No teasing. Just me, stretching this perfect little pussy until it can’t take anything else from how i'd leave you gapping.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’ll ruin you,” he went on, harsher now, like he couldn’t stop himself. “Ruin you so much that when you even think of getting off, it’s me you see. Me you feel. Me you come to. No one else will ever make you this wet. No one else will ever fucking fit ever again.”

His teeth grazed your neck, a soft bite that made your hips jerk.

He scissored his fingers inside you, stretching you wider, deliberately opening you as his cock kept grinding against your entrance through the soaked fabric—every thrust a filthy promise of what he’d do when he finally replaced his fingers with himself.

“I’ll keep you like this forever,” he whispered against your ear, voice trembling with obsession. “Dripping. Open. Mine.”

That was it. That was all it took. Pleasure slammed into you so hard it stole your breath, tearing you apart as his fingers worked you through it—slow, relentless, milking every twitch and spasm out of you while he held you down, whispering filth you couldn’t even process through the ringing in your head.

When you came down, breathless and shaking, he didn’t let go.

His fingers stayed inside you, slow and possessive, curling deep, gathering every tremble, every shiver you couldn’t hold back. When he finally pulled them free, it wasn’t to release you—it was to bring them to his lips. His tongue traced every drop, slow and hungry, tasting you like you were his addiction.

“God,” he breathed, voice rough and raw, “you taste like you were made for me.”

You blinked, dazed and drunk, a soft laugh slipping out, slurred and uneven. “Y-you’re crazy…”

He smirked, but there was nothing light in his eyes. “Crazy for you.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you turned your head into his shoulder, mumbling nonsense, words tumbling out fast and messy, “S-Sunghoon, you can’t just… you can’t do that, makes me feel all fucked up.”

“Good fucked up,” he corrected, sliding his hand up your thigh again, stretching the thin fabric of your panties tight.

You whimpered, embarrassed but unable to hide the way your hips pressed into him.

His mouth brushed your ear, low and dangerous. “Say it.”

“Say what?” you slurred.

“That you want me to ruin you.”

Your breath caught, your body betraying you with a tiny gasp. “S-Sunghoon…”

He ground into your soaked panties harder, voice dropping to a growl, “You love being drunk, shaking, begging for me. You fucking crave it.”

You whimpered, broken and raw. “I… I like you. I really like you… so much it hurts.”

Something inside him snapped. A harsh, disbelieving laugh escaped his lips as he leaned in—his mouth hovering just over yours, not quite a kiss but more than a breath.

It wasn’t mercy. It wasn’t affection. It was a warning. A promise.

You didn’t pull away.

God, he could’ve had you right then—dragged you across the line you’d been circling, ripped you into the depths of his desire and drowned you there.

But then, just like that, your body gave out.

One second your eyes were locked on his, lips parted, begging him silently to take you—

The next, you were limp.

Dead asleep.

Sunghoon froze.

Every nerve in his body screamed at him to wake you, to finish what he started, to claim what was his by right of how badly you wanted him. The image of it—of dragging you back into consciousness just to make you moan for him—clawed at his skull.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

Instead, he gathered you carefully, like you were something fragile and irreplaceable, and lowered you onto the couch as though it were an altar and you were his offering. His hand stayed buried in your hair far longer than it should have, combing through soft strands with a tenderness that felt like it belonged to another man entirely—one who didn’t fantasize about ruining you.

“Stupid girl,” he muttered, but the words rang hollow. They didn’t match the weight in his chest—the hot, unbearable ache that burned every time you breathed near him.

He should’ve left. Should’ve walked out before this became something he couldn’t walk away from.

Instead, he stayed.

Sat back down beside you, elbows on his knees, staring at the faint smudge of cherry lip gloss staining the corner of your mouth—the one you’d put on for someone else—and thought about how he’d lick it off slow, taste the last trace of your sin, and leave you with nothing in your mouth but him.

And that was when he knew, you’d already ruined him.

I’ll use anyone to remind you how badly you need me—because you belong here…no matter what.

—

After that night, he couldn’t stop.

Watching you. Thinking of you. Wanting you so badly it made him restless, made him reckless.

At first, it was subtle. Eunwoo stopped texting. Stopped showing up early to practice, stopped lingering after, stopped smiling at you like he used to. When he did look, it was from across the studio, wary, like someone who’d been warned.

Sunghoon hadn’t touched him. He didn’t need to. A quiet word in the parking lot was enough.

No one else would hold you. No one but him.

And so, piece by piece, he made sure of it. No lingering touches from others. No easy smiles you could mistake for more. He closed the world off around you until there was only him. A packed schedule he could accommodate and him. Yeah, people like Sunghoon could do this much to have something they want around them.

Even if you were good at pulling people in—like sunlight, like gravity. Sunghoon? He was better at playing games. Better at making sure no one stuck.

But even as he tried to make it about control, about winning, it was crumbling inside him.

Because he wasn’t sure anymore who was pulling who. He didn’t understand why he lingered in doorways during your rehearsals, why he stayed late, silent at the back of the studio just to watch you move.

Why the thoughts came—vivid, consuming. That’s how she’d move on me. That’s how she’d look if I told her to let go.

And it wasn’t just lust. God, how he wished it were only that.

It was the way you looked at him when you thought no one saw. Wide-eyed awe when he was on the ice, soft and quiet, like you were keeping that version of him to yourself.

The way you laughed at his jokes when no one else even understood them.

The way you kept showing up—bright, infuriating, stubbornly good—until you were woven into every corner of his life.

You brought flowers to his events. Woke up early, hair a mess, barely awake, just to have breakfast with him. You pushed back when he was an ass. You stayed silent when silence was what he needed.

You’d become a habit. Then a need. And now you were an ache he couldn’t soothe, a hunger he couldn’t feed without breaking both of you.

And still, he wouldn’t name it.

Obsession?

Love?

It didn’t matter. Because you always came back. And maybe he always fell to you. The lines blurred until neither of you knew who reached first.

—

It started small.

A brush of fingers in passing. A glance that lingered too long, carrying a weight neither of you would name. Then one night, his hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you into the shadowed hallway. He pressed you against the wall—not rough, but like the space between you was unbearable.

His mouth hovered over your neck, his breath warm against your skin as if he was memorizing the shape of you before he even kissed you. And then finally, his lips on yours.

That first kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was devastatingly careful, as if he needed you to remember every second of it. I’ll be your first. And your last. His hands framed your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks, his forehead pressed to yours when he finally pulled back. He breathed like he’d been underwater for years and you were the first air he’d ever tasted.

But restraint is a fragile thing. And that first careful kiss only made the next ones hungrier.

Soon, it was late nights on his couch. The glow of the television filling the room, though neither of you were watching. He’d study you when you weren’t looking—how the light curved over your collarbone, the way you curled up with your knees pulled close, always unaware of how completely you undid him.

Sometimes he thought he loved you most like this: from a distance, before you even touched him, when he could see all of you and know none of it belonged to anyone else but him.

His hand would slide beneath the blanket, tracing along your arm until it rested on your thigh. You’d pretend you didn’t notice, but then you’d give up pretending and climb into his lap. He’d kiss you slow, deep, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you, but no patience to wait.

It wasn’t just hunger. It was knowing that no one else would ever get to see you this way. Laughing softly between kisses, whispering things you’d never say in daylight. Letting him unspool every wall you’d built and trusting he wouldn’t break what he found there.

And sometimes, he wouldn’t even move. He’d just hold you, forehead to forehead, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping him steady.

Other times, you couldn’t wait. You’d drag him to your room, leaving a trail of clothes and caution behind.

And then came that night—after his skating win—when you climbed into the car, buzzing with adrenaline. He didn’t even start the engine. He pulled you straight into his lap, hands gripping your waist like you were already his prize.

“Give me my reward,” he murmured against your lips, already kissing you again like his victory didn’t mean a thing compared to this.

It stopped being simple somewhere along the way. It wasn’t just sex education, or heat between two lonely young-adults, or whatever excuse you both tried to tell yourselves. It was him burying his face in your neck, breathing you in like a prayer. It was his fingers digging into your skin like he could anchor himself to you. It was you clawing at his back, leaving marks that would stay until the next time you saw each other.

To him, you weren’t just a body beneath his hands. You were a world—a place he didn’t want to leave, didn’t know how to.

“You never stop, Hoon…” you teased, voice hoarse, fingers still curled into his shirt. He kissed your temple, lips brushing your skin like a vow. 

“You have no idea,” he whispered.

And he meant it. Not just about the wanting. But about everything.

You.

You didn’t hate yourself. Not exactly. But you weren’t the same anymore.

Still technically untouched in the way people whispered about innocence, because he waited for you to beg for it apparently. Yet, you were deeply altered, you barely recognized yourself. It wasn’t your body that had changed—it was something quieter, more treacherous.

You felt it in the way you carried yourself like nothing mattered from others pov anymore. the way your chest tightened only at the sound of his footsteps in the hall, how you counted time not in hours or days but in the stretches between his glances, his hands, his words. How you measured your worth by how much he told you about late at night, after representation...

And he gave you more than you ever thought you’d have.

The smile that only came out when no one else was around. The low, unrestrained laugh that made his whole body shake. The long, sprawling conversations where the two of you forgot where they started, drifting in and out of everything and nothing, until time didn’t exist.

He was already filling the void. You didn’t have to beg for it. He’d done it from the start—slipping into all your hollow places like he’d been made to fit them. He gave you pieces of himself that didn’t belong to the world. Pieces that felt like they only belonged to you.

And you let him.

You let him feed you every part of himself you weren’t supposed to have. His attention. His softness. His fire. His love, in every shape it came in, even when he wouldn’t say the word out loud.

It stopped being about curiosity or stolen kisses. It wasn’t “fooling around.” It was belonging—dangerously, completely—to someone who could never fully be yours.

And maybe that was what terrified you. Not the competitions. Not your parents’ expectations. Not the weight of your future pressing in like a storm.

Not even what he was doing to you. But how much you wanted it to keep going.

Until everything crashed.

It started with the realization that gutted you like glass.

That night at the dinner table, his father’s voice cold and unbending— "It’s time you stop wasting yourself, Sunghoon. We need to start arranging a proper engagement. Someone who will fit this family.”

And Sunghoon, the boy who owned every inch of your heart and every part of your body you’d dared to give him, said nothing. Just stared at his plate.

You stared at him until it burned, waiting for him to fight. To say something—anything.

But he didn’t.

And that’s when it hit you, hard and rough: how short this thing could survive. How stupidly, naively, you’d been treating it like forever.

You changed.

Stopped waiting for him in the kitchen. Stopped texting first. Stopped letting him touch you whenever he wanted like you belonged only to him. You smiled more at other people. You wore your confidence like armor—back straighter, words sharper, laugh louder.

If you were going to break, you would do it looking unshakable.

It worked.

He noticed.

He noticed when recruiters came to speak to you about opportunities. How your polite, delighted nod came too easily, how you glowed for people who weren't him. Not like you ever stopped. But now you weren’t pondering as long as before. Wasn’t shy anymore.

It made him spiral.

This wasn’t you you. Not his girl who came apart in the back of his car, who sobbed his name while his mouth was between your thighs. Now you were untouchable. Punishing him with kind smiles, polite and stand-offish.

And for the first time in his life, Sunghoon felt desperate.

You were already deep in practice when you felt it—the weight of his gaze in the mirror.

The private room you’d booked was empty except for you, the faint smell of rosin and sweat in the air, the music soft as you moved through the routine you’d been building in secret. Your hoodie was tossed to the side, leotard clinging to you, hair sticking damply to your neck.

When you stopped to catch your breath, he finally stepped inside.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said without turning, reaching for your water.

“And yet,” Sunghoon drawled, shutting the door behind him. His voice was low, like gravel. “You didn’t lock it.”

You gave him a pointed look through the mirror. “Did you need something?”

His answer came with a step closer, then another, until you could feel the heat of him at your back. “You’re working on something new.”

“Maybe.” You sipped, unbothered.

“Let me help.”

You laughed quietly. “Help? You think you can keep up?”

“I think,” he said, leaning down so his mouth brushed just beside your ear, “you’ve been avoiding me. And this is the only way I can get close.”

You turned slowly, letting your gaze drag over him, unhurried. “So you’re begging to be my partner now?”

His jaw tightened. “If that’s what it takes.”

You tilted your head, savoring the shift—the way he looked restless, desperate under your calm. “Fine,” you murmured. “But my routine. My rules.”

His eyes darkened. “Always yours.”

The music started again, low and pulsing. You placed his hands exactly where you wanted them—on your waist, not too high, not too low—forcing him to follow your lead. Each movement deliberate, teasing. Your body brushed his with every turn, your breath steady while his came rougher, uneven.

“This is what you wanted?” you asked, voice quiet but sharp, lips curving. “To be close?”

“Closer,” he rasped.

You stepped forward until your forehead nearly touched his, feeling the tremor in his grip, the way he was holding himself back. “Then keep up.”

It was intoxicating—how he let you guide him, how the boy who used to take whatever he wanted now only took what you gave.

But when he finally leaned in, lips hovering over yours, you turned your head, letting the rejection linger like a slap.

He froze. Then laughed bitterly, stepping back. “Right. That’s right. Better stopping now, huh.”

But his eyes—God, his eyes looked wrecked.

A few nights later, outside the luxury hotel where his parents’ matchmaking dinner was held, you sat with him in his car. Neither of you moved.

“You’ll be fine,” you said softly, trying to convince yourself too.

He turned to you slowly, jaw tight, and something in him snapped. His hand came up, rougher than usual, cupping your jaw like he didn’t trust himself not to break you. Then he kissed you—hungry, bruising, a kiss that tasted like grief and possession all at once.

And you didn’t stop him.

Sunghoon grabbed you by the waist, dragging you into his lap with a kind of desperation that made your breath catch. “Don’t make me go in there like this,” he rasped against your mouth, but his hands didn’t stop—already under your skirt, shoving your panties aside like they were in his way. He bit your throat hard enough to leave marks, like proof, like a warning.

Then he looked at you—eyes dark, unblinking—and slid down the seat. “Stay still,” he ordered, his voice low, wrecked. Before you could answer, he was between your thighs, tearing you open with his mouth.

He didn’t close his eyes. He ate you out like he wanted to memorize you, slow and deliberate at first, then rough, tongue and teeth working until you were gasping his name, your hands clawing at his hair. You tried to look away, but he growled, pinning your hips, forcing your gaze back to his as his tongue buried itself deeper. He wanted you to watch. Wanted you to know exactly what you did to him.

You came hard, trembling and leaking against his mouth, and he didn’t let go—didn’t leave your eyes even as you sobbed his name and tried to push him away. He only stopped when you were shaking so badly you could barely stay upright.

Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, licked his fingers like he was tasting the last of you, and pocketed your panties like a trophy.

“Now,” he said, voice low and controlled in that terrifying way that meant he wasn’t, “I can face them.”

He walked into that dinner like nothing happened, blank-faced and cold.

The night blurred—polished laughter, his parents’ friends sizing him up, pretty girls with perfect smiles and empty eyes, and you sitting at the edge of it all like you weren’t burning alive.

He should’ve been beside one of them. He should’ve been smiling for them. Instead, Sunghoon sat next to you, defying the place cards like he owned the table. Blank-faced, untouchable.

You felt his hand under the table first—just resting on your knee. Then higher. Then higher still.

You shot him a warning glance, but his expression didn’t change. And when his fingers slid beneath your dress and pushed into you—slow, deliberate—you bit your lip so hard you tasted blood.

Your nails dug into the tablecloth, knuckles white as you fought to keep your composure. He didn’t care. He wanted you like this—silent, trembling, forced to take it while he played the perfect son for everyone else in the room.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear so gently it felt like mockery. “They want me to pick a wife,” he whispered, his fingers moving inside you with obscene patience. “But I already belong to you.”

Your eyes snapped to his, desperate to stay unfazed, but you were unraveling under his touch.

“You know that, right?” he murmured.

You nearly cried from how much you believed him.

But days later, he presented someone.

A girl—a little older, bright and naive, clinging to his arm like she’d been born to fit there. And Sunghoon smiled that old, cruel smile, the one that gutted you every time. The one that made you feel like you were just another one of his games.

It worked. You were jealous.

So you made him pay for it.

You skipped your rendezvous, fed him excuses so flimsy they were insults, and when he came crawling anyway, you told him exactly where to find you.

He missed brunches. Skipped meetings. Lied to his in-laws. You knew it. He didn’t care. He left you reeking of his cologne, his jaw shining with your taste, and pretended he was still invested in family, in his future. But you both knew—this was his altar, and you were his ruin.

The games escalated—spinning faster, darker, with no brakes.

He brought her to your galas like a prize on his arm, her bright naive smile like a slap across your face. She was a living, breathing insult, and every time she laughed or touched him, it felt like knives carving you open.

But all night, he was elsewhere—his eyes never really on her, his fingers twitching beneath the table, fingers tapping on your leg or slipping inside your thigh when no one was looking. His phone buzzed nonstop with your messages, tiny threads tying him to you in a web only you could see.

Then you appeared—wearing that burgundy dress. The one he told you never to wear again, the one that made his jaw twitch and his eyes darken.

He didn’t look away.

Not once.

By the time the gala was dying down, he’d found you—cornered you in the shadowy hallway, breath hot and rough against your ear, a low growl vibrating in his throat as he slid a cold key into your hand.

“This is yours,” he whispered.

Hours later, you were in his secret apartment—the one he called your hide.

You followed him silently down the narrow hallway, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

His apartment felt lived in but untouched—like a place that existed only for him to breathe when the rest of the world demanded his suffocation.

And then you saw them.

Pictures.

Not just him.

Of you two.

Your recital poster, pictures frozen in a frame on the shelf. A candid from some forgotten gala, you mid-laugh next to him, like he’d stolen the moment for himself. And there, beside them : photos of him and his mother…

She was beautiful, like him. Her hand on his cheek. His bright smile beside her proud one. Pieces of him he’d never shown anyone, now laid bare in front of you.

Your throat ached. “You… kept these?”

He didn’t answer at first, just watched you, just nodded, his expression unreadable and raw.

“Why?” you whispered.

“Because they’re mine,” he said finally, his voice rough. “Because you’re mine.”

You turned to him slowly, your breath shallow.

“I didn’t know…” you said, voice trembling. Your heart broke for him. You stepped closer, until your forehead pressed against his chest, feeling his heart thundering beneath your skin.

“God, I’m so tired…” you whispered.

His hand slid up the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, holding you still. “Me too,” he breathed.

You tilted your head up, and your lips brushed his collarbone—soft, trembling, like you were begging for him without saying it.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted. “How to be with you when everything around us feels like it’s trying to rip us apart.”

His hand cupped your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek as if memorizing it. “I don’t want to lose you,” he said, his voice shaking. “Not like I lost her. Not like I’ve lost everything else.”

You blinked up at him, tears threatening. I want you. Even if it hurts.” you whispered. “And it really fucking does.”

He lowered his forehead to yours, closing his eyes like the weight of the words was too much to bear.

“I want only you,” he said, his voice hoarse, breaking with the force of it. “Every goddamn part of you. Body and soul.”

You gasped softly, and then his mouth was on yours.

A kiss—messy, desperate. His hand at the back of your head, tilting you just so. His other arm wrapping around your waist, crushing you against him like he could fuse you into his bones if he just held you tightly enough.

You kissed him back, frantic, clawing at his shoulders, feeling the shudder of his breath as his lips moved to your jaw, your temple, your cheeks, kissing away your fear.

“Don’t—” he breathed between kisses, “don’t pull away. Don’t disappear on me.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, breathless. “Promise me—promise we won’t let go.”

His eyes opened, dark and unrelenting, and his lips found yours again—slower this time, bruising in its devotion. “I promise,” he said against your mouth. “You’re the only thing that’s real for me now.”

And you let him kiss you again, and again, until neither of you knew where one ended and the other began—until the world outside no longer existed.

—

You told no one about the overseas offer. Not your mom. Not your friends. Not even him.

But Sunghoon found out anyway—a passing comment from someone who didn’t know it would shatter him.

That night, he drove you home after rehearsal.

You fell asleep in his lap in the backseat, your cheek pressed to his thigh, ballerina bun half-undone, breathing soft and unguarded. You didn’t see the way his hand hovered above your hair, trembling, before finally settling there. Didn’t feel the quiet violence of his grip on his own knee as he stared out the window, teeth grinding, date forgotten, phone buzzing unanswered in his pocket.

He was burning, silently, the whole ride.

But what destroyed him—what truly gutted Sunghoon—was the moment he confronted you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was low, too calm, the kind of calm that’s more dangerous than shouting.

You stood there in your ballerina robe, hair still damp from your shower, hugging yourself like that would keep you from splintering. “Because it doesn’t matter,” you whispered. “Maybe this… maybe this is all we’ll ever be. You can marry her. Forget me in time.”

That’s when something in him snapped.

His jaw flexed, his eyes blackened with something sharp and uncontainable, and before you could blink, he’d crossed the room.

“Don’t say that.”

It came out guttural. A warning.

And then he lost it.

He slammed you against the mirrored wall, the robe falling open as your gasp was muffled by his hand over your mouth. His other hand gripped your hip so hard you’d bruise, pinning you there as if the glass could keep you from running.

His breath was ragged against your ear—hot, uneven, almost feral.

“Say you’ll leave again,” he growled, voice shaking with fury and something far darker, “and I swear, the only stage you’ll dance on is my lap.”

You squirmed, but his body pressed you flat against the mirror, his chest crushing against yours. The glass chilled your bare back, every nerve screaming awake, every inch of you alive under the weight of him.

His lips brushed your temple, then your jaw, then hovered at your mouth—so close it was torture. “You’re mine,” he whispered, each word deliberate, a vow wrapped in a threat. “I’ll chain you to me if that’s what it takes.”

And God, you believed him.

Because his hands weren’t gentle—they worshiped like punishment. His mouth moved over your skin with a hunger that was all-consuming, breaking you down and claiming you in the same breath. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite. It was desperate—a boy on the edge of losing everything, holding the only thing he couldn’t afford to.

You couldn’t tell where pain ended and pleasure began.

And you didn’t want him to stop.

When it was over—when the storm had passed and the room was quiet except for the sound of both of you breathing like you’d been drowning—he finally spoke.

“You know,” he said, voice low, almost tender now, “I never planned on this. On you. I wanted simple. I wanted distance.”

You blinked up at him, still trembling.

“But then you showed up,” he continued, cupping your face like he was trying to memorize it, “and everything just… shifted. You weren’t just someone passing through. You became the only thing I couldn’t let go of. I didn’t choose to make you special—it just happened.”

His thumb brushed your lips, slow, aching.

“I think it was meant to be,” he added, quieter, like a confession meant for no one else.

You’ve really changed.

The old you would be a crying mess right now.

Or maybe you’ve just finally seen yourselves for what you are—two broken people clinging to each other like lifelines, bleeding into each other just to feel whole for a moment.

Your knees give out first. You don’t even realize you’re falling until you’re on the floor with him, your fingers still tangled in his hair. You graze your nails gently across his scalp, soothing the tremors in him as much as in yourself.

You lie there together between half-packed piles—clothes you chose to keep, clothes you were ready to leave behind—and wonder which one he is.

Should you keep him?

Should you leave him?

The thought presses into you like a bruise, deep and aching, with no easy answer.

He shifts closer, curling against you like he can sense the war in your head, silently begging you to choose him.

“Please,” he whispers again, so quiet you almost miss it. “Don’t put me in the pile you walk away from.”

And you don’t answer, because you don’t know when you’re with him. Not yet. Not tonight.

You’ll leave… but not without a goodbye.

One last thing. Like a gift. Like a memento to your first meeting.

An original piece. Dedicated to your first love.

To Sunghoon.

You lock yourself in the studio, pouring every ounce of yourself into it—every memory, every wound, every brush of his fingers against yours. You choose a partner who moves like him—not the same, but close enough to help you tell the story. Your story. His story.

You choose a song that aches with everything you can’t say out loud. Cellophane by FKA twigs.

— 

It’s the final night.

Sunghoon sat frozen in the front row, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a storm he couldn’t escape. The golden light bathed you—his world—turning your trembling form into something both fragile and fierce. You weren’t just performing for the crowd; you were performing for him, and only him.

He could feel the music sinking deep, each note dragging up memories he tried to bury. Your dance wasn’t just movement. It was a confession, raw and unfiltered, burning through the silence between you.

“Didn’t I do it for you?” Your body spoke the words he couldn’t say.

“Why don’t I do it for you?” You reached for something beyond the stage—beyond the crowd—to him.

“Why won’t you do it for me?” The ache in your voice cracked his heart wide open.

Tears slipped down his cheeks—silent, uncontrollable. He tried to blink them away, but they fell anyway, warm and real, blurring the golden light like rain on glass. The world around him dissolved until it was just the two of you—no audience, no noise—only you, right there in front of him, dancing through his thoughts.

Every movement you made echoed inside his mind. He could almost feel your breath, hear the quiet catch in your throat, smell the faint trace of your perfume mixed with sweat. Your skin, painted gold, glimmered under the lights as if you were some kind of fragile flame he was desperate not to lose.

“But I, just want to feel you’re there And I don’t want to have to share our love I try but I get overwhelmed When you’re gone, I have no one to tell.”

The ribbon slipping loose at your throat felt like a final breaking of barriers—bare, exposed, real. When you mouthed those words, I love you, it wasn’t just a whisper—it was a scream wrapped in silence, tearing through the distance between you.

“They’re waiting. They’re watching. They’re watching us. They’re hating. They’re waiting. And hoping. I’m not enough.”

For a heartbeat, Sunghoon felt the weight of the whole world lift, and he almost reached for you. Almost stood. Almost closed that impossible gap. But then the lights died, plunging everything into darkness. The moment shattered like glass.

And yet, even in the dark, you were still there—in his head, in his heart—the only thing keeping him alive as tears continued to fall, unbidden and relentless. It had always been just the two of you, hadn’t it? No matter how far you ran, no matter the silence or the pain, you were his truth.

He stayed seated, broken and trembling, because you—you—had danced your soul straight into his, and nothing would ever erase that.

You slipped away from the applause, avoiding the cameras, the congratulations, your mother’s fake smile, his dad's catalogue of people to sit with. 

Only Sunghoon’s phone buzzed once, with a message: 

Meet me at our place.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t even breathe right when he got there—just stormed in like a man still drunk on you, on that stage, on the sight of you bleeding your soul out under the spotlight. His lungs burned like he hadn’t stopped running since the curtain fell, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You sat on the couch, still in that golden dress, the paint smeared, the ribbon loose around your neck like a noose someone had already cut. You didn’t even flinch when he stopped in front of you, looming, silent.

For a long moment, he just stared. His chest heaved. His eyes were red—not just wet, but raw, swollen, like the tears had started at the theater and hadn’t stopped.

Then he was on you.

No words. No hesitation. His hands grabbed you like he was terrified you’d vanish—digging into your arms, your waist, your hair. He kissed you like it hurt, like every touch was a scream, crushing his mouth to yours so hard your teeth clicked. It was messy, wet, and desperate.

"I love you," he hissed between kisses, but it didn’t sound like love—it sounded like a curse, like something choking him alive. 

"I love you, I fucking love you, you hear me?"

The dress tore—not slid, not slipped—tore in his fists as if he couldn’t stand anything between you and him. He shoved you back against the couch, the cushions biting at your shoulder blades, his weight caging you in, unrelenting.

"No one gets you like this," he growled, voice low and broken, like the last thread of him was snapping. "No one but me. No one. You’re mine—do you get that? Mine."

You didn’t answer, couldn’t. He didn’t give you room to. His mouth was everywhere—your jaw, your throat, biting until it burned, marking you like he needed the world to see.

It was rough. Frantic. Almost punishing. His hips slammed into yours, each thrust so deep you gasped for air, but he didn’t slow, didn’t let up. Every movement screamed stay, screamed don’t leave me, screamed all the words he couldn’t say without destroying himself.

"You think you can dance like that for me and walk away?" His forehead pressed to yours, sweaty hair falling into his eyes, his breath jagged and hot. "You think you can leave me like that? I can’t—" His voice broke. "—I can’t survive you leaving me."

You felt him tremble against you, the sound of him unraveling—a ragged, animalistic thing—as if he’d rip himself open before he let you go.

"I don’t care if it’s wrong," he gasped, a broken prayer as his teeth grazed your shoulder. "I don’t care if it ruins me."

And then softer, hoarse, almost childlike in its helplessness: "You’re all I have. You’re… you’re home to me."

He didn’t even let you get a word out before he dragged you beneath him, the couch groaning under the force of it, his body pinning you like a weight you couldn’t escape—not that you wanted to. His hands were everywhere, gripping your wrists, your thighs, your face like he couldn’t decide where to hold you first.

You fought him—not to push him away, but to pull him closer, twisting and clawing at him, your nails dragging down his back hard enough to make him hiss. You rolled him over, straddling him, golden paint smearing against his skin, and slammed yourself down on him like you wanted to break both of you open.

"Don’t let me go," you gasped, voice shaking, forehead pressed to his as you moved over him with a pace that was more defiance than rhythm. "Don’t you fucking let me go, Sunghoon."

His grip was bruising on your hips, fingers digging in like claws. "I can’t," he bit out, thrusting up into you so hard you lost your breath. "I won’t. You’re not leaving me—not after this. Not ever."

"Good," you choked, grinding down on him, chasing that unbearable mix of pain and pleasure that only he gave you. "Make me never forget. Do you hear me? Never. I don’t want to find anyone else good after you. I don’t want anyone else—just you. Just you."

That snapped something in him.

He grabbed the back of your neck, yanking you down so his mouth was at your throat. "You want me to ruin you?" he growled, voice so low it scraped against your skin. "You want to be mine forever? Say it."

"Mark me," you begged, raw and shaking. "Do it. Mark me so I never forget you."

He bit you—deep. No hesitation. His teeth sank into the soft flesh of your shoulder, hard enough to make you cry out, the pain and pleasure blurring until you couldn’t tell which one was making you tremble.

"Mine," he whispered against the bite, breath hot and ragged. "You’re fucking mine. And I’m never letting you forget it."

You rode him harder, nails digging into his chest, the two of you moving like you wanted to consume each other whole—like this wasn’t love or even lust, but survival, the only way to keep breathing in a world that had already taken too much.

He didn’t stop at one mark.

The first bite left a deep welt, skin swelling under his teeth, but Sunghoon didn’t even lift his head—he kept his mouth on you, licking the bite, then sinking his teeth in again, lower this time, near your collarbone. You arched into it, letting him carve himself into you with his mouth, with his hands, with every brutal thrust of his hips.

"More," you sobbed, voice shaking apart. "Do more. Don’t stop. I want to feel you everywhere."

His breath hitched at that, almost like a sob, and you felt it—the tremor in his chest, the way his body shuddered under yours. You pulled back just enough to see his face, and it wrecked you: tears streaming down his cheeks, wetting his lashes, raw grief and need carved into his features.

"You’re crying," you whispered, half-broken yourself.

"Shut up," he choked, pulling you back down so your mouths met, his tears smearing against your lips as he kissed you like a man on the edge of falling apart. "You don’t get it—I can’t lose you. I can’t. If you leave, I’ll fucking die."

"Then don’t let me," you gasped against his mouth, grinding down on him, every movement rougher, more desperate. "Keep me here. Hurt me if you have to. Just make me yours. All the way."

Something inside him shattered at that. He flipped you onto your back, the couch creaking, and drove into you like he was trying to brand his shape into your body, his tears falling onto your face, mixing with your own. He kissed them away, then bit your jaw, your throat, your shoulder, until your skin was a map of his possession.

"Mine," he kept saying, voice breaking between thrusts. "Mine. Mine. Say it."

"Yours," you sobbed, clawing at his back, leaving deep red streaks. "Only yours. Please—don’t let me forget this. Don’t let me forget you."

He bit you again—your shoulder, your chest, the soft skin just under your jaw—marks that would stay for days, reminders you couldn’t wash away. His pace was ruthless, unrelenting, until you were sobbing beneath him, shaking, unable to tell where the pain ended and the pleasure began.

When you came, it felt like drowning, like falling off the edge of the world, and he followed right after, collapsing onto you, shaking so hard you had to hold him in place. He buried his face into your neck, his tears wet against your skin as his breathing slowed into ragged, broken gasps.

"Don’t leave," he whispered again, quieter this time, like a prayer. "Don’t leave me."

You held his head against you, fingers in his sweat-soaked hair, kissing the crown of it. "I won’t," you promised, even if you both knew it was a lie.

He stayed inside you for a long moment, shaking, forehead pressed to your shoulder as if his body needed to remember what it was like to breathe. When he finally pulled out, it wasn’t to leave you—it was to scoop you up.

Sunghoon gathered you in his arms, as if you weighed nothing, as if you were something precious he couldn’t risk dropping. His steps were unsteady, his chest still heaving, but he carried you through the dim apartment until you reached his bedroom. He laid you down carefully on the bed, the gold of your smeared costume glowing faintly in the low light, then climbed in behind you.

"On your hands and knees," he said, voice hoarse, still raw with tears.

You obeyed, body heavy, but his hands softened, gliding up your spine—slow, reverent. He traced the curve of your back with his fingertips, down to the small of it, almost like he was memorizing the lines of you. You shivered at his touch, and he couldn’t help but think about how it used to be the other way around—how you once trembled beneath him because you were scared of how much he wanted you. But now?

Now he was the one trembling.

"Do you know what you do to me?" he rasped, leaning forward so his lips brushed the nape of your neck. "You think I’m in control, but I’m not. I’m fucking lost in you."

You pushed back against him, arching just enough for him to slide back into you. He groaned—broken, guttural—and sank in to the hilt, holding there like he needed to feel every inch of you wrapped around him.

"Please," you whispered, voice cracking, "don’t stop. Make me remember. Make me never want anyone else."

His grip tightened on your hips. "You’ll never forget me," he said, each word deliberate, a promise and a threat. He pulled back, then drove into you hard enough to make the bed creak, setting a brutal, claiming pace.

"You want me to mark you?" he growled, leaning over you, teeth scraping your shoulder.

"Yes—God, yes," you gasped, pressing your face into the sheets. "Bite me. Claim me. I want to feel you for days."

He bit you again, deeper than before, until you cried out—his tears wetting your skin as his mouth lingered on the mark. He was trembling so badly now you could feel it in every thrust, every kiss pressed between his broken whispers.

"Say it," he demanded, voice wrecked. "Beg for me."

"Please," you sobbed, reaching back to clutch at his hand where it gripped your hip. "Please, Sunghoon. Don’t pull out. Cum in me. Make me yours. I need it—I need all of you."

That undid him. He snapped, slamming into you harder, rougher, until the room filled with the sound of your bodies colliding and your broken voices tangling together. He buried himself deep as he came, groaning against your ear, his whole body shuddering as if the release tore something out of him.

He stayed like that—inside you, pressed against your back—panting into the hollow of your shoulder, his tears soaking your skin.

"You’re mine," he whispered again, quieter now, like he was trying to convince himself. "Even if it kills me, you’ll always be mine."

And you reached back, threading your fingers into his hair, whispering, "I know."

—

The morning sun felt cruel.

Sunghoon woke to the pale wash of light spilling through half-closed curtains, the sheets still warm where your body had been. He reached for you instinctively, hand brushing only cool fabric.

His stomach dropped.

The quiet was too sharp. No shower running, no soft hum of you moving in the kitchen. Just emptiness.

He sat up too fast, head pounding, hair a chaotic mess that fell into his eyes. His body ached everywhere—especially his collarbone, a sharp sting that made him flinch when his fingers brushed it. He pushed the collar of his shirt aside and saw it: a deep crescent of teeth marks, swollen and raw. You had marked him, too.

"Fuck," he muttered, heart climbing into his throat.

He stumbled out of bed, barely bothering to throw on a hoodie, bare feet hitting the cold floor as he made his way through the apartment. It felt foreign without you, like he’d woken up somewhere unfamiliar.

Then he saw it.

On the coffee table, beside an empty glass you’d used the night before, sat a single envelope. His name—just Sunghoon—in your handwriting.

His chest tightened.

He didn’t open it right away. He couldn’t. His fingers hovered over the paper, frozen. As if touching it might make this real. Finally, he tore it open with trembling hands.

Hoon,

If you’re reading this, it means I left. It means I didn’t have the courage to wake you and see your face when I said goodbye. You would’ve stopped me, and I would’ve let you.

I love you. God, I love you so much it eats me alive. From the moment you first touched me on that rooftop, I stopped being an empty object and became yours, almost mine. You didn’t just fill the emptiness in me.You made me feel alive. Brave. Like I was worth the attention.

But I can’t stay. Not now. If I do, we’ll burn each other until there’s nothing left. And yet leaving feels like ripping out my own heart.

You once told me to, “Go. Find what pleases you.” huh ? 

So I’m going to try. For me, for once. Even though all I want is you.

This isn’t the end, let’s hope. One day, I want to meet you again. On a different stage, as different people. Versions of us who can love each other without destroying everything around us and hurt people. 

Until then, I need you to let me go. Don’t come looking. Please. If you love me the way I love you, let me be brave.

I left you something, a piece of me. A Polaroid of your mark. It hurts for now and I love it, Sunghoon. I want to keep feeling it for as long as I can, because it means I’m still yours. And when the numbness comes and I know it will. I’ll cling to the hope that you won’t forget me like I’ll never forget you.

We were both paranoid somehow. We both need to grow up. To become decent adults. But maybe that’s why it mattered. Maybe that’s why it will always do. You were my first, and you’ll be my most memorable love.

I love you Sunghoon.

Yours. Always Yours.

—-

He read it once.

Twice.

A third time, the words blurring as his vision burned.

Sunghoon sank to the floor, the letter dangling from his hand, his back pressed to the cold leg of the couch. He sat there for hours, the world moving outside his apartment while his stayed frozen, your words ricocheting inside his skull.

"I will always be yours."

He traced the bite mark on his collarbone, pressing it hard until the sting bloomed—proof you’d been here, proof you’d been real.

And still, you were gone.

It was the end.

For how long ?

part.2

MASTERLIST

Thank you so much for reading, my loves!!! I know this dropped later than expected—sorry for the wait! It’s actually my longest fic yet, originally split into three parts but I decided to merge it into one big plunge (might write a second part if you guys want it). I didn’t get to proofread so if it’s a bit chaotic... maybe that’s part of the story. The playlist? A little slice of my that inspired me. I hope it hit you just right.

I’m still anxious, though... I wanted the emotions to land the way they felt inside me while writing. Both Sunghoon and the MC carry their own scars, and I leaned into that heaviness—into trauma bonding, lust as a distraction, desire as escape. Messy, flawed, maybe not healthy… but deeply human. This story is a reflection of something I believe deeply: even the darker moments help shape us. They may not be pretty, but they’re real. And real things have a way of leaving marks. So if it stirred anything in you—don’t just lurk. Reblog, comment, talk to me.Show me you were here with me

Yours dearly Lassie

© 2025 Lassiie. All rights reserved. No reproduction, distribution, or translation permitted without prior written consent. Protected under international copyright law.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who says, “I’ll use anyone to remind you how badly you need me—because you belong to me, no matter what.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who won’t let anyone else hold you but him, making sure he's starving you of affection until you cross every line and come begging into his arms.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who watches the slow roll of your hips in contemporary choreography and thinks, “That’s how she’d ride me. That’s exactly how she’d move if I told her she could cum.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who doesn’t storm out or make a scene at the club he found you dance for side money. He just book the VIP booth, and pays off the manager under the table to make sure no one touches you

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who takes that pretty, flirty dancer to dinner the same night you go out on date. He makes sure you see them, laughing, her hand on his thigh, his thumb grazing her lip, kissing her while looking at you.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who fucks that same girl poolside at 2AM, right beneath your balcony, her moans echoing through the estate. And when he glances up mid-thrust, he sees your bedroom curtains flickers, a smile his lips.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who fucks her the day she's dressed at your stan-in. Hand choking her lightly, hips snapping rough, hair pulled—not because he wants her, but because he wants you wrecked.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who sucks bruises into your inner thighs in the backseat of his Benz, until you're shaking and leaking onto the leather, only to zip up his slacks, wipe his mouth before walking into his family’s matchmaking dinner like he isn’t still hard for you.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who slips his fingers into you under the table at his own matchmaking dinner, face blank but hand trembling in your soaked heat—breath hitching as he leans in and whispers, “They want me to pick a wife, but I already belong to you. You know that, right?”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who shuts the door to his secret apartment, strips you bare with fierce hands, and bites into your skin while his fingers pry you open. His voice is rough, desperate: “I don’t care about their rules. I only want you—body and soul.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who ghosts on a futur in-law meeting to press your thighs around his face in his appartment—eating you out and loving you so violently he misses the in-law brunch entirely.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who takes his soon to be fiancée to a gala but spends the whole night texting you under the table—until she notices his fingers twitching and jaw clenching right when you appear in a dress he told you not to wear.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who wraps your own satin ribbon around your throat during that night jealous fuck, pulling. His mind full of : “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who leaves your bite marks on his collarbone before a family dinner with soon to be fiancée—and when she reaches to fix his shirt, she sees it. She sees it.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who drives you home after representation one night, lets you fall asleep in his lap in the backseat—and misses his date completely. Doesn’t even answer her calls after.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who ends up fucking you right there in the private studio he booked for you, on the Marley floor, because the way your body moved tonight was too much, and just couldn’t resist it.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who fucks you hard against the mirror in your ballerina robe, hand over your mouth, breath in your ear: “Say you’ll leave again and I’ll make sure the only stage you dance on is my lap.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who grabs your packed suitcase with shaking hands and throws it across the room—then kneels in front of you, hair falling into his eyes, whispering, “Don’t go. I’ll give you anything. Just don’t go.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who leans into your skin, hands gripping your waist so tight your breath hitches, “You’re my only escape. Run all you want—but you’ll always come back to me.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who gets breathless and rough when you finally give yourself to him, voice cracking, “I’m gonna mark you... Fuck... Make sure everyone knows you’re mine." Then embrace you, "But I’m never gonna hurt you, babe.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who moves slow and careful, but every touch and sigh is charged with possessiveness, murmuring against your skin, “No one’s allowed to have you but me. Not like this.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who makes you beg for his touch after the other guy leaves, his fingers slipping between your thighs, rough and demanding, “You think you want him? I’m the only one who can make you scream like this.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who kisses you like he’s drowning, hands desperate and rough, but the way he whimpers into your mouth when you touch him back? That’s the sound of someone starved for love and losing control.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who fucks into you slow and deep, voice trembling with rage and want, saying, “He wants to control me, but you’re the only thing I’ll ever obey. I’d give up everything just to stay inside you.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who lets you see him fall apart, lets you hold him while he’s still inside you, chest heaving, voice shaking, “I don’t care if it’s wrong. You’re home to me.”

It's officialy out, loves !!! Here

The spell cracks open when the lights flare hot, when applause detonates like fireworks, when roses scatter at your feet. You bow. You smile. You play the perfect prima donna.

But you know the truth. You’re not bowing as Carmen. You’re bowing to a ghost. His ghost.

He’s still winning.

Sunghoon?

Your gaze snags on a silhouette across the crowd. Broad shoulders, dark suit, head tilted just so. For half a heartbeat, your lungs seize—him. It’s him.

But no. Of course not. Just some stranger molded in the same outline, a cruel trick of light and distance. Still, your pulse spikes, your chest caves in like memory itself has teeth.

You hate how easy it is to hallucinate him. How your body reacts before your mind can catch up.

You blink too hard, laugh too soft, sip champagne like it can wash him out of your throat. But the truth curls tight in your chest: you’ll keep mistaking strangers for him until the day you actually see him again.

And when you do? You’ll wish it had stayed a silhouette.

Does he ever miss you? Or did he fold you up like an old shirt : tossed into the back of a drawer, out of sight, out of mind?

Maybe he’s furious—he should be, after the way you slipped out without so much as a kiss goodbye. Maybe he’s married now, some woman tucked into his arms where you used to fit, a ring glinting on his finger like proof you were only ever a phase.

Those thoughts, those rot, were the ones you swore you wouldn’t touch. So you shoved them down, drowned them under endless rehearsals, new home, new love. But they leaked through anyway. Late at night, when your pulse slowed and your guard cracked, the questions slithered back: What if you called? What if you booked the flight? What if you typed his name into a search bar and tore yourself open on what you found?

And every time, you didn’t. You called it restraint. Discipline. But the truth? It was cowardice dressed up as virtue. You stacked excuses like bricks, bricked yourself into distractions until the ache dulled into something survivable. You never called it what it was. You just pretended you weren’t already haunted.

Still—you lived. Fully, maybe even beautifully.

You let yourself love someone without condition, cherish it's existance, and let others people love you the way you never quite could return.

You clawed out a career that was yours alone now: dancer, model, even a book with your words stamped under a stranger’s name. You bought your own property, not your family’s. Not Sunghoon’s. You cut your mother out too, let her silence rot against yours until independence calcified in your bones.

It worked. Most days, it worked. But the truth? He never left. Not really.

🕰️

Outside, snow drifts lazy through the streetlights, soft as ash. The city’s dressed with red ribbons, glass ornaments, every window glowing gold and argent, against the bite of cold air. You slide into the waiting car to find a bouquet offered by your lover. But you’re more interested in the smear of lights on wet glass, the hush of snow swallowing the streets.

Then your reflection catches you and you remember. Jihoon... You promised him...

You lift your phone, angle it just to catch the Christmas city dripping in tinsel and frost. Send. And almost instantly: buzz, buzz, buzz.

A cascade of messages stacks up, pulling your mouth into a smile you don’t bother hiding. You type a couple replies, let the warmth bloom in your chest, then bury the phone back in your clutch like it’s a secret you don’t feel like sharing.

The final play's party hits you with applause the moment you arrive. Chandeliers spitting gold across mirrored floors. Men slick in black tailoring. Women poured into gowns and fine jewlery. The air is a cocktail of champagne, roses, leather gloves thawing by the door. Low music hums under the chatter, a heartbeat beneath the glitter.

“Finally!”

Your friend materializes, dripping velvet and diamonds, a drink already in her hand like she’s been waiting her whole life to hand it to you. She thrusts it at you with a look.

“Honestly, I thought you’d ghost us... Run to Jihoon, another migraine, or stage some tragic artistic crisis. You're always such a mystery.” Her eyes glitter like she knows too much and don't want to out voice the real reason you never come to party anymore. Your real secret.

You laugh, sip. The champagne is sharp, citrus biting through something decadently expensive. “Don’t exaggerate. I only came because you begged like it was life or death.”

She groans, dramatic. “God, you are insufferable. Do you know the privileges you swim in?” She locks her arm through yours like she owns you.

She shake her head, “Ok, come. Half the room wants to meet you, and the other half just wants to breathe your air. And I promised to keep you busy until midnight.”

You fake-plead, dragging your voice. “Pleeeease. Can’t we just hide in a corner? Go home early?”

“Nope.” She pops the ‘p.’ “You’re mine tonight. And you’re going to smile while I parade you around, until Jihoon call you home, deal?”

She points across the room, and you know she won’t let you slink out of this one.

Your friend drags you deeper into the glittering maze, heels clicking a sharp rhythm across the marble. Couples swirl in the center of the room, gowns flashing, laughter spinning with the violins. Faces blur—some familiar, some half-forgotten. The eyes on you don’t scare you anymore. They feed you.

Introductions blur. Smiles with teeth too white. Compliments rehearsed down to the last syllable. Designers, investors, models. You smile, nod, play the part. Even the sight of old friends and estranged relatives doesn’t throw you. Not tonight.

Only your phone, buzzing in your clutch, threatens to crack the mask. You glance, you ache to answer, but you don’t. Not yet.

“Last one,” your friend whispers, tugging your arm mid-nod to a relative you don’t want to claim.

“You said that four people ago...” you murmur back, brows lifting.

“This time I mean it,” she insists, smugness dripping like perfume. “My husband asked me to present you both.. Apparently, a very interesting fan.”

You’re pulled toward a circle near the center of the ballroom.

The conversation swirls in laughter and murmurs around has you shortcut by dancing people, being more sorry than your friend. Glasses clinks when you're welcomed by your friend’s husband and your lover's clan of investors and friends. You offer another smile, handshakes, polite nods.

Then—

“Ah, he’s back. Let me introduce you to our new friend. Mister Park Sunghoon.”

What…?

It doesn’t just register. It detonates. Your head snaps toward the him, and for a breath, the room vanishes in just silence, your heartbeat clawing at your throat and the sound of his footsteps.

Sunghoon.

Here.

Five years, and the sight of him cleaves you in two. Older now. Sharper. His black suit cut with surgical precision, his mouth set, his hair darker, his presence a gravity that makes the whole circle bend around him. He moves past your friend, past her husband, and it’s slow motion until he stops—directly before you.

Your pulse spikes when he reaches your hand. You know it too well, this touch. The ruin stitched into its memory sears back instantly.

And him? Does he see the tremor under your skin?

He does. He always did.

Still—you don’t falter. You’ve trained yourself to armor every fault line in silk. Your lips curve, polite, elegant, betraying nothing but control. “Sunghoon.” His name tastes too intimate, but you let it slip as if it means nothing. As if it isn’t the ghost you’ve been dancing with for half a decade.

Something flickers at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. A recognition. His hand encloses yours—respectable, firm, warm. A greeting. And also a reminder: I remember every inch of you.

“It’s been a while,” he says just for you hear, smooth, charming enough for the crowd. Only you hear the knife in it. The five winters, one dawn, no goodbye.

“Yeah...” you return, dazed. No one in the crownd hears the confession you bury in those this exchange.

He doesn’t release you. His gaze pins you steady, his thumb brushing once across your knuckles—polite accident to them, deliberate sin to you.

“You dance beautifully,” he says, still holding on, half smilling, his tone honeyed for the audience. But his eyes betray the undertow: I watched you. I remember your skin. You never left me.

Your friend lights up, oblivious, practically vibrating with pride. “Breathtaking, isn’t she? She makes the stage look like home.”

Sunghoon’s smile twists, dangerous and elegant all at once. “I agree,” he says, voice dropping a note, too subtle for the others but slicing straight through you. “Though I imagine she’s even more dangerous off-stage. You'd allow me one dance?”

Laughter ripples around you, harmless to them. To you, it’s a lit match dropped on old gasoline.

Your lips part, ready to refuse, but your friend shoves at your back, grinning. “Oh, don’t you dare say no. He asked so nicely. Just one dance.” She winks.

One dance.... Right. Just one more sin to add to the tally.

Sunghoon doesn’t even extend his hand—you never pulled yours away. His gaze sharpens, and the corner of his mouth finally tips, insolent, like he knows exactly how easy you still are.

“Indulge me,” he murmurs, pitched for your ears alone. “One song. I promise not to step on you.”

The air leaves your lungs sharp when Sunghoon bend on your ear "I still remember what you teached me".

You're annoyed. Unwilling. But refusing here would be louder than accepting, and he knows it.

(Now playing : Romantic - Wens)

So you let him lead. His palm closes around yours, burning, familiar. The crowd sees elegance. You feel the trap slam shut.

The music swell, chandeliers raining gold, and Sunghoon’s hand slides to your waist. Proper. Respectable even. Except for the heat seeping straight through silk, creeping under your ribs, blooming against your skin like fire.

His grip on your other hand is technically textbook, but the slow strokes of his thumb inside your palm is not. To anyone else, in the ballroom it's an elegent valse. To you, deliberate cruelty. A reminder of how little it ever took to unmake you.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. The way his eyes pin you is enough—a whole confession laid bare without a sound. You see it: the cruel itch to ruin you right here, right now, to tear you down and worship you in the same breath. Hatred and hunger twisted into one. His favorite brand of romance.

Your throat tightens. “What are you doing here, Sunghoon?”

His eyes flicker—steady, unreadable, but sharpened with something old. “Funny. I got your invitation. Didn’t think i'd actually show up?”

What?

"I-I've never..."

He twirls you before you end your sentence, pulling you back hard into the circle of his arms. Like he’s been waiting five years just to reel you in again. His voice cuts low, sharp against your ear. “How could you cut ties with me? With us? Did you ever even bother to ask how your mom was? Or me?”

Your step falters, heel catching for a fraction of a beat. “What do you mean?”

He leans in, his mouth brushing your cheek as he whispers, cruel in its intimacy. “Our parents separated... Years ago.”

The breath knocks from your chest. Your lips part, but words refuse to form, leaving only silence and the sting of his accusation. Finally, too late, you force out: “When?”

His laugh is low, humorless. Bitter. “When? That’s what you care about?” His hand presses into the small of your back, turning you. His chest meets your spine, his breath hot against your ear, make your head dizzy. “Long enough for me to sit there like an idiot, waiting. Wondering how you could vanish without looking back.”

Your jaw locks tight. You stare anywhere but at the circle of fascinated faces watching you both.

“You had a fiancée,” you hiss, low, sharp enough to cut.

“And I had you. And you had me. So what?” he fires back instantly, his voice molten, wrapping around you like smoke. He turns you to face him again, eyes locked, mouth dangerously close, as you both get lost in the crownd of people dancing around you. “Do you have any idea what it was like? Until tonight, waiting for you to come to me, when all I wanted was to drag you into some corner and—” His lips hover at your ear, your skin prickling, hotter. “—ruin you the way you begged me to. Punish you for leaving me...”

Heat slams up your spine. You tilt, breath hitching, shameless in spite of yourself. Still, your smile stays iron-clad as you bite out the words through your teeth. “You haven’t changed... You'd still rather play games...”

He only laughs, low and poisonous, the sound wrapping around you like honey edged in steel. He guides you through another effortless spin, his hand sweeping your waist with the kind of possession that makes the dance feel stolen.

Sunghoon doesn’t let you go. He moves you not with you, orbiting until there’s no escape left. And when your eyes finally crash into his, it’s over. You can’t tear away. The music swells, your breath tangles with his, every step a trap, every brush of his fingers a memory sharpened into a blade. The space between you dissolves, unbearable.

And then—

Your friend’s voice slices through the tension. She waves from across the room, pointing at your clutch. “Your phone”

The spell shatters.

You rip yourself out of his hold, pulse wild, dress flaring as you flee the circle, almost colliding with couples dancing. You don’t dare look back—though you can feel him watching, burning through every step.

But as you near the edge of the room, you risk it—just once.

And you almost catch him with an expression you’ve never seen before. Not rage, not arrogance. Something deeper. Something that looks too much like disbelief, maybe even hurt.

His hand lifts, reaching for you, fingers twitching, then, curling into a fist, stopping himself just short of the one move neither of you could take back.

The gala hum lingers behind you—muffled voices colliding, crystal laughter clinking, the orchestra dragging its bows over something sugar-sweet and nauseating. You press your back to the wall, the cool plaster grounding you as your thumb swipes across the screen.

“Hey,” you murmur, softer than you’ve spoken in years, your voice stripped of its razor edges. And then—God help you—your smile blooms, wide and unguarded, a smile no audience has ever wrung out of you, no friend has ever earned. “Mm, I know. I didn’t forget. I’ll be home soon, love.”

You tilt the phone, childish, as if the person on the other side could hear the music bleeding faintly through the door, the laughter like champagne bubbles still clinging to the air. “It’s beautiful here, but…” You exhale, the sound almost giddy, too intimate. “I kind of want to go back home to you already...”

You laugh, small, private, the kind of sound that peels the armor off your shoulders, softens you into someone Sunghoon wouldn’t recognize if he tried. The words are nothing grand—small promises, silly answers, a whispered reminder and repeat that yes, you’ll be back soon—but they undo you all the same.

But when you turn—

He’s there. Sunghoon.

Your breath stutters, and your smile dies before you can bury it. Since when? How much did he hear? He leans in the half-shadow like it was built for him, immaculate suit, sharp gaze locked on you with that stillness you know too well. Stillness like a blade hovering at your throat.

He saw you. Worse—he saw you smiling like that.

Your voice falters on the line. “Mm… okay, yeah. I’ll do that, love…” But you’re not listening anymore, not to the warmth in your ear, not to the comfort spilling through the speaker. You’re too busy watching him step closer, closer, every movement quiet, deliberate, inevitable.

“Yeah… l-love you too,” you whisper, and it feels like a betrayal even as the words slip free. “Good night, baby.”

The phone slides of your ear just as his shadow eclipses you. One inch left, no more. His breath touches your cheek.

“You’ve got someone...” Not a question. A verdict. His voice is low, steady, but sharp beneath the calm, like glass waiting to slice.

Your chin tilts up defiant, even as your pulse drums wild against your skin. “I’d be lying if I said no. It’s been five years, Sunghoon. Did you really expect me to sit untouched, waiting while you—” You choke the sentence back, bite the words while you married someone else, until your tongue bleeds with the restraint.

His mouth curves, not quite a smile. Cruel, amused? devastated?

“Right. You told me to move on. Why wouldn’t you?” The air buzzes with the accusation, heavy with the comparison neither of you voice.

(Now playing : Cross your mind - Sabrina Claudio)

He reaches, fingertips ghosting for a strand of your hair, and you catch his wrist before he can tuck it back. “Stop, Hoon.”

But he doesn’t stop—he never does. Instead, he studies the hand holding him off, then smiles, sad and vicious, brushing his thumb over your knuckles like a benediction. “Is he that good,” he murmurs, “that you don’t need my touch anymore?”

Your throat tightens. You want to lie, to burn him with denial, but the weight of his stare pins you. So you meet his gaze, weak and raw, and nod twice.

He leans in, whisper sharp as a knife: “Tell me… do I ever cross your mind?” His hand slides higher, cupping your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your lips like a secret map. “Because you cross mine. Every fucking time.”

Your body betrays you, swaying toward him, your voice breaking on his name. “S-Sunghoon… please…”

He laughs quietly, bitter, wrecked. “Did you once felt like an hypocrite?” His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged. “Letting other hands touch you, just to pretend it was me? Cause, I did. Every girl, every kiss, every blurred face—it was still you. Only you. Even when I started to forget the edges of your face, even when your voice became memory, it was still you.”

Your back hits the cold wall before you realize he’s driven you there, lips grazing yours, eyes glazed with madness.

“Did jealousy keep you up at night?” he breathes you in. “Because it gave me insomnia... The thought of you forgetting me. Replacing me. Smiling for someone else.” His hand tilts your chin higher, and he drinks in the tears trembling at your lashes like they’re proof of his victory.

Your voice shatters. “W-what about your marriage?”

For a heartbeat, silence. Then his other hand shifts, heavy on your hip. Your eyes drop—no ring. His gaze never leaves yours. “No.” Just that. One word.

It slams into you, rippling out like an earthquake, and you know he sees it written all over your face. He sees the crack, the opening, the way you crumble without meaning to.

He slides down, fingers wrapping the fragile line of your throat. Not tight, not yet. Just enough to make you tremble. Just enough to remind you who he’s always been—the one you ran from, the one you can’t escape.

(Now playing : Messy - Rosé)

If only you could see yourself… The way your eyes cling to him like you’re starving now, the way your body betrays the mask you’re so desperate to hold. You pretend to be untouched, unmoved, but he reads the truth in every flicker, every tremor, and it feeds him. You look like you’re begging—for anything, for everything, for the ruin only he can give you. Five years’ worth of hunger written across your skin, five years of sleepless nights, filthy dreams, and thoughts you swore you’d buried.

So he does.

He kisses you like he’s been starving for five years, and you’re the only thing left on earth. It’s not gentle, not sweet. No. It’s vicious and messy, tongues clashing, teeth biting on lips, your back slamming harder into the wall with every pull of his hands. His fingers grip your waist like he owns you, like he’s reclaiming you, dragging out sounds you swore you’d never let him hear again.

You moan into his mouth when grabs your thigh in a bruising hold, desperate, furious, needy. You claw at his shoulders, his jaw, his hair, like if you could just tear at him hard enough, you’d stop shaking. He growls into your lips, swallowing the sound, devouring you whole. Every movement says mine, mine, mine. And every tremor of your body answers yes, yes, yes!

His breath is ragged when he tears away only to whisper against your skin, lips brushing your jaw, your throat, your ear:

“Tell me how fucking miserable you’ve been without me." He kiss you. "Tell me you’re dying inside. Tell me no one—no one has ever touched you the way I do.”

You’re gasping, dizzy, trapped between the wall and his chest, and every nerve screams to let go, to let him consume you. His words sink like poison and nectar all at once, and you almost break. Almost.

But you shove at him, trembling, desperate, shaking your head. “Stop—Sunghoon, stop. I need you to listen.”

He doesn’t. His mouth crashes against yours again, greedy, punishing, desperate. He won’t stop until you make him. So you wrench yourself back, breathless, eyes blazing.

“It’s important!”

He freezes. His chest heaves, and his jaw clenches. His eyes are wild, glassy with hunger, but beneath it—a flicker of something raw. He swallows hard, voice low, rough.

“As important as us?”

His voice drips with sweet venom, but his eyes are desperate, burning in a way that makes your lungs ache. He leans closer, so close you can taste the bitterness of his words, so close you can feel his heartbeat like a war drum. And for a split second you almost believe he means it. Us, like it’s still alive, like it isn’t already ashes.

Because after fleeing, pretending you were the stronger one, pretending it was better that way, that you were sparing both of you, the truth hits—you were the coward one a the end.

Too afraid to reach for him, too afraid to hunt down the scraps of news carrying his name, his family’s name. You were the one who let it die, too terrified to face him, too terrified to face the reckless, destructive version of yourself you once were.

A breathless laugh escapes, jagged and sharp, your back pressed to the cold wall as if it could hold you together. “Us, huh? There’s a us, Hoon?" Your voice cracks, lips trembling, but the fierce edge of egoism keeps you upright.

No, not since I walked away because you couldn’t or wouldn’t fight your world for me.

You’re rearranging yourself, tugging your dress into place hiding your wetness, smoothing your hair with shaky fingers, trying to reclaim the composure he’s already stripped from you. 

You push past him, but he shadows you, his presence curling around you like smoke, refusing to let you breathe, brushing your wrist until his long fingers catch you. He’s about to talk when you cut him off.

“Don’t—don’t do that…” Your protest trembles, weak, collapsing under the heat of his mouth. His lips graze your wrist like a promise, like a threat, and you hate how your pulse betrays you against his tongue.

“Let’s… let’s see each other in the daytime,” you force out, breath breaking, words caught between a moan and surrender. “Sunghoon, it’s—” your throat closes pleading “It’s something important.”

“Hm?” He hums, kissing and grazing your inner wrist, eyes devouring. “Tell me what’s so important?” His thumb presses into your pulse point, and the tremor in your veins betrays you.

"Not now..." His gaze slices into you as he starts tracing his way with his tongue on your arm. You can’t say it. You can’t tell him right now. You can’t form the words, because he won’t let you.

(Now listening : Nothing's gonna hurt you - cigarettes after sex)

“I’m… so sorry, Hoon.” The words fall broken, barely shaped, but when his eyes catch yours, you see it—the weight hitting him square in the chest, something sharp and heavy splintering behind his gaze.

And you cry. God, fuck—you cry. Ugly, unplanned, wrecked. He got carried away, and so did you, and it’s too late to rewind. Too late to pretend the years, the distance, the silence never mattered.

It’s too much. So overwhelming, so uninvited. You’d scripted this moment a thousand times—imagined his face, rehearsed your lines, practiced how you’d stand tall, untouchable. But this? Nothing about this is ready. Nothing is neat or rehearsed.

You want to kiss him until your lips bruise. You want to throw your arms around him, bury yourself in the warmth you swore you didn’t need. You want him to yell, to shake you, to shatter the careful life you built without him. You want it all—his chaos, his rage, his ruin.

But most of all—you want to tell him.

Tell him about Jihoon.

About the one who holds the deepest part of you now. The only reason you’ve managed to breathe without drowning, the only anchor strong enough to keep you from orbiting Sunghoon until you collapse. The reason you might actually let go of this love that still owns every corner of you, this love you never wanted to survive but did.

For Jihoon.

“Hey…” Sunghoon breathes, his voice ragged around the edges. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I got carried away. Shhh…”

His arms close around you before you can resist, before you even think to resist, and you let him. Let him fold you in, let his warmth cage you, let his hand stroke your hair the way he used to when you broke down in his chest years ago. He whispers sorry, sorry, sorry against your temple like he’s the one unraveling, not you. And somehow, it calms you. Enough that the sobs ease into shivers, enough that you can breathe again without choking on your own heart.

“We… we need to talk,” you murmur, your voice muffled against him. “Properly. Not here. Not like this.”

His hold tightens. “When?” His tone is frantic, desperate under the surface, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers the second he lets go.

“Tomorrow,” you whisper. “Yes. Tomorrow.”

That word is the only thing that pries him loose. He nods, stiff, like a man bracing for withdrawal. But when you try to step back, he doesn’t let you—not fully. His lips graze your cheek first, hesitant, almost boyish. Then the corner of your mouth, where his breath trembles as if he’s begging. Then your lips themselves—barely, just a whisper of tenderness, nothing more, but it steals the air from your lungs. His forehead presses to yours, eyes shut, his breath uneven.

You can feel it—the way he clings like you’re his only oxygen, like he’s already been starving for too long. He’s dependent on you, always has been, and letting go feels like tearing himself open.

But he does. Slowly. Reluctantly. His fingers linger on your wrist until there’s no excuse left, no reason to stall.

You walk away first, because you have to. His eyes burn into your back, his body still leaning forward like he might lunge, like he might drag you into him and never let you leave again. But he doesn’t. He stays. And it hurts.

The promise of tomorrow hangs between you like a thread—thin, fragile, the only thing stopping both of you from falling apart right there.

(Playing all to well - Taylor Swift)

Sunghoon is already there when the bell chimes above the café door, though you’re not. Not yet. He’s been there for forty minutes, long enough for the ice in his americano to melt, long enough to drag his finger around the rim of the glass until the condensation dampened his sleeve. He sways what’s left of the drink absently, watching the coffee swirl, thick and dark like the thoughts chewing through his skull.

He expects everything. Anything. You sitting down with fire in your eyes, telling him you’ve moved on, that you’re happy, that he should let go. Or maybe softer—you crying again, whispering apologies, begging for a truce you both know you’ll break. He doesn’t know which version of you will walk through the door, so he braces for all of them. His chest is tight, his teeth on edge, his knee bouncing until it rattles the table.

You have someone now. He saw it with his own eyes—the phone, the smile he wasn’t supposed to see. It gnaws at him, claws at him. He imagines you laughing like that in someone else’s arms, your head tucked against another chest, whispering secrets that used to be only his. Rage simmers low, steady, but beneath it, something more dangerous brews: a plan. He’ll make it break. He’ll make it. That man won’t last. Not when Sunghoon still exists. Not when he still knows your skin, your breath, your tears.

And yet—last night unsettled him. The way you cried. Not the delicious breaking he used to adore, not the surrender he could always coax from you, but something raw and jagged, something that scraped his insides in a way he hated. For the second time in his life, he hadn’t liked it. It made him feel… wrong. Weak. And it eats him alive, because Sunghoon isn’t supposed to care like that. Not him.

It’s rich, really. Laughable, if he had the air to laugh. After all, the moment that invitation hit his hands, he’d spiraled. Fantasies unspooled at once—walking into that ballroom with someone stunning draped over his arm, watching your smile falter; dragging you into the spotlight, claiming you in front of everyone the way you always used to tease he should; or the darker daydreams, the ones where he stole you away entirely, locked the world out until you remembered exactly who you belonged to. He could see it so clearly—your wrists in his hands, your body under him, the days stretching until you broke back into the girl who used to beg for him.

But then you entered. Just walked in, and all of it collapsed. He stopped hurting, stopped raging, stopped plotting. For a moment, there was nothing but you. You, in that dress, carrying yourself like a woman who finally owned her fire. Older, sharper, luminous in a way he couldn’t touch. And he felt it in his chest, something awful and tender at once—like this was where he belonged, watching you burn bright, watching you become who you were always meant to be.

The longing didn’t vanish, though. It surged. The urge to touch your skin, to confirm you were real, to drag you back into the orbit where he could keep you—it was unbearable. He smirked then, at himself, at the ridiculousness of it all. Because for all the twisted ways he’d planned to reclaim you, in the end, all it took was one look. One look, and he was ruined all over again.

And now he waits. The door bell will chime, and you’ll walk in, and he doesn’t know if he’ll shatter or smile.

“Are you really ignoring me already?”

His head jerks up, and there you are. Not a fantasy. Not a ghost. You—hair brushed loose, a coat pulled tight against the cold, a big bag slung over your shoulder you don’t mention. His throat closes for a second, because this time, there’s no stage lights, no chandeliers, no crowd. Just you. And it’s worse. Better. Too much.

You slip into the seat across from him as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. The small talk is awkward at first—weather, coffee, the way the city feels smaller than it should after all these years. Then you drop it, sudden, unblinking:

“I missed you.”

It knocks the air out of him. He almost doesn’t trust his ears, but you keep going, words spilling before he can even move his tongue.

“I wanted our reunion to feel… special. But, Sunghoon—it wasn’t me. The invitation. That was her.” You don’t need to say the name. He knows. The friend from last night, velvet and diamonds, eyes sharp as razors. “I did my own digging after. And I guess… she wanted this for us.”

He opens his mouth, but you steamroll before he can speak.

“I’m happy now. Truly. And still… I was a coward. I should’ve found the courage to face you sooner. To say goodbye properly, at least. I’m sorry, Hoon. I should have come back before. I just… couldn’t.”

For once, Sunghoon doesn’t snap back. He listens. Really listens. To every syllable, every tremor in your voice. His chest aches, but he forces himself to take a deep breath before answering.

“I should’ve fought.” His words land heavy between you. “Back then. I was old enough, but I was afraid. Afraid of what loving you meant, afraid of losing control, afraid of losing you. So I let it go. I let you go. That was my mistake.” He exhales hard, almost like he’s confessing. “But now? Now it’s different. And… I don’t know. I hope… maybe we could try again.”

You don’t answer right away. Your gaze drifts, pounding through invisible questions. He sees it—the storm behind your eyes—and his anxiety kicks. His hand shoots across the table, gripping yours before you can retreat.

You smile at him. Small, pained, but real. And for a second, he almost believes.

Then you shift. “I have someplace I need to be,” you say gently. “Will you come with me?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

The walk is strangely light, almost playful. You trade stories like the last five years were just pages waiting to be flipped. He tells you about the gigs, the empty nights, the successes that tasted flat without someone to share them with. You tell him about the names you’ve worn, the homes you’ve built, the failures you swallowed and the triumphs that were yours alone. There’s laughter—real, surprised—and moments where silence falls but doesn’t choke. Nostalgia curls between you both, sweet and bitter.

The place you stop at isn’t glamorous at all. Balloons taped to the door, paper crowns visible through the glass. A birthday. Inside, your friend greets you with a hug, side-eyes Sunghoon, and then turns to scold a child tugging at her skirt. You drop your gift onto the pile and let yourself breathe.

Sunghoon, though—he startles you. He crouches down, a kid clambers into his arms, and suddenly he’s not the sharp-edged man you remember. He’s laughing. A real laugh. One that strips years from his face, softens him into something unguarded. It breaks you in a new way.

Your friend slides close, low voice in your ear. “Did you tell him?”

“Not yet.”

Her brows knit. “You should. Secrets bite harder the longer you keep them.”

“I know,” you whisper. And you do agree. Watching him like this, open, pure, you know your heart can’t hold it much longer.

When you rejoin him, you do something impulsive.

You slip your hand into his, lean your weight lightly against him, like it was ritual, almost domestic. His surprise is almost comical to you. eyes widening, breath stuttering, but then he softens, the corners of his mouth curving. You both smile, quietly, at each other, like the shyest couple ever. Then you let yourselves be pulled into the chaos of balloons and frosting and shrieking kids, playing like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

By the time the candles burn low, he’s tugging at your sleeve with that mischievous spark. “Dinner. With me.”

You arch a brow. “After you ate half the tiramisu?”

He grins, guilty and unrepentant, licking a smear of cream from his thumb. The way he pulls faces in the kitchen earns a laugh from you so sharp it almost hurts. For a fleeting moment, it’s easy. Normal.

When the crowd thins, he takes your hand again, thumb brushing your knuckles, voice quieter now. “This time, I’ll do it right. The way I couldn’t before.”

You tilt your head. “And what do you think I even want?”

He smirks. “Tell me.”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes. “Simple dating, I guess.”

“Really? A date, huh?” His smirk deepens, dangerous and boyish all at once.

You smile, already regretting it. “…Yes?”

“Then let’s go.”

“What?”

But he’s already tugging you out the door.

The mall. A dress. His ridiculous commentary while you try them on. Then his turn : dragging you into a store, switching jackets, arguing with himself in the mirror until you’re both doubled over laughing.

Next thing you know, it’s his hotel's restaurent lights, clinking glasses, the night spreading wide around you. His hand fidgets against yours, yours against his, both pretending you’re not clinging.

And for the first time in years, you let yourself think: Maybe. Yes.

On rooftop it's quiet, wind brushing your hair, city lights scattered below like broken glass. You both laugh softly at the coincidence—how the very first time you really saw each other was on a rooftop too, years ago, reckless and breathless, as if the world existed only for the two of you. The memory lingers between you, sweet and sharp.

You take a shaky breath. It’s now or never.

“Sunghoon…” Your voice cracks, and he stills instantly, eyes searching.

You don’t speak right away. Instead, you pull your phone from your bag, swipe, and then turn the screen to him. A picture. A boy. Small, smiling, eyes too bright. His cheeks a little too familiar.

His world stops.

“This is… Jihoon,” you whisper, the name breaking on your lips. “He’s… my son. Our son.”

He blinks, choked, silent. His lips part, but no sound comes, until finally it slips out—shattered, breathless:

“You… you had my child?” He swallows, hard, voice trembling. “I… I have… a son?”

You’re already crying. You nod, tears streaming. “I didn’t know what to do, Hoon. I—at first, I thought about not having him. I thought I wasn’t strong enough. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. And when I finally held him… God, I wanted you to know. So many times, I picked up the phone, even called through my friend’s line, but I couldn’t… I couldn’t say it. I was too scared.”

He stares at you like the world has shifted beneath him. Then his face crumples. “You had my baby…” His laugh comes out wet, broken, a smile bleeding through tears. “You really did?”

You nod again, sobbing. And then he’s everywhere—kissing your cheeks, your hair, your temples, your trembling hands. Over and over, as if trying to convince himself it’s real.

“You really did.” He says it again, almost like a prayer. His arms close around you, tight, unshakable, as if he’ll never let go again.

The two of you sink down on a bench. And the rest of the night is Sunghoon's voice—question after question, greedy, hungry for every detail about Jihoon.

He smiles through his tears when you tell him the name again. Like he hate himself for hate that name back at the party. Just like he hate you before knowing you back in the days.

“Jihoon. It has a bit of my name.” He loves it, rolls it around his tongue like it’s holy. "Ji-hoon. Jihoon. Ji... Hoon."

That's my son's name..."

You tell him how you actually named him after him, how Jihoon followed his dad career, how Jihoon already loves skating too, how sometimes he tilts his head or furrows his brow exactly like daddy Sunghoon.

Sunghoon laughs, wiping his cheeks, only for more tears to fall. Even when he smiles, even when he jokes, there’s always that quiet crying beneath it.

You place your hand on his cheek. “I'm sorry..." And he shake it off with his hand on your. "You know Hoon... This... Doesn’t mean I want you to put a ring on my finger... This... Jihoon, he has nothing to do with our relationship. What I mean is... I hope for a day I can introduce you properly to him. Because he’s already your biggest fan,” You smile, "But it doesn't mean that we'll be a thing because of it, I won't force it, Hoon."

He presses his forehead to yours, whispering, “I already can’t wait for that day…”

(now playing : HeartLess - Madison Beer X Fetish - selena gomez )

His hand never leaves yours for the rest of the night. And when you finally step into the elevator together, his grip only tightens. It’s desperate. It’s ugly. Like he’s terrified you’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go for even a second.

He presses up against your back the moment the doors slide shut. You almost jolt from his breathing, clutching air like you can find balance there. His chest is heat and hard muscle glued to your spine.

His hand snakes up, collecting your hair in one fist to move it back just enough to bare your throat. He doesn’t even kiss first. He grazes your temple with his lips. A dry kiss, teasing. Then your jaw. Then the little hollow between your shoulder and neck. Each one makes your knees weaker. Until he hisses with a bite.

"H-hoon..."

“I missed you.” His voice is a low rasp against your skin. “I missed you.” Again. Rougher. “You made me fucking wait... Five fucking years... Do you know what I thought all this time?” His teeth nip at your pulse. “Dragging you somewhere dark; pinning you to a wall; fucking you until you couldn’t walk away... until you wouldn’t dare.”

Your breath hitches. “R-really—Wait we're still—” It comes out broken. A squeak of a warning.

He laughs, meanly. “You’re still so easy. I feel you trembling already. You love it, huh? The idea of me doing you like that.”

His hand skates down your side, catching on your waist before gripping hard. The cold elevator wall kisses your back when he shoves you flush against it.

“And then I see you.” His mouth is hot against your ear now, words dripping filth. “And you’ve had my child. My child. Fuck, do you know what that does to me? Knowing you carried me inside you?”

You nod, face burning, thighs squeezing together.

His chuckle is cruel. “You’re shy? Now? After all the things we did? You’re still my perfect little mess.”

“Sunghoon…” It’s more of a moan than a plea. Your hands twist in his shirt, pulling him closer when you should be pushing him away. Kissing softly.

Then he freezes. Pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes soften but his chest heaves like a man possessed. “Hey.” He grips your chin, forcing your watery eyes up. “I won’t disappoint you. Not again. I want you to trust me. For real. I’m serious.”

Your lip trembles. You cup his face, fingers shaking, and kiss him. Chaste. Pure. The softest kiss either of you has ever given.

It feels like family. Like home again.

But the second his room door clicks shut... it all burns down.

Neither of you notice if it even closed properly, too busy ripping clothes off, shoving, kissing, sloppy and wet. It’s frantic. It’s five years of hunger with no patience left.

“I love you so much,” he growls, forcing your back against the massive bay window. The glass chills your skin through your thin dress. Your gasp turns into a whimper when his hands start roaming: from your neck to the small of your back to your boobs—everywhere but where you need them.

“Please.” You writhe, rocking up into his touch. “Don’t tease. Hoon... I want you...”

He smirks. Cruel. “You’re so needy. You missed me this much, huh?” His hands skim over your hips, then slide down in a teasing arc. You choke on a sound. You feel ridiculous and raw and suddenly dizzy with want, nodding aggressively.

But he jerks back, like he’s giving you a provocation you can’t refuse. “Prove it,” he whispers, dropping back to the couch by the window and watching you. The night sky frames you. He leans into the back of the couch, hand freed, robed in patience, like suddenly he's an empire of patience.

And you fucking do it.

Sunghoon watches you give yourself over with glassy eyes. He drinks in the sight of you—one hand gripping the arm of the couch like a man counting seconds, the other working himself off. He says nothing for a long moment, because watching you slide on the floor, caressing yourself, begging with wet eyes, is its own kind of triumph.

“You’re dripping,” he mutters, eyes glued to your face, “and I’ve barely touched you. You always were too easy for me... Fuck, forget what I said. Come here.”

He gets up just to drag you on top of him, back on the couch. His fingers slide inside, slow, curling. “Christ. You feel so good, better than my memory... Like your body’s been waiting for me to come back.”

You sob against his mouth, your hand clamping at his mouth to shush him. “Don’t say that. Don’t—oh fuck—”

You feel his smirk under your trembling hand as he smugly starts banging his finger inside you.

“Look at me when you come,” he says, freeing from your hand too easily. “Don’t hide from me.”

“I can’t—I—ah—” Your body arches, shuddering as his fingers hit just right.

“Yes you can. Scream for me.” His words bite deep, and you break, crying his name as you unravel around his hand.

But he doesn’t give you time to breathe. He covers your mouth with his, swallowing your sobs as he pushes inside you in one hard thrust. The stretch is brutal. Perfect. Too much.

“hmmff—fuck—you’re—” You claw at his biceps, voice wrecked, trying to free yourself from the new feeling.

“You feel insane, huh? You were made for me.” He slams harder, jaw clenched, eyes blown. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours. I’m yours, I’m—” Your voice cracks into a scream as your second orgasm crashes through you too fast.

You feel yourself falling back from dizziness, but he doesn’t let you. "Hey, come here." He pulls you up, making you think both of you are going to the bed, just to haul you up by the arms and thrust back where he belongs, still relentless, until you’re begging, sobbing. “Oh my—Go—Please. Please, Hoon!”

It was such an obscene move that only he could pull on you. Fucking to the bed, not wanting his dick out of you more than 5 seconds. God, only Sunghoon could do that to you and you love it.

It almost feels like a win when he drops you on the edge of the bed. Your wet skin meets the fresh sheets, and your body keeps arching into it.

This vision is pure porn material to Sunghoon, your perfect damp skin wrestling with the canvas he led you on, hair painting it messily. Creating a new image every time he thrusts inside you. He fucking gets lost in that vision, thrusting, thrusting, and thrusting.

His hand roams from the small of your back to the back of your neck. He finally scoops your head, locking you in his muscled arm, not too forceful. Your body limp against his chest.

“There’s so much more to come. Don’t pass out on me, sweetheart.”

You sob, shaking, your body instinctively trying to anchor somewhere. “Please. Please I'm gonna—”

When he finally lets you come, it rips you apart. But he doesn’t stop. He folds you in half, fucking you through it, deeper, harder, until you’re marking his back with your nails. He groans into your ear, voice breaking.

“Scar me. Make me yours. God, I want to fuck you until I knock you up again. Keep you swollen with me. Forever.”

Your eyes blur with tears, body trembling, words lost in the wreck of your throat. "H—oon—" He kisses them away, whispering roughly against your lips:

“I love you. I fucking love you. And I’m never letting you go again.”

When you finally break together, it’s violent. Sweaty. Beautiful. Five years of silence burned to ash in the sound of your cries and his desperate groans and bites in your neck.

He lets your legs fall back. You hug him, bringing your hands into his thick, black hair.

🕚

Your body is still flush against his when you. Sunghoon's lying on your back, his arm locking you in place, the lingering warmth of him inside you making it impossible to separate. The world outside the bedroom feels distant, muffled—the only thing that exists is the two of you, the way he drifts tiny kisses over your shoulder, over your jaw, hands never leaving your body.

“You’re amazing,” he murmurs into the curve of your neck, voice low, ragged, almost reverent. “Every part of you… even this…” His palm drifts over your belly, soft, lingering, and your chest tightens as a shiver rolls through you. “You had my child,” he whispers, eyes closed, like he can’t quite believe it still. “Our boy… I can’t stop thinking about him.”

You turn around, fingers tangling in his hair. “I wanted you to know… I wanted you to see him. To… to be part of it.” Your voice is soft, sleepy, still shaky from everything.

He hums, slow, satisfied, and presses another kiss there, right where your collarbone meets your shoulder. “I’ll be there. Every day I can. I want to be there for him. For you.”

Your gaze meets his, and it’s heavy, vulnerable, honest. “It won’t be easy,” you admit. “It’s… messy, all of it. I don’t want to pretend it’s perfect.”

“I don’t want perfect,” he says, shifting slightly so he can rest his forehead against yours. “I want this. I want us. I’ll take the hard work, the mistakes… just don’t disappear on me again.”

Your laugh is soft, breathless but full of warmth. “I’m not going anywhere, Sunghoon.”

He smiles, that dangerous half-smirk that’s always left your heart somewhere between a panic and a pulse you can’t stop. “Good,” he whispers. His hand drifts lower again, grazing your hip, thumb brushing lightly over the curve of your belly. “We’ll figure it out. Every day, together.”

You nod. Rolling over him, you rest your head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling him slowly ease inside you, soft and steady. Every touch, every whisper, every gentle claim of you is a promise: he’s here, he’s not leaving, and he’s ready to face the mess with you.

He presses another kiss to your temple. “He’ll love you, Jihoon. Just like I do. You’re already his world.”

You both let out a shaky laugh, leaning into him, letting the warmth and the closeness settle into your bones. It’s intimate, it’s messy, it’s real.

Hours feel like minutes. Time stretches and contracts around the rhythm of your breathing, the lazy heat of skin on skin, slow sex, deep intimacy. And when the first quiet sighs of sleep approach, he tightens his arms around you once more, whispering, “We’ll get there. Together. I love you.”

You murmur a soft agreement, closing your eyes, letting the weight of him, the safety of him, carry you.

It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t perfect. There were scars, heartbreak, mistakes. But here, pressed together, with the faint city hum and the quiet of the night wrapping around you, it was enough. For now, it was everything you had ever wanted.

And somewhere between the whispers, the lingering warmth, the steady heartbeat against yours, you knew: you both would keep building it—

Chained together.

MASTERLIST

Hi guys, it’s Lassiie~ 🫶

Thanks so much for reading the requested Part 2 of CHAINED!

Wow… what a journey this one was. It went through like 5 different versions, but I stuck with this one because it made the most sense in my heart and was closest to my first idea. (Some of the other versions? Her getting engaged to someone else and him rushing in to stop it, or him coming up with some revenge plan… 😅)

Honestly, I'm not super confident about it. At one point, I ALMOST announced there wouldn’t be a part 2 at all… but I always keep my promises, that’s just how I’m built.

For this part, I decided to sacrifice some of the heavier smut in favor of storytelling and closure, because I know a lot of people felt sad at the end of the first part. Think of it as my little “sorry I made you cry” gift 💕

I also tried really hard not to reveal too much about Jihoon too soon, but I left some little clues for you to pick up on.

WRITING, IT ALSO MAKE ME REALIZE SOMETHING : I’ll never push myself to give any work until I’m truly sure about it or actively working on it. Honestly, writing this almost made me lose my hyperfixation for writing here because I kept getting distracted, wanting to start other, better, newer projects.... SO NO MORE PROMISED PART 2 IF IT'S NOT IN THE SCRIPT EVEN IF YOU BEG ME!!!

I hope you enjoyed it somehow 😭😭 but I know it's not gonna be anyone favorite at all, and it's ok! And for my smut-loving girls, don’t worry—there’s still a spicy treat waiting for you in DIGITAL GAME with Sunghoon!! as a little apology for this less spicy Part 2.

With love and a high fever Lassiie 🫶

TG : @hoondrop @thesundys @somuchdard @diameuwu @parkjeongpark @xoenhalover @gunilsguns @ri4-lovesenha @heekolazz @bambiihee @raven-unkind @mintchohoon @sofiafromvenus @w2hoonki @bacons-thighs @chibi-rach @ikeuceo @river-demon-slayer @eliephemeral @ @theyluvjake @i5woni @lmonade @thefallenhulya @i90snoo @ricepuddingluvr @won-derful @choeryyxyz @cyjhhyj @pinkbunnystories @taeogi @ancnymcnzjy @japieeey @koalaswillpeeonyou @xxxatdy @eternality @youtoopia @212diary @lovebamby22 @hnnnne @bvbblejayyyy @diameuwu @softservesungie @tinyenha @rspbrykawa @thicbucchi @nananananana-stuff @oreostoberi @heeshlove @joiigurl @ay0505050550 @janeluvwonuuuu @butterflydemons @deobitifull @jeonjieun17 @aubr3ysei @neorealm @taehyungslittlebrat69 @prettygirlthings-world @yazmike @kaiaonsaturn @icrieliterature @karinasbaby @hees-h0e @lynnlynnyuuashh @schniti-is-in-the-house @saccharinezennie @bacons-thighs @haocean @sangiewife @heejunluvr @monoidol @xiaoszone @hoonprksung @woniedoyouloveme @tinycatharsis @cutehoons02 @heebambilee @darling-delusions @luvminniexx @heeseung64 @heeknow @xerographx @bxbynana @sunghoonizz @saraabbas @melzonly @cutiepatootiejungwon @neozon3nha @hyundai432 @sofiafromvenus