#youknowsoobin writes

When you did finally drag yourself out of bed, still half asleep and grumbling to yourself about the inconvenience, it was in baggy sweatpants and a loose-fitting shirt, your hair tied up into a bun. 

Creaking open the door to your bedroom, you watched him momentarily. He didn’t notice the disturbance, just remained locked into the game, lighting up bright colors and explosions on your television. 

Your fingers easily found the spot they always managed to settle on your face when he was around, pinching the bridge of your nose in stress. 

One of your mugs sat on the coffee table in front of him, filled to the brim. You ignored the problem at hand, the man intruding on your living room before noon without your permission, for the second, or maybe third time that week, and walked toward the coffee maker instead. 

He didn’t acknowledge you as you passed, his eyes instead remaining laser-focused on the screen. You didn’t speak either, hoping that maybe if you continued to ignore him, he’d go away. Though, based on past encounters, it never really worked out that way. Though a girl could dream. 

Pulling down a mug from the cabinet, you attempted to place it carefully on the counter before you, tempering your anger. It didn’t matter anyway, even if you slammed the thing down so hard it shattered into pieces, he still probably wouldn’t have looked up. 

It was when you reached out for the coffee pot, hand just barely touching the handle, that the anger bubbled over. 

You whipped around, coffee pot in hand, face screwed up into a scowl that only Jeong Yunho could produce. “Are you serious?” you asked, raising the coffee pot above your head, directing that scowl in his direction—not that he even looked up to see it. 

He was too locked into whatever video game he busied himself playing on your PlayStation. It drove you over the edge, how little regard he had for you. How he used your apartment like a landing ground, a place to escape—and then dared to ignore you while inside it. 

You walked around the counter, coffee pot still in hand, and stopped in front of the television with your arms outstretched. “Earth to fucking Yunho—what are you doing here?” 

You knew the answer before you asked, knew why he was there based on the sheer lack of sleep you’d gotten during the night. 

He shifted to the side in an attempt to see the screen behind you, but you moved with him, waving your arms to get in the way as much as possible. Finally, with a groan and a roll of his eyes—like you were inconveniencing him—he set down the controller. 

With his attention free, he leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. His legs were spread, and he took up way more space than he needed to. 

His eyes dragged over you slowly, making a show out of looking at you. It made you squirm in a self-conscious kind of way. The kind of way that also made you want to chuck something at his head.

With a lazy smile, he finally leaned forward again, balancing elbows on the tops of his thighs. “Good morning to you, too,” he said. 

You closed your eyes, sucking in a deep breath to keep yourself from screaming at him this early in the morning. “You know, if you’re going to use my apartment as a hideout, the least you could do is save me some fucking coffee.” 

You had to admit—you understood why his apartment had a constant stream of one-night stands filing in at night and out in the morning. He had this way of looking at someone like they were the only person in the entire universe, like nothing else mattered. He looked at you like that, now. All attentive eyes and half-quirked up lips. 

“Your charm doesn’t work on me,” you said with a roll of your eyes. Because it didn’t. All that charm, it was nice. There were split seconds where you understood, sure. But that feeling always passed even faster when you remembered every other thing about him. 

“Not sure about that,” he teased. It was always this push and pull. Him trying to get under your skin, and you always reacting. 

You pushed past the teasing because you just couldn’t deal with his entire personality that early in the morning. Instead, you got back to the matter at hand. “Is she still in there?” you asked, placing the empty coffee pot down on the table in front of you, simply so you could cross your arms. 

Yunho shrugged, accentuating his uncertainty with a slight lift of his eyebrows. “Why don’t you go over and find out?” 

“We’re not doing this,” you said, looking at him with that same pointed expression. 

“Doing what?” he asked, mocking ignorance. 

This would not be the first time, nor the second, nor the third that you’d provided Jeong Yunho with this kind of turn-down service. The first had been a mistake. Knocking on his door to ream him out for being loud throughout the night. The second time he’d tricked you, asked you to come over. And the third, well, it went something like this. 

“We’re not friends. This is not something I just do for you,” you said. “And stop letting yourself into my apartment.” 

“So, are you going to do it, or?” Yunho asked, one brow raised, and you knew he wasn’t planning on relenting. No, he would be insufferable about it until you gave in. He was always stronger-willed than you in that matter—more stubborn. More annoying. 

“Make some coffee,” you said. It was in exasperation that you turned and stormed out, choosing to face the innocent woman left behind in his apartment rather than continuing to have this conversation. Plus, if there was anything you’d learned, it was that once you’d scared her away, he’d leave, too. 

You didn’t understand why he did it. The whole one-night stand after one-night stand thing. He was charming enough, and any of the many girls you’d kicked out of his apartment probably would have made for a great long-term partner. Even just a situationship. It was his biggest red flag. The thing that turned you off. But you got it, too. Because if he didn’t live next door, if you didn’t get to witness the parade and the payoff, you would probably fall for his tricks and charms just as easily. 

But you’d seen the man behind the curtain. You knew the game. And so you knew, too, that he didn’t give a single fuck about any of those women. Not even enough to reject them himself. 

Even though it wasn’t the first time you’d done this, it still felt strange. Pretending. You knocked on the door. Crossed your arms over your chest. Tapped your foot. Directed the annoyance you felt toward Yunho into pretend anger. 

Someone did, inevitably, answer the door. 

“Hey bab—” the woman started. She had long black hair and warm brown eyes. She wore a long button-up shirt that stopped above her knees. Yunho’s. You witnessed the slow furrow of her brow as she put together the situation before you started whatever badly performed rant you chose this time. 

You scrunched your face up to match, mock irritation appearing in the creases at the corner of your eyes, the slight scowl of your lips. 

“Who are you?” the girl asked. It was always their first question, and sometimes you even felt bad about having to crush their dreams—you shattered the ideal image they had of Yunho in their heads, before he could find a way to do it themselves. You framed them as a mistress, the other half of a cheater. 

Why couldn’t he just reject them himself? Wouldn’t everyone leave with more dignity in that circumstance? You and whatever girl he’d involved included?

But you stood firm, trying to imagine what it would feel like to show up at your boyfriend’s apartment only for the door to be answered by another woman. 

“I’m Yunho’s girlfriend,” you said. You’d said it before. It still felt strange. A label you would never want to have. Probably because it would land you in a situation too close to this one. “Who are you?” you asked. 

“I’m—uh,” the girl said. You didn’t stay to listen, instead pushing past her into the apartment, looking for your cheating boyfriend. It was enough to send her into high gear, throwing her clothes back on and ducking out the front door before you could so much as turn around. 

Once she was gone, you took your time leaving. There was nothing interesting in his apartment, no secrets to glean by snooping. For the most part, he was an open book. All games and pick-up lines, without any actual substance. 

You headed back to your apartment. Yunho stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, waiting for the pot of coffee to brew. 

“She’s gone,” you said. 

He chuckled under his breath, like he couldn’t believe you’d actually done it. The first time, you’d both had a laugh about the situation. The incidental scaring off of the woman he’d invited over. It wasn’t as funny anymore. At least not to you. 

You studied him, watching his face for any shred of emotion, finding none. He truly didn’t care about these women or what happened to them after they left his apartment. It wasn’t like he’d speak to them again, so why would it matter how things ended? 

“Come on,” Yunho said. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” you said. But you could feel the scowl, still pressed into your features. Disgust. 

He took a step forward, towering over you and craning his neck to meet your eyes. He loved getting into your personal space, like he was trying to figure you out just the same. But if he wouldn’t give away any shred of his real personality, then neither would you. 

He was just an annoyance. A neighbor who thought the two of you were friends. That didn’t mean you actually had to be his friend. 

“Well,” he said. “Say it.” His head tilted slightly to the side, waiting for whatever opinion you so clearly wanted to share regarding his dating habits. 

“You should go home,” you said, instead. “Thanks to you and your little house guest, I didn’t get any sleep last night—and I have to work later.” 

This made him smirk, a slow crawl across his lips as he enjoyed the thought of you listening. It wasn’t that you wanted to listen—because of course you didn’t. But he made it difficult. Your bedrooms shared a wall, and it wasn’t exactly thick. 

“Don’t start,” you said, stopping whatever thought process was going on behind his eyes, whatever words he was planning on using to get even further under your skin. 

He took the hint, holding his hands up in defense. He stepped away from you, taking out the full coffee pot to fill both of your mugs. He scooped one spoonful of sugar into his own mug, stirring it a few times before grabbing the mug and walking out of the kitchen. “Have a good day at work,” he said, before the door to your apartment opened and closed. 

“I just don’t understand what his problem is,” you said, standing behind the bar, mixing a drink. Jihyo sat across from you, nursing the first drink you’d made for her. It was a quiet Thursday night, so for the most part, your bar was occupied by friends and a few other regulars who didn’t require that much attention. 

It was Wooyoung who responded. “Maybe he likes you,” he said. It wouldn’t be the first time this idea was floated by the board. But it only earned an eye roll from both you and Jihyo, who refused to believe this asinine idea. “It’s guy logic,” Wooyoung said. 

“Maybe you should move,” Jihyo suggested. 

You pointed a finger at her, but looked at Wooyoung. “Now these are the types of solutions I’m looking for.” You laughed. “Maybe I should move.” 

Wooyoung and Jihyo have been your best friends for ages, ever since college. They’ve been there for you throughout more challenging circumstances than just Yunho. If anyone were going to help you get through this, it would be them. 

“You can’t move,” Wooyoung pointed out. “Your place is too nice.” 

You’d talked in this circle with them countless times before. There was no obvious solution, aside from putting up with him. 

“I could threaten to call the police,” you suggested. “Next time he shows up in my apartment.” You placed the finished drink on the counter in front of Wooyoung, taking his empty glass. 

Jihyo pressed a finger to her lips. “Or,” she said. “You could lock your door.”

“I do lock my door,” you said. “He just knows where I keep the spare.”

“Okay, so hide the spare somewhere else,” Wooyoung said. 

“I’ve tried that,” you said. 

“Do you really need the spare?” Wooyoung asked. 

“You made me get one,” you said, pointedly. “When I kept locking myself out.” 

“Right, yeah,” he said. “You could give your backup to Jihyo instead—then there’s no Yunho problem, and I don’t have to worry about you calling me at two in the morning when you lock yourself out.” 

Jihyo said, “No, no,” with a wag of her finger. 

With a sigh, you picked up a collection of shot glasses, placing them on the bar between the three of you. They both had regular people jobs—i.e., ones that required them to be up early the next day, but neither did they protest when you started filling the glasses. 

Just as you filled the last of the three, the bell atop the front door chimed. Pushing open the door was the topic of conversation himself. He wore a black leather jacket, snow dusting the tops of his shoulders. His cheeks were a soft pink from the cold, and his eyes found yours immediately from across the room. 

His pleased smile was met by yet another scowl on your end. He closed the distance between the door and the bar in only a few steps, coming up behind Jihyo and Wooyoung. He reached forward and took Wooyoung’s shot as you pushed it forward. 

Wooyoung looked at you, brows drawn together in shared annoyance. You and Jihyo already had your glasses raised, and Yunho was quick to join in on the cheers he hadn’t been invited to participate in. 

He didn’t say anything, and neither did you. He just raised the shot to his lips, tipping it back and swallowing the clear liquid as if it were water. 

You watched in stunned shock. 

“Damn,” Yunho said. “You’re hanging out without me?” 

You let your eyes fall shut for a second, trying to process the situation, trying to figure out what words to say aloud without coming off like a complete and total asshole. 

Jihyo took the lead instead. “Why would we invite you?” she asked, a pretty smile appearing on her lips. One that might have looked harmless to an outsider, but you know meant I’ll fucking kill you. 

Yunho placed a hand on his chest. “And here I thought we were friends.”

“You’re delusional,” you said. 

He lifted his eyes to yours and smiled warmly, like he really was that delusional. You poured Wooyoung another shot, holding it while you waited for Yunho to sit anywhere else. Of course, he didn’t, instead opting to sit on the other side of Jihyo, who promptly turned her back to face Wooyoung completely. 

You put the replacement in Wooyoung’s waiting hands.

Just as you were raising the shot glasses, Yunho cleared his throat. “Can I get something to drink, beautiful?” He had one arm on the counter, and he leaned forward over it, looking at you with those big brown eyes. You might even be attracted to him if he weren’t so god damn annoying. 

You ignored him, instead, looking back to your friends. Your shot glasses clinked in the center before you all threw them back. 

“Why is he here?” Jihyo asked in a low voice. 

“He can hear you,” Yunho quipped, and you could hear the smirk in his tone without even looking in his direction. “And this is a public bar. You do know that, right?” 

Jihyo pressed her lips into a tight line, glaring at you because she refused to turn around and glare at the source of the problem. 

“What do you want to drink, Yunho?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest and attempting to press a smile to your lips. It was your job, after all, to provide good customer service. You couldn’t be the one asking him why he was there or what he wanted from you. At least not when you were on the clock. You would leave those questions to Jihyo and Wooyoung. 

“Do you know how to make an Old Fashioned?” Yunho asked. 

Jihyo did whip around to face him, then. “She’s a bartender, you idiot. She knows how to make an Old Fashioned.” 

That same slow smile crept across his lips. “You’re pretty when you’re mad,” he said, eliciting an immediate groan from Jihyo. 

“Oh my god,” she said. “What is your problem?” 

You looked to Wooyoung, who attempted to hide a laugh with his hand. This was pretty much how it went whenever the three of you were together. You and Wooyoung stopping Jihyo from getting into yelling matches with whoever didn’t agree with her. It was charming, in its own way. 

“It’s fine,” you said, not wanting to make a scene in front of the four other customers in the bar. “Just ignore him. I do.”

You started making the Old Fashion instead, letting Wooyoung and Jihyo get back to their own conversation. All the while, feeling Yunho’s eyes trailing your hands, watching your movements. 

Maybe Jihyo saw your cheeks turning red, or maybe she was just really curious about your love life, because she diverted the conversation away from Yunho, distracting you from his watchful eyes in one swoop. “How are things going with Hongjoong?” she asked. 

You placed the drink in front of Yunho, saying, “Oh, yeah. They’re good,” while making direct eye contact. There was something quizzical in his gaze that you couldn’t quite place. You didn’t ask, and he didn’t voice whatever question it was that plagued his brain. “We’re going out tomorrow night.”

“Third date, right?” Jihyo asked. 

“Mhm,” you said. 

“I hope he puts out,” Wooyoung said, and Yunho choked on his sip, setting the glass down to cough into the collar of his jacket, hiding the redness blooming on his cheeks. 

Your eyes widened at Wooyoung, a pointed glare. 

“What?” he said, unsure why you were looking at him like that. “You’re the one who said it had been a while—”

Jihyo elbowed him in the stomach, and that was the end of that conversation. 

You printed out Yunho’s receipt and placed it on the table in front of him without meeting his eyes. 

“Actually, can I start a tab?” he asked. 

You grabbed the receipt, crumpling it into a ball. Through gritted teeth, you said, “Of course,” taking his card out of his outstretched hand. 

Customers thinned out one at a time for the next several hours, with Jihyo and Wooyoung finally departing a little bit before midnight. But Yunho stayed. 

At 1am, he was still there, watching you clean up from across the bar. 

“So,” he started. 

You threw your head back in exasperation, even though the conversation had hardly begun. You just knew, because it was Yunho, that it was going to be exhausting. 

“You’re dating,” he said. 

It wasn’t what you expected, and it caught you off guard. The way he said it so casually, aloud to the empty bar.

“Is there something strange about that to you?” you asked. “Me dating?” You tried not to go on the defensive. But there was something so inherently cutting about the way he’d said it. Like he couldn’t believe it. Did he think there was something wrong with you? Something fundamentally unlikable? Or were you just projecting?

“No,” he said. “Of course not.”

Silence. Deafening. Your ears had a heartbeat. 

“So, it’s been a while…?” he asked, and that stupid fucking smirk reappeared on his lips, like he was proud of something. 

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” you said. 

“You know, if you don’t remember how to do it, I can give you a crash course,” Yunho suggested, leaning back in his seat. 

“I’ll kill you.” 

“I love it when you talk dirty to me.” 

You took your phone out to check the time, waiting for the numbers to flip forward just enough. When they did, you smiled. “Sorry, we’re actually closed.” You turned to face the register, printing out his receipt. You placed it in a book, then in front of him. 

“You want a ride home?” he asked. 

You couldn’t help the look of surprise that appeared on your face. 

“What?” he asked. “I’m a gentleman.” 

“You are not.” 

“Just because you don’t like me, doesn’t mean I’m not charming,” he said. “So, do you want a ride home or not? It’s cold.” 

He signed the receipt and closed the book. 

You shook your head. “No,” you said. It sounded too firm. “Thanks,” you tacked on. You’d face whatever winter weather you had to in order to get home without his help. 

Yunho stood up, and for some reason, you watched him. You always forgot how tall he was, how broad his shoulders were, until he was standing in front of you. He tossed his leather jacket back on, shoved his hands into his pockets, and left without another word. 

You followed, locking the door behind him. Then, finishing your tasks, you grabbed the book off the counter and pulled out his receipt. On the few drinks he’d ordered, he tipped nearly thirty dollars. And there was a note scrawled across the bottom, too. Sorry for being an ass. You looked at it for a while before putting the tip into the system, storing the receipt, and shutting everything down. 

It was a short walk between the bar and your apartment. Only about ten minutes. There was never any point in getting a car. On weekend nights, you could always count on Jihyo or Wooyoung to bring you home. Other nights, the walk wasn’t so bad. Besides, you kept pepper spray and a knife close at hand in case anyone dared try something with you. It wasn’t masked murderers in the middle of the night that caused a problem, though. 

It was the torrential downpour that came on like a light switch, drenching you in ice-cold rain in seconds. You held one arm above your head as you walked, but it barely shielded you from the storm. 

There were hardly any cars on the road, so when a motorcycle pulled up next to you, you were fairly certain you were about to be kidnapped. 

So when the rider took off his helmet and extended it to you, revealing a quickly drenched Yunho, you couldn’t keep the shock from your face. 

“Come on,” he said. “Get on.” 

“What?” you asked, because your brain wasn’t exactly functioning properly. You didn’t even know he had a motorcycle, and you certainly weren’t going to get on the back of it. 

“Come on,” he said again. “It’s pouring. You’ve made it ten feet. Let me take you home.”

You hated the way he said it, but your clothes were getting heavier as he spoke, so you stepped forward and took it. 

“Isn’t it dangerous?” you asked. “You don’t have another helmet?” 

He shook his head, freeing some of the wet hair that was stuck to his forehead. “Stop talking,” he said. “Just get on.” 

You swung a leg over, keeping your distance from him. “What—how do I?” you asked. 

“Hold on to me,” he said. You hesitated. “Just do it, it’s pouring, if you haven’t noticed, and I’d like to get going.” 

You scooted forward and placed your hands delicately on the sides of his body. One hand at a time, he pulled you forward even more, putting each of your palms on his chest. “You’re such a baby,” he said. “Just hold on to me.” 

“Fine,” you grumbled, pressing your body against his. You hated how large he felt. His back was wide and strong, and his chest felt warm underneath your hands. 

Before you could think about how much you liked being close to him, he started driving. You hardly even had time to worry about him driving without a helmet in the rain before you were pulling into the apartment complex’s garage. 

You were still clutching his chest when he said, “You can let go.” 

“Oh,” you said, not loud enough to be heard through the helmet. You did, however, jump away from him, pulling your arms back and scooting backward before clambering off the bike altogether. 

Your heart raced, and a clamminess had settled on your skin beneath all the layers of drenched clothing. When your hands touched his body—even through his clothes, it felt like being electrocuted. No reason for that could be justified by hatred. But you hated it, still. That he was so hot that just touching him made your body react. You convinced yourself it was purely animalistic. That how much you hated him couldn’t negate how attractive he was. It made you hate him more. 

He turned off the bike and swung a leg over to stand up, reaching a hand out to you. You stared at it for a second too long. “The helmet,” he said. 

Right, you thought. What was making your brain lag behind? Why couldn’t you fucking think straight? Surely it couldn’t be the dripping wet 6’1” man in front of you. 

You took the helmet off and handed it to him. He secured it on the back of the bike, then lifted his hands to grasp his shirt, twisting it. Water fell in droplets onto the floor between you, but your eyes lingered on the patch of exposed skin, the curve of a few abs under the thin shirt. You could barely even process the fact that you were looking, let alone that he looked good. It was only when he cleared his throat that your eyes flicked up to meet his and that stupid smirk that never seemed to fade fully. 

“Thanks for the ride,” you said abruptly before taking a few quick steps away toward the elevator. Unfortunately, he followed, slipping inside before the doors could budge. 

Right, you wanted to say. We’re neighbors. At least you wouldn’t have to listen to him engaging in his usual extracurricular activities that night. Unless he magically found some way to get a girl back to his place in the middle of the night. Maybe he could summon one from the internet with the power of dating apps. You didn’t know how he did it, anyway. 

The elevator immediately felt small, the ride up to your floor longer than it had ever been. Every time you looked up, he was trying to find your eyes, watching you intently. But neither did he say anything—and of course, you kept quiet too. Kept actively trying not to look at him. But you were curious, and you couldn’t help yourself sometimes. Because who was this man? This man who grated on your nerves and got under your skin and was so god damn annoying, but also left you big tips with nice notes and drove you home from work in the rain? This man who was absolutely gorgeous, whose body you wanted to touch again?

“You seem like you’re panicking,” he said.

“What?” you asked, lifting your head to meet his eyes. He leaned casually against the railing in the elevator, watching you with his hands in his pockets. “I’m not panicking. Why would I be panicking?” you asked, but it was immediately too defensive, too much talking. 

He raised a brow, nodding almost imperceptibly. “Right,” he said. “All things someone who isn’t panicking would say.” He kicked off the wall, striding toward you, only to stop a few inches short. 

“What are you doing?” you asked. 

“Just trying to figure you out,” he said. 

“I don’t need figuring out,” you said. 

“Really?” he asked. He reached out, then, because he couldn’t help it. Because he wanted to touch you. His hand skimmed your bicep, and you shivered. He leaned forward. “Are you sure you don’t like me?” 

“Yes,” you said, through gritted teeth, trying to sound as sure of yourself as you possibly could. 

This only elicited a smile and a dry laugh from Yunho. “You don’t sound sure.” 

“I could kiss you, and I would still feel absolutely nothing,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders. Who was he to question your feelings, especially when all you’d ever given him were snarky comments and sass? Did he think a few longing looks at his abs equated true desire?

“Prove it,” he said. 

“What?” 

“Kiss me,” he said. 

Later that night, when you struggled to sleep—you’d argue with yourself about the reasons. You’d say it was a matter of impulse. A desire to prove him wrong. But there would be something in the back of your head, too, a nagging, whispering like the devil on your shoulder—you did it because you wanted to. 

When you stepped forward and stood on your toes, you weren’t thinking about any of that. 

It was a challenge, and you weren’t one to back down. Simple as that. 

The kiss started soft. Yunho took a moment to react, his lips still against yours for only a second before he stepped forward into you, forcing you backward into the wall. His hands moved, first grabbing your upper arms, then the sides of your face as he tilted your head back to deepen it—slipping a tongue between your lips. 

You didn’t hold back. Your hands gripped the zippered edges of his jacket, pulling him toward you needlessly. 

The kiss was not kind or soft, but passionate and aggressive, like something pent up was spilling out for everyone to see. 

Only the ding of the elevator reaching your floor was enough to separate you. You pulled away, letting your hands drop from his jacket as your thumb came up to wipe away some inevitably smeared lipstick—probably worse than you could save with a simple action, anyway. 

“See,” you said, rolling your shoulders back. “Nothing.” 

Then, you slipped out from under his grasp and walked out of the elevator, trying to keep your pace even and calm until you were inside your apartment, breathing heavily with your back against the door. 

Yunho turned to watch you leave, but didn’t follow. Instead, he stood stock still in the center of the elevator, fingers touching his lips, until the doors started to close. 

“You what?” Jihyo asked. She leaned against the door frame as you dusted blush across your cheekbones. 

You hadn’t exactly planned on telling her—or anyone—what happened, but it just slipped out. There weren’t really words to explain the situation. You couldn’t figure out why you’d done it, anyway. He’d tested you, and you weren’t one to back away from a dare. You wanted him to know, for certain, that he had no chance with you. 

But why, then, had it been so difficult to stop thinking about him? 

“I don’t know,” you said, because they were the only words bubbling to the surface in your otherwise Yunho-occupied mind. The heat of his lips on yours, the way his hands roamed all over your skin. You were starting to understand why the women he shared a bed with sang his praises all night long. 

“Well—why? How?” she asked. “When?” 

When you didn’t respond right away, Jihyo’s eyes widened expectantly, waiting for you to reveal all the dirty details of the situation. 

With a sigh, you put down the brush and turned, leaning against the sink. “He gave me a ride home last night, after my shift.”

“He stayed that late?” 

“Yes,” you said. “And I thought it was just to get on my nerves—but I don’t know. He left me a big tip and apologized for being such an ass.”

“He what?” 

“He left a note on his check. Sorry for being an ass,” you explained. 

“And then he kissed you?” Jihyo asked, one brow raised. 

You shook your head. “No. He left. I started walking home. It was cold. It started raining. Yunho found me. I don’t know how. Maybe he was waiting. I don’t know. He gave me a ride home on his motorcycle, by the way.” 

“You got on a motorcycle with Yunho?” 

Your eyes narrowed. “Is that so unbelievable?” 

“A little bit, yeah,” she commented. 

“Anyway, it’s pouring. He drives me home. We’re in the elevator on the way up, and he just accuses me of looking at him differently.” 

“Were you?” Jihyo asked. 

“Hm?” 

“Were you looking at him differently?” she clarified. 

“Oh.” You hesitated. “Of course not. But I don’t know what I was thinking. The words just kind of came out. I said something along the lines of, I could kiss you and still feel nothing.” You, of course, did remember the exact words you’d spoken—but you were trying to be aloof. Trying to pretend that it wasn’t affecting you. 

You weren’t very good at it. And besides. Jihyo could always see through your bullshit. 

“And then he told me to prove it,” you said, your voice a bit smaller than before, ashamed of the act so many hours past it. An entire night's sleep and you still couldn’t believe you’d actually done it. You should have just laughed in his face. Should have ignored him, like you always did. 

“So you did,” Jihyo said. 

“So I did,” you echoed. 

“But you felt something,” she said. 

“But I felt something.” Your stomach flipped. You turned away from Jihyo, facing the mirror again, your hands gripping the edge. “And I can’t stop thinking about it.” 

Jihyo, ever the pragmatic, said, “Well, stop thinking about it. He’s an asshole, remember.” 

You weren’t naive to believe that his apology truly fixed anything. Besides, maybe this was the long con. Step one: apologize. Step two: get you on the back of his bike. Step three: kiss you in the elevator? Then what? 

Who would he send over to kick you out in the morning? Some other neighbor? 

It wasn’t feasible, these thoughts. They couldn’t go anywhere. It almost made it worse—that they just had to stay in your head. Trapped. Because acting on them, well, it was a fucking horrible idea. And he was probably just playing with you, anyway. That’s what he did. 

“I remember,” you grumbled. 

“Do you remember Hongjoong?” she asked, and you could see the way she smiled reflected in the mirror. Pointed, obvious in the point she was conveying. 

You picked up a lip gloss and ran the wand over your lips. “I didn’t cancel the date, did I?” you said. “I’m wearing a cute outfit. I’m going.” 

Jihyo smiled. “Okay. Good.” 

“You know, you can be really judgmental,” you said, a hint of a laugh escaping between words. 

“That’s why you love me.” She smiled big and wide. “Now have fun tonight. That’s an order. And try to get laid, for the love of god.”

You were standing in front of your door, a little bit tipsy, trying to unlock it, when the one down the hall popped open. You couldn’t help the groan that fell from your lips, knowing just who was going to appear in front of you in no time at all. 

He took his time. You had to give him that. He leaned against the door frame to his own apartment for a little while, watching you struggle. Which was annoying in its own way—but at least it was from a distance. 

The distance didn’t last. He got closer. 

You held up a hand in his direction. “No,” you said. You weren’t drunk enough that your words were slurring, just tipsy enough to say exactly what was on your mind. A dangerous thing, considering what was on your mind lately regarding the man in the hallway. “You stay over there.”

Thankfully, you got the key to work, letting the door to your apartment swing inward. Yunho was faster, though, and more determined. He caught it with one hand before it could slam closed. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, and those weren’t the words you expected to come out of his mouth. They weren’t suggestive or annoying. He actually seemed genuine. Had you ever met a more confusing man? One who could flip back and forth between strange softness and playful humor faster than you could process it? 

He wore black jeans, the same leather jacket he basically lived in. His near-black hair fell just past his eyebrows, only partially obscuring brown eyes that met your gaze. There was a slight crease between his brows, like he was just as confused as you were about the state of his personality—about the way he was acting toward you. 

“Yes,” you said. Yunho closed the door gently behind him. “And you can’t just invite yourself into my apartment whenever you want.” 

“Date didn’t go well, I take it?” he asked, that playful tone coming back at half power. The smirk that appeared put in a lot of work. 

You pressed your lips into a tight line, gritting your teeth. You couldn’t help the blush that rose to your cheeks as you grew embarrassed. Any normal person wouldn’t have commented on the fact that you’d come home alone after a third date—especially after your friends announced so loudly your desire to get laid. 

“Can we not do this right now?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest as if to cover some of your obvious discomfort. 

“You know,” he said, taking another step closer to you. You didn’t move. Of course you didn’t. You wanted him closer, even if you wanted to pretend otherwise. And ultimately, your body beat out your mind the moment he intruded upon your personal space. “The offer still stands.” 

Your brain wasn’t working. “What offer?” you bit out. 

He didn’t touch you, but his hands might as well have been all over your body with how hot you felt. “You know—if you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be with someone.” 

It was enough to make you take a much-needed step back, sobering you some. “Oh my god, get a grip, Yunho.” 

He just laughed. It wasn’t a big deal to him. It was just another joke, another way to get under your skin. 

You steeled yourself for the lie you needed to speak aloud, to really get the point across. “I don’t want you. I’ll never want you. I like my men with a little more… dignity.” 

For a split second, you were certain you’d hurt his feelings. His eyes softened, and his shoulders lowered. But then he was back to smiling again, acting like it hadn’t affected him in the slightest. 

When had this turned from him asking you if you were okay to him propositioning you again? And why had you wanted to say yes? If it weren’t for the voice of Jihyo playing in the back of your head, reminding you that he was an asshole—over and over again—you might have let it happen. You were feeling just dejected enough, anyway. 

Hongjoong had basically rejected you. It was rightful, too, since you’d barely paid attention to him during your date. Your mind had been on other things. Other people. And besides, there’d been no spark. He didn’t push your buttons. He didn’t make you laugh. 

“Really, though,” Yunho said, taking a more serious tone again—enough to give you whiplash. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” you said. 

“You don’t seem fine,” Yunho said. 

“If I needed a friend, I’d call Jihyo. Or Wooyoung.” 

Again, that look of hurt. Like he’d been struck. 

“Right,” he said. “Obviously.” He took a step away from you, toward the door. “Sorry.” You were too stunned to speak. “I’ll see you later.”

When you woke up the next morning, there was no woman to escort out of Yunho’s apartment. Your apartment sat empty. Quiet. It continued like that for several days. Nearly a week. You let Jihyo and Wooyoung talk you out of going over there, of making sure everything was okay with him. That he hadn’t died or moved out or something. 

No matter what excuses you made up, however, you still couldn’t get him out of your head. Even when he wasn’t around to bother you. You found yourself hoping to catch him around a corner, in the elevator, or by his bike in the parking garage. You didn’t. 

He was strangely absent. 

That should have resulted in better sleep, but you found yourself awake for other reasons, staring at the ceiling. You could find any reason to doubt yourself. Maybe you’d been too quick to judge him. The way his face had fallen the last time you spoke haunted you. Eyes open or closed, you could still see the ghost of his disappointment. The soft tenor of his voice and the way he sounded so genuine. 

Convincing yourself that it was a fluke did not help. 

And somehow, you always ended up back in that elevator, his lips hot on yours. 

Yunho was hot. Of course, he was. You had never questioned that fact. You had explicitly tried to ignore it. But he wasn’t your type. He liked to push your buttons, get under your skin. He didn’t respect basic boundaries. 

Now, he was gone. The firm boundary you’d put in place was being respected, and you found yourself being the one who wanted to cross it. 

Maybe that was growth. Or maybe it was all a part of Yunho’s grand scheme to get in your pants. If you thought about it for too long, you could believe anything. It was the only the long con, a way of getting to you by disappearing when you were finally interested—or, it was the first genuine thing he’d ever done. 

And it made you feel bad. 

Something shot through your nervous system, a realization that you didn’t want to make eye contact. You missed him.

It was nearly a week later when you spotted his door clicking shut just as you were leaving to run a few errands. 

Maybe it wasn’t a good idea. Maybe he didn’t want to talk to you. But after all the times he’d barged in uninvited, you figure it was okay to intrude on his space just once. Walking the short distance from your door to his, however, did cause a strange anxiety to settle in next to your heart, tucked away in your ribcage. A thrumming that whispered, “What are you doing? Why are you doing it?” over and over again. 

It didn’t stop you from raising your hand to tap your knuckles against the door. 

When Yunho opened the door, he looked a little worse for wear. His hair was fluffier than usual, sticking up in places like he’d spent the last seven days running his hands through it. He looked you up and down. A smile appeared on his lips, but it wasn’t the same as the proud one you’d grown used to. He didn’t say anything, just watched you. 

“Hey,” you said. Attempting to be casual didn’t exactly suit you. 

“Hey?” he repeated. 

“Yeah,” you said. “Hey.” You tried to meet his gaze, but his eyes kept moving away, finding something else to look at whenever you got close. 

He had one hand on the door, holding it open. It would be easier that way, to close it whenever he needed to. Because he wanted to look at you. He wanted to meet your gaze. But there was this ball of anger in the pit of his stomach, too. A tightly wound piece of hatred. Not for you, of course. He couldn’t hate you. No. He hated himself. And he would never say it out loud, not to himself and certainly not to you—but he hated himself for being someone you didn’t want. 

But all he could do was look past your eyes and force a smile. 

Unfortunately, the hatred he felt toward himself manifested as anger. “Do you need something?” 

The sharpness in his tone sliced straight through you. “What?” 

“You made it clear you don’t want me,” he said. 

“Well—” you stammered. “That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”

“You have Jihyo and Wooyoung, right? That’s what you said.” He paused and finally met your eyes. Something crossed his face. “Besides, I don’t want to be your friend.”

“Oh,” you said. The anxiety tucked away in your chest blossomed, and your heart began to race. This was a mistake, then. At least you could leave and pretend it never happened. Why then, were you so frozen solid to the spot in front of his door? Why couldn’t you just turn and walk away? Why could you feel the ghost of his lips on yours, the heat of his palms on your arms? Why couldn’t you look away? 

“You’re afraid to admit it, but I’m not,” he said, his voice dropping to that low, gentle tone once more. The one you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about. The one that floated through your dreams like a melody. “I like you.” 

Your lips parted. He leaned forward to look at you on eye level, studying you. He didn’t touch you, just let his eyes bore into yours. It was far too intimate than your racing heart could take. 

“You think I’m all bad,” he said. “I’m not. Let me take you out sometime. I’ll prove it to you.” The corners of his lips turned up in a small smile. Hopeful. 

It was your own self-hatred, your own uncertainty, your own self-consciousness, your own fear, that made you say what you did. “I can’t,” you said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said. And that’s what broke you. Not the rejection, but the acceptance. The way his smile turned firm as he stood straight up and stepped away from you, moving to close the door just as you turned to flee. 

Several days passed, but even the passage of time didn’t make you feel any better. 

“It’s good,” Jihyo said. “I don’t trust him.”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung echoed. “Me either.”

It wasn’t the first time you’d had this conversation, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, either, given how much you’d been thinking about it. About him. Even your thoughts felt selfish. Because you could have him, if you really wanted to. If you really wanted to have him, you could walk over to his apartment and tell him that. 

But something held you back. 

The fear, mostly. 

The thought that you would just end up like all the other girls he’d engaged in one-night stands with. You weren’t exactly a one-night stand kind of girl. Or, at least, you weren’t certain that was what you wanted from Yunho. You didn’t know what you wanted. Maybe that was the scariest part. 

“You didn’t see the look on his face,” you said, sinking deeper and deeper into the couch. 

It was Wooyoung who eventually said. “If you like him, I guess I don’t really see what the problem is.”

“The problem is he has a different girl over every night,” Jihyo commented. 

“Not every night. Besides, he hasn’t in a while,” you said, which earned you a look from Jihyo. “What? The walls are thin. I can hear everything.”

“Maybe he’s a changed man,” Wooyoung commented. 

“Doubt it,” Jihyo said. 

You could only shrug. “I don’t know. I hardly know him, anyway.” You let out a long, deep breath. “I’ll get over it eventually. So will he. I’m sure it’ll be fine in a few weeks. Maybe we’ll even laugh about it.”

Hours later, when Jihyo and Wooyoung finally left your apartment—you stood at the door, waiting for them to get on the elevator. An old habit. Like making sure they got home safe. The elevator doors opened, and Yunho stepped out. You only saw him at first. 

Then, you saw her. The girl hanging off his arm. Laughing. Smiling. 

Jihyo shot you a look, but you shook your head. It was fine. You didn’t need them coming to your rescue over a man you’d rejected. They got into the elevator and disappeared. You tried to close your door fast, but Yunho spotted you first. You just barely caught him raising a few fingers in a wave, a smile on his lips, before the hastily shut door separated you both. 

Something bloomed in your chest, hot and angry. You’d seen him with other women before. Countless times, in fact. You’d heard them through your walls, escorted them out afterward. And you’d never been angry at anything other than the inconvenience. 

But now the anger flushed your system of coherent thoughts. The tips of your ears turned red as you rested your forehead against the closed door. This wasn’t anger. As much as you wanted to believe it, manifest it into being so—it was so much worse. 

Jealousy. 

It made your skin crawl, the realization. You were jealous. And the worst part was that you had no right to be. He had offered you the same thing he gave all those girls, and you’d turned him down. So why now, did you have your head resting on the door and your eyes squeezed tight? Maybe it wasn’t just jealousy, but anger too. 

Anger at your own poor decision-making skills. Anger at Yunho for—what exactly? Moving on? You were the one who’d been adamant that there was absolutely nothing between you. He’d shot his shot and failed. Had you expected him to retire from the little game he played every weekend? 

You tried to remind yourself what would have happened if you’d gone out with him. That he wasn’t relationship material. That he didn’t want you like you wanted him. 

Fuck. You wanted him. 

You wanted him, and it made you feel like an idiot. 

Is that how everyone who ended up in his bed felt? Confused and annoyed, angry with his charming personality and his ability to sweep pretty much anyone off their feet without really even trying? 

And when had this happened, anyway? He’d moved in a few months ago. You’d been tolerating his presence since—and then things just, well, shifted. 

It didn’t even matter if you ended up as just another one-night stand—you wanted to be in his bed, underneath him, no matter what the outcome was. It was that thought that pulled you away from the door and sent you into the bedroom, diving under the covers and attempting to think about anything other than what was possibly going on in the next room over. 

Damn his stupid motorcycle and the way his shirt, damp with rain and sweat, had stuck to his skin. Damn his stupid, charming smile that shifted between snarky and kind. Damn his everything, every detail that made you look twice, that had you second-guessing every moment, every interaction. 

It was even worse, knowing that he wanted you, too. Knowing that he wanted you, and that you could have just had him, if you weren’t such an idiot. 

And so you oscillated back and forth like that for a while—between being annoyed at yourself for rejecting him and at him for being so charming and so untrustworthy at the same time. 

It went on like that for some time before you eventually fell asleep to thoughts of walking down the hall and throwing the door open, to grabbing him and kissing him—before your mind eventually decided being awake no longer served you. 

Unfortunately, when morning came, it wasn’t with a new, refreshed mind. 

Instead, more thoughts swarmed, and before you could stop and think about what you were doing, you were standing in the hallway outside Yunho’s apartment in your pajamas. 

It wasn’t until you raised your hand to knock that you realized exactly where you were. 

Yunho must have sensed it. The door swung open, and there he was, standing there with that somewhat charming, somewhat obnoxious smile on his face, looking at you like this—whatever you were doing—was, in fact, completely normal behavior. 

He looked just out of bed, messy hair and plaid pajama pants. A white shirt that clung to him and a loose robe overtop. One hand held a mug of coffee, and he leaned against the door frame in such a casual manner as you glanced him over, trying to figure out some excuse for why you’d shown up at his door. 

“Good morning,” he said. There was a coldness to his voice. Something absent from his tone that you didn’t want to linger on. Like he was distancing himself from you. 

Words failed you. 

“I—” you started. You took a step forward, nearly into his body. He didn’t yield against you, instead holding firm in the door frame. You tried to look over his shoulder to see if the girl was still present. Did he not want your help escorting her out?

The smile that fell on his lips was slow, and you watched him figure you out in record time. 

“Looking for someone?” he asked, that cold tone growing warmer, charm seeping back into his words, that familiar enjoyment. A cat playing with a mouse. 

You took a step back. “No.” 

“Seems like you are.” 

“I’m not,” you said, but you weren’t able to keep the defensive note from your voice. It was so painstakingly clear to both of you why you were there and what you were looking for. It became a game, then, of who would concede the space first. Who would give up. You could easily admit your lie, but there was no pride in that. And Yunho, well, he could just as easily call you out on it, but that didn’t seem like the path he wanted to take, either. 

Instead, it turned into a standoff of words loaded into guns and backs turned. Paces counted before firing. Eye contact, before your gaze dropped to his lips, and the slow smile crawling across turned into a smirk of victory undeserved. 

“I just thought you might want my help,” you said, cocking your head back and crossing your arms. A feeble attempt to gain some ground. 

“I don’t,” he said. Sharp. You hated that the simple words cut, even though you would have claimed to hate said help only a week prior. 

“You don’t,” you repeated. 

Your cursed brain. He’d found someone else. Someone else to break the streak of one-night stand girls. He’d found someone else, and it was too late, and you’d ruined everything out of pure indecisiveness and misguided advice. 

Maybe he wasn’t even such a bad guy. 

Maybe your vision had been clouded by jealousy from the very beginning. 

Yunho stepped away from the door, walking deeper into the apartment. You hesitated. He brought down another mug and filled it, pushing it in your direction and eying you to take it. 

“You know,” he said. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.” 

Your brows drew together as you watched him, sipping his coffee and looking over the cup at you, still standing in the hallway. 

“I’m not—” you started, but he just laughed. “I’m really not.” 

“Then why are you here?” he asked, the genuine nature of his voice catching you off guard. “You already rejected me, remember?” 

Your feet carried you into his apartment. You closed the door behind you. 

“I remember,” you said. You stopped across from him and reached over to pick up the mug of coffee, the kitchen island separating you. You looked over your shoulder, eyes wandering toward the open door of his bedroom. 

“You’re funny,” he said. 

“What?” you asked, eyes snapping back to him. 

“There’s no one here,” Yunho said. He set his coffee mug down on the counter and walked closer to you. “And whatever you’re trying to do—you’re not very good at it.”

He reached up and took the coffee mug out of your hands, placing it on the counter next to his. 

“There’s no one here,” you said, repeating his words back to him for the second time. It was easier than finding new ones to say. 

He rolled his eyes, but the annoyance didn’t reach his lips. No, those still held that same pleased smile, like he knew something you didn’t. 

Yunho reached out, closing the distance between you, to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. He looked down at you with a gaze you couldn’t place. Something between admiration and lust. His fingers trailed down your jaw and hooked under your chin. 

His touch froze you. You could only blink and watch, your gaze darting between his mouth and his eyes. 

“Are you jealous?” he asked, holding your chin and looking at you carefully. 

“I don’t know,” you said, because that was the truth. All the thoughts in your mind were jumbled, and nothing made sense when it came to him. 

He raised one brow, skeptical. “Did you need to borrow something?” he asked. “Or yell at me because the TV was too loud?” 

“No,” you said. 

“Then why did you come over?” he asked. He led you toward the answer, walked you there while holding your chin and making sure you kept your eyes trained on his. His voice was gentle, but stern—and you knew he wouldn’t relent until you gave him the truth. 

You sighed, and this small act of giving up only made the corners of his lips turn up. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” you said. His lips parted in shock. Because he’d been expecting an admission regarding your jealousy, not the way that he raced through your mind all night. But you kept going, anyway. “And I didn’t mean to come over, I mean—I guess I did. But I left my apartment, and then here I was—and I wasn’t even going to knock, but you opened the door, and then all I could think about was whether or not you had a girl over.” 

His hand slipped from your chin to lay flat against the side of your head, his palm on your cheek and his fingers dipping into your hair. 

Your heart raced faster as his eyes dropped to your lips, and your first kiss played on a loop over and over again until you were stepping closer to him, lifting a hand to touch the one on your cheek. 

He inched closer too, until your bodies were almost touching. 

Yunho’s eyes met yours, then flicked downward. Up and back. Your eyes followed the same pattern, and you moved closer, closer, a centimeter at a time, until his lips were on yours again and everything agonizingly slow kicked into full speed. 

His other hand came up to cup your other cheek as he kissed you slowly. It wasn’t the abrupt, intense heat of the kiss you shared in the elevator, but a soft, molten kiss that sent your nerves firing. 

When he pulled away, it was only a half an inch, barely enough to keep you from recapturing his lips and stopping whatever sentence whirred to life behind hazy eyes. “That’s what I wanted our first kiss to be like,” he said. 

“I liked our first kiss,” you said, without really thinking. 

He dropped his forehead against yours. “Me too.” 

“I liked the second too.” But you didn’t let yourself reach out again, not with the last thought that nagged at the back of your mind. “What about the girl—your date last night?” 

“She didn’t stay long. I couldn’t stop thinking about my neighbor.” He put a half-step’s worth of space between you. 

“How annoying,” you said, laughing under your breath. 

“Yeah, she really is,” he teased. “Kinda hot, though.” 

“Kinda?” you asked, raising a brow at him. 

“Okay, insanely,” Yunho said, crossing his arms over his chest. “So hot she’s driven me mad since the day I moved in. Is that what you want to hear?” 

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your lips. “Yes.” 

“Now will you let me take you out?” he asked. 

You hadn’t thought about what would happen after you stormed over to his apartment without invitation, nor what would happen after his lips were on yours. You thought he would try something more, but he kept his distance—asked about dates instead. 

“You look shocked,” he said. 

“I’m not,” you said, and he chuckled under his breath. Apparently, you were easier to read than you thought, or maybe he was just good at knowing what you were thinking. Somehow, that wasn’t as annoying as it used to be. 

“Not jealous, not shocked…” he trailed off. “Not very good at lying, either.” 

“I just didn’t think dating was really your thing,” you said. 

He placed a hand to his heart in mock hurt. “You wound me,” he said. “I’m a romantic at heart, you’ll see.”

“Oh, will I?” you asked, “From what I’ve heard, it doesn’t sound like romance.” You tilted your head to the side, looking up at him, watching for the reaction. 

His brows lifted a hair. “You’ve been listening.” 

“The walls are thin, Yunho.” 

“And that’s why you’re jealous?” he asked, reaching out to poke your cheek. “Because of what you’ve been hearing?” 

“No,” you stammered, a crinkle developing between your brows in irritation. 

“I can’t figure you out,” he said. “You think I’m this big player, right? But you’re also up at night with your ear to the wall trying to listen in so—I think you might be the real freak, here.” 

You slapped his arm playfully. “I am not.” 

“We’ll see,” he said, continuing before you could get a word in, “Let me take you out tonight.”

“I’m working,” you said. 

“Tomorrow night.”

You pretended to ponder the availability of your schedule. Since your minor situationship with Hongjoong fizzled out, you hadn’t had plans with anyone but Jihyo and Wooyoung. And they wouldn’t mind a night off from having to listen to your problems. Maybe you’d get an earful from Jihyo about how you were choosing to spend the night, instead, but Wooyoung would come around. 

“Tomorrow night,” you confirmed. 

It was strange how quickly everything turned over in your mind. Maybe you were naive, but one kiss and you’d started to see him differently. That voice that nagged in the back of your mind, reminding you that maybe he was like this with all the girls he brought back, had disappeared completely. Instead, you found ways to justify it all. There was nothing wrong with sleeping around, anyway. 

You’d had more active times in your life, too. And no one had judged you for that, well, experimentation. 

He watched the cogs turn behind your eyes. “What are you thinking?” he asked. 

“Just trying to figure you out, is all.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, rethinking whatever it was he wanted to say. It seemed like you were both playing the same game—trying to understand the other without giving too much away, without making a big deal out of something that hadn’t gone anywhere, yet. 

“So,” you said. A blanket of silence suddenly fell between you, the awkward air of the kiss settling on your shoulders, and the future plans made. 

“So,” Yunho said, much cooler, calmer, than you had. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, then?” 

“Yeah,” you said. “Definitely.” 

You took a step back, but he reached out to grab your hand before you could get too far. He held it, not too tight, but not exactly with a gentle grasp, either. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said. “Really.” 

Heat rose to your cheeks. 

“Yeah,” you said. “Me too,” before disappearing from his apartment. By the time you were back home, your palms were sweating. 

Was this a horrible idea? And if it was, why did you want it so badly?

The next 36 hours went by at an unimaginably slow pace. In that time, you managed to spend a good several more hours overthinking, at least thirty minutes on the phone with Jihyo, convincing her that this was, maybe, a good idea, actually, and the rest of the time panicking about your ability to make decisions regarding your love life. 

“It doesn’t have to be anything,” Jihyo said at the end of the call, after retiring her role as devil’s advocate. “It was just a kiss, right? And it’s just a date.” 

“Maybe I want it to be something,” you said. “That’s what scares me. What if he doesn’t?” 

You could hear her shrug over the line. “Guess you’ll have to ask him.”

Wooyoung chimed in from over Jihyo’s shoulder. “Besides, what’s the worst thing that can happen, anyway? You find out if the sex is good, and then he stops showing up at your apartment without permission?” 

You pinched your nose between your thumb and forefinger. “Neither of you are helpful,” you said. 

Hours after the call, however, you couldn’t help but admit that Wooyoung’s words were true. This was a sexual attraction. Yunho was sexy. He had a confusing charm to him that you never understood, and a contagious smile. He was goofy, good at video games, and fun to bicker with—but you didn’t really know him, did you? 

So you decided that’s what the date would be for. 

You’d get to know him. Decide exactly what you wanted. And if that was just sex, well. There wasn’t anything wrong with that, right? Maybe fucking him would get him out of your head, too. Though, you had a feeling that probably wouldn’t be the case. 

By the time eight o’clock rolled around, you were standing in your bedroom, looking in the floor-length mirror, still attempting to determine exactly which outfit was right for the date. 

You’d never been this nervous for a date before. 

It was just a date. Yunho was just a man. 

The knock at the door, however, sent your heart into your stomach—so maybe you were just lying to yourself. Either way, it wasn’t working. 

You smoothed your hands down the front of your shirt, over the sides of your skirt. Was there time to change? He was on the other side of the door, and still, you didn’t feel exactly right. Almost like you were wearing a costume, something to impress him, but not something that was really you. 

The nerves were getting to you, and all you had to do was just open the door. 

Open the door, and he would be there, staring back at you. You knew exactly what he would look like, too. Leather jacket, permanent smirk curling up the corners of his lips, knowing brown eyes scanning you. It was a comfort, almost, this knowing. 

But still, you were frozen. 

Like opening the door was some kind of test of your own nature. He was the same, steady. Predictable. But you? Was he on the other side of the door, telling himself the same thing, that you were there—familiar?

What if he didn’t like this version of you? The one who had spent hours trying to figure out how to look just right, for him. The one wearing a skirt, the one who was excited about the date, who had gotten her hopes up. 

What if he had only ever liked you because you didn’t like him?

You rubbed your temples, trying to quiet the ever-existing anxiety that stirred behind your eyes, a reminder that this was something you fucking cared about, which only made the whole thing worse. You cared, which meant you could screw it up. You could screw it up, and it would hurt. 

“You gonna open the door?” Yunho asked from the hall. He had this weird ability to read your mind, to sense when you were nearby. Like he knew some part of you that even you couldn’t see. 

You opened the door halfway through an eye roll. 

And there he was. 

He looked nothing like you’d imagined in your head. His leather jacket was missing, replaced by a black suit jacket with a white button-up underneath, a skinny black tie cut down the middle. Though you could barely see his torso behind the bouquet of flowers he held in one arm. 

Yunho’s eyes stayed glued to yours. They didn’t wander, as yours did. But that slow smile did crawl across his lips as you took him in, this different version of him. 

“Are those for me?” you asked, looking at the arrangement of tulips and baby’s breath. 

He took a step closer to you, dropping his free hand around your shoulders to place a kiss atop your head, into your hair. It was immediately overwhelming, being in his presence again, especially after so many hours of trying to pretend that he had no effect on you. 

Well, there that effect was. The way your heart immediately beat faster, your nervous system racing into high alert, goosebumps rising on your forearms. You would think that something was truly wrong, the way your body reacted. Like this was something to run away from. But coupled with the feeling of ignition—the warmth of him being close started a fire somewhere deep within you—there was no chance you would run away. 

“Do you have a vase I can put these in?” he said, answering your arguably dumb question as he took a step away from you. 

You moved out of the way, letting him step into your apartment. A place familiar to him. Some place he’d basically broken into over and over again. He moved through it like it belonged to him, walking into the kitchen to grab a vase from under the sink. He filled it with water and placed the bouquet inside, leaving it on the counter. 

“You seem nervous,” he commented as he trimmed away the plastic wrapping with a pair of scissors he’d also known the location of. 

Your arms were crossed over your chest, not in disappointment or contempt, but because you had to hold onto something to steady yourself. Your fingers dug into your biceps only slightly, but he must have caught that, too. 

Or maybe he was just so used to the inner workings of your mind, your body, that he could sense these differences too. 

You had no idea he paid so much attention. 

“I’m not,” you said. But even a stranger would have known you were lying. 

He peeled away the rest of the crinkling plastic and put it in the trash, snipping the rubber band on the bouquet and letting the flowers fall outward. 

“They’re pretty,” you said, as if that could distract from your nerves and his commentary on them. “Thank you.” 

You kept your distance from him, standing just outside the kitchen while he worked. But once finished, he strode toward you again. He stopped just short, not opting to reach for you, just looking. 

“You’re welcome,” he said. “You sure you’re okay?” 

You cleared your throat as you nodded. “Mhm.” 

He could only chuckle under his breath. You were standing so straight, holding yourself so tightly. He did reach out, then, peeling one of your hands away from your arm to hold it. He laced his fingers between yours. 

Yunho’s hands were large and warm, and they didn’t serve to ground you any. 

Oh god. What was happening to you? 

You tried to remind yourself of everything you’d said earlier. This was just a date. Yunho was just a man. A really, really fucking hot man. And a man who drove you absolutely insane. A man who knew how to kiss. 

“You ready to go?” he asked, eyes flicked downward, watching your joined hands. He couldnt’t believe it either—was just better at keeping his cool—that this was actually happening. That you’d agreed to it. 

“Yes,” you said, and the pair of you walked out of your apartment together. He made eyes at you in the elevator. 

Were you both thinking about the same thing? The upward quirk of his smile was enough to make you think yes. 

“You are nervous,” Yunho commented as the doors to the lobby slid open. 

“Shut up,” you said. “I’m not.”

He held his free hand up in defense. “Not a very nice way to talk to your date.”

You shot a glare in his direction, but it wasn’t very threatening when paired with the smile gracing your lips. 

He squeezed your hand. “Why?” 

“Why, what?” you asked. 

“Why are you nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” you said again, but this time the pointed look was from him. And frankly, it was deserved. “Shut up,” you said again, as the two of you stepped outside. “I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.”

“I’m a little nervous,” he said. 

He kept your hand in his as you walked. He didn’t tell you where you were going, and you didn’t ask. 

“What?” you asked. “The Jeong Yunho, nervous? Haven’t you done this like a million times?”

“Yeah, but never with you,” he said, which only made heat rise to your cheeks. 

You were still not used to this version of Yunho. The charming one. The complement to the snarky asshole who’s been appearing in your apartment for the past several months. 

“Where are you taking me, anyway?” you asked, diverting the conversation from compliments that made your skin turn pink. 

“We’re almost there,” he said. 

There were so many other questions flying through your head, but it was so much harder to form words around him, now. It was easier before, when all those words were full of frustration and anger, when you were making fun of him or reacting to his torment. When he was being kind to you, it only left you speechless and on uneven footing. 

Thankfully, he was right. In only a few minutes of walking, you arrived at a small Italian bistro. A place you’d seen a hundred times on walks home from work, but never stopped into. It wasn’t exactly a bartender’s salary kind of place, unless you wanted to blow an entire month’s food budget on delicious gnocchi. Which, honestly, you’d thought about plenty of times before. 

Booths lined the walls with tables in the center, spread out and quiet, each with its own warm candlelight in the middle, its own dangling chandelier in the center. The tables were preset with wine glasses and cutlery. 

He gave his name at the host stand, and the two of you followed her to a table. Yunho’s hand settled on your lower back as you walked. 

Only the thin layer of your shirt stopped the electricity from knocking you out, dulling it to a mild spark instead. You slid into a booth opposite him. 

The host rattled off some wine specials. 

“Whatever you suggest,” Yunho said, smiling warmly at the woman. 

She disappeared momentarily, then returned with a bottle of red wine with a name you didn’t know how to pronounce. She filled up your glasses, then left the bottle behind. 

“So,” Yunho said, picking up his glass to look at you over it. “I should have said this already, but you look really nice tonight.”

“Don’t,” you said, a knee-jerk reaction to his complimenting. “I mean—”

“You know this is a date, right?” he teased. “You agreed to go on a date with me.”

You laughed under your breath, covering your mouth with your hand. “Sorry,” you said, trying not to laugh. “Still trying to get used to you being like this.”

“Like what?” he asked, one brow raised. 

“Oh, come on. You know like what,” you fired back. You lifted your glass of wine too and took a small sip. It was delicious. Deep and dry. 

He set his wine glass down and leaned slightly forward with both elbows on the table, trying to get closer to you. He tilted his head to the side, watching you curiously. “I don’t,” he said. 

“All charming and nice,” you said. 

“I think I’ve always been charming and nice,” Yunho said. 

You shake your head, taking another sip of your wine to hide the fact that the smile won’t fade from your lips—that being around him made you smile, now. “That’s not true, and you know it, Yunho.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Please,” you said. “You can’t pretend that for the last several months you haven’t been trying to get on my last nerve.”

He pursed his lips like he was really, actually taking the time to think about it. “Maybe I just like getting you all hot and bothered,” he said, finally. 

“Wasn’t hot,” you said. “Just bothered.”

“And now?” Yunho asked, leaning even further over the table, as if making direct eye contact would allow him to glean every secret you ever had. 

“Still just bothered, I think,” you teased, lifting your glass to your lips. 

Yunho leaned back in his seat, picking up his own glass and smiling smugly to himself. “I do like a challenge.”

When the waitress came over to ask about starting courses, you were still looking at one another, like you were both trying to place exactly what was going on, exactly what all of it meant. Yunho looked at you like he was trying to read your mind, trying to figure out what you thought about him, and you looked at him like you were trying to piece together a complex puzzle, trying to figure out what he wanted from you. 

It was Yunho who broke eye contact first, who glanced over at the waitress, who ordered a few starters for the table. 

When she walked away, you were still looking at him, watching. Studying, almost. Like you could glean something in the way he talked to others, in whether he chose bruschetta or burrata. 

“So,” he said, lowering his empty glass back to the table. 

“So,” you mirrored. 

It occurred to you then that you knew almost nothing about him, aside from the fact that he liked video games and coffee. Aside from what his mouth felt like against yours. 

You engaged in tense, short, small talk for a little while, until the food came out. How work had been for you, what he’d been up to with his time. Trying to get to know each other even a little bit more. It all came back to pointed glances and tension—both of you guarded against something. Not each other, really, but refusing to let the other in. 

Yunho didn’t give much away about himself, only continued asking about you. And you could only tease him in response. Keeping him at a distance by pushing back, instead. 

As the wine levels lowered, so did your defenses. 

“Is this how it usually goes for you?” you asked, finishing off your second glass of wine while you waited for his answer. He didn’t speak immediately, so you clarified. “Like, on all your dates, is this usually how things go?”

“I don’t know where you got this idea that I go on tons of dates,” he said. 

It only served to stun you. Because—where else would you have gotten that information, aside from the obvious? By living next door. By kicking out said dates the next morning. 

“I mean—” you started. 

“Your impression of me,” he said. “It’s wrong. You think I’m this ladies man, right?” He laughed like he couldn’t even say the words with a straight face. “I’m really not.”

“Oh, please,” you said, because you knew that to be false. You’d met the women. Spoken with them. 

He chuckled under his breath. “Just because they were at my house didn’t mean I went out on dates with them. You know that, right? That you don’t have to go on a date with someone to get into bed with them?” He raised a brow in such a suggestive way that you choked on your saliva. 

“I know that,” you said. Even though it didn’t really occur to you that he wasn’t actually dating anyone. 

“This is the first date I’ve been on in over a year,” he said, offering up something about himself completely unprompted. “So I don’t know how it’s going, really. My date seems a little tense. A little nervous, even though she doesn’t want to admit it.”

“You haven’t been on a date in over a year?” you asked, lingering on the details. “But you’re so—” you started, then realized you had no idea how to finish the sentence. What? Active? 

“Let’s just get this conversation over with,” Yunho said, a bit of tension appearing in the crease between his brows. He didn’t want to talk about this, didn’t want to draw attention to it. But you were so obviously curious, and it was so easy to do anything when it was what you wanted. 

“No,” you said, holding a hand up. “It’s okay, really. I shouldn’t have assumed anything.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “It makes sense why you did. The women I’ve been with, they knew what I was looking for. I didn’t trick them or make them think I was looking for a relationship when I wasn’t. We met at bars or clubs or on dating apps. I didn’t date any of them.” 

“Okay,” you said. 

“So, I guess I’m kind of rusty,” he said. “When it comes to stuff like this.”

You laughed. “You’re not rusty at all,” you said. “You’re charming. You’ve always been charming.” 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Like, annoyingly so.” 

He looked down at the table, but not before you caught the slight blush appearing on his cheeks. Had you actually made Yunho blush?

“I think that makes you the experienced dater in the situation, then,” Yunho said. 

This, too, made you laugh. Because if there was anything you didn’t have experience with, it was dating. All of your dates had ended—with a fizzle and certainly without a bang. Your track record over the past year or two was mostly boring. Boring men who didn’t make you laugh. Boring men who you couldn’t bicker playfully with. Men who wanted more from you than you had to give. Or not enough. 

“I don’t know about that,” you said. Then, “Maybe we’re both losers.”

A bright smile crossed his lips. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.”

The rest of the dinner went by without as much tension. You learned a few little bits of information about one another. Where he grew up. What you studied in school. What your favorite drink to make at work was. 

“Do you like it?” he asked, refilling your wine when a new bottle appeared at the table seemingly out of nowhere. “Your job?” 

You shrugged. “Most of the time, yes.” You took a small sip. “I like the people. The regulars are mostly cool. And I get this glimpse into people’s lives that I don’t think I could get anywhere else. I only get to see what they want to show me. What they tell me about their day, or whatever baggage they bring to the counter. I like that.”

“Is what they say about bartenders really true?” he asked. “Do people tell you their life stories, their secrets?”

“Sometimes,” you said. “Depends on the person, and how many drinks they’ve had. Most people keep to themselves, but I have a few regulars who like to talk.”

“You’re kind of fascinating, you know that?” he asked. 

“What?” you said, exhaling a short laugh. 

“When I moved in down the hall, you were headed out somewhere with Wooyoung and Jihyo—”

You interrupted him. “No, that’s okay, you don’t have to—”

“Why?” he asked. “I like this story.”

You put your hands over your face like you could hide from it, from your own actions several months ago. 

“You walked right over to me and introduced yourself. I thought that was pretty cool.” 

Really? Because you had recounted that interaction several times in the hours afterward, convinced that you had made a complete ass out of yourself, convinced that you were the lamest person in the entire world. 

“Do you remember what you said to me?” he asked. 

“No,” you said. Even though you obviously did. Even though you knew exactly the words you’d said. 

Yunho smiled. “That I could come over any time if I needed something. That you were excited to have a cool, new neighbor.”

You hid your face behind your hands again. “God, that’s so lame.” 

“I thought it was cute.”

“You did not,” you said. 

He took a sip of his wine, eyes not leaving yours as he did. Heat rose to your cheeks, and you were certain that this embarrassment was going to kill you. 

“And then you came over whenever you wanted for the rest of forever,” you said. “Just to bother me.”

He laughed again. “I came over because I thought you were cute.”

“I thought you were just trying to get away from the girls in your apartment.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Because they weren’t you.”

You rolled your eyes at him because it was such a line. So something he would say to get what he wanted, to make a girl blush, or make them want him. It was probably something he said to those girls in the bar, to get them to come home with him. Not that he probably had to say much of anything at all. His appearance could do most of the talking. 

“Don’t roll your eyes at me,” he said. “I’m being honest here.”

“You are not,” you said. 

His eyebrows raised at your blatant dismissal. “Just because you don’t want to believe me doesn’t make it untrue.”

“Yunho, be serious.”

“I am being serious,” he said. “None of those girls meant anything to me. They knew it. I knew it.”

“How charming,” you said. 

“Are you going to keep judging me for this, or can we move on?” he asked, straight-faced, just as blatant as your words. It must have been the alcohol, making you both so free to talk about what you were really thinking. 

“I’m not judging you for sleeping around. I don’t care about your sex life, Yunho. I really don’t,” you said. “You just can’t expect me to believe that you were thinking about me the whole time. I mean, we didn’t even know each other.”

“I know you wake up at ten on weekdays and eleven on weekends. I know you record more reality TV than any sane person probably should. I know that you like coffee and you hate tea. I know you make a really good old-fashioned. I know you like people. I know you’re kind, but you don’t take people’s shit.”

It was all true. 

“And I know I think about you when you aren’t around. I know that I’m not good enough for you even on my best days.” 

“That’s not true,” you said. “You’re good.”

“Is that why you rejected me?” he asked. 

“No,” you said. “I rejected you because I wanted more than I thought you wanted to give me.”

Something lit up behind his eyes when he smiled. 

The rest of the date went on without incident. You returned to small talk. To easier conversation. To more teasing and taunting. 

When you finally left, both wine drunk and happy, it was with intertwined hands. 

“So nice of you to walk me home,” you joked. 

“Well, I am quite the gentleman,” Yunho said. 

You laughed under your breath. 

“Your place or mine?” you asked as you stepped into the lobby and pressed the button to call the elevator down. 

He looked shocked by this. Like he hadn’t been thinking about it all night, what taking you back to his place would be like. Okay, so maybe he had, but that didn’t mean he was going to act on those feelings. No, he wanted to do this right. 

He didn’t respond fast enough, and it felt like a rejection. 

You played it off. “I just want to make you a drink, Yunho. Don’t be weird,” you said. Even though that wasn’t exactly what you meant. Maybe it meant what he thought it meant. That you were looking for more. 

“Your place, then,” he said, trying to keep the smile off his lips with little success. 

The elevator doors slipped open, and you both stepped inside. 

That same tension returned again. The we-kissed-here tension. 

You were both looking at each other. Wine drunk and smiling. You used your intertwined hands to pull him toward you. He took one confident stride closer. When the doors slid open at your floor, his hands were reaching up to touch your arms, that same darkened look in his eyes. The part of his lips, the way his eyes roamed your face, up and down, unable to stop in any one location. He wanted to kiss you. 

But he remained that step away, instead letting his knuckles glide along your skin. 

You reached out for him, like that first night. Your hands found his lapels as the elevator doors slid closed. You didn’t tug him closer, but just held them. 

He leaned down slowly, eyes shifting between your lips and your mouth. Your lips parted, too, and he captured them like it was an invitation. 

Kissing him felt just as insane every single time you’d done it. There was the urgency and the fear of the first night, the pretending. And days ago, there had only been tenderness in his investigation. This kiss fell somewhere in the middle. 

You could taste the wine on his lips as they moved slowly against yours. He tried to savor every bit of you. But as soon as it was really getting started, he was pulling away, cutting it off. 

Then, his hand intertwined with yours again. He hit a button to make the elevator doors open again, and he led you down the hall, toward your place. 

You wanted to reach for him again, wanted to drag him down for another kiss. But his expression looked like steel. He didn’t look at you, but instead forward at the door while you dug around for your keys. Even when you tried to steal a glance, he didn’t meet it. 

But he let you lead him into your apartment, and once you were inside, he removed his jacket, placing it on the back of one of your chairs. You went to the kitchen, and he followed you, wrapping his arms low around your waist so he could rest his chin on your shoulder. 

It was so domestic that it made your teeth hurt like you were sucking on a sweet candy. 

“What do you like to drink?” you asked. “Do you actually like an old-fashioned, or were you just trying to piss me off?” 

He chuckled in your ear, low and melodic, his breath curling against the shell of your ear. “I like them.”

“But are they your favorite?” you asked. 

“I don’t know if I have a favorite,” he said. 

“Everyone has a favorite,” you said.

“What’s yours?” he asked. “That’s what I want.”

You weren’t going to be able to make anyone anything if he kept holding onto you like that, kept whispering in your ear. 

“I like, um,” you started. “Mai tais. Rum-based drinks in general.” 

“Rum sounds good,” he said. 

You took a step forward, and his arms fell away from you. You collected a few things from the counter, moving them over to the place next to the sink. Yunho stayed close, watching you work as you sliced and juiced a lime. He watched as you filled a shaker with ice and added the ingredients. He watched you shake it, then strain the contents over ice in a lowball glass. He watched as you carefully placed a few cherries atop the drink next to a lime wheel. 

“Wait,” you said. “Finishing touch.” You dug around in a drawer and found a tiny umbrella, which you dropped into the drink for him, before picking it up and handing it to him. 

He took a tentative sip, then smiled. “Damn, that’s good.” 

“Kind of my specialty,” you said, already starting the process over for yours. 

Eventually, the two of you migrated to the couch. You took a seat on the ground, your back to the legs of the couch, your drink on the table adjacent to you. Yunho sat behind you, on the couch itself. 

You already had a controller in your hands, and it didn’t take long before Yunho wandered to the other side of the room to pick up another one. 

While you scrolled through your available games, he said, “Trying to figure out which game you want to lose at?” 

You shook your head, not looking back at him. “Cocky,” you commented. “I think you’ll find I’m better than you think.”

“I play on your account,” he said, which really meant I’ve seen your statistics. 

“Okay, so I’m bad at the games you like to play,” you said. 

He slipped onto the ground next to you. 

“I was thinking something collaborative.” 

You pulled up Overcooked and watched as he rolled his sleeves up. 

“It’s that serious?” you asked, teasingly. 

He laughed. “It’s incredibly serious.” 

You both finished your drinks and played into the middle of the night, yelling at each other about vegetables and recipes. 

It was nearly three in the morning when your eyes started to get heavy, when your head started to hurt, the hangover starting. You leaned your head against his shoulder, letting your eyes fall closed. Neither of you moved for a long time. At some point, his hand came up to stroke long lines into your hair. And when you did, finally, fall asleep like that, he scooped you up and carried you to bed. 

He peeled back the covers and deposited you there, pulling them back up around your body afterward. He pressed a kiss into your hair and disappeared.

When you woke up the next morning, it was to an empty apartment. When you wandered into the living room, there were no empty mai tai glasses to be found, no dishes from your late-night cocktail crafting. Everything was clean and put away. 

You had no choice but to call Jihyo. 

When she answered, it was not with a hello but with the immediate, important questions. “Oh my god, how was it?”

You kicked your feet up on the coffee table, leaned back with arms crossed over your chest, thinking. 

“You’re up later than usual—does that mean it went really well?” Jihyo asked. 

What was this feeling developing in the center of your chest? It couldn’t possibly be disappointment, right? There was nothing wrong with the date. He’d been a perfect gentleman. He’d paid for the meal, walked you home, let you yell at him into the wee hours of the night. He’d even tucked you in and washed your dishes. 

But he’d hardly kissed you. 

“It was… good,” you said. 

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“It wasn’t bad,” you said hastily. “It was really good. It just—I just, I guess I can’t even tell if he really even likes me or not.”

“What do you mean?” she asked. 

You shrugged, even though Jihyo couldn’t see it. “We kissed again, but that was it—and he didn’t even seem like, eager to continue.”

“That’s… weird,” was Jihyo’s analysis of the evening. You filled her in on the rest of the fine details. The restaurant, the banter, the moments of tension. “Maybe he’s just being careful?” she suggested. “Like he doesn’t want you to think he just wants you for one thing.”

“Yeah,” you said. “Maybe.”

Jihyo laughed. “So what you’re saying is that it was a really good date, but you’re annoyed he didn’t put out?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” you said. 

“Kind of sounds like what you’re saying.”

“I’m hanging up now,” you said. 

And you did. 

It wasn’t long before you heard from Yunho again. Before another date was scheduled. Before you were calling Jihyo afterward again to recount the same news. The lack of news. And then it happened again. You were beginning to think the worst, that he didn’t want you. When he pulled away from another kiss on the night of your fourth date, two weeks into whatever it was the two of you were doing together, you threw your hands out in exasperation. 

“Is there something wrong with me?” you asked. 

He folded his arms over his chest. “Hm?” he asked. Then, what you said must have registered with him. “What do you mean?” He might have teased you if you hadn’t sounded so serious. 

You chewed on your bottom lip for a long time, trying to work up the nerve to say the words you really wanted to say. 

“I mean,” you started, but the words died on your tongue. 

He had to know. 

There was no way he didn’t. 

He lifted his hand to your face, curled two fingers under your chin, and lifted, making you hold his gaze. His eyes were sharp, brown, drowning in blown-out pupils. 

“Do you even still like me?” you asked, getting the words out. They weren’t exactly the right words, but the right words made your stomach turn. Even these ones made your heart beat faster, made your fingers twitch. Because it felt so stupid to be asking. Obviously, he liked you. 

And he laughed. 

Because, of course, he laughed. 

It was a stupid fucking question. 

“Of course, I like you,” he said, still holding your chin, still looking at you. Something knowing crossed his features, then, and you wished he would just confirm your worries without you having to actually speak them aloud. 

“Then why don’t you want me?” you asked, voice small and timid. 

His hand moved to the side of your face, his fingers dipping into your hair, holding you. “You think that I don’t want you?” he asked. 

“I mean, it’s the only reasonable explanation,” you stammered, heat rushing to your cheeks. 

“It’s not reasonable,” Yunho said. 

Then, he dropped his hand from your face, slipping his palm into yours instead. He tugged you toward his door, away from your apartment—where he was previously dropping you off for the evening. You don’t even remember what his excuse had been. Something about having to work in the morning. 

You let him lead you down the hall, toward his apartment. You would have followed him anywhere. He didn’t speak, just walked with you trailing behind. The short distance felt so much longer when you had to cross it without knowing what was on his mind. 

As soon as you were inside, the door closed behind you, and he had you pressed against it, the cold metal interior, the doorknob just to the side of your hip. He didn’t kiss you. Just held you caged between his arms, elbows next to your shoulder, forearms resting against the door next to your head. 

You cleared your throat. Breathing felt like an impossibility, like all of the air had been sucked fully and totally out of the room, with his face so close to yours, his eyes studying every movement you made. 

“What were you saying?” you asked, voice just above a whisper. “About it being unreasonable?”

He ran the tip of his tongue along the inside of his cheek, and it was so much hotter than it had any reason to be. 

How high did he keep the heat in his apartment? Why did it feel like you were absolutely drenched in sweat? Your hands were clammy, your fingers tense at your side. You didn’t touch him, even though you wanted to. You weren’t afraid of being rejected. You knew that wasn’t what this was, exactly. But you were too curious to move. 

Curious about what he would do—what he wanted. 

Yunho shifted his weight, pressing against the door with one arm, in order to lean slightly back, to run the pads of his pointer and middle finger along your jawline. Your eyes stayed locked on his, watching him as he followed the movement of his hand. They flicked back to you, dark and deep. He cleared his throat, parted his soft, almost heart-shaped lips, to speak. 

“I was trying,” he started, voice still gravely despite his attempt at clearing it. “To be a gentleman.” 

Your lips formed into an oh, and you swallowed thick, trying to gather the confidence to say the next thing. To make the words known. “You don’t have to be.”

His fingers stilled on your jaw, and his dark brown eyes—overflowing with want—caught yours. You tried to keep your gaze neutral, but you could tell by the way he was looking at you that it wasn’t a success. 

One corner of his lips quirked up first, just before the smirk drew across his face. Brows slightly raised, eyes inquisitive. 

He was still so close to you, leaning in just an inch away from your lips. You could have closed the distance if you wanted to, but there was something appealing about this game the two of you had started playing the moment the door to his apartment closed. Like it was something tangible between the two of you that could be grabbed at any moment, but you both tiptoed around it, careful and curious. 

Yunho’s hand fell to your neck, his knuckles dragged downward, skittering over your pulse and making your heart beat faster. 

“So jumpy,” he said. “How long have you been thinking about this?” he asked. “About saying something?” 

Your lips parted, but the confidence in your brain didn’t meet the confidence of the real-life situation, couldn’t face the way he was looking at you. Words died on your tongue, and he looked at you like he could see the entire process. Your struggling only made his smirk more proud. 

“Really interesting,” he said, voice still low and gravely, but soft—too. A tool he used for inspection. “I was trying to be a gentleman for you, and you were thinking about—what?” he asked. 

Your breath caught in your throat as he lowered his lips to the edge of your ear. You tried to collect your thoughts, tried to figure out how to navigate this new situation. This was the Yunho you were more familiar with. The one who poked and prodded at you. Who teased you in the living room, who was downright difficult. 

It was the gentlemanly version of him that you’d been unfamiliar with, that you didn’t know quite how to handle. 

“Oh, now she’s quiet,” he commented. “You had so much to say not even five minutes ago.”

“Five minutes ago, you didn’t have me pressed up against a wall,” you said, trying to steady your voice into something that sounded any semblance of calm, even if you didn’t feel it. 

He slipped his hand into your hair at the base of your neck. “How long have you been thinking about it?” he asked. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, tilting your head up as you ran your tongue over your lower lip. 

Yunho laughed dryly under his breath. “Is that right?” 

“That’s right,” you repeated. 

“I was going to be so nice to you, baby,” Yunho whispered, breath curling against your ear. “Was going to treat you so good, too. Now, I’m not sure you deserve it.” 

Your mouth fell open. 

“What?” he asked, pulling back to look at you, to read the shock running its way across your face. “You want to play pretend now—pretend you haven’t been thinking about it, pretend you didn’t just ask. I can play, too.” 

“I just—” you start. “You weren’t—” 

“What wasn’t I doing?” he asked, one brow quirked upward. He wanted actual, tangible answers. 

The way he spoke made everything in your brain stop working. All the lights turned off, and it was just fizzling, crackling energy left behind. Nothing that converted the thoughts into words. You were left just staring at him, mouth opening for a moment before your lips pressed together again. 

Yunho was patient. He didn’t speak. Just kept his hand laced through your hair, kept that same look leveled on you. It didn’t help, but it certainly didn’t hurt, either. 

“Let’s recap,” he said after a moment. “You asked me why I don’t want you. Which, I’m not sure where you got that idea, but that’s not important. And I asked you how long you’ve been thinking about this. And what was it that you said?” he asked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

A small smile crept across your lips in delight at the way he spoke, the way his words got faster the more irritated he got with trying to figure you out. It was nice to be the one to get under his skin for once. 

He shook his head in disbelief, but you could see the hint of a smile on his lips, too. He was enjoying this just as much as you were, this back and forth. 

“I don’t,” you said, a proud smile on your lips now. “Know what you’re talking about.”

He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. 

“You know if you keep playing innocent, you’re not going to get what you want. What we both know you want,” he said. 

You pressed your lips into a pout. He couldn’t resist. He removed his hand from your hair and touched the center of your lower lip with the pad of his thumb, dragging gently downward. “You don’t have to pout,” he said. “Just tell me how long you’ve been thinking about it—and don’t lie.”

Speaking didn’t appeal to you. Instead, you parted your lips around his thumb and leaned just slightly forward so the pad landed flat atop your tongue. 

He did it again, ran the tip of his tongue along the inside of his cheek in an attempt to mask his frustration. He hummed, a disapproving sound laced with something else. Like he enjoyed it, but didn’t want to indulge. 

“That’s not going to work on me, beautiful,” he said, pulling his thumb slowly out of your mouth. He dropped his hand to the space right below your neck, holding it ever-so-gently. He leaned in slowly, so his lips were only a fraction from yours. 

Your body reacted before you could stop it, leaning slightly forward to try to capture his lips. He pulled back, holding you firm against the door with one hand. “Ah, ah,” he said. 

“You don’t want to kiss me, Yunho?” you asked, pouting. “I mean, I kind of got that impression on our dates, but I thought maybe I was wrong.” 

He ran his tongue over his gums, just under his lower lip, and you could tell you were driving him insane, too. 

But you kept going. “If you don’t really want me, I could just go home,” you said. 

“Never said that,” he said. He took one of your hands, hanging useless at your side, and placed it atop the taut material and the hard length underneath it, lowering his lips to your ear again to whisper, “I want you, but not before you tell me what I want to hear.” 

He didn’t hold your hand to him, but yours lingered, regardless. You moved your palm against him, and he worked hard to keep his expression neutral, to not break immediately underneath your touch. After a few moments, he pulled your hand away, holding it tight in his. 

“Come on, baby,” he said. “How long?” The tip of his nose ran along the shell of your ear, and you shuddered under the sensation. Goosebumps rose on your forearms, and the heat of the apartment had only increased. “How long were you thinking about this while I was focused on treating you right, being a gentleman?” 

He kissed the hinge of your jaw. “I just want to know how long it took,” he said, pressing another kiss lower, along your jawline. “Was it the first date?” he asked. “Or the second?” Another kiss, this time at the top of your neck. You angled your head away from him, giving him better access. He didn’t comment, but you could feel the pride tug at the corner of his lips. “You must have been really frustrated to ask.” He dragged his teeth downward, then bit gently. “Were you frustrated?” 

All the bravado disappeared, and you were left, mouth open, victim to his ministrations, trying to figure out exactly how you could argue against this idea that you had been thinking about him like this nonstop for the past two weeks. 

You could no longer find a good reason to continue frustrating him. 

“The night you drove me home,” you said, your voice just above a whisper, like it was embarrassing to admit. His smile grew against your skin in an instant. 

“Mmm,” he hummed against your skin. “The kiss in the elevator really did it for you?” 

“No,” you said, like it was an instinct to shut him down. 

He only chuckled into the crook of your neck. 

“Is this what I have to look forward to?” he asked. “You being a brat?” 

“No,” you said, cocky smile across your face. 

“I’m gonna kiss you now,” he said, exasperation seeping into his words, seconds before his lips were on yours. You were all talk. The moment his lips touched yours, you came alive against him. It was a taste of what you wanted, and you immediately didn’t want it to end. You pushed away from the door, letting your arms fall over his shoulders as you pressed your body into his. His hands fell to your waist, then slid around to your back, holding you against him. 

Yeah, sure. Maybe you were impatient. Maybe you’d been thinking about this for weeks. Maybe you didn’t want him to know just how much you’d been thinking about it, how much your body absolutely craved his. But when your hands dropped to the buttons of his shirt, he didn’t complain. He didn’t make you stop to recite the answers to any questions. 

He just smiled against your lips, proud, like he’d won something. 

Your fingers grazed his bare skin as you worked further down. He deepened the kiss, angling forward as he tilted your head back, slipping his tongue between your lips. Yunho’s fingers dug into the cloth covering your hips, and your fingers stalled on his shirt. You reached for his skin instead, wanting to touch anything you could. You put one hand flat on his chest, but he was quick to loop a hand around your wrist and pull it away. 

“Hey,” you mumbled into his lips. 

He gave no response, only laced his fingers through the hand he’d stolen and pinned it back against the door as he continued to kiss you, running his tongue along yours. 

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” he said, breaking apart from your mouth, breaths ragged, forehead touching yours. “At anytime,” he said. 

You nodded, but remained silent. Hoping for the continuation of whatever he was doing, his lips on your again, his hands exploring your body. Any of it. You didn’t care. You’d take what he was willing to give. You might even say thank you.

He kissed you again, dragging your lower lip into his mouth as his fingers inched toward the hem of your shirt. One hand snuck underneath it. His knuckles grazed your bare stomach, and you jumped. He smiled into the kiss, and you rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see it. 

“You sure you’re going to be okay?” he asked, muttering the words against you between kisses. “I’m barely touching you.”

“I’m fine,” you hissed. His lips found the column of your neck again, however, and you began to question the declaration. 

He chuckled again, letting the sound reverberate through you as his fingers climbed further up your abdomen. 

Your head lolled backward, resting against the door behind you, the rest of your body arched forward into him. 

“You give up on the shirt?” he asked, eyes glancing between the two of you, to the few buttons holding his shirt together. 

“No,” you said. 

His hand still held one of yours pinned to the door. You reached between your bodies with your free one and worked on the button. It kept slipping free from your fingers at the same time as your soft moans. He bit your pulse point, sucking your skin into his mouth gently at first and then harder. Your lids fluttered closed, and the fabric fell out of your hand again. 

“Come on,” he said. 

His other hand slipped under your bra, cupping your breast. You almost had the last button done when his thumb ran over your nipple. “Yunho,” you hissed in annoyance. 

“Want me to stop?” he asked, lifting his lips from your neck just enough to catch your gaze, his thumb still moving back and forth across your nipple inconsistently, making it impossible to get used to. 

“It would be easier,” you said. “If I could use my other hand.” 

“Huh,” he said. “That’s too bad.” Then, he dropped his lips to your neck again, kissing lower, grazing them along the length of your collarbone. 

You finally did get the last button, then used your one free hand to attempt to push the fabric back off his shoulders. You tugged against his hand, trying to free yourself from the grip. He held firm, didn’t even so much as budge. But he felt your attempt, and that had him grinning. 

“Need help?” he asked. 

“Nope,” you said. You had most of his chest revealed, and that was good enough for you. You reached out for it, running just the tips of your fingers down the center. He didn’t stop you this time, letting you explore him. 

He released your hand then, only for his own benefit, to grab the hem of your shirt with both hands and lift it up and over your head. 

You stood apart for a second, looking at one another. His eyes fell to your chest, your cleavage. His tongue flicked out to wet his lower lip. You were too busy getting the rest of his shirt off to notice the way he looked at you. 

The break only lasted a moment, but it might as well have been an eternity of not touching one another. Of studying what was before you and wanting it. You both seized forward at the same time, your lips colliding as hands roamed over bodies. Yours found his shoulders, slid down his arms over his biceps, then back up. His went to your waist, around to your back. One fiddled with the strap of your bra before unhooking it in a swift motion. 

He didn’t break the kiss, just took a half-step back as he pulled the straps off your shoulders and down. Once your bra was on the floor in the growing pile of clothes next to you, he pulled away again to look at you. His lips were on your skin again in no time, working downward as his hand moved upward. He rolled one nipple between thumb and forefinger as he kissed a circle around the other. 

Your body tensed under his ministrations, and you were certain this man was going to be the absolute death of you with his knowing looks and his slow touches. Heat started in your stomach and dripped dangerously low at every caress. But you tried to keep your cool, tried to handle it. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being putty in his hands. 

Yunho hummed a sound of happiness as he sucked, flicking your nipple with his tongue. Your hands threaded into his hair. 

His hands fell to your pants, unbuttoning the top button. “Take these off,” he said, and you finished the job, stepping out of them as he kissed back upward, taking his time. His fingers teased at the waistband of your underwear. 

You sucked in a breath, hot and sharp between your teeth. The door pressed cold lines into your back, and Yunho’s fingertips continued to flutter atop the band, teasing. The heat of the moment and the cold of the metal did not grant you equilibrium but only contributed to the building feeling of overstimulation that you know he would absolutely revel in if he could read your mind. 

Maybe he could read your mind, because he smirked against your skin for at least the tenth time in so many minutes, and you were starting to think he knew every nasty thought you’d ever had. 

It was a stalemate, because you knew that he wanted you restless. He wanted you begging. But you didn’t want to voice another word, another request, didn’t want to do what he told you to do. Unfortunately, you also really wanted him to slip his fingers lower. 

He watched you, too, like he knew you were making this calculation. 

He placed his hand across your stomach as he leaned forward to whisper in your ear. “Just say it,” he whispered. “I know you want to.”

He lifted your chin with his fingers as he pulled back, meeting your eyes. His eyes were dark and heavy, full of clear desire. The word no died on your tongue. 

But neither did he wait for you to ask. He held your eye contact as he moved his hand between your thighs, humming as he ran the pads of his fingers along your clothed slit. “Nice and wet for me, hm?” 

He pushed your underwear to the side, dragged his middle finger through your folds, and then slipped it inside of you to the knuckle. 

“See, I can be nice,” he said.

You choked on a gasp and tried to let your head fall back against the door, but he held your chin firm, keeping his eyes on you. He moved his finger slowly as you adjusted. His eyes traced your expression, the subtle part of your lips, the way your eyes rolled slightly backward. And you studied his, too. The hooded gaze as he watched you, the way his smirk got cockier every time you reacted to the movement. 

There was no escaping his careful eye. He caught every soundless gasp, every subtle movement.  

He liked you like this, falling apart and trying to keep yourself together at the same time. Not wanting to give in to him, but wanting everything he had to give. He liked teasing it out of you, that desire. 

Your lids fluttered closed as he stroked just the right spot, curling his finger to meet it. 

“Eyes open,” he said. His voice was firm, but not sharp. Commanding in a gentle kind of way. 

It didn’t make you want to listen. 

“Or what?” you challenged, eyes still closed. 

“Or I’ll stop,” he said. And he did. 

Your eyes flew open, and he couldn’t help the breathy laugh that fell off his lips. 

“You’re trying so hard, baby, but your body keeps giving you away,” Yunho said, a hair away from your lips, before he kissed you. 

He slipped another finger inside of you at the same time, and your body arched forward, your hands reaching for something to hold onto and finding his shoulders with ease. You groaned into his mouth, both at the feeling and his words. 

“God,” you moaned, breaking away from his lips to catch your breath. He didn’t go far, instead dropping his lips to your neck, biting and sucking at your skin until you felt like you were melting. You rolled your hips against his hand, wanting more, and he gave it without a word. His thumb ran over your clit, sending a shudder through your body. “Yunho, oh my god,” you muttered, hands digging into his shoulders. 

It was all too much. His teeth on your neck, his fingers moving fast inside you, curling, and his thumb running circles over your clit at a pace that made everything ache. 

“That feel good, baby?” he asked, voice gravely, breath hot on your neck. 

He didn’t slow his pace, so you could barely voice the words you wanted to say. All that came out was a breathy, “Don’t stop.”

And he was smirking again, running his tongue over your pulse before whispering, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Your hips kept rolling into his fingers, but he managed to keep the dizzing pressure on your clit as you squirmed. He took a step into you, pressing you up against the door again. One of his legs snuck between yours, and he used his upper thigh to hold you in place. 

He had you on the edge, about to teeter over, every muscle in your body so tense you were almost shaking. 

Then, he did exactly what he said he wouldn’t. He stopped. He dragged his fingers out of you slow, removed his thumb from your clit, and met your eyes. He struggled to keep your gaze, his eyes falling to your heaving chest as you tried to catch your breath. 

You groaned and tried to let your head fall back against the door, but he caught it, holding you forward by the neck. 

“Aw, you don’t like being teased, baby?” he asked, looking down his nose at you. 

You whimpered, moving your hips against his thigh in search of something. He only pinned you harder, keeping you from moving at all. 

He lifted his hand, slick with you, and tapped your lower lip. “Open,” he said. 

Your lips fell open, and he placed both of his fingers on the flat of your tongue. You closed your lips around them. He pressed down on your tongue, and you licked from the base of his finger to the tip without breaking the very direct eye contact he made with you. 

“Look at that,” he said. “You can follow directions.” 

You rolled your eyes and bit down gently on his fingers. He hooked his fingertips just behind your teeth and pulled you forward. 

“Mm,” he hummed. “I think I like you like this—unable to talk back.”

You ran your tongue over his fingers again, tried to move your hips again, chasing anything that would give you any kind of satisfaction now that fire danced over every inch of your skin, where he touched you and where he didn’t. 

He pulled his fingers from your mouth slowly as you licked them clean. He replaced his fingers with his tongue, lips crashing into yours—hungrier than before. The entire length of his body pressed up against you, anchoring you in place. You could hardly move between him and the wall, except to reach for him, to grip his arms tight in a grounding kind of way. 

He took a step away from you, dragging his lips from yours like it was the hardest decision he’d ever made. Then, he was grabbing your hand, pulling you deeper into his apartment, past the kitchen, through the living room, toward his bedroom. 

You’d been here before, seen these places before. You’d stalked through his apartment, looking for your fake boyfriend in order to drive off the women he’d slept with, you’d sat on his couch post-date, talking into the late hours of the night. 

The place seemed different now. His bedroom a completely new world. You’d only seen it in the aftermath, or with another woman sprawled out across it, waiting for his return. It was pristine now, the bed made with crisp sheets and a comfortable atop it. Pillows stacked in front of the headboard.

He guided you toward the edge of the bed, and you sat while he towered over you, hands lowering to his belt. You watched with rapt attention, tongue running between your lips. He undid his belt buckle, then the top button of his pants. He worked slowly—slower because he could tell you were watching, waiting. 

Yunho let his pants fall to his ankles. He stepped out of them, and your hands shot out, touching his abdomen but trailing downward for more. You were so interested, so needy. You’d never wanted anyone as much as you wanted him, right then. 

He slipped his hands over yours, and you rolled your eyes before he could open his mouth. 

“Ask for it,” he said, looking down at you. That same smirk playing on his lips. You should have known that being with him would be like this, with all the teasing he did outside the bedroom. All the playful glances he always shot in your direction, all the comments he made. It just never occurred to you that he would be so, well, annoying. 

Why was it so hot, then? If you were so annoyed, why did his words always make that same heat pool between your legs, always make you want him even more? And why did it drive you absolutely insane anytime he asked you anything? 

You pressed your lips into a tight line, determined to be stubborn about this. 

“You don’t have to touch me,” he said. “But if you want to—I’m going to need to hear you ask.” 

He held your hands tight in his to prevent them from going anywhere. 

“You’re—”

“What, baby?” he asked, still looking down at you, not touching you anywhere other than your hands. He cocked his head to the side. “What am I?” 

“Bossy,” you said. “And kind of a pain in the ass.” 

He laughed, a full, deep one that shook his chest. “You want me to stop?” he asked, lifting one hand to tilt your chin upward. “I could be nice to you, instead. Really nice.” 

You hesitated. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said. 

“Shut up,” you said, pushing against his abdomen with your intertwined hands. You grumbled under your breath. You batted your eyelashes at him. “I’d really like to touch you, Yunho. Could I, please?” 

He smirked. “Now, I don’t think you really mean that.”

“Oh, should I get on my knees?” you said, that same expression on your face—fluttering eyelashes, like you’d do anything he wanted if he really wanted it. 

“Only if you want to, beautiful,” he said. He freed your other hand, too. 

You hooked your fingers into the band of his boxers and pulled them down, tongue flicking out to wet your lips as you slid off the edge of the bed and onto your knees in front of him. He watched, silently, one hand coming up to gather your hair away from your face. 

One of your hands lifted to wrap around him. He was big, you had to admit. And you couldn’t keep the look off your face. Like you were drunk on want. Like he was all you could possibly think about. 

You leaned forward, flattened your tongue against the underside of the tip, eyes flicking up to meet his as you did, watching for a reaction. He didn’t hold back as you did, but let you watch as his lips parted. His hand tightened in your hair, and you gasped as you took him into your mouth—shallow at first, as you got used to the size. 

Slowly, you took him deeper. 

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re so good.” 

He rolled his hips once, slow, as he held the back of your head. 

“That okay?” he asked, his voice dropping to one much more gentle than how he’d been speaking to you. 

You nodded as best you could with your mouth wrapped around his cock. 

Another slow roll of his hips, and he was reaching your throat. You dropped your hands from him and looked up. You stopped moving, letting him take control instead. He held the back of your head firm and rolled his hips again and again, a little harder each time. 

Each time he hit the back of your throat, your eyes stung. His grip in your hair tightened, and you moaned around him, which only made him thrust into your mouth faster—harder. 

Tears stung in the corners of your eyes, but neither of you stopped. 

“God,” Yunho hissed again, hips bucking, snapping forward into you one more time before he pulled out fast. 

“Get up,” he said, and you stood—no attitude needed. 

He wiped the tears from under your eyes, the drool from your mouth, then spun you around and pressed you down, into the mattress. He reached into the drawer next to his bed, ripped open a condom with his teeth, and rolled it on, keeping one hand on your lower back. 

He guided the tip of his cock to your entrance and dragged it through your folds. “Still so wet, and I wasn’t even touching you,” he said. 

You couldn’t get a single word out. Your face was buried in the bedspread. He pushed just the tip inside of you, and every muscle in your legs went taut, seizing up. 

“Relax, baby,” Yunho said, moving forward another inch, reveling in the stretch, the feeling of tightness as you clamped down hard around him. Your hands were already balled into the fabric next to you, your teeth already biting down hard on your bottom lip to keep from whimpering. You pushed back against him, trying to get more. 

His hands came up to hold your hips, preventing you from moving. He slid forward another inch, slowly, enough to make you ache. 

“Please,” you begged, needing all of him way faster than he was willing to give it. 

You could practically hear the smirk appear behind you as he rolled his hips forward into you, filling you up. 

A jagged gasp escaped your lips. You could feel him pulsing inside of you, twitching, betraying his resolve. But he didn’t move. He kept one hand on your hip, then ran the other down your spine, making you shiver. 

“Yunho,” you whimpered. 

“Something you want, hm?” he asked, voice low and dark, like he was holding back from what he wanted, too, just to break you down even further. 

You gritted your teeth. “Yes,” you said, forcing the word out. 

He traced lazy circles on your back. “Tell me.” 

“Yunho,” you moaned again, trying to move your hips against them again. 

He stilled them once more. “I want to hear you say it.” 

“Say what?” you teased—only punishing yourself. 

He shifted only slightly, enough to remind you what you wanted. He grabbed your shoulder, pulled you back against him, pushing his cock even deeper into you, making you gasp into the blankets. “Tell me what you want from me.” 

“God, Yunho,” you muttered, thighs starting to shake. “I want you,” you said. “I don’t know—I want you, I just want you.” 

He laughed dryly under his breath and rewarded you with a slow roll of his hips. “Not specific enough,” he said. 

You groaned again, exasperated and desperate. 

“I don’t—” you started, another slow, agonizing thrust. “I don’t—” 

“You know,” he said. “You just don’t want to say it.”

He pulled out of you slow, then snapped his hips forward, taking you to new levels of desperation. 

“You’re—” you stumbled over your words. “You’re being so mean.”

He stilled again, giving you time to process, to think. He massaged circles into your hip with his palm. “Yeah?” he asked. 

“Yes,” you said, through gritted teeth. He started slow again, and you couldn’t help the whimpers that fell off your lips immediately, giving you away. “I want you so bad, please. Yunho, please,” you begged. 

He didn’t move. 

“What do you want me to say?” you hissed, irritated. “That I want you to fuck me until I see stars?” 

His fingers dug into your hip, and you knew you’d hit the mark. 

“Look at you, so good with your words,” he commented. 

His hips snapped forward again, deeper this time, faster. He established a rhythm. “Fuck—” you started, only to be interrupted by your own gasps. “You.” 

He slammed into you until you were stuttering, barely even able to say his name or mutter any other profanities. Your thighs were still shaking, legs tense and tight, especially as you arched into him, standing on your toes to lift your ass even higher. He put his hands on your shoulders, holding you in place before him, not letting you shift forward with every thrust—instead taking all of him with each deep stroke. 

It didn’t take long for you to start crumbling against him. He’d had you on the line for a long time, and your body could hardly take it anymore. Your thighs clenched, walls slamming down around him. 

“You wanna come, baby?” he asked, voice soft and deep, just above a whisper. You could hear the desire dripping from it, and it only made it more difficult to hold back. 

You nodded, whimpering as he kept up the pace, holding you and slamming forward again and again. He reached forward and grabbed your hair at the root, pulling you back. Your fingers tightened in the bedspread as the orgasm crashed into you, over you, through you, and you pressed yourself back against him as hard as you could, taking everything he could give as everything tightened so hard it was nearly unbearable. 

“That’s it, baby,” he coaxed as you came undone, falling limp beneath him. His pace slowed into long, languid strokes before he pulled out. 

With his hands on your hips, he turned you over, and you let him. Your face was flushed, your chest hot and red, your lips swollen from earlier kisses, and your hair a mess from his hands. 

“You’re so fucking sexy,” he said. 

You let out a shaky breath, eyes dropping to his cock, still hard. You must have read his mind, because as he crawled onto the bed toward you, you moved away, sliding up so you could rest your head atop the pillows. 

Your knees were folded up, thighs pressed together. 

He slipped a hand on the inside of your knee and pushed them open so he could crawl between, moving up your body. Your hands went to his shoulders immediately, looking for something to grab before he touched you anywhere. 

Yunho pressed a kiss to your jaw, your cheek, the side of your nose. 

“Can you take more, baby?” he asked. 

You nodded, lip between your teeth. 

“God, you’re fucking perfect, you know that?” he asked. 

You shook your head, and he laughed, dropping his lips to yours in a slow, tender kiss, such a stark difference from the previous few and their feverish nature. 

He slipped a hand between your bodies, slipping a finger inside of you quickly, in and then out, before lining himself up with your entrance again. You sucked in a breath before he even moved. In one fluid motion, he sheathed himself fully inside of you. You shared the same gasp, mangled between kisses. 

Everything felt immediately intense. Each stroke lighting a new fire. He seemed intent on wrecking you completely, because his fingers moved quickly to find your clit. He put pressure on it with two fingers, letting the movement of his thrusts provide the friction. 

He sat up and pulled your hips down on him as he slid into you over and over again. 

“Yunho, oh my god,” you said through heavy breaths, the combination of sensations making you dizzy, making it difficult to keep your eyes open. 

Your sounds only encouraged him further, and soon his own grunts joined with your moans. He rubbed your clit with his thumb, not stopping to give you a second to calm down, only taking the sensation higher and higher. You squirmed, trying to get away from him, trying to stop the overstimulation, the feeling of everything being encompassed in wet, hot fire, but he didn’t let you move an inch. 

You threw your head back against the pillow in defeat, letting your hips roll against his. He lifted one of your legs, leaning it against his shoulder as he fucked deeper and deeper into you. You had to close your eyes—and he didn’t stop you, didn’t demand your attention, just kept touching and thrusting, and holding you until it was all too much. 

“I can’t—” you started, hips stuttering as your core tightened impossibly, strangling him inside of you. He groaned as you came, and you felt him twitch inside of you at the same time as he fucked you through your second orgasm of the night, until you were lying nearly boneless beneath him. And then he was still, too, collapsing on top of you, gathering you into his arms. 

You breathed heavily together for some time. Yunho pressed soft kisses to whatever skin he could reach and smoothed your hair away from your face. 

It was a long time—intertwined just like that—before he got out of bed to clean up. As soon as he returned, it was to gather you into his arms all over again, to hold you flush against his skin, to kiss your lips soft and slow. 

“That was—” you started, even though there were no words in the known world to finish the sentence properly. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Really was.”

You nestled your face deeper into his neck, and he held you even tighter, like he was worried you were going to go somewhere. 

When he spoke again, it was quiet, just above a whisper. “I really like you, you know.” 

You peeled away from him enough to catch his eyes. There was a bit of worry in them. Your hand shot out to touch his cheek. 

“I really like you, too,” you said. 

He cleared his throat. “Haven’t really—you know, dated anyone,” he said. “In a while.”

The words hung between you for some time. 

“I want to, though. I mean, I want to keep dating you,” he said. 

You laughed under your breath. He was cute when he was flustered. “Good,” you said, touching the tip of his nose with yours before pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I want that, too.” 

“Sex was that good, huh?” he teased, and you pushed his shoulder. “Kidding.”

“It was good, though,” you said, pointedly. “But that’s not the only reason. A silver lining, definitely.” 

Except for this one lie. 

Perhaps not even a real lie, but a withholding of information. A secret you’ve always kept from boyfriends and even some friends.

Keeping it a secret makes it special. A memory that’s only yours. Yours and his—one that can’t be tarnished by anything. Not new boyfriends or judgmental friends. 

You keep those memories in a jar, not because you want to relive them, but because sometimes you like to look back, to take a peek inside, to remember what things were like before they ceased to exist. 

And of course, you never expected it to come up like this. You never expected to be standing in line for a meet and greet, post-concert, clasping your hands together in front of your chest, trying not to think about what it will feel like to look at him again, to make eye contact with him. 

He’ll remember you. There’s no doubt in your mind. What you had was real and special, and honestly, not all that long ago. There hadn’t been any huge fallout, any fights, or negativity. You’d just grown apart. And at some point, the distance got so large that it felt impossible to cross. And that was before his rapid ascent into popularity. 

“Maybe we should just go,” you say when there are only a few people ahead of you in line. It’s easier to bail, to pretend none of this happened at all. 

It’s Jiung who encourages you forward. “We’re almost there. It’s okay. I don’t mind the wait.”

You wish the stress developing like a tight ball at the base of your stomach had anything to do with the amount of time you’ve been waiting. No, it’s the idea of him. Of Yeonjun looking you in the eyes. 

So, you want to turn and run. But you don’t. Not when Jiung has a hand on your lower back, and you can see Yeonjun just ahead, chatting with other fans. 

You are a fan. You’ve been following their comebacks, listening to their music at home. Concerts were always a step too far out of your comfort zone, over the line you drew in the sand to protect your heart. 

But now you’re there. So far past the line you can hardly even see it anymore. Then, you’re standing in front of him, watching his big brown eyes roam over your body, taking note of the man standing next to you, touching you. 

And you have to wonder what he’s thinking—because you certainly can’t ask. 

There’s nothing immediately evident in the way that he looks at you. He recognizes you. You know he does. And when Jiung turns away for a brief moment, there’s a ghost of a smile on Yeonjun’s lips like he wants to be caught. 

Because he can’t stop looking at you. At the way the corners of your lips turn up in a smile, at the inch of skin he can see over the table, but below your skirt, at the way your shirt cuts downward. He looks at you, and he thinks things he should not be thinking in public, in front of all those fans—but neither can he stop thinking them. 

“Really nice to meet you,” Yeonjun says, pressed smile across his lips. Fake. “This your boyfriend?”

You clear your throat, trying to free all the emotion jammed to a stop in the center. Because he did not just ask you that. It could be played off. You’ve seen the videos of him with fans. You’ve seen his jealous nature in those conversations. But so, too, do you know what he looks like when he’s really jealous. That glint of subtle anger behind his eyes. 

And you want to say something, because who does he think he is, being jealous of you, in this moment? You hold your tongue. 

Jiung smiles. None the wiser. 

“Yes,” you say. 

Yeonjun makes a face, lips twisted up in a half scowl that he tries to play off as unserious. 

“You want a picture?” he asks, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and neither do you. You can’t imagine filling the silence with questions about his career, about the group—you don’t care about any of that shit. Not really. 

And you didn’t account for any of this, really. And maybe if you had, you would have cancelled on Jiung, feigned sick or something, because holy shit, he looks so handsome. Blonde hair pushed back with gel, a tight red tank top, shoulders exposed. 

Had he been this attractive when you were together? 

Jiung elbows you gently in the side when you don’t immediately respond to the question. “Oh,” you say. “That would be nice.”

Yeonjun reaches over and takes your phone out of his grasp. He rolls his eyes at your lock screen photo. Jiung with his arms around you, his chin resting on your shoulder. 

He turns in his chair to take the photo with the two of you, then places your phone flat on the table, face down. 

He makes small talk. Asks you a little bit about yourself. Things he already knows. He’s teasing you, you know it. Making you say all this stuff. He presses a little too hard, hoping Jiung will ask you about it on the ride home. Comment on how strange it was in the moment. He wants it to stick with you, make you uncomfortable now, and make you talk about it later.

Of course, you don’t know the fine details—just that he’s getting under your skin. Just that you’ll be thinking about him later, too. That annoys you more than anything else. 

He folds his arms over his chest, leaning forward. His elbow obscures your phone from view. 

“Nice to meet you again,” Yeonjun says as you step away from the table. “Thanks for coming.” 

He waits until you’re gone to slip your phone into his lap, then into his pocket. 

“So,” Jiung says, as he starts the car and readies to pull out of the parking lot. “Was that everything you hoped it would be?” 

The rest of your conversations with the other members went smoothly. More fan service than strange, ex-boyfriend mind games. 

“Mhm,” you say, looking out the passenger side window. You reach into your purse, looking for your phone. You check the pockets of your jacket. “Hold on,” you say, checking under your butt and anywhere else that a phone could possibly be located. “You don’t have my phone, do you?” you ask. 

Jiung shakes his head. “Maybe you left it inside. Do you want me to go get it?” 

“No,” you say, maybe too quickly. “It’s fine.” You unbuckle your seatbelt. “I’ll be right back.”

The walk back into the concert hall is a little more stressful than the first, and it has no reason to be. You’ve already seen him. Besides, some staff member probably has your phone. You just need to find them. 

There are still lines curving throughout the place, fans waiting to be acknowledged, even momentarily, by their biases. 

You approach a staff member in all black, scanning tickets near the front. 

“Hey, I think I left my phone on the table,” you say. 

She looks at you with a raised brow, like it’s the worst excuse she’s ever heard. But she tells you to wait while she calls over another employee, who then approaches the table. You watch them lean down to whisper something in Yeonjun’s ear. His eyes drift past the fan he’s talking to to find yours, and a chill runs through your system. 

God, how the fuck did either of you let things end so abruptly? You were there, and then you weren’t. And all of a sudden—being together again felt like an impossibility. So you never called. And neither did he. 

The staff member finds you again and gestures for you to step to the side. She doesn’t say much, but leads you further away from the crowd, then down a hallway. “Just wait here for one moment,” she says, extending an arm toward a couch in a small dressing room. 

You take a seat, then turn to say something, but she’s already gone. 

There’s no clock, just a rack of clothes and a large mirror lined with lights. It occurs to you in some far-off part of your brain that this must be Yeonjun’s dressing room. There’s an unzipped makeup bag on the table in front of the mirror, and a backpack—much more casual than the rest—slouched against the table. 

The door opens while you’re studying the place, and then he’s there. Standing with his arms crossed in front of the door, looking down at you. 

You stand up, crossing the minimal space until you’re in front of him. 

It’s so much different, this moment, than the one not fifteen minutes ago. There’s no long table separating you, no fans watching your every move. No Jiung. With all that stripped away, his eye contact makes your skin hotter, makes the blood boil beneath it. 

There’s nothing to be angry about. Not really. You still find the way to some brand of spite. 

Yeonjun pulls your phone out of his back pocket and holds it up between two fingers. “Looking for this?” he asks. 

“You know that I am,” you say. 

He tilts his head to the side, studying you. “Bummer,” he says. “I thought you came back to see me.”

“Why would I do that?” you ask, keeping your voice even. Free of any kind of feeling, even as your heart skips and stutters under his eye contact. 

You reach for your phone, and he pulls it back, just out of reach. “Maybe because you missed me,” he suggests. 

“I didn’t.”

“Then what are you doing here?” he asks. 

“Jiung—my boyfriend. He got me the tickets,” you say. “He knows I’m a fan, so.”

Yeonjun raises a brow. God, there’s so much fucking history between the two of you. You can feel it pressing in from every angle, oppressive and loud, vibrating your eardrums and making it difficult to focus. You can’t look at him and just see an idol. You look at him and see someone who was yours for so long, before they weren’t. 

Yeonjun nods. There’s no change to the way he looks at you, or the way he holds himself. He nods like it's the most uninteresting conversation in the world. 

“If you want to say something, just say it,” you tell him. 

He shrugs, lips turning downward at the corners as he does so. 

“Can I have my phone back?” you ask. 

“Not yet,” he says. Then, “Must not be a very good boyfriend, if he doesn’t know about me.” He takes half a step closer to you. 

You will yourself to take a step back, to even the distance back out, but your body doesn’t listen to your brain. 

“He’s a good boyfriend,” you say. 

“Then you must not be a very good girlfriend,” Yeonjun says, with a light shrug. It’s not serious to him. None of this is. 

Your brows furrow. Your nose scrunches at the bridge. “I’m—I’m a good girlfriend.” 

He holds your phone up, and you don’t realize what he’s doing until it’s already done. With your phone unlocked, he pulls up the phone app. “I could call him, tell him our little secret.”

You reach for the phone, wrapping your hand around his in an attempt to tug it away. You freeze there, hand on top of his, chests a few inches apart. 

“Why haven’t you told him about me?” Yeonjun asks, leaning down, meeting your eyes. His voice is low, and the hushed tone makes goosebumps rise on your forearms. And you don’t even know the answer to his question. You don’t know why you never told Jiung about Yeonjun. Why you never told any of the guys you dated before Jiung about him, either. Maybe you just like having the secret. 

He presses your phone into your hand, closing your fingers around it. 

“I don’t know,” you say, and the words come out nearly silent. 

A smile crosses his lips for the first time since that small dressing room. He reaches out and places a hand on your bare upper arm. 

“Does he make you happy?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you say. 

“Happier than I made you?” he asks. 

You don’t answer immediately, and his smile grows. 

“What are you doing right now?” you ask him, because you can’t seem to wrap your mind around whatever game it is he’s playing. 

“I didn’t expect to see you today, that’s all,” Yeonjun says. 

“Why would you?” you say. 

“You’re right,” he says. “I didn’t even know you were a fan.”

You roll your eyes because you’re really not going to have this conversation with him right now. “Yeonjun,” you say, firmly. 

He bats his eyes, lets the smile creep over the rest of his features. “Yes?”

It’s hard to say the words, but you say them anyway. “I should go.” Maybe if you had all the time in the world, you would stay. You would stay, and you would talk. Maybe you would even try to figure out what went wrong last time. But you can’t. Jiung’s waiting in the car, and you’ve already taken longer than necessary. 

He doesn’t budge from his spot in front of the door. You stare at him for a beat longer, and he finally does move, sidestepping you. 

You open the door, and his hand shoots out, landing on your wrist. You freeze again. His hand is warm on your skin, and it brings with it memories you’ve tried to forget. 

Yeonjun doesn’t speak. You turn slowly to look at him, eyes cast downward at his grip. They drag slowly upward to meet his eyes. 

“Wait,” he says, and the word comes out more desperate than anything else he’s said. That bravado all stripped away, now. 

The tension breaks when he steps in one more time, when he drops your hand to push the door closed behind you. 

He’s too close. Too warm. Too suffocating. And somehow still too far away. 

You move in slow motion, between moments where you’re both frozen looking at one another and moments where time slams back into full speed, ticking by in your ears, but you still don’t move—contemplating the next step, and the next. And your heart is racing out of your chest, and he’s looking at you like it’s years in the past, and you can’t seem to remember anything except how his lips used to feel against yours. 

He can’t take it, either. The intoxication of you. If you just hadn’t been there. If you hadn’t been there today, if he hadn’t seen you. He would be able to keep pretending you didn’t mean something. But you’re here, standing in front of him, and he can’t just let you leave again. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, right before he closes the distance. “I just—I have to—” and then his hands are cupping your cheeks and his lips are on yours. 

You hardly register the apology, let alone feel bad for what’s happening. The electricity in the air doesn’t fizzle at the contact. It surrounds you. Hot and blinding. You don’t stop him. Stopping him is the last thing on your mind. 

Your lips move slowly, tasting each other and remembering. It hardly even occurs to you that you should not be doing this. Not when it feels so good, so right. Not when he’s holding you like he never should have let go in the first place. 

You don’t break apart to speak, only to catch your breath, to change angles. He deepens the kiss as his hands fall from your face, tracing down the sides of your body before they land on your hips. He sucks on your lower lip, and you gasp into his mouth. 

It takes a long time—longer than you would be proud to admit—for you to realize exactly what you’re doing. 

You reach up to push against his chest. “Yeonjun,” you mumble against his lips. “Yeonjun,” you say again. “We can’t—I shouldn’t.”

His fingers dig into the fabric covering your hips. His eyes bore into yours, then drop back to your lips. He runs a tongue across his, and you lose track of what you’re saying, of why you’re saying it. “Why not?” he asks. 

“I—” you start, trying to remember why this is such a bad idea. “He’s—” 

You can’t bring yourself to care. That’s the problem. Yeonjun is here. He’s here, in front of you, breathing heavily, sweaty from the concert, looking at you like you’re everything in the entire world. And he’s here. How many times have you wished for this?

One hand hooks around the back of his neck, and you pull him back down for another searing kiss. He steps forward into you, pressing you against the door. 

“God,” Yeonjun mumbles into your lips. “Missed you.”

The words and his fervent kisses awaken something deep inside of you. Heat flares at your core, and you think, absent-mindedly, that you’re so fucked. 

“Yeah? Did you?” you ask, just barely breaking apart. Despite your anger, still ever present, neither can you stop kissing him. 

The back of his hand drags slowly across an exposed patch of skin just above your skirt. His eyes are focused there, but they snap upward at your question. “What?” he says, before kissing you again, before snaking that same hand around your waist and pulling you flush against his body. “Of course I did.”

Your hands ball into the fabric of his shirt. His tongue slips between your lips, and you angle your head backward to give him better access. When you break apart again, to breathe, you’re still thinking about the anger beneath it all—and whether or not you have a right to it. “You could have called,” you say. “I would have answered.”

“Is that your way of saying you missed me, too?” he asks. “I’m here now.” 

He curls a finger under your chin and lifts it, soft brown eyes finding yours. 

“I have a boyfriend now,” you say. But you don’t untangle your hands from his shirt, don’t take a step backward away from him, don’t even think about leaving. But it’s a thing you have to say. Even if you don’t know why, when it would be so much easier to ignore it. 

“Yeah, and you seem really eager to get back to him,” he says. 

“I am,” you say, pulling him down by the shirt. Then, “Take this off.”

He drops his hands to the hem of his shirt and pulls it off over his head. Your hands shoot out to touch his bare skin immediately. Your fingers run over his chest, down the hard plane of his stomach. He pushes your jacket off your shoulders, and you let it fall to the ground.

Yeonjun laces one hand through your hair and kisses you again. Harsher this time. More desperate. His other hand sits on your hip, keeps pulling you closer and closer. 

He presses against you, shifting one leg between yours and pinning you to the door. He slips a hand under your shirt, eager to touch any skin there. You gasp into his mouth at the mere contact. 

“Fuck,” he says against your lips. “I don’t want to rush this.”

“He’s waiting for me, Jun,” you say. 

Yeonjun rolls his eyes. There’s so much he wants to say. So many comments he could make. He kisses you again, instead. He drops his hand between your legs, instead, reaching under your skirt. 

He wastes no time—that’s what you wanted, right? His fingers brush your core, and he hums into the kiss. You can feel the smirk on his lips. 

“Shut up,” you say.

“You want me so bad, don’t you?” he whispers, leaning his forehead against yours. “Can’t figure out how to just ask for it?” he says. He pushes your panties to the side and nudges a finger inside of you, watching for a reaction. 

Your lips part, and you let your head fall back against the door behind you. 

“Trying to make me feel bad for wanting you when you have a boyfriend—but god, you want me just as fucking bad, don’t you?” he asks. You don’t respond fast enough, so he presses harder. “Don’t you?” 

He slides another finger inside of you and pumps them slowly. “Yes,” you say. 

“Yes, what?” Yeonjun asks, raising a brow at you, cocking his head to the side just so. He’s enjoying this. Playing with you even when you have such minimal time together. 

“Shut the fuck up, Yeonjun,” you say as you roll your hips forward. “I don’t have time—”

“I know,” he says. “Your boyfriend.” He moves his fingers faster, savoring the feeling of you clenching around them, of you grinding to meet each thrust. 

He pulls his fingers out and places them in his mouth while his other hand works to undo his belt, to push down his pants and boxers. He doesn’t bother kicking them all the way off. He licks his fingers clean, then takes your hand, tugging you toward the vanity. 

He leans forward and presses another kiss to your lips, then along your jawline, to the space beneath your ear. “Turn around,” he whispers. 

You listen. 

He pulls you backward against him, and you can feel the line of his hard cock on your ass through your skirt. You grind backward into him and swear you can hear him grin. You place your hands on the table in front of you as he pushes your skirt further up your thighs. 

You look forward, catching your own reflection in the mirror. Lipstick smudged, hair messy, and Yeonjun behind you, watching with appreciation as he runs a hand over your ass. 

He spreads your legs with the back of one hand and uses the other to guide his dick to your entrance. He swipes the tip through your slick, taking his time. 

“Yeonjun,” you whine, trying to catch his eyes in the mirror. It’s not about time anymore. Not about being in a rush. You need him. 

“Swear to god if you mention him one more time,” he says as he slides his tip down your slit again, pausing at your entrance for a split second before moving past it. 

“No,” you say. “Just—need you.”

He places a hand between your shoulder blades and lets it slowly trail downward. “Don’t worry, pretty. I’ll make you forget his name.” 

“Yeonjun,” you say again, whimpering. 

“That’s it,” he says, reveling in the sound of his name on your lips. He presses forward into you, slowly, and your knuckles go white on the edge of the table. 

You know you shouldn’t be doing this. But as he sinks into you an inch at a time, you can’t think about anything else. Not even the person waiting for you hundreds of feet away. And it doesn’t even feel like cheating, not really. It’s like returning back to the time you shared together before and enjoying it one more time. 

“Fuck,” Yeonjun whispers as he bottoms out. His fingers press into your hips, holding you steady as he shifts slowly back. He snaps forward, burying himself deeper inside of you. Your legs shake, and moans fall off parted lips. 

He does it again. The slow withdraw before a quick thrust. “Feels so fucking good,” he murmurs, voice dripping with want like having you again is making him a little crazy. He reaches forward to wrap a hand around the front of your neck, pulling you backward, making you look up. 

Your eyes reach his through the mirror. 

“Look at you,” he says, tilting his head to the side. He’s still rolling his hips forward hard and fast, and you can hardly keep your eyes open to watch him. “Maybe if I knew you were still such a slut, I’d have called you.” 

Your fingers tighten on the desk in anger and pleasure, but you can’t seem to form words to talk back, not with the way he’s moving. 

“Boyfriend waiting for you outside, but you’re letting me fuck you senseless instead.” He lifts one of your hands and pulls it behind your back. “Haven’t changed at all.” 

You flip him off with the hand he’s holding back, and he laughs, lifting his eyes to meet yours in the mirror. He releases your neck to grab your other hand, too, collecting them in one hand and pulling you backward. Your back arches as he thrusts deeper, harder. 

“Yeonjun—oh my god.” 

He smiles again. “Can’t even hate me properly, can you?” 

“Yes,” you mutter between broken gasps and moans that slip past your attempts to hold them back. “I can,” you say. “I do.” But you don’t mean it. What reason do you have, anyway, besides time? Besides the fact that he’s making you feel like this when you have someone waiting. 

He tugs your arms sharply back, uses his other hand to force you upward, so your back is nearly touching his chest. He drops your arms and lowers his lips to your ear, slowing his pace while he speaks. “Go, then,” he says. 

Yeonjun takes a step back, pulling out of you. He stops touching you. You turn around to look at him. Your eyes roll in annoyance, but you take the step forward anyway, reaching for him. He laces his fingers through yours and pulls you against him. 

“That’s what I thought,” he says, before pressing a kiss into your hair. He kicks his pants the rest of the way off and leads you a few steps over, toward the couch. The backs of your knees hit the cushion, and you’re forced to sit. He kneels down in front of you. He places a hand on your cheek and leans forward to capture your lips. A brief moment of softness before both his hands are on top of your thighs, and he’s pulling you down. Your elbows hit the couch cushions as he pulls your ass completely off it. 

He holds the backs of your thighs together with one hand as he uses the other to guide his length to your entrance. He pushes forward into you, and you gasp, biting down on your lower lip to keep from moaning. 

Yeonjun holds your legs up by the back of your thighs, just under your knees, as he rolls his hips forward into you. Your lip stays firmly between your teeth, even as your head falls back. 

“Come on,” Yeonjun says, his own voice devolving into a gravely, rough mess the longer this continues. “Let me hear you.”

His hips snap forward, deep and hard, trying to elicit something from you. Your eyes roll back and your back arches greedily, but you don’t let out anything more than a sharp gasp. He shifts forward, moving your legs to one side, barring them against him with one arm, while his other hand collects your hands and pins them to the back of the couch, while he leans over you. 

The angle change makes it all the more difficult to keep quiet. You toss your head to the side to avoid his gaze, the lopsided smile on his face, and his blown-out pupils. It’s easier to focus when you aren’t looking at him. He laughs under his breath and thrusts forward harder, driving even deeper. 

A few moans tumble off your lips without permission, and you don’t need to look at him to know he’s pleased with himself. 

You test the strength of his hand holding yours back, pushing against his grip. 

“Don’t like being held down, pretty?” he asked, the soft lilt of his voice making you shiver. “That’s not what I remember.”

“I don’t remember you.” A moan breaks your sentence. “Being this annoying.” 

“God, you love it though, don’t you?” he asks, slowing to an agonizing pace, languid drags that make your hips stutter, your lips part, your hands work harder against his grip. “You fucking love it. Look at you.”

Your next words are cut off by your phone, vibrating in your jacket pocket on the floor, a foot away from Yeonjun. His eyes shoot to it, and he stills inside of you. 

“Yeonjun,” you say, a word of warning, because you know who’s on the other end of the phone call before he drops your hands and fishes the thing from your coat pocket, before he holds it up. A picture of your boyfriend on the screen, his name surrounded by hearts. Yeonjun’s finger hovers over the accept button. “Don’t you fucking dare,” you say, reaching forward to grab it. 

He grabs your hands again, holding them in front of his chest. 

“You should talk to him,” Yeonjun says. “He’s probably so worried.”

“Yeonjun,” you say again, sharply. 

He clicks accept, then presses the phone against your ear, holding it there. 

“Hello?” Jiung says, sounding a little more confused than normal. 

You clear your throat. Yeonjun moves an inch, and you nearly bite through your lip. “Hey,” you manage to choke out. “It’s me.” 

“Oh, good,” he says. “You found it.”

Yeonjun pulls out another inch, the slow drag against your walls short-circuiting your brain every time he does it. You’re glaring at him, but he’s just smiling, fucking proud of himself. 

“Yeah,” you say. Another inch. “I—yeah, I found it.”

“You get lost in there?” he asks. 

“No—no,” you say, breath catching as Yeonjun shifts forward, just as slow. “I should be right out. Sorry for keeping you waiting.” 

“No worries, baby,” Jiung says. 

Yeonjun rolls his eyes. 

“I love you,” he says. 

Yeonjun’s hips snap forward, and he buries himself fully. Your head rolls back, and your mouth falls open, but you don’t make a sound. 

He stills enough to let you speak, and you’re looking at him, when you say it. “Love you too,” you say, but the words come out a fraction too breathy. You don’t have enough time to worry about whether or not it sounds suspicious. 

Yeonjun pulls the phone away, ends the call, and tosses it back onto the floor. He releases your hands, and you lean forward, pushing his chest. “You’re an asshole,” you say, breathing heavily, trying to hit him and grab him at the same time. 

“God, that was so hot,” Yeonjun says. “I bet he didn’t even know—didn’t even realize.” He laughs, starting his slow thrusts back up again. 

Your nails dig into his shoulders as you pull him down. You can just barely mutter a “Shut up” against his lips before you kiss him. He returns your desperation, lets you slip your tongue into his mouth as he increases the pace of his thrusts. You break away to breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours, eyes finding yours. 

Something softens in his expression, and your eyes fall closed under his kind gaze. 

He pulls back, holding your legs upright again, spreading them so one rests against each shoulder. He drops a hand between them and finds your clit. His initial touch feels electric. He rubs lazy circles on it with his thumb, looking down, watching his cock drive into you over and over, harder and harder as you squirm, clenching around him while he increases the stimulation. 

“Yeonjun, fuck, oh my god,” you moan, dropping your head backward. 

He moans, too, the sound music to your ears. He places his other hand low on your stomach, flat—feeling himself fuck into you. “Fuck, baby,” he says, soft and reckless, enough to make you forget about anything else, anyone else. “You feel so goddamn good, it’s insane.”

He rolls your clit between two fingers, and you clench hard around him, slowing his pace a fraction. Your bach archs even more, and your hands reach out for something to hold onto, settling on the edge of the couch. You press yourself forward, hips rising to meet each thrust even as your thighs shake. 

“That’s it,” he purrs. “Come on, baby, please.” 

You say his name again, like a prayer—even though it feels fucking damning. 

And when you cum, it’s with his lips crashing into yours, capturing your moans, and your hands grasping his bare skin, taking everything you can get. 

You collapse back against the couch. For a moment, Yeonjun doesn’t move. He trails a few fingers along your jawline. His eyes wander your face. They meet your eyes, then shift away. He pulls out and stands up, quickly putting on his boxers and pants. You study the muscles in his back and the way they tense, before snapping back into reality. 

You shift your underwear back into place and stand up, smoothing out your skirt. You pick your jacket up off the ground and slip your phone back into your pocket. 

The room is dead silent, and Yeonjun won’t turn to look at you. 

You clear your throat, and he does. “I should—um,” you say, dropping your eyes away from his gaze. You can’t even look at him, now. Not after that. Not when you have to go back to your boyfriend, waiting in the car, oblivious. 

Yeonjun takes a step forward and fixes your hair, combing his fingers through it. He runs a finger just under your lip, wiping away some of the smudged lipstick. 

You do look up at him, then, eyes widened, trying to figure him out. 

“Do you love him?” Yeonjun asks as he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. 

The question makes you freeze. “Yes,” you say, after a moment. It’s the gut reaction. The answer you’re supposed to give. It’s not the truth. “No,” you say, but that doesn’t feel right either. “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking down at you, keeps adjusting your hair. It’s probably fine now, but he can’t stand the idea of ceasing physical contact. If he drops his hand, when will he get to touch you again? 

Yeonjun nods. 

“Okay,” he says, voice soft—almost broken. Something sad behind the word. An acceptance, maybe. He takes a step back, away from you and the heavy tension pressing on your shoulders. 

He leans down next to a backpack and fishes something out. 

He closes the distance again and presses a card into your hand. 

“What—” you start to ask. 

“That’s the key to my room,” he says. 

“I can’t—”

“Break up with him, then come to my room tonight,” Yeonjun says. “Or don’t break up with him, I don’t care. Just come.” 

You can’t bring yourself to look down at the card in your hand, can’t bring yourself to look away from his intense eye contact. 

“Hell, I’ll be there for the next few days,” he says. “If you don’t come, I’ll know this didn’t mean anything.” 

“Yeonjun—” you say, like you can figure this out now, talk this through now. 

“You should go,” he says, leaning forward to press a kiss into your hair. “I’ll see you later, okay?” 

You look so pretty, lying there, nose in a book, pretending not to notice the way his eyes trail down your body, the way he gets a little bit closer, the way he just barely nips at the inside of his bottom lip. Like being inches away from you makes it hard for him to function, to steel himself, so he has to suck in a breath, sharp and steadying. 

“I’m trying to read,” you say. Just like he cannot keep the obvious nature of his desire off his face, neither can you inject much dismissal into your words. 

“Yeah?” he asks, and you can sense the curling smile on his lips before your eyes move off the page—just for half a second—long enough for him to catch it, but brief enough that you can pretend you didn’t look at him at all. 

You focus on the words on the page again and read the same sentence for the third time. “Mhm,” you hum, flipping to the next page, even though you didn’t absorb anything that occurred on the last. 

It isn’t always like this, this game of cat and mouse. Yunho distracting you, and you, well, letting him, while both of you maintain an air of disinterest as if you’re not moments away from giving in to the other’s desire. Sometimes it’s obvious, the want heavy in the air when you look at each other. Sometimes it begs to be named, can’t be avoided. Sometimes it’s gentle touches and small gestures. A kiss that turns, rapidly, into something more. 

It isn’t always a game. 

Tonight, it is. 

You can feel it in the air, in the way he looks at you, trying to capture your attention. 

“How is it?” he asks, turning on his side, head propped up on one hand. His eyes don’t leave yours. You’re the most interesting thing in the room, and he makes it obvious. 

“It was better before you came in and started staring at me,” you say. You don’t mean it. He knows you don’t. You keep your eyes trained on the words so they don’t slip away to watch the corner of his lips tug upward. 

“Yeah?” he asks again, a single word meant to push you a little further. Do you really mean it? is what he’s really asking. Say it again. 

“Mhm,” you mumble again, eyes sliding down the page. Can he tell you aren’t really reading, that you can’t remember what’s going on in the story in the slightest? He doesn’t comment on it. That’s not quite so interesting as trying to get your full attention when you feel like being stubborn. 

“Don’t you think it’s time for bed?” he asks, glancing sidelong at the alarm clock next to the bed and the red letters barely visible under the bright, overhead light. “Turn the lights off, get a little comfortable, you know what I’m saying?” 

It is late. He just got off a gaming session with his friends—another activity you love to interrupt. 

“No,” you say, casually. Not combative. “I don’t think so.”

You turn another page. 

You’re sitting atop the comforter, back against the headboard. You’re dressed for bed, one of his old shirts on, and a pair of comfortable shorts. Legs exposed. Crossed at the ankles. 

He reaches out and skims his knuckles along the top of your thigh, leaving goosebumps behind. You don’t shiver. You try to keep completely still, not giving away how badly you want him to keep going. 

Yunho flips his hand so the soft pads of his fingers can trail along your thigh. He traces circles that widen, giving him an excuse to brush your inner thigh, the edge of your shorts. You swallow a gasp, and he doesn’t comment on it. 

His fingers dip under the edge of your shorts and still. “Baby,” he says, voice lower, raw and full of want. He’s done pretending this isn’t what he’s thinking about. Now, it’s about you giving in to him, instead. About him getting what he’s desperate for. 

You play dumb. “Hm?” you ask, lifting your eyes from the pages to meet his. His lips are slightly parted, and a few strands of hair fall into his eyes. He looks so fucking beautiful, it takes every bit of self-control left in your body not to drop the book onto the nightstand and crawl into his arms. 

“Put the book away,” he says firmly. Not forceful. He’s being nice. A command. The first one of the night. Another tell for where things are going to go. And you have a choice to make that will impact the rest of said night, too, because the game is so obviously on. You could put the book down. Sure, of course, you could just put the book down, and he would treat you so nice. 

He watches the thought process behind your eyes, the same smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as you decide the kind of night you want to have him with—even though you both know exactly what you’re going to choose, because it’s always what you choose. 

“No,” you say, dragging your eyes away from his. “It’s just getting good.”

He inches his fingers further up your thigh, the very tips touch the edge of your underwear. You grind your teeth, working your jaw tight to relieve the tension beginning to build. Yunho is perceptive. He sees the tick in your muscle, the barely-there twitch under your skin. 

You grip the book a little harder, trying to force your eyes to scan the words. Your tongue shoots out, running along your lower lip, as you wait for teasing that doesn’t come. 

His hand slips away from you. It isn’t a slow drag down your skin but an abrupt disconnect. There and then gone. He turns onto his back. 

Your lips part in confusion. 

“Wait—“ you say, before your brain can process exactly what he’s doing, before the slow crawl of a smile across his lips makes you realize this is exactly what he was hoping for.

Yunho glances sideways to catch your eyes. He can’t hold the eye contact. He looks at your lips and the way you’re holding your lower lip in your mouth between your teeth. 

“Something wrong, pretty?” he asks, propping himself up again. 

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to figure out the angle he’s playing from. 

“I thought you wanted to read your book, but you look disappointed.” He tilts his head to the side. “But that can’t be right—you wouldn’t be disappointed, would you?” The corner of his lips quirks up a fraction. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have said no.”

You’re itching to touch him, but you still hold the book in your hands like it’s the only thing keeping you wound together. To put it away would be to lose, and you hate losing to him. 

“I’m not disappointed,” you say. You keep your voice flat. 

Yunho sees right through you. You’re so stubborn, but just as tightly wound as he is. And normally, he gives in to you, would tease you until that damn book falls out of your hands—but this time, he’s thrown the ball back into your court, curious what you’ll do with it. 

He stands up abruptly. 

“I’m not,” you say again. “I’m reading.”

“Mhm,” he hums. He turns away from you and pulls his shirt over his head before tossing it in the hamper in the corner. His hands drop to his belt. 

“What are you doing?” you ask. 

“I’m getting ready for bed. Is that okay with you?” he asks, a bite to his tone that makes you clench your thighs together. 

You study the muscles in his back, the way they move while he unzips his pants. You watch him over the top of the book you can’t bring yourself to put down. 

“Yes,” you say. 

“What’s happening?” he asks. 

“Hm?” 

“In your book?” he clarifies. 

“Oh,” you say. You try to remember anything of substance and come up absolutely blank. 

“You haven’t turned the page in several minutes,” he says as he walks toward your side of the bed. He closes the book with one hand, and you let him take it. 

Your eyes drop to his bare chest and trail lower. 

“Look at me,” he says, and you do. He puts the book on the side table. He reaches out and curls a finger under your chin. “Are you having fun being stubborn tonight, baby?” 

You try to shake your head, but he moves his fingers quick enough to stop you, holding your chin in place. He leans forward over you. “We both know you’re being stubborn. Your legs are clenched so tight I couldn’t get my hand between them if I tried—so tell me, are you having fun being stubborn?”

You incline your head, let a smile appear on your lips to contrast the straight line drawn across his. “Yes,” you say. 

He tries to hide his smirk, tries to maintain his disconnected, uninterested demeanor as well as you have. But he likes the game just as much as you do. 

“I was gonna be so good to you tonight, too,” he says, feigning a pout. “Even got you a gift and everything.” 

Your eyes open a little wider, and he catches this, as he does every minute change in your body language. He chuckles deep under his breath. He tilts his head to the side, inspecting you. 

“Maybe if you ask nice, I’ll give it to you,” he says, still cupping your chin with one hand. 

“Yunho,” you say, batting your lashes at him. “Please, can I pretty please have the gift you were kind enough to get for me?” 

He pokes his tongue into his cheek, shaking his head. 

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” he says, but his smile betrays how he really feels about you. “Can’t even be good for one second, can you?” 

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and move your butt to the edge. His hand falls away from your chin. “You love me anyway,” you say, reaching out to touch him. 

Another quirk of his lips. “Mhm,” he says. “Even when you’re being a brat.” He grabs your hands and holds them. 

“I’m not a brat,” you say. “I’ve been very good, actually. God forbid a girl just wants to read her book.” 

“Baby, you’ve made it very clear you don’t want to read that fucking book,” Yunho says. 

“I think you don’t want me to read that fucking book.” 

He laughs again, low and almost inaudible. “I don’t.” 

“What do you want me to do, then?” you ask. 

“Take your shirt off,” he says, dropping your hands. 

You lift it off by the hem, then lean back on your elbows. “See?” you say, breathless. “I can follow instructions.” 

“Mm, can you?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you say. 

“Shorts next,” he says. You comply. “Move back.” You do. 

“Anything else, sir?” you ask, trying to make the word sound as serious as possible. You lose it on the end when a smile breaks out. 

Yunho rolls his eyes. He circles the bed to his side and pulls a small box out of the nightstand drawer. He places it on top. There’s an image of a rose on the outside. You know exactly what it is. 

He moves closer, lying on his side next to you. 

“Tell me you’re done being stubborn,” he says, voice gravelly. “Tell me how bad you want me to touch you right now.” 

“I—“ you start, and you can feel combative words choke up your throat. His fingers start their slow crawl up your leg again, and you can’t stop thinking about what that toy will feel like on your clit. 

“Tell me,” he says. “Or I’m not going to do it.” His brown eyes bore into yours, and it takes everything in you not to jolt forward and crash your lips into his. 

“I’m done being stubborn,” you say. “I said I was reading because I wanted you to tease me like you normally do—I wanted you to distract me.” 

His fingers skim across your cloth-clad core, and you squeeze your thighs tight around his hand. He sits up, moving so he’s straddling one of your legs, keeping it pinned to the mattress. 

“You’re going to be good for me, or I’m going to stop,” he says. “Keep your legs open.” 

You let your leg fall open again. His fingers skate over you again. 

“See how using your words gets you what you want?” he asks. “You should try that next time.” One finger hooks under the band and swipes through your lips, slipping inside of you in one quick motion. He holds your hips down with his other hand to keep you still. 

You gasp at the sudden feeling.

“Mm, so fucking wet for me, baby, yeah?” Yunho says. “So wet and tense, and you couldn’t just tell me what you wanted?” 

“I’m—sorry,” you bite out as he slips another finger inside of you. 

He moves them slowly, in and out, curling them every once in a while to elicit more sounds from you. 

“You’re sorry, baby?” he asks. “You’re not going to do it again?” 

You shake your head, whimpering. “I’m not—I won’t.” 

His long fingers pump faster, and your head rolls back into the pillows. Your fingers itch at your sides to reach for him, to touch any inch you can get your hands on, but he’s too far away, out of reach. You know it’s on purpose. He knows you too well—knows what you want before you ask, then makes you ask anyway. 

Your hips roll against his fingers subconsciously, shifting under his one-handed grip to chase more friction, more feeling. 

He stops, and his eyes flick to yours. “What,” he says, slow smirk inching across his lips. You can’t help but keep your eyes on him. He’s so captivating to look at. Besides, if you look away, close your eyes, your body will move before you can will it to listen. “Am I not giving you enough, baby?” he asks. “You need more so bad you’re trying to do it yourself?” 

“No,” you say. 

“So fucking sexy, and so bad at using your words,” he says. His fingers curl inside you, and you gasp. He stills again. “Ask for it.”

“Yunho,” you say, the word sharpened with annoyance and need. 

His voice turns to honey. “Yes, baby?” 

“Please, I want more,” you say. All the fight has drained out of you, replaced by the carnal need for him to keep touching you. You have to remind yourself not to move. His fingers digging into the skin at your hip do a lot to remind you, but not enough. 

“More what?” he says. 

“Just—please keep touching me,” you say in a breath, like the words were trapped in your mouth. 

“Okay, baby,” he says, voice still soft and smooth—not a hint of that commanding nature from before. Now he’s here for service, listening to you. You know it won’t last. “Whatever you want.”

He starts moving his fingers again, slow at first, before he picks up the pace, twisting them inside of you. His thumb angles to find your clit, rubbing messy circles on it as long fingers coax you closer to the edge. 

You try to reach for him, but he’s too far away, and instead end up with your fists balled in the comforter, your teeth clenched together. 

He gives you exactly what you wanted—more. And he doesn’t relent until your back is arching, your legs are twitching, and you can feel the wave of heat cascading through you. His pace slows abruptly, and he withdraws his fingers, leaving you breathing heavily and glaring at him. It’s his turn to play dumb. He makes no comment on the matter, only lifts his fingers to his lips and licks them clean while you watch. 

It only makes you shiver. 

He reaches over to grab the box off the nightstand. He flips the lip and pulls a silicone toy out of it, shaped like a rose. Heat pools in your core at just the sight of the thing. You’d mentioned wanting to try the toy out with him months ago. And now, here it is, sitting between two of his fingers. He holds the power button, and it hums to life. 

“You still wanna try this?” he asks. 

You nod. 

“Out loud,” he says. 

“Yes,” you say. 

He parts your lips with two fingers, then lowers the suction toy to your clit. It lights your body on fire—immediately. You jump backward at the sensation, and Yunho chuckles under his breath. 

He moves away just long enough to hook one hand under your calf to pull you back down. 

“Yunho,” you say, voice shaky—not with fear exactly, but uncertainty. 

“What color?” he asks, meeting your eyes. 

“Green.” No hesitation. 

He lowers the toy back to your clit. Your head falls back onto the pillow. Your hips twitch and buck, but he keeps you as still as possible, the toy never wandering. It builds fast and strong, and you can feel your walls clench around nothing. Whimpers and moans fall off your lips, despite how much you try to stop them. The thing melts you into an immediate puddle. 

Your legs start to shake, and he turns the damn thing up. 

“Yunho,” you say again, his name breathy. “I—can’t.” 

“Can’t what?” he says, calm and casual. The suction short-circuits your brain. Pleasure rolls through your body, and your hips buck against his hand. 

There’s no answer to his question. You can’t focus, can’t think, can’t control yourself. You can’t speak, to say any of it out loud. 

You try to reach for him again, needing to touch him. 

He turns it up again, and your body seizes, freezing under the sensation, locking you in place as the heat spirals between your legs. The thread holding your composure together with a neat bow snaps, and you start shaking. Your lids slam closed, and your fingernails dig into the bedspread so tight you fear it might tear. 

Fractured gasps fall off your lips, and moans get half-caught in your throat. 

“Come on, baby,” Yunho coaxes. “That’s it.”

He holds the toy on your clit with one hand and slips a few fingers inside of you with the other, giving you something to clench around. You do. Just before the fall, he pulls the toy away, takes his fingers out of you. Your hips rock forward to find something just before your head falls back onto the pillow, this time in annoyance. 

He waits just long enough for your body to relax before he’s holding it against you again. He doesn’t even turn the suction down. It immediately starts building again, and you can hardly take it, now, him being so far away from you while he brings you to another edge you know for certain he won’t let you tumble over.

“Yunho,” you say, a little more command to your own tone than you can probably afford to take with him right now. “Come closer,” you say, whimpering. “Please, come closer.”

He moves forward without hesitation, hovering over you while he continues to move his fingers, continuing to keep the pressure of the toy in just the right spot. 

You lift your head to kiss him, but he pulls back. 

“Yunho,” you say again, whining. 

“Beg,” he says, firm. 

“Wh—what?” you stutter, still barely able to concentrate on anything else with the toy glued to your clit. You can hardly even keep your eyes open. 

“You want me to kiss you? I want you to ask nicely.” He tilts his head to the side to look at you. “Now beg.”

You can’t summon the desire to talk back. You want his lips on yours. Need them. “Please,” you start. “Please kiss me.” It’s not enough. He doesn’t move. “Please, I’ll be so good, whatever you want—I’ll do it, please just kiss me—fuck.” He turns the toy up again, and your brain malfunctions. “You’re being—” you start, but you can’t get the words out. “Please.” 

The corners of his lips curl upward. 

“Look at you, baby, falling apart—begging me to kiss you. If you’d just been good earlier, you wouldn’t have to embarrass yourself like this.” 

He doesn’t kiss you. 

Not right away. He lets the toy hum for longer, let’s you fall apart a little bit more. Lets more fractured pleases fall off your lips before he gives in to his own desire and leans down to capture your lips. 

Your hands reach up to grab him, holding his shoulders tight as your lips move fervently against his—savoring what he’s giving you before he takes it away again. He parts your lips with his tongue, and you moan into his mouth. 

He turns up the toy one more time, and your body freezes again, lips stilling against his. He takes your lower lip between his teeth and drags it into his mouth, biting and sucking as you fall apart beneath him. 

Another orgasm crests, and your hips roll into it—but he pulls the toy away again, and you hit a wall. “Yunho,” you hiss. “You’re being a jerk.”

He pouts. “Am I? I’m so sorry.” 

You try to clench your thighs shut, but he’s nestled between them. A few fingers reach up to brush your clit, and your body jerks away, the sensation sending shocks through you. 

“It’s—” you start, but you can’t get the words out, can’t get your brain to work. “Too much,” you finally mutter. 

“Aw, baby, you want me to stop?” he asks, batting his lashes, and you know it’s not going to happen—you know that this is your punishment for trying to be stubborn. You know you could just say the word. Say the word and end the whole thing. If it were really too much, it could be over in seconds. 

He doesn’t move. 

“What color, baby?” he asks. 

You think red as your body shudders under his fingers, just ghosting your sensitive clit and making you shiver, but you don’t want to say it, not really. 

“Green,” you say, instead. 

The toy touches your clit and immediately sends shockwaves through your body, making it difficult to speak, difficult to keep your eyes open. Your hands dig into the comforters, wishing they were gripping his body instead. He doesn’t give you the satisfaction of touch.

He has the audacity to turn the toy up one more time. How many fucking levels does this thing have? He pulls his fingers out, leaving you empty and clenching against nothing, again. It’s not nearly as satisfying. And he doesn’t kiss you again, either, leaning away to watch you fall apart over and over again under his ministrations.  

You try to keep your composure, but it’s nearly impossible. Your body is shaking, and there’s a layer of sweat on your hairline. Your jaw hurts from clenching it, and your clit is more sensitive than it’s ever been, but he doesn’t relent. 

“Please,” you hiss, when the pressure gets to be too much, when the tension seizes you again, and flames lick through your body. You try to close your legs again, but he moves, angling his forearm and elbow to pin your thigh to the mattress. “Yunho—god—it’s.”

“It’s what?” he asks, eyes burning into yours from much too far away. 

“Too much,” you mutter. 

He hums in delight at the way you’re falling apart. “You haven’t even had my cock yet, and you want to stop?” He raises one brow as another wave of pleasure drags you under, as the sensitivity only increases, making it more and more impossible to concentrate. “Tell me to stop—you know how.”

Red, red, red. 

You don’t say it. 

“No, my baby loves to get punished, doesn’t she?” he asks, running his tongue over his lower lip. 

You make the mistake of rolling your eyes. 

“Say it,” Yunho says, curling his fingers against your G-spot. 

“I,” you start, words broken up by moans. He turns the toy up so high that it cycles back to the beginning. It hardly gives you any reprieve. “I like it.” 

“You like what?”

“I like it when you punish me,” you say, finally, just above a whisper. 

He reaches forward to push some hair out of your face. “That’s my girl. You want to come?” he asks, words so soft you actually believe he’s going to give it to you this time. 

A few more clicks, and the level of suction increases. 

“Please,” you stutter, head thrown back, body aching from tensing, fingernails threatening to carve through the comforter. 

“You think you deserve it?” he asks, coaxing the orgasm out of you. He knows exactly how to get you there—and exactly when to stop right before the peak. “You don’t,” he whispers, leaning over you. His lips brush the shell of your ear. 

You say his name like it means something, like he’ll hear your pleas and listen to them. He doesn’t. You feel his smile against your skin as he pulls the toy back, as his fingers still. 

A gasped sob falls off your lips. You reach down between your bodies to touch yourself, and Yunho chuckles. He tosses the toy to the side and grabs your hand before you can make contact. He takes your other one, too, for good measure, and pins them above your head with one hand. 

Your hips writhe against nothing, searching for friction, feeling, anything that he won’t give you. 

“God, you’re so desperate for it,” he whispers. “Such a fucking slut, aren’t you? I thought you wanted to read, hm?” 

“Please, Yunho,” you beg. “Please, I’m sorry—please.”

He runs his fingertips along your jawline and presses his thumb against your bottom lip. You turn your head, needing to kiss him, needing something. 

He doesn’t give in. 

Instead, he releases your hands and grabs the toy. He places it in one of your hands and guides it between you. “You want it so bad, you do it,” he says. 

He leans back, sitting on his ankles, to watch you. 

“Turn it up when I tell you to,” he says. “Don’t stop.” 

You turn it on, spread your lips with two fingers, and place the toy on your clit. It’s immediately too much. You let it go for a few seconds before pulling away, unable to take the suction on your swollen clit. 

Yunho looks at you, eyebrows raised. He pouts again, leaning only slightly forward. “Aw, baby,” he starts, always a tell that whatever he says is going to be complete bullshit. “You can’t do it?” 

You glare at him, your eyes meeting his devilish brown ones, pupils half blown out. He wants you, too. He’s just better at controlling it. Your eyes drop down his body, to the outline of his hard cock pressing against the fabric. 

“You want me to be nice instead?” he asks. “You want me to fuck you nice and slow and let you come?” 

“Yes,” you say, the word breathy, because you do want that, even if you know he’s never going to give it to you. Not tonight. 

He reaches out and covers your hand with his own, pressing the toy against you again. “Maybe you should think about that next time. Don’t stop.” He keeps his hand over yours, pressing it hard against you. Your hips stutter and shake, and it's hard to keep it in place. His thumb presses the button, and the speed increases. 

“You’re being—” you start, managing to get a few words out between moans. 

“Mean?” he finishes your sentence. “Whose fault is that?” 

More moans fall off your lips, gasps and groans, and his name all the same. He removes his hand, shooting you a pointed look. He gets out of bed and pulls his boxers down. Your eyes fall to his cock and his hand wrapping around it. 

He gets back into bed and pulls you closer to him by the thighs, hands curled around the outsides. 

“Higher,” he says, and you click the tempo up one more. Tears prick in the corners of your eyes as the tension winds itself through your body, every muscle shaking. He nudges your entrance with the tip of his dick, and you nearly drop the toy. 

He pulls you onto him, and you take him slowly, inch by inch, as the toy makes your hips roll. He holds you against him, pressing deep into you, filling you up completely. You try to squirm against him, but he keeps you still. 

And then you’re begging again, words tumbling out of your mouth before you have the will to care. His name and pleas—cries when he doesn’t move an inch. 

You can barely keep your eyes open, but his are locked onto you. Watching and waiting. Your back arches as the suction brings you higher, as tears spill over your face, and then the feelings are too much all at once, and you have to stop it, you have to move the toy, or you might burst into flames underneath him. 

“Thought you said you were good at following directions,” he says, tsking under his breath. 

“I—” 

“Stop talking,” he says, poking his tongue into his cheek as his eyes roll at your inability to listen to him. He’s unimpressed, you can see it across every feature—but so too can you feel his cock twitching inside of you. 

You can’t fucking help yourself, not when it comes to him. While he’s taking the toy out of your hands, you roll your hips, and a shattered gasp escapes your lips at the slow drag of him inside of you. 

“Mm,” he groans. “You can’t seem to behave tonight, can you? Little slut wants everything she can take—huh? But not when it’s too much, not when I’m giving it to her?” 

You roll your hips again, because now you can’t stop. You need this orgasm like you need to breathe, and you’re slick with sweat and sticky, tears running down your cheeks. 

“Just fuck me, Yunho,” you say, moving your hips slowly, enjoying yourself. Watching him trying to remain composed against your ministrations. 

“Just fuck you?” he asks. “Is that what you want?” 

“Yes.” You breathe the word out. “Yes, god.”

“Okay, baby,” he says, smirk crawling to the corners of his lips. “I’ll fuck you. Don’t worry.”

He gives you no time to think about what you’ve asked for before he’s pulling nearly all the way out to slam back into you, while holding you firmly in place against him, no chance of escape. If that weren’t enough, he grabs the toy again, too, cranks it to full speed, and then places it on your clit with no build-up. 

It jolts through you, and you squirm and twist in his grasp. “Fuck,” you hiss, grinding your teeth together, your walls clamping down hard on him as he continues his dizzying pace, bringing your hips up to meet his harsh thrusts each time. It’s a wonder he can keep the toy on you so precisely. 

You can’t do anything but throw your head back onto the pillow and continue grasping the sheets like a lifeline. He won’t touch you anywhere else, won’t let you touch him. 

“Fuck, you feel good, baby,” he says, lips parting on a moan. 

“I—I’m,” you stutter as the tension builds again. “Please—don’t stop,” you beg. 

He doesn’t. He fucks you hard, harder, through it, keeping the toy pressed against you as the orgasm crashes through you, all the tension unwinding fast as you come around him, screaming moans as tears streak to your jawline. 

He picks up the pace, finally tossing the damn toy to the side and leaning over your body. You reach up, hesitating to touch him. His eyes meet yours, and he smiles. “You can,” he says. His words always soften up close, when you’re nose to nose. 

Your hands find his biceps, his shoulders, rake down his back. You touch every inch of skin available to you as he thrusts into you. They settle on the sides of his face, fingers dipping into the hair at the back of his neck as you pull him down for a kiss. 

It’s messy, passionate. Teeth gnashing against each other as you both take what you’ve been wanting, as the dam breaks on his restraint—and yours. 

Then, he’s gathering you up into his arms, wrapping them around your back, holding you against him while he fucks into you over and over again. He breaks the kiss to bury his face in your neck. “You’re so good,” he mutters against your skin between kisses of worship and love. “You’re so fucking good.”

Every thrust feels like wet fire, spiraling throughout every inch of your body, and you can barely keep yourself together. His words go straight to your core, and you’re arching your back against him, trying to take as much of him as you can despite how raw everything feels, despite the tears still streaming down your face at the overstimulation—the pain of clenching your jaw for so long, of being brought to the edge over and over. 

You come undone all over again, tension breaking, nails digging into his skin hard enough to draw blood, making him hiss. 

He holds out just long enough for you to come before pulling out and finishing across your stomach, over your breasts. He nearly collapses into it, both of you panting, but he manages to hold himself up, shifting to lie at your side instead. 

He turns your face to his, two fingers on your cheek, and leans forward to kiss the streaks of dry tears with a pleased smile on his face. 

“You’re perfect, you know that?” he asks. 

You’re still out of breath, heaving, but you laugh anyway. “Really?” you ask. “It sounded like you had a lot of complaints.”

“Mm, right,” he says. “I take them all back. You’re perfect.” 

You broke the news over text. He broke up with me never feels good to say, and you’re starting to think it might be something wrong with you. Wasn’t this one supposed to be the one? You let him move in. You loved him. Maybe not in the past tense. The feelings are too fresh to understand.

So, yeah. You show up at your best friends’ apartment with a pack of beer and an extremely forced smile.

“I don’t want to talk about it” are the first words off your lips. Taehyung nods, takes the case of beer out of your hands, and disappears into the kitchen, while Yoongi studies you with a more investigative look. He wants to talk about it, wants to push your buttons on the matter. “Seriously, Yoongi,” you say. “Not tonight.”

Yoongi holds up two hands in defense. “Okay,” he says, and you know he’s just giving in for now. That later, hours or days, he’ll be back with more questions.

Taehyung returns with three cans of beer as you make your way toward the couch. He extends one to you and even manages to keep the pitiful smile from reaching the corners of his lips, turning it somewhat genuine instead.

The tension of you breaks the moment you’re seated on the couch. Taehyung takes the edge of the sectional so he can spread out, legs outstretched in front of him, and you plop down next to him out of habit. Yoongi sits a foot or so away, but leans in with his beer extended outward in a wordless cheers.

Aluminum cans knock against one another before silence returns. You attempt to chug your beer inconspicuously, but Taehyung watches you out of the corner of his eye while he scrolls through movie options.

“What are you feeling?” Taehyung asks, forcing you to stop drinking momentarily.

Maybe it’s on purpose. You can’t help but think that it is. This moment of I know what you’re doing broken up by the casual nature of years of friendship, of I’m watching you, and you can’t fool me.

“Maybe horror,” you say, with a shrug of your shoulders. Your eyes bore into Taehyung’s, and you can’t look away. You know he sees right through you, past the facade you’re putting up to will some strength into every bit of you—your words, the way you hold yourself—and you can see the words form on his lips, the way he wants to stop this conversation for one more important.

They both care about you so much that it makes your chest ache.

“Something slasher. Really bloody. Really gross,” you say. “No romance.”

Taehyung’s eyes shift to Yoongi’s behind you, and you know they’re assessing you, trying to figure out how to handle the situation.

“Stop doing that,” you say, eyes meeting Taehyung’s first before your body swivels so you can look at Yoongi. “Whatever secret conversation the two of you are having—stop having it,” you say. “I’m fine.”

Yoongi tilts his head to the side. “You don’t seem fine.” His words are so soft, so kind.

A knot develops in the center of your throat. You swallow it, let it burn the lining of your stomach instead. If they keep looking at you like this, like some half-broken doll, you’re going to burst into tears.

“I—” you start. I’m not, you want to say. It would be so easy to let yourself fall apart in front of them. It wouldn’t be anything they haven’t seen before. But you’re sick of crying. “I’m going to get another beer. Does anyone want one?”

You stand up, only turning to look back at them once you’ve reached the kitchen. They’re looking at each other again, and you let out a long sigh. You grab a second beer from the fridge and stand there, door open, for a beat too long, tapping on the silver can with your nail, trying to decide if you want to fall apart or not.

Eventually, you do turn around, a smile on your face, pressed right to the corners. “This is what’s going to happen tonight,” you say. “You guys are going to stop looking at me like I could fall apart at any moment, and we’re going to watch this movie and get messy drunk. We’re going to have fun. Do you understand?”

Taehyung laughs, and you feel the tension in your chest unwind half an inch. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, saluting you. “Didn’t know this friendship had such strict rules.”

Yoongi’s still looking at you, however, lips in a straight line, head tilted to the side. Like your negative feelings are a bug he’s caught and can’t shake.

“Okay, fine,” you say, throwing your arms out to the side, because you give in to Yoongi that easily. “If I promise to tell you all about my feelings tomorrow, can we move on?”

“Mm,” Yoongi hums, thinking over this proposition. “Promise?”

Taehyung finishes his beer while Yoongi thinks it over, then joins you in the kitchen. You grab him another can from the fridge and clink yours against it.

You don’t want to promise. Yoongi keeps promises, and you’re not exactly sure you’ll feel like crying tomorrow, either. But you say it anyway, because it’s him and he won’t let it go, later. “Yeah, I promise.”

Yoongi’s demeanor changes then, and he smiles, standing up. He chugs the rest of his beer, and your eyes fall to his throat as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down.

Taehyung loops an arm low around your waist and pulls you against him, setting his chin on top of your head. You push against his chest. “Don’t be gross,” you say.

“Damn, really strict rules,” he comments. “Can’t even be affectionate with my best friend anymore?”

You roll your eyes, and even though you do step away from him to grab Yoongi a beer, you don’t argue when he drops his forearm onto your shoulder to use you as an armrest.

There’s something Yoongi wants to say. You can see the words curl around the tip of his tongue. He’s never been good at holding them back, anyway. But you know, too, that they’re not in the spirit of the night, so you don’t push him to say them, either. Instead, you pretend not to notice.

“Aw, Yoongi feels left out,” you say as you hand him the beer.

It makes him smile, makes his eyes roll.

The truth of the matter is that you’ve missed this. You haven’t had a night like this in a long time. Your relationship kept you plenty busy, and your now ex-boyfriend didn’t exactly love you spending time with either of them, so you didn’t.

The three of you migrate back to the couch. Taehyung picks a movie that’s equal parts horrifying and gory. You catch Yoongi lifting his hands to cover his eyes. At some point, your head falls onto Yoongi’s shoulder. Another beer in, and when you crawl back to them, it’s with your head in his lap and your legs stretched across Taehyung’s.

Taehyung is laser-focused on the blood bath, but Yoongi’s looking down at you. You notice out of the corner of your eye, but keep your face turned toward the screen.

His fingers trail through your hair, twisting pieces between thumb and forefinger.

“Missed you, you know,” Yoongi says, voice low under the screaming of blood murder erupting from the television.

“I know,” you say, still keeping your eyes forward.

“Missed this,” he says.

“Me too,” you say, and that knot bobs up from the base of your throat. It gets stuck halfway.

Taehyung doesn’t even register the conversation.

“He didn’t deserve you,” Yoongi says, like it's as easy as breathing. Like he’s thought about it before. Like he came to the conclusion months ago, years ago, and he’s just been waiting to say it.

Tears sting in the corners of your eyes, the feeling that’s been haunting you for the past several days. It’s not about deserved or undeserved. You don’t care whether or not you were too good for him. You just miss him.

Yoongi shifts forward and grabs your beer off the coffee table, then presses it into your hands before retrieving his own, too. You lift your head off his lap an inch to take a sip. Discarded empties litter the table in front of you. Your face feels warm, but your head still swims with thoughts you wish could be shoved down much deeper.

Drinking staves off the tears.

When Taehyung’s eyes drift over to you, it’s easy for him to tell that you’re hanging on for dear life. “Yoongi’s right,” Taehyung says, letting you know he’s been listening to your soft words the entire time. “He kinda sucked.”

“He didn’t—” You start to defend him, but can’t bring yourself to follow through. Yoongi’s still peering down at you, and Taehyung’s leveling you with a gaze that says be so for real right now. Because they both know you, and they knew him, too.

“Honestly, you should have broken up with him months ago,” Taehyung says.

“You guys never liked him,” you say, like it’s some kind of defense.

“Right,” Yoongi says. “Because he sucked.”

You take a long drink of beer.

“Say something bad about him,” Taehyung says. “Right now.”

“Why?” you ask.

Yoongi says, “Come on, it’ll be good for you.”

You roll your eyes and grumble a bit under your breath, sorting through thoughts to find something negative to say. The truth is, there are a lot of things you could say. And honestly, if you weren’t halfway drunk, that may have raised some kind of flag that said—it was good that he was out of your life—but it didn’t.

You purse your lips. If you were sober, you would have said something else. But you’re not, and you don’t. Instead, you say, “You know, in three years, he never once made me cum.”

A blood-curdling scream, and then the room goes silent.

It’s Yoongi who says, “You’re kidding.”

Your cheeks flush red and hot, and you’re certain it’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever said aloud—even if it does make you feel better.

“Never?” Taehyung says, a lilt in his voice.

“God, men suck,” you say, feeling better now that it’s off your chest.

Taehyung and Yoongi exchange a glance you don’t catch while your eyes are closed. Taehyung’s hand drops onto your shin, then travels around to hook just below the crook of your knee. You think nothing of it, the touch. These are your best friends. You hardly keep your hands to yourself.

“Whatever,” you say. “All men are bad at sex.”

Yoongi laughs under his breath, and Taehyung says—unprompted. “I bet I could do it.”

“Do what?” you ask, drawing your eyebrows together.

“Make you cum,” Taehyung says. His eyes bore into yours. There’s a lazy smile on his lips, a smirk that turns upward at the corner, but his words are serious. “I bet Yoongi would help me—wouldn’t you, Yoongi?”

“Mhm,” Yoongi hums, looking down at you as he twists a piece of your hair around his fingers.

“This isn’t funny,” you say.

“It’s not a joke,” Taehyung says, his hand skates higher up your leg, and your heart rate skyrockets.

“What are you saying right now?” you ask, propping yourself up on your elbows to look him in the eye.

He leans forward slightly to make sure you’re really getting the message. “I want to make you cum. Actually, I want to make you cum so hard you see stars.”

“I bet you can’t,” you say, tilting your head to the side in a teasing kind of manner.

“That’s okay, I like a challenge,” he says.

You twist to look at Yoongi. His lips part like he’s going to say something, but the words get caught somewhere.

“It’s okay, Yoongi,” Taehyung says. “You can tell her. I think she likes it.”

You punch Taehyung in the arm, and his brows lift just so, and you can see the amusement light up his eyes. Heat curls downward toward your core while confusion raises flag after flag in your brain. This isn’t a good idea, but you can’t seem to tell that to the rest of your body.

“Yeah, Yoongi,” you say. “Tell me.”

You watch his cheeks flush pink. You wonder if he’s ever thought about you like this. Drunken kisses have been shared—but only with Taehyung. Never Yoongi. He’s better at keeping his hands to himself.

“I like a challenge, too,” Yoongi says, looking down at you, one brow quirked upward in obvious interest. A barely-there smirk appears at the corner of his lips. “But I don’t think it will be that hard.”

“Oh, really?” you tease, sitting up. You move to swing your legs off Taehyung’s lap so you can fully turn toward Yoongi, but Taehyung holds you in place by the thigh.

Yoongi moves in closer, half turned toward Taehyung, his chest pressing against your back. His arm drops around your waist, and your head spins again.

Yoongi lowers his lips to your ear. “Too fast?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“You want this?” Taehyung asks, shifting on the couch so he’s between your legs, spreading them open with the back of his hand. Your eyes drop from his face to his hands on your jean-clad thighs.

The tips of your ears are burning pink, and your lips part to say something that never comes out. Your eyes find Taehyung’s face again as Yoongi’s fingers dip under the hem of your shirt.

“This is—” you start, but you’re easily distracted by Yoongi’s other hand brushing the hair away from your neck, from the first kiss he presses to the top of your shoulder, and the subsequent ones that trail upward toward your neck. You let out a long, shaky breath. “Crazy,” you say. “This is crazy.”

“Yeah, but do you want it?” Taehyung asks. His hands grip the tops of your thighs, putting pressure on them as he leans forward, his nose is just a few inches away from yours.

Your mind is full of static electricity, but you can remember the last time you kissed. Some nonsense party years ago, drunk and falling all over one another. It hadn’t meant anything then—it didn’t need to mean anything now, either.

“Stop kissing her, she can’t think straight,” Taehyung says, and Yoongi lifts his lips off your neck.

“Yes,” you say, on another shaky exhale.

“Yes, what?” Taehyung asks, tilting his head to the side, that charming smirk appearing on his lips once more. You’ve seen it before, when he’s flirting with girls he wants to pick up in bars. It’s never been turned like this, on you. “Tell me you want me to make you cum,” he says, like you haven’t been friends for nearly a decade. Like it’s a normal and totally casual thing to say to your best friend.

“Taehyung,” you say, sharply, accusatorily—in shock, mostly.

It only makes his grin stretch further.

“Be nice to her, Tae,” Yoongi says, his breath tickling your ear.

Taehyung’s eyes roll in a show of dramatics, but he doesn’t relent on his desire to hear the words off your lips. “Say it,” he presses again.

You glare at him because it’s all you can do. Because you’re not certain you can actually bring yourself to say those words to him.

“What?” he asks, voice low and breathy. “I bet your boyfriend played nice with you, that’s why you never came.”

You narrow your eyes at him, grinding your teeth. You’re lying to yourself simply by keeping the words in. The words come out angry, annoyed. “I want you to try to make me cum. It’s cute that you think you can actually do it.”

His eyes darken at your words, and you know you’ve pissed him off. It’s easy—easier than rage-baiting him during a normal conversation. And you think, absent-mindedly, that this is going to be fun.

“What about him?” Taehyung asks, nodding toward Yoongi, who drops his lips to your neck again, who drags his teeth along your skin. “You want him to make you cum, too?”

“Yes,” you say, letting your head loll back onto Yoongi’s chest. He bites down hard, with no warning, then sucks on the sensitive skin between his teeth. You gasp, and your hips roll forward without permission.

“God, you’re fucking starved for it, aren’t you?” Taehyung asks. One hand slips off the top of your thigh and presses between them, giving you something to grind against. “There you go,” he says. “That’s it.”

Yoongi’s lips move higher before he bites down again, leaving behind a new mark. His fingers dip under your shirt and slide upward, slow and agonizing along the plane of your stomach. You roll your hips against Taehyung’s hand again, and he smiles. “Thought you would take more convincing,” he says. “But no, you’ve thought about this before—haven’t you?”

Yoongi smiles against your neck, then presses soft kisses onto the bruises he’s left behind, fingers still sliding up higher.

It’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the dizzying feeling of the two of them pushing you slowly forward. “Yes,” you say. You feel the need to quantify it. “A few times. Maybe.”

Yoongi’s fingers lift the edge of your bra, and he hesitates for only a moment before slipping his hand under it completely to palm your breast.

“Maybe?” Yoongi asks, his breath warm against your neck.

“Have you thought about it, Yoongi?” you ask.

“Tried not to,” he says. “Made me jealous to think about you and him—and he didn’t even get you there? You should have been here with us the whole time.” Taehyung’s playful attitude is no match for the genuine anger behind Yoongi’s tone—the jealousy, the vitriol he feels toward your ex—it’s palpable.

Your cheeks flush again, and you’re certain they’ve been pink since the moment they started touching you.

Taehyung chuckles under his breath. “Can’t believe you haven’t had an orgasm in three years.”

Your lids flutter closed as Yoongi rolls your nipple between two fingers. “That’s not—what I said.”

Taehyung’s brows draw together, and he presses his fingers harder against your center through your jeans. “Fuck, he made you do all the work, huh? He didn’t even take care of you?”

You shake your head.

Taehyung’s free hand moves to the button of your jeans, making quick work of it and your zipper. He tugs them down your thighs and runs his tongue along his lower lip. You watch him through hooded lids, your head tipped back against Yoongi’s chest. Yoongi uses his free hand, too, placing it across your throat just under your jaw, keeping your head rolled back. Your eyes flick to his, and he smiles down at you.

You think momentarily—what a fucking situation you have gotten yourself into—but the thought washes over you, there and gone. Both sets of eyes watch you, one careful and one hungry.

Taehyung tosses your jeans to the floor and kneels between your legs. He chuckles under his breath, dry and devoid of warmth, akin to that same hunger blowing out his pupils. The back of his hand drags up your inner thigh, and you shiver. Yoongi’s fingers twist your nipple, and a soft moan leaves your lips. The corner of his lips twitches up at your reaction to him, and you know he’s enjoying himself, too, even if he’s being quieter about it. Taehyung presses two fingers to the apex of your thighs, over lacy panties.

You pull your eyes from Yoongi’s, finding Taehyung’s instead—looking up at you already. Neither of you speaks. He makes no salacious comment. He just looks at you, mouth parted a fraction, eyes locked onto yours, and you can’t look away, either, even as Yoongi attempts to distract you, attempts to win back your gaze by tightening his grasp on your neck, by pinching your nipple harder. It doesn’t work.

Soft whimpers leave your lips, but you can’t not look at him, this person you’ve known for so long, settled between your legs. So familiar, and yet new at the same time.

And time seems to stand still. Yoongi’s breath rises and falls, his chest moving against your back, but it’s quiet, momentarily, as if the three of you all come to the same conclusion at the same time, that you’re doing this, with each other. No one voices a complaint against this realization.

Taehyung moves first, deft fingers pushing your underwear to the side. His fingers slide through your slick, and you flinch, a gasp escaping your lips.

He breaks the silence, the tension, with a few easy words that send shivers up your spine. “You’re so fucking wet,” Taehyung says. His thumb moves slowly over your clit, and you shudder.

“What do you think, Yoongi?” Taehyung asks. “How should I make her cum?”

Yoongi’s lips ghost the curve of your ear. “What do you want, baby?” he asks.

Your breath catches in your throat as Taehyung just barely touches your clit again, just enough to make you gasp, then settle. Over and over.

“I didn’t ask her, I asked you,” Taehyung says.

“You should go down on her,” Yoongi replies, but he’s saying it to you, whispering it in your ear loud enough to be heard. “I think she’d like that,” he says. Then, “Wouldn’t you?”

Yoongi’s fingers clench your neck a little tighter, not cutting anything off, exactly, but just holding you, making sure you don’t go anywhere. You nod, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth so you can bite it.

Yoongi scoots backward on the couch, pulling you with him, giving Taehyung the space to move backward, to lean down and press messy kisses up the side of your inner thigh. He hooks his fingers into the band of your underwear and pulls them down slowly, keeping his eyes on yours.

You want to whine, complain that he’s going too slow—but you know that it’ll only provoke him, only make him go even slower, and you’re impatient.

And you think, too, maybe this was what you were missing with your ex, the push and pull, the tension, the anticipation.

Taehyung slides a finger down your slit and nips at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, causing you to suck in a sharp breath.

“I bet he never made you this wet, hm?” Taehyung asks, eyes finding yours as he waits for a response. When your mouth opens, he slips the finger inside of you, and you choke on the words.

With his other fingers, he finds your clit, then lowers his mouth onto it without losing the proud smirk. He sucks it into his mouth, and your hips buck against him.

“God,” you moan, tipping your head back even further, trying to catch Yoongi’s eyes.

“Don’t look at him,” Taehyung says sharply, the moment he catches you, raising his mouth off you to say it. “Look at me.” He slips a second finger inside of you and curls them both.

Yoongi’s eyes don’t waver from yours, and you can’t manage to look away from him, despite Taehyung’s commands from between your legs.

You squirm underneath his touch, hips rolling to meet the thrusts of his fingers, still watching Yoongi watch you.

“Yoongi,” Taehyung says, lifting his mouth from you again, allowing you a momentary reprieve. “Leave, you’re distracting her.”

Your brows furrow, but Yoongi’s hands drop away from you, and he stands up. “Wait in the bedroom, we’ll be right there,” Taehyung says.

Your hand shoots out to grab Yoongi’s, eyes watching him from below.

Taehyung bites your inner thigh hard, and you yelp, dropping Yoongi’s hand, eyes shooting to Taehyung, who looks up at you with a grin.

“Your whole mean guy thing doesn’t work on me,” you say, voice wavering.

Taehyung laughs under his breath, twisting his fingers inside of you. He pulls them out fast, running both through your slick and holding them up between you. “Could have fooled me,” he says, looking at his fingers with a sense of pride in himself. He brings them to his lips, then runs his tongue along them slowly, knuckle to tip.

You throw your head back with a groan, because you can’t take just how fucking sexy he is—and how did you never see it before? You saw it. Obviously. In an appreciative kind of way. But never in a holy fuck you want him kind of way.

He shoves his fingers back inside of you, both at the same time, without warning, then lowers his mouth to your clit again. “Now, look at me,” he says.

You lift your head to make eye contact with him, brows furrowed.

“Play mad all you want, I can feel how badly you want me,” he says, before closing his lips around your clit again.

“I’m not—” you start, your words broken up by moans as he runs his tongue in circles around your clit. “pretending,” you force out. “You piss me off.”

Taehyung hums in laughter against you, making you moan. He keeps going, moving his fingers fast inside of you, and licking and sucking at your swollen clit as moans fall off your lips at a much higher frequency. You wonder if Yoongi is listening from the bedroom.

Your nails dig into the couch, and your hips lift as your back arches.

“Fuck, Tae,” you say.

Hot tension seizes your muscles, and your thighs start to quiver. Taehyung lifts his mouth from your clit and watches you crumble underneath him. “You gonna cum?” he asks.

You nod, and the corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk just before he pulls his fingers out of you. You gasp, and he moves forward, hovering over you with that same proud smile on his face. He snakes one arm under your body and pulls you upward, against him.

“Remember that later,” he whispers. “That the only reason you didn’t cum—is because I didn’t let you.”

He drops you back onto the couch and stands up.

You swallow the lump in your throat. It takes a moment for you to register what just happened. Your arms go around your stomach.

“Oh, she’s shy now?” Taehyung asks, eyes trailing your body. “Come on,” he says. “Stand up.” Then he walks away, disappearing into the bedroom.

You follow on shaky legs. Yoongi’s lounging on the bed, back against the headboard, in just his boxers. Taehyung stands at the foot of the bed. Both of their eyes are on you, naked from the waist down, fingers playing in the hem of your shirt.

“Still want this?” Yoongi asks, tilting his head to the side. You walk toward him.

You can feel Taehyung’s eyes on the side of your head, like he’s trying to get you to look at him, instead.

“Yes,” you say.

A small smile appears on Yoongi’s face. He beckons you closer until you’re standing in front of him, at the side of his bed. He leans closer, takes the hem of your shirt in both hands, and lifts it over your head. He pops the clasp of your bra open and pulls the straps off, letting that fall to the floor, too.

“You wanna help Tae out of his clothes? He’s pouting over there,” Yoongi says.

You pout, too. “Not really.”

Yoongi trails a few fingers down your side, then withdraws. You roll your eyes and step away, moving to the foot of the bed. Taehyung turns to face you as you approach. His eyes fall down your body.

All of a sudden, he’s your friend again, and your cheeks flush that bright pink color. “Don’t look at me like that,” you say.

“Like what?” Taehyung asks, fully aware of what he’s doing. “I just made you cum like, two minutes ago, I think I can look at you—”

“You did not,” you say, shaking your head.

“I might as well have,” he says.

“But you didn’t. It doesn’t count. Not for this,” you say.

He raises a brow. “But you still want me to, don’t you?”

You chew on your bottom lip. “Shut up,” you say.

He tries not to smile.

“Take your clothes off,” you say. It’s answer enough. He whips his shirt off over his head, then unbuttons his pants, pushing those to the ground too. He takes you by the wrist—not the hand, that would be much too romantic—and tugs you toward the bed. You crawl into it next to Yoongi, who gives you another one of those soft, reassuring smiles he’s been tossing in your direction all night.

Taehyung climbs into bed after you and pulls you away from Yoongi before you can so much as touch each other. One hand holds your hip, the other snakes around to lay flat against your stomach, pulling you backward against his chest.

“What are you doing?” Taehyung asks, his breath warm against your ear.

“Just wanted Yoongi to feel included,” you say with a pout. Taehyung’s cock presses against your ass through his boxers. You roll your hips, grinding backward into him.

He sucks in a breath. “Yoongi’s patient,” Taehyung says. “I’m not. Turn around.”

He moves his hands, and you turn around. He slides one of his hands down your side and grabs your inner thigh, pulling it across his legs. “Come here,” he says. You straddle him, and he places a hand on each of your hips, pulling you against him as he sits up, leaning against the headboard. You grind against him, humming at the sensation of his hard length underneath you.

“Take these off,” you say, trying to keep the absolute neediness from your voice, but failing.

Taehyung just laughs, then says. “You do it.”

You don’t waste any time thinking about why he’s decided to take the passive route all of a sudden. You lift your hips and move backward off of him, then slide down his boxers.

He’s big. Bigger than you would have ever guessed—not that you spend time thinking about what your best friend’s cock looks like.

You move forward again and look at him. He reaches into the drawer next to the bed for a condom, then presses it into your hand. You open it with your teeth, then roll it onto him. You hesitate with your hand on the base of his dick.

Then, you align him with your entrance and slowly lower yourself down, taking him inch by inch.

“Fuck,” Taehyung hisses. “That’s it.”

Your head rolls back. Yoongi shifts, and his hand slips down his body.

You move your hips slowly, adjusting to the feeling of him inside of you. Every movement sends pleasure straight up your spine. Taehyung doesn’t touch you, but you press your hands against his bare chest, then slip them upward to hold onto his shoulders as you take more and more of him.

“God—oh my god,” you mutter as your head falls backward. You can feel Yoongi’s eyes on you as he touches himself.

Taehyung moves, then, his hands come up to grab your back, pressing you against his chest as he pulls almost all the way out, then snaps his hips forward, forcing you to take all of him, at once.

You gasp a sob into his shoulder.

He stills again, then drops his hands away from you. He pushes you away from his chest. “Keep going,” he says.

Your breathing is heavy and ragged, but you do what he says. With each roll of your hips, you moan, even at such little movement.

“Faster,” Taehyung says.

“We’ve known each other so long, Tae, why can’t you just be nice to me?” you ask, brows furrowed together, hands on his chest.

“Thought the mean guy act didn’t work on you.” He raises a brow, but you don’t have a response. His lips part, and he fucking scoffs at you. The scoff turns into a laugh, and then he’s gathering you in his arms again, thrusting upward hard. “You want me to be nice?” he asks, voice rough and ragged in your ear as he presses deep into you.

“Yes,” you beg.

He flips you over in one fast movement. Your head hits the pillow. His hips snap forward harshly, no build-up, and another cry falls off your lips.

“You want nice, you can fuck Yoongi,” Taehyung says. “You do wanna fuck Yoongi, don’t you?”

You turn your head to the side, desperate to meet Yoongi’s eyes. He’s there. He finds yours immediately. He moves down so his head is resting on the pillow next to yours. “Y-yes,” you say, as Taehyung rolls his hips slowly, his cock dragging in and out so slow you feel like you might lose your mind.

Taehyung smiles. “Be good for me, then, and maybe I’ll let you.” He grabs the tops of your thighs and pulls you down on him, holding you against him as he establishes a feverish rhythm that has you dragging your eyes away from Yoongi to watch Taehyung, instead.

Taehyung leans over you, gripping the top of the headboard with one hand. You can’t stop yourself from touching him as he rocks forward into you. You touch his chest, his shoulders. You wrap your hands around the back of his neck and let your fingers thread into his hair.

“Tae, oh my god,” you moan as he thrusts forward harder and harder, making the bed shake. You lift your hips to meet each one. He raises his other hand to wrap around your throat, squeezing just enough to give you the sensation. You squirm underneath him, little whimpers escaping your lips.

His eyes meet yours, darkened and wild. His hand drops from the headboard. He swipes his thumb across your lower lip, and for a second, you think he might kiss you. Your lips part, and your head lifts just a fraction off the pillow. He pushes two fingers into your mouth, muffling your groan.

“That’s better,” Taehyung grins, never relenting on his pace. He removes his hand from your throat to lift up one of your legs, propping it against his chest and holding it in place as he drives into you.

You mumble around his fingers, incoherent sobs as pleasure peaks higher and higher.

“Bet he never fucked you like this, did he?” Taehyung asks.

You shake your head.

“God, you should have come to me—us, first. Should have never dated that fucking idiot in the first place,” Taehyung says. His eyes dart to the side, to Yoongi.

Your legs start to shake, and he presses his fingers deeper into your mouth, so they’re nearly choking you. The corners of your eyes sting.

“Come on,” Taehyung says. “Don’t fucking cry.” He slows his pace a fraction, but the long, languid strokes give you no reprieve, either. “Be useful,” he says, meeting your eyes, then tilting his head toward Yoongi. “Help him with that.”

You drop a hand from Taehyung’s shoulder. Yoongi guides it to his hard length. You try to look at him, but Taehyung keeps your head still, facing him. Yoongi wraps your hand around him and moves it slowly, up and down.

Taehyung picks up the pace again, and you’re grateful for Yoongi’s hand, keeping the pace for you, because you can’t focus well enough to do fucking anything. Taehyung presses his fingers even deeper, and tears well in your eyes as you moan against them—everything tightening and tightening, until you can’t take it anymore. Taehyung still doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking you hard and fast, even as you squirm and shake beneath him.

And when you cum, it’s with his fingers in your mouth and him fucking you through it. Taehyung pulls out his fingers as your walls clench hard around him. He wipes your drool off on your cheek, making a mess of you. He holds your jaw with his hand as his hips snap forward, giving you no moment of recovery while he chases his own orgasm.

When he slows, your hand falls away from Yoongi, too. Then, he’s pulling out and standing up, walking away. He stops at the foot of the bed, looking at you—wrecked and breathing heavily, and he smirks. His eyes drag away from you, toward Yoongi. “Your turn,” he says, then he disappears into the bathroom.

Your head falls to the side. Yoongi reaches up and wipes away one of the tears, then some of the drool. “You okay?” he asks.

Your lids flutter closed, and you nod. “Mhm.”

You lay there in silence for a few moments, catching your breath. When you open your eyes, he’s still there, fingers tracing idle circles on your arm.

“Hi,” you say, somewhat awkwardly, somewhat breathless.

“Hi, beautiful,” he says. “You need a minute?”

You turn toward him, and something in the resolve you had with Taehyung breaks when it comes to Yoongi. You shake your head. “No.” You inch closer, slipping one of your legs between his, pressing your chest against his. Your eyes meet for a moment before they both drop to the other’s lips.

The dam breaks, and you both move in at the same time, lips crashing together. Your hands delve into his hair, and his wrap around your back, pulling you closer. You never realized how much you wanted to kiss him—not until you’re actually doing it.

He pauses the bruising kisses just long enough to catch his breath and mumble, “You’re so sexy,” against your lips. He settles one hand on the side of your face and presses his lips against yours again, slower this time. Softer. You part your lips for him, and he slips a tongue into your mouth.

You stay like that—pressed against each other, kissing—until Taehyung clears his throat from the foot of the bed.

Yoongi pulls away an inch to look at Taehyung, watching both of you.

“You still want me?” Yoongi asks, dragging the tip of his nose along the side of yours.

“She does,” Taehyung says. “All she’s been fucking talking about.”

“I do,” you say.

A soft smile appears on Yoongi’s lips. His hand drags down your body, from your lower back, over your ass, and around to the top of your thigh. You lean back, propping yourself up on your elbows. You look past Yoongi, making eye contact with Taehyung, who watches your every move. You roll your eyes at him, then let them flutter closed entirely.

Yoongi’s touch is softer, more careful. His fingertips slide through your slick, and you suck in a breath when they touch your clit, still sensitive. He dips one finger inside of you, nudging it forward ever so slowly.

He teases you, refuses to establish a steady rhythm. When he adds a second finger, you’re moving your hips against him, needy.

“She doesn’t need all that,” Taehyung says. “She’s so fucking desperate for it.”

You grab a pillow from beneath your head and chuck it in Taehyung’s direction. Yoongi laughs, even as it misses.

“Yeah, but she likes it,” Yoongi says, nipping at the skin where your neck meets your shoulder. “Don’t you, baby?”

“Mhm,” you murmur, head thrown back on the pillow. His thumb finds your clit, and you gasp.

Taehyung folds his arms over his chest. You try to keep your eyes closed, or on Yoongi, but he’s just standing there, all imposing, like he’s in charge of the whole situation. He probably thinks he is.

Yoongi twists his fingers inside of you, then curls them, keeping a harsh pressure on your swollen clit all the while.

You hold his bicep with one hand, nails digging into his skin. “Yoongi,” you whine, writhing under his touch. It’s so different than the way Taehyung handled you. Slow, but intentional. More teasing than full-blown torture.

“Hm?” Yoongi asks, eyes flicking up to yours. He’s got one brow raised, genuinely curious. Willing to do whatever it is you want.

You open your mouth—and it happens again. That moment. You remember that he’s Yoongi. Your Yoongi. Your best friend, Yoongi. Sure, he’s fucking hot, but he’s just your friend. Your cheeks go red, and he lifts a finger to touch the warmth.

You don’t use words. You reach down and push his boxers away as best you can. He takes the hint and kicks them the rest of the way off. He positions himself between your legs, removes his fingers from you, and slides his hand along his cock. You bite your bottom lip, watching him—watching Taehyung, just behind him.

Yoongi drags the tip of his dick through your folds, and your hips twitch.

“Please, Yoongi,” you whine.

“I don’t have a—” he starts.

“I don’t care,” you say, and he nudges the tip into you. He’s thicker than Taehyung, and the feeling of him with no barrier short-circuits your brain.

He moves so fucking slow, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated, hovering over you, a hand on either side of your chest. Then, he draws back just as slowly. “Fuck, Yoongi,” you say. “Oh, my god.”

When he snaps his hips forward to fill you up again, he’s not nearly as rough as Taehyung. But it feels too good, dangerously good. You’re slick with sweat and pleasure, and your hands roam over his body until they settle on his shoulders again, until you’re pulling him down for another kiss, and he’s complying as he moves a little bit faster. He puts most of his weight on you, and your hips roll to meet each of his thrusts, and it feels goddamn perfect.

Your lips move just as hungrily, teeth knocking into each other.

“You’re so good, baby, fuck,” Yoongi whispers against your lips.

You can see, just out of the corner of your eye, Taehyung’s hand moving as he watches the two of you.

Yoongi pulls out quickly, his dick twitching. He drops his forehead against yours. “Need,” he says, as he catches his breath. “A condom.”

He moves away from you to reach into the drawer next to his bed. Taehyung crawls into bed next to you, pushing some of your hair out of the way. “Having fun?” he asks, eyes dark, pupils blown.

“Yes,” you say.

Taehyung trails his fingers down the center of your chest, between your breasts. “You’re so good for him.”

“You’re so annoying,” you say, words breathy.

Yoongi gets back into bed, between your legs. Taehyung takes the condom out of his hand and tears it open with his teeth. He puts one hand on Yoongi’s length and rolls it on with the other. Then, he gets out of bed, circles to the other side, grabs a small bottle out of the same drawer, and gets back into bed, kneeling at Yoongi’s side.

“Yeah?” Taehyung asks, belatedly. “Am I?”

You roll your eyes, if only to prevent yourself from looking at him with the same curious hunger.

Yoongi pulls you closer by the thighs, then presses into you again. You can’t help the gasp that falls off your lips as he bottoms out.

Taehyung opens the bottle and squeezes some lube onto his fingers. Then, he places his other hand at the top of Yoongi’s back and bends him over you. He presses one finger into Yoongi, slow, giving him enough time to adjust.

You hold Yoongi’s gaze and his arms, nails digging into his skin as his slow strokes make your walls clench around him.

Taehyung slips another finger inside, starting slow as he scissors them, making room. With his other hand, he strokes his dick, eyes drifting between what he’s doing and you. You look at him, too, eyes curious, but he only responds with a wicked smirk. He removes his fingers, and Yoongi hisses.

“God, you’re being so gentle with her,” Taehyung says, as Yoongi rolls his hips at a steady rhythm. It’s not the breakneck speed with which Taehyung destroyed you earlier, but it does just as much to bring you higher and higher, the tension in your core tightening with every slow stroke. “You don’t have to be.”

Taehyung grabs another condom from the drawer and smirks at you while he rolls it on. He lowers his lips to Yoongi’s ear and says, “Ready for me?”

Yoongi nods as Taehyung swipes lube over his dick. He lays one hand flat against Yoongi’s back, then uses the other to guide his length, pressing slowly into Yoongi’s ass.

“Fuck,” Yoongi whispers as he takes Taehyung and keeps fucking you at the same time. You feel Yoongi’s hips stutter, can feel him lose rhythm as he adjusts to Taehyung.

Taehyung grabs Yoongi’s shoulder and pulls him backward against his chest, then wraps one arm around his abdomen to keep him there. He says your name, and your eyes meet over Yoongi’s shoulder. “Hands and knees,” he says.

Your lips part in shock at how hot it is to see the two of them together. Your eyes trace Yoongi’s expression, the redness in his cheeks, and the way his fingers twitch to touch something. You. Taehyung. You aren’t sure.

“I said hands and knees,” Taehyung repeats, and you comply, moving off of Yoongi so you can flip over. You press your ass backward against him, and Yoongi guides his length to your entrance again. He moves forward an inch, then Taehyung rocks his hips forward, fully seating Yoongi inside of you in one harsh motion. The sound that falls off your lips is half gasp, half yelp.

Taehyung’s momentum changes everything. Yoongi’s hips move faster. His hands grip your hips tight, almost forcefully, as he fights to maintain his own composure.

You’re all moaning and breathing heavily, profanities on the tips of your tongues—sweating and sticky.

“Take her hands,” Taehyung whispers to Yoongi.

“Don’t you think we’ve tortured her enough?” Yoongi asks.

Taehyung laces a hand up through Yoongi’s hair, tugging it from the base. “Take her hands for me, Yoongi,” he says.

Yoongi leans forward and takes one hand, then the other, dropping you forward onto your shoulders, your face pressed into the mattress.

Taehyung picks up the pace, snapping forward into Yoongi, and sending him deeper and deeper into you. You bite your bottom lip to keep from screaming. You say his name, then Taehyung’s, over and over like a plea, begging for what they promised they could give you.

You clench tight around Yoongi, making each drag more intoxicating than the last. You can feel him start to twitch, can feel him trying to hold back from his own release so he can get you to yours. He reaches a hand around you, finding your clit and pinching it between two fingers.

“Fuck,” Yoongi hisses. “Can’t—”

He drills into you, hard and fast and dizzying, rolling your clit at the same time. His cock twitches inside of you, and your walls clamp down even harder. Taehyung pulls out and lets Yoongi fall forward on top of you. He drops your hands and winds his arms around your stomach, holding you, fucking deep into you while he cums. It’s enough to send you over the same edge.

You collapse flat onto the bed, and Yoongi moves to your side. Taehyung disappears for a moment, then returns and crawls into bed next to you.

Yoongi presses soft kisses to the bruises along your neck, then to your cheeks. He looks at Taehyung with the same lazy smile he’s been admiring you with all night, then says. “I’m gonna start the shower.”

You move to follow him, but Taehyung loops his arms around your waist and pulls you backward. He nuzzles your neck, and you wince.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“It’s okay,” you say.

He holds you for a long time, like that.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft.

Yoongi’s waiting for you both in the shower, you know, but you can’t help but stay there, with him.

He reaches up to cup your face, turning it so he can look at you. So you can look at him. He studies you for a long time, like he’s trying to think of what to say—about what can be said, after all that.

It’s the first time he’s been gentle with you. But not the last.

He doesn’t figure out what to say. Maybe those words don’t exist. Instead, he lowers his lips to yours and kisses you. It’s not rushed or harsh, but slow, like he’s trying to figure something out.

It’s molten, and everything else disappears for a while. You can hardly hear the sound of the shower, of Yoongi in the next room. He traces the outline of your body with his other hand, fingers dragging along the curve of your breast, then down your stomach.

“Tae…” you say, breaking away from his lips for only a second.

He closes the gap again, kisses you again, then stops. “I can be nice,” he says. “Let me be nice.” You roll your hips back to find his hard length there, pressing against you. “I want to be nice.”

You don’t say anything, but you spread your legs just enough for him to guide his cock to your entrance from behind. “Just need to feel you,” he mumbles. “Like Yoongi did.”

He pushes into you, slow and unhurried, relishing the feeling of it.

“Careful,” you say, forming the word around broken gasps. “You sound jealous.”

“Maybe I am,” he says, voice low in your ear. He rocks forward until you’re full, then pauses, holding you against him. “God,” he whispers. “You feel so good.” He draws back, then creeps forward again, everything languid.

“Mm, Tae,” you moan, and he captures your lips again—just as soft as before.

He breaks away to keep whispering in your ear. “You’re so pretty, baby, you know that? You know how fucking pretty you are? God, it drives me crazy.”

He kisses you again, on the lips, along your jaw, just under your ear. He moans little sounds with every stroke, and you’re fairly certain this nice version of him is just as intoxicating as the last.

“Don’t stop,” you say, breathless, wanting more of his praise, more of his touch, more of his everything.

He doens’t. He keeps the same slow pace, the same delicious, intoxicating drag.

“Whatever you want, pretty. Anything you want,” he says, voice honey compared to the harshness from before.

Whimpers escape your mouth as he rolls into you. He wraps his arms around your waist and holds you against him. “You’re so good for me, baby. Fuck, I could have you like this all the time.”

The two of you hardly notice when Yoongi appears in the doorway. “Was wondering what was taking so long,” he says.

Taehyung keeps the pace, and your eyelids fall closed.

“Just,” Taehyung starts, breaths ragged in your ear. “Give us—a minute.”

You pull Taehyung back down for another kiss before moving off of him. He looks at you with a pout, like you’ve done something completely betraying.

“Come on,” you say, finding his hand and tugging on it. “Let’s shower.”

An immediate yes would be suspicious. And, well, you didn’t want to reject him.

He chuckled under his breath, that deep laugh you loved. The one that had kept you company for nearly ten years.  

Maybe it was your fault for complaining about another night at the bar with nothing to show for it. No one had even looked in your direction. But you never would have guessed that this would be the result of said complaining. A proposition from someone who had only ever been explicitly your friend. 

Something you’d wanted for longer than you could admit. Something you could never voice. 

“Yeah,” he said, like it was nothing. “You could kiss me. If you wanted to.” 

You took the cigarette from him, placing it between your lips in procrastination. You wouldn’t have to play into whatever weird hypothetical this was if you couldn’t speak. 

“Beomgyu,” you said, after releasing the smoke from your mouth. You tried not to sound so serious, tried to pose the question like it didn’t matter, tried to maintain the same casual air that he did. “Do you want to kiss me?” 

He shrugged, like it truly didn’t matter either way. Like it was some selfless offer to make you feel better. “Ten years of friendship, and we’ve never tried it.” 

Your heart raced, picking up speed every time he looked at you. You were fine with being friends. Loved it, even. He was special to you. Important. It wasn’t a friendship you were in any rush to ruin with your feelings. Despite how often you’d thought about it. 

But you were tipsy. Face warm from the bar, and a little sad too. 

And he looked at you the way he looked at other girls—at people he wanted to take home. One eyebrow slightly raised in proposition, and a lazy grin on his face like the whole thing could be a joke if you said no. 

You didn’t want to say no. 

“We could,” you said, trying your very best to sound halfway uninterested. Trying not to make it seem like it was something you’d thought about for years. 

It was a quiet crush that flared in the little moments. When he brought you coffee in the morning or carried you to bed when you inevitably fell asleep during movie nights. It was the way he was always there for you—through every breakup, every major life change. He never wavered. 

And sure, maybe it was easy to fall for that. 

“Yeah?” Beomgyu said. There was a hint of something to his voice. An excitement, almost. Maybe it was just shock at your agreement. It didn’t matter. 

“Yeah,” you said, as he slipped the cigarette back between his lips. He took one final puff before dropping it to the ground and crushing it under his heel. He kicked off the wall, moving to stand in front of you. You looked up at him, watching. 

Your heart hammered against your chest. 

“Ready?” Beomgyu asked—arguably not the most romantic way to preface a kiss. But you had to remind yourself that this wasn’t for romance. It was one friend offering to give another something they hadn’t had in a while. If anything, it was purely platonic. 

Nothing about Beomgyu was hesitant. He was always sure of himself, confident. He lifted a hand, tucking your hair behind your ear before settling his palm against your cheek. 

You’d touched a thousand times. Half snuggled against one another on the couch, playfully shoving and fighting, holding hands to stay together in a crowd. 

This felt immediately, jarringly different. His hand was warm on your face, and it stirred a heat in your chest you’d thought incapable of starting. 

Your lips parted before he could move any closer. Another step in, and your bodies were nearly touching. You felt dead to the world, in your own bubble in the alley behind the bar. Even if someone were to walk by, you were certain you wouldn’t notice. It was all him. Totally encompassing. 

He lifted another hand, brushing more hair out of your face, threading his fingers through it. 

“Beomgyu,” you said, half-choked. 

He was looking down at your lips, but his eyes flicked upward at your words, catching your glance. “Hm?” he asked. 

You must have looked like a deer in headlights. Eyes wide, mouth open, a little bit confused. You wanted the car to hit you. 

“You okay?” he asked when you didn’t respond. 

You cleared your throat. “Yes,” you said. “Yes.” Saying it twice didn’t exactly make it seem true. “I just didn’t expect—“ you started, stumbling halfway. 

His hand fell out of your hair, and the pads of his fingers dragged down the column of your neck, making you shiver. 

“Is this not what you wanted?” he asked. “From those sleazy guys in the bar? Is this not what you were imagining in your head?” 

His fingers skimmed your pulse point, and you wanted to jump out of your skin, but there was nowhere to go. Your back was lined with cold brick, and his chest almost touched yours. 

“Tell me,” he said. “If it isn’t, I’ll do whatever you want. I just want it to feel real.” 

Your heart—faster, faster, until it felt like it might burst out of your chest completely. Your face leaned against his palm, melting without permission. He traced your collarbone. 

“No,” you said. “This is good.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, stolen by the cold wind, whipped away by whatever was going on between the two of you, new and electric and maybe pretend. 

“What else did you imagine?” he asked, hand still warm on your face, holding it so you couldn’t look away. You wouldn’t have, anyway. His brown eyes were too captivating, too focused on you. There was nothing else worth looking at. 

You took too long to answer. 

“When you thought about some guy,” he started. And the way the words fall from his lips catches you off guard. Some guy. Was that—jealousy? “What was it like? How does he kiss you?” 

All the words you wanted to say got caught in your throat. 

“Come on,” Beomgyu said. “You complain about not being kissed every time we come out, I know you’ve thought about it.” 

It was the way he said it. 

I know you. 

“I guess,” you started, reaching out to take his hand. “I guess it’s about the build-up.” You put his hand on the side of your rib cage, next to your breast. “All the little touches just before the kiss. The spark. The sidelong glances. It sounds cheesy,” you said, blushing. “To say it out loud.” 

“It’s not,” he said. He dropped his palm from your face, flipping it to skate his knuckles along your jawline, down your neck. It landed mirrored to the other, on your rib cage, holding you in place. Both hands moved slowly in and down, just grazing the sides of your chest before sliding along the curve of your waist. He watched his hands move on your body—as you watched him. 

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, something new gleaming within them. 

Did he want this, too? Or was he just a better actor than you remembered? A better friend than you deserved? 

His hands slipped around you, holding your lower back as he moved in, closing the remaining distance so only a hair’s breadth stood between your bodies. Your chest heaved with each breath, and there was no way he couldn’t tell. 

“And when he kisses you?” Beomgyu asked, eyes glued to your lips. “What’s that like?” His voice was low, quiet. A tone you’d never heard from him before, enough to send the heat in your chest lower, enough to make you ache. 

You didn’t want to follow his line of questioning, didn’t want to lay it out for him—just wanted him to kiss you. You didn’t want him to follow some playbook, no. You wanted to know how Choi Beomgyu kissed. What he would do with you, given the chance. What he wanted. 

The question went unanswered, but he lowered his head anyway, the tip of his nose grazing against the bridge of yours. It stopped feeling like an experiment, like something he was doing for you. 

When your eyes locked, it felt real. 

The same thought must have occurred to him. You watched the subtle change in the way he looked at you, the fraction of want appearing behind his eyes. His hands moved up your back as he closed the last bit of distance, flattening against your shoulder blades in time with his lips just barely touching yours. 

It was hesitant. Different from the buildup, from the general confidence and impatience of Beomgyu. You froze solid at first contact, and he took his time. 

His hands tensed on your back. And your hands, hanging by your side for the last several minutes, shot up to touch him. When your hands landed on his biceps, he captured your lips fully, breaking that nervous dam. The kiss was soft, slow, still tentative as you worked to figure each other out. 

It didn’t take long for the tension to break, for the gentle kisses to turn fervid, for your hands to wander along his arms, looking for a place to grab, for your mouths to move faster and harder. Every time you came apart—for only a second—you collided again without wasting any time. You pressed your body into him, wrapping your hands around the back of his neck. He returned the favor by pushing you into the wall, one hand coming up to hold your face while the other stayed low around your waist, holding you against him. 

You weren’t sure how long you continued like that, kissing and touching, and not wanting to let go. When you came apart gasping, Beomgyu rested his forehead against yours. 

“How was that?” he asked. 

You nodded through ragged breaths. “More,” you said, because it was the only word that could come out of your mouth—not an answer to his question, but a plea. 

He didn’t hesitate this time. His lips found yours again, like they were home. He broke apart seconds later, nudging your head to the side with his nose to kiss along the column of your neck. You arched your neck for him, giving him the access he needed—letting him do whatever he wanted to you. 

He dragged his teeth along your neck, eliciting a gasp that only made him smile. His fingers held your hips, digging into the fabric of your jeans. You leaned your head against the bricks. 

One hand dipped underneath your shirt, and the feeling of his fingertips against your bare skin sent a shiver down your spine. 

He kissed along your collarbone, stopping at the edge of your shirt and returning to your lips as he gripped your bare waist with both hands. He had you fully pressed against the wall now, every inch of your back against brick and every inch of your front against him. You parted your lips, letting him slide his tongue into your mouth as he slid a leg between yours. 

There were no conscious thoughts left in your head, only Beomgyu and all the ways he was touching you. Your hips rolled against his thigh, looking for any kind of friction to sedate the aching feeling between your legs. You could feel his smile against your lips.

He broke apart then, leaving you both panting. “Come home with me,” he said, breath hot on your lips. 

Those four words were enough to crack open whatever this feeling was and drown you in it. “Okay,” you said, nodding, not willing to let yourself question whether or not this was something. Whether or not this was a part of whatever game he was playing or not. 

He took your hand, interlacing your fingers. He kissed you one more time, pressing his lips to yours gently, before pulling away and tugging you toward the parking lot. Holding hands was normal. He opened the door to his car for you. That was also normal. 

The way he looked at you from the driver’s seat—like he could have crossed the center console to kiss you over and over again—however, was not. 

The drive was silent. All exchanged glances. You pressed your thighs together in an attempt to distract from the heat in your core, but there was nothing you could do about the fire burning in your chest, threatening to consume you entirely. 

You didn’t want to think about it, whatever this was. You just wanted to enjoy it, lest it cease to exist. You tried to tell your brain this very reasonable information, but it didn’t listen. It could only repeat the same worries over and over again, attempting to convince you that whatever this was between you and Beomgyu, it wasn’t anything real. That tomorrow you would go back to wanting, to friendship. Like this never happened. 

Worst-case scenario? He felt bad for you. He knew you weren’t getting any and wanted to throw you a bone. That had been what the kiss was for, right? A consolation prize? 

Best-case scenario? Well, what was that exactly?

You were still thinking and rethinking and overthinking until the very second he turned the car off. 

“Hey,” he said, voice gentle, soft. The Beomgyu you knew sliding back into place. The best friend. The one who cared about you. “You look like you’re thinking too much.” 

“I’m not,” you said. 

“Come on,” he laughed. “You know I can always tell when you’re lying.”

He slipped out of the car then, jogging around to the passenger side to open your door before you could. He extended a hand to you like a real-life prince—like, seriously, how were you supposed to avoid falling for him when he looked like that, acted like that?

You took his hand. He squeezed it. 

Inside, he released your hand. You took off your shoes, hung up your jacket, and stood awkwardly by the front door as he did the same. 

Then, you looked at each other, and everything reignited. 

He crossed the distance, closing the space in seconds flat. His lips were on yours again before you could react. You threw your arms over his shoulders, holding him close, cherishing every moment you got to touch him, be with him, wondering when it would end. His lips dropped to your neck again, peppering gentle kisses downward. 

“Wait,” you said, pressing your hand against his chest. He lifted his lips from your neck. “I can’t—” you muttered. “I want this to be real.” 

Beomgyu’s eyes bored into yours, his features softening at the realization. “It’s always been real for me,” he said. He made the admission so easily. Without worry. Like he’d been thinking about it for just as long as you had. Like he had no fear. He kissed you, pulling away to whisper against your lips. “It’s real.” 

“It’s real?” you said. 

“Come on,” he said, in disbelief that you believed him nonchalant about the matter. “I wanted to kiss you. I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.”

It was news to you. “I—” you said. “Me too.” 

You kissed him again, lips parting against his almost instantly, deepening the kiss, taking everything you both wanted and turning it up to eleven. His hands skimmed your sides, grabbed your hips, then moved again, unable to settle in any one location, wanting to touch all of you. Likewise, you ran your hands down his chest, along his arms, touching everything you could reach. 

He made the first move toward something more, dropping one hand to the hem of your shirt and playing with it. You nodded an answer to a question he didn’t ask. He pulled away to look at you as he slowly removed your shirt, pulling it off over your head and tossing it onto the floor. He looked at you like you were carved from stone. 

“God,” he said, mesmerized. 

“Your turn,” you said, and he complied quickly, whipping his shirt off over his head. You’d seen him shirtless before. At the beach, the pool, the gym. It had been difficult not to stare then, and it was impossible now. 

You trailed your fingers down his chest, his abs. 

You moved back together like magnets, lips finding each other. 

His fingers dragged up your back to the clasp of your bra. He made easy work of it, then slipped his fingers under the straps and pulled them down your arms, adding it to the pile of clothing on the floor, all without removing his lips from yours, without ceasing the passionate, hungry kisses, your tongues intertwining, heads tilted to deepen the kiss as much as possible, your hands in his hair to keep him from going anywhere. 

One hand came up to cup your breast, thumb running over your nipple. You gasped into his mouth, and he pulled away to look at you, to watch the look of pleasure cross your face. 

You arched your back, tossing your hair over your shoulders. His other hand clung to your lower back, holding you upright. 

He continued pressing kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, down the center of your chest, before his lips closed on your nipple. Your eyes fluttered closed, your lips parted, soft gasps falling off them as he teased you. 

He moved on, kissing down your stomach before dropping to his knees in front of you, looking up at you from the ground. You reached for his face, and he took your hand, pressing a kiss into your palm before leaning forward once more to press hot, wet kisses to your stomach. His fingers worked quickly to unbutton your jeans, sliding the zipper down as he looked up at you for confirmation that what he was doing was okay. 

You nodded, lower lip between your teeth as you watched. 

He pulled your jeans down, helped you out of them, then ran his palms along your hips, down the fronts of your thighs, and continued kissing your skin. First, the top of your hip, then the front of your thigh. 

Heat pooled between your legs, aching and burning as he kissed, but you let him continue without begging for more. 

He looked at you, almost entirely naked before him. Cogs turned behind his eyes, and you didn’t have the time to ask why before he was on his feet again, hands lifting you up by the ass. Your legs went around him instinctively. Like the two of you had done this hundreds of times. 

He didn’t walk you into the bedroom, but rather the wall directly behind you, finding your lips again as he pressed you between him and the cool wall. His knuckles trailed from your collarbone down to the waistband of your underwear, then stalled. 

“Beomgyu,” you said against his lips, when he didn’t immediately act on whatever it was he wanted to do. 

He pulled away just enough to look at you. The want was written all over his face, his lids more hooded, his lips pink and swollen, his hair messy and falling over his face. You pushed it out of the way. 

“Hm?” he said, running his finger along the band. He made no move to act any further. “Something you want, beautiful?” 

Your mouth fell open at his words. Ten years of friendship, many years of wanting him, and here he was—teasing you. He must have known that you’d do anything he wanted.

He ran his thumb over your lower lip. “Come on, baby,” he said. “I’ve waited so long. Say it for me.” 

Your head lolled back against the wall because it was so easy to melt at anything he had to say. Besides, this was your best friend, and saying anything like that out loud made your cheeks turn red. His other hand snaked around the back of your neck, pulling you back to meet his eyes. 

“Please?” he asked, dipping his fingers just beneath the band. 

You were hot, wet, aching. There were no other thoughts that existed in your mind, only those of him, of wanting him. 

“Beomgyu,” you whined. 

“You’re so pretty when you’re whining, you know that?” he said, running his thumb over your lip again, making you shudder. 

He moved his hand from the waistband of your underwear, instead dropping it to your inner thigh. His eyes never moved from your face, watching you carefully as he lowered a few fingers to the apex of your thighs, touching you through your panties. He hummed in immediate delight. 

“Fuck,” he said, as you squirmed underneath his touch, trying to get more. “You’re so wet.” 

You groaned at his words, at the tenor of his voice, at the dripping need reflected in him. And still, he didn’t give you more, just rubbed your clit through the fabric. “More,” you said. “Please, more.” 

“More what?” he asked, one brow raised. 

“Beomgyu,” you said again, sharper this time. “You’re being—” 

He pushed your underwear to the side and slipped one finger inside of you. Your sharp inhale broke your sentence in half. He leaned forward, his lips just above your ear. “How am I being, beautiful?” he asked. 

He moved his finger slowly, relishing the way your lips parted, the way you looked at him through hooded eyes, the way you could hardly speak despite his minimal ministrations. 

You shut your eyes, pressing them closed tight so you could focus on the words you wanted to say. “Difficult,” you murmured. “You’re being difficult.” 

“Me?” he asked, in shock. “I think I’m being incredibly nice.” He added another finger, moving them faster, curling them, eliciting more gasps from you. He leaned forward, captured your lips, silencing the string of moans falling off them. He pulled away just a hair. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to hear my pretty baby tell me how badly she wants me.” 

His thumb grazed your clit, causing everything to seize up. 

“I’ll go first,” he whispered, moving his thumb in slow circles on your clit as he spoke, his fingers still moving at the same pace. “Fuck, I want you so badly,” he said, dropping his forehead to yours. “I’ve wanted you—god, for so long.” 

“Really?” you whisper, in disbelief. 

He chuckles under his breath, the sound only making you feel even crazier, making you want him even more. Even as everything tightens in your core, it’s not enough. 

“That bathing suit you wore last summer—Jesus Christ—it was like you were trying to kill me,” he said. 

You remembered the one. And yeah, maybe you had been trying to catch his attention. And you’d thought it a complete failure. 

“Were you trying to kill me?” he asked, words breathy as he touches you. 

“Maybe,” you said. 

“And that dress at the Christmas party,” he said as he dropped his lips to your neck again. “I wanted you so bad that night.”

“You have me, now,” you said. 

He hummed against your neck. “I like the sound of that.”

He added another finger, moving them faster, twisting and curling. Your head lolled backwards. “Beomgyu—oh my god,” you moaned. He kept the pace as you ground your hips against him. 

“Tell me, baby,” he said, lifting his head to find your eyes, to kiss you again in between his words. “Tell me you want me, please. I want to hear you say it.” 

“I–I want you,” you said, stumbling over the words as he curls his fingers again and again. Your body shuddered, tensing everywhere. Your hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, back arching against the wall as you grind against his hand. Everything unraveled at once in release, and Beomgyu kept going through it, making your body shake as he watched. 

He removed his fingers slowly, earning another satisfied groan from you. And you watched with wide eyes as he lifted them to his lips and put them in his mouth. He dragged them out with a satisfied, “Mm,” before hooking them under your chin. 

“You want me?” he asked, eyes roaming across your face, unable to find something to settle on. 

“I’ve always wanted you,” you said through ragged breaths. 

His hands moved to your back as he pulled you away from the wall. With your legs wrapped around his waist, he carried you to the bedroom. 

When he laid you down, it was careful, gentle. He stayed standing, looking at you. His hands went to the waistband of his pants, and he worked quickly to get them off. He pushed them down his legs, then kicked them to the side. 

You stood up before he could move further. You put one hand against his chest and pushed him backwards. He took one step back, and you got to your knees, lifting your hands to the waistband of his briefs. 

He watched in silence, his lips parted. 

You pulled his briefs down, freeing his length. He stepped out of his underwear as you wrapped one hand around him, moving slowly from base to tip as you licked your lips. 

Beomgyu sucked in a breath. “You’re so sexy,” he said. 

The corner of your lips turned up in a smile just before you leaned forward and ran your tongue along the length of him, flattening it across the tip. 

“God,” Beomgyu hissed as you took him into your mouth. 

One hand cupped your cheek as you moved, the other came down to collect your hair, holding it away from your face in one hand. You looked up at him as you moved, and you could only think about how good he looked, about how good this all felt, about how if you blinked, it might just all disappear in a haze, like a dream. 

But you did blink, and still he remained, looking gorgeous, watching you. It wasn’t long before he pulled away from you, before he was pulling you up by the chin, before his lips were crashing into yours again, before he was backing you up into the bed, laying you down before him. Before he stepped away to reach for the drawer next to his bed. 

“No—” you said, rushed, without thinking. “I mean, we don’t have to—” 

A slow smile crawled across his lips. He hooked his hands under your knees and pulled you to the edge of the bed. “Why’s that?” he asked, hand dropping to his dick, wrapping around it while he looked at you. 

You sat up, reaching for him, pulling him closer. He situated himself between your legs. “I want to feel you,” you whispered meekly, almost inaudible. But he still caught it. 

“Is that right?” he asked. 

You caught your lower lip between your teeth and nodded. He ran a hand through his hair, letting strands fall back down around his face as he looked down at you, eyes trailing down your body and back up. He hooked his thumbs through the band of your panties and pulled them off. 

He positioned himself at your entrance, his tip dragging along your folds. He breathed in sharp, his lids fluttering closed for a moment. You lay back, propping yourself up on your elbows, hands balled into fists, fingernails cutting into your palms. 

Beomgyu pushed into you, moving slowly. You gasped an, “Oh,” as he inched forward. 

“Is this what you wanted, baby?” Beomgyu said, the moment he was fully inside you. He pulled out just a fraction, then in again. 

It was such a little movement, so why did your eyes feel like they were going to roll to the back of your head? 

“Yes,” you whimpered, hands balling into the comforter atop his bed. 

He didn’t speed up. He pulled out more each time, then slid back in at the same agonizingly slow pace, watching you as he did it. He held your thighs in the air, then collected your knees with one arm and pulled them to the side, holding your legs straight against his chest as he continued that same torturous pace. 

“Beomgyu,” you whined. 

He pulled out fully and slid back in slowly. You threw your head back, let your eyes flutter closed. 

Beomgyu reached out and grabbed your hand, squeezing it. “Can you keep your eyes open for me, baby?” he asked. “I want to see you.”

Your eyes flicked back open as he slid into you once more. “Not if you’re going to keep doing that,” you said. 

He did it again and dared to punctuate it with, “Doing what?” and a lazy smirk to match. 

“You’re being mean,” you said, voice breathy, barely able to get the words out. 

“Am I?” he said as he lowered your legs again, placing one on either side of him. He pulled out fully, smirking. “I’m so sorry,” he said, as he got to his knees, as he hooked your legs over his shoulder, as he pulled you even closer to the edge of the bed. 

He lowered his mouth to your clit, running his tongue in circles around it before closing his mouth and sucking as you moaned. Your toes curled. 

“You’re torturing me,” you managed to get out as he slipped a finger inside of you at the same annoyingly slow pace. 

He lifted his mouth away from your swollen clit, the heat of your center, the aching fire that he kept stoking over and over again without giving you what you really wanted. 

“What do you want then, baby?” he asked, standing up to lean over you. “I want to fuck you exactly how you like it.” 

You grabbed his shoulder with one hand, the back of his neck with the other, pulling him down against you and capturing his lips in a searing, messy kiss. 

He pulled away from you. “Scoot up,” he said, nodding toward the other side of the bed. You scooted backward, allowing him enough space to get on top of you, nestling between your thighs. He paused at your entrance, and you glared at him. 

“You’re so cute when you’re flustered, you know that?” he asked. 

Heat rose to your cheeks. “I’m not—” you started. 

“Then tell me what you want,” he said. 

“I want—” you said. “I want—” 

But no matter how many times you said it, there still wasn’t an end to the sentence. 

He leaned down so his lips were closer to your ear. “I could keep fucking you nice and slow—but I have a feeling you want more than that,” he said. “If you want me to fuck you until there are tears running down your face, all you have to do is ask.”

You turned away from him in an attempt to hide your face, the redness of your cheeks. 

“I’ve known you for ten years, beautiful, don’t pretend you’re shy now.” One hand touched your face, pulled you back, made you look at him. “What do you want?” 

You groaned, your eyes fluttered closed as your hips moved in frustration, in lack of anything. 

“Come on,” he whispered. “You can do it. Use your words.” He ran his thumb along your lip, dragging it down. 

“I want you,” you said. 

“Well, we’ve established that,” he teased. 

“I want you to—” you started, hesitating, trying to figure out how to say the words you wanted to say. “I don’t want you to hold back because it’s me. I want you to fuck me how you want to.” 

“See, baby,” he said. “Was that so hard?” He ran the back of his finger down your cheek. 

His hands moved from your face and dropped between his legs, moving along his cock for a few strokes before he aligned himself with your entrance. He pushed forward, starting slow, establishing that same rhythm that made your head loll back. But he was closer this time, hovering over you. You grabbed his shoulders, nails digging into skin, anchoring yourself as you move your hips against him. 

He let out a low groan, and you can’t help it—you pull him down, lips crashing into his. The kiss was messy, hot, both of you moving hungrily, tongues sliding against one another, moans escaping into mouths. 

He picked up the pace, sliding in and out of you faster, harder. You arched your back to get a better angle, dropped your hands to ball them into the fabric beneath you. 

Your eyes fluttered closed. 

“Eyes open,” he was quick to remind you. 

When you opened them, he was looking at you, same lazy smirk you’ve known your entire life, just more dangerous now, sexy. You weren’t sure what was going to happen after this, but neither could you find it in you to care as he slammed into you over and over again, harder each time, shaking the bed. 

“Oh,” you moaned. “My god.” 

He grabbed your legs again, holding them at a ninety-degree angle with one hand, by the ankles. 

It only served to deepen the ankle, to make your eyes roll back even more, your fists tighten in the blanket. 

“Beomgyu,” you said. “Oh my god.”

“Tell me again, baby,” he said, panting. “How much you want me. Please.” 

It was a fight to get the words out as he drove into you over and over again. He didn’t slow down to let you speak, to let you get your thoughts straight. 

“I want you so bad,” you breathed. “So bad. Don’t stop.” 

He grinned. Proud of what he had. 

Your toes curled, and your back arched, and everything tightened. You clamped down tight around him, but he didn’t slow—fucking you through the orgasm as you came. He slowed his pace some afterward, lowering your legs once more. 

“Let me know if you need a break, okay, beautiful?” he said. 

You nodded. 

He pulled out and lowered himself to kiss you, soft and sweet, despite the thin layer of sweat on both of you, despite everything that had happened thus far. He moved off of you. 

“You wanna get on your knees for me, baby?” he asked. 

You nodded, situating yourself on your knees as he moved behind you. You leaned forward, pressing your palms into the mattress. 

He wasted no time. He knelt behind you and ran his hands down your back in appreciation. He positioned himself at your entrance and slid in fully in one quick motion, leaving you gasping for air. 

“God,” you hissed. “Oh my god.” 

“Does that feel good, baby?” Beomgyu asked. He thrust fast and hard, keeping up a pace that made your hands shake. 

You could only moan in response. 

He leaned forward to place a hand over yours. “Can I have this?” he asked. You nodded, and he took your hand, pulling it behind your back. He slipped his free hand over the other one and took that too, pinning them behind your back so your shoulders were pinned to the mattress, your face turned to the side. You could just barely see him out of the corner of your eye. 

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re so good, you know that?” 

Your breathing is jagged, your body tensing again, tears pricking in your eyes. 

“Beomgyu,” you said. “I—”

“Not yet,” he said. “Not yet, I want to look at you when you come.” 

Your whole body twitched because you couldn’t stop it from happening, not with him behind you, slamming into you over and over again. “Beomgyu,” you whine again, because you need it. 

He pulled out fast, releasing your hands and flipping you over by the hips in a smooth motion before thrusting into you once more. 

“Oh, look at you,” he said, wiping some of the tears off your cheeks as he moved inside of you at that same slow pace once more. “Did I make you cry?” he asked, mocking innocence. 

You dug your fingers into his shoulders in response, and he hissed in pain and enjoyment. He worked his way back up to the same speed, eliciting more moans, more tears. He captured your lips, snaking his arms under your waist to hold you against him as he kissed you. 

“God,” you started, “I’m going to—” you cried against his lips. 

He quickened his pace, grabbing onto the headboard above you as he slammed into you over and over again. Tears slipped down your cheeks as your back arched and came for a third time that night. He kept going until the very end before pulling out, spilling across your stomach with a groan and a few ragged breaths before he collapsed at your side. 

The apartment went quiet. 

Only the sounds of your breathing recovering echoed within those walls. Beomgyu got up eventually. Cleaned you off. When he returned to bed, it was to slip in next to you, to pull your body flush against his, to press kisses into your hair. 

“So,” he said, holding you tight, your face nestled into the crook of his neck. “That was fun.” 

You nodded, too tired and drained to say anything else. He smiled into your hair. “Sorry, I kind of wrecked you, huh?”

You twisted in his arms so you could find his eyes. “Maybe a little,” you laughed under your breath. 

A sudden clarity passed over his features. “Hey,” he said. 

“Hey,” you said. 

“I was serious,” Beomgyu said. “About wanting you, I always have. That wasn’t a lie.”

A smile broke out across your face. “Beomgyu, I’ve had a crush on you for like five years. I thought I was the idiot.” 

“Turns out we’re both idiots,” he said. 

Because this can’t be happening. It really cannot be happening, and if you say something out loud—if you voice the feelings that are keeping your voice from working, then it’ll just move everything along, it’ll just cement the thing. And it’ll be over. Any response is acceptance.

So you stall. You don’t speak for as long as you can manage, until you finally get the single word out in a breath. “What?” you ask.

You’re fairly certain this is a nightmare. If you squeeze your eyes shut tight enough, they’ll fly open, and you’ll be back in bed, curled up against Kai, his strong arms holding you to his chest. But you don’t wake up. You can’t will the conversation away, can’t pretend those six words aren’t hanging between the two of you.

He’s sitting with his hands folded on the table in front of him, looking affected by the words he’s spoken, but not shaken up by them. He looks calm. He looks like he made the decision weeks ago and has finally gotten up the nerve to say the damn thing aloud.

It’s not like he looks happy, or even completely neutral, about doing this to you. There are creases at the corners of his eyes, a furrow in the center of his brow, and worry draining the color out of his face. He looks sad, too, but not enough to stop it.

You’re being blindsided. Date night ruined out of nowhere. Your perfect relationship breaking into pieces. You didn’t see the cracks.

His eyes soften as the confusion settles in across your features.

“The band is really starting to take off—” he starts, which only elicits a groan from your lips.

You can’t help it. Everything’s about the band. All the time. And you’re supportive. That isn’t the issue. You don’t mind his weird hours or the time he spends away recording singles or planning local tours. You don’t mind his following of women who spend their time talking about how hot he is. You don’t mind because he’s yours. He comes home to you. He treats you right, takes you out on dates, buys you gifts, loves you.

But sometimes it’s exhausting, too. Even if you don’t want to admit it. Part of you, the selfish part, misses when you didn’t have to share Kai with his adoring fans, with the rest of his band.

“And I just think it’s probably better—safer for you, if we aren’t together anymore.” He does sound concerned. And it’s something you’ve talked about before, this safety aspect. Some of his fans want him all to themselves and will go to estranged heights to belittle or even harm anyone he’s seen with. It isn’t a shock that he’s concerned—but that he’s willing to end everything because of it, without any additional conversation.

Unfortunately, you can’t bring yourself to engage in rational thought at the moment, with him looking at you like this and saying these things. Seeming like he cares, but cutting himself out of your life in the same breath. Ending it.

You’re certain you’ll rethink all of this later. Spend time wondering if there was something you could have said differently, something you could have done to make him stay.

Now, however, you say the words that you can’t hold back. “Safer,” you say. “I don’t care about safety.”

“I do,” he says. “I’ve seen what happens to the people who date celebrities in this industry. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“No one knows about our relationship now,” you say, trying to reason with him. “They’re not going to find out later. We’re good at being secretive.”

“Until we aren’t,” he says. “And it won’t be as easy later.”

A sigh escapes your lips, and you can’t keep yourself from saying the next thing—the thing festering between the hurt and the love in your chest. “Are you sure you don’t want to be single so you can do whatever you want without consequence?” you ask, leaning back in the chair, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to put distance between you and him. You let that rotten anger free, because it doesn’t really matter anyway, right? Not when he’s so clearly made the decision to leave, already. When it was always a part of the plan.

And you want to ask that, too. If he ever planned to stick around. But you can’t bring yourself to do it. Not when those words hurt too much, when recognizing that this relationship was always a sinking ship makes it feel like you’ve lost everything.

“Don’t say that,” he says, and there’s pain in his voice. Another indication that he feels something. Unfortunately, those feelings don’t make it any further than his tone. They aren’t enough to change his mind.

“We don’t have to do this,” you say. A final plea. Stay. Please.

The words fall on deaf ears. “We do,” he says. The corners of his lips quirk downward, and you can feel the expression reflecting on your own face, the way tears sting in the corners of your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

When he gets up sometime later, after more circular conversation and further attempts at convincing that continuously fall flat, he reaches for you. One hand settles on your shoulder, his eyes trying to reach yours. Whatever he tries to convey is lost on you.

You look away, and he leaves you there, sitting at your dining room table with your head in your hands—trying to make sense of it all.

ONE YEAR (AND A FEW MONTHS) LATER

“Come on,” Jihyo says. She holds one of your hands between two of hers. She’s making that face, big brown eyes looking at you—like you saying yes to this request is the most important thing in the world. “Please come with me. Please.”

You don’t look at her, because it’s easier to tell your best friend no when you can avoid her gaze. “Why did you even buy tickets to their stupid show anyway?” you ask.

She lets out a long series of sighs, throwing her head back in a show of dramatics. You’ve had this conversation before. It’s one of Jihyo’s biggest flaws—how much she loves your ex-boyfriend’s music. “Because the bassist is hot, first of all.”

“And the lead singer is my ex,” you say.

“I know the lead singer is your ex. We’ve met, remember?” Jihyo says.

“Okay, then you know that he sucks and I don’t want to see him.”

“He does suck,” Jihyo comments. “However… what it ends up being good for you?” There’s a lilt to her voice, like even she knows the words she’s saying are insane.

You groan. “How could seeing thousands of girls swoon over my ex be good for me?” You raise a brow. It’s hard enough seeing him plastered all over social media, reading the comments, witnessing millions of people worldwide fall in love with him.

“You’re right,” Jihyo says, but you watch her face fall. “Bad idea.”

A sigh looses from your lips. It is a bad idea. You know it is. Seeing him again, in person, will break your heart all over again. But Jihyo’s your best friend, and you’d do anything for her. “If you really want to go,” you start, even as a sour feeling develops low in your stomach at the mere thought of being in the same room as Kai. “I’ll go with you. He probably won’t even see me, anyway.”

And besides, maybe she’s right. Maybe it could be good for you. Even though you’re fairly certain, all it will be is bad. You’re fairly certain you’ll see him up on that stage and feel nothing but regret, nothing but sadness—and a hatred of yourself for being unable to stop him from leaving.

A year isn’t a lot of time. Not really.

“Wear a hat or something. I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Jihyo says. Famous last words.

There isn’t really a guide for how to get over a breakup when the man that you’re in love with becomes a global sensation, basically overnight. No one prepares you for how often you’ll have to see his face, for when he shows up on your favorite variety show. No one prepares you for when his face is plastered all over social media, or for when his songs come on in the grocery store. No one prepares you for the dating rumors, the photo-ops, the everything.

And as a result, well, you never really have the chance to get over him, exactly. You grow bitter, sure. Angrier every time you see his face looking back at you from a magazine cover or the latest album.

And yeah, sometimes you listen to his music at night when you can’t sleep. Which, of course, only makes things worse. On bad nights, you put on his old shit, and the words he wrote about you stream through your headphones, activating a new type of sadness. It stirs with the regret and makes you nauseous, but you can never seem to stop yourself from doing it.

Even though a large part of you recognizes that yes, it’s a truly horrible idea to go to this show—there’s another part of you that wants to. A part of you that’s curious. That wonders what will happen if he sees you there, in the crowd.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you get ready, reminding you over and over again that this is something to be anxious about, sparking feelings you thought were long forgotten. You think about him looking at you and almost call the whole thing off. You think about his brown eyes roaming over your face and inevitably think about the last time he looked at you—when you couldn’t stop him from walking away.

Maybe this time it could be different. You let yourself think that for only a moment before you force the thoughts away—force yourself to think about how he discarded you for the fame and the fortune, instead. You will yourself into hating him so you don’t miss loving him.

Clearly, a year is not enough time to mourn the loss of a relationship. Probably because you haven’t worked that hard to get over it in the first place. You’ve spent the year moping, wishing things were different, and rejecting Jihyo every time she suggests meeting someone new.

It doesn’t matter anyway. The relationship is dead. There’s no mending it. This is just a concert. You remind yourself. It’s just a concert for a group that your friend loves and nothing more. Maybe you can pretend you never dated in the first place, pretend he’s someone else entirely.

You try to strike a balance between a cute outfit and something that doesn’t scream, I’m trying too hard. The result is a pair of flared jeans and a crop top. Simple makeup and loose curls. You aren’t trying to impress him. You repeat the words like a mantra. You aren’t trying to do anything. You don’t even want him to look at you.

If you think it enough times, maybe it’ll be true.

In truth, however, the idea of him spotting you in the crowd makes your stomach turn. What if he sees everything he lost? What if he comes to his senses?

If he wants you back—would you take him?

It’s not something you can even afford to think about. It’s been an entire year without any contact. He doesn’t want you. You just have to remind yourself of that. He doesn’t want you. He didn’t want you then, and he won’t want you now.

Your phone lights up, pulling you out of the shameful spiral of thoughts and back into the real world. Right. The real world. The world in which you’ll be alongside thousands of other girls. Girls who want him to look in their direction.

You glance down at your phone. One unread text.

jihyo: Downstairs with the Uber!

You unlock your phone, momentarily ignoring her message. At the very bottom of your messenger app, there are five years of messages spanning your relationship with Kai. You removed the hearts from his name a long time ago and replaced the cute pet name you previously kept his info saved under. You could never delete the texts. For a moment, you think about texting him.

There have been a lot of moments like these.

Of staring at his contact information and deciding whether or not to say something. Of seeing his face pop up on TikTok and had to hold back from leaving a comment. Of keeping your finger from clicking FaceTime. None of it’s good or healthy.

If you text him now, what would you even say, anyway?

Hey! Hope you’ve been well. I’ll be at your show tonight? Of course not.

He probably wouldn’t even respond. Maybe he’s changed his number.

You decide against it when another text from Jihyo pops up, encouraging you to get your ass in gear.

When you slide in next to her, it’s immediately obvious how underdressed you are. “Should I change?” are the first words out of your mouth. She has on sharp eyeliner and a dusting of blush under her eyes. Her cheeks are dotted with sparkles that could catch anyone’s eye from a mile away.

“No,” Jihyo says, without needing a moment to think. “You look hot.”

“Damn,” you say. “I was going for invisible. You know, look right by me in the crowd, invisible.”

“We don’t have to go,” Jihyo says, her voice softening—and you’re certain, in that moment, that she would really turn around and leave if you decided against it. “If it’s going to be weird, we can stay home, really.”

“No, it’s okay,” you say, because just like she’s willing to stay home, you’re willing to suffer for her happiness. And besides, she hasn’t stopped talking about Soobin this and Soobin that for the past several days, and you don’t want to stand in the way of her delusions.

You and Soobin were friends at one point. Close, even. Even though you try not to follow the band, you know he’s one of the only original members left. Everyone else has been replaced.

“Okay,” Jihyo says, putting her hand in yours and giving it a squeeze. Reassurance. At least you’re in this together. Besides, what's the worst thing that could happen? If he looks at you, he looks at you. It’s not like he’s going to stop the concert to speak to you. There’s a safe distance, a disconnect.

Besides, he’s looked at you countless times before. From the stage. From across the table. While hovering over you in bed. It’s different now—you know it is. Time has made the wounds fester, has made you cautious, scared. You push those thoughts away and put on a brave face, instead. You can enjoy this.

The Uber drops the pair of you off a few blocks away from the venue. Even from a distance, concert attendees clutter the streets. Tomorrow x Together merch as far as the eye can see. Shirts with Kai’s face on the front and tour dates on the back. It’s safe to say you won’t be getting one of those.

Your nerves kick into high gear the moment you set foot inside the venue. Every step forward is echoed by an equally loud beat of your heart that only grows louder until you get to your section.

Your seats are so close you can almost put your hand flat on the stage.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” you say, voicing the same thoughts you’ve been having for the past hour. The past few days.

Jihyo shakes her head. “If he looks at you funny, I’ll kick his ass, don’t even worry about it.”

“You won’t even notice, you’ll be too busy looking at Soobin,” you say.

“Good point,” she comments, laughing under her breath. She takes your hand again, squeezing it. “I know this is hard, but I’m really glad you decided to come.”

“I hope he looks ugly,” you say, without really thinking. “I hope he looks really ugly, and he doesn’t look at me, and I can go home at the end of the night without feeling any kind of way about it.” Even as you say the words, though, you know it’s a lost hope. You know he’s going to look handsome because you’ve seen him lately, and you know he probably will look at you, because god damn it, you’re right at the edge of the stage. If he didn’t look, it would be out of pure avoidance.

“That’s the spirit!” Jihyo says.

There’s a lot of time between when you get to your seats and when the music starts. At least an hour of waiting. It goes by too fast. And soon enough, the band takes the stage.

Kai walks out to an outpouring of screams from the crowd around you, his smile big and wide. He lifts one hand to encourage them further. You can’t help but roll your eyes—hoping at the last minute that none of his diehard fans see you. They’d probably fight you for such an indiscretion against their bias.

But to you, it’s just annoying. This version of him, so different and odd. Not at all like the person you knew, the one who was shy and nervous about performing.

The shock takes a long time to wear off. The last time you saw him on stage, the room could only fit two hundred people, and he played a guitar you bought him for Christmas. Now he’s surrounded by equipment that costs more than your car, clothes that you could never dream of affording.

But at the same time, he looks in his element, like he was born to do exactly this. And you’re happy for him—of course you’re happy for him. Or, at least, you’re happy for the man you used to know. The one you loved. The one who loved you. You’re happy that he got everything he ever wanted. You try not to think about how that never included you.

Jihyo sings along next to you, but your state of shock doesn’t wear off that easily. He’s blonde now, hair so bleached it's nearly white, and if you didn’t know him, if you weren’t so used to seeing his face everywhere—you might not recognize him. He holds himself differently. Moves differently. His voice is stronger, his guitar playing better.

It’s so abrupt, you have to take a step back into the crowd, trying to distance yourself from this person you hardly recognize. You no longer worry about him seeing you. You just want to stop seeing him.

But there’s nowhere to go. The crowd’s packed tight on all sides, and all you can do is hold onto the barricade in front of you and look away.

Unfortunately, not looking at him sets you apart from the crowd, makes you stand out, so you look at his bandmates instead. There’s Soobin on the bass—who Jihyo hasn’t taken her eyes off of, Yeonjun on rhythm guitar, Taehyun on the keys, and Beomgyu in the back on the drums.

Jihyo gave you the rundown on all their names in the hours beforehand. You didn’t have the heart to admit you already knew them. That you’ve been letting Tomorrow x Together rot you from the inside out since the night of your breakup.

You met Soobin back in the day, but the rest are new. Replacements for the bandmates you used to know. The ones you goofed off with on late nights. Pizza and beer during the grind for fame and fortune. Well, that wasn’t what it had felt like at the time. Back then, they were just a group of guys having fun. It got serious at some point. You must have missed exactly when.

Kai’s the star of the show, though. At least that much is glaringly obvious. His outfits are sparklier, his makeup and hair done more professionally. The lights track his movements. The fans scream his name.

Everyone else is just backup. You have to wonder if that’s why his original bandmates left. It’s just speculation, though. Thoughts gleaned from watching just a few songs played in a stadium packed with fans, from thirty minutes of trying not to look at your insanely famous ex-boyfriend.

You start to think you’ll make it out okay. That you’ll be able to leave without the ever-feared eye contact.

The girl next to you pulls out a sign and holds it high above her head. It reads take a shot with me. With her other hand, she holds out a small plastic bottle. Kai crosses to your side of the stage, reading the sign and nodding.

He drops to one knee and extends his hand to grab the bottle.

When he looks at you, the arena goes quiet. All music ceases, and your heart stops. Is this happening for him, too? He doesn’t look away, and time seems to stretch on endlessly. Just the two of you looking at one another. Your own breathing loud in your ears.

The girl holding the sign looks at you, but you can’t look away from him.

You don’t say anything.

The bottle slips out of his grasp and bounces lost on the concrete between the stage and the crowd. He mouths something to the girl, an apology, maybe, before pulling the mic away from his mouth to clear his throat.

He walks away, and the sounds of the stadium kick back on at full volume.

For the rest of the night, he avoids your eyes. But it’s okay, because you can barely look at him, either.

By the time the show ends, you’re certain Jiyho was right. This is the closure you needed.

You pace back and forth outside the venue for far too long, waiting for an Uber to show up. “You saw that, right?” you ask Jihyo, because you can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop seeing him in front of you, staring back at you.

“I saw.”

“He’s not even the same guy,” you say, because it feels better to get the words out instead of letting them rot in your head.

Don’t you know all this? Haven’t you seen the videos on stage, in interviews, on social media, flirting with fans, basking in the glow of his newfound fame? Why does it feel like such a shock now, when you’ve been watching the transformation for months?

“They say fame makes people weird,” Jihyo comments. “I’m sure it’s crazy, getting famous overnight like that.”

“Yeah,” you say, because there are no other words left rattling around in your brain, and you aren’t going to defend him. You won’t come up with reasons for why he might be different, or blame it on the fame alone. Even though you definitely could. You could excuse everything in the world if your Kai showed up again. You know he never will.

There are so many more things you want to say, things you want to complain about. You want to spit out words about how handsome he looked, about how you felt when he looked at you, but they don’t come. You’re glad they don’t. You don’t want to make a fool out of yourself for wanting him even a little bit.

It’s mostly confusing. Your feelings.

He’s different. And you don’t want him. And you’re over him. But he looked at you. And he’s handsome. And you’re not over him. And maybe if he wanted you again, you would want him, too. But he won’t. He won’t. You have to remind yourself of that very important fact. He won’t. That’s the problem. That’s always been the problem.

“This is taking forever,” Jihyo says. “I’m just going to walk home. You’re welcome to crash at my place if you want, or wait it out until the ride doesn’t cost a billion dollars.”

You look down at your phone. No messages. You hate yourself for checking, for hoping. You need to get the possibility of ever speaking to him again out of your mind. And there’s one surefire way to do exactly that. “I think I’m going to grab a drink,” you say. “Need to clear my head.”

“Okay,” Jihyo says, bringing you in for a hug. “Let me know when you get home safe?”

You raise a hand in a playful salute before the two of you part ways. She walks downtown, back to her apartment, and you head in the opposite direction, toward a seedy dive bar you used to frequent with Kai.

So, maybe going there to clear your head isn’t exactly the best idea in the world. But it’s the only place downtown you actually like. Who cares if there are memories of you and Kai in there? There’s also alcohol. Besides, this new Kai, the one dressed in expensive clothes and smirking at the girls who scream his name? He would probably hate your old haunt.

The place is fairly empty. Just a few other patrons sipping drinks quietly or while playing pool in the back.

“Whiskey sour, please,” you say as you sit down, exchanging your card for a thin napkin and a kind smile from the bartender. The entire place feels achingly familiar.

“People actually drink those?” a voice to your left asks.

You consider ignoring him. You came here to clear your head, after all. Not to engage in conversation with any of the locals.

“What?” you ask, as the bartender sets the rocks glass down in front of you. Your eyes shift to the man seated to your left. He’s got long brown hair that frames his face and falls just past his shoulders. It’s got a slight wave to it. He’s handsome, but you don’t really notice that about him. Just that he’s a man, and that he’s talking to you when you would prefer to be left alone.

“Whiskey sours,” he says. “I didn’t know people actually drank those, and they weren’t just like a made-up drink.” He smiles at you, and it seems genuine. Like this is just something he does for fun, talking to strangers in bars.

“Aren’t all drinks made up?” you ask.

He laughs. A warm, happy sound—out of place in the dark, dingy bar. “Okay, good point,” he says, raking a hand through his hair, letting the wavy brown locks fall back into place on his face.

There’s something about him you can’t place. A hint of familiarity.

“Do I know you?” you ask, letting your eyes roam over his face, trying to identify what’s on the tip of your tongue.

“Why?” he asks, leaning forward. “Do I look familiar?” he says, raising a brow to accentuate his flirty tone.

You turn your full attention on him, swiveling in the bar stool to get a good look, whiskey sour in one hand, studying him over the rim. You aren’t the kind of person who usually speaks to anyone in bars—that’s more Jihyo’s bag—but something about him intrigues you. Maybe it’s his candidness, his ability to strike up a conversation with you and make it feel like you’ve spoken before.

Besides, it’s not like the bar is full of talkative types. Most people show up, grab a drink, and keep to themselves. The more social people—the ones looking to flirt, looking to mess around—go to the much more popular clubs in the area. Those places give you a headache. And even worse, they play your ex’s music.

But here is this man, offering you a kind, closed-mouth smile. Looking at you with warm brown eyes, eagerly awaiting your next move. And it’s not like you want to ignore him. You wanted something to clear your head. Maybe alcohol isn’t the only solution.

“Do you want a hint?” he asks when you don’t say anything, instead opting to sip your whiskey sour.

“So, I do know you?” you ask.

“Know is a strong word,” he says.

You take another sip. “Okay, mystery man.”

“How is it?” he asks, brows drawn together like he’s witnessing you drinking something truly unfathomable. Like, he can’t comprehend how anyone would want something so disgusting.

“Delicious, thank you very much.” You toss your hair over your shoulder and refocus on him, narrowing your eyes, determined to figure out who he is.

He must sense your determination, because he laughs under his breath. “I saw you in the crowd earlier—”

It clicks fast. The drummer. Oh fuck. You think about standing up and leaving. But you haven’t paid your tab, and there’s nothing wrong exactly with talking to one of Kai’s bandmates. It’s just, well, fucking strange. Instead, you cut him off before he can continue. “Oh,” you say, hasty. “I’m not a fan.” The word just fall out. It’s not like you mean to say them, really.

This only makes him chuckle again, deep and warm. It registers in the back of your mind that you like the sound.

“No?” he asks. “Me either.”

You almost choke on your drink.

“What?” he asks, like the words he said were completely innocent.

“I just don’t think you’re supposed to say that about your own band.”

“I just started, it’s fine,” he says.

Your brain whirs. Something in the back whispers ask about Kai, but you squash it down. Kill it like a bug. You’re meant to be ignoring that problem. And look at how well that went—the universe just happened to place a friend of his right in your path. Well, you can’t ignore him now. Especially not when he intrigues you so much. You want to keep talking to him, even if you can’t exactly identify why.

“It’s Beomgyu, right?” you ask, wincing while you do it. You aren’t supposed to know their names.

It makes him smile, though, and it’s almost enough to forget that it’s embarrassing. “But you’re not a fan?”

“Not a fan,” you repeat. Desperate to change the subject away from the band, you say, “Why are you here alone?” Even though you really mean: where is everyone else? Where is Kai?

Beomgyu chuckles again. He’s always laughing under his breath at your words. Like everything you say delights and interests him. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you sat down. You’re not sure you want him to. “Please,” he says. “No one else in that group would ever come here.”

It’s a relief just as much as it hurts. Your Kai loved this place. At least it’s confirmation that you’re right about him being different.

“Oh,” you say. “So you’re not like other girls?” This time, you raise a brow to accentuate your flirty tone.

And of course, he smiles. “Exactly.” He looks at you, studying you in the same way you looked at him only moments prior. Like there’s a question on the tip of his tongue he’s not certain he wants to ask. He does. “So why were you at the concert if you’re not a fan?”

“Good question,” you say. “Best friend made me go. She’s kind of obsessed with Soobin.”

He nods, like that’s understandable. “And you’re not obsessed with anyone,” he says. “Because you’re not a fan.”

“That’s correct.”

“I don’t know, you might want to reevaluate. Have you seen the drummer?” he asks.

He’s so casual with it, the words falling off his lips without a care in the world. It hardly feels like you’re talking to a global sensation. Maybe your eyes should have drifted over to him during the concert more often. It would have at least proven to be a good distraction from the one you were trying not to look at.

“I have,” you say, trying to keep the small smile from growing on your face. “He’s okay.”

He places a hand on his chest with mock hurt. “Oof, you wound me.” You turn back toward the bar, but his eyes continue wandering over your face, watching you. Trying to figure you out, maybe. “So you don’t like Tomorrow x Together, but you do like whiskey sours.”

“I’m a woman of taste, what can I say?” you reply, glancing sideways at him.

“I’m not sure about that,” he says, scrunching his face in disapproval while looking down at your glass.

You know he’s baiting you, trying to get you to turn back in his direction and argue with him about it—and it’s working. You can’t help yourself. With a sigh, you raise a hand for the bartender. “Another whiskey sour, please?”

“Damn, you like them so much you need a second one?” he asks, glancing at the nearly full glass still situated in front of you.

You turn then, narrowing your eyes at him. “It’s for you.”

“Oh,” he says, dragging out the sound. “You shouldn’t have.” He looks genuinely concerned about the idea of drinking it.

“I think you’re going to like it,” you say confidently. “And then you’ll have to admit that my taste is excellent.”

“Oh, that’s what this is? That’s what we’re doing?” he asks, a smirk playing on his lips, suddenly interested in whatever little game you’ve concocted.

It probably would be smarter not to engage with him at all. He’s a friend of Kai’s, right? You should find a reason to excuse yourself already, save the drama, save the potential mess. Unfortunately, Kai doesn’t even cross your mind.

“That’s what we’re doing,” you say.

Even as you look away to take the glass from the bartender, you can feel his eyes on your face. It makes heat rise to your cheeks. You’ve only had a few sips of alcohol, so why is your body reacting like this? It feels like a betrayal to turn red under someone’s gaze.

You curse Jihyo for being right, for knowing exactly what you needed even though she never could have guessed that this is how it would end up.

You push the glass over to him with a smile on your face.

“You’re too excited about this,” he says, his nose still scrunched at the bridge.

He raises it to his lips and takes a small sip. There’s a flicker of something across his face, and you know immediately that he doesn’t like it. He tries to pretend anyway. “Oh,” he says. Then, “Mmm, yeah. It’s good.”

It’s not convincing in the slightest. “You hate it,” you say.

He folds under no pressure. “I hate it.” He pushes the drink back in your direction. “It’s like something my grandmother would drink.”

“You’re being dramatic,” you say. “What are you drinking, then, that’s so delicious?”

You peer over into his cup, then meet his eyes again. At some point, you moved your stool closer to his. At some point, you turned completely to look at him again, and now your knees are positioned between his.

“Oh, this?” he asks, picking up his glass. “It is delicious, thank you so much for asking.”

You roll your eyes at him and his prized possession, a rocks glass with salt dusted around the rim. “I didn’t take you for a margarita guy,” you say.

“It’s a strawberry margarita.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you say, placing your hand on your chest with feigned sincerity.

He raises a hand, and you reach out to grab his forearm without thinking, trying to stop him from doing what you know he’s about to do. You’re in his personal space. “No, that’s okay—” you start.

It doesn’t stop him. He makes eye contact with the bartender. “One strawberry margarita for the lady.”

You remove your hand from his forearm and back away from him, eyes narrowed. You motion to the two beverages already sitting on the bar in front of you.

“Wow,” he teases, as if seeing them for the first time. “You must be thirsty. Guess you’re going to have to stay awhile.”

“Are you this annoying to everyone, or am I some special case?” you ask.

He winks at you. “Oh, you’re special.”

The bartender places the third drink in front of you, but it takes a second for your brain to start working again. “You know I’ve had a strawberry margarita before. I know what they taste like.”

“I just thought you might need a refresher,” he says. “Maybe it’ll realign your tastes.”

“Doubt it,” you say, lifting the drink to your lips. You take a small sip, then place it back down on the table. “Yeah, it’s delicious,” you said. “Are you happy? It’s delicious.”

“Fucking ecstatic,” he says. “Now try yours again.”

It seems like you’ve had your eyes narrowed on him all night, but you don’t stop now. You raise the whiskey sour to your lips and take a sip.

“Which one’s better?” Beomgyu asks, leaning forward to catch your eyes.

You press your lips into a tight line and grumble. “The margarita,” under your breath.

“Sorry, what?” he asks. “I didn’t hear you.”

“They’re both good,” you say, slightly louder.

“Your tastes haven’t changed?” he asks.

“Nope,” you say. “And now I have three drinks to finish.”

“Okay, and where do we stand on the drummer?” he asks, that lazy smile appearing on his lips. You start to think about how handsome he is without meaning to.

You purse your lips, really giving it some thought. “He’s kind of obnoxious.”

“Obnoxiously handsome?”

“Sure,” you say.

“Hm,” he says. “It doesn’t seem like you really mean that.”

You stand up, grab the margarita with one hand and the whiskey sour with your other. “I guess you’ll never know.” You take a long sip of the whiskey sour, finally finishing the glass, only to pick up the second one. “You know, I have two drinks, and you only have one, and I don’t think that feels fair.”

“I’ll take that margarita off your hands,” he says.

“You wish,” you say, pulling it closer to your body.

He smiles proudly, and you know it’s because you like the damn thing. It’s fruity and delicious—of course, you like it. “It’s not my fault you don’t like the acquired taste of a whiskey sour.”

“I’m so sorry, I hope you’ll be able to move past this.”

“I’m not sure I can,” you say, grimacing. “Maybe you should try acquiring some taste.”

You’re standing between his legs, with him looking up at you, and it only occurs to you then that you still haven’t moved. You’re just standing there, looking down at him, holding a drink in each hand. And he’s looking up at you, too, the corners of his lips turned up in a smile.

“Are you any good at pool?” you ask.

He shakes his head, entranced by anything you have to say. “Awful.”

“Great, me too,” you say. “Let’s play.”

It’s not easy to leave the spot between his legs. There’s something captivating about him, about being in his direct vicinity. Like a gravity that pulls you closer. You do step away, though, and head for a pool table. Most of the place has cleared out, leaving the three tables all empty.

You grab a cue. When you turn around, he’s an inch away, reaching for one of the cues behind you. You clear your throat and quickly sidestep away from him, unable to take the intensity in the way he looks at you, the closeness.

“You do know how to play, don’t you?” you ask, teasing gently.

“Yes,” he grumbles.

You set up the game, rolling the balls back and forth inside the rack. “I’ll break,” you say.

You’re lining up your shot when you say, “Loser pays the tab?”

He takes another step closer to you—like you’re both experiencing the same draw, the same inability to keep your distance. The cue slides forward in the crook between your thumb and pointer finger when he says, “Hmm, boring. If I win, I want your number.”

The bluntness catches you off guard, and your hand slips out of position at the last moment. Your cue misses the ball entirely, and he just leans in closer. “I know I’m not very good, but I think you were supposed to hit those.”

You stand up, turning to face him, so little space in between you. “You distracted me,” you accuse.

“My bad.” Then, “Do you agree to my terms?”

He extends a hand for you to shake, and you take it. He pulls you forward a little bit, just enough to whisper in your ear. “Great. You’re going down.”

“So confident,” you say, but your voice wavers a bit. It’s easier to speak when he steps away. “Take your shot, then.” You watch him over the rim of your almost-empty margarita.

He takes off his jacket, slinging it over a nearby chair. His t-shirt clings to his biceps, and you have a difficult time not staring. He catches you as he gets into position, looking up at the last second. If you had any doubts about whether or not Beomgyu’s attractive, they’re long out the window, now.

He sinks one ball. “Stripes,” he says. Then another.

“Am I being hustled right now?” you ask, one raised brow. He misses on the third. “You wouldn’t hustle me, would you?”

He passes through your personal space again, and you start to think it might be just to drive you crazy. Does he see the way you tense when he gets closer? He makes a show of moving past just to grab his margarita.

“Never,” he says. “You’re too pretty. I play an honest game.”

“Please,” you say. “You’ve been trying to get me to change my mind about the drummer since I sat down.”

He steps closer to you again. “And?”

“And, I don’t think that’s very honest.”

“Why not?” his eyes aren’t looking at yours, but somewhere just a few inches lower.

“Well, you’re the drummer, Beomgyu.”

He likes the way you say his name.

“Ah, that’s right. Must have forgotten. It’s your turn, you know.”

You turn away from him, but he doesn’t give you an inch. You stand back up. “Will you get us another round?”

“Yes,” he says. “Don’t cheat while I’m gone.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you say, already turning to line up your shot. You catch up quick. After sinking the first ball, you reposition, catching his eye from the bar—watching you while he waits for the drinks. He gives you a small wave of his fingers, and you look away, refocusing.

Even looking at the pool table, your heart flutters. You have to grind your teeth to focus. This will require a lengthy conversation with Jihyo tomorrow—because what the actual fuck is going on? The worst part is that you can hardly even bring yourself to care about the complicated nature of the situation, because when he looks at you, you get so god damn distracted. You can’t think about anything else—anyone else.

And it’s refreshing. If you had a moment to think about it, it would be refreshing. Unfortunately, the only thing you can think about is how attractive he is and how your skin feels like it’s going to burst into flames every time he gets close to you.

None of those things makes focusing on playing pool any easier, because even as you turn away, you can feel him looking. And you’re fairly certain, in the moment, that you’re going to lose because you can’t get your brain to work properly.

If you hadn’t just mainlined two drinks into your system back to back, there may have been some kind of warning going off. Unfortunately, that functionality’s firmly offline, and there’s no little voice in the back of your head to remind you that being into a rockstar has failed you in the past.

Instead, you close your eyes for a second, try to muster up any semblance of concentration, and take your shot.

When the ball rolls into the pocket, you say, “Yes!” rolling forward onto your toes in a show of excitement.

He appears behind you with two strawberry margaritas. You reach for one. “Don’t you want to finish your whiskey sour first?” He nods toward the one left behind on the table, the one you’d ordered for him.

You make a face. Scrunching your nose up like he did.

“Margarita, please,” you say.

He hands it to you, then moves to take a shot. Your hand reaches out to stop him, landing flat against his chest. “Hey,” you say. “It’s not your turn.” He looks down at your hand, then at you, eyes traveling up your arm on their way.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice dropping lower. You look at your hand on his chest, drag your eyes slowly upward to meet his.

Time does that thing again—where it freezes. And the world stops, and you’re just looking at each other.

It doesn’t seem fair to have world-stopping eye contact twice in one night, but it happens, and you can’t look away. He drops the eye contact, eyes falling to your lips. You jerk your hand away fast, turning away to hide the hot blush on your cheeks.

He doesn’t acknowledge any of it, doesn’t comment on the way you look away or the way your cheeks turn a completely different shade. It’s almost gentlemanly. Instead, he just extends a hand toward the table for you to continue.

You do.

The game continues, neck and neck for a little while, until you slowly pull ahead. You exchange glances and quips in between sips of your drinks. When you look away, Beomgyu’s eyes still find you. And when he looks away, you’re always tracing his features like they’re something you’ll want to remember later.

Some time later, at the bottom of your fourth drink, Beomgyu leans over to take his shot. You watch him because you just can’t help yourself. A smile graces your lips, and you can’t remember the last time you had this much fun with anyone other than Jihyo. A stranger, no less. Someone you met within the last hour and a half.

It’s curious, really.

The state of your mind.

The way you haven’t thought about Kai. The way it hasn’t even crossed your busy mind to be worried about the fact that you haven’t thought about him, about the fact that this could be his friend. That what you’re doing could be considered a betrayal of some kind.

And even if it did cross your mind—to be concerned about what you’re getting yourself into—you probably wouldn’t walk away, either.

You wonder what’s running through Beomgyu’s head while he lines up his shot, his eyes lifting to look at you across the table. A slow smile crosses his features, and his eyes have a glassy tint to them. The same tipsy state you’re enjoying reflects back at you. The high points of his cheeks are red, and it occurs to you then that he might be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen in your life. What is he thinking about—when he looks at you like that?

“Risky shot,” you say, when he looks down the cue at a ball a little too close to the eight.

He brushes it off with that same smile he’s been flashing all night. “I like a challenge.”

The confidence is sexy. However, when he misses and instead sends the eight ball into the pocket, you can’t help the laugh that escapes your lips.

“So, that does mean you lose,” you say.

“I know what it means,” he says, hanging his head in shame. There’s still a smile on his lips, though, so you know it isn’t that serious.

You grimace, “And you don’t get my number.”

He looks up at you, then, eyebrows narrowing, but you just continue. “And you have to pay the tab. Huge bummer.” You finish off the rest of your drink and outstretch a hand.

He takes a step closer, looking at your empty hand. “Give me your phone.”

“Damn, you’re taking my phone, too?” he asks.

You shake your head, laughing. “No, you idiot. It’s for my number.”

He unlocks his phone and puts it in your hand. You put your number in it and hand it back. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you answer the call.

Beomgyu chuckles. “It works.”

You hang up the phone and go to put it back in your pocket, catching the time as you do. It’s so much later than you thought. “Shit,” you say. “It’s 2am.”

“Guess I should probably stop bothering you then,” he says.

“I guess so,” you tease.

You make your way back to the bar where he pays the tab. You leave together, too. Once outside, everything goes quiet. You’re just standing there. Both of you have your hands in your pockets, and you’re looking at each other and then not looking at each other, avoiding eye contact while seeking it out.

“You’re going to use that,” you say. “My number?”

“I am,” Beomgyu says.

“Cool,” you say, rocking on your heels.

Beomgyu clears his throat. “Can I get you a ride home?” he asks.

“You don’t have to do that,” you say, phone already out, looking at Uber places.

You lean against the side of the building, and the bricks are cold through your shirt. He stands in front of you, hands in his pockets. He takes one out to grab his phone.

“Where do you live?” he asks.

You roll your eyes and take the phone out of his hands to put in your address. It’s not far. Maybe twenty minutes.

“What about you?” you ask.

“I’m close by. It’s a short walk.”

“Okay,” you say. “Thanks.”

He moves, sidestepping you to lean against the wall next to you. Your arms touch, and it sends shivers up your spine. Everything is tense and quiet, the awkward comedown after hours of flirting in a shady bar. You look down at his hands, then back up at him.

“No problem,” he says. His eyes fall to your lips, and you watch like it’s in slow motion. You move a half a centimeter closer, trying to make it subtle, casual. He notices. He sucks in a breath, moves the same fraction closer, too, until your shoulders are almost touching.

His fingers twitch at his side, like he’s trying to decide what he wants.

Then, he lifts his hand, reaching for you. He touches a strand of your hair, and you’re holding your breath—waiting for whatever’s going to happen.

You don’t realize you’re doing it, but your body turns toward his as his turns toward you, and then you’re fully facing one another.

“How long until the Uber gets here?” you ask, the words just above a whisper, despite the fact that there’s no one around to hear them.

“I have no idea,” he says, still looking at you, watching you, trying to determine whether or not you want the same thing he does. You can hardly stand it, the way his eyes roam all over your face, up and down. You think about grabbing him by the collar of his shirt.

There’s no time. He moves first.

He makes to close the distance, and you meet him in the middle. It’s not tentative or shy. He knows what he wants, and he goes for it. His lips collide with yours, and you can taste the night’s drinks on each other’s breath.

His hand comes up to settle on the side of your face, and your hands fly up to hold onto his biceps. It’s a night of tension and touches unwinding all in one moment, and you don’t realize how badly you wanted this until it’s actually happening.

His lips move slowly against yours, savoring the moment. Beomgyu pulls away first. Your eyes meet, and your cheeks turn a hot shade of red, because, well, you aren’t exactly the kiss a stranger in a bar kind of girl.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for the past hour and a half,” Beomgyu says, words breathy.

“Me too,” you say. Maybe because the alcohol has loosened your spirits, because it’s easier to say what you really mean, or just because you want to keep kissing him.

“Yeah?” he says.

You nod. “Uber’s still not here,” you comment.

He laughs lightly under his breath. “It’s not.”

“Beomgyu,” you say.

His eyes meet yours. “Yes?”

“Kiss me again?” you ask.

He obliges, and it’s not nearly as nice as the previous kiss, like you’ve set something ablaze in him just by asking nicely. He steps into you, parting your lips with his. Your back hits bricks, and you forget where you are entirely. One arm drops to your waist, wrapping around you, pulling you closer to him. You drape your arms over his shoulders, let one hold onto the back of his neck.

He deepens the kiss, and you only break away from each other for a second or two once in a while, when you remember to breathe. You smile against his lips, and he pulls you closer. You can feel the warmth of his body through his clothes, can feel the strong muscles in his arms, the way he tenses slightly under your touch.

One of his legs nestles between your thighs, and you drop your hands to his chest, looking for something to touch as his tongue slides between your lips.

You can’t help it. Again, blame the alcohol for making it easier not to care about your actions or how you come off. You want him. You roll your hips against his thigh, chasing some friction. He grins against your lips, then moves his hands, first letting them lie flat against your back before one dips under your shirt and touches your bare skin.

Someone clears their throat loudly. It’s meant to be heard.

Neither of you stops.

When the stranger says your name, you finally break away. You turn to look at him, your hands tangled up in Beomgyu’s shirt. Your grip loosens when your eyes meet Kai’s.

“What’s going on?” Kai says. He’s looking at you with eyes you’ve never seen before. Full of something you don’t recognize. Almost hatred. Even from the stage, he didn’t look at you like that. You weren’t kissing his drummer, then, though.

“You and Kai know each other?” Beomgyu says, and there’s a hint of pain in his voice.

You open your mouth to speak, but words don’t come out. Your gut tells you to say no, because it would feel better—even though it’s a lie.

And seeing him only reminds you of losing him. Not that all at once feeling—sudden and at the dining room table. But slowly, in the months before. All the times you needed him, and he wasn’t there.

It only serves to make you angry, now, in this moment.

“Yes,” you manage to say, through your clenched jaw.

The drunkenness hits you like a wave, or maybe it’s the feeling of loss after you and Beomgyu break apart, and you have to place a hand on the bricks behind you to keep from falling over. Your head swims, and the world spins.

“Tell Beomgyu how we know each other,” Kai says. There’s a bite to his tone. That same anger you don’t know what to do with. Anger he never would have turned on you a year ago.

Beomgyu looks at you, expectantly. There’s no anger in his eyes, only a bit of confusion. Still, he looks like he wants to close the distance between you, looks like he wants to hold you up or help you home, or whatever you may need. But there’s something else too, in the slight quirk of his brow—that confusion. Or maybe a fear, of what there might be between you and Kai.

“We used to date,” you say.

A car pulls up to the curb. “That’s for you,” Beomgyu says, voice soft, a counterbalance to your ex-boyfriend.

Kai walks toward the car before you can and says something to the Uber driver. He taps his hand on the roof, and the car pulls away before you can even object. Kai turns back to look at you. “So what the fuck was this then?” Kai asks, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders up to his ears, looking entirely uncomfortable with the whole situation. “Were you trying to get back at me, trying to get my attention?” he asks. “You have it, now.”

“What?” you say, because you’re shocked at the words being spoken. Because, of course, you never thought for a moment about anything other than kissing Beomgyu and how badly you wanted it to happen in the seconds just before it did. “No.”

“Then why?” Kai asks, stepping closer to you and Beomgyu.

Beomgyu moves, stepping in front of you. “Come on, man, let’s not do this,” he says. “She’s drunk,” he says. “I’m drunk. Can’t we just have this conversation in the morning?” He’s trying so hard to be polite, even though you can see the way his hands tense at his sides, how he works not to ball them into fists.

“My car’s around the corner,” Kai says. “I’ll drive you home.”

You roll your eyes out of pure exasperation. “Fine,” you say, because you just want to crawl into your bed and pretend this entire day didn’t happen. Well, maybe not all of it.

Beomgyu looks at you. “I can get you another ride,” he says.

“It’s okay,” you say. “I’ll be fine.”

Kai nods in the direction of a waiting car. Beomgyu finally steps away from you, giving you space. You follow Kai. When you look over your shoulder, Beomgyu is watching you leave. You mouth, I’m sorry, and he shrugs, like it isn’t a big deal.

You can’t help but wonder what’s going on inside his head.

Kai’s car, as it turns out, is not really his at all, but one with a driver. He opens the back door for you, then climbs in next to you. You don’t look at each other. You shrink in your seat, arms crossed over your chest. You close your eyes and pretend to fall asleep so you don’t have to endure further questioning.

You wake up to the sound of your phone buzzing somewhere nearby. A few things register at the same time, as your eyes blink open. First and foremost, it’s abundantly clear that you are not in your bedroom. The headache drilling a hole into your brain registers next, then the sound of your phone again.

The bedroom is clean, minimalist. There’s a guitar in the corner. An old one. You sit up the moment you recognize it. Kai’s. God damn it. Everything from the night before comes flooding back all at once. You try to find your phone, throwing the covers off. It falls out of the tangled comforter.

The call ends, and Jihyo gives you enough time to see the seven missed calls on your home screen before it lights up again with her face.

When you pick up, she immediately starts talking. “Oh my god,” she says, and you turn down the volume on your phone a hair. “Where are you?”

“So, funny story—” you start.

“You kissed Beomgyu last night, and Kai saw, and now you’re not at home?” Jihyo says.

“What?” you say. “How do you know that?” You’re whispering, worried about being overheard.

“Let’s see. How do I know that?” She doesn’t wait for your response before continuing. “Because everyone on the planet knows it. Well, I guess they don’t know that you’re not home. I know that because I’ve been banging on your door for like—fuck—thirty minutes at this point.”

“Wait, slow down,” you say. “How do you know about Beomgyu?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jihyo says. “Check your texts.”

You pull the phone away from your ear to open the messenger app. There are a few from Jihyo, but the most recent is a screenshot from some news outlet. The image is of the dive bar from the previous night, of Beomgyu’s lips on yours. The headline reads Choi Beomgyu Spotted Kissing Mystery Woman After Concert.

“There’s a video, too,” Jihyo says.

You scroll down. The video autoplays. The audio is muffled. You watch you and Beomgyu kiss. You watch Kai interrupt. You watch him walk you to his car, then the video ends.

“Oh,” you say.

Because what else is there to say, really? You know enough to know it’s bad, to register in the moment that this is a bad thing that’s happened—but your head hurts, and you’re still thinking about the way Beomgyu kissed you, especially after seeing it play out all over again.

“That’s not it,” Jihyo says.

She sends another link. This one is from one of Beomgyu’s fansites. It says, in all caps: CHOI BEOMGYU’S MYSTERY WOMAN IDENTIFIED. Then, it lists your full name and age. One of the first comments reads: oh my god, isn’t this Hyuka’s ex-girlfriend?

Your heart stops in your chest, and the world tilts on its axis, and suddenly you’re back at that fucking dining room table, sitting across from your still-boyfriend, watching him explain to you why it’s dangerous for you to be involved with or any other celebrity. It doesn’t make sense at the time, but it hits you now that he might have been right. And honestly, that annoys you more than the scandal itself.

“This isn’t great,” is all you can bring yourself to say.

Jihyo laughs, and you can tell she’s more worried about the whole thing than you are. “It’s really fucking bad, actually.”

“I know that.”

She goes quiet for a second. “How was it?”

Your face gets hot. “Really good.”

“Where are you?” she asks.

“Kai’s.”

The silence is enough to showcase her shock.

“I know,” you say. “I know, I know, I know.” It hits harder then, how much of a mess this all is. “It’s just—oh my god, Jihyo. Beomgyu is so—”

“Hot?” she asks. “Yeah.”

“Hot and nice, but also… I don’t know. Charming.” It feels wrong to say these things in Kai’s bedroom, but you can’t help it. You can’t stop thinking about Beomgyu.

“Hey, I’m not judging,” Jihyo says.

“Weird, it kind of feels like you’re judging.”

“Couldn’t you have just kissed, I don’t know—inside?” Jihyo asks. She pauses. “What did Kai say?”

“He wasn’t exactly thrilled.”

“Right, obviously,” Jihyo says.

“What are the chances I can sneak out of here without having to talk to him about it?” you ask.

Jihyo takes a moment to answer, which obviously means your chances are really, really bad. “Not great.”

“Should probably just get it over with,” you say. “You know? Rip the bandaid off.”

“So you are stalling,” Jihyo says. Then, “Text me when you’re on your way home.”

“You know where the spare is, just let yourself in,” you say.

“I’m currently sitting on your couch.”

You laugh under your breath. “Perfect. Hopefully I’ll be back soon.”

The call disconnects, and you’re left sitting in Kai’s room in silence, wearing your clothes from the night before, the headache still pounding against your skull. Your lips still tingling from the kiss, thinking about Beomgyu, stressed about everything that’s suddenly been thrust in your lap.

You get up, compose yourself as best you can, prepare yourself for whatever is to come, and crack open the door. You don’t see anyone until you step out. Then, Kai clears his throat, and your eyes flick to him sitting on the couch, arms crossed over his chest. He’d broader than you remember.

“So, you fucked up,” he says. It feels like the first thing he’s said to you in a year. Even though you spoke last night. This feels like the first time, all over again. And it strikes you through the heart, how distant he is with you. Almost like you were never his to begin with. Like you’re just some annoying stranger he has to deal with.

You stare at him for a long time, trying to think of something to say.

It’s just such a shock, how much of a different person he is. The blonde is enough to separate him from the person you used to know, but the apartment helps too. It’s so clean and empty. Almost sterile, with items that cost more than your biweekly paycheck.

“I guess,” you say. It’s so obvious how much he’s bothered by all of this, and that alone is enough to make you care less. Maybe it’s petty, but seeing how upset he is makes you feel better.

He drops his head into his hands, runs them both through his hair as you watch from the door frame.

“I thought you said you were going to take me home last night,” you say.

“You fell asleep before you could give me your address,” he says.

It makes your mouth fall open. “Kai,” you say. “You know my address.”

He has no comment on that. He just looks up at you, elbows on his knees, and hands still in his hair. Maybe you would think he looked handsome if he weren’t being so annoying.

“This is a big deal, you know,” he says.

“I know that,” you say.

“Do you?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Do you really?” he asks again.

“Yes,” you stress.

“Then why did you do it?” he asks.

Your mind blanks. You can’t exactly say because Beomgyu’s hot. You don’t. “Why is this my fault?”

“Trust me, I’ll deal with Beomgyu, too.”

“Is this about the scandal?” you ask. “Or is it about the kiss?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kai asks, leaning against the back of the couch, looking at you intently.

You can’t bring yourself to walk any closer to him. Maintaining space makes it feel easier. “I mean, are you upset about the scandal or are you upset about the kiss?”

“Why would I be upset about the kiss?”

There’s that distance again. The mental to your physical. “I don’t know,” you say. “Why would you be?” Finally, you move, walking through the living room toward the front door. “Nice to see you, by the way. Glad you’re doing well.” The words fall off your tongue more venomous than you mean for them to.

“Come on, don’t be like this,” Kai says, which—of course—only makes you angrier. He stands up from the couch and follows you.

You whip around to face him. “Me?” you say, in disbelief. You laugh in his face, and it feels good. It feels good to be the one hurting him for a change. Maybe when you get home, you’ll feel bad about that—but not now. “You’re unbelievable.”

When you reach for the door, his hand shoots out to stop you. Not touching you, but lying flat against the door to keep it closed.

“We have to talk about the scandal,” he says.

“Don’t worry,” you say. “I won’t be seen with any of you ever again. That should solve the problem, right?” you ask. He doesn't speak, doesn’t budge. “Move your hand, Kai.”

He does.

“So,” Jihyo says, the moment you’re comfortable next to her on the couch. “What really happened? Not like the quick version, but the story. I want all the dirty details.”

“There aren’t a lot of dirty details,” you say. There would probably be more if Kai hadn’t shown up. Would you have gone back to Beomgyu’s place with him if he asked? Or invited him back to yours? Probably. Kissing him, it felt like nothing could stop either of you. Well, except for Kai.

You tell her the full story. Not leaving anything out.

“I mean, what does that fucking mean anyway—why would I be upset about the kiss? Like he’s just some stranger and not someone I dated for five entire years of my life,” you say, because that’s the part that frustrates you the most. “Was he always this much of a manchild when we were dating?”

Jihyo makes a face.

“What?” you ask.

“I mean, yeah,” she says. “He kind of was. You just never saw it because you were so in love with him. Nothing he did then was enough to make you stop wanting him.”

“Rose colored glasses, I guess,” you say. “But even then, he wasn’t that bad. I mean, he didn’t treat me badly. He didn’t lie to my face.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I guess.”

It makes you see everything differently. It makes you want to analyze every aspect of your relationship with a fine-toothed comb, looking for signs you might have missed. A single sentence, enough to seed all your doubts in him.

“I just don’t get it. He treated me like a stranger.” You run your hands through your hair. “But he was obviously upset. I mean, he basically kidnapped me. He yelled at Beomgyu, tried to tell me I kissed him for attention. He was upset. Why try to backpedal later?”

“Were you?” Jihyo asks.

“Was I what?”

“Trying to get his attention?” she clarifies.

“What?” you ask, because honestly, the thought of there being any validity to that line of questioning hasn’t occurred to you. “No. Honestly, Kai was the last thing on my mind.”

Jihyo nods.

“Beomgyu was just so,” you say, motioning with your hands to make sense of the feelings he brought to life inside your chest. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I wasn’t thinking about anything else all night. Just him. Just how much fun we were having. How easy it was to talk to him.”

“How good a kisser he was,” Jihyo adds.

“Yeah, that too.”

“So, are you going to call him?” Jihyo asks.

“I don’t have his number,” you say. “Besides, I told Kai I wouldn’t speak to any of them ever again.” It’s a lie, anyway. He called you. You just haven’t saved the details, but you could find them if you really want to.

“Right,” Jihyo says. “But that’s just something you said. It doesn’t have to be something you meant.” She puts a hand atop yours. “It really bothers you, huh?” she asks. “What Kai said?”

That’s one way of putting it. It’s like his words slid up under your ribcage and made a home there next to your heart, living in a place where they could easily pop up over and over like a reminder. Why would I be upset about the kiss?

It makes your skin crawl. But if roles were reversed—would you be able to admit it to him? If you saw him kissing someone new, even a year later, would you be able to admit to him that it made you angry or jealous or sad or anything? Or would you brush it off too, and pretend that it didn’t matter? That he didn’t matter?

There’s no immediate answer to the question that satisfies your brain, so you continue to spiral thinking about it.

And it doesn’t matter, not really. Because what would you have said, anyway—if he’d admitted to caring?

It’s not like you’ve seen each other, like you know this new version of him. And so you try to convince yourself that you don’t care. That you don’t care about the fact that he doesn’t.

Life goes back to normal for a few days. You start to forget what Beomgyu’s lips felt against yours, what his hands felt like against your bare skin. You start to think that it’s okay, that maybe everything was just heat of the moment. Thinking about them both comes and goes in bursts of annoyance and confusion. But the moments grow further apart.

You’re thinking about texting Beomgyu. You save his number and stare at the contact details, thinking that you owe him some kind of explanation. An apology, at least. He doesn’t give you the chance.

Your phone buzzes while you’re looking at his contact, with his name appearing at the top of your screen. It’s such a coincidence you think you might have manifested it, and you almost throw your phone across the room. You open the message.

beomgyu: damn, i heard you never want to speak to me again

Of course, Kai relayed that message to him. Of course he did. You stare at the words on your screen for a long time before replying.

you: okay so i may have said that in anger you: would you believe me if i said it wasn’t actually true

beomgyu: so you do want to speak to me again?

Even over text, you can feel the charm in his words. Your heart flutters in that same way it did at the bar several days ago, whenever his eyes were on you. In reality, you weren’t sure he’d want to talk to you. But, of course, you’re glad he does.

you: yes

Your fingers hover over the letters for a moment as your brain works, trying to figure out if you want to say the next thing or not. You decide it’s better if you just get it out of the way.

you: i should explain you: about kai

beomgyu: in person?

you: is that a good idea, bc of the whole scandal thing

beomgyu: oh yeah, did you hear we’re dating

you: i saw something about that yeah

beomgyu: so when can i see you

You don’t take the time to worry about how bad of an idea it is. Instead, you figure out exactly when to meet up. You immediately start getting ready. You don’t think about the consequences. There’s something about this man, about Beomgyu, that makes all rational thought fly out the window.

For you, someone who’s often calculated, often overthinking, it’s a new feeling.

Jihyo would probably say you’re being impulsive. Maybe spontaneous is a better word. The thought process itself doesn’t matter. What does is that you’re downstairs waiting in the back alley of your building approximately thirty minutes later.

You have a baseball cap and a scarf on, a big coat. It’s probably not enough to actually obscure anything if there are people looking to snap images of you. Those people are ruthless. There’s probably someone with a camera nearby, just waiting for something juicy.

And Beomgyu will be there soon, too. Probably in a similar outfit. It won’t stop rumors from spreading, but you have a feeling Beomgyu doesn’t care about any of that.

It’s a bad habit, but you fish the pack of cigarettes out of your purse and place one between your lips, lighting it while you wait.

The seeds of doubt creep in then, when it’s already too late to change the plans, when he’s already walking toward you with a warm smile on his face.

Oh god. What are you doing? Is this even a good idea? You hardly know this man. It shouldn’t matter what you feel or felt in fleeting moments days prior, right? It would be better for everyone, and yes—you do mean everyone—if you kept your promise to never speak to them again.

But as you watch him approach, neither can you get your feet to move. You don’t want to run away. You don’t want to never speak to him again. In fact, your heart beats faster the closer he gets. You take a long drag from the cigarette, but it doesn’t make you feel better.

And then he’s standing in front of you, bending slightly to make eye contact with you under the rim of your hat. “Nice disguise,” he says.

You can’t feel this way about someone you met days ago, who you spent only a few hours with. But you can’t control it either, the way he makes blush rise to your cheeks immediately. It’s nearly impossible to play it cool, because there he is. Inches away, and you’re already thinking about grabbing him by the collar to pull him in for another kiss. You manage to keep your composure. Another drag. A long breath out.

Beomgyu’s wearing a pair of plain jeans and a baggy sweatshirt with an oversized leather jacket on top. His hair is long and wavy with pieces framing his face. He isn’t wearing a hat or attempting to hide his appearance in any way. He’s just here. Smiling at you.

“Thanks,” you say, and you’ve lost all your bravado from the night at the bar, your flirtatious nature falling apart under his gaze because now you have these feelings that you aren’t quite sure what to do with.

Now you’re nervous. Maybe because it has become something you can fuck up.

“You okay?” Beomgyu asks, still looking up under your hat to meet your eyes. You might as well take it off, but you don’t.

“Yes, yep, yes,” you say, which is maybe one too many times to be convincing.

“You seem nervous,” he says. “Do I make you nervous?”

“What?” you say, laughing under your breath, trying to push away the fact that he’s right, that he’s absolutely spotted your nerves from a mile away. “Me? Never.” You place the cigarette back between your lips, taking a slow drag.

He just laughs, totally calm, totally collected. Then, he reaches up and takes the cigarette out of your mouth, flipping it around in one quick motion to put it in his own. You stare at him all the while, mouth partially agape. He looks even more beautiful, somehow, as he takes a drag and then lets the smoke escape in a long stream. When he places the cigarette back between your lips, his thumb touches your bottom lip, shocking your system. This only serves to make him smile.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke,” you say. It seemed like the kind of restriction their company would put on them.

Beomgyu smiles. “I don’t think anyone is supposed to smoke.”

“So,” you start. “You don’t hate me?”

His eyebrows immediately draw together in confusion. “Why would I hate you?”

“The whole Kai thing, I mean… It’s complicated.”

“I don’t care about him,” he says. Catching you off guard again. Like it’s his job to surprise you. “He’s kind of an ass, anyway.”

“You don’t want like, an explanation?” you say.

He tilts his head to the side, still studying you, watching the drag you take as you wait for his response. “You dated Kai, you’re not dating now. I remember the kiss. I’m not worried about him.”

It drives you a little insane, how confident he is.

“You remember the kiss?” you ask, a smile spreading across your lips, those nerves fading away the longer you exchange quips.

His closed-lip smile breaks into a full, toothy one, and he laughs. “Yeah,” he says, like it’s fucking obvious. This time, he takes the cigarette out of your hand, takes a small puff, then extends it back toward you. “Didn’t seem like you were thinking about anyone else.”

“And how would you know that?” you ask, even though obviously, you weren’t thinking about anyone else but him.

“I just know these things,” he says. “I’m very smart.”

“Right,” you say. “Of course.”

He doesn’t even follow up with a confirmation, doesn’t ask if you were, in fact, thinking about Kai during the kiss. He’s that confident.

Beomgyu’s eyes drift to the side, looking at something to the left of you. He rolls his eyes, scoffing under his breath. “I’m sorry about this,” he says.

“About what?” you ask. Even though you follow his gaze, you don’t really see anything.

He nods to the left. “By the trash cans.”

You see him then, the man with a camera pointed in your direction, taking shots of whatever conversation you’ve been having. Probably to further whatever rumors and scandals the two of you have stirred up.

“You don’t seem very concerned about it,” you say. “The rumors and stuff.”

He shrugs. “Oh no, I’m caught up in a scandal with a gorgeous woman. Whatever will I do?” he mock complains.

The man in the distance still has his camera pointed at you, and Beomgyu’s eyes continue wandering in his direction. Checking every few seconds to see if he’s still watching.

Beomgyu reaches behind you and pulls the hood of your jacket up, blocking out more of your face.

“I thought you didn’t care,” you say, watching him. You put the cigarette out on the bottom of your shoe.

“I don’t care what they say about me,” he says, eyes still glancing sidelong at the photographer. He takes a paper mask out of his pocket and hands it to you. “Put this on.” Then, he grabs your other hand and pulls you toward the man with the camera.

“They’re still going to know it’s me,” you say. “They already have my name and everything. It’s all over everything, last time I checked.” But he’s still pulling you toward the man with the camera, his fingers interlaced with yours. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“It probably isn’t,” he says.

You get close enough to the cameraman that you can almost hear the sound of the shutter.

“Hey,” Becomgyu says, his voice more stern than you’ve heard it, more pointed. “What are you doing?”

The man has the audacity to snap another picture, the lens of his camera pointed directly at you—the sliver of skin showing on your face. But he doesn’t answer Beomgyu, hardly even looks at him. You can’t tell if it’s a state of shock or if he’s used to having encounters like this.

“You should delete those, don’t you think?” Beomgyu says. “And learn to respect people’s privacy?”

The man doesn’t move.

Beomgyu puts his hand on the end of the lens, covering it. The man tries to move his camera out of Beomgyu’s grip, but Beomgyu just holds on tighter. He flashes you a warm, apologetic smile.

“How long were you planning on following her?” he asks. “Take pictures of me, sure. But she’s just a regular person, and I’m pretty sure this is stalking.”

The man still doesn’t answer, is just trying to get his camera back so he can get out of there. Beomgyu sighs, wrenching the camera out of the man’s grasp.

“Hey—” the man says, trying to reach for it.

Beomgyu puts one hand on the man’s chest, holding him back. With his other hand, he flips open the bottom casing and pops out the SD card. Then, he hands the camera back to the photographer.

“There are other photos on there—” the man says.

Beomgyu laughs. He drops the SD card to the ground and crushes it under his heel. “That sucks. Next time it’ll be your camera.”

He drops an arm around your shoulders and navigates you away. “Sorry,” he says, under his breath. “Those people piss me off.”

It all happens so fast, you hardly have time to react or think. But as you’re walking away, there’s one thing that’s blatantly obvious. Kai would never have done something like that for you. No, he cared too much about his reputation.

And Beomgyu, well. He certainly doesn’t.

You’re a good distance away before he lowers your hood again, looks at you with those searching brown eyes.

“Sorry,” he says again. “I probably should have been more careful the other night. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Right,” you say. And your mind flashes back to that fucking dining room table. To conversations about safety.

He smiles, like he’s reading your mind. “Next time we’ll have to find some place more private.”

Your brain is going a hundred miles a minute. He’s so unpredictable. Saying and doing things you never expect. It takes your mind a moment to catch up. It’s been fifteen minutes, but you’re still thinking about the way he took the cigarette out of your mouth, when he’s moved on to where he wants to kiss you next.

And of course, you want to agree. Your cheeks flush, and you want to nod your head vehemently, but there’s one thing that’s stopping you. You can’t bring yourself to voice it, though, your worries about Kai.

His fingers are still intertwined with yours.

“Oh, so you want to see me again?” you ask, tugging his hand to pull his body closer to you. Neither of you learn from your mistakes.

“Maybe,” he says, teasingly.

“Maybe!” you object.

It only makes him laugh. He squeezes your hand. “We’re off on another leg tomorrow, but when I get back?”

“Yes,” you say, not caring about sounding too eager.

The corners of his lips quirk upward. “Cool,” he says. “I think the company’s going to release a statement about the rumor tomorrow, but if you have any issues or anything, just let me know. I’ll kill them,” he jokes.

“They’re your fans,” you point out.

“Yeah, and some of them are creeps.”

“I’m not sure you’re allowed to say that,” you tease.

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, sorry. My devoted fans, you’re so right. Is that better?”

You shrug. “I don’t know—I’m not one of your fans, so I wouldn’t know.”

He deadpans. “You take that back.”

“I don’t think I will,” you say, smiling proudly at him.

He shakes his head at you, but there’s no real disappointment that shows through the smile. “We’re gonna get you on Team Beomgyu eventually,” he says.

“We’ll see,” you say.

“We’ll see!” he repeats. He glances down at your interlocked hands. It’s probably already too late, he thinks. The world already thinks you’re dating. The social media outlets have reported on it. It’s a rumor that won’t easily go away. He thinks about releasing your hand, about taking a step back to make things easier for you, but he can’t bring himself to do it, either.

He releases your hand when his phone starts vibrating. He pulls it out of his coat pocket and shows you the screen, Kai’s face looking back at you. “I have to go,” he says.

“Okay,” you say. And you don’t ask for anything, don’t ask him to text or call or anything. Because this is a man you just met—a celebrity. And above everything else, you shouldn’t want him as badly as you do after only knowing him for such a short amount of time. You shouldn’t care so much about when he’ll be back or whether or not he’ll call.

You tell yourself it’s just the carnal aspect. Your body reacting to his being nearby after such a good kiss the previous week. It’s not really feelings.

“I’ll text you,” he says, and you nod.

He smiles, taking a few steps back as he makes to leave. “Don’t forget to tell me if anyone wrongs you—they’ll hear from me.”

“Totally,” you say, laughing under your breath as he goes.

Days pass. You go back to work. You take note of anyone lurking around the corner. Everyone with a camera might be someone taking a picture of you. You stay off social media, no longer wishing to see the vitriolic hate some people find it necessary to spew about you. Words about not deserving Beomgyu or messing with Kai’s head. In the few hours you spent scrolling before Jihyo took your phone away, you saw pretty much every mean thing in the book.

So, you’re not on Instagram when Kai DMs you. You’re not even near your phone. You come back to the message hours later.

A simple message from his professional account.

kaikamal_: hey

It’s so strange. So distant. But it matches everything else about this new version of him. Every interaction has involved distance of some kind. In words or real space. In lies or feigned emotions, trying to pretend certain things didn’t bother him.

Okay, fine.

You’re still kind of hung up on that.

The lie.

Because you know it’s a lie. You saw the way his body went rigid, the way he wanted to drag you away from the scene, the way he wanted to yell at Beomgyu about it. The kiss pissed him off.

And you hate how much it bothers you that he wouldn’t admit it, hate how much you’re still thinking about it, even now.

But what would it change, really, if he admitted it? Nothing. Maybe you would at least respect him more.

So you stare at the words on the screen for a long time, thinking about things past and impossible to change.

you: hey

It’s simple enough. Not committing to a conversation, really, but acknowledging it. You could be meaner, harsher, but you wait—wanting to see what he has to say first.

kaikamal_: im sorry

You blink a few times to make sure you aren’t seeing things. He’s not typing. He doesn’t say anything else for several minutes, leaving you questioning.

you: ??? you: for what

Maybe it’s petty, but you aren’t going to assume anything, especially when there are various things that he could be apologizing for, various things that you deserve an apology for.

You almost put your phone down, giving up on waiting for any kind of reply.

kaikamal_: being an ass kaikamal_: about everything

It’s beautifully vague. Enough so that you could assume it’s in reference to the past or present. You refuse to assume.

you: what do you mean everything

And you can see it, the way he probably drops his head into his hands and groans a thousand miles away. It always drove him insane, the way you pushed his buttons, asking for more.

kaikamal_: i was upset about the kiss

you: why

kaikamal_: come on kaikamal_: you know why

you: not sure i do

It might be the message that sends him over the edge, that pushes him to stop responding. He starts typing, then stops. Starts. Stops.

kaikamal_: can’t you just accept my apology

you: no you: it’s a bad apology you: if you rlly wanted to talk to me you could have just texted me, instead u chose to be vague on instagram dms you: i don’t get you

kaikamal_: it sucked to see you kiss beomgyu bc you’re my ex

you: so? you: you broke up with me

kaikamal_: that doesn’t mean i want to see you kiss other guys

you: see you: was that so hard to say

Another stretch of time passes between messages.

kaikamal_: are you going to keep seeing each other

The audacity.

you: maybe you: not really your business

kaikamal_: kind of is kaikamal_: it affects the whole band

There it is. It’s not about you. Not really. It’s about the band. The fame. The fans. It’s about how it will affect him. You turn your phone off to stop yourself from saying something you’ll regret.

“Do you think he’s still into you?” Jihyo asks, hours later, sitting on your couch with a bottle of beer in one hand and your phone in the other, reading over the messages.

You shrug. It’s crossed your mind, sure. “Maybe,” you say. “I don’t think it matters if he is or not.”

“Because you wouldn’t take him back?” she asks.

You nod. “If he is into me, that’s not even his biggest problem with the whole thing. It’s all about the band and fans. How it’ll change things with them. He can’t have a girlfriend because then his engagement will go down. Beomgyu can’t have a scandal because it makes him look bad. It’s barely even about me.”

“Why message you at all, then?”

“No idea,” you say.

“And why didn’t he just text you?” Jihyo asks, scrolling through the messages again. She goes too far up and finds old reels you sent each other back when you were dating. She quickly scrolls away.

You shrug. “Probably deleted my number.”

“You should delete his,” she says.

But you know you won’t.

You have two very separate problems, you and Kai. Kai feels weird about the kiss because he doesn’t understand his own feelings or how to differentiate them from the stress the kiss puts on his position in the group, but you? You still can’t break completely away from the idea of your Kai.

That he’s in there somewhere. That this new version of him is a facade. That he’ll reappear someday. It’s not something you’re actively thinking about. But it’s the blocker, the thing that makes it difficult to delete his number.

Jihyo hands your phone back when it buzzes. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asks, the same question you asked Beomgyu a few days prior.

You echo his answer. “It probably isn’t,” you say.

But you can’t help yourself. It’s like touching the stovetop when you already know it’s hot. You know this is going to get messy, eventually. You know it. There’s no way to avoid it. But you put your hand down anyway, thinking maybe you’ll get lucky and it won’t be.

You wait for the burn.

Jihyo gets up for another beer, and you check the text.

beomgyu: no new pics of you online in the past few days beomgyu: i’m considering that a win

You laugh under your breath, trying to hide the immediate joy that appears at the sight his name, his words.

you: maybe that one guy told all his photographer friends how scary you are

beomgyu: you think i’m scary?

you: of course not you: you give big softy hate to break it to you

beomgyu: but like tough big softy right

you: …….sure

beomgyu: don’t do this

Jihyo puts another beer in front of you on the table. “How’s the crush?” she asks.

You look up from your phone. “It’s not a crush,” you say, defensively.

“Oh, really?” she asks, raising a brow. “What would you call it, then?”

You lift the beer for a long sip while you think of a way to answer the question without immediately admitting you’re wrong.

A picture of Beomgyu appears, and it’s enough to distract you from the conversation.

beomgyu: no new pics of you on the internet but here’s one of me beomgyu: just in case you didn’t see it

you: i didn’t you: i’m not a fan, remember?

beomgyu: fuck that’s right i forgot

“You’re smiling at your phone an awful lot for it to not be a crush,” Jihyo says.

Another long sip while you contemplate the feeling you’ve been avoiding thinking about. You haven’t had a crush on anyone since before Kai, which feels like a lifetime ago. You haven’t been on dates or even thought, for a second, about being with anyone.

And now here’s this man, bothering his way into your life. Charming you, making you think these thoughts that you haven’t had to deal with in so long.

But neither does it feel like a crush should feel. It’s obvious reciprocated, so you don’t have to worry about the worst part of a typical crush, and you’ve already kissed—so those nerves are gone too. It’s more than a crush. It’s something you don’t really understand, which only makes it more complicated.

“Hey, you should be happy about this. Maybe I’ll have him slide Soobin your number,” you say.

Jihyo drops her arm around your shoulders. “Have I ever told you how smart and hot you are?”

“Once or twice,” you grumble jokingly.

Another buzz of your phone.

beomgyu: so did you like the photo

You shake your head, rolling your eyes.

you: you’re so irritating, you know that?

beomgyu: that’s crazy, would you believe i’ve heard that before

you: yes

beomgyu: so…

you: don’t you have like drums to play or something

beomgyu: maybe

“What do I even say to that?” you ask, showing Jihyo the series of messages. She looks at the photo. It’s a candid of him on stage, sweat dripping down his face, a drumstick in each hand. He’s wearing a shirt with no sleeves, and the muscles in his arms look insane. It’s a good photo. A great one.

“He looks hot,” Jihyo says. “Tell him he looks hot.”

You roll your eyes. “But that’s what he wants me to say.”

Jihyo blinks a few times, trying to figure it out. “Okay,” she says, tentatively. She leans back against the couch and takes a sip of her drink. “You want him to think you’re interested, but not too interested. You want to compliment him, but not say exactly what he wants to hear.”

“Exactly,” you say.

“And why can’t you just tell him he looks hot?” she asks.

You shrug. “Too easy.” Plus, you don’t want to give him the satisfaction. You like the little game of pretend you’ve been playing together.

you: yeah, i like it you: your fans are good photographers

“Is this your way of flirting?” Jihyo asks. She’s more the direct type. A tell the man exactly what you want and see what happens kind of girl.

“Yes,” you say. Then, “Well, at least… I think so.” It’s not like you’ve flirted with anyone in years. But this does make your heartrate sky rocket. “Besides, he doesn’t need me to tell him that I think he’s hot,” you say. “He already knows what I think.”

beomgyu: 😫

The company releases a statement the following day stating that Beomgyu is not in a relationship with anyone, and that speculation of any kind will not be tolerated by the company. It’s polite, yet firm, urging fans to ignore the situation for the safety of the people involved.

A week after the statement, you and Jihyo meet to grab drinks after work. A routine that’s fallen out of favor recently, with everything going on.

“So how are we going to get Soobin's phone number?” Jihyo asks as another round of shots is placed on the bar in front of you.

You learn back to ponder this. “It’s gotta be delicate,” you say. Even though nothing you’ve been involved in with Tomorrow x Together has been delicate so far. In fact, most of it has been exactly the opposite. In truth, you don’t know if it’s even possible.

You want to believe, of course, that you’ll spend more time with Beomgyu. But there’s that fear nagging in the back of your mind, too, the one that reminds you that all of this could crash and burn at pretty much any moment.

“I think it’ll be better if I just invite you out with us some night,” you say. But even that feels like planning too far ahead. You have to remind yourself that you barely know Beomgyu. That he’s just someone you met at a bar, just someone you kissed, just someone you’ve been texting. You have to remind yourself that it’s very possible there’s nothing between you. That after another date or two, it’ll fizzle.

There’s no reason to plan anything. To set yourself up for disappointment. But none of that is what Jihyo wants to hear. Jihyo wants to hear that you’ll slide Soobin her contact information and that she’ll be on her way to Soobin-town in no time at all.

“That could work,” Jihyo says, and you laugh.

Across the bar, you catch sight of someone with a phone, their camera pointed in your direction. A man around your age, maybe a little bit older.

“Hey,” you say. “I think we should get out of here.” You don’t motion to the man with the phone, don’t make a big deal of the situation.

You pay the tab, scurry out of the bar, and hold Jihyo’s arm, keeping her close to you. You get a few blocks before the words fall off your lips in a panic. “Hey, don’t freak out,” you say, clutching her. “But I think someone is following us.”

Jihyo turns to look behind you.

“The guy from the bar,” you say. “I think he was filming us. Does he still have his phone out?”

Jihyo looks forward again. “Yes.”

“What do we do?” you ask, even though you’re fairly certain Jihyo doesn’t know the answer—neither of you has ever been in a situation like this one before.

“Hey!” the man’s voice calls, as he jogs to catch up with you.

You and Jihyo both freeze, looking at each other, trying to determine the best course of action. Apparently, that’s not moving. The man catches up. He’s wearing a black hoodie unzipped over an equally dark shirt and jeans.

He says your full name. He says, “Do you have any comment on your relationship with Choi Beomgyu?”

It takes a lot to shock you, but this does. Your eyes go wide. It’s one thing to notice someone taking your photo, but another entirely for them to follow you across town, to address you by your full legal name, to demand information out of you.

It’s even more to, when you don’t respond and instead take a few steps back, reach out and grab your wrist.

“Hey, don’t touch her,” Jihyo says when your brain doesn’t react.

“Any comment on the relationship?” he asks again.

“What?” you say, because it’s all your brain can manage, because you’re confused and shocked and being held tightly by this strange man who only seems to care about whatever scandal you’ve stirred up with Beomgyu.

Jihyo reaches out and pries the man’s hand off you. “She’s not dating anyone,” Jihyo says. “Post that, you asshole.” Then, she grabs your hand and pulls you away.

The two of you pick up the pace, nearly sprinting through downtown blocks, desperate to get away as fast as you can. You don’t take the time to look behind you, to see if he’s still following you, you’re just running blind toward Jihyo’s apartment without thinking.

When you finally reach the apartment complex, finally close Jihyo’s door behind you, it’s with heaving breaths and fast heart rates.

“Was that normal?” Jihyo asks as the two of you settle down from the strange encounter.

You roll your wrist, stretching out the tenderness from the man’s tight grip. “I fucking hope not,” you say. It’s almost an instinct, how fast you take out your phone to tell Beomgyu. You’ve been texting pretty much non-stop since he left with the band, and this is an update he’s going to want to know about.

you: hey

Your fingers hover over the letters, trying to figure out how to explain exactly what just happened to you. There’s a little voice in the back of your head that raises concerns—that puts you back at that dining room table, but you can hardly hear it over the hammering of your heart.

you: so someone just followed a friend and i home

It doesn’t take long for him to get back to you. Sometimes you think he must have his phone nearby on stage.

beomgyu: fuck beomgyu: im so sorry beomgyu: are you okay?

Again, you stare at the letters on your phone and try to form them into words. It takes too long. Beomgyu’s face appears on your phone as it buzzes, and you answer immediately.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft. The care in that single word hits you square in the chest.

Those fears take hold of you again. Your mind plays tricks on you. If you tell him everything, he’ll realize the only way to fix the problem is to leave you behind. If you don’t tell him, maybe that won’t happen.

“What happened?” he asks. The concern coats both words, and you couldn’t lie to him even if you really, actually wanted to.

You clear your throat. “I was getting drinks with my friend Jihyo, and I noticed someone with their phone pointed at us, so we left.”

He stays silent, letting you get the story out.

“He followed us out, and when he caught up to us, he asked me about you,” you explain.

Beomgyu lets out a long sigh. “Fuck,” he says. “But you’re okay?” he asks. “Not hurt?”

Jihyo looks at you pointedly. She raises both eyebrows. Tell him, she mouths.

You grumble under your breath. “My wrist’s a little sore, he grabbed me.” Silence falls over the line, and it speaks volumes to his anger. “But it’s okay, really. I’m fine.”

“Do you remember what he looked like? You should file a report,” he says.

“Okay,” you say. “Yeah, I will.”

“I’m so sorry,” he says again.

“It’s not your fault,” you say. Fear creeps in like an old friend. Rearing its ugly head again and again. Uninvited.

He lets out a deep breath that seems to relieve some of the tension from his voice. “Okay,” he says, maybe because he can tell how stressed you are, can tell that his anger isn’t what you need right now. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you confirm. “I’m sure.”

“Okay,” he says again. “We’ll be back in a few days. We’ll figure this out,” he says. “I really am sorry.”

“It’s okay, Beomgyu, I swear,” you say.

“Okay,” he says. Each okay feels a little bit lighter, like he’s returning to form.

“You’re excited to see me?” you ask, trying to lighten the mood.

It works. You can almost hear his smile. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

When the band gets back to the company headquarters after the last leg of the tour, it’s not a warm welcome. It’s to criticism about the way certain situations have been handled, about blatantly ignoring certain rules. Most of the criticism is lobbied in Beomgyu’s direction, but when it’s time to point fingers, they’re all aimed at Kai.

They talk about fixing the problem, about cleaning up the mess made by the group. They explain how disappointed fans are, both in Beomgyu and in Kai. They explain all of it over and over, but none of it really seems to sink in.

At least, not for Beomgyu. He’s only half-listening anyway, and Kai can tell.

There’s always been tension between the new members of the band and the old. Specifically, when it comes to Kai and his arrogance. The fans love him the most, which means he can do no wrong, which means he gets to control everything going on around him.

But this news—this video spreading of him yelling at Beomgyu and his ex—the fans don’t like it, don’t like this side of him. And while they’re equally upset with Beomgyu for betraying their trust, Kai has a larger fanbase, and therefore more people carrying pitchforks with his name on them.

And of course, he can’t turn that anger toward the company.

So, he turns it to Beomgyu instead.

After the long, laborious meeting, everyone disperses, going to their respective rooms. It isn’t long before there’s a knock at Beomgyu’s door, and a conversation that’s been brewing for over a week starts at full force.

No niceties, no heys, just Kai standing with his arms crossed and his brows drawn in the doorway. He says, “I told you it was a bad idea to pursue her.”

He thinks about shutting the door in Kai’s face, but the line between what he can get away with and what he can’t has grown thinner ever since he started using it as a jump rope.

“You did,” Beomgyu says with a shrug.

Kai pushes past him and into the living room.

“Yeah, come on in,” Beomgyu says. There’s not a lot of familiarity between the two. Fans have noticed that, too. They notice everything.

Kai leans against the kitchen island, looking at Beomgyu. It doesn’t take him long to get out the words he wants to say, the real reason that he’s there right now. “I want you to stop seeing her.”

“Because it’s best for the group or because you’re jealous?” Beomgyu asks.

It’s so strikingly similar to your line of questioning that it unsettles Kai. “Because it’s better for the band, Beomgyu,” he says, seriously. Taking that I’m the leader tone with him.

“That’s why you broke up with her, right?” Beomgyu asks. “Because it was better for the group? Being single is a part of your charm, and dating her just got in the way of that.”

“No, of course not,” Kai says. “Is that what she told you?”

Beomgyu shrugs. He’s tired. The tour’s been long, and he wants to lie down. Wants to call you, think about you, see you.

Kai sighs, like he’s the one stressed in this situation. Stressed at simply the idea of you not understanding the reasons he chose to leave.

“You know, you can’t stand me—but you’re not any better,” Kai says.

Beomgyu doesn’t get defensive. He just listens.

“We broke up to prevent something like this from happening. I broke up with her to protect her. You don’t care about any of that. You’re selfish,” Kai says. “You guys want to think I’m the bad guy? That’s fine. But I made the decision to leave so that something like this wouldn’t happen.”

It renders Beomgyu speechless.

“You want her even if she gets hurt?” Kai asks. “Because that’s all you’re doing. You’re not risking your safety, just hers.”

When he realizes that Beomgyu isn’t going to say anything, Kai sighs. He claps Beomgyu on the back in a show of solidarity, and there’s a moment of understanding. This sucks, it says. This sucks, but we have to make the right choice. He leaves Beomgyu standing in his apartment alone, wondering what the right choice is—and if it’s selfish to want you anyway.

When Beomgyu invites you over the following day, there’s no hesitation in your answer, and soon enough, you’re standing in his living room, taking in his apartment. It’s the same layout as Kai’s, only a few floors down. It’s livelier, too. Brighter. Like someone actually lives there. There are pictures of his family on the fridge and knick-knacks scattered around the place. Art on the walls that doesn’t read as pretentious.

He’s leaning against the arm of the couch, watching you explore the place, eyes following you.

“How’s your wrist?” he asks.

“It’s fine,” you say. It was sore for the day, but the pain went away quick. You stretch it, roll the joint. “See? Good as new.”

It isn’t immediately obvious that something is off. You don’t notice his quieter demeanor or how he isn’t cracking as many jokes until much later. You chalk it up to nerves.

You take a seat on the couch, and he slips off the arm of it and onto a cushion next to you.

“How was the rest of the tour?” you ask.

He nods. “It was good. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m kind of glad it’s over.”

You feign a shocked expression. “Choi Beomgyu, are you saying you don’t love being a rockstar?”

That lazy smile appears on his lips. “You think I’m a rockstar?”

You shove him playfully, and he laughs.

“I like it,” he says. “Some things get annoying, though.”

“Like what?” you ask. “The thousands of fans in love with you?”

“Careful,” he says, eyes finding yours. “You sound jealous.”

Your thighs are nearly touching. You want to close the distance. Reach for him, maybe, but your nerves get the best of you. Instead, you just maintain the eye contact, keeping the smile pressed to your lips, batting your eyelashes at him. “Why would I be jealous?” you ask. “I’m here. Not them.”

His gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second, but you watch the fall. He blinks a few times, as if trying to clear his mind. He stands up, puts distance between you. He clears his throat. “Want anything to drink?” he asks.

“Sure,” you say. “Whatever you’re having.”

He sets two cans of beer on the coffee table in front of you.

“What is it?” you ask when he’s silent for a little while too long. When the silence starts to feel less like nerves and more like something’s wrong.

He drops his head into his hands, raking both hands through his hair as he lifts it, looking anywhere but at you.

“It’s not the fans that I don’t like, or the fame, really,” he says.

It takes you a moment to realize what he’s talking about, that he’s continuing your previous conversation.

His eyes find yours. “It’s that I can’t want anything without it being a huge deal.” He sighs.

“Oh,” you say.

No other words come to mind. There’s nothing you can think to say that will make things better, anyway.

“What do you want?” you ask, because your mouth is dry and your head is empty and you want to be sure you know exactly what he’s talking about before you say anything else.

And then he looks at you. He looks at you, and it’s abundantly clear what he wants.

“Beomgyu,” you say, tentatively. His eyes don’t waver, don’t drop from yours. His knee knocks into yours, and it’s your eyes, this time, that fall to his lips. And you’re thinking, why isn’t he kissing me already? just before he closes the distance.

Kissing Beomgyu is like dropping a lit match into a puddle of kerosene. The moments your lips touch, everything’s on fire.

It escalates quickly, like you’re picking up right where you left off outside the bar. Your hands settle on his shoulders, and his find your waist, pulling you closer to him. It’s awkward, clumsy. Sitting side by side on the couch isn’t exactly a conduit for maximum contact. But you’re both twisted toward the other, both taking everything you can get.

There’s something hungry about it, the way Beomgyu grabs you and doesn’t let go, the way his hand settles on the side of your head to hold you to him. It isn’t long before the position has changed and you’re sitting on top of him, knees on either side of his hips.

It isn’t long before his tongue slips between your lips, his hands thread through your hair, and you’re humming happily into his mouth.

It’s different than your last kiss. Just as clumsy, just as much fulfilled tension and satisfied payoff. But the way he kisses you, it’s like he’s afraid he’ll never do it again. You part to catch your breath, letting your forehead rest against his as you take in sharp breaths.

You want to say something, but all your confidence has gone out the window, and you can’t think of any comment to make other than, wow. So you just breathe in and out.

His hands slide atop yours, resting on his chest, thumbs moving against the backs. His eyes flick to yours, and his lips part like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. He just watches you.

You open your mouth, but decide against words and instead press your lips against his again. The difference in the kiss is immediately apparent. Slower. You’re both savoring it. His hands don’t move from atop yours.

This time, it’s Beomgyu who breaks the kiss, breathing ragged, eyes fluttering closed.

Something is off.

You just aren’t sure exactly what.

It’s obvious that he wants to be kissing you. You can feel him under you, through his jeans. But it’s like he’s holding back, limiting himself from enjoying it fully. So, you keep looking at each other, not moving back in, letting the tension hang in the air.

It’s strange to be with someone you don’t know very well. Someone you’ve been talking to for a little while. Someone you’ve kissed before. But still, someone you don’t know everything about. Their intricacies, insecurities, fears, all a mystery to you. And you suppose the opposite is true, too. How much does Beomgyu really know about you?

And that’s when you start to get into your head about it. About everything. Because what is it, really, that you’re doing right now?

All of your escapades have been attached to long-term relationships. And these feelings you have for Beomgyu, well, they certainly feel real. But how real could they be after a cumulative maybe three hours spent together, alongside multiple text conversations and a few phone calls? If Jihyo were here, she’d probably tell you to get it together. To kiss the man and figure out your feelings later. You want to do that.

Something crackles in the air between you, though. A force field, and neither of you can quite push through it. Your feelings aren’t so scary—not when they’re up against the mystery of his.

“Hey,” Beomgyu says, like he can see the cogs turning in your head, the overthinking you’ve been engaging in for the past several minutes.

“Hey,” you say.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You try to tell yourself that someone you just met can’t break your heart. That your heart is too strong to be torn in half so easily. But you feel the cracks regardless, and your eyes fall closed as if to avoid whatever words are going to come next—because you can feel them, bouncing around inside Beomgyu’s head, waiting to be spoken aloud.

He picks up one of your hands, laces his fingers through yours.

“I want this,” he says. “Don’t get me wrong. I really fucking want this.” He laughs under his breath, but it’s more uncomfortable, unfortunate than anything else.

“But,” you say, because you know it’s coming.

As someone who’s been on the receiving end of many a conversation such as this one, you have a preternatural sense of determining when there’s a but.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he says. There’s a sadness in his voice, and it’s obvious that this isn’t a decision he wants to be making.

You pull away from him, then, removing yourself from his lap quickly to save yourself the horror and embarrassment. It comes, anyway. Your cheeks are flaming red, the heat spreading to your ears, too. You don’t sit back down, instead putting as much distance between yourself and Beomgyu as possible.

He stands up immediately, closing said distance.

“Wait,” he says, and he reaches out to touch your arm, but you step back in confusion and a desperation to be anywhere else.

“I should go,” you say, trying to get the words out of your mouth. “Yeah, I really think I should go.”

You’re so close to the door, so close to being able to escape this awkward situation, this repeat of the same thing you’ve already fucking been through, this second rejection. You should have known. That’s the only thought going through your head. You should have fucking known.

“Wait, wait,” Beomgyu says again, stepping in front of the door. He reaches for you so tentatively. Not grabbing you, just reaching up and placing his hands on your forearms.

You can barely look at him, and he can’t bring himself to make you.

“Can I explain?” he says softly. “Please?”

“Okay,” you say, nearly choking on the single word. You refuse to cry about this in front of him, to make a bigger deal about it than it really is. Because it shouldn’t mean anything to be rejected by someone you hardly know, and yet it does.

“I like you,” he says. He means it. Somehow, that doesn’t make anything better. “I just—I don’t want you to get hurt, and these people, they’ll do anything to get the information they want.”

It’s for your safety.

“I said I was okay,” you say. “I meant it, really.”

Beomgyu sighs, and you know he’s thought about this a lot. “I’m putting you in danger, just because I want you. Because I’m incapable of being patient. It’s not fair to you. I shouldn’t have kissed you that night, not like that.”

You suck in a sharp breath.

“I just mean,” he says, loosing a sigh. “I should have been more careful about it from the beginning. And it’s my fault people are stalking you and hurting you, and I want to do everything I can to make that stop.”

You press your lips into a tight line to keep any emotion from showing on your face. You don’t really know how to feel. There’s a bit of anger flaring in your chest, but you’re not sure what to do with that.

“So to recap,” you start. “You want me, but you’re rejecting me because you don’t want me to get hurt?”

He doesn’t say anything.

“You know this hurts me, right?” you say.

It must take a second for his mind to catch up, because he says, “I’m not rejecting you.”

Your brows draw together in confusion.

“Sorry,” he says again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not good at this. I’m not rejecting you. I like you. I really like you. I just think we should wait for this to all blow over. I don’t want to risk you getting chased down again or injured or anything. But people will get over it eventually, I think.”

“What if they don’t?” you ask.

“They will,” he says, and he sounds confident enough that you believe him.

It’s still strange. It still makes that numb feeling stretch out from the center of your chest. Because it kind of still is a rejection, even if he doesn’t want to think about it that way. Not right now is still kind of no.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he says. “Maybe that’s selfish too, I don’t know.”

“Did Kai put you up to this?” you ask, because the idea’s been lingering in the back of your head since he uttered the first words. It has Kai written all over it, this idea that you need to be looked out for by anyone other than yourself. You can’t see past the rejection, can’t see the truth in what he’s saying, the idea that putting a hold on whatever it is the two of you have will keep people from literally stalking you.

But you’ve always been like that. Unable to see past the hurt to the truth. The pain blinds you, and when it comes time to see the reason, your eyes are closed.

Beomgyu’s expression softens. He doesn’t answer the question. “I don’t want to do this either,” he says.

“Then don’t,” you say.

“It’s not—it’s not that simple,” he says, and the hurt flares in his eyes, too.

But this being hard for him doesn’t do much to make you feel better, when neither of you needs to be doing it at all.

You don’t know what else to say. There isn’t anything that can change his mind, that much is clear. You want to fight. You think about fighting harder, but realize it’s not worth it. And when you leave, hood pulled tight over your head, disguised to prevent more pictures from being taken, you’re fairly certain you’re never going to hear from him again.

You make one last stop, about two hours out from your destination. A small rest stop off the highway. You get out to stretch your legs, trying not to think about the inevitable reunion that will occur moments after you arrive at the new apartment you and Soobin secured. You should be excited. You are excited.

It's been six years since you met Soobin, and nearly five since the start of your relationship. This huge step isn't daunting. It isn't. Moving in together across the country has always been something the two of you have wanted, and moving back to Soobin's hometown just made sense. Unfortunately, it's not the Soobin of it all that's driving you insane.

Soobin has always made you feel comfortable and confident, happy and loved. There's no insecurity there, and you pray there never will be.

One source of tension, however, has always existed like a ghost just outside the relationship—haunting you.

"It's going to be fine," Soobin says, catching the look on your face, the haze that's hovered over you like a rain cloud for the past several days of driving. He lets the gas pump by itself and moves toward where you're leaning against the car, placing one hand on the top frame of the vehicle while his other hand comes up to touch your chin. He smiles, and it's almost impossible not to smile back. "I promise," he says, and you trust him.

Your smile isn't forced, but he still catches the wariness in it, the uncertainty. The way your eyes don't fully lock onto his. Even though you trust him, and he knows you trust him, he can tell the difference between you feeling better and you pretending to feel better. If anyone else knew you this well, it would be annoying. But so many things aren't annoying when it comes to him.

"He doesn't like me," you say, even though you've said it so many times before. Even though you both know it to be the truth. It feels good to say it anyway, to declare it—so when things inevitably go wrong later, you'll be able to say, See, I told you he doesn't like me.

Soobin sighs. This must be a great source of contention for him, too. Is he just as stressed, just as anxious, as you are—only better at hiding it? Maybe you should put on a braver face, be more positive, for him.

It's difficult, though, when it's his best friend who hates your guts. It's not like you're blameless, really. Although it did feel like that at first. Now, however, it's boiled into something between the two of you, a bitter rivalry, constant bickering, and anger that feels more like hatred from his side. And the way he looks at you sometimes—it's like he really hates you. And what are you supposed to do with that, when he's your boyfriend's best friend, when you're moving in next door, when you're going to be spending so much more time together than just vacations and quick trips home?

"He likes you," Soobin emphasizes, even though he must know it isn't true. If anyone knows what's going on inside Yeonjun's head, it's him. Sometimes it feels like they have an entire secret language you can't decipher. They can exchange full conversations with just a glance.

"You're not a very good liar," you say, with a small smile, attempting to feel lighter about the whole thing. If you can joke about it, it can't be that serious, right? "Besides," you say, reaching out to grab him, hands holding onto each side of his open hoodie so you can pull him down closer to you. "He likes you. I'm just there."

The gas pump clicks off to the right, but neither of you move.

He just smiles again, slipping his hand into your hair. He looks around, pretending to care if anyone can see the two of you, before he lowers his lips to yours.

It is a good distraction. You have to give him that. But it only works as long as his lips are on yours, and soon enough, you're back in the car, and the anxiety starts anew.

THREE YEARS AGO

The first time you met Yeonjun, he came to visit over Christmas break. It was your first Christmas with Soobin, the first Christmas where you stayed in town, neither choosing to go back home to visit your families. And it was Yeonjun's first time, too. His first time visiting Soobin at school. His first time meeting you.

Your college apartment was a mess. A small one-bedroom stuffed with books and cluttered with trinkets.

You remember being excited. This was Soobin's best friend, after all, and you'd heard so much about him—all good things.

It hadn't even been much of a conversation, deciding the plans for the holiday. Soobin brought it up, and you were delighted at the idea of his friend coming to visit. Nothing in your mind signaled a red flag. This was someone Soobin cared about, and if he cared about Yeonjun, that meant you would, too. And besides, you wanted—more than anything—for Soobin to have everything he ever wanted.

It was unfortunate that thing ended up being Yeonjun.

You flitted about the small apartment, rearranging decorations, putting last-minute touches on the Christmas Eve dinner you'd spent hours preparing—cooking is not your strong suit, but you tried. It was important to you, really fucking important, to make a good first impression. The place looked nice. A few of your college friends sat on the couch, sharing a bottle of wine and picking at the appetizers you'd left out.

But you couldn't sit still.

Soobin had left over two hours ago to pick him up from the airport, and your stomach had been an absolute mess the moment he stepped out the door. You wanted so badly to make a good first impression. That's what you remember so clearly about that night. Just how badly you wanted him to like you.

And he did, at first.

They appeared at your door sometime later, covered in a light dusting of snow. Soobin had a bundle of gifts in his arms, and you smiled at the sight of him. You leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek, just as Yeonjun appeared behind him.

"Hey," you said, offering a warm smile, trying to be inviting. You introduced yourself and stepped aside to let them both in.

Soobin gave your hand a tight squeeze before disappearing to place the gifts beneath the small tree you'd crammed into the corner of the apartment, leaving you and Yeonjun alone in the entryway, looking at one another.

He seemed to be studying you. Now, you look back and wonder if he was looking for flaws, cracks that he could exploit later. Things that were wrong with you that he could point out to Soobin.

But then, he looked harmless.

"Hey," Yeonjun said. "Nice to finally meet you."

It seemed genuine at the time. But it was another one of those things that you would question for years to come.

"Yeah, you too," you said. "I've heard so much about you."

"All bad, I'm assuming."

"Oh, of course," you teased.

He smiled. It caught you off guard, how handsome he was. You never got used to Soobin's attractiveness, either. Every time you saw him, even two years into your relationship, it caught you off guard. Yeonjun was the same. With dark hair and pouty lips, he looked at you—for a moment—in that same completely captivating way that Soobin did. Like you were the only person in the world.

Something shifted in the middle of the evening. Yeonjun sat at the bar counter, looking into the kitchen with a glass of wine in his hand, watching as you and Soobin finished dinner. He engaged in offhand conversation, quipping back and forth with both of you. His eyes followed both of you around the room in a way you didn't find strange at the time.

"Open," you said, holding a mini-marshmallow poised to throw into Soobin's mouth.

He followed your order, and you tossed the marshmallow perfectly into his mouth. He high-fived you, and you both laughed.

"Cute," Yeonjun said, with a laugh of his own.

Soobin grabbed a marshmallow. "Your turn," he said, aiming at Yeonjun's face. Yeonjun didn't budge.

The smile on your face faltered when you looked at Yeonjun. He wasn't looking at Soobin, wasn't preparing himself to engage in the game you were all playing. Instead, he was looking at you again.

Soobin threw the marshmallow anyway, and it bounced off Yeonjun's cheek. You snickered, and Yeonjun pressed his lips into a tight line.

"Tough crowd," you said, and Soobin smiled.

Yeonjun didn't look away from you. His gaze was so serious, so trained on you. Your lips parted because you wanted to say something. But the way he looked at you had you locked completely in place, unable to form words. Because why did he look so upset, so angry, all of a sudden?

Soobin noticed after you did and laughed to brush off the awkwardness that had developed seemingly out of nowhere.

Yeonjun raised his empty glass of wine and got up from the stool. "Need more wine," he said, and disappeared across the room, letting himself get swallowed whole by the rest of their friends and their inquisitive attitudes. Soobin turned to you, and you looked at him with wide, confused eyes.

"What was that about?" you asked.

Soobin wrapped an arm low around your waist and pulled you closer to him. "I don't know," he said, peppering kisses on your nose, cheeks, and jaw. "I'm sure it's fine."

It wasn't fine. Just as they were about to sit down for dinner, Yeonjun pulled Soobin aside. He held up a hand, thumb pointed toward the door. Yeonjun's eyes crossed the room, finding yours. You couldn't hold his gaze and looked away before he could. A deep furrow developed in Soobin's brow, but they spoke too low for you to hear over the sound of your other friends.

But then the front door was opening, and Yeonjun was walking out of it.

For a long time, Soobin stood with his arms hanging at his sides, staring at the door, like he wanted to follow Yeonjun out.

Eventually, he took a seat next to you at the table, clearly uncomfortable. The dinner went on without Yeonjun, and everyone enjoyed the meal you and Soobin cooked together, but every time your eyes drifted to Soobin, it was dreadfully obvious how upset he was.

After the rest of your friends left, you found Soobin in the kitchen and tugged him away from the dishes to settle in with you on the couch.

You didn't say anything, just rubbed your thumb on the back of his hand while he rested his head on your shoulder.

"Did something happen?" you asked, after some time had passed. The silence, backfilled with faint Christmas music, was getting to you—as was the lack of answers and the confusion surrounding the weird encounter with a friend you'd been looking forward to meeting. "It didn't seem like he liked me very much."

That made Soobin perk up. "No, that's not it—" he started, meeting your eyes. That softness about him that had enchanted you years prior had never left. He still looked at you like you were everything in the entire universe, like you could never hurt him. Like he would never hurt you.

It was nice to be naive.

"It's just…" Soobin started again, trying to figure out how to get his words across. "Yeonjun is never anywhere he doesn't want to be. I just don't know why he didn't want to be here."

The hurt in his voice cowed you, made you hate Yeonjun, a little bit, for hurting Soobin. And maybe, it made you hate yourself, too, for not being good enough. For not charming Yeonjun, for not making the grand first impression you'd hoped. For not getting him to stay.

"Maybe we should go talk to him," you said. "He must be back at your place, right?"

Soobin sighed. "Probably, yeah."

You were determined to make that good first impression, determined to figure out what had gone wrong and fix it. You just wanted to fix it.

You tugged on his hand one more time, pulling him upright. "Come on then," you said. "Let's go."

"I don't know if this is a good idea," Soobin said.

"What?" you asked, a wide smile on your lips, empowered by the idea of putting all the pieces back together. "You don't think I'm charming enough?"

"You are very charming," Soobin said, smiling enough that his dimples appeared on his cheeks, which only made you smile more. A vicious circle of smiling at one another, an overt happiness—a couple who did not know what was to come. But wasn't that always the way? The happiness before the downfall, that feeling of nothing could ever feel like this, just before it never does again.

Beomgyu didn’t want to stop. It was obvious in the way he kissed you, the way he held onto you, tried to stop you from leaving. He made the difficult choice, hurting himself at the same time. 

It’s the inverse to Kai’s seemingly easy decision. The way he set you aside like he’d always planned to cut the strings on his old life. 

Unfortunately, Beomgyu’s pain doesn’t soften yours. It doesn’t make the pill harder to swallow. If anything, it makes everything worse. 

So, when you finally do cry, they’re full-body sobs. And you’re not just sad about Beomgyu, about not getting to see the thing through—you’re sad because your worst fears came to light again, because you started to feel something, only to have it ripped away in exactly the same way. 

When you crawl into bed, it’s to sob into your pillow. You fall asleep with a wet face. 

You wake up to the sound of Jihyo’s voice in the living room. “Good morning!” she says, her voice sing-songing, echoing through the apartment. You put a second pillow over your face to mute her happiness. 

Jihyo throws open the door to your bedroom when you don’t respond. 

“Hello?” she asks. “Are you alive in here?” 

You grumble from beneath the pillow. “Wish I wasn’t.” 

The weight shifts on the mattress as she takes a seat on the edge, reaching to move the pillow. You grip it tight to your face. 

“It’s better if you don’t look at me,” you say, all dramatics. 

Jihyo doesn’t try to take it from you. “What happened?” she asks. “Something with Kai? I said I’d kill him, and I meant that.”

“Not Kai,” you say, and your voice cracks on his name. Because fuck, it would be so much easier if it were just about Kai. 

“Oh,” she says, because there’s really no one else it could be. “You want me to kill him, too? I can add his name to the list.”

“No,” you say, because you still fucking like him, even with all this bullshit going on. You know, deep down, that it really isn’t his fault. That he’s right. It doesn’t make it hurt less. And besides, it serves to sew more seeds of doubt into your brain, and you can convince yourself—with ease—that you never really had anything with him in the first place, or that this space he wants is just an excuse. 

Not that he ever seemed like the lying type. 

The made-up scenarios only make you feel worse. But they’re all you have. 

Finally, you pull the pillow away from your face. Jihyo’s warm brown eyes find yours immediately, concern written across her face—even though you’re certain she’s probably thinking something along the lines of I knew this would happen. 

She never says it. Never gloats about being right, even though she often is. 

“We kissed again last night,” you say. “Before he rejected me.” 

“Oh,” Jihyo says. “Well, that’s—”

“Rejected is the wrong word, I guess,” you say, clutching the pillow tight to your chest. “He told me he really likes me, that he’s annoyed about how all this shit works. But also that we should chill out. Take a break and wait until it boils over.”

“That’s not so bad,” Jihyo says. 

“Yeah, if it’s true.” You sigh. “And even if it is—how long until it boils over? And this was just, well, it was hardly even anything, why would he wait for me?” 

Jihyo crawls into bed next to you. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, snaking an arm under your shoulders to pull you in for a hug. “I know you really like him.”

There are so many things you want to say. You’re not even sure you really do like him. You hardly know him. Those facts play over and over again. You can’t stop them. You don’t know him. You could like him. Why, then, does it hurt so much? Especially if it’s just a later thing? 

“I know it’s not the same,” you start. “As with Kai.” Jihyo doesn’t say anything, even as you go silent. She gives you the space to continue. “I feel like an idiot.” 

“You’re not an idiot,” she says, fast. 

“What did I think was going to happen, you know? Different guy, same band—what did I expect?” 

She doesn’t give you the silver linings, doesn’t try to make you feel better about the situation. Doesn’t say, but what if it turns out okay? That’s one of the things you’ve always loved about her. She knows when to try to cheer you up, and when to just listen. You don’t need the optimism now. Because yeah, maybe things will turn out okay. But from where you’re standing? It seems like an impossibility. 

“Hey,” she says, because there’s really no good answer to the pity party you’re throwing. “Want to get some coffee?” Then, she drags you out of bed, makes you change clothes—into a secondary pair of sweatpants—and pulls you out of the house. 

It’s not enough to make you feel better. You think about Beomgyu the entire time. You wonder if he has an ulterior motive. If he ever liked you in the first place. You think about how he kissed you. You think he must have felt something, too, really felt something. That makes you feel worse again. 

You want to text him. Talk to him. See him. 

That hurts, too. 

It’s not a shock when another Instagram DM comes through from Kai. Honestly, you’re surprised it took this long. A few days post partial-rejection, and there his name is, staring back at you from the top of the screen. 

kaikamal_: hey

You hate him. You hate him. You hate him. 

You open the message. 

You stare at it. 

You think about cussing him out. About yelling at him for anything. It doesn’t even matter. You just want to yell. 

You don’t respond. 

kaikamal_: i’m sorry about this kaikamal_: but the group manager wants to know if you can come in to talk 

you: about what

You don’t mean to respond, but it piques your interest, and you can’t help yourself. Your fingers have typed and sent the message before you can realize you want to hesitate. 

kaikamal_: something to do with the scandal, but i don’t know exactly what kaikamal_: sorry to be the messenger

His messages are so cold. The distance should be familiar, but it cuts through several layers of skin even now. 

Maybe because he used to be the person who was there for you. Kai and Jihyo. Part of you wants to show up on his doorstep and tell him everything that’s happened in the past year. But you know the old Kai—yours—won’t just appear out of nowhere to comfort you. You know it isn’t worth the pain. 

you: do i have to 

Life would be so much easier if you didn’t have to think about Tomorrow x Together at all. Maybe things would be better, too, if you really never saw Beomgyu again. Maybe that’s why it hurts so bad, because you’re not sure if you can go back. If you want to try again later. 

kaikamal_: it would make everyones lives easier kaikamal_: yours included

You sigh. 

you: just me and the managers? you: no one else?

kaikamal_: i’ll be there

You don’t ask the question you want to ask, but Kai’s old habit of being able to read your mind flares back to life for one last moment. 

kaikamal_: beomgyu won’t be 

you: ok

He sends you the details. The company building is near their dorms downtown. They want you there as soon as possible. You get in the car and drive without worrying about how you look. A different pair of sweatpants, a shirt two sizes too big from several years ago. Hair pulled back, messy. 

When you get there, a receptionist shows you the way to an office a few floors up. You don’t speak in the elevator. 

Kai’s waiting for you in the hall. 

“Whoa,” he says. “You look—”

You hold up a finger to stop him from saying whatever it is he’s going to say. “Don’t,” you warn. “I’m not in the mood.” 

He holds up both hands in defense for a moment before motioning toward the conference room. He steps in front of you, holds the door open, and gestures for you to step inside. 

There are a few people seated around the table. No Beomgyu. Kai follows you in, takes a seat next to you. You fold your hands in your lap and offer polite smiles to the serious suits, all making small talk around you. 

Kai’s eyes trace your features. You don’t look at him. 

Someone else walks into the room. Another suit. “Good afternoon,” he says, extending a hand for you to take. You shake it. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

He drops your hand before you can say anything in response, then crosses to the other side of the table and spreads a few pages out before him. 

“As I’m sure you know, after you were spotted with Choi Beomgyu several weeks ago, lots of rumors have spread about your potential relationship. On top of that, the filmed encounter with Huening Kai has damaged his reputation.”

He says all of this like it’s no one's fault—but makes it sound like yours in the same breath. You aren’t sure how he does it. 

“We’ve spoken with Beomgyu about the situation, and he’s confirmed that there is no relationship ongoing between the two of you—is that correct?” he asks. 

It cuts. Kai’s looking at you. The whole room looks at you. 

“He’s your employee, don’t you trust him?” you ask. Maybe because you’re feeling combative, or maybe because you don’t want to have to be the one to say the words out loud—that there’s nothing between you and Beomgyu. 

It doens’t matter, he makes you say them. “Can you please confirm the status of your relationship?” 

“There isn’t one,” you say. 

“And your relationship with Huening Kai?” he asks. 

“In the past,” you say. 

The manager sighs. He says, “Unfortunately for all of us, Miss, this situation isn’t going away on its own. We put out a statement regarding the nature of your relationship, but it didn’t have much of an effect. We were informed that you were followed home and injured last week. Is that correct?” 

Kai’s still watching. 

“Yes, that’s correct,” you say. “A man followed me home and grabbed me.” 

Another sigh from the manager’s lips. Although it doesn’t feel like he cares about the situation you’re in. It’s all PR. It doesn’t look good for the band. All the shit you’ve heard from Kai in the past. 

“Normally, we just want to brush this kind of thing under the rug,” he says. “But your circumstance is unique, given your previous relationship with Kai.” 

“Okay?” you say. 

Kai shifts uncomfortably next to you, like he knows what’s coming—despite what he said earlier. 

“What we’re proposing is that we reframe who you are in the eyes of Tomorrow x Together fans,” he says. 

“What does that mean?” you ask. 

The manager and Kai both sigh in tandem, but it’s the manager who continues speaking. “We want to make it seem like you’re a long-term friend of the band, like you’ve known them all forever.” 

Your head spins. 

“But why?” you ask. “I mean—they saw us kissing. They know I dated Kai. And besides, half the band is new. It hardly makes sense for me to be everyone’s—what did you call it—long-term friend.” 

“Kai and Soobin’s, then,” he says. “The semantics don’t matter. What matters is that people see you with the group as a whole and forget the individual pieces.” 

Your eyes glance sidelong to Kai. Maybe because he’s the only familiar face in the room, or maybe out of a habit you can’t kick. 

“What does that entail, exactly?” you ask. 

The manager pushes a piece of paper across the table. It’s marked with the band’s logo on the top, and details a week’s worth of appearances. Parties. Interviews. Team dinners. 

“Is this really necessary?” you ask. 

Kai laughs—a sound you didn’t know you missed. “I told you she wouldn’t go for it.”

“It’s to your benefit as well. By putting you in the spotlight and answering the questions the fans have, people will have no reason to seek you out. There won’t be a scoop to get because we’ll be giving it direct.” 

“I don’t want to be in the spotlight,” you say. It’s a flimsy excuse. 

“We’ll also provide protection to and from events, as well as a room for you in the building across the street.”

“Where everyone else stays?” you ask. 

“Yes. It’s monitored 24/7.” He slides another paper across the table. “We’ll also, of course, compensate you for this time.” 

You look down. The page is covered in numbers, rates for appearances, events. “And the cost of your rent in the dorms will be covered, as well as most meals.” 

Inevitably, your eyes find Kai’s again. He shrugs. It’s nearly imperceptible. 

“I just have to seem like I’m friends with the group?” you ask. 

So, lie. You think. They want you to lie. 

“You and Soobin, yes. And then, of course, you grew closer with the others when they joined, as well.” 

“And how do you plan to explain the kiss?” you ask. “And the argument?” 

The manager shrugs—which seems entirely unprofessional. “A drunken mistake.” He narrows his eyes at you. “That, at least, will be the truth, yes?” 

The coldness of the whole situation puts you off. The idea of being friends with them, of being in close quarters with Kai and Beomgyu and the rest, well, it’s certainly fucking strange. But if it saves you from being stalked… maybe it’s worth it. 

“Okay,” you say. The numbers on the page are certainly larger than you make at your current job, and well—what do you really have to lose, aside from a great deal of shame?

“Okay?” Kai repeats, confused that you’ve actually just agreed to this proposition. 

You shrug. “Yeah. Sure. Okay. I’ll do it.” 

The manager stands up, smile on his face. He extends his hand again for you to shake. “I’ll have some paperwork drawn up.” 

The room empties, leaving you and Kai alone. 

He shakes his head. “Jesus,” he says, exhaling slow. “This isn’t a good idea.” 

“Yeah, probably isn’t,” you say, with a shrug. 

“Then why are you doing it?” he asks. 

Another shrug. “I really don’t know.”

Everything’s already kind of fucked up, and even though you hate to admit it, they’re kind of right. There’s no getting out of this—and on the plus side, you’ll be able to get Jihyo that Soobin date for sure. 

“Seriously?” Jihyo asks, looking down at your copy of the signed contract. 

You nod, popping a chip into your mouth. It hasn’t exactly set in. What you’ve agreed to. Your new schedule that starts tomorrow. 

“So you’re just like, quitting your job and moving downtown?” she asks. 

You grab the contract out of her hand. “Of course not. I’m gonna find a subletter and use all my paid time off—I’m not insane.”

“Are you sure?” Jihyo asks. “It seems kind of insane. I mean, they’re paying you to hang out with them.”

“It’s not just that. They’re paying me for interview appearances, variety shows, all the stuff that Kai does,” you say. 

“All the stuff you didn’t watch?” 

“Exactly,” you say.

“I think you’re too happy about this,” Jihyo says. 

You let out a long sigh. “I don’t know what I feel about it, honestly.” Probably because you haven’t stopped to really think about it. “It’s a lot of money. And I won’t get stalked again—probably. That’s a good thing, right?”

You’re smiling, but all of a sudden it drops, and tears prick the corners of your eyes. Because oh god, what the fuck were you thinking? 

“This is a horrible fucking idea, isn’t it?” you say. 

Jihyo’s mouth drops open at your abrupt change in demeanor. She moves to your side, placing a hand on each of your shoulders to steady you. 

Your breathing sharpens, and it starts to feel difficult to breathe. Why didn’t you think this through? Why did you sign the papers without really thinking about it and all it entailed? What’s wrong with you? You touch your chest, feeling for the rapid heartbeat through your shirt, clenching your fingers like you could rip your heart right out if you really tried. 

“I don’t know—” you say as Jihyo guides you to the couch. “What I was thinking—what was I thinking?” 

Jihyo takes the lid off her water bottle and places it in your hands. “It’s going to be okay,” she says. “Just breathe.” She takes a deep breath through her nose, lifting her hands as she does. Then exhales, lowering them. 

You follow suit, but it doesn’t help. Your breathing won’t regulate, and your heartbeat won’t slow down, and you’re spiraling, and you’re fairly certain that everything that’s ever happened has been your fault, and you’re fairly fucking certain that nothing is going to work out for you because you don’t know how to use your brain, don’t know how to think. You’re always jumping into things, no consequences—which seems fun until you inevitably hit the bottom and break your ankles on the concrete. 

“You have to breathe,” Jihyo says again, words sharper, more commanding, forcing you to listen. She takes your hand, squeezes it tight. Breathes in and out again. 

Your head falls into your hands after a few steady breaths. “Oh my god, what’s wrong with me?” 

Jihyo shakes her head. “First of all, nothing. Second of all, there’s a chance this could be okay. You know? New apartment, new paycheck. You just have to pretend for a little while. But I’ll be with you the whole time.” 

“Because you want Soobin’s number?” you joke between deep breaths. 

“Well, that too,” Jihyo teases. She knocks her shoulder into yours. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” she says again. “So, you’re a little impulsive. It always works itself out.” 

“You’re not just telling me what I want to hear?” you ask. 

Jihyo laughs. “When have I ever done that?” 

That, at least, does make you feel better. If you were in deep shit, Jihyo would be the first one to tell you. And because she’s never optimistic for the sake of it, you trust her words. 

Jihyo helps you pack the essentials on a rainy Saturday in the middle of Spring. You rent your room out to someone at a nearby college looking to move off campus for the semester, and you take a leave of absence from work. 

It’s been just over a week since you signed the contract. Radio silence from pretty much everyone involved. No Instagram DMs from Kai, no text messages from Beomgyu. Only minor updates from the management team about moving in, first appearances, and all that stuff. It’s still incredibly strange, what you’re doing. 

Moving. Basically, starting a new job, all to avoid scrutiny for some band. You’ve never heard about a group taking such huge precautions before—but maybe that means it’s worked in the past. 

They said it was unprecedented. Maybe it’s never happened at all. 

Jihyo does her best to distract you, to continue playing the role of the pragmatic. Things are going to work out because they can. Because there’s no reason to freak out, to panic. This is better than getting stalked. It’s better than working minimum wage. 

All you have to do is pretend to be lifelong friends with a few rockstars. And how hard could that be, really—especially when you’ve already kissed two of them?

You and Jihyo pick up your keys from the management building, then walk across the street. You would think that there would be an increased presence of fans around, trying to snap candid photos of their faves, but there isn’t. Security is tight, and anyone loitering is quickly ushered along. 

The movers have the rest of your stuff handled, so you and Jihyo test your keys, using the card to gain access to the building. You swipe it again at the elevator, and the doors peel back. 

“Oh,” you say. 

Beomgyu leans against the back panel of the elevator, one leg bent, kicked up against the wall. His arms are crossed loosely over his chest, and his hair is half-tied up. He looks good. So good you almost forget what you’re doing. 

“Hey,” Beomgyu says as he kicks away from the back wall and walks toward you. He smiles at Jihyo. “You must be the friend.”

“Yep,” Jihyo says. 

“Yeah,” you say at the same time. “Hey.” It shouldn’t be awkward. It really shouldn’t. You kissed twice. The first nearly a month ago. You’re just two people. Two people who have kissed. 

He doesn’t say anything more, just dismisses himself from the elevator with a bow of his head. When the doors close, Jihyo turns to look at you. 

“Don’t say—,” you say. 

It’s not fast enough. She beats you to it. “God, he’s hot.” 

You grumble, crossing your arms over your chest. “I know.” 

It’s not going to be a problem, you tell yourself. Over and over. If you just keep repeating it, convincing yourself that seeing him doesn’t make heat stir in your chest, then it won’t be a problem. 

“He’s just a guy,” you say, more to yourself than to her. 

“Yeah, a really hot guy.”

“Jihyo,” you say. “Not helpful.”

“Right, sorry.” She pauses. “He’s just so much hotter, like, close up.” 

You pinch the bridge of your nose between your thumb and forefinger. “Yeah, that’s the fucking problem.”

The elevator dings, and you step out into the hallway. It’s identical to the ones you’ve been in before. Where Beomgyu lives below. Where Kai lives above. It’s paneled hardwood flooring, the walls painted a cream color. It’s a fairly small building. There are two doors on each side of the hall and one at the end. You lucked out, somehow, with the end unit. 

You unlock the door and step inside, leaving it open behind you. The unit is spacious, a bit different in layout than the ones you’ve seen. There’s a big living room lined with windows and a kitchen with a counter. It’s fully-furnished, stools at the counter, a plush couch, and a flat screen in the living room. Everything you need. 

“Knock, knock,” a voice says from the entryway as you and Jihyo explore the place. 

Soobin steps inside and spots you immediately. A big smile crosses his face. “Hey!” you say, a bit of cheer returning to your voice after a particularly stressful day. It’s been so long since you saw him last, but he still greets you with open arms, wrapping you in a tight hug. 

“It’s been forever,” he says. 

You detach from him and gesture toward Jihyo. “This is my best friend,” you say. “Jihyo.”

Jihyo waves. “Hey.” She’s unbelievably good at staying chill. Even though she’s probably thought about how this interaction would go at least twenty times in her head. 

“Nice to meet you,” he says, offering a kind smile. His dimples appear, and you just know Jihyo’s struggling to keep her composure. She does, though. She’s better than you. “Anyway, looks like we’re neighbors. I just wanted to stop by and say hey. I know there’s… uh—well, a lot going on, so if you need anything, just let me know.”

“Aw, Soobin,” you say. “What a nice way to say this situation is fucked up.” 

He chuckles. “I wasn’t going to say it. But yeah. It’s weird, right?” he asks, gesturing to the building, the everything. “All of this?” 

“Kinda weird, yeah,” you say. Last time you saw Soobin was pre-breakup. You met up at some shitty bar, took two-dollar shots with him and Kai, and passed out on the couch afterward. It was not the height of luxury. It was, in fact, very different from the world you’ve been inserted into. 

“First schedule’s tomorrow, right, that team dinner?” Soobin asks. 

You don’t remember where you put the calendar of events that management gave you. It’s in one of the boxes. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Well, don’t stress out too much. It’s going to be fun.” He looks at Jihyo. “You should come, too.” 

Jihyo smiles big. “Yeah, okay. I’ll think about it.”

When Soobin leaves, you whip around to face your best friend with a huge grin on your face. “You’ll think about it?” you tease. 

“So, I have thought about it,” she says. “And I do think I’ll be there.”

“Thank god. I don’t think I’ll survive without you,” you say. 

You’re waiting in the lobby of the apartment complex, waiting for Jihyo to arrive—and waiting for the car to pick you up—when the elevator dings. The doors slide open. 

Not Beomgyu. Not Beomgyu. You don’t even feel bad for thinking it. If you have to pretend to be friends with these people, it’s probably better if you keep your distance from him specifically. Being close to him is confusing. 

Of course, it is Beomgyu who steps out of the elevator and comes to stand at your side. 

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stands there silently, hands in his pockets. You have to work really hard to keep yourself from turning your head, from looking at him. You don’t even have to look at him to know he looks good. That’s what pisses you off. 

His fingers tense in his pockets, and he thinks about saying something. His mouth opens, then snaps closed. 

Finally, he does decide to break the silence. “How’s the new apartment?” he asks. 

You keep your eyes trained forward, find something to look at. “Good,” you say. “Yeah, it’s good.” You try to inject as much disinterest into your voice as possible. 

Maybe it’s rude. Maybe it makes you a bad person. But you’re shielding yourself. Saving your heart from dealing with more than it has to. 

“Oof,” he says. Despite your monotone words, he laughs. It’s warm and delicious. It makes you want to look at him, to see the smile on his face. You hold strong. “You’re not going to be good at this—are you?”

The question is enough to make your head whip in his direction. 

He’s wearing black slacks and a loose-fitted button-up shirt, the top two buttons left open. Your eyes stall at his neck before your brain slams into working order and forces them further upward. “What do you mean?” you ask. 

He shrugs. His eyes are locked onto yours, studying you, searching for something you can’t quite identify. You’d give anything to crack open his skull and figure out what’s going on behind his eyes, what he’s thinking. 

But Beomgyu’s not much for mystery. He says exactly what’s on his mind. 

“You’re mad at me,” he says. 

“I’m not mad at you,” you stress, but the words come out through your teeth. 

He grimaces in a playful kind of way that just makes you even more annoyed. “You sure you’re going to be able to pretend you like me?” 

“I do like you,” you say again, this time not just to be combative. “That’s kind of the problem, Beomgyu.” You say his name sharp, like he’s just a co-worker, and this is you keeping it professional. “If I didn’t like you, this would be a whole lot fucking easier.”

The playful grin drops from his face for a split second when he realizes what you’ve said and what it means. It’s not a surprise, of course. You both know what you both know—but it’s still a shock to hear the words aloud, said so blatantly. Apparently, neither of you cares to beat around the bush. 

He doesn’t say anything. 

You wave a hand in front of his face. “Wow,” you say. “Speechless. I didn’t know that was possible.”

“Don’t be mean,” he says, teasingly. Even if there is a hint of something real to his words, there’s that charming nature too. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, half-under your breath, not committing to the apology in the slightest. 

Silence stretches out between you both once more, and you rock on your heels as you wait for Jihyo. Check your phone. Check the time. Check your messages. It doesn’t make her show up any faster. 

“Are you okay?” Beomgyu asks. 

He has this way of completely cowing you, no matter what the conversation is about. 

“What?” you ask. And you have half a mind to brush it off—to play it the way Kai would. Why wouldn’t I be okay? You catch yourself doing it and remind yourself that you’re not him. Especially not in this situation. You’re you. Again. “Well, let’s see. My boyfriend of five years dumped me for my safety, and then I made out with his friend, who rejected me for basically the same reason—so I guess I’m fine, even though I really never learn. Do you think Soobin is looking for a girlfriend? Maybe third time’s the charm. Though I’m sure I can find some way to screw that up, too.” 

“We’re not friends,” Beomgyu says. 

“What?” you ask. 

“Me and Kai,” he says. “We’re not friends.”

You’re not sure why that was so important to point out, but you let the silence spread again after your miniature outburst. It feels good, though, to get it off your chest. 

Jihyo appears at the door, her smile morphing immediately into something more concerned. You take a step away from Beomgyu, and he falls in line behind you. “Wait—” he says, and you turn to look at him. You shake your head, and he drops it, whatever it was he hoped to say.

Jihyo waits a few steps before asking. “So,” she says. “How’s that going?” 

“I kind of just yelled at him, so it’s not great.” 

“Did he deserve it?” she asks. 

You sign, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I don’t know. Maybe.” Another sigh. “Probably not.”

The logical part of your brain knows that Beomgyu hasn’t done anything wrong. You hate that part. Because what the fuck does that mean? If Beomgyu hasn’t done anything wrong, what does that mean for Kai? Does that mean he didn’t do anything wrong, either? Does that mean that this entire time, post-breakup, you’ve been mad at him for… what, trying to take care of you?

No. Kai’s intentions were different. It wasn’t just about safety, but his image, too. That’s the difference. Beomgyu doesn’t care about that stuff. He just cares about you. 

And maybe that doesn’t make him a bad person. Maybe that does mean he hasn’t done anything wrong. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less. And you can’t rationalize it in your head, can’t compartmentalize, can’t make sense of the thing. Can’t separate the hurt from the action. You can only blame him. 

When you and Jihyo walk into the restaurant, blocked off for the team dinner, everyone’s there. Except Beomgyu. The manager from before motions for you to join him at the front of the table. You do. 

“I’ve gotten a chance to speak with most of you about this, but this is y/n. She’ll be joining us for some press for a little while, while we work to clear the rumors that have been circulating,” he says. “Y/n, I’m not sure if you’ve met everyone. But this is Taehyun, Yeonjun, Soobin, and of course, you know Kai.” 

“Of course,” you repeat. 

The group is staring at you. Taehyun has what looks like a forced smile on his face, Yeonjun looks a little bit confused, and Soobin is fully smiling. Kai looks through you. 

“I’m excited to be long-term friends with all of you,” you say, but it’s awkward. It feels too professional. The wrong tone. Soobin laughs out of pure kindness. 

He introduces you to a few other staff members, too. Some of the personal assistants. The people you’ll be working with more directly on sets and during media coverage. 

Beomgyu appears while you’re making small talk with people whose names you can’t remember. He takes a seat next to Taehyun, but doesn’t look at you. 

You could cut the tension in the room with a knife. Everyone’s either looking at you or looking away from you on purpose. Jihyo is situated between Soobin and Yeonjun at the opposite end of the table, leaving the only space for you adjacent to Soobin and next to Kai. You sit down. 

In that room—days after signing a contract and weeks after kissing Beomgyu—you come to the realization that this all fucking sucks. 

Sure, you probably should have figured that out before now, but it clicks in this moment, in the silence, the uncomfortable tension. Your ex-boyfriend seated to your right, and Beomgyu across from you. 

Suddenly, the money doesn’t matter anymore, and you’re not sure why you even decided to do this. You think, yeah. Maybe being stalked is better than whatever this is. 

Then, they bring out the soju. After a few pours, the room is looser. More eager to converse with one another, with you. 

“So, if we’re all going to be friends, shouldn’t you like—tell us about yourself?” Yeonjun asks. 

You purse your lips. Just because you’re tipsy and your face is warm doesn’t mean you actually want to talk to these people. You especially don’t want to introduce yourself like it’s the first day of fourth grade and you have to give three fun facts. 

“Right,” you say, dragging the word out as long as you can in procrastination. “No, totally.”

“So, I think you do actually have to say something,” Yeonjun comments again, and you make a mental note that he’s the nosey one. 

You can feel Beomgyu’s eyes on you from across the table, so you stay locked on Yeonjun. You study his features. He’s handsome. They all are. None of them strikes you between the ribs quite like Beomgyu does, though. 

It’s annoying how often his name pops into your mind. 

Beomgyu. 

You don’t want to think about him. Which, unfortunately, is kind of impossible given the situation you’re in and the amount of time you’ll be spending together. But can’t you just think about him a normal amount? Like how much you think about Soobin. That would be perfect. 

“Right,” you say again, and Yeonjun narrows his eyes. You mirror his gaze, which makes Soobin laugh. Kai’s quiet, has been the entire night. “Uh.” You start to believe that there’s pretty much nothing interesting about you. That you have no fun facts. Nothing that would impress your fourth-grade peers. 

“I guess,” you say, trying to start again. “I’ve lived here my whole life. I met Kai in college and Jihyo in grade school.” 

“Okay, but like, what do you do for fun?” Yeonjun asks.

 “I like video games,” you say with a shrug. “And drinking—shit, am I allowed to say that?” 

This, alone, lightens the mood. 

“We’re allowed to swear,” Taehyun says. 

“Thank god,” you say.

 “You and Kai met in college, but you aren’t friends now?” Yeonjun asks. Okay. Really nosey. He notices the way you shift at the question. “Sorry, too much?” 

“No, it’s fine,” you say. Beomgyu’s still looking at you. His name infects your brain like a disease. Beomgyu. Beomgyu. Think about anything else. “We broke up when you guys got really big—’er well, when Soobin and Kai and the other guys did. Before you guys were hired.” 

“Messy breakup?” Yeonjun asks. Everyone at the table just lets him continue with his line of questioning, all seemingly interested in what you have to say. 

Jihyo and Soobin exchange a look, and Soobin laughs lightly under his breath. When did they develop a secret language? 

“Not really,” you say. Kai tenses. “Clean cut and run type breakup—wouldn’t you agree?” Your eyes shift to Kai, who clears his throat. 

“Yup,” he says, half-grumbling. “Yeah.” Another clear of his throat. He reaches for the bottle. 

More silence. More drinking, and—of course—another question from Yeonjun. 

“So, how did we meet?” he asks. “If we’re all supposed to be lifelong friends or whatever, how did you meet the rest of us?”

“I think it’s just Soobin and Kai,” you say. “And then the rest of you later. More recently.” 

“Oh,” Yeonjun says. “So we don’t have to appear as close.” He asks questions like he’s studying for some kind of exam. Like he needs to know all the information in order to proceed. “Well, at least you know Beomgyu pretty well, right?” he teases. 

You hardly know him, but you want to throw something at him. You just laugh. “Right.”

“What happened there, anyway?” Yeonjun asks. 

Taehyun’s eyes shift around the table, trying to figure out who he can get to stop this conversation. Kai’s avoidant, Beomgyu’s staring, and the other two are giggling with each other like they’re at a slumber party. He’s stuck, and so are you. 

You shrug again. Lots of those tonight. You throw back another glass of soju and wipe your lips with the back of your hand. “It’s like the press said. Drunken mistake.” 

Beomgyu doesn’t react. 

Kai looks at you. A kind of softness behind his eyes that reminds you of the way he used to be. “Heard you got the end unit downstairs,” Kai says. It’s not a strong segway, but he tries. 

“Oh,” you say, in mere reaction to the sudden shift in conversation. Yeonjun’s direct line of questioning to Kai’s small talk. It gives you whiplash. “Yeah, it’s nice.” 

“And you got moved in okay?” he asks. 

Other conversations spring up around the room. Yeonjun, Taehyun, and Beomgyu are talking about something you can’t quite make out over the sound of Soobin and Jihyo. 

“Yeah. I mean, the movers did most of the work, and I really didn’t have a lot of stuff anyway,” you explain. 

“Cool,” Kai says. “Good.”

You say it again, even though you’ve said it what feels like a hundred times. “I know this is weird.”

Kai laughs. “Yeah.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol that makes things easier to say. It probably is. “We’re cool, you know.” You don’t really mean it, but it’s the thought that counts, right? “Like, everything—it’s all in the past. We’re cool.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. You just don’t know it. “Okay,” Kai says. A pained smile crosses his face, all tight-lipped and weird, like there’s something he wants to say but can’t. Or something he should say but doesn’t want to. 

“I just mean—” You’re always saying that. Explaining what you mean. Always afraid of being taken the wrong way, of not being understood. You just want him to get it. “I want to be friends.”

“That’s kind of the point, right?” he asks. 

“Actual friends,” you clarify. “Not just because your company is paying me.”

“It’s not my company,” he says. 

“Whatever,” you say. A laugh escapes your lips. “The company that pays your salary, that makes it possible for you to get all that expensive shit you love now.”

His brows draw together. “You don’t like my expensive shit?”

“Nope,” you say. 

Your fill your glass again. 

“You can still house soju, huh?” Kai comments. 

You get the desire to elbow him in the gut, but you manage to restrain yourself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, instead. 

“What, don’t tell me you still smoke cigarettes, too?” he asks. 

You make a face that obviously means yes. “No.”

“You know, you haven’t really changed at all,” Kai says. He doesn’t mean it as an insult, but it hits like one. Hard. In the center of your chest. You’re the same. You make the same mistakes. You ruin your own life over and over again. The words echo. You chase them down with what does he know about you, anyway? It makes you feel better. 

“You have,” you say.

“Is that a bad thing?” he asks. 

“In your case?” you ask, half-teasing. “Yes.”

“And in yours?” he asks, one eyebrow raised. 

The soju makes it easier to talk to him, but it’s still strange. Especially when the casual conversation makes it seem like no time has passed. 

“At least I haven’t changed for the worse,” you say. It’s not meant to be cutting, but the room gets a little quieter when you say it, and Jihyo’s grimacing at you like you’ve made some huge mistake. “Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Even though you kind of did. 

“It’s fine,” Kai says. “You don’t like me. I get it.” 

At least when he says it, it’s true. You don’t like him. There’s too much history for that. Too much pain. A year of dead silence after five years of being together. You stare at him for a long time. The alcohol’s twisting your thoughts, making you want to say things you shouldn’t, so you just look, forcing the thoughts away. Because you can’t ask him why, now. Not in front of everyone. Even though the word is burning on your tongue like acid. 

“It’s fine,” you say. “At least I’m good at pretending.”

Kai raises a brow in disbelief. “You’re awful at pretending.” 

Your face scrunches up, all browns drawn together—his disbelief jumping to your features. 

“Oh, come on,” he says. “You’re not a good liar, and you almost always say what’s on your mind, even if it’s mean.”

“That’s not true,” you say. 

But it is. 

You’re not good at pretending that he’s a different person. 

You’re not good at pretending you don’t have feelings for Beomgyu. 

You’re not good at pretending all of this isn’t incredibly strange and also borderline fucked up. 

And you’re not good at pretending that it’s all going to be okay in the end. 

He nudges the bottle of soju closer to your hand. It’s almost encouraging. 

“I’ll try to be less of an asshole,” he says. “Make it easier for you.” 

How nice. You think. Do you think you could relay the message to Beomgyu, too, ask him to stop looking at you with big brown eyes and a knowing smile? Probably not. 

The drinking continues alongside small talk. Nothing quite so serious as the conversations you’ve had with Yeonjun, Beomgyu, and Kai in the last several hours. And by the time you’ve eaten and been dismissed by management—you’re struggling to stand on your own. 

It didn’t feel like quite so much alcohol when you were sitting down, but as soon as you stand, it all rushes to your head. It’s dizzying. 

Kai notices immediately. He puts one hand on your lower back and the other on your arm. Everyone’s standing around the table, finishing up conversations, waiting to filter out of the room. Beomgyu’s looking at you again, looking at the places where Kai’s hands touch your body. 

He was so confident before—so carefree about the fact that the two of you dated. Has that changed? He seems to care now, the way his eyes keep flicking over to you while talking to Taehyun. 

“You good?” Kai asks, slowly releasing his grip on you. You stand for a few seconds, looking at the ground, at your feet. It’s easier than looking at everyone else. 

Everyone else in the room is watching you—or at least, when you aren’t looking, it’s easy to convince yourself of that. 

That they all think something about you. 

“Mhm,” you grumble. He helps you out of the room. Jihyo catches up quick, but she’s just as drunk as you are—if not more. She drops an arm around your shoulders, almost pulling you down. 

The three of you walk out together. There are two cars waiting on the curb. You’re half leaning on Kai, waiting for Jihyo and Soobin to get in, when Beomgyu’s eyes catch yours. He takes a step toward you. You shake your head, and he stops in his tracks, frozen. You can’t read the expression on his face from so far away, but he looks down for a brief moment before turning away. 

You and Kai join Jihyo and Soobin in the first car, and it’s not long before you’re back at the dorm building, the second car pulling up behind you. 

“Hey,” Kai says, nudging you gently when you don’t immediately get out. 

“Mm?” you grumble. It’s a struggle to keep your eyes open. You know he’s there, asking you to do something, but you can’t exactly get a grip on what it is that he wants. Whatever it is, it sounds impossible—even if, in reality, it’s just getting out of the car. 

He must get annoyed at your desire to stay seated, because one arm reaches over you to unbuckle your seat belt as the other snakes under your body to pull you closer to the door. Then, he’s picking you up, holding you against his chest. 

You let your head fall against him because it’s easy. Comfortable. He carries you upstairs. 

“Where are your keys?” he asks. His voice is softer now, almost gentle. It’s a year and a half ago again, and nothing bad has ever happened to the two of you. 

“M’ purse,” you say. It’s hanging off your shoulder. He lifts it up and digs through it. He opens the door and sets you down on the couch. 

He looks at you for some time, like he’s trying to decide whether or not he should leave you there. Is his brain trapped in the past, too, with some other version of you—admittedly unchanged?

He crouches next to the couch to look at you. Your eyes open and close at a high frequency. “Hey,” he says, trying to capture your focus. “You feeling okay?”

The room spins a little bit faster every time your eyes open. “Nope,” you say. “No.” At first, it’s just commentary on the status of your mental integrity, but then it becomes true for the physical too, and you’re trying to force yourself upright. “Bathroom,” you say, and he helps you up with a quickness. 

“Okay,” he says, as he helps you to the bathroom floor. “You’re okay.” 

You are—of course—not okay at all, and Kai doesn’t leave the room as you vomit, which has to be at least some kind of point in his favor. Once it’s out of your system, you feel a little bit better. You remember where you are, at least. 

“See,” you say. “I’m basically a lightweight.”

Kai laughs. He’s sitting on the floor with his knees bent, his arms balanced on top of them. For the first time in a long time, he’s looking at you like he sees you. Like he remembers everything he walked away from. 

“You drank more than everyone in that room—except maybe your friend,” he comments. “I don’t think that makes you a lightweight.”

You look at him for a long time. Not because you can’t find the words you want to say, but because there are far too many of them. There’s no voice in your head telling you not to say them, either. So you just do. 

“Do you ever regret it?” you ask. 

It’s the kind of question that’s kept you up at night over the past year. The kind of question you’ve thought about asking a hundred times. Not one you ever imagined asking, post-vomit, sitting on the bathroom floor of an unfamiliar apartment. 

He doesn’t play dumb this time. Maybe it’s because he thinks you won’t remember. He does laugh, a dry kind of laugh. Humorless. “Of course.” 

This sobers you up another fraction. The seriousness in his tone. The offhanded nature with which he says it. Like it’s fucking obvious or something. This time, you really don’t know what to say. Your mind draws a complete blank. 

“Oh,” you say. 

You can’t look at him. You don’t want to look at him. 

“I should,” you start, looking at your hands, trying to determine if you want to run away again. “Sleep.” Your brain is too muddled for serious conversations you started. 

“I have a question,” he says, before you can even attempt to stand up. 

Your eyes do flick up then. “Okay.”

“Do you have feelings for Beomgyu?” he asks. Before you can answer, he keeps talking. “Before you ask, it’s because I want to know. It’s for selfish reasons. Nothing to do with the band.”

Where was that honesty last year, that honesty several weeks ago? Why isn’t he hiding now?

“I don’t know,” you say. 

He presses his lips into a tight line. “See what I mean?” he says. “Not very good at pretending.” He stands up from the tiled bathroom floor and shoves his hands into his pockets. “I know I’m not the boss of you or anything—but.” He sighs. “Just be careful, okay?” 

You don’t move, but look up at him from the ground with one raised brow. 

“Beomgyu is…” he starts. “He’s done stuff like this before, and people always get hurt. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say. Maybe you do, a little bit. But you’re drunk. You want him to spell it out. Otherwise, you’ll spend the rest of the night overthinking. 

He sighs again, like this is hard to say. You can’t tell if he’s being honest or not, or if this is a part of some long game to wedge some distance between you and his bandmate. That’s the thing about trust, right? It doesn’t just appear out of thin air. The two of you had it once, but now you’re drunk, doubting whether or not he’s lying to your face. It was never like that before. 

“You’re not the first fan he’s dated,” Kai says. 

You can’t help it. “Not technically a fan.”

He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean,” he says. “There have been other instances. Not on this scale, obviously, but it’s been a problem for the company.” 

“So?” you ask. Because why is that your business?

Kai shrugs. “I just thought you might want to know. He’s not exactly a serious, settling down type of guy.” 

“Maybe I’m not a serious, settling down type of girl,” you say, eyes sharp even though your words don’t cut as much as you want them to, slurring into softness instead. “You should go.”

He leaves. And if his speech was meant to plant a seed of doubt in your brain, well. It certainly works. 

“Too loud,” Jihyo says when you knock on her door the next morning. “Way too loud.” When she opens the door, she’s wearing the same hungover uniform you’re rocking. Baggy sweatpants and a big hoodie. The only difference is the sunglasses you wore on the walk to block out the ridiculously bright sun. 

You lie down on her couch without much conversation, and the two of you exist in silence for a good while before you say, “So, Soobin?” 

A smile breaks out across her face. “Oh my god,” she says. “He’s so cute. He got me a ride home last night and everything. Isn’t that so nice?” 

“Really nice,” you say. 

“Did you make it back okay? I don’t remember much after leaving the restaurant, honestly.” 

You chew on your bottom lip. “Yeah, Kai helped me.”

“Kai?” Jihyo asks. “Why not Beomgyu?” She climbs onto the couch next to you, lying her head at the opposite side. 

You shrug, holding your hands in the air for a moment. You know the answer, of course. You remember meeting his eyes, shaking your head, pushing him away. 

“I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think Beomgyu and I are ever going to happen,” you say. “Especially with this whole scheme—he wants to wait until the blows over, but I don’t think that’s possible anymore.” 

“I guess,” Jihyo says. “Don’t you think people will get used to seeing you with the group, though? Then, if they see you with just him, it won’t seem so strange.”

“Maybe,” you say. But what you really mean is I don’t want to get my hopes up. What you really mean is it’s easier if it’s off the table. 

“So, Kai?” 

“So, Kai,” you repeat. 

“What’s going on there?” Jihyo asks. 

You sigh. You prop yourself up on your elbows to look at Jihyo. “I don’t know. He was almost… nice last night. Helped me upstairs and all that.”

“Kind of bare fucking minimum if you ask me. Did he hold your hair back while you threw up, too?” she asks. 

You laugh. “No.” 

“Well, I would have. And I bet Beomgyu would have, too.” Her eyes narrow on you. “Something else happened. What?” 

Damn, are you that easy to read? “I may have asked him if he regretted breaking up.”

Jihyo’s eyes fall closed. She shakes her head. 

Through your teeth, you say, “He said yes.” 

Jihyo sits up fully at that. She throws her arms out to her sides. “Well, yeah. He wasn’t going to say no to your face.” 

“I know we don’t like him, but isn’t there a chance he was being sincere?” you ask. 

“Yeah, maybe. I guess,” Jihyo says. She sighs again. “Do you want to know what I really think?” 

“Yes.”

“I think he saw you getting closer to Beomgyu. I think for the past year you’ve had to watch him move on, but this is the first time he’s had to watch you. And I don’t think he likes it.” 

You sit up fully, too, and pull your knees to your chest. “There is one other thing.” You pause. It’s too late to not say it. “He told me to be careful about pursuing Beomgyu. He said Beomgyu’s done this before, whatever that means.”

“Oh my god,” Jihyo says, rolling her eyes. “It’s such textbook jealous ex bullshit. You know that, right?” 

You don’t respond fast enough. 

“It is,” she stresses. 

“I know that,” you say, but it’s not convincing. 

Jihyo scoots over and wraps both her arms around you. You drop your head onto her shoulder. “I know you don’t want to get hurt again. I know that’s why you’re yelling at Beomgyu and pretending he’s no longer an option—but,”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to talk about Beomgyu.” 

Jihyo lifts a hand to smooth over your hair. “Okay,” she says. She doesn’t push, so you just sit in silence for a while, letting her comfort you. 

Thankfully, when it comes time to do your first interview, they don’t pair you up with Kai or Beomgyu, but with Soobin. They ask you questions that the company has prepared you for. Normal stuff. About your life. About how you met Kai and Soobin. They save the juicy questions for last. You were prepared for these, too. Drunken mistake was said at least a hundred times during your PR meeting. To the point where you can almost convince yourself that’s what it was. 

The interviewer is nice enough, though. A woman with dark brown hair pulled into a ponytail. She has kind eyes. It isn’t live, but there’s a recording device placed on the table in front of you. 

“I have a few questions from Tomorrow x Together fans, if that’s okay?” she says. 

“Yeah, of course,” you say. There’s no other answer. This is why you’re here. You can’t exactly ignore the thing they’re paying you for. 

“Let’s just talk about the elephant in the room, right?” she says, laughing. Soobin laughs too, trying to make it seem like you’re all on the same team. “The scandal, right?”

“Scandal’s such a scary word,” Soobin says. “It was more of a misunderstanding.”

You nod along. 

“I’m a Beomgyu fan, myself,” Soobin says. “So, I get it—but there’s really nothing to worry about.” 

“Yeah,” you say, keeping the smile on your face. “We’re just friends. It was kind of just a weird thing that happened. We laugh about it now.”

Blatant lying. You’re blatantly lying. You keep the smile. You try not to make it seem obvious. The doubts creep in. They’ve been creeping in. You aren’t good at pretending. 

“Some other people think it’s kind of strange,” the interview starts. “That you’ve been seen with the group so much lately.” 

“Oh,” you say. “Am I dating all of them now?” you joke. Maybe it’s the wrong thing to say, but you can’t help it. 

Soobin laughs, too. But there’s still a strange tension in the room, like everyone knows you’re lying. One of the managers is off to the side watching, but he keeps his face completely straight. He gives you nothing to work with. You could be nailing it or absolutely fucking it up, and there’s no way to know. 

“Of course not,” the interviewer laughs, but hers sounds equally as tight as yours feels. “I think fans just find it a bit odd, you being around so much after so long.”

“A year isn’t really that long, is it?” you say. “Besides, Soobin and I have hung out a few times in between. Just because no one saw it doesn’t make it a lie.” 

“And what about you and Kai?” she asks. “I understand you were in a fairly serious relationship?” 

“That’s correct,” you say. 

Soobin’s back straightens. He leans forward and pauses the recording device. “Is this something we have to discuss?” he asks. 

“The fans are curious about it,” she says. 

Soobin looks at you. You nod. “It’s fine,” you say. 

He’s always been kind, but it makes you feel so much better knowing he’s looking out for you, too. Even if it’s been a year, at least the two of you are still friends. And not in the lying kind of way. 

She presses play again. “I think they’re concerned that the two of you are going to start dating again,” she says. “Is that something they should be worried about?” 

“No,” you say, and it’s the first truthful thing you’ve said. “Absolutely not. We’re so much better as friends. Just friends.” 

The rest of the interview goes on without issue. The questions range from tame to mild, but nothing sets you off. You talk about your friendships. You talk about meeting the new members, about how you’re so uninterested in Beomgyu, and how you’re grateful to know a group of such nice guys. The interviewer thanks you both for your time and for giving her the inside scoop on the situation. 

It all makes you a little sick to your stomach. 

When you get back to your apartment, you collapse on the couch, rubbing your temples.

The next item on the schedule is one you’re really dreading. A party. That means acting normal in front of people. Thankfully, as a consolation prize, the company provides you with a wardrobe. You start to understand, just a little bit, why Kai likes expensive clothes. They’re soft on your skin, and you look sexy. The black dress they picked out hugs your curves, shows off your arms, and red bottom heels make you feel cooler than you’ve ever felt in your life. Even if, at least a little bit, you don’t really feel like yourself, but instead like someone wearing a costume. 

Shortly after you’re done getting ready, Kai appears at your door. You try not to look at him for too long. He looks good, and you don’t want to think about that. His blonde hair falls right above his eyes. 

“You ready?” he asks. 

Does he assume you forgot what he said in the bathroom? It would be easier if you had. Even Jihyo’s words the next morning aren’t enough to keep his words from playing on repeat in the back of your skull. It’s annoying. How much you think about it. 

What could the two of you have been, if he’d made a different decision?

“Yes,” you say, stepping out into the hall next to him, closing the door behind you. 

“You look nice,” he says. 

“Don’t do that,” you say, a knee-jerk reaction. 

He doesn’t flinch, hardly even reacts. “Just calling it like I see it.”

“Well, don’t,” you say. 

“Come on,” he says. “We’re going to be late.”

The elevator ride is silent, but not awkward. Neither of you looks at the other. There’s tension in the air, but you can’t discern exactly what kind. You don’t feel anything for him. You think about what could have been, but that doesn’t mean you want anything to change. You mourn the dead relationship, sure. You have no interest in resurrecting it. That doesn’t make the mourning any easier. 

Soobin’s waiting in the lobby with Jihyo. No wonder she never made it all the way upstairs. He’s just as enraptured with her as she’s always been with him. The cynic in you wants to warn her away, but you know Soobin. He’s a good guy. 

You thought you knew Kai, too. 

A sigh escapes your lips. At least someone is happy. 

The car takes the four of you across town to a club. At the door, a man takes your phones. You look to Kai in confusion before handing yours over. 

“No photos,” he says. 

“Open bar?” you ask, in response, and Kai nods. 

The four of you find your way to said bar, and Kai orders a round of shots. 

“Where’s everyone else?” you ask. 

Kai knows what you mean. You mean where’s Beomgyu? 

It’s crazy. The night you and Beomgyu met, you wondered where Kai was. Why he wasn’t at your old place with his bandmate, and now you’re in a new place, wondering where Beomgyu is. 

“Here somewhere,” he says. “Not sure.” 

You don’t miss the tension in his voice. 

You take the shot. It feels good. The alcohol burns your throat, shakes a few cyclical thoughts free from your mind. 

“So,” you say. “This isn’t a work thing?” 

Kai shakes his head. “It’s kind of a work thing.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“It’s an industry thing. Lots of other musicians, that kind of thing,” he says. 

You nod. “So it’s a work thing for you,” you say. “But not for me.”

“Exactly,” he says. “And even then, it’s barely a work thing. Some networking happens, but really everyone’s just here to blow off some steam, get fucked up. That kind of thing. And no phones, so no proof of anything.”

He pauses. “I think we lost our friends.” 

You just barely catch Jihyo pulling Soobin toward the dance floor. Then, it’s just the two of you, again. 

He orders another round. You don’t wait for him, you just throw the shot back. 

“Should I be worried?” he asks. 

You shake your head. “About me? No.”

“I know I said you haven’t changed,” he says. “But that’s not really true. You have.” He looks at you over his shot glass. “You’re different.”

“Yeah?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “What’s different about me?” 

He throws back his shot, then looks at you, studying your face. “You’re meaner.” 

“I’m meaner?” you say, trying not to laugh. 

“Not like—it’s not a bad thing,” he says. “You’re just not as much of a pushover, I guess.” 

“I was never a pushover,” you say, even though you know what he means. You don’t stand for as much shit, now. You were softer before the breakup. The person you were before the relationship ended didn’t hold grudges, didn’t run away from things that might hurt. “I know what you mean.”

“Want to join them on the dance floor?” Kai asks. He holds out a hand for you to take. 

You shake your head. “You go. I’m good here.” He disappears. 

You take a third shot. It doesn’t make you feel better. You wander around, finding a second bar tucked away in the back. It’s quieter there. There’s room for conversation. You take a seat, try to collect your thoughts. 

Who does Kai even think he is, anyway? Telling you that you’ve changed? Making these assumptions about you, these observations. You hate it. You hate him. You hate that you don’t hate him. You wish you could hate him. 

The bartender places a drink in front of you. “Whiskey sour.” 

“Oh, I didn’t—” you start. You can feel the static in the air before you see him. The bartender nods toward the corner of the room, and you can’t stop yourself from following his gaze. 

All of those feelings you felt about Kai seconds ago? They’re gone. Immediately. Replaced by this pure burning feeling in your chest that doesn’t go away. And you’re looking at him, and he’s looking at you, and there’s this crackling energy that drowns out everyone else, and it’s like that very first night all over again, and your chest burns and aches and hurts, and you can see the future, see the fire. 

You stand up. 

You drag your eyes away from him. Away from the question they’re asking, away from the dangerous glance he leveled at you that first night, before the first kiss. And you think he must be drunk, he must be tipsy, or crazy, or something. 

You leave the drink on the bar, and you walk away. And that hurts, too. 

Because nothing feels good when it comes to Beomgyu. You’re walking down a hallway, past smatterings of people, desperately trying to remember where the exit to the damn club is, when his hand wraps around your wrist, and you stop dead in your tracks. 

And then you turn, and he’s just looking at his hand, touching your skin, and you want to grab him by the collar of his shirt and kiss him, but you can’t. You can’t. His eyes flick upward. They meet yours, and that lazy fucking smile appears on his lips, and it only serves to piss you off because you can’t, you can’t. 

“I thought you liked whiskey sours,” he says. 

He doesn’t release your wrist, and you don’t pull away. 

“I do,” you say. 

Everything goes silent again, as you’re looking at each other. 

“Beomgyu,” you say, your voice dropping to a whisper. It’s quiet enough in the back area of the building that he can still hear you. “What are you doing?” 

“I was trying to buy you a drink.”

“I mean now,” you say, briefly glancing at the way he’s holding you, his thumb on your pulse point. Can he feel the rapid beating of your heart? 

He looks down too, trying to figure out how to say the thing he wants to say, trying to figure out if he should say it. His thumb drags along the inside of your wrist as his eyes bore into yours. It’s like you’re both under some kind of spell. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say, trying to get yourself to snap out of it. It’s not working. 

“Like what?” he asks, his voice deep and warm. His glance drops to your lips, and you remember kissing him. You remember him pushing you into the bricks outside the old dive bar, his hands roaming over your body. You take a step back, let his hand drop away from your wrist. 

“Like you want to kiss me,” you say.

“Maybe I do.”

You take a step back, and he reaches for you again. 

“Please,” you say. “I can’t do this.” 

“Can’t do what?” he asks. “Look at me? Talk to me?” 

“You rejected me.” 

“You left before I could explain,” he says.

“There wasn’t anything you could have said,” you say.

“That’s not true,” he says. “I like you.” He lets the words hang in the air for a moment. “I really like you. And if you’d looked at me for a second over the last few weeks, you would have seen it.”

It would be so easy to kiss him. To kiss him and forget everything else. But there’s still that voice whispering in your ear, telling you that it’s a mistake, that it’s just going to get you hurt again. 

You don’t know why you say it. Maybe because it’s been burning a hole in the back of your mind ever since Kai said it. “Do you say that to all the girls you do this with?” 

“What?” he asks, both eyebrows shooting up. 

“This,” you say. “It’s just something you do, right?” 

He narrows his eyes in confusion. 

“That’s what Kai said—he said you’ve done this before. That you’re not ‘exactly the serious, settling down’ kind of guy, and that I shouldn’t waste my time,” you say. 

Beomgyu pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not—” He shakes his head. “Can we go somewhere and talk?” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you say. 

“Probably isn’t,” he says. Then, “I’m not going to hurt you. You just have to trust me.”

“I don’t know if I can,” you say. 

And you feel like an idiot. Of course, you feel like an idiot. You’ve been making the same bad decisions over and over again for the past several weeks. Impulsive. Uncalculated. You can’t do this again. Can’t make the wrong choice again. But everything feels like the wrong choice. Running makes you feel like an idiot, and staying is too fucking terrifying. 

“I have to find Jihyo,” you say, and you go. 

He doesn’t try to stop you. 

Even as you’re walking away, pushing through the crowd, trying to find your best friend, you think about going back. Turning around and finding him again. But you can’t convince your feet to do it, can’t get your body to listen to your heart, when all it wants to do is follow the logic your brain puts forth. Bad idea, run. Not, you want him, stay. 

You find Yeonjun, instead of Jihyo. 

“Have you seen Jihyo?” you ask. He’s holding two shots. “Who’s that for?” You take one out of his hand. 

“No,” he says. Then, “Soobin—” 

You throw back the shot. You can’t remember what number that is, and you’re not sure you want to. 

“Was Jihyo with him?” you ask. 

“No idea,” Yeonjun says. 

“You’re not very helpful,” you say, as you disappear deeper into the crowd. 

Taehyun’s watching you, and he tilts his head toward a short hallway that leads to a few bathrooms. He shrugs, like he’s not exactly certain. But you heed his advice. 

“Jihyo?” you say, checking the doors to the individual bathrooms. The first’s empty. The second’s locked. 

When you throw open the third door, it’s occupied. 

Jihyo’s sitting on the sink with her dress pushed up her thighs. Soobin’s holding her waist. She pulls away from the kiss, lipstick smeared across her face, to look at you. 

You stare for a beat too long. 

“Close the door,” she says, like it’s urgent. 

You step back and close the door, alone in the hallway again. Being inside turns stuffy. Every corner is one Beomgyu could be hiding behind, waiting to say something to you, to talk. You don’t want to talk. You stumble out into the back alley, seeking fresh air. 

You’re out of breath. You reach a hand up to touch the bricks and lean over to recover. It’s a lot to process, but there’s no time. Someone clears their throat next to you. 

“Hey,” Kai says. He doesn’t move any closer. “You okay?” There’s a cigarette in his hand, dangling between two fingers, and he’s watching you closely, like he’s concerned or interested or something. You can’t tell. 

You straighten yourself out, running your hands down your dress to smooth out the folds. You stand up straight. 

“Yes,” you say. You walk closer even though you know you shouldn’t. There’s this ache in your chest that won’t go away, that hasn’t gone away in nearly a year. And he’s there, and he’s looking at you, and maybe that’s enough. 

He puts the cigarette between his lips. 

“You used to get on my case about smoking,” you say. 

“Guess I’m a hypocrite,” he says, exhaling. 

When he places it back between his lips, you reach for it without hesitating, the tips of your fingers brushing against his lip as you take it from him and place it between your own. He watches you with a gaze you haven’t seen in a long time. 

It’s hardly even about him. 

Your heart is racing like it could break a rib, and it hurts. Your chest hurts. Not in any curable way, but maybe you can drown it out. Drown it out with alcohol and nicotine and him. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks. 

You take a long drag off the cigarette, then exhale before handing it back to him. 

“Do you really want to know?” you ask. 

“Of course I want to know,” he says. Again with the of courses. Like everything about you has always been an of course. And you just never saw it. 

You shiver. It’s hardly cold, but your blood feels like ice, shocking your system over and over again. What are you doing? 

“Are you cold?” he asks. 

Before you can answer, he’s taking off his coat, draping it over your shoulders. It smells so strongly of him that it almost makes you burst into tears. The real him. The five years your boyfriend him. The one you loved. 

If you close your eyes, no time has passed. You’re outside a different bar, on a different night. 

“I’m starting to think I’m kind of a fucking idiot,” you say, finally. He doesn’t say anything. Just lets you talk through it. “Every decision I make—I don’t know—it just feels like the wrong one. And I can’t figure out how to fix that. I feel like,” you put your hands through his sleeves, stuff your hands into the pockets of his jacket. You clear your throat of the choked-up feeling. “I feel like a person shouldn’t be able to make so many wrong decisions in a row, like it should be mathematically impossible, or something.”

You rock on your heels, avoiding his gaze, staring at the ground. When you finally look up, it’s unavoidable. His eyes have been on you the whole time. The cigarette burns in his hand. “Do you ever feel like that?” you ask. 

He laughs. “You’re asking me if I ever feel like I can’t do the right thing, no matter how hard I try?” 

“I guess, yeah.”

He lets the cigarette fall, crushing it half-smoked under his heel. He takes one step closer to you. He reaches up to grab just below the collar of his jacket, holding the edges. But he doesn’t tug you closer, doesn’t move. He just holds them and looks down at his hands. 

“Yeah, I feel like that,” he says. 

You can’t control it. Something breaks. Your eyes fall to his lips. He doesn’t move. “I want to kiss you,” he says, hands tightening only slightly on your jacket. “But I need you to know something first.” 

“Okay,” you say, barely a whisper. 

“It’s not because I’m drunk. It’s not an impulse. If you’re an idiot, I’m an idiot, because I can’t seem to stop fucking this up,” he says, eyes searching yours. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For leaving you. For being a dick. For all of it, I’m sorry—” 

You can’t stand it anymore. 

You cut him off, rocking forward on your toes and lifting your hands up to grab his shoulders, pressing your lips against his all at the same time. You swallow the apology. Maybe so you don’t have to think about it. You’re not thinking about anything right now, anyway. 

It’s selfish. 

Maybe that’s something you can think about later. How selfish it is. To kiss him, when you’re thinking about someone else, when everything you’ve said has been about someone else. But then he’s kissing you back, and you start thinking about him, too. 

His reaction isn’t immediate. It takes a second to move past the shock, but then he’s pulling you closer to him by the lapels. 

The kiss loses its innocence as fast as you both remember who you’re kissing. You’re pressing into him, kissing him hard, like you can take everything you need from just one kiss. And he’s holding you by the jacket, dragging you in and up. It’s full of pent-up feelings. Some anger. Your teeth knock into each other. 

When you finally pull yourself away from him to catch your breath, it’s to the sound of the door swinging open. 

“Beomgyu,” you say as you meet his eyes from feet away. Kai’s hands drop from your jacket. His jacket. 

You can’t place the expression on his face. He’s so good at keeping his emotions close, never letting them escape somewhere that just might make them identifiable. He drops his hand from the push bar on the door and turns, letting it fall closed behind him as he walks back inside. 

Time freezes for a moment, and you’re stuck in another one of those moments where decisions feel important. 

Your brain is muddled from the alcohol, but the nicotine has offered a sense of clarity. Your lips are tender from the kiss, and Kai’s looking at you, waiting for you to move. 

“I have to,” you say. “I’m sorry.” And you follow Beomgyu inside. 

“Wait,” you say, trying to catch up as he moves through the crowd. “Beomgyu, wait.” 

He freezes, back to you, at the sound of his name. 

You’re equidistant between them. Kai is just a few footsteps behind you. He closes the distance and reaches for you, grabbing your hand, interlacing your fingers—like one kiss changed everything. 

It hasn’t. 

You wrench your hand away and try not to look at the hurt expression that immediately appears across his features. 

He reaches for you again, grabbing your shoulder. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s just go.”

You turn to face him. “No,” you say. His fingers tense on your shoulder, but he doesn’t let go of you. “Just give me a minute. Please.”

“I don’t understand,” he says. “I thought—did that not mean anything to you?” 

“I—” you start. 

“I love you,” he says. A few people in the crowd turn to look. You can’t see Beomgyu. You don’t know if he’s listening or if he left. “I love you,” he says again. “Please, let’s just go.”

Make a decision. Make a decision. Your head hurts, and your brain is screaming, and you know how this story, with him, ends. You know how it ends, and you don’t know if you can do it again. But there’s Beomgyu. There’s Beomgyu and his big laugh and his wide smile and the way he looks at you. Beomgyu, who doesn’t care about anything else. Beomgyu, who didn’t really reject you. Not really. Beomgyu who you pushed away. Who you ran from. 

The mistakes, the feeling like an idiot, it wasn’t about Kai. It was never about Kai. 

“I can’t,” you say, for the second time tonight, to a different man. 

“Are you kidding?” he says. “This is a joke, right? You’re kidding?” He’s raising his voice. More people stop to look. 

“Kai, please,” you say, stepping closer to him, trying to prevent a scene from breaking out while you’re all drunk, while you’re all confused. 

“No,” he says. “This is crazy. Come on, baby, let’s just go home.” He tries to grab your hand again, but you jerk away before he can. 

From over your shoulder, Beomgyu says. “You’re making a scene.”

You half turn to look at him, and you swear, when you catch his eyes, a hint of a smile appears on his lips. 

“Stay out of this,” Kai says, pointing a finger in Beomgyu’s direction. 

“Don’t talk to him like that,” you say. 

“Why not?” Kai asks. “He wants to be in the middle of everything. Why shouldn’t I? He kisses my ex-girlfriend, messes with her head, and now what? You just want me to be nice to him.” 

“Yes,” you say through gritted teeth. “And no one’s—no one’s messing with my head.” 

“I said you were different, and I meant it,” Kai says. 

It raises your anger to an entirely new level. “I’m different because of you, Kai. Because you hurt me. And because I—” you stumble over the words. They get stuck in your throat. “I had to figure out who I was after.” 

Jihyo appears out of nowhere. Lipstick still smeared across her lips. She puts a hand on Kai’s chest and forces him backward, away from you. 

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s get out of here.” She tugs you away, through the crowd, without giving you a second to say anything else. You look back, not at Kai, who’s waiting for your eyes to meet his, but at Beomgyu, who watches you go. 

“Oh my god,” Jihyo says, once you’re situated in the back of a car, headed toward your apartment. “What happened?” 

Your heads reeling, and the world around you is spinning, and nothing makes sense. Not your actions, not Kai’s. 

“Kai kissed me,” you say. Then, “That’s not true. I kissed him.”

Jihyo doesn’t even try to hold back her shock. “Why?” 

You throw your arms out at your sides, letting your head fall back against the headrest. “I have no idea.” You let out a long sigh. “Beomgyu tried to buy me a drink, and I don’t know—I don’t know, I guess I got scared, and I ran away, and then I saw you with Soobin, and then there was Kai, and he was just there—and I’m so lonely, Jihyo. I’m so lonely, and I’m pretty sure it’s because I’ve ruined every chance at love I’ve ever had.”

She reaches out to take your hand. 

“I mean, seriously,” you say. “What is wrong with me? Genuinely?” 

“You’re drunk, first of all,” she says, which does serve to make you laugh, even as tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “But nothing’s wrong with you. You got drunk and kissed your ex. It happens.”

“Does it?” you ask. 

“Well, not to me. But to some people, I’m sure,” she says. “People who have to be around them all the time.” 

“I missed him so much, Jihyo.” You sigh, letting your eyes fall shut, letting tears slide down your cheeks in silence. “I tried not to make a big deal about the whole thing, but I don’t think I ever really got over it.”

“I know,” she says, squeezing your hand. 

“And then I met Beomgyu.” Another sigh. “And he’s not even confusing. He’s been honest with me the entire time. He told me what he wants—he likes me. And I just keep avoiding it.”

“And then Kai comes back into your life, too,” Jihyo says. “I get it. It must be a lot, seeing him again. You guys were together for so long. I think it’s normal to have some of those feelings return.”

“But I don’t even want him, I just—why can’t I just let myself have Beomgyu?” you ask, even though you know the answer, even though you’ve known the answer. But knowing why doesn’t make it stop happening, and that’s really what you’re after. 

Jihyo sighs because she doesn’t have the answer you want to hear. Because there is no right answer, or any answer at all. That’s what makes it worse. That there’s nothing that can be said to fix it, that you’ve dug yourself into this hole without an escape. 

“Do you want to crash here?” you ask, instead. “Or I can get you an Uber home, if you want.”

Jihyo looks away for a brief second, enough to explain a lot. 

“Right,” you say. “Soobin.” You try not to sound bitter. You’re happy for her. Really. “How was that?” 

“God, it was so good,” Jihyo says. “He’s incredible.” 

You force a smile onto your face because you won’t let the fact that you’re miserable stop you from being excited about this, even if it’s hard. Even if you want to go down the rabbit hole, if you want to tell her to be careful, to make sure things don’t get messy. You don’t ruin her moment with reality. 

“That’s awesome,” you say. 

Her smile wavers, because she knows—too, everything that you don’t want to say. 

“I’m okay,” you say. “If you want to head over. Really, I’ll be fine.” 

“You sure?” she asks. 

You’re still a little drunk, and if you get into bed, you’ll probably pass out immediately. And if you’re sleeping, well, you can’t think. “Yeah, don’t worry about me.” 

Jihyo leaves, and you’re alone again. Left with your overactive mind and your inability to think about anything else. It’s nearly three in the morning. And even though getting into bed would make everything better, you can’t bring yourself to do it. 

You’re not thinking because you never learn, and even though you’re not as drunk as you were hours ago, it’s still messing with your decision-making ability. You wait ten minutes. Twenty. Trying to really decide if it’s a good idea. Or maybe you’re just making sure Jihyo doesn’t catch you leaving. 

You leave your apartment in the same dress and a pair of slippers, and get into the elevator. 

But your brain doesn’t stop. You don’t know him, it says. It says, you’re throwing away a five year relationship for someone you just met, for someone you hardly know anything about. But you haven’t felt this feeling, this aching pain in your chest for someone in so long—and you’re not sure you ever felt it for Kai. Even at the beginning. 

And you decide, as the elevator opens to the floor below you, that you deserve to figure out what it means. 

Each step toward his door feels more certain, and when you raise your hand to knock, it’s because you know exactly what you want. 

The fear is still there. 

Of course it is. 

It’s just smaller, tucked behind all the other feelings. Your heart beats so fast it drowns everything else out. 

Your brain says what if, and you hush it. 

You think about kissing Kai. About how you wish it had been him, instead. 

That has to be enough to make this right. 

When you knock, no one answers. “Beomgyu?” you ask, ear to the door, checking for any sound. Maybe he’s still out. “You in there?” No response. 

You don’t give up easily. Not this time. 

You slink to the ground next to his door and pull your knees to your chest. You wait. 

When you wake up, it’s to the sound of his voice. Your eyes flutter open, and he’s there, crouched in front of you, one hand on your knee. 

“Hey, beautiful,” he says, and you think it must be a dream, the way his voice is so soft, so kind, despite everything. “Have you been waiting long?” 

You shake your head, even though you have no idea what time it is, no idea how long you’ve been asleep. 

“Nice slippers,” he says, a smile tugging at the edge of his lips. He stands up, offers you a hand. You take it. It’s warm. He helps you up. 

Your mouth goes dry. You had a plan. You swear, you did. 

When he looks at you, everything empties out of your mind. It’s impossible to think. 

“Do you want to come inside?” he asks. He hasn’t let go of your hand. Hasn’t stopped looking at you. 

He’s an enigma. Shouldn’t he be upset?

“Yes,” you say. You’re trying something new. Being decisive. 

He unlocks the door. “Hope you weren’t waiting long,” he says. “I was sobering up with Taehyun.” He laughs under his breath. “Those Jackson Wang parties will really get you.” 

“Yeah,” you say, in agreement. How many shots did you pound back-to-back? Four? 

He holds the door open for you, motioning for you to enter, then he follows you in and closes it behind, turning the lock. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks. “How’s your head?” 

He’s so kind, so attentive, that it makes butterflies appear in your stomach. And you start to question—what did you do to deserve this? But you don’t let yourself linger on it too long. 

“It hurts,” you say. “Just a little.”

Beomgyu’s still there, right in front of you, looking at you with an expression you’ve never seen, giving you all this kindness you aren’t sure you’re deserving of. He squeezes your arm, then takes a step back. “Mine too,” he says. “Give me just a minute.”

He disappears into the kitchen, and you walk deeper into his apartment. 

It’s so much different than the last time you were here. Not because the apartment itself has changed, but because you didn’t take a moment to look the first time. You were too focused on him, on whatever was about to go wrong. 

Now, you wander around the living room, the dining room. Your fingers skid across the fretboards of a few guitars hanging on the wall. “I didn’t know you played guitar,” you say. 

He’s watching you from the kitchen. 

“I’m a man of many talents,” he says. 

You look at the movies on his TV stand, the books on his bookshelf, the art on his walls. And you think, maybe I do know this person. He’s funny and kind and silly, and he likes you, and in that moment, you want to know everything there is to know about him. You want to take the time to learn. 

He returns after a few minutes with two mugs of tea and a few pills for your head. 

“Thanks,” you say. 

“Anytime,” he says, and you don’t have to wonder whether or not he means it. 

You take a seat on the couch, holding the mug between two hands to absorb its warmth. “So…” you start. He sits down next to you. Just far enough away that you aren’t touching. “I’m sorry,” you say, as a start. 

“Don’t be,” he says. 

“I am,” you say. “I feel like I’ve fucked everything up.” You laugh, but it comes out dry. 

“You haven’t,” he says. “I’m sorry, too.”

This, you actually laugh at. “What do you have to be sorry about? I pushed you away. I kissed my ex. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

He shakes his head. “I should have given you space,” he says. “But I’m bad at pretending—and even though I thought it was a good idea to stay away from you, it didn’t really change anything. I couldn’t even follow the boundary I set,” he says. “Besides, I knew it was the wrong decision the night you left.”

You press your lips into a tight line. “And you tried to talk to me, but I just kept pushing you away.” 

“Yeah,” he says. “Kinda, yeah.” 

“I’m not good at pretending, either,” you say. “It’s crazy, right—we hardly even know each other. But I couldn’t look at you without thinking about these—these feelings. And I got in my head that it would never work out, that it was just going to hurt, and I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “Really.”

“And then Kai,” you start. 

“You don’t have to—” he says. 

But you stop him. “No, I should.” But how to explain it is the real question. You decide on the truth. “Our breakup was so abrupt, you know? Honestly, I never thought I would see him again. And then we did, and he’s been—I don’t know—so different.” 

Beomgyu just lets you talk. His eyes hold your gaze, and he listens. 

“There have been moments where it feels like it used to. Little slivers, before this new version of him ruins everything—and that’s not even important anyway, because when I kissed him, I was thinking about you. And I wanted to stop thinking about you, and he was just there.”

“You were thinking about me?” he asks, a quirk in his brow, the corner of his lips tugging upward in a cocky smile. 

“Beomgyu,” you say, like it’s obvious. “I’ve been thinking about you since the night we met.”

He sets his mug down on the coffee table and takes yours out of your hands. He turns toward you. He reaches up and touches a tendril of your hair. Gentle. Just looking at it. 

His eyes slide over to yours. “How do you feel now?” he asks. 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” you ask. 

“You are,” he says. He drops the piece of hair, instead settling his thumb on your jawline, his pointer finger curled just below it. He slides them down to your chin, ever so careful. Like he’s touching something he can’t quite have. “And Kai?” he asks. He makes no further moves. Doesn’t inch closer, just touches you, lets his fingers linger on your chin, then drops his hand. 

“I don’t want him,” you say. “I want you.” But your voice wavers, betraying what you’re still not quite certain of. You want to be confident, you want to think you’re making the right choice, but there’s still that voice in the back of your head, tricking you, teasing you, trying to tell you it’s wrong. 

He wets his lips with his tongue, runs his hands through his hair, hates that he knows he needs to say this next thing. He tries not to say it. He moves closer to you. He reaches for your face again, letting his knuckles graze your cheek. 

It brings something in you to life, and you’re the one trying to close the distance, moving closer, letting your hand slip over his. 

Electricity pulses between the two of you, drawing you closer, closer. You want him to kiss you more than anything in the world, but he doesn’t. He runs his thumb just under your lower lip. 

“Will you do something for me?” he asks, voice low and soft. His face close to yours, but not moving. 

“Yes,” you say. 

“Talk to Kai,” he says, and blinks a few times to make sure you didn’t misunderstand. “Hell, go on a date with him.”