#tutor x reader

He tripped over the word "arousal," his glasses slipping down his nose. He pushed them back up clumsily, nearly knocking over his water glass in the process. You caught it just in time, your fingers brushing his, and he mumbled a quick "Sorry, I'm such a klutz sometimes."

You smiled softly, leaning forward a bit. "It's okay, Clark. You're doing great. But... these diagrams are kind of clinical. Hard to really picture it all."

He swallowed hard, blue eyes darting to yours behind those glasses, his usual confidence cracking into something more vulnerable. "Y-Yeah, textbooks can be limiting. I mean, real anatomy is... more dynamic." He shifted in his chair, his broad shoulders hunching slightly as if trying to make himself smaller, more approachable. Submissive, almost, in the way he waited for your reaction.

You tilted your head, tracing a finger along the edge of the book. "Maybe we can try another method."

His breath hitched, and for a moment, he looked like he might bolt, dorky Clark, all brains and no smooth moves. But then he nodded, a shy smile tugging at his lips. "I... I can show you better than I can tell you." The words tumbled out, earnest and a little breathless, his clumsiness endearing as he stood, knocking his knee against the table.

You let him take your hand, following as he led you to the couch with careful steps. "Lie back for me?" he asked softly, voice hopeful, almost pleading. You settled back against the cushions, and he knelt between your legs, glasses fogging slightly from his quickened breaths. "You're... beautiful," he whispered, voice dorky and sincere, like he was stating a scientific fact. "I mean, anatomically perfect—wait, that sounded weird. Sorry."

You reached out, cupping his cheek gently. "Shh. It's sweet. Go ahead."

Clark's hands were clumsy at first, trembling as he slid your pants down, but his touch was reverent. "See? The outer labia, it's soft, protective," he explained, voice husky but still tutorial, fingers tracing gently. "And here..." He parted you carefully, leaning in. "The clitoris, swollen from arousal. Blood flow, as I said."

Then his mouth was on you, tongue flicking experimentally at first, dorky in his precision but oh-so-eager to please. You arched, threading fingers lightly through his dark curls. "That's it, Clark, right there."

He moaned against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. He adjusted based on your reactions, lapping broadly when you gasped, sucking gently when you sighed. "Tastes amazing," he mumbled between licks, glasses pressing into your thigh as he buried deeper. "Inner labia is sensitive, wet from lubrication. Perfect."

You guided him subtly with a soft tug on his hair. "Deeper, baby. Just like that." He obeyed instantly, thrusting his tongue inside you, clumsy enthusiasm making up for any lack of finesse. His free hand gripped your thigh, the other fumbling to hold your hip steady. You came with a soft cry, trembling as waves crashed over you.

Clark lifted his head, lips shiny, glasses askew, looking adorably wrecked. "Did I... explain it well?" he asked, voice shy and hopeful.

You nodded, still catching your breath, and he smiled, small, relieved. Without a word, he shifted up the couch, gathering you gently against his chest. He reached for the blanket draped over the back, pulling it over both of you with careful hands. "Here," he murmured, tucking it around your shoulders before pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "You okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

You shook your head, curling into him. "I'm perfect. You were amazing."

He flushed, adjusting his glasses with a clumsy hand. "Good. I just... want to take care of you now." He grabbed the water bottle from the side table, unscrewing the cap and holding it to your lips. "Drink a little? And just rest. I've got you."

Your heart is already lodged somewhere high in your throat when Seonghwa pushes the door open.

With a shaky breath, you quickly consider the possibility of turning around and pretending you forgot something in the car. But Seonghwa’s hand finds the small of your back, guiding you inside before your nerves can convince you to run.

The apartment is warm, and the savory smell of something clearly meant to be cooked for hours—slow-cooked beef, herbs, onions, and vegetables—overwhelms your senses. Garlic, too, though whoever used it had been a little too generous. You scrunch your nose.

Seonghwa notices and a quiet laugh escapes him, and he pats your back once as if you’re a child caught making a face at their vegetables. "I'll go a little easier on the garlic next time," he murmurs fondly under his breath.

You blush, embarrassed that you reacted at all, your heart now beating even faster than before. But the clatter of a ceramic lid being set down on a countertop makes your head snap to the kitchen. 

Hongjoong is standing near the island, his back half-turned toward the door, leaning slightly over the slow cooker as he presses the buttons on it with increasing irritation. He's dressed in a slightly oversized sweater and a pair of loose gray sweatpants. His dark hair is a soft, messy disaster, sticking out in every direction like he’s been running his hands through it all night.

He hasn't noticed you yet. 

"형, 슬로우쿠커 고장난 거 같아," Hongjoong calls toward the doorway without looking up. His finger jabs another button. "아무것도 안 됐어. 시켜 먹어야 할 것 같아."

You obviously don’t understand the words, but you can tell from the way he's squinting at the crockpot that something isn't working. 

Seonghwa lets out another quiet chuckle behind you and nudges the door shut with the heel of his shoe. He guides you further into the apartment.

"It's okay, Joong," he says, switching to English for you to understand. "My date and I ended up eating out."

Hongjoong jumps so violently that he knocks the side of his head straight into the cabinet above him.

"아씨—!" he curses as he recoils, wincing hard and clutching the side of his head. The wooden spoon in his other hand lifts defensively as though it might somehow help. He rubs the sore spot with a tight grimace. "I forgot you were bringing back a—"

He turns around.

The rest of the sentence never quite makes it out as his eyes finally land on you. 

Whatever casual annoyance had been resting on his face disappears instantly, wiped away by a shock so visceral it freezes him in place beside the kitchen island.

Hongjoong goes perfectly still.

"...date." He says it like he's asking a question. Like the word doesn't fit the reality he's looking at. 

His eyes—usually so carefully averted around you—are wide and completely unshielded.

His stare moves over you slowly, cautiously, like he doesn’t quite trust what he’s seeing. It lingers on the low neckline of your velvet dress, your lip gloss glinting faintly when you swallow, and your hair falling over your shoulders. But his confusion only lasts for a second before his gaze hesitantly drops lower. His eyes lock onto the place where Seonghwa's hand disappears behind you.

For a moment, he just stares blankly at it. Then his face shifts again. The confusion gives way to something harder to read.

A sudden twist of guilt coils in your stomach, and you have to fight the instinct to pull your body away from Seonghwa. Hongjoong looks completely out of place in his own kitchen. You want to run across the room, to explain, to apologize, to do anything that might soften the look on his face. But Seonghwa's fingers flex against your spine, stopping you before you can move. 

"We went to omakase," Seonghwa says smoothly, shattering the silence that settled over the room. He's totally nonchalant, not even bothering to glance at his best friend. Instead, his attention stays on you, an adoring smile playing on his lips that would look innocent to anyone else. His fingers slide slowly from your back, tracing along your dress before wrapping confidently around your waist. With an easy tug, he pulls you closer. "Have you ever been, Joong?"

Hongjoong doesn't answer. He doesn't even look at Seonghwa. He goes silent, his eyes lingering on the place where Seonghwa’s hand is currently pressing into the velvet at your waist.

When his gaze finally trails back up to your face, the confusion is gone. His usual shyness is nowhere to be found. His face begins to twist: his expression tightens, contorting into strain. Your body squirms in Seonghwa's grasp.

"No," he says. His voice is short, clipped at the edges with a coldness that sends a shiver sliding down your spine. "I haven't."

You can't look away from him. Your pulse pounds in your ears as you stand there, still as stone. It worked, you realize in a panic. Oh my god. It actually worked.

"Well, it was incredible," Seonghwa says with a satisfied sigh, pretending not to notice the tension. He leans in closer to you, his face just a few inches from yours. "Wasn't it, angel?"

Hongjoong’s entire body goes rigid, his eyes snapping to his roommate as he registers what he called you. As you stare at him, you see his knuckles pale, draining of color as his hand clenches hard enough to strain the wood.

"It was," you manage to agree, your voice slightly breathless. You finally force yourself to look away from Hongjoong, swallowing hard as you turn your attention to the man holding you. "I'd never had fresh flounder like that before tonight."

"I knew you'd love it," Seonghwa smiles. He reaches up with his free hand, his knuckles brushing gently against your cheek as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

The silence that follows suffocates you. Hongjoong doesn't say a word, doesn't try to break it, but you can still feel his gaze on you.

"Ah, I almost forgot," Seonghwa says at last, finally dropping his hand from your waist. "I have a gift for you."

You blink, caught off guard. He never mentioned anything about a gift. Still, you force yourself to play along. "What?" you say, a small, nervous laugh slipping into your voice. "Hwa, you—you shouldn't have..."

At the sound of the nickname leaving your lips, Hongjoong’s eyes narrow from across the kitchen.

Seonghwa catches your eye and offers a tiny, barely-there wink before stepping away from you, walking backward toward the hallway.

"Wait right here, angel," he says. He turns and disappears. A second later, you hear the click of his bedroom door opening.

And just like that, you're left alone with Hongjoong.

The air in the kitchen feels like it's been sucked out of the room. You stand awkwardly in the space between the living room and the kitchen, staring down at the toes of your expensive heels, suddenly terrified to lift your head. But you can feel him—his attention locked on you. 

You've seen Hongjoong nervous before. You've seen him shy, overly careful with his words. You've seen him anxious, fidgeting with his glasses when he doesn't know what to say. And you've seen him strictly professional, retreating behind politeness when things drift into something past simple tutoring.

But as you finally gather the courage to lift your chin and meet his eyes across the room, you realize you have never, ever seen Hongjoong like this.

He looks away first, staring down at the granite as he slowly lowers the wooden spoon and sets it down beside the crockpot.

"So," he starts, his voice rough and a little nervous as he continues to avoid eye contact. One of his hands drifts across the counter absently, his fingers tracing the island's edge before tapping twice against the granite. "You and Seonghwa..."

He trails off. He doesn't finish the sentence. It's not even really a question, but as he slowly lifts his eyes back up at you, the look in them makes it very clear that he's waiting for an answer anyway.

You force your chin up, holding his gaze, though the nerves make your palms feel sweaty. But you refuse to ruin the plan by revealing how terrified you are. "I saw him on Thursday," you say, your voice somehow remarkably steady. "When... when you weren't at tutoring."

Something passes over his features before he straightens his posture again, pulling his shoulders back. 

"How are you feeling, by the way?" you add carefully. 

Hongjoong catches your tone right away. He stares into your eyes for a long moment, the muscle in his jaw shifting as he clenches it. 

"I..." He looks down briefly, both hands gripping the edge of the granite. "I feel a lot better now."

You swallow, forcing the tightness in your throat down as you nod. "You must've been sick for a while," you push back, remembering Seonghwa's words: don't let him off the hook. "I never heard back from you on Monday night."

Hongjoong doesn’t reply. His fingers curl tighter. You know he's smart enough to realize what you’re doing—he has to suspect, on some level, that you and Seonghwa are playing a game with him. But Seonghwa's acting had been flawless, and the doubt is clearly gnawing at Hongjoong. There's no way for him to prove whether this date was real or not. For all Hongjoong knows, the way you and Seonghwa had just been holding each other was real.

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he looks away for a second, visibly fighting to calm his simmering anger. When he looks back at you, his expression is different—contained. Carefully redirected.

"How..." he starts before clearing his throat to buy himself a second. "How was the substitute?"

Of course, he retreats to academics. But that's fine. This is the chance you were hoping for, the chance to make him feel what his absence did. Disappearing wasn't harmless, and it left you dealing with the consequences.

"He told me," you say carefully, "he didn't ever have to dumb things down for his other students like he did for me."

Hongjoong's face drops. 

"What?" he says, shock crossing his features with a subtle guilt following close behind. "He said what?"

Though you still feel bad about the plan, a bit of satisfaction slips in anyway.

You don’t repeat yourself. "I ran into Hwa after I left," you say, making sure to emphasize the nickname. "I was pretty upset, and he... he helped me." You pause, watching Hongjoong’s face contort through a million different emotions as the realization starts to set in. "Then he bought me a drink. Told me the only cost of it was to go on a date with him."

Hongjoong is silent, staring at you. You can see his mind racing behind his eyes. 

"And you..." he says quietly, his breath unsteady. "...you agreed?"

You nearly hesitate before you nod. "I did."

You refuse to break eye contact, even though your hands are shaking so badly you have to grip your bag to hide them. You don't give him anything more than that.

You can actually see his restraint starting to break: his shoulders have gone rigid, his mouth has tightened into a line, and his hands are still braced against the counter. And yet... he still says nothing. 

You begin to get more nervous with every ticking second. Why isn't he reacting? Seonghwa had been so certain that by now, you'd force somethingout of Hongjoong—he'd finally make a move, protest, or at least make some kind of jealous comment. Instead, you're left with nothing but that complicated, unreadable look.

"You look..." Hongjoong finally speaks, his voice lower than before. His eyes drag hesitantly down your body, taking in the careful way you put yourself together tonight—the dress in his favorite color—before gliding back up again. "...dressed for it."

You try your best to fight off your blush.

"I am," you reply, though your voice wavers with a slight tremble that makes you want to kick yourself. You pause, trying to smooth it over. "It was... fancy. Hwa is... definitely a gentleman."

You can see his tongue poke hard against the inside of his cheek as he bites something back.

"How so?"

"He answers my texts."

The moment the sentence leaves your mouth, you almost slap a hand over your mouth. Shit.

You didn’t mean to be so direct. The plan had never been to corner him outright. You and Seonghwa had explicitly talked about this: you have to play the game smoothly, beat around the bush instead of throwing your feelings straight at him. Otherwise, he might panic and run away again.

But it's too late. The words are already out there. And from the way Hongjoong stills, you know he understood them perfectly. He understands just how much his silence hurt you.

Hongjoong looks completely stuck, his mouth opening slightly like he's about to defend himself, but no sound comes out.

Before he can pull a single word together, you both hear the sound of footsteps.

Seonghwa steps back into the kitchen, either oblivious to what just happened or perfectly pretending to be. He’s holding a vinyl record, a small, silver bow taped to the plastic sleeve. He steps right into your space again, his arm sweeping confidently around you as he holds the gift out.

"Here you go, angel," Seonghwa says warmly. "Since you’re picking up Korean so quickly, I wanted to give you something to help you practice."

You blink and take the record. It’s IU’s A Flower Bookmark.

"Oh," you breathe out, surprised by the actual thoughtfulness of it. "Seonghwa, this is—"

But Seonghwa leans in until his lips are practically brushing your ear. You blink again; this wasn't the plan. You explicitly agreed to keep all the fake-flirting at a normal volume so Hongjoong could hear every last word of it. But Seonghwa's voice drops to a murmur meant only for you.

"Listen closely to track five. Meaning of You," he whispers, the warmth of his breath sending an unexpected shiver down your neck. "The lyrics reminded me of you."

Your heart does a strange stutter. You look up at him, your eyes wide. He’s looking back at you with a softness that isn’t just convincing for Hongjoong; it feels real to you. 

Is he... still acting? 

His hand resting purposefully on your waist, the genuine care in his eyes—it suddenly doesn't feel like a game anymore. The butterflies erupting in your stomach are unmistakably real.

You blush deeply, looking down at the record to hide the confusion written all over your face. "Thank you, Hwa," you murmur shyly. "It… it means a lot to me."

For a moment, it’s just the two of you, locked in a soft, quiet orbit.

"그건 그녀가 좋아하는 음악 종류조차 아니야."

All of a sudden, Hongjoong's voice shatters the moment.

You both snap your heads toward him.

Hongjoong has finally let go of the counter, but he isn't looking at you. His glare is fixed on Seonghwa; whatever he said was clearly meant only for his roommate to understand. 

Seonghwa, however, doesn't flinch. In fact, his grip on your body tightens. He meets Hongjoong's glare with a cool, nonchalant calm.

"그건 네가 뭘 안다고 하는 소리야?" he replies.

You discreetly nudge his arm with your elbow. "Seonghwa, what—what are you saying?" you whisper, your hands tightening around the IU vinyl. This was definitely not part of the plan. You don't understand a word they're saying, and the energy in the room has shifted around you. "I don’t understand."

He doesn't answer you. He isn't even looking at you anymore.

Hongjoong suddenly pushes off the kitchen island, his eyes locked on Seonghwa as he stalks past the two of you, heading straight for the large display of records in the living room. 

"선물 줄 거면," Hongjoong says, his back to you as his fingers aggressively flip through the stack of records next to his player, "적어도 그녀가 좋아하는 걸 줘."

You look up at Seonghwa, silently pleading for him to translate, to help you figure out what on earth is happening. But Seonghwa’s jaw is set, his eyes tracking his roommate with an impassive face.

Finally, Hongjoong pulls a sleeve from the stack. He turns around, marching straight back over to you. He stops much closer than he usually allows himself, invading the little bubble you and Seonghwa had built.

Hongjoong holds the record out to you.

"You said you liked GD," he says, his voice entirely different now in English. It's quieter, yet rougher around the edges, stripped of his usual composure.

You hesitate, your heart racing. You look into his eyes—searching for your tutor—but he's barely there. Slowly, you reach out and take the vinyl from his hands. You look down at the cover.

One of a Kind. G-Dragon. 

"Listen closely to track four. That XX." He pauses, swallowing hard. His eyes dart down to Seonghwa's hand on your waist before dragging back up to meet yours. "It's..." Hongjoong suddenly hesitates. "It's my favorite."

The apartment plunges into silence as you lose your breath. You can barely feel Seonghwa beside you anymore. All you can see is Hongjoong.

You know this song. It's been one of your favorites for years—besides, you remember stalking Hongjoong's Instagram, scrolling all the way to his very first post: a grainy video of him covering it. You know exactly what the lyrics say. 

What does that bastard have that I don't?

Your heart flutters. 

Why can't I have you?

Right now, Hongjoong is standing in front of you with everything he's been too afraid to say out loud completely bare in his eyes. He's confessing to you, right here, right in front of Seonghwa... but as your fingers grip the edges of the G-Dragon record, a frustrated ache blooms in your chest.

If you can do this through lyrics, you think, staring back into his eyes, why can't you just say it to me with your own words?

But Hongjoong doesn't seem interested in seeing if you understood the message. 

His eyes move to Seonghwa. It's a silent standoff, and you swallow nervously as you feel the air shake with all the things the two men aren't saying out loud. You clutch both records to your chest, feeling caught in the crossfire of a battle you don’t even understand.

Eventually, Seonghwa is the one to break it.

"Thanks for checking the crockpot, Joong," Seonghwa says. His voice is perfectly polite, but there’s a dismissiveness to it that leaves no room for argument. "But I think you could give my date and me some privacy now."

Good, you think, the breath trembling as it leaves your lungs. Back to the original plan. Whatever just happened between the two of them with the records, Seonghwa is steering the ship back on course.

Hongjoong falters. The intense look in his eyes fractures. He looks at his best friend with an unreadable expression.

"Right," Hongjoong says after a long moment. "I won't bother you. I'll just be in the kitchen."

It’s an absurd statement, considering the kitchen and the living room are essentially the same open space. But Hongjoong turns on his heel anyway,retreating back behind the island.

He yanks the plug of the crockpot out of the wall with unnecessary force. Picking up the wooden spoon he had abandoned earlier, he aggressively starts scooping out the ruined, slow-cooked beef, dropping it piece by piece into the trash can.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. You wince at the sound of the ruined dinner hitting the bottom of the garbage bag. Technically, he's giving you privacy—but his rigid back and the tense line of his shoulders make it painfully obvious that it's still very much the three of you in the room.

Taking advantage of the fact that Hongjoong’s back is turned, you tilt your head up to look at Seonghwa. You hug both the IU and G-Dragon records even tighter to your chest, leaning in close so your voice won’t carry over the aggressive scraping of the wooden spoon.

"Seonghwa..." you whisper, your brow furrowed with anxious confusion. "What just happened?"

Seonghwa looks down at you. The sharpness he had just directed at his best friend melts away instantly, replaced by a relaxed ease. He lowers his head, closing the distance between you until his lips are just a breath away from your ear.

"Don't worry about the specifics," he murmurs. A satisfied undertone coats his words, almost comically at odds with the tension floating around the apartment. "It’s going exactly how I thought it would. He’s getting jealous."

You dart a quick, nervous glance past Seonghwa's shoulder. Hongjoong is practically stabbing the inside of the crockpot now.

Seonghwa's hand resting on your waist flexes slightly to pull your attention back to him. He pauses, his eyes dropping to your lips before locking onto your eyes with a burning focus.

"But," he continues, "he still needs a little more of a push." The corner of his mouth ticks up. "Do you trust me, angel?"

You stare up at him, uneasy. Do you trust him? At this point, you really don't even know anymore. The lines between what's real and what's fake are blurring so fast you feel like you're losing your footing. Seonghwa's touch feels a little too warm, his acting a little too convincing, and the look in his eyes makes your stomach do another complicated flip.

But as another loud thwack echoes from the kitchen, you can't deny the truth: his plan is working. Hongjoong is breaking. He's undeniably at war with his emotions, fighting back the jealousy of seeing you on a date with his best friend. If you ever want Hongjoong to finally admit his feelings, you know that you have to see this through to the end.

Right now, Seonghwa is once again the only hope you have.

You swallow down the lump of anxiety in your throat.

"I do."

Seonghwa’s lips curve. 

"Good. Then it’s time to improvise."

He doesn't waste a single second. Without warning, his volume rises, leaving the whispers behind.

"Did I tell you how beautiful you look in this dress, angel?" he asks, his voice carrying effortlessly across the open floor plan. He drops another wink just for you. "Blue really is your color. My favorite, too."

You flush, a sudden heat rushing to your cheeks. But out of the corner of your eye, you catch the immediate reaction from the kitchen: the furious scraping stops. Hongjoong’s shoulders tense, his back still turned to you both.

"You've only mentioned it about twenty times, Hwa," you giggle, trying to keep your voice playful despite the nerves eating away at you.

Seonghwa laughs. He moves both of his hands to your waist, his grip firm as he turns your body fully toward him.

"But you know what I haven't mentioned yet?"

You raise an eyebrow, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer. Is this really necessary? you think, glancing over to the kitchen. Hongjoong is facing the other way—he can’t even see how closely Seonghwa is holding you.

"What?" you ask, your voice betraying a tremor.

"Our dance."

Your eyes immediately dart toward the kitchen to see if Hongjoong heard him, but before you can even catch a glimpse of your tutor, Seonghwa's hand slides up your neck. Two of his fingers hook gently under your chin, guiding your face back to his. 

"Eyes on me," he murmurs under his breath before speaking louder. "You owe me, angel, remember?"

You stare up into his eyes. So... this is it? Another dance? 

But... Isn't this "improvisation" too similar to the original plan?

"I..." You want so desperately to look back at the kitchen, to gauge if Hongjoong is finally about to snap, but Seonghwa's thumb sweeps a distracting path across your jawline, demanding your full attention. You force the words out. "Of course I remember."

Caressing your cheek, he says softly, "Then follow me, angel. Let me finally have my dance with you." He pauses, letting a beat of silence stretch. "In my room."

Your heart stumbles over itself. The look Seonghwa is giving you right now is far more dangerous than anything you’ve seen from him all night.

Panic begins to claw at the edges of your mind. It's nearly exactly what you discussed, but for some reason, it feels wrong. Is this still part of the plan? Or is this "improvising" not for Hongjoong's sake at all?

Before you can really process what's going on, Seonghwa’s fingers slide down your arm, lacing through yours. He gives your hand a gentle tug, softly taking the vinyls out of your hand and placing them on one of the living room tables before leading you down the hallway.

He doesn't look back at the kitchen. He doesn't check to see if his plan worked. He walks, his grip on your hand warm, pulling you further away from the living room and closer toward the door of his bedroom.

Your breath gets trapped in your throat as the panic finally sets in, every step feeling like you are crossing a point of no return. 

This isn't supposed to happen. Hongjoong's supposed to stop you. Hongjoong's supposed to—

The loud clatter of wood hitting the floor freezes both you and Seonghwa in your tracks.

"걔 네 방에 안 가."

Seonghwa’s eyebrows shoot upward in surprise as he whips his stare behind you; clearly, he hadn't anticipated Hongjoong actually speaking up.

You instantly spin around. Hongjoong hasn't moved from his spot in the kitchen, his back still turned to you, but his knuckles are white where he's gripping the edge of the counter. His shoulders are locked, and his voice is so low and commanding that it makes goosebumps flare over your skin.

And yet still, you have no idea what he just said.

Seonghwa pauses in his spot halfway down the hallway. He stares at the wooden spoon discarded on the floor.

"Relax, Joong," Seonghwa says slowly. "It's just a date."

"그럼 다른 여자랑 사귀어." 

Hongjoong finally turns around. The look on his face makes your breath catch in your throat. He's staring at Seonghwa with the most cutting glare you've ever seen.

Your brain scrambles, desperately sifting through the flashcards and tutoring lessons, trying to decipher what was just said. 그럼... then. 여자...woman. 사귀어... was that 'to meet'? No, that was 만나요. You mentally kick yourself as you realize you can't quite piece it together. 

Seonghwa meets Hongjoong's furious glare with total stillness. He lets the silence stretch for what feels like an hour before he speaks again.

"왜? 내가 데이트하자고 했어. 걔가 좋다고 했어."

You feel yourself starting to panic. You don't understand a single syllable of Seonghwa's words. He's talking too fast, too aggressively. You look frantically between the two men, completely lost. Why is he doing this? Seonghwa promised he wouldn't speak in Korean; the whole point of the plan was to let Hongjoong—and you—hear everything. 

"굳이 걔한테 물어볼 필요 있었어?" Hongjoong practically growls, abandoning the kitchen island and stalking toward the hallway until he stops just a few feet away from you. His voice drops into a furious whisper. "다른 사람도 많잖아."

"왜 네가 신경 써?" Seonghwa shoots back.

Hongjoong's jaw locks. Seonghwa takes a purposeful step closer to his bedroom door and wraps his hand around the handle. 

You freeze, your heart plummeting into your stomach as your mind screams at you. Why is he actually trying to go inside? Hongjoong is right here! He's stopping us! Isn't this what the goal was? Why isn't he letting up?

"너 걔 좋아해서?"

Seonghwa's thumb rests on the latch. 

Hongjoong freezes. The anger in his eyes fractures, breaking into something painful. When he speaks, his anger is quieter.

"알잖아, 나…" He swallows, his voice nearly breaking. "나 걔 좋아한다고."

Seonghwa goes quiet. You stare at him, begging for him to tell you what's going on, but he simply watches his best friend with an unreadable look, the tense air thick enough to choke on. Then, slowly, he pushes the handle down. The door clicks open.

"그럼 영어로 말해."

Hongjoong goes dead silent. He doesn't move a muscle. He stands there in the hallway, his eyes wide and panicked, staring right at Seonghwa. And when he doesn't speak... Seonghwa doesn't wait. 

He steps backward into the dark room, his hand tightening like a vise on your waist, and spins you inside with him.

It's so sudden that you gasp, stumbling as the world blurs around you. 

The room smells just like Seonghwa's cologne tonight, shadows draping over his bed and desk, but you can't focus on any of it. Your head is spinning. You don't know what was just said. You don't know what is happening. All you know is that you put every ounce of your trust into Seonghwa's hands, and as you stand trapped in the dark of his bedroom, it suddenly feels like a horrible decision you can't take back.

Through the half-open doorway, Hongjoong is rooted to the floor of the hallway. His hands are balled into fists so tight his knuckles are trembling.

"왜 이런 짓을 한 거야?" Hongjoong asks, his voice thick.

But Hongjoong isn't looking at his best friend anymore.

His eyes shift directly to you.

He looks at you standing in the middle of Seonghwa's bedroom, dressed in the beautiful blue dress you picked out just for him to notice. His gaze drops to Seonghwa's hand, still resting possessively on your waist, before trailing back up to your wide, terrified eyes. You stare back at him, silently pleading. Please, your eyes beg him. Say something. Do something. Before it's too late. 

Seonghwa’s hand slides up your back.

"못 해?" he murmurs, staring straight at Hongjoong. "그럼 내가 데려간다."  

Seonghwa pulls you by the waist and twists your body so you're fully facing him. The shadows of his dark bedroom cloak him, painting the focus in his eyes even more intense than before.

He leans down until his mouth is hovering right over your ear.

"Angel," he whispers, his voice so low it’s hidden from the man in the doorway. "I need you to keep trusting me."

Trust him? Your chest heaves as you take shaky breaths, looking up at him with wide eyes. You cannot trust this man. You don't even know what game he's playing anymore, or if it's even a game to him at all. Every instinct in your body screams at you to shove him away, bolt past him, run out of the apartment without looking back. It's over. It didn't work. If Hongjoong is willing to stand there and watch you get dragged into his best friend's bedroom without intervening, then nothing will ever force him to confess.

But before you can pull away, you turn your head.

Hongjoong is still there, framed by the warm light of the hallway, perfectly still. It's as though he forgot Seonghwa was even there. His eyes are still locked entirely on you.

The anger from a moment ago has drained away, leaving his face devastatingly blank, but his gaze is so heavy it feels like it's just the two of you in the room. You can't hear Seonghwa breathing beside your ear. You can't hear anything at all. Hongjoong isn't leaving; he hasn't retreated to his room or turned his back. He came after you.

It has to mean something, you realize, your breath trembling. He wouldn't still be standing there if he didn't care. You stare into his eyes, and Seonghwa's words echo in your racing mind: He just needs a little more of a push.

You tear your gaze away from the doorway, looking back up at the man holding you. Taking a final shaky breath, you give Seonghwa a single, imperceptible nod.

The moment you signal your surrender, his hand yanks you against his chest. Another quiet gasp escapes your throat. His free hand comes up, his long fingers sliding against your skin to cradle the back of your jaw, tilting your face up to his.

There's no hesitation. No gentle, questioning brush of lips.

"Angel..." he murmurs, the word ghosting across your lips as he leans in.

He crashes his mouth against yours, like he's been starving for this exact moment all night. Your mind goes white. The apartment, the plan, the man in the doorway—it all dissolves, shrinking down to nothing but the heat of Seonghwa's mouth and the bruising pressure of his hands holding you captive.

His thumb strokes across your cheekbone as he deepens the kiss, parting your lips. The arm banded around your waist tightens, crushing the velvet of your dress until there is absolutely zero space left between your bodies.

Suddenly... you've forgotten why you're here.

Without realizing you're even moving, your fingers fly up, clutching desperately at the front of his shirt. That tiny, breathless surrender seems to snap something. He groans quietly as his hand slides from your jaw to the nape of your neck, his grip tightening as he angles your head and kisses you deeper, savoring the taste of you. Your head spins, the lingering anxiety burning away into a heady, intoxicating fog as you melt entirely against him, lost in the overwhelming softness of his lips—

"그만."

Seonghwa freezes. His long fingers go still against your jaw, his warm breath hovering just a millimeter from your swollen lips. Your eyes flutter open, the haze of the kiss shattering as your brain struggles to process the growl that just ripped from the doorway.

Seonghwa’s eyes flick over your head. The shift in his demeanor is instantaneous—the seductive warmth vanishes, replaced by a calculating gleam. Slowly, he lets his hand fall away from your face.

Only then do you dare to turn your head.

Hongjoong steps over the threshold, and the sight of him makes you suck in a breath. He doesn't look like your tutor anymore. His chest is heaving with erratic, shallow breaths, his dark hair is a mess, and his eyes are practically burning holes into you behind his glasses. There's no confidence radiating from him; only desperation. 

But instead of letting you go, Seonghwa’s arm wraps tighter around your waist. He pulls you backward, away from Hongjoong, into his chest so hard you stumble.

"I thought I said to use English, Joong," Seonghwa says, locked on the man stalking toward you.

Hongjoong closes the distance in a few strides, stripped of all usual caution. He stops just inches away from where Seonghwa is gripping you. He's so close. You look over his body, seeing the faint tremor in his shoulders, the adrenaline running through his veins making him vibrate. His face is twisted into a bitter smirk, but there's absolutely no humor in it—it's pure jealousy.

"손 떼," Hongjoong whispers. His voice shakes on the first syllable.

Seonghwa lets out a slick smirk of his own. Instead of obeying, his hand slides from your waist to the curve of your hip. "She didn't seem to want me to stop."

Hongjoong’s eyes snap down to you. He takes in your flushed cheeks, the rise and fall of your chest, your lips still swollen from his best friend's mouth. A noise escapes his throat. He reaches out. His hand trembles before his fingers touch your skin, tracing the line of your jaw, his rough, urgent touch completely lacking Seonghwa's smoothness.

"You... You're too smart to be playing games like this, ____." 

Your lips part on instinct. Your lungs refuse to give you air. You're frozen, pinned between the desperate need for the man you've been agonizing over for months and the desire for the man caging you against him.

"Tell me..." Hongjoong says lowly, ignoring Seonghwa now. "Did you want him to kiss you?"

You can't speak. When you don't answer, Hongjoong’s jaw locks so hard you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. His hand suddenly tightens, his fingers digging into your cheeks as his eyes fixate on your lips—the exact spot where Seonghwa just kissed you.

"씨발…" he growls under his breath, his chest rising and falling. "박성화, 죽여 버릴 거야."

He stares at your mouth for another second, and when you let out a quiet whimper at the pain of his hands on your face, whatever tether was holding him back snaps.

Hongjoong's eyes blaze as he tips your face up and crashes his mouth against yours.

There's nothing gentle or practiced about it; his kiss is angry, unplanned, a collision of teeth, his tongue forcing past your lips, violently trying to wipe away every mark of Seonghwa from your mouth. He pants against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged as he kisses you like he can't stop himself. His hand slides into your hair, gripping tightly as he pulls you closer.

Butterflies twist violently in your stomach. You melt into the brutal, uncoordinated heat of it, leaning closer into him as your own tongue rises to meet his crazed pace. Your thoughts finally go entirely, blissfully blank, overwhelmed by the feeling of him finally, finally taking what he wants, leaving you with only one thought echoing in your head:

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes—

But while Hongjoong is kissing you breathless, his hand sliding down your jaw to wrap a desperate grip around the front of your neck, Seonghwa doesn't just back away.

His fingers begin trailing up your sides. The metal tab of your zipper is suddenly pulled down the length of your spine. A breathless little gasp spills straight into Hongjoong’s mouth. You instinctively arch your back away from Seonghwa’s hands, accidentally pressing your chest against Hongjoong.

Hongjoong breaks the kiss with a ragged breath. He's panting, staring down at you darkly. His lips part, his throat bobbing like he’s trying to drag the words out of it, but nothing comes out. He’s mute, his hand gripping your neck and keeping your face tilted toward him, his eyes blown wide.

"It’s easy, Joongie," Seonghwa taunts from behind you. He tugs the zipper all the way to the base of your spine, but he doesn't slide the dress off your shoulders just yet. You feel him lean down, his fingers gently brushing your hair out of the way. His lips press a kiss against your shoulder. "Three words. Just like this."

Seonghwa slowly trails open-mouthed kisses along the line of your shoulder blade. His hands grip the curve of your hips tightly as he works his way up the column of your neck. Your eyes flutter shut. The contrast of Hongjoong's panicked energy and Seonghwa's slow worship is intoxicating. Your head threatens to fall back against Seonghwa's chest, stopped only by the hold Hongjoong still has on your neck.

Seonghwa's lips reach the shell of your ear.

"I like you, angel."

He gently takes your earlobe between his teeth, nibbling just hard enough to send heat straight down to your core. A helpless whimper slips past your lips.

At the sound, Hongjoong’s eyes snap from your mouth up to your eyes. "Don't make sounds like that for him," he grits out. His fingers flex, his grip on your neck tightening, a reflex that only draws another involuntary whimper from your throat.

Seonghwa chuckles between soft, wet nibbles down the side of your neck. "Why shouldn't she?" he murmurs. "I'm the one making her feel like this." 

As he speaks, one of his hands slides up from your hip. It grazes your stomach, inching higher and higher until it rests over your chest. Through the loosened fabric of your dress, his hand cups your breast, squeezing gently, kneading the sensitive flesh as his teeth graze your collarbone.

"Tell him how good you feel," he whispers against your skin.

"I... I..." you stammer, your mind melting as your eyes flutter shut again. Seonghwa hums, prompting you to go on. "I... I feel so good, Hwa..."

You feel his satisfied smirk press into the skin of your neck. Without warning, Seonghwa opens his mouth and sucks fiercely at the sensitive sweet spot beneath your ear, pulling a loud, breathy moan from your lips.

Your hands flail blindly, desperately needing to latch onto something in the overwhelming pleasure. One hand reaches back, your fingers tangling into Seonghwa's dark hair.

Your other hand lands squarely on Hongjoong's shoulder.

Then, beneath your palm, you feel it—his entire body quivering.

"그가 널 기분 좋게 해줄진 몰라도," Hongjoong mutters as his eyes bore relentlessly into yours. You don't understand the words, but the way his fingers tighten at your throat makes you gasp. "네가 원하는 건 나라는 거 알아."

"이젠 아니야," Seonghwa nearly groans in response. He ignores the lethal warning in his roommate's eyes, sliding his other hand up your stomach to join the first. He kneads both of your breasts through your dress, his hips slowly pressing into your backside as he sucks harder at your neck. "나랑 보낸 밤 이후로는."

"이 자식," Hongjoong hisses through his teeth. His eyes flick past you to the bed behind Seonghwa before his jaw tightens, his free hand sweeping your hair off the other shoulder, baring your skin as he forces your chin higher. "그럼 내가 누군지 다시 깨닫게 해줄게."

He crashes his lips against yours again, but this time, it's somehow even rougher, angrier, more possessive. The hand at the front of your throat squeezes, using the leverage to pull your body forcefully forward, trying to wrench you out of Seonghwa’s hold.

Seonghwa refuses to let you go. His hands tighten, working needier and hungrier over your chest.

Hongjoong breaks the kiss, his lips trailing a hot, frantic path across your jawline and down to your exposed collarbone. You're trapped. You're pinned between the bodies of two men, your mind numb as they devour both sides of your neck simultaneously. You whimper as Hongjoong's teeth scrape against your skin. 

It's too much. Your knees start to buckle, your head spinning. A desperate sound tears from your throat. "H—H—"

"It's Hwa, angel," Seonghwa groans wetly against your skin, his thumbs brushing over your peaks.

"Hongjoong," the other man grunts, a demanding correction. He doesn't bother to release your neck, his mouth moving up the column of your throat, leaving messy marks everywhere his lips touch.

He trails up your jawline until his mouth finds your ear. He bites down on the cartilage, pulling at it with his teeth, an aggressive nip that makes you gasp. Then, you feel the wetness of his tongue laving over the bite.

He pulls back just an inch and whispers.

"침대 위에서." 

Finally, you can make out what he's saying.

On the bed.

You freeze in place, panting. Goosebumps erupt all over your flushed skin. Behind you, Seonghwa’s movements halt, his hands still resting on your chest.  

Before you can even process the command—before your weakened legs could possibly follow it—Hongjoong takes matters into his own shaking hands.

He grabs you by the waist, his fingers digging into your sides, and forcefully yanks you out of Seonghwa's arms, pushing you backward. 

The back of your knees hit the mattress, and you fall onto Seonghwa’s bed.

Your head bounces softly against the pillows, but you don't even have a second to catch your breath. Hongjoong follows you down. He cages you in, his knees sinking into the mattress on either side of your hips as he hovers over you, his dark, frantic eyes tracing the lines of your heaving body.

"눈 나만 봐."

Hongjoong's command is sharp, but there's a catch in his breath underneath it, like he's forcing it to be firm. 

There are just enough vocabulary words in that short sentence for your brain to translate through your haze: Eyes. Me. Only. Look. Keep your eyes on me.

You obey without a single thought, wide-eyed and breathless, staring up at him as he hovers over you.

"알겠어?" Do you understand? Hearing that strict tone coming from Hongjoong's lips sends a rush of heat to your core on the spot. You nod quickly, incapable of forcing any words past your throat.

He reaches down, his hand still visibly trembling as his thumb comes to rest against your cheek. He caresses your skin softly, like he's still afraid to touch you. "Smart girl," he praises quietly.

As his thumb softly brushes across your cheekbone, the panic in his eyes seems to stall. He looks dazed, like it's finally registering in his brain that he has you here, beneath him, yielding to him.

"존나 예쁘다," he breathes out. 

So fucking pretty.

You stare at him, your whole body catching on fire at the realization that your tutor is talking about you—talking to you—like that.

His thumb slowly slides from your flushed cheek down to your mouth, brushing roughly over your bottom lip. Almost like it's second nature, your lips part. A tiny, disbelieving smirk starts to tug at the corner of his mouth—the reaction of a man who can hardly believe what he's seeing, learning what he's allowed to do in real time. His thumb slips past your parted lips, coming to rest heavily on your tongue.

Without thinking, you close your lips around it and start sucking softly.

Hongjoong sucks in a sharp breath. His eyes darken, filling with lust from watching you take him into your mouth. The last threads of his composure finally melt away as he stares down at your wide, doe-like eyes.

"I’ve been staring across that table for so long," he says, his voice wrecked, his free hand sliding from your jaw to grip the side of your neck. "Wondering if I’d ever actually get to touch you the way I imagine."

His fingers flex against your pulse point, feeling how fast your heart is racing for him. He smirks, knowing you won't understand what he says next.

"오늘 밤… 내가 항상 원했던 거, 가질게."

You blink up at him, sucking softly as you try your hardest to translate, but it's no use.

Hongjoong's smirk widens as he pats your cheek at the attempt.

"진짜 아름다워."

Seonghwa's whisper cuts in from beside the bed. He steps closer, looking down at you. You glance up at the two men hovering like predators above you, the sight stealing your breath so suddenly that you nearly choke around Hongjoong’s thumb.

Seonghwa’s eyes are gentle yet simmering with desire, his gaze tracing the lines of your body like you're something he’s been imagining he’d only ever see in a dream. But Hongjoong... Hongjoong is staring at you with pure possessiveness. Your usual awkward, hesitant tutor is completely dead and gone, replaced by a man pushed so far over the edge by jealousy that he's finally brave enough to take what he wants after months of denying himself.

Hongjoong’s gaze drops to your mouth, completely enraptured by the wet, soft sound of you sucking on his thumb. Slowly, his dark eyes glide down your body, tracking the heavy velvet of your dress where it clings to you.

"이 드레스 예쁘네," he says lowly, his voice becoming raspy as his eyes lock onto the curve of your chest. "내가 좋아하는 색깔." His trembling hand slides from your neck, his fingertips tracing the fabric. "이런 드레스 더 만들어 줄게."

You have no idea what he's saying, but your eyes widen even more when he slowly slides his thumb out of your mouth. It slips past your lips with a quiet, wet pop.

Without breaking eye contact with you, Hongjoong nudges Seonghwa sharply with his elbow. "벗겨."

Your breath hitches. A vocab word. Take it off.

Seonghwa scoffs, bristling at being ordered around in his own bedroom. He reaches down, his fingers tracing the exposed line of your waist where the zipper is wide open, and mutters defiantly. "내가 때가 됐다고 생각하면 이거 벗길게."

Hongjoong barely reacts. His dark, blown-out eyes flick to his roommate. "그녀를 기분 좋게 해주고 싶지 않아?" he asks quietly. "벗겨."

Seonghwa doesn't look at him, but a soft sigh escapes his lips. He reaches down, his fingers sliding gently through a strand of your hair.

"You really are beautiful," he murmurs. He smirks down at you, but the look in his eyes is gentle. "Relax for me. I'll make you feel good."

Hongjoong’s own smirk returns as Seonghwa slowly starts slipping the dress off your shoulders.

"네가 그녀를 기분 좋게 해줄 순 있어," Hongjoong says as his eyes rake over your bared skin. "하지만 걘 나를 봐."

Seonghwa drags the fabric down over your chest, fully exposing the lace of your bra. His hands slide to your waist, giving your sides a gentle tap to prompt you. You shakily arch your back off the mattress, allowing him to slide the dress completely down your hips and off your legs. He smiles softly as he folds the velvet neatly before setting it gently on the floor. 

You're left in nothing but your bra and panties, exposed under the heated gazes of the two fully clothed men above you.

The dress barely touches the floor before both men move. 

Hongjoong's shaking hands dart out, his fingers wrapping tightly around both of your wrists. With one swift movement, he pins your arms above your head against the mattress. 

But Seonghwa refuses to be shut out. 

While Hongjoong pins you down, Seonghwa moves to the foot of the bed, stepping between your legs. His hands trace unhurried paths up your bare calves and over your thighs, pushing your knees apart, spreading your legs. He leans down, pressing unbearably soft, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. His hands slide up to cup your hips while his thumbs trace over your panties.

A shaky gasp escapes your throat. Your back naturally arches off the mattress, reaching for Seonghwa’s hands, your head instinctively turning as you try to get a glimpse of what he's doing between your legs despite Hongjoong pinning you down.

The needy whimper you let out for the other man makes Hongjoong's eyes flash.

"나만 보라고 했지," he snaps. 

Before you can even process the demand, Hongjoong dips his head, and his mouth crashes against your collarbone—right over the exact spot Seonghwa had kissed so gently before Hongjoong pushed you to the bed. But where Seonghwa is careful and teasing between your legs, Hongjoong is losing control entirely. He sucks and bites at your skin, leaving his own bruised marks in his wake. 

You moan softly, your hips helplessly bucking up into Seonghwa's hands.

You feel a wet heat pool between your legs as Hongjoong pulls back. He stares unabashedly down at your chest, at your breasts hidden beneath your bra. 

He shifts his weight, releasing one of your wrists. He uses his free hand to cover the cup of your bra, his fingers squeezing you roughly through the fabric.

"I try so hard to be professional," he confesses, his voice still trembling as that same hand slides around to your back, pulling another subconscious arch from your spine. "But when you're sitting there... looking at me with those eyes while I'm trying to tutor you..."

He trails off, biting down hard on his bottom lip as his eyes drag down your trembling body. His fingers hook around the clasp of your bra.

"You make it impossible to remember why I shouldn't touch you."

With one rough, impatient tug, he unclasps your bra. Your breasts immediately spill out into his waiting hand, and he yanks the delicate lace away, tossing it carelessly onto the floor.

At the same time, Seonghwa's fingertips hook around your panties. He drags the thin material down your legs, his knuckles brushing against your shivering skin, until he slides them over your ankles and drops them softly to the floor next to your dress.

His hands trace back up your calves and over your knees, spreading your legs wider. A rush of air hits your skin, and the realization crashes over you: you're completely, fully exposed beneath them. Naked, trembling, and entirely at their mercy.

Hongjoong's eyes are consumed by the sight of your bare chest. His hands cup your breasts, kneading the soft flesh with a trembling grip. He watches the sight of his own hands on you, swallowing hard before breaking his stare and smashing his lips against yours again.

His kiss is messy and urgent. He trails his open mouth down your jaw, sucking another harsh mark into your neck, before working his way down to your chest. As his mouth reaches your breast, he traces soft, wet circles around your nipple with his lips. Without warning, he flicks his tongue over the sensitive peak.

A surprised moan tears out of your throat. 

Hongjoong pauses, looking up at you through his suddenly fogged-up glasses. He quickly rips them off and throws them somewhere on Seonghwa's beside table, a smirk pulling at his lips as he keeps dragging his tongue over the peak, his other hand roughly kneading your other breast.

"Sensitive, 자기야?"

Before you can even gasp out an answer, he closes his lips and sucks hard. You moan, squeezing your eyes shut, hands balling into the bedsheets as you become overwhelmed by his touch. He suddenly pinches your other nipple between his fingers, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your already dripping core.

"눈 나만 봐," he repeats, his fingers pausing their torment. 

He waits, refusing to move another inch until your fluttering eyelids snap open.

"좋아," he praises, his voice shaking. Good.

He sucks even harder. He squeezes and rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger with such rough, possessive desperation that you cry out, your back arching high off the mattress to press yourself deeper into his mouth. “Hongjoong—”

While Hongjoong is fully claiming your top half—kissing, licking, and sucking bruises all over your chest—you can’t see what Seonghwa is doing; you can only feel him. He presses impossibly soft kisses against the inside of your knee. Flushing hotly under Hongjoong's devouring mouth, you instinctively try to squeeze your thighs shut to hide yourself.

But Seonghwa’s hands clamp down on your knees, holding you in place.

"No," he murmurs, his thumbs stroking your skin. "Don't hide from me, angel. I want to see all of you."

He kisses a path from your knee up to your inner thigh. You shake uncontrollably, whimpering and moaning as your brain short-circuits from the dual stimulation. He stops right before he reaches your core, leaning in close just to get a good look at how slick and needy you are for them, pressing hot kisses to your upper thighs.

"예쁜 보지..." he says under his breath. "나 때문에 이렇게 젖었네…" 

A grunt rips from Hongjoong's throat, his lips pulling away from your breast with a wet smack.

"넌 대체 한 게 뭐야?" he mutters, glaring down the length of your body at his roommate. Hongjoong moves his mouth to the soft side of your breast. He bites down and sucks, leaving yet another mark on your skin. "이거 다 나 때문이잖아."

Seonghwa's tongue suddenly darts out, dragging a long, wet stripe straight up your soaked folds.

A violent jolt shoots through your entire nervous system. You cry out loud, your head tossing to the side against the pillows.

"Hwa!" you moan out, your eyes rolling back into your head as his tongue begins circling your sensitive bundle of nerves.

Hongjoong recoils at the sound of his roommate's name falling from your lips. His jaw locks, a wave of jealousy crashing over his features. He instantly bites down harder, his hands gripping your waist, punishing you with pleasure just to make you scream his name instead.

"내 이름 불러," he commands, his hot breath hitting your skin. Say my name.

"H—Hongjoo... Ho... Joong…" you stammer, your voice wrecked.

"크게 말해."

Your mind goes hopelessly blank. Seonghwa’s tongue is lapping over your dripping core, sending wave after wave of blinding heat through your body. The overload of both men devouring you makes it impossible to translate in your head.

When you just lie there whimpering, Hongjoong stares dead into your unfocused eyes. He cocks a dark eyebrow, a new blend of the tutor you know and the wildly jealous man you're trapped beneath.

"Don't know what that means?" he tsks. He shakes his head, the disappointment in his expression making you feel incredibly small and desperate to please him. "And here I thought you were making progress with your listening."

"I am," you whisper helplessly, practically moaning the words out as Seonghwa presses two long fingers against your slick entrance, teasing but refusing to push inside. "I... I am..."

Hongjoong's eyes are unyielding as he holds you on the very edge of your sanity.

"Will you listen carefully?"

You nod frantically, your eyes squeezing shut as your hips buck upward, begging for Seonghwa’s fingers to just enter you already.

"Yes!" you sob out. "Yes, I will!"

You put all your strength into focusing on his words, desperately trying to focus as Seonghwa's fingers slowly start to press inside your dripping hole. His tongue relentlessly teases your clit, but you force your wide, teary eyes to stay locked on the man hovering over your face.

"혀."

Vocabulary—tongue. You nod once, frantically. He sees the understanding click in your eyes, and he reaches down, his pointer finger tapping against your closed lips.

"내밀어."

His fingers tap your lips again, making you obey before your brain finishes translating.

Sucking in a shaky, whimper-filled breath, you part your lips and stick your tongue out for him. Hongjoong's eyes narrow as he leans down, his mouth curling right above yours.

He spits, letting his saliva land right on your tongue. 

"삼켜," he whispers. 

Swallow.

You obey instantly, swallowing it down and sticking your tongue back out to prove it.

A grin breaks across Hongjoong’s face, utterly intoxicated by your submission. He pats your cheek. "좋아. 내 모범생."

Good. My star student.

Seonghwa’s fingers suddenly start moving inside you. He'd slipped them all the way in without you realizing—you were too consumed by Hongjoong even to notice. A loud, broken moan escapes you as he begins to pump his fingers in and out of your slick heat, his mouth latching onto your clit at the same time.

Hongjoong watches you fall apart under his roommate’s fingers hungrily, tracking every buck of your hips. 

But as your breathing turns into high-pitched sobs, Seonghwa gets too swept up in his own lust. Panting, he pulls his mouth away from your pussy, his eyes glazed over. He reaches down for the buckle of his own pants, clearly intending to take exactly what he’s been teasing. While he fumbles with his belt, he crawls up your body to capture your lips for a desperate kiss.

But Hongjoong's hand shoots out, gripping his wrist and stopping him. When Seonghwa groans and tries to pull his arm back, Hongjoong shoves a hand hard against Seonghwa’s chest, pushing him back against the mattress. 

"안 돼," he orders. No. He glares down at Seonghwa. "입술은 내 거야."

Seonghwa stares up at Hongjoong, wiping his mouth—still wet from your slickness—with the back of his hand. There's a smugness in his eyes, knowing he successfully pushed his friend to his breaking point, and he doesn't fight him. He yields, pulling back just enough to let Hongjoong take the reins as he works on unbuckling the rest of his belt.

Hongjoong's eyes look back at you.

A breath later, his expression hardens. 

He moves, grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your hands and knees, his grip harsh, sweaty, and jealous. You let out a startled squeak as your bare knees sink into the mattress, your back arched with your chest pressed to the pillows. Hongjoong kneels behind you, his dark eyes raking over your exposed core already wet with both your desire and what Seonghwa left behind. 

You glance over your shoulder, wrapping your arms around one of Seonghwa's pillows to steady your trembling body. You gasp as you watch Hongjoong's hands fly to his waistband, shoving his pants down his thighs. 

His cock springs free, his erection hard, twitching, and already glistening red. He's so thick that his own fingers hardly wrap around his girth as he strokes it slowly, watching your reaction with an unreadable look. 

There’s hesitation in the way he breathes, his chest rising and falling, like he’s taking one final second to memorize exactly what he’s about to do before he crosses the line of no return.

Then, something shifts in his face. He reaches out, his fingers tangling roughly in your hair, and forces your cheek down into the mattress, completely cutting off your line of sight.

You let out a startled whimper as you feel him line his tip right at your entrance, his hands clamping down hard on your hips to lock you in place. But just before he pushes inside, his hand leaves your hip to point a shaking finger over your back, aiming right at the empty space at the head of the bed.

"가서 입에 물려," he orders, his voice trembling through the command. 

You try to lift your head, straining against his grip on your hair to look over your shoulder and gauge what he just said. But before you can move, a shadow falls over you. You blink through the hazy, overstimulated fog.

Seonghwa is kneeling at the head of the bed, right in front of your face. He's pulled out his own length from his pants, not nearly as thick yet much longer than Hongjoong's, already dripping with precum. He smiles down at you, that gentle look returning to his eyes. His hand wraps around his base, stroking himself as he guides his throbbing tip right to your parted lips.

"You're doing well for us, angel," he murmurs, his fingers brushing away the hair in your face. "Now open up."

You open your lips, taking Seonghwa’s cock into your mouth.

Behind you, Hongjoong's hands grip your hips tighter, his thumbs digging into your skin. He leans over your back, his hot breath hitting your ear as he looks down at you from behind.

"You've wanted this just as long as I have, haven't you?" he asks, his voice trembling with pent-up desire.

You shake violently as Seonghwa starts to thrust into your mouth slowly, but you nod frantically, trying your hardest to look up at your tutor.

But a nod isn't enough for him. His grip turns bruising, demanding words. "말해." Say it.

You pull back from Seonghwa just an inch, a desperate tear slipping down your cheek. "네. 나… 너 갖고 싶어." I want you.

Hearing his own language fall from your lips in such a broken, needy confession seems to shatter him fully. 

"우리 처음 만났을 때부터… 계속 이 생각만 했어," he whispers, his fingers shaking as his voice cracks. "지금… 나만 생각해."

He thrusts his hips forward, burying his thick cock deep inside your tight hole in one push. 

You scream, the sound completely muffled by Seonghwa’s cock as he guides his length right back into your mouth. Your fingernails dig into the bedsheets, the bedframe shaking as Hongjoong begins to fuck you from behind. His hips snap forward without any rhythm, completely uncoordinated, relying solely on the instinct to stretch you, hitting that deep spot inside you over and over again.

In front of you, Seonghwa strokes your hair, taking in your muffled sobs around his cock, thrusting his hips gently into your mouth. 

"Look how good he’s making you feel," Seonghwa moans, staring down at you sucking him, your body jerking as Hongjoong pounds into your cunt. "Just take it, angel. Give it all to Joong."

Hongjoong leans his weight over you, his hips bucking as his chest slides against your sweat-slicked spine. His free hand reaches blindly around your side to roughly play with your breasts, tweaking your nipples as he fucks you breathless.

"씨발, 존나 조여…" he curses between pants, his hips slapping wetly against your thighs.

Seonghwa moans above you as he guides his cock in and out of your mouth. "Are you really that tight, angel?" he groans, watching you take his friend. "씨발... I bet you feel so fucking good..."

"내 거… 넌 내 거야," Hongjoong grunts. His pace accelerates, his thrusts growing faster as you moan out his name. You're crying, drooling, and choking around Seonghwa’s cock, taking Hongjoong's dick, completely breaking apart. Your knees wobble beneath you, threatening to give out as you feel his length twitch inside you, sending hot sparks to your core and dragging you closer to the edge. 

Hongjoong feels your legs shaking and slides his hands down your ribs, locking around your waist to hold you up.

"무릎 꿇고 제대로 받아," he orders, angling his hips to hit the spot that makes your eyes roll back.

Seonghwa pulls his hips back just enough to let his length slip from your lips, his thumb reaching out to gently wipe the spit and tears from your chin. "You hear him? Stay up on your knees and take it right," he whispers. His eyes are completely glazed over as he watches his best friend stretch you out. "Show him what an angel you are."

You let out a broken, breathless sob, trying to nod. Hongjoong hits the very back of your walls and grinds there, his hand pinching your nipple hard.

"내 좆으로 가득 차서 예쁘게 우네," he groans. 

Seonghwa pushes past your lips again, thrusting sharply in time with Hongjoong's brutal pounding. "씨발..." His own voice is shaking now. He strokes your hair, breathing heavily.

Time distorts. You can no longer separate Hongjoong's filthy Korean from Seonghwa's breathy English. You moan both their names blindly into Seonghwa's cock.

Hongjoong's thrusts lose all rhythm, his control cracking, giving way to his desperate need. 

"내 모범생," he growls, his voice cracking on the words. "진짜 미치게 완벽해."

Seonghwa’s hands tangle tightly into your hair, holding your head in place as he thrusts deeper into your mouth. "Come for him," Seonghwa begs you, his eyes squeezing shut as he gets closer. "Please, angel..."

"H—Hong—Hongjooong—!" you sob out, letting Seonghwa slip from your lips, your fingernails shredding into the pillows as the orgasm rips through your body. Your walls clench violently, milking Hongjoong's cock with stuttering spasms.

Hongjoong lets out a guttural groan at the feeling of you coming around him. He grabs your hips, buries himself as deep as he physically can, and releases inside you with hot, relentless pulses.

In front of you, Seonghwa grips his own cock, his eyes rolling back. He strokes himself furiously as he watches his best friend finally take you over the edge, a loud, helpless moan ripping from his throat as he finishes in thick ropes right onto your chest and the sheets beneath you.

Hongjoong stays slumped over your back, his forehead resting against your shoulder blade as his chest heaves. He's trembling just as hard as you are, his grip on your hips slowly loosening as the last few shuddering pulses of his orgasm bleed out of him.

Slowly, he pulls out. You hear the wet sound of him sliding out of you, the only sound other than the ragged gasps tearing from all three of you.

Without Hongjoong holding you up, your arms give out.

You collapse forward onto the mattress, your cheek hitting Seonghwa’s damp pillows. Your whole body feels like liquid. Your muscles twitch with the aftershocks of your climax. You can barely even keep your eyes open.

Behind you, the mattress shifts as Hongjoong falls back onto his heels.

In front of you, Seonghwa slumps back against the headboard, his long legs sprawled out. His chest rises and falls rapidly. Glistening sweat covers his entire body. He wipes a hand roughly over his mouth, his dark eyes slowly trailing over your exhausted, shivering form, taking in the messy proof of exactly what they just did to you.

As the haze of the orgasm finally starts to clear, your brain slowly begins to form thoughts again. 

What did we just do?

You force your heavy eyelids open, using whatever strength you have left to push yourself up onto your elbows. You look over your shoulder.

Hongjoong is sitting at the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the wall. The man who was just cursing at you in filthy Korean is gone. You can practically see the panic replacing the jealousy. When he senses your gaze, he looks over at you. His eyes dart to your bruised lips, down to your chest covered in his best friend's release, and then to his own shaking hands resting on his thighs. He looks shocked by what he just did.

You shakily turn back around as you hear Seonghwa shifting against the headboard.

He grabs a box of tissues from the nightstand, tossing it gently onto the bed. He looks at Hongjoong's panic and lets out a breathless sigh.

"네가 이겼어, 중아," he murmurs. His voice is raspy, stripped of the seduction from earlier. His gaze, however, softens as he looks at his best friend. "이제 영어로 말할 준비됐어?"

Hongjoong flinches. He looks back at the wall, swallowing hard, his jaw ticking.

Seonghwa pulls one of the tissues out of the box and gently wipes his release from your chest, careful not to touch you too harshly. Once you're cleaned up, he pauses, brushing the sweaty hair out of your face and smiling softly at you. He lets his thumb caress your cheek one last time before he reaches over to a pile of clothes, picking up one of his random hoodies thrown carelessly to the floor.

"Here, angel," he says, holding it out to you. "Let's get you covered up."

Trembling, you reach your arm out to take it.

"No."

Hongjoong croaks the word, staring at Seonghwa's hoodie in your hands. 

Before Seonghwa can react, Hongjoong reaches down and grabs the hem of his own sweater. He pulls it over his head, leaving himself bare-chested at the edge of the bed.

He crawls forward, his hands shaking with the sweater in his grasp. He pulls it over your head, helping guide your arms through the sleeves, hiding your body from view. The care in his hands is so gentle it aches, but his eyes refuse to meet yours.

After you're dressed, he quickly turns away, hastily pulling his sweatpants back up and tying the drawstring. He stands up, staring firmly at the closed bedroom door. 

"Come with me," he says. His voice is hoarse.

He doesn't wait to see if you follow. He just turns, grabs his glasses from the dresser, and walks out into the hallway. 

You hesitate for a moment, your legs trembling as your bare feet softly touch the hardwood floor. You pull the oversized sleeves of his sweater over your hands, trying to sink away from what just happened. But before you follow Hongjoong out of the room, you glance back one last time.

Seonghwa is still leaning against the headboard, his breathing finally steady. A satisfied look rests on his handsome face. He catches your eye and smiles.

"Thank you for such an incredible night, angel," he says, giving you a slow, teasing wink.

You still have no idea what his true intentions were tonight. You don't know if he just wanted to break his best friend or if he genuinely wanted a piece of you for himself. But as you look at the empty doorway, you realize it doesn't matter anymore. He did exactly what he promised. He pushed Hongjoong over the edge.

You give him one last look before stepping out into the hallway, following after Hongjoong. 

He leads you past the kitchen, past the crockpot still sitting on the counter, and pushes open the door to his own bedroom.

You follow him inside as he holds the door open for you. Your heart is pounding in your throat, but for an entirely different reason now. The lust is gone, replaced by the terrifying anxiety of what comes next.

Hongjoong stands in the doorway for a second. His hand grips the handle tightly. The anxious, overthinking tutor you know is back, standing on the precipice of a reality neither of you actually thought you'd ever have.

He looks at you, swallowed up in his sweater. With one last, shaky breath, he steps fully inside the room. 

Hongjoong shuts the door behind you.

translations:

형, 슬로우쿠커 고장난 거 같아. Hyung, I think the slow cooker is broken.

아무것도 안 됐어. 시켜 먹어야 할 것 같아. Nothing's cooked. I think we’re going to have to order. 

아씨—! Damn it!

그건 그녀가 좋아하는 음악 종류조차 아니야. That's not even the kind of music she likes.

그건 네가 뭘 안다고 하는 소리야? What would you know about that?

선물 줄 거면… If you’re going to give her a gift...

적어도 그녀가 좋아하는 걸 줘. At least give her something she likes.

걔 네 방에 안 가. She’s not going to your room.

그럼 다른 여자랑 사귀어. Then date another woman.

왜? 내가 데이트하자고 했어. 걔가 좋다고 했어. Why? I asked her on a date. She said yes.

굳이 걔한테 물어볼 필요 있었어? Did you really have to ask her?

다른 사람도 많잖아. There are plenty of other people, aren’t there?

왜 네가 신경 써? Why do you care?

너 걔 좋아해서? Because you like her?

알잖아, 나… You already know… I...

나 걔 좋아한다고. I like her.

그럼 영어로 말해. Then say it in English.

왜 이런 짓을 한 거야? Why did you do this?

못 해? You can’t do it?

그럼 내가 데려간다. Then I'm taking her.

그만. Stop.

손 떼. Take your hands off.

씨발… Fuck…

박성화, 죽여 버릴 거야. Park Seonghwa, I’m going to kill you.

그가 널 기분 좋게 해 줄진 몰라도… He might be making you feel good, but...

네가 원하는 건 나라는 거 알아. I know it's me you want.

이젠 아니야. Not anymore.

나랑 보낸 밤 이후로는. Not after the night she spent with me.

이 자식. This bastard.

그럼 내가 누군지 다시 깨닫게 해줄게. Then I’ll make you realize who I am again.

오늘 밤… 내가 항상 원했던 거, 가질게. Tonight… I’m going to take what I’ve always wanted.

진짜 아름다워. Truly beautiful.

이 드레스 예쁘네. This dress is pretty.

내가 좋아하는 색깔. My favorite color.

이런 드레스 더 만들어 줄게. I'll make more dresses like this for you.

내가 때가 됐다고 생각하면 이거 벗길게. When I think the time is right, I’ll take it off.

그녀를 기분 좋게 해주고 싶지 않아? Don't you want to make her feel good?

네가 그녀를 기분 좋게 해줄 순 있어… You might be able to make her feel good...

하지만 걘 나를 봐. ...but her eyes are on me.

나만 보라고 했지. I told you to only look at me, didn't I?

자기야? Baby.

예쁜 보지... Pretty pussy...

나 때문에 이렇게 젖었네… You got this wet because of me...

넌 대체 한 게 뭐야? What the hell did you do?

이거 다 나 때문이잖아. All of this is my doing.

크게 말해. Say it louder.

내밀어. Stick it out.

입술은 내 거야. Her lips are mine.

가서 입에 물려. Put it in her mouth.

우리 처음 만났을 때부터… 계속 이 생각만 했어. Since the first time we met… this is all I've thought about.

지금… 나만 생각해. Right now… only think of me.

씨발, 존나 조여… Fuck, you're so tight...

내 거… 넌 내 거야. Mine… You’re mine.

무릎 꿇고 제대로 받아. Stay on your knees and take it right.

내 좆으로 가득 차서 예쁘게 우네. You're crying so prettily, filled up with my cock.

내 모범생. My star student.

진짜 미치게 완벽해. You're so fucking perfect.

네가 이겼어, 중아. You won, Joong.

이제 영어로 말할 준비됐어? Now... are you ready to say it in English?

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

That was about 2 weeks ago, and he hasn’t stopped obsessing over it since. You noticed he was acting weird…distant. “Izu—“ You would start, waving…but instead of holding the door, he would walk into the classroom, and completely ignore you. You had obviously developed feelings for him too, hyping yourself up to confess…but now you weren’t so sure, why had he suddenly become so cold to you? He still sat next to your usual seat at lunch, but he would be there first, already eating before you even set your bag down. You had enough of this, he wasn’t just going to sit there and play with your mind! Intentionally or not…and you had the perfect way to find out if he really cared for you or not. “Izuku..?” You ask kindly, though your heart was swirling either confusion, pumping it unflaggingly through your body. He zips up, turning to you with tired eyes…odd. “Y-Yeah..?-“ He mumbles, his body tense. “Please come over to my dorm tonight to my dorm tonight to help me study for the upcoming written impulse control exam…I’m confident, of course! But…I could use a little reassurance..” Fuck. Why him, why now? That demeanor of yours, your voice…it haunted him. But he was hypnotized, and somehow…you knew it. “Of course, of course I’ll…help. Wh-What uh…t..time tonight..?-“ He almost facepalms at that question, as if it mattered. He wouldn’t have any time to prepare for it anyway, clear his mind, maybe shoot a load before he went over so he wouldn’t be so full…he wasn’t thinking clearly, the perverse bastard. "Anytime before 9, gotta go to bed early, you know.." You coo, facing him directly, drinking in the way he replied, eager to help...so why had he been so ridiculously distant? Maybe you made him shy, but why react now? You were so damn lost...but maybe spending time with him alone tonight would help. The day continued as usual, but Izuku could barely focus in class while Aizawa blabbed on about the lesson. He was dreading it. Dreading seeing your pretty face, your body in your loungewear, looking impossibly adorable in your natural state. Heat pooled in his stomach, and he clenched his fists, putting his head down defeatedly.

He gathers all of his courage once that annoying bell rings him out of his spiral...he speeds out of his room and right to the dormitory building, locking his door as he struggles to catch his breath, clawing at his thigh as something in his pants aches relentlessly. He grabs at the tent, forcing it to the side but he only shivers from the contact...his pretty eyes rolling back into his skull. Drool slips from the side of his mouth, a groan escaping his lips. Now, Midoriya didn’t masturbate often, but when he did, he let loose. Pounding every bit of stress into his drooling cock. Gnawing on his shirt so his cries wouldn’t reach anyone..holding his breath, choking himself…he experimented with different things he might like every one of the (rare) times he touched himself. But after falling for you, he found himself sobbing into his pillow as hot, sticky cum coated his knuckles, painting the soft green hairs trailing up his stomach white. Before he knows it, he's sitting on the floor, back against the door. His pants were wrinkled and disheveled, cock hard and ready for any sort of stimulation... bulge in one hand, his phone in the other...he rubs himself softly, earning gentle moans and jolts from himself, texting you shakily. "I'm sorry, I'm just gonna shower really fast before I come over, got a little hot today, be there soon! :)"

Your phone buzzes, and you smile a little seeing the message come over the top of your screen, right over the photos of Izuku you were admiring.

You text back almost instantly, a fluttering feeling in your heart. "No problem! I'll start alone, and you can jump in whenever!" You sit up stretching as you unbutton your school uniform, tossing it into your laundry bin, throwing on a black tank top…sliding off your skirt, you haphazardly toss it into the bin as well, pulling up some regular black shorts, hugging your body comfortably…

Izuku arrives about ten minutes after, his cheeks rid of any pink...but his ears dusted a pretty shade.

"I-I'm sorry I didn't show up sooner...how f-far did you get..?" He whispers shyly, walking in as you shut the door behind him, the atmosphere becoming chaste and endearing, you almost didn't see it coming.

He sits across from you at a cute little floor table you had in your room, a pretty tablecloth covering it, providing some protection to the wood, and a touch of your personality he adored. Izuku's mind was racing. Your pretty tits sitting so perfectly in that tank top..inviting his cock between them and enveloping him perfectly...he got too lost, imagining your soft, warm boobs around his cock, your erect nipples poking out adorably as his sobbing tip grazes your chin...damn it. That ever so familiar warmth creeped into his pants again, despite cumming so much recently...much more than he would usually allow himself. But here he was, stiff as a board as he helped make flashcards for the two of you. His handwriting became a little sloppy as his other hand was fisted between his thighs, literally suppressing his desire. But...one giggle too much, one tuck of your hair behind your ear, adjusting those straps...he paid attention to every detail as you spilled gossip into his ears that didn't matter to him in the slightest...

Not fast, or strong enough to make his entire arm move, but not soft enough for him to ignore either...he stifled whimpers with coughs, and hid his face behind those pretty green curls he just longed to have between your fingers. Precum oozing from him stained his pants...but he didn't care, he breathes out quietly as your voice was nothing but a murmur in the distance. Until your sudden movement cut through his fantasies like a blade.

He got too distracted. His voice comes out as a sputter, seeing you stand up and step to his side of the table, his eyes widen as he all but stays quiet, a shriek escaping him as you freeze mid-step. You had decided to sit beside him, to see the flashcards because you had forgotten what to do in a certain fire situation, but...you were met with a glance of his hand in his lap, palming a very...indiscreet bulge, and a wet stain in his pants. His face was red, and his started to sob.

"I'm'sorry..! I-l'ms-sosorry-!! Idunnowhatgotintomendl'vejusbeensohor—" You cut him off. "..Y-You could've told me...you had to go.." You whispered, your eyes hidden by your hair as you kneel down beside him. "Can...can I feel it.?" You breathe out, completely enamored...you were a virgin, no boyfriend, no kisses...no sex. You were an adult now, so...why not leap at this chance? He chokes on air, but he doesn't move away, his bulge twitches, as if reacting to your voice, and you place a gentle hand on top of it, making him shiver..his head tilting back, your name on his lips, and a switch flips within your stomach.

Hai lul this is absolute dogshit for something that took so long to come out and i apologize sonions lmk if we want a part 2 or flame me in the comments

The first thing you register while waking up is the warmth of Hongjoong's body wrapped around yours.

Your lashes flutter as you blink against the morning sun shining through his thin curtains, the room slowly coming into a hazy focus. The sheets are still tangled around your legs, and Hongjoong's arm is still draped across your waist, holding you against his very bare, very warm chest. 

You tilt your head back against the pillows so you can steal a glance at him. He's still fast asleep.

Without his glasses and the constant awkward tension he usually carries himself with, his features look a million times softer. His dark hair falls in a sleep-tousled mess across the white pillowcase, and his lips are parted ever so slightly as his breath fans over the top of your head.

For a moment, the same thought that flickered through your mind yesterday slips back again: maybe this really is a dream.

You stare at him, trying to wrap your head around the fact that this is real. Your tutor—the man who spent months sitting across from you at a table, correcting your pronunciation and quietly watching you over stacks of textbooks—is currently asleep beside you, holding you tightly in his arms.

Closing your eyes, you let yourself bask in the warmth of him for a few minutes longer. Eventually, though, as the fog of sleep continues to lift, your brain begins to catch up to the rest of you. 

What time is it? A lethargic flutter of panic kicks in. You hadn't planned on staying the night—let alone falling asleep tangled up with Hongjoong.

You carefully shift, trying not to disturb him as you scan the sunlit room. Your gaze snags on the nightstand. There, resting right beside his carefully folded glasses, is your phone, tethered to a white charging cord. 

A frown pulls at your brow. You definitely didn't plug your phone in. The last time you saw it, you were burying it in your purse while walking into the restaurant with Seonghwa. Come to think of it, you don't even know where your purse is. 

So how did your phone end up hooked up to Hongjoong's nightstand?

You shake the thought away, blaming your bad memory on the overwhelming events of the night; maybe you'd fished it out at some point and forgot. Whatever the case, you're just glad it isn't dead.

Wiggling loose from Hongjoong's grip takes some cautious maneuvering. You carefully stretch an arm across his body, holding your breath as the skin of your inner arm brushes against his chest. After snatching your phone off the nightstand, you quickly settle back into the mattress. 

You tap the dark screen. 9:27 a.m.

You wince. If you and Seonghwa had gotten back around nine last night, what time did you finally pass out? You and Hongjoong must've talked for at least an hour before you drifted off. You can't even remember who fell asleep first. Either way, you slept far longer than you intended. Considering you hadn't planned on sleeping here at all.

But it isn't the time blinking back at you that makes your stomach drop. Your lock screen is exploding with notifications—dozens upon dozens of unread messages from San, Yunho, and Yeosang. 

San [7:46 PM]: Update? San [8:11 PM]: Hello?? San [8:30 PM]: Why aren't you answering?? San [8:31 PM]: Are you still with him?? San [8:45 PM]: It's been an hour San [8:45 PM]: I'm getting worried Yunho [9:14 PM]: I didn't want to bother you but San is starting to freak me out Yunho [9:14 PM]: Are you okay?? San [9:42 PM]: 2 hours San [9:42 PM]: What the fuck is going on??????? Yunho [10:39 PM]: Just tell us you're safe, please San [11:22 PM]: WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU San [11:22 PM]: You said you'd be home by 11 San [11:58 PM]: ???????????????????? Yunho [12:31 AM]: Does this mean the plan worked? Yeosang [12:55 AM]: I don't want to interrupt in case things are going well, but I'm getting worried too. Where are you? San [1:03 AM]: ???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????? San [8:45 AM]: So you never came home San [8:46 AM]: Hope you're still alive San [8:46 AM]: Although you apparently don't care enough to let me know either way Yunho [9:02 AM]: ____? Yeosang [9:05 AM]: These fuckers woke me up at 9 to check on you. You'd better have had the best night of your life. 

You gnaw on your lower lip, scrolling through the panicked texts your friends left you. You feel guilty for leaving them hanging. You probably should've updated them at some point, though your mind had been a little too occupied to even think about your phone.

"Your friends seem a little worried."

You jump, a small gasp slipping from your lips as you whip your head around.

Hongjoong is awake. Sometime during your scroll, he'd shifted closer, his chin now resting near your cheek as he unabashedly reads your phone screen right over your shoulder. His dark eyes are half-closed and languid with sleep, but what really sends a chill down your spine is his voice. His gravelly morning rasp is so attractive that a furious blush rushes to your cheeks. 

You stare at him, suddenly at a loss for words. You're in bed with your tutor. His bare chest is pressed against your arm. The blankets are tangled around your bodies, doing nothing to hide the fact that neither of you is wearing a single piece of clothing.

You quickly hit the power button, dropping your phone onto the mattress as you let out a shaky laugh. "Do you always read people's texts over their shoulders?" you ask, your voice a little breathless.

Hongjoong's lips curve into a lazy smile. He lets his eyelids shut again, his body shifting against yours beneath the covers. 

"Only when I like them," he murmurs.

Your heart does a pathetic flip. Is he too tired to realize what he's saying, or is he just shamelessly flirting with me now?

Another buzz vibrates against your palm, and you glance down. A new message from Yunho has popped up at the very bottom of the thread. 

Yunho [9:28 AM]: If you're alive, meet us in 30 at the café.

You tap the notification. The keyboard immediately glows on your screen, but your thumbs hover uselessly over the letters. What are you even supposed to reply? You aren't necessarily comfortable with typing out, Sorry, I'm naked in my tutor's bed right now, I might need a little more than 30 minutes.

"Go ahead," Hongjoong's sleep-heavy voice rumbles softly against your ear, letting you know he'd read that text, too. "Tell them you'll be there. I don't want your friends worrying about you."

You bite your lip, hesitating for a second before finally typing out a quick response. 

You [9:29 AM]: I'll be there. And I'll explain.

You lock the phone and toss it blindly onto the mattress again.

The bed dips as Hongjoong shifts, pushing himself up to sit. The duvet slips low, pooling right at his waist as he grabs his glasses from the nightstand. As he swings his legs over the edge of the mattress to stand, you immediately avert your eyes, suddenly too shy to look at his bare body in the daylight. You stare very intently at the texture of the pillowcase while he rustles around, quickly stepping into a pair of grey sweatpants and pulling a dark hoodie over his messy hair.

Once he's dressed, he looks around the room. His gaze lands on the discarded sweater he'd taken off you last night, lying in a heap near the door.

"Uh," he clears his throat, breaking the silence. You peek up at him. "You... you can borrow some of my clothes. I know all you have here is, uh, that dress."

"Oh... yeah," you agree, a bashful smile touching your lips. "That would be... great. Thank you."

He gives a tight nod and moves toward his large sliding closet. As he pulls the door open, you catch a flash of your own reflection in the mirrored panel. Heat instantly floods your face. You tear your eyes away from the glass, your mind too embarrassed by the vivid memory of what you watched happen in that very mirror last night. 

Oblivious, Hongjoong shuffles through a row of hangers before pulling out a white hoodie and a pair of black sweatpants. When he turns back to you, some anxious tension has returned to his shoulders. 

"I, um..." he trails off, looking down at the fabric in his hands as he walks back over to the bed. "I actually made this one myself."

He flips the hoodie around to show you. Your eyes widen at the beautiful design sprawled across the back: a stunning painting of a dragon intertwined with dark outlines of different flowers. It perfectly matches a smaller logo—labeled K.HJ—embroidered onto the pocket of the sweatpants.

"And these sweatpants are a little too small on me now," he adds quickly, rambling to fill the quiet. "So they should work for you."

You smile as you reach out from under the covers to take the bundle. "I, um... Yeah, this is perfect. Thank you."

Clutching the soft, fleece-lined fabric to your chest, you sit up just a bit against the headboard. You hesitate, mentally preparing to drop the blanket and get out of bed—but then you freeze. You have nothing on underneath it. 

Hongjoong is just standing there, hands in his pockets, watching you with a soft, unreadable expression. He blinks at you when you don't move.

It takes his sleep-fogged brain exactly three seconds to realize why you haven't gotten up.

His eyes snap wide as a red flush crawls rapidly up his neck and paints the tips of his ears. "Right! Sorry!" he stammers, spinning around on his heel so fast he nearly trips over his own feet. He aggressively shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose and busies himself with picking up the scattered mess of clothes on the floor.

Swallowing back a laugh at his flustered reaction, you quickly slip out from under the covers. You pull on the black sweatpants and drag the thick white hoodie over your head.

You look down at yourself. The hoodie is definitely oversized—the long sleeves consume your hands completely, and the hem drops well past your hips—but it doesn't look entirely ridiculous.

You step away from the edge of the bed, feeling swallowed up by the fabric as you shift your weight awkwardly in the center of the room. The plush carpet beneath your bare feet reminds you of yet another glaring problem: you don't have any shoes. Your heels from last night are currently abandoned somewhere in either the kitchen or Seonghwa's bedroom. You can't remember. 

Hearing the soft rustle of clothing, Hongjoong finally turns around.

At first glance, he stops dead in his tracks. His eyes do a slow sweep over you, taking in the sight of his custom designs draped over your smaller frame. Whatever nervous tension he was carrying melts from his shoulders, replaced by an affectionate smile. For a long moment, he watches you without a single word. 

Then his gaze drops lower, landing on the floor. 

"Oh!" he says, blinking as he realizes you're standing barefoot on his carpet. He immediately pivots back to his closet. "I have some old pairs saved that don't fit me anymore," he explains, his voice picking up a quick, nervous cadence again. "I was going to rework them into new designs, but I haven't had the time to get started on anything. I can give you a pair."

While he rummages through the lower shelves, you catch a sliver of your reflection in the partially open mirrored door. You reach up to quickly tame your hair, but your hands stall.

You look like an awkward, ruined mess. Your hair is tangled, your makeup is washed away, and there are dark circles of exhaustion under your eyes. As you tilt your head, the collar of the oversized hoodie slips down your shoulder, exposing the bruises mottled across your collarbone and tracking up the column of your neck.

You inwardly begin to panic as you realize you're about to walk into a public café to face Yunho, San, and Yeosang looking like this. You hurriedly grab the drawstrings of the hoodie, yanking them taut to bunch the thick collar higher up under your chin, praying the fleece will be enough to hide the damning evidence of the night you had.

But as your eyes flick back to the mirror for one last check, your hands slowly pause on the strings. Despite the messy hair, despite the exhaustion... you somehow look like you're glowing. You have a giddy brightness about you that you haven't seen looking back from a mirror in months. You look happy.

"Try these," Hongjoong says as he stands up, pulling your attention away from the glass.

He slides the closet door shut, turning around with a pair of white sneakers. You notice a sleek, hand-painted black line curving across the side that matches the hoodie and sweatpants you're wearing. 

You step backward, perching yourself on the edge of the mattress, and reach out to take the shoes from him.

But Hongjoong doesn't even seem to think about handing them over. He drops to his knees on the carpet right in front of you.

Your whole body freezes. You watch, completely stunned, as he gently wraps his hand around your left ankle, lifts your foot, and effortlessly slides the sneaker over your heel. He seems so focused on the task that you don't think he even realizes the intimacy of what he's doing.

"These shoes are really a perfect match to your outfit," he murmurs in a casual rumble as he pulls the laces tight and ties them into a neat little bow. He reaches for your right foot, repeating the same steps. "I actually had this pair in mind when I was painting that hoodie last month. And I'd already made those pants a few years ago. They're simple, I know. But I made sure they're extra comfortable."

You stare down at the crown of his tousled hair, your heart racing as his warm hands brush against your ankles. 

"There," he says softly, giving the second bow a final tug. He tips his head up to look at you from the floor, his eyes crinkling warmly behind the lenses of his glasses. "It's nice to have the full outfit on someone other than myself. Especially since those shoes are too small for me now. Let me see."

He stands up, offering his hands to you. You take them without any hesitation, letting his grip pull you up from the mattress.

You stand in front of him as his eyes rake over the finished outfit from head to toe. The soft smile on his lips slowly stretches into a look of pride.

"Keep it all," he says, his eyes finally flicking back up to meet yours. "It looks perfect on you."

You glance down shyly before meeting his eyes again. "Thank you," you whisper, a helpless smile breaking across your face.

He doesn't let go of your hands just yet. You stand there together in the quiet room, his thumbs absent-mindedly stroking the backs of your knuckles as he admires you. 

Then, quite suddenly, Hongjoong’s brain seems to turn back on.

He blinks, visibly snapping out of his daze. A dusting of pink returns to his cheeks as he abruptly drops your hands and shoves his own deep into his pockets. He clears his throat loudly, looking anywhere but you as a bout of awkwardness takes over.

"So," he says, aggressively adjusting his glasses with the back of his wrist. "You can, uh... follow me."

He turns on his heel and marches out of the bedroom, leaving you with both a wide-open door to follow him out of and a massive smile hidden in the oversized collar of his hoodie.

Your new sneakers pad softly against the hardwood as you follow him out of his bedroom and into the open living space. You glance down the short hall toward Seonghwa's closed bedroom door. For a moment, you almost become a little self-conscious—were you too loud last night? Did he hear everything that happened in Hongjoong's room? 

But the thought dissolves instantly. It doesn't really matter whether he heard or not. You'd been making the same sounds for him just ten minutes earlier. 

Lost in thought, you nearly plow straight into Hongjoong, who has frozen dead in the center of the kitchen. You catch yourself just in time, rocking back on your heels to avoid colliding with his back. 

You peek around his shoulder, following his rigid gaze questioningly. 

Sitting right in the middle of the kitchen island is a neat, organized pile of your belongings. Your blue dress is carefully folded on top of your coat. Your purse sits beside it, your discarded heels lined up parallel to the edge. The sight of your bra and panties—supposedly tucked beneath the dress, but glaringly visible against the dark fabric—makes you blush. 

Hongjoong's jaw is clenched. Without a single word, he abruptly pivots and stalks down the hallway toward Seonghwa's room. He grabs the handle, shoves the door open with unnecessary force, and peers inside. 

You watch his sharp gaze sweep around the interior for a moment before he lets out a breath, fixing the glasses that slid down the bridge of his nose. 

"Hongjoong?" you ask tentatively, your voice echoing. "What's wrong?"

He yanks the door shut and walks back over to you, his eyes still locked on the pile of your clothes. "He's not here," he mutters. He doesn't say anything else. 

"Oh," you breathe out, not really knowing what else to say.

You both stand there in an awkward silence, staring at the neatly folded clothes.

You know for a fact your dress was abandoned on the floor of Seonghwa's bedroom. You have no idea where your coat, purse, or shoes ended up, but you know your phone was inside your bag. Yet, when you woke up this morning, your phone was charging on Hongjoong's nightstand.

If Seonghwa was the one who collected your clothes and arranged them in the kitchen... did he also bring your phone inside Hongjoong's room?Did he push the door open and slip inside while the two of you were fast asleep, completely naked and tangled together in bed?

A weird mix of conflicting emotions washes over you. It's an insanely intrusive, bizarre boundary to cross. But at the same time... wasn't it part of what he promised? He'd pushed Hongjoong to his breaking point, engineered the perfect way to get him to confront his feelings, and then silently packed your bags, charged your dead phone, and vanished so you wouldn't have to face the awkwardness of the situation in the morning. 

You can't tell if you want to avoid Seonghwa for the rest of your life or buy him a thank-you gift.

Before you can dwell on it any longer, Hongjoong is moving again. He turns and marches right back down the hallway, this time in the opposite direction—back to his own bedroom.

You blink, standing awkwardly by the marble island in his hoodie. A glance at your phone screen reads 9:46 a.m. You still have time, but what is he doing now?

A long minute later, he reappears, carrying a sleek, black canvas tote bag in his hands, one that you could imagine yourself using as an everyday bag. Without a word, he steps up to the island and begins gently picking up your clothes. He transfers your coat and dress into the bottom of the tote, careful not to ruin the neat folding. You notice his cheeks turn bright pink as he tucks your underwear away, and you have to bite your lip hard to trap the embarrassed squeak threatening to escape. He drops your heels and purse in last, making sure everything is concealed and secure. 

Your heart flutters uncontrollably. He's doing it again. He's taking care of you without even thinking twice about it. Rather than letting you endure the humiliation of carrying yesterday's clothes through the crowded campus, he's making sure your dignity remains intact.

He takes the thick straps of the bag into his hand. 

"I can keep these here," he says quietly, staring down at the bag, "If you don't want to carry them with you." 

You shake your head even though his eyes are lowered. "It's okay. Since everything's packed away, I'll be fine."

He nods and steps closer, holding the straps out to you. You reach out, your breath hitching as your fingers brush against his knuckles. The electricity from his touch shoots straight up your arm.

"T-Thank you, Hongjoong."

He looks at you, his eyes tracing your features. His lips part slightly, and for a second, he looks like he wants to say something else. You hold your breath, waiting. But he presses his lips into a tight line and gives you a small nod instead, turning toward the entryway. 

You slowly trail behind him, silence falling over you yet again as you reach the front door. 

Hongjoong shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his sweatpants, rocking back on his heels awkwardly. 

"Do you..." he starts, pulling one hand free to rub the back of his neck. "Do you want me to walk you there?"

You shake your head, another warm flush rising to your cheeks at the offer. "It's okay," you reassure him softly. "The café is only a five-minute walk from here." What you don't tell him is that you desperately want to spare yourself from having to deal with your friends' interrogation while the prime subject of their questioning is standing right next to you.  

He nods slowly. "Okay." 

"Okay," you echo, offering a small, incredibly awkward smile. 

You both stand there, staring at the scuff marks on the hardwood floor. Neither of you makes a move toward the doorknob. It’s painfully obvious that you don't actually want to separate—it feels like there are a thousand more conversations that need to be had—but as you shift your grip on the canvas tote, the screen of your phone lights up in your hand.

9:50 a.m.

"I should go," you say, tearing your eyes up from the floor. "I don't want them worrying any more than they already are."

Hongjoong nods again, but he still doesn't step aside.

"____?" he asks quietly. 

"Yeah?"

He pauses, taking a steadying breath before he speaks. "I, uh, I know last night was a little... unconventional," he begins awkwardly, the words slightly stilted. "But... I had a really good night with you. Really." You feel your breath hitch as he meets your eyes. "And I meant everything I said. Every word. I just... I want to make sure you still feel the same way in the daylight. That you don't regret any of it."

You feel your heart melt into a puddle at your feet. Regret it?

"Hongjoong, I..."

Is it too much to say that you've been waiting for this very moment for months? To admit that you had buried your feelings so deep, completely convinced that he would never look at you twice? That you genuinely believed the world would end before he ever crossed the line and confessed that he felt the same way? 

Yeah. Probably too much.

"I don't regret a single second of it," you say instead, your voice thick with emotion as you offer him the warmest smile you can muster. "I promise." 

The way his shoulders relax and the way that adorable eye-crinkling smile finally returns tells you he's relieved.

"Then... I'll see you on Thursday," he says softly.

Your smile widens. "Yeah. I... I'll see you then."

It's so ridiculous, so incredibly awkward, standing in his entryway like two teenagers at the end of a first date. But then, Hongjoong steps forward, lifting his hand to your jaw. His touch is a little shaky, his fingers slightly trembling as he gently tilts your chin up toward him. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

It’s sweet and hesitant, completely different from last night, but it still sends butterflies straight to your stomach all the same. When he pulls back, your face is practically on fire. You drop your gaze, avoiding eye contact as it fully hits you.

This is real.

Hongjoong just kissed you goodbye.

You confessed to each other.

The feelings are entirely mutual.

"I—um—yes. Thursday. I'll see you then. Bye," you squeak out. 

Before he can say anything else—or laugh at your flustered panic—you quickly reach out, yank the front door open, and flee into the hallway, flashing him one last pathetic, nervous smile before pulling the door shut behind you. 

You stand frozen in the empty hallway, your back pressed flat against his door. You squeeze your eyes shut, taking a deep, shuddering breath as you force your heart to calm down. You mentally scold yourself for acting like such a nervous idiot, and yet... you absolutely cannot wipe the massive, goofy grin off your face.

You linger there for a lot longer than you should, basking in the giddy aftermath of it all, when a muffled noise from the other side of the door catches your attention.

It's the faint sound of a phone dialing. 

You blink, holding your breath, pressing your ear against the door to listen. Who is Hongjoong calling only a minute after you left?

"Hello?" his voice filters through the wood of the door.

You flinch in surprise. His tone is suddenly authoritative and polite—the exact one you're so used to hearing during your sessions.

"Yes, good morning. I'm calling to speak with the supervisor regarding one of the tutors at the Language Center. His name is James Yang..."

His voice begins to trail off, growing fainter as his footsteps carry him deeper into the apartment.

Your jaw drops. A second later, you have to clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle a giggle. 

Shaking your head with a helpless laugh, you finally push yourself off the door. You adjust the strap of the tote bag on your shoulder and turn down the hall, wondering how the hell you're ever going to explain everything that happened in the last twelve hours to your friends. 

The second you open the door to the café, the cheerful little chime of the overhead bell sends three heads snapping toward the entrance in unison. 

Yunho, San, and Yeosang are huddled together around a small circular table in the far back corner, each already nursing their own drink. The absolute second they spot you, their eyes do a collective scan of your entire appearance—your messy hair, the oversized clothes, and the bag on your shoulder.

You quickly break eye contact, your cheeks burning, and drag your feet over to their table. Pulling out the fourth chair, you swiftly kick the bag beneath the table, praying that they don't try to look inside it. 

"Holy shit," San breathes out sarcastically, leaning back so hard his chair creaks. "You're alive."

You roll your eyes as you drop into the seat. "Okay, I'm sorry I didn't update you guys. But to be fair, I only remember saying I'd text you if something went wrong, not if things went right."

"Well, excuse the hell out of me for wanting to make sure you didn't get—"

"San. Calm down," Yeosang cuts in, his voice as flat and calm as ever. Without even looking up, he slides a sweating plastic cup across the table and into your hands: a freshly made iced chai.

You flash Yeosang a grateful smile, wrap your hands around the cup, and take a long sip of your favorite drink. Yunho reaches over, gently patting your arm. 

"When you didn't reply at all, San assumed that the plan—if that's what we're calling it—didn't work out," Yunho explains, his tone cautious but curious. "He convinced us that you ended up sleeping with Seonghwa last night."

You whip your head toward San, eyes narrowing. "Seriously? Why is that the first thing you assume?"

"Because you didn't tell us anything!" San exclaims, throwing his hands up in defense."You didn't even explain the whole thing! You kept saying you 'trusted him,'" he says, his air quotes so aggressive he nearly knocks over his drink, "but everything you told me sounded exactly like Wooyoung 2.0! What was I supposed to think?"

You open your mouth to argue, but Yeosang interrupts you before you can get a word out.

"Which is why, when we didn't hear from you, we naturally assumed the worst." He takes a slow sip of his black coffee, his eyes drifting past your shoulder. "But he's been working since before we even got here. So clearly, our theories were a bit off." 

He gives a subtle, pointed tilt of his chin toward the front counter.

You slowly turn your head, following the trajectory of Yeosang's gaze across the bustling café.

The blood drains from your face.

He's here.

Seonghwa is stationed behind the front counter, dressed in the same black apron as Thursday, casually wiping down the espresso machine. He looks infuriatingly normal, unbothered, as if the events of last night hadn't occurred at all.

But as if sensing your stare, the white rag in his hand stalls. He lifts his head, and his eyes scan the entirety of the crowded room before slamming directly into yours. 

Even from twenty feet away, you catch the involuntary hitch of his chest, a fleeting crack of surprise breaking through the polite customer service facade. He clearly didn't expect to see you here. Meanwhile, you're mentally cursing yourself for not even considering the possibility that he could be working today.

Time seems suspended as his eyes drop, sweeping over your seated figure. He takes in your outfit, recognition flashing in his eyes; you know he's seen Hongjoong wear the same clothes before. But his gaze doesn't linger there. It climbs upward, stopping on the thick collar you've bunched so defensively high up your chin.

He knows exactly what you’re trying to hide beneath that hoodie. He knows the precise shape and placement of every single mark decorating your collarbone and neck... because half of them belong to Hongjoong, and the other half belong to him.

A hot prickle of nerves races across your skin. Feeling dangerously exposed under his watch, you shakily reach up, tugging the neckline just a tiny bit higher against your throat. 

As he watches you, the corner of Seonghwa's mouth twitches into a smirk. Before anyone else in the building can catch your secret exchange, he dips his head down, hiding the curve of his lips behind his dark curtain of hair as he turns his attention back to the espresso machine.

Hoping that your cheeks don't look as scorched as they feel, you drag in a sharp breath. You tear your eyes away from the counter, forcing yourself to turn back to the small table—where Yunho, San, and Yeosang are still sitting there, their eyes boring holes into you, silently waiting for an explanation.

"Well... yes, you were wrong," you murmur, looking around the table to meet their expectant stares one by one. "The plan worked." 

Yunho chokes on his iced Americano, coughing into the crook of his elbow. A small smile spreads across Yeosang's face as he gestures pointedly at your outfit.

"So, I take it those are Hongjoong's clothes you're drowning in?" he asks.

San blinks, his brain taking an extra second to connect the dots. When the implication finally clicks, he slaps both palms flat against the tabletop. "Wait! Weren't you wearing a dress when you left? Where did—" 

"San!" you hiss, your eyes going wide as you furiously wave your hands to shush him.

You dart a glance back over your shoulder, terrified that his booming voice carried all the way to the front counter. Seonghwa is still facing the espresso machine, his back turned to your table, but from this angle, you can clearly see the outline of a smirk playing on his profile. He's absolutely listening to every single word.

"Shut up!" you whisper-yell, turning back to glare at him.

"Okay, ignore San," Yeosang says quietly. He leans in closer, resting his forearms on the table. "Tell us what actually happened. Because clearly, Seonghwa didn’t sweep you off your feet like we thought he did."

Your face instantly burns. You quickly drop your gaze and take a long sip of your iced chai just to give yourself something to do besides react. You are absolutely not going to tell them that Seonghwa did, in fact, sweep you off your feet, far more than they could ever imagine. You already know you're going to have trouble explaining everything that happened between you and Hongjoong—adding a second man into the mix, especially one they already don’t trust, would be too humiliating. And you have a feeling none of them would take it very well. Not after what happened with Wooyoung. Especially not when that man is standing barely twenty feet away and very obviously trying to listen to your conversation. All of it—the threesome, the blurred lines, the madness of last night—is a secret you will be taking straight to your grave.

"Yes, San, these are Hongjoong’s clothes," you say carefully, keeping your voice in a hushed, controlled whisper. "And... yeah. Seonghwa played his part exactly like he promised he would. He flirted with me until... until Hongjoong couldn't take it anymore." 

All three men exchange glances. 

San speaks up first, his tone still dripping with suspicion. "So I don’t need to go over there and deal with him like I wanted to with Wooyoung?"

You let out a breathless laugh. "No, San. I told you, I trusted him. And it turns out I was right." I think, you add internally.

"Do you wanna elaborate on what 'Hongjoong couldn't take it anymore' means?" Yunho prompts, leaning forward to join Yeosang.

You clear your throat awkwardly. Your eyes dart toward the counter one last time before dropping to the condensation dripping down your cup. Filtering this story on the fly is going to be difficult.

"Well... he got pretty jealous seeing us walk in together," you start, carefully omitting the minor detail that Seonghwa had his hands roaming all over your body at the time. "We were in their apartment, obviously, so he... he took me to the only private place there. His room."

You pause, peeking up through your lashes to gauge their reactions. All three men are leaning over the tiny table, listening to you with total, undivided attention.

You let out another soft, embarrassed laugh, nervously wiping away the droplets on your cup. "And then... yeah. His jealousy made us finally confess to each other, and, um... one thing led to another, and—"

"Come on, don't give us that!" Yunho interrupts, reaching across the table to give your shoulder a light shove. "Don't give us that 'one thing led to another' bullshit."

"Yeah, no skipping to the end!" San agrees while nodding. "We've had to deal with months of you figuring out your feelings for this guy. How did you do it? What did he say?"

You bite your lower lip, self-conscious. It was one thing to live through the confession, but repeating the details out loud in a crowded café with his roommate a few feet away is an entirely different story.

"Um... well," you murmur. "He confessed that he’d been trying to stay professional since the day we met, but that he’s... basically always had feelings for me."

Yunho’s face lights up with a beaming grin. "Just like we all told you." 

"Just like I told you," Yeosang corrects, taking a sip of his coffee. You and Yunho both roll your eyes.

"Yes, yes, whatever," you push on, requiring a monumental amount of mental gymnastics to skip over the fact that this whole confession was triggered by a threesome. "I confessed the same thing. I told him about all the little moments that made me think he liked me, and I finally admitted that I’d been avoiding my own feelings, too. As you all know."

"As we know way too well," San nods.

You ignore him. "He said he avoided me after we kissed because he realized he couldn’t ignore his feelings anymore. He was scared of crossing the line because it meant things could never go back to being simple."

"Well, no shit," Yeosang deadpans.

Yunho kicks him under the table. 

"Ow!" Yeosang glares at him, reaching down to rub his shin, but you just laugh.

"Yeah. No shit," you agree, nodding. "And then, I... I think I told him to stop pretending I’ve only ever been his student, then."

Yunho's grin widens. He rests his chin on his hands, fluttering his eyelashes at you mockingly. "Aw, look at you with the rom-com lines."

Your face flushes hot, and this time, you're the one who kicks Yunho under the table. "Do you want me to keep telling you the story or not?"

"Keep going," all three of them demand in unison. 

You huff, adjusting the sleeves of the hoodie. "Fine. So, I think that's where he really opened up. He said a lot about how... how English isn’t enough to explain his feelings."

Yeosang clicks his tongue in approval. "Very poetic. Fitting for how you two met."

San nods solemnly. "This is great material if you ever wanna write a book, ____. Seriously."

"It'll be a bestseller," Yeosang agrees with him.

You practically slam your iced drink down on the table, glaring at them. "You guys really suck."

"Sorry, sorry," San apologizes, though he’s sporting a massive, shit-eating grin that says he isn't sorry at all. "Anyway. So that’s it?"

"No, no, no." Yunho shakes his head, wiggling an accusatory finger at you. "Where’s the rest of it? That sweet little conversation doesn't explain how you ended up looking like that."

Yeosang chuckles. "Right. Where did the new clothes come from? More importantly, where did your old ones go?"

You clamp your mouth shut, your eyes suddenly finding the melting ice in your cup incredibly fascinating.

"Um..."

All three of them lean in closer.

You swallow hard, dropping your voice to a barely audible and highly reluctant mumble. "I think I might've said something along the lines of... if English isn't enough, he needs to show me in a language we both know."

Yunho practically spits his Americano back into his cup as San and Yeosang completely lose it, barking out loud, echoing laughs.

"You said what?" San howls, bending over the table.

Panic erupts in your chest instantaneously. You whip your head toward the front counter, but thankfully, the space is empty; Seonghwa must've stepped into the back room, temporarily out of earshot.

"Shut up!" you whisper-yell, shushing them as your face burns with the heat of a thousand suns. "You’re so annoying! I know it sounds stupid out loud! But it sounded really, really good in the moment!"

Yunho is biting his lip so hard it might bleed, trying his best to hold back his laughter, though his shoulders are shaking uncontrollably. "I really think you should listen to San’s advice and write that book," he says, completely deadpan, hiding his smile behind his hand.

"Okay. Fine. Laugh all you want," you huff, crossing your arms over Hongjoong's hoodie. "I’m never telling you guys a single thing about my life ever again."

Yeosang finally gets his laughter under control, though his grin remains. "Hey, don't be mad. I'm sure Hongjoong loved it." 

"Oh, he definitely loved it," San snorts, wiping a literal tear from his eye. "He probably kissed you right after you said that, didn’t he?"

You pause, biting the inside of your cheek as you stare down at your hands. The dizzying memory of Hongjoong pressing soft kisses over the bruises on your neck —of him guiding you to the edge of his bed—flashes behind your eyes.

"Well...." you drag the word out, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. "Not exactly."

"Not exactly?" Yunho asks, one eyebrow shooting up to his hairline.

You look up at them, your smirk growing. "But since you made fun of me, I am officially done talking."

Immediately, a chorus of protests erupts around the table.

"Oh, come on."

"Seriously?"

"You can't just leave it there!"

You shake your head stubbornly, sipping your chai with a maddeningly calm expression until they finally groan and give up. They settle back into their chairs, taking disgruntled sips of their own drinks as the banter finally lulls.

"So... what about after?" Yunho asks, his tone turning a bit more serious. "You guys... talked about things, right?"

"Of course we did," you nod, your finger tracing the condensation on your cup once again. "I mean, he talked about how nervous he is. He’s never actually been in a relationship before."

You glance instinctively back toward the counter. Seonghwa has reappeared from the back room, taking an order from a new customer.

"Seonghwa actually told me that Hongjoong has never really had a crush before," you add quietly, looking back at your friends. "So... I just told him that it’ll be okay to make mistakes. Both of us will inevitably screw up. And that we'll figure things out together."

Yeosang pauses, studying you carefully over the rim of his cup. He slowly lowers it to the table. "Does that mean he was a virgin?" 

Your shoulders tense. Right. You'd almost forgotten about that part.

"Um... yeah," you murmur, your fingers tightening so hard around your cup that the plastic loudly crinkles. "He was."

The three of them blink, a complicated look passing between them.

"Did you..." Yunho begins carefully, his voice gentle. "Did you guys talk about that? About your pasts?"

You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper. "...Yeah."

San asks, "So you told him about Wooyoung?"

Your heart drops to your shoes. "San, for the last time, keep your voice down!" you hiss, immediately whipping your head toward the front counter. Thankfully, Seonghwa has his back completely turned to you, occupied with steaming milk for a customer's latte. You turn back to the table, leaning in so far that your chest presses hard against the edge. "Seonghwa knows that Wooyoung and I had a thing, but he doesn't know we actually—" You cut yourself off, the damning word lodging in your throat.

Yeosang stares at you, clicking his tongue. "So you didn't."

You grimace, shame burning hot at the base of your neck. "No. I didn't tell him."

Yunho’s eyes widen. "You lied? You told him you were a virgin?"

"No!" you whisper-yell, shaking your head. "I didn't say that! I just... I told him my first time was with my ex. In high school."

San and Yunho exchange a loaded look. 

"____, why the fuck would you lie about that?" San asks. He remembers to lower his voice this time, but the judgment in his tone makes you flinch nonetheless.

"That’s not something to lie about when you really care about someone," Yunho says quietly. "You know that."

Yunho’s words twist in your heart like a serrated knife. The guilt you'd desperately tried to suppress comes rushing to the surface.

"I know," you say quietly. "I know it's bad. But you guys don’t understand the context of the conversation. He had just finished confessing that he was terrified of his feelings for me. How was I supposed to look him in the eye and explain that while he was agonizing over his feelings for me, I was actively sleeping with someone else? That while I literally had feelings for him, I still chose to let someone like Wooyoung touch me?"

The three of them fall silent. 

"Besides, I'd already lied to him about Wooyoung before," you press on. "The night I slept over at his apartment, I told Hongjoong I was out with Yunho. I lied after that, too, when he accidentally saw a text from Wooyoung on my phone. I swore he was just a friend. And there are probably other little lies I don’t even remember telling him."

San frowns at you, confused and disappointed. "But why would you lie about all of that in the first place? You weren’t dating. You didn't owe him an explanation back then."

You let out a shaky sigh, running a hand through your tangled hair. "I know I didn't. But it still felt wrong. I... I think it was because, deep down, I already knew I had feelings for him. So doing anything with Wooyoung felt wrong... like I was cheating on a crush. I felt guilty about it. I didn’t want him to find out."

You look at your three best friends, your eyes silently pleading with them to understand the corner you'd painted yourself into.

"And then I just couldn’t take it back. I dug the lie so deep. If I told him the truth last night, he'd realize I lied to his face in the past. And he’d know I slept with someone else while I supposedly liked him. Can you imagine how terrifying it would be for him to hear that? A guy who’s never even had a real crush before? A guy who just trusted me with his literal first time?"

You look away from them, staring blankly at the wall. This is your own fault, and you know it. But what else could you have possibly done on the spot?

The table falls into silence as the three of them process everything you've said.

Yunho eventually lets out a conflicted sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don’t know, ____. You always do this. You choose the safety of a lie over just being vulnerable and telling the truth. I think—no, I know—you're afraid of Hongjoong seeing you differently. But if he really cares, it’s not like he’d suddenly stop liking you over this."

You look at him, his words making your stomach twist, and you shake your head. "I don't know if that's true, Yunho. Put yourself in his shoes. Imagine this: you finally, finally tell Mingi how you feel. He looks at you and says he likes you, too. But, then, right in the middle of this beautiful, vulnerable moment, he casually mentions that he was fucking someone else just two weeks ago while claiming to be obsessing over you."

Yunho frowns, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "I mean, I obviously wouldn’t be thrilled about it, but—"

"And," you cut in, your voice sharpening, "you’re also a virgin. Mingi is your first time. You have absolutely no idea what you’re doing, you have no idea how to navigate these overwhelming new feelings, you are entirely inexperienced, and the guy you just poured your heart out to was letting someone else touch him just days ago because 'it didn’t actually mean anything.' Honestly, Yunho, think about it. How would you feel?"

Yunho opens his mouth, his brow furrowed in immediate protest, but no words come out. He slowly closes his mouth, looking away.

"I get why you lied," Yeosang says quietly after another few moments. "I know I'd be freaked out if I were in his position. It's human nature to want to protect his feelings and keep the peace, especially right after a major confession." He pauses, his lips tightening into a thin line. "The only problem is the corner you've backed yourself into. Because now, you have two options: never let him find out and deal with the guilt for the rest of your life, or tell him the truth and risk him never trusting you again."

San vigorously shakes his head, refusing to accept Yeosang's bleak pragmatism. "What? No! ____, I think you seriously have a lying problem. I'm telling you, he wouldn’t have stopped liking you. Are you all crazy?"

Yunho sighs, his shoulders slumping. "Well... honestly, San, when you put it in the context of Mingi... I don't know. I’d be pretty devastated."

You nod miserably, the confirmation making the pit in your stomach sink even lower.

"You just... fuck, ____. You should’ve told him the truth from the very beginning," Yunho says, shaking his head. "Before the lie got this deep."

"I know," you murmur, picking at the cuff of the sweatshirt. "I’d love to go back and change things, but I can’t. It felt like such a harmless little white lie at the time, and now..."

You trail off. 

Yeosang tilts his head slightly, folding his arms across his chest. "Well..." he says slowly, like he's piecing together a puzzle. "You're dating now, right?"

The gears in your brain suddenly halt.

You blink at Yeosang. "Um..."

Across the table, San and Yunho both go still.

"____," San says slowly, squinting at you. "You are officially dating, right?"

"We... we never actually talked about that," you realize, the color slowly draining from your face.

"Huh?" Yunho and San ask in baffled, incredulous unison.

"You didn't talk about it at all?"

"You went all the way and didn't once stop to establish what you actually are?"

"No, we didn't," you realize, dropping your face into your hands in embarrassment. "Not that I remember!"

You might actually be an idiot, you chastise yourself, dragging your hands down your flushed cheeks. What are we? Are we dating? Am I his girlfriend? What does he think we are? Is he stressing about the same thing right now?

"Okay, relax," Yunho says, realizing your thoughts are spiraling. He reaches over to pat your arm. "You'll talk about it. You guys had an emotionally exhausting night. It makes sense that the technicalities slipped your minds. Don't stress about the label right now."

"I was just asking," Yeosang continues calmly, ignoring your minor crisis, "because strategically speaking, you should wait to tell him the truth about Wooyoung until after you’re officially dating."

San narrows his eyes at him, suspicious. "Why?"

"Because," Yeosang explains, "if you tell him the truth right now, in this undefined gray area, his logical thought process will be: She lied to me, she's not a good person to date, so I’m going to cut my losses and back out before I’m fully invested.' But... if you wait until you're officially locked into a committed relationship, leaving you requires a full breakup. Which he’s way less likely to initiate."

Yunho stares at him, appalled. 

"What the hell, Yeosang?" San yells, shoving his shoulder roughly. "So your plan is to trap him in a relationship?"

"It's not that I want to trap the poor guy," Yeosang defends himself, scowling at San, "but I'm fully on ____'s side with this. It's the best solution for her."

"My roommate's a sociopath," Yunho mutters under his breath, looking at him like he grew a second head.

You slowly sink forward, burying your burning face back in your folded arms and groaning into the dark. If Yeosang's manipulative hostage-situation of a strategy is genuinely the best option you currently have... you're probably fucked.

Suddenly, the argument at the table dies.

You lift your face from your folded arms, blinking at the abrupt silence. "What happened—"

You cut yourself off. Yunho, San, and Yeosang are all staring wide-eyed and mute at something directly behind your chair.

Before you can even turn your head, an arm reaches over your shoulder, gently setting a ceramic plate piled high with four warm croissants directly into the center of the table.

A cold sweat breaks out across the back of your neck. You know that hand. You even know the way those long fingers feel against your skin.

You swallow hard and slowly turn your head.

Seonghwa is standing right behind your chair, the scent of roasted espresso and his familiar cologne immediately enveloping you. He’s smiling politely at your friends, acting as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

"We didn’t order these," you say stubbornly, pointing at the pastry plate to distract from your quickening heart rate.

He just smiles, his eyes dipping down to meet yours. "I know. Sunday is free croissant day."

"I’m here almost every Sunday. That has never been a thing."

His smile shifts, the corners sharpening. "It’s a new policy. Instituted by me."

As he speaks, his gaze drops from your eyes, landing squarely on the collar framing your neck. You squirm under his scrutiny, and you swear your skin is burning where his eyes linger.

Seonghwa watches your nervous movement with a subtle smirk before turning his attention across the table to Yunho.

"I remember you from the bar that night."

San scoffs loudly from his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. Seonghwa doesn't even spare him a glance, his attention remaining politely on Yunho.

"I wanted to apologize for being so rude," he continues smoothly. "I was dealing with an irritable roommate. Though I didn’t know it at the time, he was actually just irritable over this one."

He tilts his head down toward you, the affection in his voice unmasked. You flush, sinking a full inch lower in your chair.

Yunho blinks, quickly recovering to offer a friendly, if slightly wary, smile. "No worries. I get it. She wasn’t exactly the easiest to deal with that night, either."

You kick Yunho's shin again under the table. He barely suppresses a wince, but he maintains his strained, polite smile.

Seonghwa’s eyes drift over to San, completely unfazed by the rather unfriendly glare San is currently aiming at his head; clearly, despite what you said, San still doesn't trust him. 

But Seonghwa doesn't seem to care. He turns his attention back down to you.

"Did you take my gift, angel?"

You feel every eye at the table snap directly to you. You realize that to your friends, Seonghwa had just been playing a role last night to make Hongjoong jealous. There's no reason for him to be using a pet name like angel anymore.

You gulp hard. "Oh... um," you stammer, thinking back to this morning. "I didn't see it when I left."

Seonghwa hums, but he doesn't sound surprised. "It was on the kitchen island. Both of them were."

A chill runs down your spine. He means both of the records. But... you honestly don't remember seeing them there this morning. You didn't see Hongjoong pack them into your bag, either. 

Seonghwa’s gaze drifts downward past your lap until his eyes land precisely on the spot where you had kicked your bag beneath the table earlier.

"Are you sure you didn't pack it in your bag?" 

You stare up at Seonghwa, your mind racing. You could just brush him off and insist you didn't pack it, but the way he’s looking at you—head tilted, eyes gleaming—tells you that for some reason, he isn't going to just let this go. He wants you to check, like he somehow knows you didn't pack it yourself.

And if you refuse, you’re only going to look ten times more suspicious in front of Yunho, San, and Yeosang.

"Fine. But I know I didn't," you mutter, breaking eye contact.

You lean down, your fingers blindly grappling for the straps of the tote bag. You hoist it up and rest it squarely on your lap. Careful to keep the contents angled away from the others as best you can, you pull the opening wider.

You nudge your heels and purse aside, digging through the bag—only to freeze when the first thing staring back at you, draped across the top of your crumpled dress, is a scrap of lace. Your panties.

Above you, Seonghwa shifts. You don't even need to look up to know his eyes have dropped straight into the open bag, the only one at the table with the advantageous height and angle to see what's inside. A second later, you hear it: the quietest exhale of amusement slipping past his lips.

You quickly shove the lace beneath your dress, your cheeks blazing. Trying to look casual, you plunge your hands deeper into the bag, searching for the square of a vinyl sleeve—even though you're certain you won't find it.

But suddenly, your fingers graze something solid. You freeze, your brows knitting in confusion as your fingertips trace the flat edge. You watched Hongjoong pack your coat first. There hadn't been anything underneath it. Gripping the corner, you pull the object free from the depths of the bag.

You find yourself staring down at the sleek cover of the G-Dragon record. Hongjoong’s gift.

You blink, confused. Immediately, you shove your hand back into the bag, digging around the bottom, checking the side pockets, and shifting your clothes around. But you find nothing else.

"It's... it's not here," you say slowly, bewildered. Looking up at Seonghwa, you lift the single record resting in your lap. "Just this one."

Did Hongjoong pack his own record and intentionally leave Seonghwa’s behind? You're certain you didn't even see him put One of a Kind in the bag. When did he manage that?

You worry that Seonghwa might be offended, but instead, he laughs.

"Unbelievable," he chuckles, shaking his head. There’s not a trace of anger on his face—if anything, he looks delighted. "How territorial. Well, I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

You bite your lip at his choice of words. Yunho and San exchange another baffled look across the table.

"Territorial?" San echoes. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Seonghwa finally pulls his eyes away from you to glance at San. The smirk on his lips softens in a way that feels patronizing.

"Just an inside joke," he replies politely. Then, his eyes drift back to your neck. Or, more accurately, the collar of the hoodie covering it. "I suppose this means his... possessiveness didn't end when I last saw you?"

Before you can even process what he's doing, Seonghwa reaches out.

You suck in a breath as the soft tips of his fingers brush gently against your neck. His index finger hooks right beneath the hoodie and lightly tugs it down as he checks for any new marks Hongjoong left when the two of you were alone. The movement is small, but it’s more than enough. The fabric shifts, exposing the skin just above your collarbone.

A collective intake of breath snaps around the table.

You slap your hand over your neck, yanking the collar back into place, but the damage is already done. In that split second, Yunho, San, and Yeosang all catch a crystal-clear, front-row glimpse of the dark purple bruises and deep red bite marks scattering your skin.

San’s mouth falls open. "Holy shit, ____." 

Yunho covers his mouth with his own hand, his eyes ricocheting between you and Seonghwa. Even Yeosang's eyes widen as they fix on the spot you're now shielding with your hand.

Seonghwa ignores it all, taking a step back from the table, calmly smoothing his hands over the front of his apron.

"Hm. I was right," he says mildly. "Well, enjoy the croissants."

He offers the three stunned men a parting nod before slipping in a quick wink in your direction. He turns, unbothered, already moving to take care of the growing line of customers at the front counter. 

The silence at the table stretches for five agonizing seconds as all four of you watch Seonghwa calmly stroll back behind the counter and greet the first customer in line.

San, who is absolutely bewildered, points an accusing finger at your throat. "What did he do to you?"

"Please shut up," you hiss, horrified by Seonghwa's audacity as you practically strangle yourself with how hard you're clutching the collar around your neck.

"____, you're telling me your tutor did that? Hongjoong left all of those on you?" Yunho asks in disbelief.

"I—well—yes," you choke out, your face burning.

It's not a complete lie. Hongjoong did leave most of them. They simply don't need to know that a few of those marks belong to the very man who just purposefully put them on display.

Was that supposed to be some sort of power move? Or was he genuinely curious if Hongjoong was just as rough alone as he was with his best friend in the room? 

"Wow," San says, shaking his head in both horror and respect. "I mean... I knew the quiet ones were supposed to be crazy, but damn."

You let out a distressed squeak, dropping your forehead onto the table. "I'm actually begging you to stop talking about it."

"Okay, fine, then let's talk about the other thing. What the hell was that?" Yeosang asks, his eyes darting back to Seonghwa over your shoulder.

You peek up at him through your arms. "What was what?"

"Seonghwa," Yeosang states plainly. "Why is he calling you 'angel'? And what was that about a gift?"

San points at him in agreement. "Right! I was gonna ask that. Why was he talking to you like you're his girlfriend? And what the fuck did he mean by Hongjoong being 'territorial'?"

You sit up, smoothing down the hoodie as you force your brain to work in overdrive.

"Oh, it was all just part of the plan," you say, waving a dismissive hand as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I told you, we had to push Hongjoong over the edge. Seonghwa just... went all out. He bought an IU record to give me as a 'gift' right in front of Hongjoong to set him off."

You gesture down to the other album still resting in your lap. "And it worked! Hongjoong got so jealous that he gave me a record of his own. He... well, okay, this is a little embarrassing, but he packed this bag for me this morning. He was the one who put all of my clothes inside, so I'm guessing he sneakily left Seonghwa's record behind in the process. That's why he was laughing. It proves his strategy worked."

Yunho frowns. "Okay, that makes sense, but... Hongjoong isn't here right now. So why is Seonghwa still using pet names and touching your neck?"

You swallow the massive lump in your throat. "I think that's just how he is," you say honestly, leaning into the half-truth. "It's like when I met him at the bar. He's just a natural flirt. He’s riding the high of last night, and he probably thinks it's fun to flirt with me in front of you guys."

Yeosang raises a highly skeptical eyebrow. "He certainly seemed to enjoy the theatrics of it."

"But how did he know you had those marks?" Yunho presses, not settling for your excuses. 

You open your mouth, but your brain can't think of something fast enough. "I... um..."

"Well, he was standing right above her, so he could probably see the edge of them from his angle," Yeosang suggests reasonably.

Yunho slowly nods at this.

"Or he heard them through the wall last night and figured there was some damage left over," San offers with a wicked grin.

You gulp. "For the last time, please shut up, San."

The three of them go quiet, chewing on your scrambled explanation. You hold your breath, your nails digging into the skin of your palms, hoping they don't ask any more questions.

San eventually lets out a loud scoff.

"That guy is a total weirdo," he declares, crossing his arms and glaring toward the counter. "A Grade A, narcissistic weirdo. I don't like him."

Yunho sighs, finally accepting your logic as well. "I mean... it's a little weird to keep the act going when Hongjoong isn't here, but... I guess it makes sense."

"Right," Yeosang agrees, though his observant eyes linger on your flushed face for a second longer than the others. "He made the plan work. That's all that actually matters."

You let out a slow breath, relieved. 

"Besides," San adds, his grin returning as he gestures to your covered neck. "It worked really well. I'm curious, does it hurt to turn your head?"

"San!" you hiss, burying your face back into your hands as he laughs. 

Yunho lets out a long sigh, reaching across the tiny table to affectionately ruffle your hair. You weakly swat his hand away. 

"You're a mess," he says. "A good mess, but still a mess. Go home. Take a long shower. Get some more sleep." 

"Yeah," San agrees, standing up and grabbing his empty cup. "Home. Where it's impossible for you to ghost me."

You nod, offering them a tired but genuine smile as the three men gather their things to head back to the dorms. You shove the record back inside the bag and sling it over your shoulder, following them across the café, toward the exit. But as Yeosang holds the door open for you, the chime of the overhead bell makes your feet suddenly stop. 

You look back over your shoulder. Seonghwa is behind the counter, swirling a dollop of whipped cream onto a customer's latte.

Something invisible roots you to the floor. You have a hundred questions for him burning a hole in your chest, demanding answers. Was the plan always to sleep with me? Did you know Hongjoong would react that way? Did you know he'd let you touch me, too, instead of dragging me to his room right away? Was any of what you said to me real, or was it all just part of the act? Are you truly someone I can trust, especially now that I'm involved with your best friend?

But as you stare at his perfectly composed, unbothered profile, you realize there's probably no point in asking him any of those things. Seonghwa is smart with his words. He could answer a hundred abstract questions without ever actually handing you a single shred of the truth.

If you're going to ask him anything, it needs to be something he can't charm his way out of. Just to give yourself at least a tiny bit of clarity. 

Yeosang pauses in the doorway, realizing what's going through your mind. Though he may not understand why you can't leave without talking to Seonghwa, he meets your eyes and gives a slow, barely perceptible nod. 

"We'll wait for you outside," he murmurs, his voice low enough that Yunho and San don't catch it. You give him a grateful smile as he lets the door close between you.

Taking a deep, calming breath, you turn around and walk straight up to the counter. 

You wait for Seonghwa to hand the drink off to the customer, lingering silently at the register. The second the cup leaves his hand, his eyes instantly flick to you. A slow, teasing smile spreads across his lips.

"Back for another croissant?" he asks, wiping his hands on a towel as he walks over, leaning a casual hip against the counter. "I have to warn you, I'll need to start charging you for them."

You don't smile back. You lean in closer so no one else in the building can hear you.

"Did you come into his room?" you ask, skipping the pleasantries. "While we were sleeping?"

Seonghwa doesn't flinch, his smile unwavering. 

"Your phone was dead," he says simply. "I found it next to your purse in the living room when I was collecting your things. I thought you’d want to be able to text your friends when you finally woke up."

"And you just... walked in while we were sleeping?" you whisper. The image of Seonghwa, fully dressed, quietly turning the handle to Hongjoong's bedroom, standing in the dark, watching the two of you tangled up in the sheets—exhausted from the aftermath of what he started—feels like a strange invasion of nearly all your boundaries. 

"I assumed you'd prefer a fully charged battery over total privacy. Besides, I'd already seen everything. I didn't realize you'd still be so shy."

You stare at him, dumbfounded. He doesn't feel an ounce of guilt. In fact, he looks proud of himself.

"And about my gift," he continues, seamlessly pivoting the conversation as he offers a polite nod to a new customer entering the shop, signaling he'll be right with them. "I’ll get it to you eventually, angel. Don’t worry. Joong left it in our apartment on purpose, I imagine. He's always been a bit of a sore loser when it comes to sharing his things around the house. I suppose I should’ve known that possessiveness would translate to you, too."

Sharing. You flinch at the reminder of what the three of you had done only a handful of hours ago.

"I know you're his now," Seonghwa murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips, then back to your eyes. "And I'm truly happy about that. You really are good for each other. He's my best friend, and naturally, I want the best for him."

He slowly reaches out, his knuckles grazing the fabric of the hoodie covering your collarbone. Covering all the marks he left on you. 

"But I still hope you don't forget about me," he says, his voice a mesmerizing, dangerous whisper. "You can try to hide it beneath his clothes, but we both know the truth of what happened last night, angel."

He pulls his hand back and stands up straight, smiling down at you. 

"Have a good rest of your day, ____."

You watch silently, rooted to the spot, as he turns to greet the new customer—a stressed-looking student buried under a heavy pile of textbooks—with an easy, relaxed smile.

You can try to hide it beneath his clothes, but we both know the truth.

You don't have any idea what kind of man Seonghwa actually is. Maybe he really did fall for you. Maybe he's jealous that you so clearly prefer Hongjoong over him. Maybe he's trying to manipulate you into believing that because he was the one who pushed the boundaries last night, he now owns a permanent, secret piece of you. Or maybe you're misinterpreting everything; maybe it's simpler than that. Maybe he’s just a bored man who enjoys harmlessly flirting with his best friend's crush. Maybe this was his victory lap: he helped Hongjoong confess, and he got to have a little more fun teasing you before finally stepping back.

Your grip on the bag tightens as you watch him finish up with the customer. Yes, the lines got unimaginably blurred. Yes, you let him touch you, yes, it was intoxicating, and yes, it's a secret you'll guard with your life. But at the end of the day, Seonghwa was only ever the means to an end. 

Hongjoong was always the goal. It was Hongjoong's bed you woke up in. It's Hongjoong's record sitting safely at the bottom of your bag. It's Hongjoong's clothes you're wearing. You didn't do any of this for Seonghwa. No matter what mind games his roommate is trying to play, your heart belongs to Hongjoong.

Squaring your shoulders, you lift your chin. You turn your back on the front counter, and this time, you don't look back at the man working behind it. 

You push your weight against the door, stepping out into the bright late-morning sun, where Yeosang, San, and Yunho are waiting for you. 

They're already a few paces ahead, seamlessly falling back into their usual banter as they argue about where to go for some actual food after they take you home. 

You follow a couple of steps behind, slowing your pace and eventually coming to a halt on the sunlit path as a vibration buzzes from inside your bag. You dig out your fully charged phone, tapping the screen. One new notification is waiting for you.

Hongjoong: I meant to tell you earlier—get home safe. Let me know when you're back. 

The dots at the bottom of the chat appear, disappear, and reappear three separate times before the next text finally comes through.

Hongjoong: I'm already counting down the hours until Thursday.

A smile spreads across your face, warming you from the inside out. In a matter of seconds, all the residual anxiety and tension from Seonghwa melt away. 

You: I will. And me too.

You hesitate before sending a second text.

You: :)

"Hey! What are you doing back there?"

You look up. San is standing a few yards down the path, walking backward as he yells to you, making a show of shivering dramatically. "Come on, it's cold! Walk faster!"

"Relax, I'm coming!" you call back.

You quickly pocket your phone, hurrying to catch up with the three of them.

As you fall into step beside Yunho, you realize that though you're surrounded by three of the loudest men on campus, your mind is finally quiet. For the first time in weeks, there's no confusion. There's no lingering doubt about where you stand, what Hongjoong is thinking, or whether you're just projecting your own desperate feelings onto your tutor.

The lines have been completely crossed. You aren't just his student anymore. You don't think you ever really were.

And even though you've finally gotten exactly what you wanted, somehow, Thursday's session still can't seem to come fast enough.

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

You've always measured yourself by your intelligence.

Never once by your likability or the depth of your social circle—those things were subjective, wholly dependent on how someone else happened to feel that day. Intelligence, on the other hand, was empirical. When you needed proof that you were worth taking seriously, it was the only thing you could point to with confidence.

All of it was very familiar to you: the streak of perfect grades, the neat marginalia of encouraging comments in neat handwriting, the way a teacher would pause for a second longer when handing back your paper, meeting your eyes with a small, silent nod that meant you did well. You learned early on in life that being smart was undoubtedly safer than being soft, and that independence was far more reliable than reassurance. If you performed well enough, no one would look too closely at what you didn’t know how to say.

That was how you ended up in this classroom.

An International Relations major made perfect sense on paper. It combined global policy, diplomacy, and language acquisition, all of which you're supposed to be good at. And you are good at them, theoretically. You'd mapped out this semester's schedule carefully, beginning with the familiar Mandarin. You'd taken it before. You understood the logic of the tones and the way the grammar clicked into place like a well-oiled machine. It was a comfortable language, a place where you could easily build competence before anyone noticed you were even trying.

But the Mandarin class had filled within minutes.

You remember staring at that registration screen until the white light burned your retinas, refreshing it once, twice, twenty times as though a spot would magically open up. When it didn’t, you scrolled.

Korean 101 was still open.

You'd hesitated, the cursor hovering—you didn’t even know the first thing about reading Hangul. You had no background, no foundation, no safety net. But you told yourself it would be fine. It was an introductory class, after all. Everyone starts at the beginning, right?

...Right.

Now, you're sitting in that very classroom, the aroma of stale coffee and printer ink that usually makes you feel in control now causing your stomach to twist so tightly it's nauseating. It feels like you’ve regressed, suddenly shoved back into the skin of your middle school self: that paralyzing moment of raising your hand only to have the thoughts evaporate the second every eye in the room turned toward you.

The whiteboard is covered in clean, intimidatingly confident handwriting. You sit in the second row, your notebook open and your pen poised, squinting at the characters. You're trying to find a pattern, or a logic, or some way back to your empirical self, but as your professor snaps the cap onto a marker, the click pulls you out of your daze. 

"자, 그러면," Professor Choi's voice cuts cleanly through the quiet classroom as he taps a marker against the board. "자기소개."

You feel a hollowness settle in your gut. Self-introduction.

You know this. You've written the same basic script so many times that the notebook pages are worn thin under the pressure of your pen, annotations crowding the margins. You've spent hours fixing the particles you mess up nearly every time, agonizing over the placement of a single syllable. You understand the structure the way you understand a formula: topic particle, subject marker, verb ending.

Your problem has never been comprehension. Your problem is what happens when the knowledge has to leave the safety of your mind and pass through your mouth.

"윤호씨," Professor Choi calls, his eyes flicking down to the roster. "이름이 뭐에요?" What's your name?

Next to you, Yunho straightens immediately, like he’s been waiting for his chance to show his advanced skills. It's infuriating, the way your best friend sits there: relaxed and entirely at ease. He's constantly smiling, as though he thinks learning a new language is something that's supposed to be enjoyed rather than survived.

He clears his throat. "안녕하세요. 제 이름은 윤호예요. 반갑습니다." Hello. My name is Yunho. It's nice to meet you.

He doesn't overthink it. He speaks casually, without any hint of hesitation. The syllables roll off his tongue with a natural lilt, his intonation just right without sounding forced. You keep your eyes fixed on the board, refusing to look at him, but you can feel the comparison settling in your mind anyway.

"아주 좋아요." Very good. Professor Choi smiles, the satisfaction in his eyes confirming what you already know: Yunho is his star student.

Then his eyes move. You know what's coming before it happens, like the quiet before a storm. Professor Choi Jongho is one of the best—and in your opinion, most terrifying—professors on campus. Behind his glasses, his eyes are sharp. Unfortunately for you, he has the supernatural ability to pinpoint the exact students who struggle.

"____씨."

Your heart drops straight into your shoes. A prickling heat creeps up your neck, contrasting the way your hands go ice-cold over your wooden desk. Your thoughts, usually so orderly, stop lining up, instead piling on top of one another, a disorganized heap of grammar rules all screaming for attention at once.

"네," you answer automatically, your voice a little too quick. Yes.

"이름이 뭐에요?"

Your name. It's a simple task, really. And Yunho just handed you the perfect example. You inhale slowly, the way you were taught to before high-stakes exams, trying to convince your nervous system that this is no different.

"안녕… 안녕하세요," you begin slowly, already hating the pause, hearing how unsure you sound. "제 이름…" Hello, my name...

And then it happens. Every variation of the sentence you've meticulously practiced crashes into your consciousness at once. Is it 이에요 or 입니다? Should you maintain the rigid formality or the polite standard? Does the name precede the particle, or is there a nuance you're forgetting? You know the answers to all of these. You could pass a written test on them in your sleep. But knowing is useless when the bridge between your brain and your tongue has collapsed.

You swallow, forcing the words out. "...____이에요." ...is ____.

Technically, you're correct. But the hesitation has already bled the confidence out of the sentence. 

The silence that follows is deafening. Your face feels like it’s on fire, so you drop your gaze to the edge of your notebook, staring at the perfect handwriting that proves you are smarter than the girl who just struggled to say her own name.

Professor Choi studies you, his expression thoughtful. You can almost see him weighing his options: whether to push you until you find your footing, or to grant you a merciful exit.

Before he can decide, Yunho's voice cuts in.

"선생님," he says, lifting his hand halfway. Teacher. "She might be overthinking the formal endings. I know they always confuse me, too. Maybe we could add those to the review session? Before the next quiz?"

You stiffen. It's a blatant lie, and you're sure the rest of the class knows it. Yunho’s Korean is effortless; he's throwing himself under the bus to save you from further humiliation.

Professor Choi considers this, his gaze lingering on Yunho before he turns back to the board. "네," he says. Yes. "I'll take note of that. 감사합니다, 윤호씨." Thank you, Yunho. He pauses, then looks back at you. His voice isn't unkind, but it ispointedly direct. "____씨, your grammar is good. Your confidence is what needs work."

You can feel your cheeks burning as you nod, pressing your lips together.

Class moves on. Mercifully, the spotlight shifts elsewhere, seeking out other victims.

You spend the remaining forty minutes furiously scribbling: filling your notebook with annotations you don't need and sentences you've already mastered. You ignore Yunho beside you. He's leaned back, lazily playing some game on his phone behind his textbook. On paper, you're the picture-perfect student, the gold standard of diligence, while your best friend looks like he's one step away from academic probation.

You wish, not for the first time, that speaking worked the same way. That the hard work mattered more, that you could edit your voice, that you could erase each stumble, that you could polish your tone before it ever hit the air. 

When class finally ends, you swear you can hear the room exhale. The silence is shattered by chairs scraping against the floor, zippers unzipping and rezipping, and conversations lowly rekindling. You snap your notebook shut, already half-standing and ready to bolt to the door.

If you leave quickly, you can avoid eye contact with everyone in the room. You can disappear into the crowded hallway before anyone remembers how your voice sounded when you spoke.

"____씨."

Of course.

Your muscles lock mid-motion, caught in an awkward half-crouch. For one ridiculous second, you consider pretending you didn't hear him. But apparently, the habit of being the good student is too deeply ingrained in you. You sigh under your breath and straighten, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you turn back toward the front of the room.

"네," you call out, your voice sounding small in the emptying space. Yes?

"Will you speak with me for a moment?" Professor Choi asks politely, though your stomach immediately drops through the floor.

In the aisle, Yunho pauses, hesitating. When you glance at him, he offers a look that is purely apologetic: a soft, encouraging tilt of his head meant to cushion the blow of being singled out.

I’ll wait, he mouths, giving you a soft smile. 

You nod once, tethered to the spot.

Professor Choi gestures toward the front of the room. You follow, trying to ignore the vast space growing behind you as the rest of the class filters out. Soon, the room is empty, leaving only the two of you and the anticipation of what he's about to say.

He closes his notebook and sets it aside. Then, slowly, he removes his glasses and places them on the surface of his desk. Your professor looks at you for a long moment before speaking, as if arranging his thoughts with the same meticulousness he expects from his students.

"You are one of the strongest students in this class academically," he says simply, devoid of flattery. "Your written work is excellent. Your comprehension is well above average."

The words land the same way praise usually does for you. Normally, this would be the moment you'd relax. This is the exact proof you could hold onto. But instead, your jaw tightens. You nod once, the movement stiff, not trusting your voice to remain steady.

"But language," he continues, folding his hands loosely on the desk, "is not merely knowledge. It requires comfort under pressure." He watches your face as he speaks. "And Korean was not your first choice, was it?"

The implication stings. You slowly shake your head.

"That puts you at a disadvantage," he says shortly. 

You flinch before you can stop yourself.

"That is not criticism," he coninues immediately, anticipating your reaction. "It's context. Many students in this class entered with exposure through family, media, or prior study. You did not. That's a significant deficit to overcome."

You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, forcing yourself to listen even as the heat of embarrassment prickles under your skin. You hate how easily he's naming the very thing you’ve been trying to outrun. You’ve never once been a "deficit" student, yet here you are, scrambling to catch up to everyone else from miles behind.

"Which is why peer tutoring will be a vital resource for you."

His words sting. You release a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

"I know peer tutoring is required for the course," you say, struggling to keep your voice level and polite. "I already signed up."

You have the confirmation email saved. You'd done it the same night the syllabus was released, because that’s what you do—you prepare, and you stay three steps ahead so you never have to feel like you're falling.

"Yes," he says, a small nod acknowledging your diligence. "But I am emphasizing this to you specifically. I'd really like for you to take this course seriously."

Ouch. Something flickers in your chest then. Defensiveness, maybe? Or wounded pride?

"I am taking it seriously," you say, a little more aggressively than you intended. "I just…" You hesitate, the truth pressing uncomfortably against the back of your teeth. "I’ve never needed a... tutor before."

The word seriously feels like you just said a slur. To you, "tutor" is a label of failure, an admission that you’ve slipped from the category of naturally capable and tumbled into the ranks of the struggling. It's a crack in the foundation of your identity, and it's a line you never would've imagined yourself crossing.

Professor Choi doesn't respond right away. He studies you with an unsettling amount of intensity, reading the shame written in the lines of your posture.

"That," he says at last, "may be exactly why you do."

You know he’s right.

You look down at the desk—at the neat stack of handouts, at his glasses resting carefully beside them—and you feel an unfamiliar twist in your gut. It's not shame, not exactly... It's the realization that for the first time in your life, your intelligence alone might not be enough to succeed.

You don't say much on the walk back to the dorms.

The late afternoon has settled into that stagnant, in-between state the campus wears so well—the sky dimming but not yet dark, lampposts flickering to life one by one, the stone paths beneath your feet still radiating warmth from the midday sun. Students move around you in loose clusters, their laughter and complaints a blurred noise. They're already mentally somewhere else—the library, the dining hall, this weekend's parties. You're aware of it all in the same way you're aware of background static, your thoughts turned inward and distant.

Yunho walks beside you, seemingly content to let the silence sit. He doesn't ask what Professor Choi said, and he doesn't offer advice that would only make the situation feel more condescending than it already does. He matches your pace, hands shoved into his pockets. He understands that whatever's stuck in your throat needs time to settle before it can be spoken.

That, you think absently, is why he's your best friend, no longer just the annoyingly friendly and competent guy who sat next to you on the first day of class.

"You're not stupid, ____," he says eventually, as you cut across the quad. You can tell he's being careful not to press. "You're just not as confident as the others yet."

You huff a humorless laugh. "That’s worse," you say, brushing a few stray strands of hair out of your face. "Being dumb is a technical problem. I could fix that. But I know the material. That's what makes it humiliating."

You don't look at him, but you see his shrug in the shift of his shadow against the pavement. "You’re allowed to struggle. I know this is a foreign concept to you, but everyone does in their own way."

You frown, craning your neck to look your six-foot-one friend in the eye. "Says the guy who's basically fluent."

Yunho raises an eyebrow, that lopsided amusement crossing his face. "I lived in Korea for a year," he says simply, because he's already reminded you of it more than a hundred times. "You didn’t. We're bound to learn at a different pace, and no amount of late-night cramming is gonna magically give you twelve months of immersion."

You hate how reasonable he is. You hate that he provides a logic you can't argue with without sounding petty or defensive. You roll your eyes, lightly bumping your shoulder against his as you reach your dorm and scan your student ID.

He holds the door open for you, ruffling your hair with a brotherly lack of grace as you step into the lobby.

"Don’t be so hard on yourself," he says gently. "I know you don’t want to hear it, but you're, like, insanely impressive for someone who came in with zero experience. Don’t forget that."

He flashes you a quick, goofy thumbs-up before letting the door swing shut behind him. You stand there for a moment, watching his silhouette disappear back across the quad to his own dorm, fighting the urge to smile even as the weight of Professor Choi’s words continues to linger in your chest.

Later that night, after the building has settled into silence and your desk lamp is the only light carving a path through the dark of your tiny bedroom, the dreaded notification finally illuminates your screen.

From: Choi Jongho ([email protected]) Subject: Korean 101 Peer Tutoring Assignments

Your stomach tightens before you even click on it.

The message from Professor Choi lacks any warmth or preamble. There are no names in the greeting, only a brief reminder of the department's expectations and a link to the assigned pairings. Halfway down the page, under the heading Required Assignments, the reality of your situation sits in black and white.

Your name is the first one listed.

You stare at it, irritation prickling under your skin. You know, logically, that you aren't being singled out. Everyone in the class is on this list; everyone is subject to the same syllabus. This isn’t a public indictment of your skills. Yet still, that sensation lingers: the deep-seated academic fear of being quietly sorted into a different category than the one you're used to occupying.

You click on the tutoring link, more out of obligation than choice.

____ ____. Tutor: Kim Hongjoong.

The name is a dead end.

There is no photo attached, no biography—just a name and a university email address. Kim Hongjoong. You read his name again, the syllables feeling foreign in your mind, but you don't let yourself dwell on the mystery of who he might be.

To you, he isn't a person yet. He's just a witness to your deficit.

With an exhale, you close the tab and reach for your phone, immediately pulling up your messages with Yunho.

You: Who did you get?

His reply bubbles up almost immediately.

Yunho: Some guy named Woosung.  Yunho: You?

You hesitate, the cursor blinking, before typing:

You: Ever heard of Kim Hongjoong?

There’s a pause this time. A long silence that makes you start to regret asking before the bubbles even reappear.

Yunho: I’ve heard the name. He's in our year. Music major, I think?  Yunho: Or maybe it was art.  Yunho: Actually, I think it might be design.  Yunho: Anyway. International student from Korea, I think. Not sure. 

You stare at the screen and let out another sigh.

You'd assumed your tutor would be fluent—that much had been obvious—but knowing he was born and raised in the language adds a new layer of dread. It feels like a different kind of failure, one that reaches beyond GPA and academic standing. Every time you walk into that classroom, you already feel like you're doing a disservice to the entire nation of South Korea by your inability to coax a simple sentence out of your mouth. Now, you're going to have to sit across from someone who lives and breathes the very syllables you're strangling.

The scheduling link loads, and your heart rate spikes.

Why am I so nervous? you think, dragging a hand through your hair hard enough to tug at the roots. This is ridiculous. It’s just tutoring. Once a week, not even a full hour.

You scroll through the calendar, scanning the empty blocks as if they might bite.

Thursday at five. The earliest available slot. Your cursor clicks before you can let your fear talk you out of it. 

After a minute, the confirmation page loads, and you snap the laptop shut. You lean back in your chair and stare up at the ceiling, a frown carved between your brows.

"Why did the Mandarin class have to be full?" you groan to the empty room.

Last week's Korean homework is still sitting on your desk, covered in corrections in red ink. You grab the paper, crumpling it into a ball, and hurl it toward the trash can in the corner of your room with more force than necessary. It misses, skidding across the floor and coming to rest against the cold wall.

Figures.

A knock suddenly sounds at your door. You jolt, shoulders jumping.

"Hey!" a familiar voice shouts through the wood. "Are you alive?"

You don't have to look to know it's San.

You dejectedly push yourself out of your chair and swing the door open. Your roommate is filling the doorway, a mountain of broad shoulders and thick arms, a gym bag slung over one shoulder. Anyone who didn't know San would probably assume he's intimidating. They would be dead wrong.

The second he sees your face, the easy, post-workout smile he's wearing melts into concern.

"Rough day?" 

You don’t answer verbally. You don't have to. Your face is a map of every frustration you’ve been circling for the last hour.

He doesn't wait for permission to enter, toeing the door shut behind him with the familiar grace of someone who truly lives in your space. You share an apartment-style dorm—separate bedrooms branching off a common area, with a tiny kitchen and a bathroom you're constantly nagging at him to clean. It’s the best setup you could've asked for, and somehow, you'd landed the best roommate on campus as well.

He drops his bag by your bed and wraps you in his arms, hugging you even though you've told him multiple times that physical affection really isn't your thing.  

"There we go," he murmurs with a small grin, patting your head teasingly. "It's all gonna be okay."

You roll your eyes and mumble into the cotton of his t-shirt, "It's this stupid Korean class."

He chuckles. "What about it?"

"It's not funny, San."

"Is the peer tutoring thing starting?" he guesses.

You pull back just enough to look at him, blinking in surprise. "How did you—"

"Come on," he says, a dimpled grin tugging at his lips. "Do you have any idea how much you complained about signing up for it back in August? I've been prepared for this day."

You snort despite yourself, the bitterness starting to lift. 

San guides you over to the couch in the common area, spotting your crumpled homework on the floor and picking it up on the way. He sets it down on the coffee table, plopping down beside you, sinking into the cushions until your shoulders are pressed together. 

"So," he says. "Talk to me."

You tip your head back against the cushions. "My professor asked me to stay after class today, just to give me a 'special emphasis' rant on how much I need to take tutoring seriously."

"Damn," San winces sympathetically.

"And my tutor is an international student," you add. "Like, actually from Korea."

San tilts his head, not understanding the issue. "Okay. And?"

"And I feel like an idiot!" The words come tumbling out. "I'm wasting this poor guy's time. I shouldn't even be in this class. I should've been in Mandarin. I'm an A+ student in Mandarin! But no, I'm stuck here, humiliating myself with a language that I didn't even wanna learn in the first place."

San nods quietly, knowing not to interrupt. When you finally run out of breath, he reaches out and bumps his knee against yours.

"So, listen," he begins, "This is gonna sound crazy, but you're allowed to be bad at something new. Your tutor is not going to call up the president of South Korea and tell him to ban you from traveling because you messed up a few vocab words."

"You don't know that," you object stubbornly. One look at his face is enough to make you sigh weakly, giving up the fight. "I just don't want to look like an idiot, San."

"You’re learning," he corrects. "He's being paid to teach you. He won't expect you to be perfect." 

You huff, looking away. "You and Yunho make it sound so much simpler than it is."

He smiles, and for a second, he looks older than usual. "I know taking this class isn't easy for you. That's why doing it anyway is actually really fucking cool. Most of them are just coasting on what they already know from their families or whatever. You’re the only one in there actually doing the hard work from zero."

You glance at him, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. "You’re only saying that because you want me to feel better."

"Is it working?" 

You shake your head, unable to hold back the giggle that finally breaks through your defenses. "This Thursday at five," you say, forcing a pivot before he can get too smug. "That's the first session."

"Perfect," he nods, relaxing and sinking further into the cushions next to you. "Mark it down. I'll make dinner that night. Whatever you want. You'll go, it'll be fine, you'll realize you were overreacting, and then you'll come back here and complain to me about it anyway."

You let out a real laugh this time, choosing to ignore the last part of his sentence.

“San, when was the last time you cooked without setting off the smoke alarm?"

"Hey!" He points an accusing finger at you. "I'm trying to do something nice! Be grateful!" 

You laugh, the smile finally reaching your eyes and washing away the last of the afternoon's bitterness. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I'm grateful, I guess."

He beams, pleased, and reaches for the remote on the coffee table. Powering on the TV, he grabs the throw blanket from the back of the couch and tosses it over your legs. "I know you are."

For the first time since class this morning, the anxious knot in your chest loosens just enough to let you finally breathe.

The Language Center sits at the far edge of campus, tucked behind a row of older, ivy-choked academic buildings.

You take note of the stone details, the arched windows darkening as evening settles in, the way the front steps rise just high enough that you end up slowing your pace without meaning to. The building itself is beautiful yet intimidating, the kind of place that makes you straighten your posture and check the state of your hair before you enter. 

Thursday. Five o'clock. The day has finally arrived. 

As you push through the doors, the air changes, suddenly becoming more tense. Your footsteps echo against the marble floor. Every beat of your heart seems to sync with the sound, thrumming uncomfortably loud in your ears.

You tell yourself you're being ridiculous. You've given presentations to lecture halls of three hundred people. You've defended papers in front of professors who built their entire careers tearing other people’s logic apart. This is literally justtutoring.

The lobby is bathed in soft lighting that makes the room feel like a library. The front desk is tucked into a corner of shiny wood, where an older woman with kind eyes looks up as you approach. Her fingers hover over a keyboard, the clicking sound pausing as she waits.

"Hi there," she says warmly. "Checking in for a session?"

You take a breath, trying to summon a casual version of yourself. "I—um. Yes. I am," you end up stammering, cursing at yourself for sounding so nervous.

"Language?" she asks.

"Korean."

"And your tutor’s name?"

You swallow. "Kim Hongjoong."

Her fingers dance across the keys with efficiency. "Got it. And your name?"

You provide your name, and she offers a smile that is far too perceptive—the look people give when they recognize first-day nerves but are kind enough not to call it out.

"He's waiting just down the hall," she says, standing up. "Come along. I'll show you the way."

The walk feels like a slow-motion trek through deep water. Your palms are damp, so you pull the sleeves of your sweater down over your hands, rubbing your thumbs together. You mentally repeat what San reminded you before you left: This is not an exam. No one is grading you. This man is literally being paid to help you.

But the closer you get to the tutoring area, the more those words feel like a lie.

The woman stops in front of a small, secluded table near the tall arched windows in the corner, with a man already seated there. 

"Here you are," she says cheerfully.

And then, she steps aside, and your tutor looks up.

For a terrifying half a second, you're certain your brain has ceased to function.

He has dark, silky hair that's a little too long, falling into his eyes. His glasses—slightly crooked, perched on a sharp, elegant nose—immediately send a swarm of butterflies into a riot inside your chest. He's dressed casually, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, with a laptop open that's surrounded by a scattered yet organized chaos of notebooks. He's been preparing for this. For you.

You feel your eyes widen, and you're incapable of looking away. 

He stands up, and the movement is sudden, slightly jerky, though you're not sure why. "Hi," he says. He gives a small, tentative wave, and the butterflies in your stomach transition from a riot to a full-blown war.

The woman smiles between the two of you. "You're all set. Take as much time as you need."

And then, mercifully, she leaves.

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. You're alone with him.

"Hi," you reply. The word feels stupid and small. You clutch the strap of your bag. "I'm—um. I'm ____."

"I know," he says quickly, then winces immediately. "I mean—I saw it on the schedule. Sorry. I'm Hongjoong." He nods awkwardly to the chair across from him. "You can... yeah. Please, sit."

You sit.

Up close, it's worse. No—it's better. Both. The light from the window catches on his glasses, and you notice his hands move in small gestures when he speaks, like he's arranging his thoughts in the air before he lets them go.

You realize with a flash of panic that this is, without question, the most attractive man you have ever seen in your life. And now, you have to humiliate yourself in front of him for a full forty-five minutes. 

"I just want to say," you blurt out, the words tripping over each other in their haste to escape, "I'm, um... really bad at Korean."

Hongjoong blinks, his pen hovering above his notebook. "Oh," he says, his voice tilting up with a hint of amusement. "Okay."

"No—I mean, really bad," you double down, the heat in your cheeks shifting from a simmer to a burn. "I had zero experience before this class. None. I'm actually a Mandarin student—or... I was supposed to be, at least. But that class was full, and the registrar bumped me, and—yeah. Sorry. I'm rambling."

"That's okay." Surprisingly, he doesn't laugh at you. He offers a smile that is unexpectedly disarming, leaning in a bit, his glasses sliding a millimeter down the bridge of his nose. "You don’t have to apologize."

You nod too quickly, your fingers twisting the strap of your bag. "I just... don’t want you to think I'm stupid, or I'm lazy, or... anything."

"I wouldn't," he says immediately, so sincerely that you somewhat believe him. "And for the record... everyone says that."

"Everyone says they're bad?"

"Everyone," he repeats. "Specifically, the ones who care about succeeding."

You swallow a lump in your throat. 

He flips open a black folder, clearing his throat. "Uh, so. Every week, we'll work on a small dialogue based on the current module you're learning in class. Nothing scary, just some low-stakes practice to get your muscle memory going."

"Okay," you murmur. You hesitate, your curiosity getting the better of your dread. "Have… have you done this for a long time? Tutoring?"

"This is my first time tutoring Korean," he admits, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But I've tutored a few people from your class already this week. Mingi was just here a few minutes before you."

Your stomach drops at the mention of his name.

"Oh," you say weakly. "Mingi. He's really good." 

Hongjoong tilts his head. "You two are close?"

"No, but he sits in front of me in class," you say, staring down at the wood grain of the table. "He lived in Korea for a few years. He's practically fluent."

Hongjoong watches you for a beat. "You know this isn't a competition, right?"

You open your mouth to defend your right to be competitive, then close it again, feeling the absurdity of the situation. "Sorry," you mutter. "I just—like I said—I'm really bad at this."

Hongjoong smiles again, but this time, it's a little closer to a smirk. "Let's see, then."

You have to fight to keep yourself from blushing.

He slides a printed page across the polished table. It stops right in front of your hands, the black ink of the Hangul already morphing together into something illegible.

"Read the first three lines for me," he says, resting his chin in his hand. "You’re introducing yourself as a character. No pressure. And do me a favor: try not to think about Mingi."

Your fingers start to tremble as you pick up the paper. You recognize every word. You've drilled these phrases into your brain until three in the morning, staring at flashcards until the lines blurred. But now, with Hongjoong watching you, your mouth does not by any means want to cooperate with your mind.

"안녕하세요…" Hello. Your voice wobbles. You wince at the sound, the syllables feeling like stones in your mouth, but you keep going. You stumble over particles, the transitions between words often catching in your throat. You pause too long, and you frantically correct yourself mid-sentence, cheeks burning.

When you finally reach the end of the third line, you don't look up. You can't. You keep your eyes locked on the paper, wishing you could disappear. 

"I told you," you say quietly, forcing a hint of laughter into your voice as your fingers twist together in your lap, hidden from his sight. "That... was not great."

A beat of silence follows.

"That," Hongjoong finally says carefully, his voice quiet, "wasn’t bad. At all." You hear the scrape of his chair as he shifts. "Actually," he continues, and you finally risk a glance up. "That was ... yeah. That was... pretty good."

You stare at him, disbelief written in every line of your face. You're looking for proof of the lie: the polite, pitying smile of a tutor who's just trying to earn his paycheck. But Hongjoong's expression is different. There’s something unreadable flickering in his eyes that he’s trying to keep under control.

He opens his mouth, clearly about to say more, then catches himself, thinking better of it, and swallows the thought. Instead, he turns back to his bag, rummaging through the depths of it before pulling out a different stack of papers—annotated and worn at the edges—and setting them down between you with a clink of his rings against the table.

"Okay," he says, clearing his throat to find his professional footing again. "So. The main assignment. The weekly recording." He begins flipping through the pages as he explains. "It'll be recorded and submitted to your professor so he can evaluate your progress over time. You can use your phone if that's more comfortable for you. Today's prompt is just a baseline to get you used to the sound of your own voice on camera. I have it here."

He walks you through the script: greeting, an exchange of names, a polite closing. You've practiced all of this a million times. It should be easy.

You nod, your pulse rapidly speeding up. "Okay. Ready."

He goes first.

"안녕하세요. 제 이름은 홍중이에요," he says. Hello. My name is Hongjoong.

The transformation is instantaneous. In English, his voice is already quite soft and lyrical, but in Korean, it gains more rhythm. The syllables are smoother than when Professor Choi speaks, flowing together with a natural confidence that makes your brain malfunction. You completely miss your cue, finding yourself caught on the simple, dangerous realization of how attractive Hongjoong's voice sounds in his native language.

He waits, his head tilting as the silence stretches longer.

"…안녕하세요?" you finally manage, blinking hard. Hello? 

You somehow stumble through the rest of the script, your voice feeling ugly and thin compared to his. The second the recording ends, you snatch your phone off the table. You replay just the first line—and after hearing your own hesitant, shaky greeting, you immediately delete it.

"I’m sorry," you say, mortified, knowing every second of that hesitation is now preserved on camera. "Can we redo that?"

"Of course," he says casually, though his eyes dance with something deeper. "As many times as you want."

You do it again. Your tongue trips over a vowel. Delete.

Again. You pause too long after his name, staring at the way his glasses catch the light. Delete.

Then again. You correct yourself mid-word, muttering a curse under your breath that you'd rather die than let a professor hear. Delete.

Finally, after five grueling takes, you let out a shaky breath and hit 'Save.' The file name sits there on your screen: Peer Tutoring, Assignment 1. It's done. 

He smiles when you finally tell him you're satisfied. "I thought it was fine four takes ago," he admits, "but I'm glad we got one you like."

Heat creeps up your neck. "I just want it to be perfect."

"Most tutors would say that's your problem," he says with a light chuckle, sliding the papers back into his bag. "You're a beginner; it's not going to be perfect right away." He looks at you sincerely. "But today... I think you did well. I'm… yeah. I'm impressed."

Determined to look anywhere but his eyes, your gaze flicks to the clock on the wall.

Twenty minutes left.

The panic that rises in your throat has nothing to do with grammar particles. 

"So," you say too quickly, blushing. "Do I... um... do I need to stay? The whole forty-five minutes? Do you still get paid if I leave early?"

He blinks, a little surprised. "Only if you have more questions. And don't worry about the money; the university handles the log. My time is technically yours until the forty-five minutes are up."

You don't have any questions. Not the kind you can ask out loud. How do you make the language sound so magnetic? Why is the crookedness of your glasses so attractive?

"No," you say instead, already standing up and grabbing your bag from the floor. "I'm good. I have... research. For my Econ class. That I need to work on tonight. But, um... thank you, Hongjoong. It was… nice meeting you."

He gets up as well, mirroring your movement with just as little grace as you had. "Yeah. You too. I'll—um—see you next week, then? Same time?"

"Same time," you agree, already backing away.

You turn and leave before your legs can reconsider. The hallway of the Language Center is cooler now that it's darker outside, but it does nothing to soothe the nervous sweat breaking across your skin. You don't stop walking until you've pushed through the doors and felt the bite of the evening air against your skin.

Your heart is still thudding, a drumbeat of adrenaline and mortification. You tell yourself once again that this is justtutoring.

Yet, of course, you just had to be assigned the most attractive man on campus.

It's fine, you think, starting the walk back to your dorm. Now that the nerves from seeing him for the first time are gone, I can be professional. I'll be prepared for this next time. Next week will be easier.

You walk back across the quad, repeating it—just tutoring, just tutoring, just tutoring—all while failing to notice that you're already rehearsing your "안녕하세요" for next week, making sure the vowels are exactly the way Hongjoong said them.

Though you hate to admit it, you realize San was right. You're definitely going to have something to complain about when you get back.