tea

his timeline is steady and his patience is unnerving. flirting lasted two weeks before he asked you out, you went on dates for two months before he asked to be your boyfriend, and now you're hoping it's only another two minutes before he does something more than kiss you.

because if he wanted to fuck you, he would, right? he would subtly hint at it and tease you until you admitted that you want him just as badly. he would kiss you breathless and laugh as you chased his lips. he would want you to initiate, to take unapologetically. that's what you were used to. that's how your brain had been wired, through a system that rewarded your greed.

if you were naive enough to answer the text messages blowing up your phone, that itch could be scratched. you would not have to do more than give him a look.

seonghwa's leather couch shifts under his weight as he angles his body towards you, "you're quiet tonight. is everything okay?"

"i'm stressed,” you lie, putting your phone on the armrest and hoping he can’t see the brightness of every notification through your privacy screen.

his gaze is tender as he studies your features. you’re not sure what he’s looking for, but he finds it and hums in understanding.

hands sneak under the blanket and hook themselves around your legs, pulling them onto his lap, “is this okay?"

you nearly roll your eyes at how careful he is, but the worried curve of his pillowy lips makes it hard to be annoyed, “yes. hwa, you can touch me, you know?”

"i know,” he agrees, flashing you a pretty smile, “but i don't wanna make you—”

"—if i were ever uncomfortable, i would tell you.”

he hesitates before nodding, his hands just barely grazing the underside of your calves in slow motions, “good. what's on your mind?"

"i have… a lot of pent-up energy i want to take out,” you reply, fighting the urge to guide his hands higher, closer to where you need him.

there’s a second of silence as his adam’s apple bobs, and your eyes trace the movement.

"maybe we could, uh, go on a walk?" he asks, almost like it hurts to get words out.

his slender fingers are a little firmer on your skin, but just as slow, and you want to claw at the leather underneath you. you need it to be tonight. unlike him, you feel your patience running thin, and you’re so far gone that you could settle for dry-humping and messy kissing.

“do you need me to beg for it?”

"what?"

you exhale sharply, shoving the blanket to the side, moving your legs off his lap, and straddling him in a few swift movements. he startles, hands retracting to his sides as you settle down on him.

a frown etches itself onto your features and you take his hands in yours and guide them up your thighs, past your hips, and up your sides. his skin is soft on yours, and you nearly shiver as you lean closer, “please, i need you. please. do something, i can’t wait.”

"don’t beg,” he breathes out, struggling to look you in the eyes, “you never need to beg me for anything.”

your hands move off of his and you feel his grip on your sides loosen, but you can’t settle for that. not anymore. so you lean closer until his lips meet yours.

the kiss is charged with unbridled want, and your body doesn’t lag. as soon as he begins kissing you back, your hips begin to grind against his, the fabric of your shorts catching against his sweats.

his lips part in a moan at the feeling, and for the first time, he takes initiative by moving a hand from your waist to bring you closer by the nape of your neck. it’s different from his usual hand against your cheek, and his slipping restraint fans the flame building in your guts.

but he makes no other move— he doesn’t lean into your touch, his hips don’t grind up against yours, and he doesn’t even try to guide your movements by your waist. it’s more like he’s letting you use him rather than indulging in you.

“fuck,” he murmurs as he moves away from your lips, a strangled huff slipping past his mouth. his eyes trail down to where your hips meet his and his eyes squeeze shut. “fuck, you’re making this really difficult.”

rarely did he curse around you, if at all. but you found yourself becoming addicted to the expletives dropping from his pretty mouth, taking them as signs that he was affected by you. it makes you dizzy, the knowledge that he’s trying his hardest to be respectful and failing.

“seonghwa,” you say, slowing down your movements on his lap, “don’t you want me?”

there’s a moment of hesitation as he stares at you like you’ve just slapped him, “of course i do. this isn’t about what i want, it’s about… you’ve told me about the guy before me. i don’t want to make you feel the way he did.”

well, maybe not emotionally. because you might die if seonghwa couldn’t make you feel how he did physically.

your breathing quickens at the mention of the guy who’s surely still blowing up your phone. you resist the urge to glance at the device resting on the armrest of the couch.

seonghwa continues, his expression sincere as his hand moves away from under your shirt. he places it over yours where it rests on his chest for leverage, “believe me, it hurts me to say no. but i want to do this right. i want it to be special, for you to be completely sure of me. i want trust and connection and… i don’t want you to think i only want this from you. can you wait a little longer?”

embarrassment, hot and stinging, rushes through your body as you abruptly stop moving. you could feel him, hard underneath you, and you’d be impressed with his restraint if it wasn’t stopping you from getting what you wanted.

“okay,” you agree with a nod, climbing off of him with averted eyes, “yeah, i’ll wait.”

he looks at you with what feels like pity in the moment, a hand circling your wrist, “i’m not rejecting you, angel. i respect you, and i care, and i really want to show you that rather than tell you. is that okay?”

maybe you should be flattered. he isn’t treating you like a piece of meat, like something to be claimed and then tossed. but your nerves feel like they’re on fire with need and you can’t help the frustration building up. “that’s okay. thank you, seonghwa.”

“you don't have to thank me,” he replies with an easy smile, as if the past few moments didn’t happen, you aren’t dripping, and his pants aren’t straining against his hard-on, “you deserve better than a quickie on my couch on a random night.”

you aren’t sure if he’s right. but you mirror his grin until the moment he drops you off at your place with a kiss to your temple.

for the first time since your failed attempt at initiating sex, you check your phone. it’s another one of those nights, apparently. there are weeks of radio silence. some days you only get a view of your profile and no texts. others you get a single call while you sleep. but tonight, it’s one the ones where he spams your phone. you read only the last few.

unknown number | are you still with the guy?

unknown number | the one with the long hair

unknown number | i stalked his profile

unknown number | he seems nice? good for you

unknown number | too nice though

unknown number | bet he doesn’t fuck you how you like

unknown number | probably doesn’t know how to handle you 

unknown number | or how fucking greedy you are 

unknown number | don’t pretend you don’t miss me

unknown number | bet you even kept our videos

unknown number | i kinda wish i had sometimes

he stopped texting around an hour ago. and it might be the frustration, but you respond for the first time in months.

you | who is this?

the reply is immediate.

unknown number | fuck

unknown number | i knew it

unknown number | hi baby, it’s been too long

unknown number | answer my calls

the regret doesn’t even reach you before you’re typing back.

you | stop spamming

you | i’m content with him

he sends a thumbs down reaction to both messages.

unknown number | no thanks

unknown number | and ‘content’ is funny

unknown number | not happy?

unknown number | probably not pleased, i can tell he doesn’t know

there it is. how easily he knows exactly what to say to get under your skin.

you | doesn’t know what, wooyoung?

that one message changes the conversation entirely. he stops typing and takes longer to respond. when he does, it’s an audio message. you regret playing it as soon as you hear the honeyed voice coming from your speakers.

“got tired of typing,” he murmurs, taking a deep breath before continuing, “but i’m glad you’re not pretending anymore.”

you nearly pause the message and toss your phone, but you hear that familiar laugh and your thumb hesitates.

“you know, i promised myself i wouldn’t go stalk his page. but i couldn’t help myself tonight. i’m a little drunk. you can probably tell, huh? but what the hell is your type? we’re nothing alike,” you hear the sounds of him typing on a keyboard before he continues, “graduated from a good university, close to his family, models for his friends' clothing brand— wow. i’m almost happy for you.”

as always, he wants a reaction. you bite the inside of your cheek.

“if you’re listening at this point, he must not be as good as he seems, huh? what is it? bad breath? does he make you split the bill?” he giggles at his own jokes and you shake your head as if he can see you, “but i know what’s more likely. i bet he can’t handle you. not like i can.”

it ends there. abrupt, like he accidentally cut himself off and sent it anyway. you keep the message out of muscle memory and wince when you realize he’ll see you saved it.

unknown number | wow

unknown number | i thought you wanted to be left alone?

you | i do

unknown number | so go ahead and block me

you | i do what i want

unknown number | i know that better than anyone

unknown number | it’s my favorite thing about you

you don’t reply. another few minutes go by before he sends another audio message.

“do you remember the time…” he interrupts himself with breathless laughter, “the first time you asked me to come over and not the other way around? i remember. i think about it all the time, don’t you? up until then, you acted like it wasn’t mutual. and after that, you started calling me over like i was getting paid for it.”

there’s a small pause. you hear fabric shifting around, “you started using me like a fuckin’ toy. i loved it. i loved it cause you were just as mean as i needed. god, it was hot.”

your neck heats up at the memories. how he would smile unabashedly at you as you used him to get off, with no concern for his own pleasure. animalistic.

“i still don’t understand why you cut me off and gave me a speech about using you. that’s such bullshit,” he says, tone melting into something lower, “you caught feelings and you were embarrassed. pushing blame onto me doesn’t erase that.”

your phone pings with a good night text from seonghwa and you swipe it away as you keep listening.

“i did kinda take advantage of the fact you liked me. a little, i won’t lie. but it was so easy with you. there wasn’t any pretending, no dinner as boring foreplay, you were straight to the point. i miss that. you. your skin and how good you smell. and i can’t believe i’m missing out on it over some guy who would probably feel sick if you told him half of what we’ve done.”

your stomach sinks at his comment, the way he laughs it off like it means nothing. the worst part, you like it. you clench at the desperation climbing into his voice the more he speaks, the way he’s so direct about his desire.

“if you didn’t block me, i’m assuming you still have our videos. i wonder if you watch them and get off to them,” his voice wavers, “fuck, i‘m already hard thinking about it. call me. call me anytime, whether you’re done with that guy or not. i’ll come over like i used to. everything could be like it used to be.”

the message ends there. you have two minutes to keep the memo, and you nearly do, just to replay the last part and hear the whine in his voice that he tries to suppress. but the message disappears and you’re in the same exact spot on your bedroom floor, face warm and panties even wetter than before.

wooyoung doesn’t say anything else. not another call or text, doesn’t even like a message.

he’s put the ball in your court.

and he’s right, you have the videos. as proof that you weren’t crazy, that he had murmured a few ‘i love you’s while his hips were pressed against yours. that it had been real and not something to scoff at like he did when you asked for more.

“what more could you want?” he’d said, and you stopped replying to his texts soon after. you fell back against his mattress a few more times out of weakness, but you finally gathered the strength to leave. you met seonghwa only a month later.

the first message you received when you posted your new boyfriend was from that anonymous account. ‘you’re quick,’ is all they said.

too quick, you think. seonghwa’s name glows on your screen and you ignore it.

right now, you’re so worked up you would do anything to get off.

the easiest way? the videos saved in your hidden folder in your camera roll. whether you chose his favorite, with you in doggy and a close up of where you were connected, or yours, where he had you in a mating press with his lips against yours the entire time, was completely unimportant.

guilt would eat you alive anyway.

the texts stop coming in. the mysterious spam calls and the views on your stories disappear. in their place comes an all-consuming force: regret.

it’s only been a week since you’d received those voice messages from wooyoung and gotten off to his voice. you had scrolled through your hidden folder like a lunatic, watching short clips and long videos that told stories that hurt to remember as much as they hurt to forget. 

the earliest video he’d recorded spontaneously when you were both so turned on you during a house party that you could barely think straight. that night is too fresh in your mind; it had started with you grinding on a strange man to prove a point. it ended with wooyoung’s hand pressing your face against the cold marble of a bathroom sink.

another short clip not long after, focused on the bounce of your hips against his, your reflections in his full length mirror barely visible. he had a crazed look in his eyes, the look you mistook for affection no matter how many times he’d reminded you it wasn’t.

you hate first few videos. taken around the beginning of the year when you’d started hooking up. the way he talked to you was clipped, like he knew nothing about you other than how good you felt around him. most of them cut off right below your neck, with your face down and the focus of the video on your ass or the arch of your back. his groans were strained, and his hands were as shy as they could be for someone like him. it wasn’t the man who would hold your hand as he ate you out or the man whose thumb would graze the peak of your cheekbone as he pleaded against your lips for ‘one more’.

the videos dated in july were once your favorites. they were slower, more sensual. if you try hard enough, you can will yourself to believe that he meant every word that dropped from his lips. wooyoung, the man who used to fuck you like he was in a hurry to leave before the sun set, was almost delicate during the summer you spent together. your hand would wrap around his neck, and the tanned skin of his cheeks would cave in with those deep dimples you’d learned to love. he would hold you impossibly close to him, head tilted back, awaiting a string of spit from your lips. his tongue would clean up the tears trailing down your face after his hand came down too harshly between your legs. neither of you were below begging. it’s why you went well together.

perhaps the intimacy he constructed was one you weren’t meant to indulge in. when mumbled ‘i love you’s filled the minimal space between you, you should have ignored them, the way he ignored every request for him to stay the night. the illusion was supposed to remain unaddressed; he was always going to deny that he meant anything he said. wooyoung’s words were worth as little as your self-respect. because even when he’d laughed in your face, clarified his lack of intention, and pushed you away, you crawled back into his bed. too many times to count. more than you are willing to admit to yourself. 

even now, your thumb hovers above the button that could delete the entire album of videos you’ve kept. it would take two clicks, but the idea of losing that evidence terrifies you. so you chicken out, tossing your phone to the side in frustration. it bounces on your mattress once before landing on the smooth wood of your floor with a soft thud. 

when you lift the device back up, the screen is shattered. 

wooyoung is counting down the days. his calendar is full of circles and marks in black pen. friends’ birthdays, due dates at work, parties to attend. the winter is full of events and holidays, but none as important as the date he has marked in red. one week ago, the day you’d finally caved in. 

it’s not like he’s obsessed with you or anything, but you hurt his pride back in august, when you’d ended things. he thought you were bluffing. that you’d come back on a late night like always, too ready for someone who had cussed him out hours earlier. but you didn’t.

he was stuck in complete silence from you. he’d texted and called to no avail. he even considered showing up unannounced, but that was desperate. desperation wasn’t the role wooyoung took in your exchanges. 

a few days passed, then a few weeks, and before he knew it, you had a new toy to keep you busy. namely, park seonghwa. he was admittedly handsome and well-off from the looks of his profile. the kind of guy that gets you flowers just because. the kind that writes you sappy messages while you sleep. the kind that meets your parents and friends with shaky hands because he cares and he wants to make a good impression.

everything wooyoung isn’t.

to say wooyoung is jealous would be an overstatement. sure, if he could choose his life, he wouldn’t mind ending up like seonghwa. but wooyoung had taken too many left turns along the road for that to ever happen. 

he tried to move past you. called a few girls over, kicked them out afterwards, like he used to.

it didn’t work. not for long, anyway. the foggy nights would tide him over for a few days, keep him off your profile and away from your contact. but the feeling never lasted. 

as he looks through your profile for the hundredth time, he isn’t sure what exactly is keeping him there. he decides it must be the hit to his ego. the fact that things ended before he decided he was done. 

a little ‘s’ captions a highlight you have pinned, and wooyoung scrolls through it. it’s like all the typical couple’s highlights– dinner dates, flowers, sunsets– boring. so unlike you. 

he wonders if the smiling man has any idea he exists and hasn’t even been blocked. he wonders what kind of story you told him about your past relationships.

all he knows is that seonghwa has probably seen your posted pictures as often as he has. probably jerked off to them and felt shame afterwards. 

wooyoung can’t relate to that feeling. not even now, as he undoes his belt buckle, glancing at the calendar next to his desk. 

he gives it another two weeks before everything falls back into his hands.

the late autumn afternoon is particularly silent. only wind rushes against your windows, creating a small howl that you’d find creepy if your mind wasn’t so preoccupied with figuring out the exact shade of white paint on your ceiling.

your room is a complete mess, pairs of pants strung across the back of your desk chair while two large trash bags hold old clothes you’re not sure you’re ready to let go of.

you know you’re spiraling. there’s an unfinished bowl of oatmeal too close to the edge of your nightstand, probably already gone bad with how long it’s been sitting there. you can’t remember if you even checked that you turned off the stove before frantically deciding to deep clean your closet. but you decide to stay on the ground rather than check. 

with a frustrated swipe of your hand down your face, you feel around the ground to find your phone. when your fingers reach the cold device, you pause. who could you even call and tell all your worries? you had impulsively ghosted your therapist after they doubled their prices. that wouldn’t work.

so you scroll through your contact list, ready to give up and post anonymously on a forum, before you reach a name that pulls you out of your stupor.

cee, your previous roommate. the girl who had seen you sob over expired ice cream after one of those weeks at work. the one who gave you a live demonstration of her first time when the electricity went out and the two of you were bored out of your minds. nothing was considered oversharing with her.

you bite the inside of your cheek, hoping the time difference in her new city won’t kill your chances at reaching her.

“cee,” you mutter in relief as the line picks up, placing your cracked phone next to your ear, “i really need your advice.”

cee scoffs on the other end of the line, “whoa, no ‘hello’? ‘how are you’?”

“sorry, hi. i saw you post that you got promoted, and i forgot to congratulate you. seriously, congrats. you deserve it. uh, how’s the city? your girlfriend?”

there’s a soft laugh on the other end of the line before she replies, “thank you, but you’re rambling. we can catch up later. what’s the matter?”

your veins rush hot blood through your limbs, “this might be really tmi.”

“girl,” she replies, completely unimpressed, “please, spare me. spill, now.”

“okay. well, you know seonghwa, right?” an enthusiastic hum vibrates through your speaker, “and… wooyoung?”

there’s a moment of silence before you hear a quiet ‘yeah’.

she doesn’t need the backstory. she was with you the night you met wooyoung outside a house party in january. he smiled like he’d won something when you accepted his coat to put over the dress you’d insisted on wearing despite the threat of snow. she’d bumped into him in your shared living room when he was sneaking out after a late night. she’d seen you delete his number and unfollow him on everything after a pep talk.

you talk about everything from july onwards: meeting seonghwa through a mutual friend and clicking instantly. the social media stalking and the insistent calls. the cute romantic dinners and personalized bouquets. back and forth, like a ping-pong game.

cee doesn’t stop you, only interrupting for clarification when you mumble or trail off. when you’re done, there’s a moment of silence on her end. 

“so… you have your dream guy, but you’re stuck on wooyoung,” it sounds more like a question than a statement, but she schools her tone, “okay. i mean, he is practically a rebound.”

“he is not!”

silence.

“okay,” you concede, scratching the side of your face, “sorry, i don’t know why i’m getting defensive. he’s… you’d really like him.”

“he sounds like a dream,” cee offers, and you can picture her pressing her lips together as she contemplates how forward she should be. “but… maybe not a wet one?”

you feel ashamed at how easily that pulls a laugh out of you, “it’s not like i don’t want him, but it’s discouraging to be rejected so much. and like… he wants me too. he said so. just not now, i guess.”

“uh-huh,” she hesitates before continuing, “there’s something you’re not telling me, though.”

“...i told him about wooyoung.”

that seems to appease her worry, “okay, good, that’s honest. maybe that’s why he’s being careful.”

“it is,” you pause, “this is so embarrassing but… last week, i tried to initiate. we were making out, and i started grinding on him, and he was really into it until he kinda stopped me and told me he wanted to wait. that he didn’t want me to think he was like wooyoung. and that i deserved to have something special. more than a quickie.”

your ac whirrs quietly in the background as you wait for a response. you wish you could see her face right across from you, twirling a curl around her finger, and watch her brown eyes give away her every thought. desperately, you want someone to agree with you mindlessly, but you need her honesty. 

“am i supposed to root for wooyoung here, or..?”

“you’re not supposed to root at all, i need you to tell me what to do.”

her tone is a little harsher than you expect, “you need to stop self-sabotaging and stay with someone who actually gives a fuck.”

“but listen… wooyoung texted me that night. like non-stop. i was so overwhelmed with everything that i actually answered.”

cee shrieks, and you send her the screenshots as proof. she reads the texts and the transcript of the first voice message in complete silence, and you take the chance to fill the line with the most humiliating part of your story.

“he’s right. i have every single video, and the whole situation with seonghwa had me really frustrated, so i went back and watched them and i… you know?”

“oh my god. wow, this is bad. like really, really bad.”

“i know, i know,” you groan, head tipping back as you spread your body on your wooden floor, “i don’t know what to do.”

“i love you so much, but i think you need to,” you hear her fumble her words for a few moments before she sighs, “step back. break up, heal fully from that piece of shit, and move forward. delete those fucking videos. i’m so serious. the dick could not have been that good.”

you let the last statement linger and she inhales sharply.

“seriously?”

“yeah,” you mutter, nodding to yourself, “i didn’t even know i could squirt until he—”

“okay. okay, let’s not get nostalgic. delete the videos. tell seonghwa most of the truth. that you’re not fully healed and you don’t want to string him along, and… leave out the ‘i masturbated to old sex tapes with the man you hate after you blue-balled me’ part.”

the rest of the conversation is a blur as your mind wanders to the exact words you’ll say to your boyfriend’s face. you can only hope they make it past your lips, regardless of how shiny his eyes might look or how deeply he furrows his thick brows. 

seonghwa always smells like jasmine and something softer, a comforting scent that always lingers on his clothes. it surrounds you like an embrace as you step into the living room of his apartment, one tiny lamp in the corner of the room giving you just enough light to guide you into the space. 

“you okay?” seonghwa asks too sweetly, his eyes studying your features. the pad of his thumb swipes gently across your cheek to get your attention, mimicking the motion of wiping away a tear that isn't there. not yet, anyway. “talk to me.”

you inhale sharply at the kindness of his touch, the warmth you didn’t deserve. “sorry, i probably scared you coming by so late, but… it’s bad, seonghwa.”

he nods, never one to invalidate your words. the clock ticking behind you calls his attention: 2am. not a likely time for him to be up. but with the sight of your frown, he suddenly feels awake. “maybe it is. i still want to help.”

there are a few moments of hesitation. your mind is at war with itself, and it doesn’t help that he holds eye contact patiently, like he’s waiting for something he knows won’t arrive. but he tries, and that might be the worst part.

the words feel heavy on the tip on your tongue. you turn them over, taste the bitterness, try to swallow them and keep them buried. another swipe of his thumb right underneath your eye coaxes them out.

“we should break up,” you blurt, head tilting away from his touch.

“what?”

the small lamp flickers, the buzz filling the split second of silence, “we need to break up. this is so unfair to you. it’s really, really unfair and it’s wrong of me to keep you around for myself when i know i’m not over everything.”

his lips part with a soft interruption, “hey. slow down, you need to breathe. three deep breaths, okay?”

your eyes flutter with surprise. as if that wasn’t the response you were expecting. kindness. worry. him.

you follow his instructions without a second thought, but the expansion of your lungs feels tight, nearly uncomfortable as your heart thrums wildly in the same confined space between your ribs.

“okay,” he continues once he’s counted three inhales, “there you are. sit.”

“no, seonghwa—”

“i’m gonna get you water,” his voice drops to a near whisper, “and you’re gonna wait for me on the sofa, okay?”

“okay.”

after what feels like an eternity, he returns with a mug in his hands. it’s the mug you’d made when you went on a pottery class date, the one with your initials scrawled on the bottom. the water is cool as it passes down your throat, doing its job at soothing your nerves.

seonghwa sits beside you, keeping his hands to himself as he watches you take small sips in between breaths. he tries to appear calm, but his hand trembles slightly as he threads it through his silky hair. 

the mug clinks softly against his wooden coffee table, and you talk. you tell him most of the truth like you’d planned. you tell him how you’re overwhelmed, not fully healed from your recent past. you explain that you need time, that it’s not anything he’s done, and that you want to stay on good terms. you wonder if he thinks you only say that to keep him as an option.

he’s nodding in acknowledgment the entire time, searching your features as you run out of breath trying to get everything out at once. 

“i’m sorry, angel,” he fixes the strap of your tank top neatly over your shoulder, distracted for a second before he meets your eyes again, “i rushed you, didn’t i?”

you shake your head in firm disagreement, but he continues before you can get a word in.

“i got too excited. i overwhelmed you when i knew exactly what you were still processing. what still hurts you,” the corners of his pink lips turn down. “i thought i could help. but i should’ve given you time. i should’ve kept my feelings to myself for your sake, let us be friends a little longer. i was selfish and too quick.”

selfish.

“what the hell is your problem?” san scoffs when wooyoung stands up with so much force that the couch creaks as it shifts a few inches.

the latter holds his hand up, eyes jumping around his phone screen like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. he reloads the page once, twice, and a third time just to be sure.

the highlight with the little ‘s’ is gone.

“san, get out,” he practically commands, turning to his friend when he remains seated on the leather couch.

the larger man frowns, nose scrunching in distaste, “are you high? this is my place. i told you not to smoke before coming over, i hate the smell.”

“shit, you’re right,” wooyoung grabs his jacket off the back of the cushions, “and i’m not high, fuck you. i quit months ago.”

san pouts at the harsh words, voice tapering off, “i know. you quit because of that girl.”

“what?”

“you quit around the time you were messing around with that girl. you stopped being so antsy all the time. but you never even told me her name,” his arms spread onto the back of the couch, watching as wooyoung’s hand freezes around the doorknob.

“that’s not true.”

“okay.”

“you don’t believe me?” 

san shrugs like it doesn’t concern him in the slightest, “i know what i saw. we all do.”

the room feels smaller as wooyoung takes a few steps back into the studio apartment, “who’s we? what the hell does that mean?”

“everyone, woo. i mean, all the guys watched you freak out in real time when you got blocked or whatever.”

he can’t gulp down the defensiveness climbing into his words, “i did not get blocked.”

a fragile kind of quiet invades the room. the two men stare at each other, neither making any move to continue the conversation. it was a dead end anyway, it always was when this topic came up. the word ‘fling’ was practically banned within their friend group. 

a sharp beep interrupts the moment, and san looks up to the smoke detector on the ceiling before muttering to himself, “oh, that needs new batteries.”

wooyoung nods slowly, taking a step back, “yeah. well, i’m gonna…”

“run?” 

wooyoung nods, hand landing back on the doorknob as he adjusts his jacket under his arm. he feels like he’s waiting for permission of some kind, the cool metal under his palm doing little to battle the excessive heat his skin radiates. 

san seems to contemplate something before deciding against it, popping his neck with a smile, “sounds like you.”

“oh, fuck off. i need to make a call.”

“to who? the hiring manager at jongho’s office?”

“i’m not working in a cubicle at a company i don’t care about. it’d be bad enough to have jongho as a coworker,” wooyoung’s eyes narrow as he waves in dismissal.

the smoke detector beeps again and san glances at it momentarily, “you could use the stability. working commission forever is a little crazy.”

wooyoung raises a brow at his friend’s concern, “i do well for myself.”

“because you’re hot and the old rich ladies love younger men. but you don’t actually care about luxury coats and bags, either. you’re just afraid of being tied down to something.”

“i like fashion. i could work in fashion for a while, it’s exciting. it keeps me on my toes.”

“but you don’t love it.”

wooyoung looks off to the side, at the mirror hanging right by the entrance. his eyebrow piercing glints softly, and he adjusts it before turning the doorknob, “i don’t think you’re talking about work anymore, and i hate when you start talking in metaphors, so i’m leaving.”

“make the right call, wooyoung.”

the other side of the line is surprisingly silent when you pick up. there’s static noise, fabric ruffling momentarily, and then a soft breath.

“finally.”

the three syllables make you nauseous, and you pull your phone away from your ear, opting to set it down on your pillow. just after a thorough shower, you’re already feeling gross.

the honeyed voice continues, “i was right.”

your stomach flips. there are so many things he could be talking about. maybe he’d somehow found out what you’d done after those voice messages a little over a week ago. maybe he was reminiscing about one of the many times you cussed him out without letting him get a word in. “what?”

wooyoung huffs, eyeing his calendar, “nothing. when did you break up?”

“today,” you answer before you can help yourself. “you knew that, though.”

“mhm. how are you holding up?”

“i broke up with him,” you explain, as if that answers his question.

“i assumed. doesn’t make it any less difficult. you were content with him.”

you feel a familiar flutter deep in your chest as he uses your own words against you, a teasing lilt in his voice. “what do you want, wooyoung?”

“i can’t check up on you?”

“a bit late for that.”

he laughs, short and surprised, and you imagine the dimples hollowing his cheeks. your skin buzzes with anticipation, like he’s conditioned you to react to his voice. “ouch. i honestly am calling to hear your voice, though.”

your room starts to feel too hot, and you peel your robe off your body, throwing it to the foot of your bed before responding, “why won’t you just let this die?”

you’re baiting him. you want to hear him confirm that all those words he’d said in the heat of the moment weren’t in vain. that this was still salvageable, somehow. that it mattered.

wooyoung doesn’t know the answer to that question himself. he takes another look at his calendar before shrugging, picking at the lint on his pants, “isn’t that a mutual decision?”

“i did my part, i told you to leave me alone.”

he takes a few seconds before retorting, “you’d also tell me to slow down, all while pushing back onto me. you like to lie.”

“i’m not a liar.”

he exhales softly, “yeah? what’d you tell seonghwa?”

perhaps you answer him immediately because of the fact that he’s infinitely worse than you. anything you’ve done wrong once, he’s probably done a million times over. “that it isn’t his fault, and i need time.”

wooyoung chuckles, light and airy like you remember, “wow. what a speech. i almost believed you too.”

you grit your teeth, hating how his words make your chest rise and fall a little quicker, “it’s true.”

“partially,” he murmurs, “but it doesn’t really matter what you told him. what matters is you picked up.”

“only because i guessed that you’d keep spamming my phone if i didn’t.”

he hums, deep in his chest, “that’s a good guess.”

you lie down, turning to face the pillow where your phone is still resting. you close your eyes, pretending he’s there with you, like one of those rare nights he’d stay back and talk. you wonder if his hair is still half-bleached, if his brow ever settled down after the piercing he got, or if he’s marked his tanned skin with any new tattoos. 

he takes your silence as a cue to keep pressing, “do you remember what i told you when we last spoke?”

you don’t open your eyes, the pad of your thumb brushing idly over the waistband of your underwear, “to call you.”

“that’s what you took from our conversation? not the part where i told you i missed you?”

a grin pulls at your lips, “that’s only partially true.”

“it’s fully true, for both of us. i know you miss me too.”

it hits you right then that wooyoung is nothing like seonghwa. he always sounds sure of himself, never hesitates to call something out the way he sees it. even when he’s wrong, he has a way of convincing you otherwise. but he’s not wrong this time, not when you feel arousal pooling in your lower abdomen.

so you do as he taught you all those months ago. you allow yourself to shamelessly take, to trail your hand down without a doubt, because he hated hesitation more than anything.

“no,” you manage to keep a steady tone as you push the cotton to the side, “i don’t. i need you to stop—”

he interrupts, “i know what you need. let me come over and show you.”

you cringe internally at his interruption, but the urgency in his voice sends another thrilling wave through your body, “we’re done, wooyoung. we’ve been done for months.”

“doesn’t mean i’ve forgotten anything,” he notes, taking a deep breath, “please. please, i’ve been waiting for you.”

you squeeze your eyes a little harder, hips involuntarily twitching to meet your hand. you’re building a torturous pace, the kind he’d use when he wanted you to snap at him. as much as he liked your disgruntled reactions, he always refused to give in, wanting to take his time taking you apart.

you think back to the middle of spring, the night he kept his mouth on you for hours, unwilling to move away until you admitted that no one else compared to him. 

“are you… touching yourself?” wooyoung asks, his voice trailing into a warm laugh before it stops, like the realization hits him just as hard as the embarrassment hits you. “oh, fuck, you are.”

your heart races, stopping your movements as you straighten up on the bed. how could he possibly tell? “what are you talking about?”

“you are,” he replies decisively, not a hint of doubt in his voice, “i knew you were desperate, but this is almost sad, baby.”

“don’t call me that.”

“then deny it.”

you can’t. because you know he can probably imagine you accurately enough, and it bothers you to no end. how he always acts like he knows you, because he does. there’s a few shuffling noises on his side, and you apparently take too long to respond because he takes your silence as an affirmation.

“you didn’t come,” he says matter-of-factly, “should i help you? guide you over the phone like i used to? or is your door unlocked? can—”

“stop, wooyoung. you’re hearing things. i shouldn’t have picked up. go fuck one of your friends and stop calling.”

“don’t blame this on me. no one forced you to stuff your hand in your panties while i talked. that was all you,” his tone is sharp, his words drowning out his footsteps. he echoes his question from earlier, a little firmer this time, “is your door unlocked?”

there’s a certain sense of comfort in fucking wooyoung. you never had to shave, you could fuck him with dried drool on the side of your face after a nap. he never cared so long as he could get your lips on him, and it was nearly reassuring to see how much someone could crave you in every form. 

so when he shows up mere minutes after you hang up, you let him in. you don’t think he’ll even turn to look at the empty water bottles littered on your wooden floor or the dishes piled up impressively high in your sink, not when he’s busy getting as close to you as humanly possible. 

“hey, look at you,” he rasps, running his hand through hair that’s longer than you remember. you hug your robe a little tighter around yourself as he makes a show out of looking you up and down, asymmetrical eyes burning through you. “even prettier than i remember.”

“just do what you’re here to do, wooyoung,” you reply, not stepping back when he begins to crowd your space.

a crooked smile pulls at his lips, and he’s quick to abide. one hand settles on your waist, tugging you closer, while the other wraps around the back of your neck. 

but that’s too easy. and you’ve been too easy for much too long, so you decide against it last minute, just as he’s dipping down for a kiss. your hand covers his mouth, and you push back slightly.

“apologize.”

the one word floats in the air between you, weightless with how quietly you said it. 

wooyoung doesn’t fight it. he meets your eyes, taking a half-step back before slowly sinking to his knees. 

“i’m sorry,” he says, brown eyes still pouring into yours, “for everything.” 

he emphasizes his words by sliding his palms to the backsides of your legs, just above your knees. he moves closer, enough to rest the side of his face on the fabric that covers the top of your right thigh.

“i said things i didn’t mean,” he adds, sharp jaw dragging against cotton, “i would take everything back, if i could.”

you stare for a few moments, taking in the sight of the beautiful man groveling at your feet. his hair obscures his eyes a bit, the underside no longer blonde. you push the strands away from his forehead, using that as leverage to pull his face away, “and?”

“and i’m gonna make it up to you,” he responds hurriedly, eyelids lowering slightly as you tilt his head further back.

he’s basically saying nothing, and you know it. his apology is a string of words you want to hear, but not an acknowledgment of guilt. it makes you angrier, more determined. for what? you aren’t sure.

the look in his eyes stirs something deep in your chest, and you surprise yourself as you put your right leg further out in front of you. he looks confused for a split second before his hand leaves your left thigh to undo the small knot keeping your robe together.

“no,” you reprimand, moving his hand away, “you get my leg.”

for the first time since you’ve met him, wooyoung seems genuinely taken aback. “what?”

you don’t repeat yourself and hope your silence comes off as firm, not nervous.

he swallows, eyes flicking from your face to your exposed leg. there’s a moment of hesitation before he readjusts himself, positioning your shin right between his legs. then, he tentatively grinds up against your skin. the friction of his sweatpants against your leg burns just slightly, but you decide it’s worth it when you see his jaw clench.

his movements start off slow, but soon enough, he’s full-on humping your leg. muffled expletives drop from his full lips, chest heaving when you use the grip on his hair to pull his forehead away from your side.

“you’re fucking pathetic,” you say over his lewd noises. shameless, just like everything else about him, and the thought only spurs you on. “calling me, texting me, stalking my account. did nobody wanna fuck you? i bet they wouldn’t, after seeing this.”

you’re not even sure where all your words are coming from. they’re dropping from your lips like they’re rehearsed, with venom and confidence only he could get out of you. he chokes on a groan, hips moving like they have a mind of their own, “no— no, just you. i missed you. didn’t you miss me? fuck, our saturday nights?”

he’s smiling dazedly, so close to the edge he can practically taste it, but you yank his head away from you before letting go of his hair. “get up, wooyoung.”

you move your right leg back, enjoying the way his whole body folds towards you as you rip his pleasure away. he places his hands over his knees, leaning his weight forward as he stares up at you, “what? can you give me a second to catch my breath? i—”

“stand up,” you cut him off, stepping closer when he does as he’s told. “fuck me, and go home.”

he doesn’t need to be told twice, lips on yours in record time. it’s messy and full of unspoken frustration, but it’s yours. familiar in all the wrong ways as he strips out of his sweater. 

the walk to your room is short, and he manages to tug your robe off your body before climbing over you on the mattress. you’re bare underneath, and he hums in approval as he tugs his slacks down, “i’m trying not to finish just from seeing you again.”

“shut up,” you lean back on your elbows, giving him a disapproving stare that only serves to humor him.

he frees himself from his boxer briefs, leaning down so that he’s lining up with your entrance. you take a deep breath in sheer anticipation, and he appeases you with a slow kiss, “you’re already so wet for me. you can take it, baby.”

you relax against the mattress as he continues kissing you, two fingers spreading you open for him. he slides between your folds a few times before pressing in with a moan against your lips. 

“fuck, hold on,” he props himself up, watching as you hold your legs up for him. he screws his eyes shut, the view below him sending sparks of heat down his spine. “i’m close, from earlier.”

if anyone else were to finish prematurely with you, you would absolutely complain. but this was wooyoung, the man who would rather die than have a partner of his go around saying they were left unsatisfied.

so your legs come down, wrap around his waist, and pull until he’s buried in you to the hilt. 

wooyoung’s eyes fly open and find yours, a small laugh tumbling out of his lips, “you’re… fuck, squeezing me like crazy. relax.”

“just fuck me already,” you retort, hands traveling up his toned torso, tracing the tattoo on his ribs, “it doesn’t matter.”

his brows pinch when one of your hands pulls him closer by the base of his neck, “i’m gonna come inside if you keep—”

“then do it,” you challenge, heart leaping when he wastes no time and begins to thrust into you shallowly.

a moan of his name slips past your lips as he adjusts his angle, thrusts becoming more pointed as his mouth sucks a mark into the underside of your jaw.

“i know,” he mutters against your skin, but the words sound more like provocation than comfort, “that’s it, baby, don’t run from it.”

your bare chest meets his when he hits the spot only he’s managed to find, and your head tips back at the intensity of the feeling, “you’re so good, right there.”

“yeah? you’re so pretty, i bet he wishes he knew this body like i do.” the words get lost somewhere in the heated space between you, and wooyoung picks up his pace. he brushes his lips against your cheek when you complain, “just a little more, yeah? i need…”

he doesn’t get to finish his sentence before you’re squeezing the sides of his neck hard enough to rip a whine from his throat. he only gives two more pumps before he collapses on you, panting against your neck. 

a few moments pass before his weight comes off you, and he carefully pulls himself out. even as he’s softening, he twitches at the sight of your mixed arousals dripping out of you. 

one of his hands holds the back of your thigh up, pushing it closer to your torso, as his other hand spreads you further.

a groan rumbles in his chest as he leans down, tongue licking a broad stripe up to your clit. he glances up to gauge your reaction, smiling when you immediately cover your mouth with your palm. 

“uh-uh,” he tuts, kissing the inside of your thigh before climbing back over you. his larger hand holds your jaw as he kisses you, tongue swiping against yours. you can taste him and then yourself distinctly on his tongue, but the exchange muddles everything into one tangy mess. “see how good you taste with me? how good we taste together?”

the playful smile on his features reaches his eyes, and you’re almost convinced he isn’t aware how brutally those words made your heart twist. he pushes you up the bed when you nod in absentminded agreement, settling on his stomach with your legs thrown over his shoulders. “hurry, woo.”

“don’t rush me,” his hands pry your legs further, and when he’s satisfied, he places his strong forearm right over your waist. “i said i’d make it up to you, so i’m taking my time.”

he places a gentle kiss on your clit, the kind of action that had confused you just months earlier. it’d made you think your arrangement was much more than it ever was. even now, you couldn’t help but clench around nothing at the view. 

“such a sensitive pussy,” he mumbles to himself, blowing air right on your center before diving in. the tip of his hooked nose presses against your clit as he uses his tongue to tease your entrance. “and so pretty, too.”

after so long without stimulation, your body suddenly feels like it’s on fire, abdomen muscles tensing desperately under his gaze. he laps you up eagerly, moaning when you do, sucking on your clit rhythmically. 

he slows down when your breathing picks up, groaning at the desperate bucks of your hips.

“fuck, wooyoung, i was close,” you grumble, giving up on scooting closer to his mouth when his arm pushes you down.

he bites the plush skin of your thigh gently, meeting your gaze with a defiant glint, “i know, but it’ll feel better if i build it up.”

you shake your head in annoyance, not caring whether he’s right or not, “i don’t care. i wanna come.”

“you want to? or you need to?” he questions, slowly inching closer, until he’s close enough that you can feel his breath fan over you.

you know what he’s fishing for, the answer he’s pulled from you before. it means something completely different now, but you say it anyway. “i need you, wooyoung, please.”

“that’s it,” he praises, leaning back down to give you exactly what he knows you need. the pressure of two fingers curling right on that spot that makes your breathing tremble, his tongue brushing repetitive motions on your clit. “there’s my baby. so good for me.”

heat climbs up your back much quicker this time around, your jaw slack as you suck in quick breaths and exhale the moans you can’t suppress. your legs nearly close around his head, but he doesn’t stop, instead opting to hold his tongue out for you to use.

your hand rushes down to rest on the back of his head, pushing him impossibly closer, and he moans openly into you. the vibrations tip you over the edge as you orgasm with a force you hadn’t known before him. hot, white pleasure shoots through all of your nerves. your legs kick up, and your back arches all the way off the bed.

wooyoung continues licking stripes over your cunt as you catch your breath, enjoying the melody of his name dropping from your mouth. it takes the better half of a minute for your body to fully relax, and he rubs a soothing hand on the flesh of your ass while he waits. 

when you finally come down, you feel exhausted, body limp against the sheets beneath you.

“i got you,” he whispers, getting up to make his way to your restroom. the clean towels were still where you kept them months back, and he wets one with warm water before making his way back to you.

he cleans you up gently, cooing when he brushes over a particularly sensitive spot just to see you jolt.

you sit up when he’s done, watching closely as he tucks himself back into his boxer briefs, “are you staying?”

he looks up, “do you want me to?”

your shoulders rise and fall, “it’s up to you.”

he considers the offer for a moment. he feels your stare, the way your eyes trace over his features like you’re seeing him for the first time.

slowly, he nods, dimples deepening with purpose, “yeah, sure.”

the wooyoung you knew never stayed the night. not once. if he was drunk, he’d call a ride. he never cared how late it was. he drew a line at actually sleeping in the same bed.

so your heart soars at the change. you almost mention how easy it would be to just put a label on what was already a relationship. but you decide to talk about it in the morning, when your eyes aren’t shutting involuntarily.

now, he lies back on your pillow, holding you close as your head rests on his shoulder. and when he’s sure your breathing has evened out, he places a kiss on the crown of your head.

reaching over the bed, careful not to disturb you, he grabs your phone. it’s cracked, but the password is the same, the one he’d memorized by looking over your shoulder.

he opens your photo library, scrolling down to the hidden folder. it’s what he expected, all videos of you and him, save for a few screenshots of important passwords.

he contemplates deleting them himself. brushes the thought away. that was for you to deal with.

then, he opens the camera app, making sure to get your face in frame as he snaps a picture. the screen loads as it attempts to take a clear image in the dark. when it’s done, wooyoung checks it, and a satisfied smile carves into his features.

“cute,” he whispers to himself, catching himself staring at it for a beat too long.

from the start, it was clear how this would end. or more so, how he was going to end things. on his own accord, with his pride in tact.

yet the talk about stability and being tied down still linger in his head as he glances at your closed eyes.

but wooyoung doesn't like doing things he doesn’t need to do, and a relationship is at the top of his list of things he doesn't need. he hardly even wants one as is.

it doesn’t matter how pretty you look knocked out on his chest, breath warming his skin.

you have options anyway.

wooyoung can only choose himself.

with a quick tap of his fingers, he’s opening your messages. he scrolls a bit before his eyes land on the contact he wants. seonghwa.

it only takes four clicks to send the picture he took. he doesn’t follow up with any text, sure that it speaks for itself.

and just as easily as he walked through your door that night, wooyoung slips out.

The same songs you listened to on your first date still play from his car’s speakers, and your dates are even more consistent with all the free time summer gifts you. If anything, your love life should be more stable than ever.

“Hey,” he murmurs, soft eyes flicking to yours. The car’s engine rumbles roughly, brakes creaking slightly as he comes to a full stop, “You okay? You’ve been quiet the whole ride.”

Your attention rips away from the small letters on his display. You study his profile, the way his hair curls at the ends to frame his sculpted face and how his forearm flexes as he reaches over the console. His hand rests right over your knee, you make no move to cover it with your own. “I’m alright. Just thinking.”

He accepts the answer easily, sparing you a glance before turning back towards the traffic, “Did you put sunscreen on?”

The question makes your skin prickle more than the sun could ever manage, “Yes. I’m not a baby.”

“Okay,” he gently maneuvers into the right lane, checking the side mirror closer to you, “you forgot last time, that’s all. I'm making sure.”

You shouldn’t be annoyed. He cares, and you hate it. You hate the cologne that floods the car and how he always gives in.

Yeosang says nothing else. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, gulping down the comment that climbs up his throat. It’s gibberish anyway, unfinished thoughts about your mood and how you refuse to look at him lately. He thinks he might’ve noticed you holding your breath when he greeted you with a hug earlier. The idea slithers around his throat and strangles him. He doesn’t think he minds the burn. But the pressure is starting to dig into his skin.

It doesn’t take much longer to make it to the house party. You’re stolen from him as soon as you set foot through the back door. A group of girls surrounds you like you’ve blessed them with your presence, and soon enough, you’re stepping out of your tiny shorts to join them for a poolside drink. He takes the denim when you hand it to him without so much as a glance.

He keeps his eyes on you. The girls who are pouring liquor straight from the bottle into your mouth are completely unfamiliar to him. He racks his memory and finds nothing. He wonders when you stopped talking about the new friends you made. Or when you stopped introducing him to strangers.

The cooler on a lone beach chair sits invitingly by his side. He tucks your folded shorts under his arm, giving him the leverage to open the container. It’s all beer, the cheap kind he’s surprised a party of this caliber even allows inside. Maybe the mansion is just a front. Probably rented for the night, meant to be trashed and forgotten. He shrugs; it’ll taste good enough when he’s past a few sips.

You nearly choke on a big gulp of champagne, the sweet liquid burning as it struggles to pass down your system. The panic quickly subsides as Chae pats your back from next to you, stifling a giggle.

“By the way, is that your boyfriend?” she asks over the music, peering off to the side. You don’t have to look to know she’s got the right guy. Yeosang always makes a memorable first impression when you arrive anywhere with him. He’s gorgeous. Annoyingly so.

“Yeah,” you lean back on your hands, feet dipped into the clear pool water, “Pretty, right?”

Chae hesitates. She blinks rapidly, unsure on whether she should agree or not, and the bottle of champagne in her hand clicks as she puts it down on hot cement. “Um, you look good together.”

You raise a brow at her roundabout answer. She smiles like she’s been caught stealing.

“Yeah. Handsome,” she finally concedes, throwing another glance toward the beach chairs off to the side of the pool. “I didn’t even know you were dating someone. You don’t post him at all. If I were dating someone like that…”

Your stomach shifts uncomfortably at the comment. You barely know the girl. She’s a friend of a friend. A mutual that randomly sent you the invitation to the pool party through social media. You’re not sure if you’d call the feeling jealousy.

“Yeah, well,” you shrug, taking the bottle swiftly from her hands, “we’re private.”

“Huh.”

You follow her gaze this time, all the way to the opposite side of the pool. He’s opening a beer bottle with a spoon, one hand tight around the bottle’s neck while his wrist flicks effortlessly. The cap flies off, and he hands the green bottle to the girl in front of him with a grin. She says something to him, leaning closer. He shakes his head.

You find yourself wishing he hadn’t. You wish he’d take the bait, flirt with the pretty girl in front of everyone else, give you a reason to leave. But he finds your eyes like always, and you wish they weren’t such a pretty shade of persuasion.

Yeosang knows something is wrong.

Of course, he notices you declining more and more of his invitations to go out. He sees the way you look towards the door while you’re out with him, as if you’d rather be anywhere else. He thinks you might be doubting him. With you two going off to different universities, it’s only natural that you feel insecure about your future.

He wants to reassure you, to tell you that distance could never come between you. He’s been in love with you for so long that he’s forgotten what anything was like before you.

But you refuse to budge. You avoid him in every situation that doesn’t involve you in his bed.

Tonight is no different. After a shared look at the pool, he knows it’s time to go. So he calls a cab, mentally preparing to pick up his car on a random street in the morning. If his hangover didn’t kill him, the stress of remembering where he parked might.

The ride is silent. His house is equally quiet as it is most days, but you lead him to his room as if you need more privacy. You push him to sit on his bed and slowly climb onto his lap, legs draping on either side of his waist and sinking into his mattress. He squeezes your sides gently, attempting to get your attention. But your blood is buzzing with champagne and want.

You press kisses to the line of his jaw, attempting to quell the feeling in your gut. It started with Chae’s unnecessary comments and was fueled by the look he was getting from the beer girl.

You decide you hate both of them. Maybe all three of them.

Another squeeze goes unnoticed, so he gives in, kissing you back as if the exchange could feed him your every thought.

“I want you,” you whisper against his lips, the words feeling light on your tongue, like you’re speaking them to a hot stranger. Overly seductive, devoid of any soft intimacy. But that’s all you could muster anymore: lust.

A breath pushes through his nose before he replies against your lips, “I… think we should talk.”

Reluctance creeps onto your features, but you persist, “Later.”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he shifts away from you, “you’re acting different.”

The air freezes as he drops his hands from your waist, and you suddenly feel the urge to jump off him. But you stay still, too still, in his hold.

He continues, trying to get you to say it for yourself. To tell him that you’re scared to lose him. “You said we should be open with each other. So, to be honest, I think there’s something that’s making you avoid me. Did I do something wrong?”

Your pulse quickens at the idea of hurting his feelings, and you pull to look him directly in the eyes, “No, not at all. You’re always good to me.”

“Are you sure?” his eyes move away from yours with a quickness you’d long forgotten. “You have nothing on your mind?”

You still make him nervous. It’s more than apparent, with the way his eyes bounce around the room and how you can just barely feel him breathing hard underneath you.

If you wanted him to still feel love for you, it would be endearing. That isn’t the case. You want the easy way out of this. You want him to push you and yell at you that he’s sick of the silence and the awkward pauses and the bored stares.

But he’s much too sweet for that. Always too conscious of other people’s emotions, too afraid to prioritize his own.

“You’re overthinking things,” you lie before you can stop yourself.

He blinks once, twice, and then looks down to where your hand lies over his abdomen. “You… feel a little absent lately.”

“I’m here right now,” you force yourself to smile, a wave of nausea washing over you as you begin to comfort him. He’s giving you an opening. Yet, your mouth moves almost instinctually to shield him from yourself, “We’re good.”

Seeing you smile eases his worries if only a fraction, and he exhales. “You’ll tell me when I mess up, though?”

“You won’t mess up.”

He hums, the tension of his body subsiding as he cranes his neck for a kiss. He knows you’re keeping something to yourself, but he thinks you’ll come around eventually, “I love you.”

You get away with replying to his words with the press of your lips to his.

"It fucking sucks, Sana," you groan into your hands, dragging both of them down your face. Your friend simply hums, continuing to paint her nails as you speak. You glare at her from where you’re seated on her bed, watching her blow air on her hands without a care in the world. “Seriously, I mean it.”

“I know you do,” she tilts her head, swiping some excess paint off her ring finger, “People lose feelings sometimes. I don’t think you’re a bad person.”

That gets you to straighten up, socked feet touching the ground as you scoot to the edge of the bed. She always tries to see the best in people. In rude cashiers who might just be having a bad shift or reckless drivers who might be driving their loved one to the hospital.

You’re not really sure if you need unconditional support right now as much as you need a reality check. 

But it feels good to be assured that you’re not an evil entity feeding off your boyfriend’s energy, taking advantage of his cluelessness to save yourself from self-reflection.  “You don’t?”

She wipes the skin around her nails with a cotton swab drenched in acetone, a small smile climbing onto her features as she registers your relief. “I don’t. As long as you’re being honest, right?” 

You nod in silence, watching her concentrate fully on the pretty shade of pink on her nails. She holds her hand up to the small lamp on her desk, frowning as she spots a small hair on her pinky. She picks it off with caution, adding another layer of rosy pink before stopping her movements. 

She glances over her shoulder, regarding you with playfully narrowed eyes, “...right?”

The soft pop playing from her speaker suddenly feels a lot louder as you clear your throat. Sana giggles under her breath, leaning back in her desk chair and turning it all the way around. You press your lips into a thin line, and she looks at you expectantly. Her sparkly eyes ease you into honesty.

“I kinda… start choking up every time I try to break up with him. Last time I thought about bringing it up, we ended up having sex. It was good. Great, actually.”

“Do you still love him?”

Your heart hammers in your ribcage. You’re not even sure yourself. Because if you answer ‘no’, then you’d have to pinpoint when you stopped. And if you said ‘yes’, then you would have to explain what exactly you felt now. Not to Sana, but to yourself. And that’s somehow so much scarier.

So, you settle for the safest answer, “Kinda?”

Her brows furrow, soft voice quieter than usual, “Well, then maybe it’s salvageable, right? If there’s chemistry and love there…”

You sigh, deflating as you lie back on her comforter. It smells like her. Vanilla, strawberry, and everything sweet. You let the scent calm your system, turning to the side to watch her start decorating the nails on her left hand. “Is dating girls any easier?”

She snorts like you said something funny, her pretty features scrunching up as she examines her middle and ring finger. When you reply with silence, she spins around in her seat to face you. “Oh, you’re seriously asking? No. But at least girls are nice to look at. Even when you’re arguing.”

“Yeosang is nice to look at,” you cross your arms, gaze moving back up to the ceiling.

She hums as she goes back to painting white polka dots on her nails. “I seriously think you should bring it up to him. Maybe… if you had really lost feelings, you wouldn’t care this much about hurting him.”

You swing your legs beneath you, taking her words into serious consideration. “Maybe.”

Sana blows on her freshly done nails, watching you closely as you look down at her comforter. You pick lint off of it like you’re getting paid for it, collecting the small balls of fuzz in your hand. She sighs, standing up from her chair to pick a color from the collection in her dresser’s drawer. “Come here. Let me do your nails, and we’ll talk about how we’re gonna decorate our dorm instead, okay?”

After spending the night at your best friend's house, you thought maybe things would go back to normal. Perhaps Sana was right. There is still chemistry between you. He always takes his time with you, litters you with more kisses and touches, pulls you closer, and asks you to stay a little longer.

You feel wanted. You feel the envious stares and the weight of the 'high school sweethearts' title. You feel pretty and funny and sexy with him.

But the very next day, you can barely find the courage to text him back.

5:01 PM | sangie: i miss you :(

5:01 PM | sangie: dinner at my place? my parents have been asking about you

You stare at your phone screen, groaning as you read the messages. The Kang family adores you; they’ve treated you like one of their own for as long as you can remember. But you know that sitting down at their dinner table would only make it harder to address your nausea.

5:07 PM | do you mind coming over instead?

So he does, obeying your words without question as he usually did. When he arrives, your house is completely silent except for his shuffling as he takes off his shoes at the front door.

“Hi,” Yeosang mutters, reaching for your hand and pulling you into a soft peck. “Where is everyone?”

The thoughts swirling in your head still for a moment. A rush of heat spreads throughout your face at the casual affection, but you know the warmth is no longer love. It might be familiarity. Annoyance. Desire. Anything but the feelings that would have once urged you to pull him back for a more passionate kiss.

“Visiting family,” you reply meekly, gaze racking over him unconsciously. Since graduation, his hair has grown out a bit, framing his face in a way that highlights his delicate features. His eyes that were once darkened with exhaustion look more lively. His frame is slightly fuller, muscles more toned. “I’ve been home alone for a few days now.”

“Oh,” he manages to reply, thrown off by your uncharacteristic quietness, “I thought we’d have dinner with your family. That’s okay, though.”

You meet his eyes and immediately regret it, the excited grin on his lips twisting your guts, “I wanted to talk to you.”

“You didn’t greet me like usual,” he interrupts abruptly, eyes distracted by your lips.

Without giving you time to react, he pulls you into a kiss. Your tongue slides against his bottom lip out of habit, and you shudder as you swallow a strangled groan from him. This is something you could live in forever. His lips on yours almost convince you to stay a little longer. Almost.

Yeosang uses the hold he already has on your hand to walk you backwards until you reach a wall. His hand cradles the back of your head to shield you from the hard material, and you shiver at the slide of his hand from your head to your neck. He celebrates the response by moving his mouth to the skin beneath your ear.

You rake your hand through his hair and pull softly, your voice wavering slightly as you call out his name.

He presses a kiss to your pulse point. His hands slide under your shirt, the coldness of his fingertips electric against your warm skin. “You miss me. You never tell me anymore, but I can feel it. You start shaking when I touch you like this.”

The pad of his thumb traces the underside of your bra, and you jump at the sensation. You should push him off. There’s no point in allowing him to continue. You’ve already decided the fate of your relationship.

But everything’s always easier said than done. You watch him sink onto his knees in front of you, his hands moving slowly down your legs. The baritone of his voice wraps around your chest, “Do you want me?”

Your lips form the word “yes” out of habit.

Yeosang closes his eyes, savoring that one syllable and holding it as evidence that he is overthinking. That you’re still there. That he’s still yours.

He pushes through the unconvinced lilt of your voice that he knows too well, one hand traveling up the backside of your thigh, “Tell me.”

“I always want you,” you lie again, suppressing a full-body tremble as he kisses up your inner thighs. He’s lost in you, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he delicately brushes his tongue over bite marks.

He was never talkative during intimate moments, too focused on watching the tiniest movements of your body as it reacted to his. This is different. He can feel you slipping like water through his hands and he’s doing his best to close the cracks. To remind you.

The waistband of your shorts drags down your legs along with your underwear. There’s no time to waste— he knows this. Warnings swirl in his unconscious, commanding him to do what he knows best: show rather than tell.

He allows muscle memory to guide him blindly. His strong hands carry you to your bed, laying you out gently. He bends at the waist, kisses traveling down from your ear to the skin between your hipbones.

You’re urging him to hurry, but he can barely hear your words. They form a familiar melody, and his body knows every step of the choreography.

“Please,” you manage, hips bucking up when his eyes flicker up to yours. “I hate when you tease me.”

“Liar,” he whispers, but it isn’t a response to your words. It’s an observation, a word that he has been keeping to himself for weeks. It’s too harsh on its own, but he needs you to hear it. Even if you only take it as an offhanded reply to your sinful exchange rather than the beginning of the end.

He doesn’t know when he took the condom out from your nightstand. He isn’t sure when he’d littered all those bruises on your neck. He can’t find it in himself to care.

It was all mindless routine, from when your shorts had hit the floor to when he dropped you on the mattress. But it becomes intentional as he pushes into you, one hand on the back of your knee and the other holding your hand against the sheets.

“Look,” Yeosang murmurs, stilling inside you. He bites back an exhale when you look down to where you’re connected rather than up at him. “At… at me, angel. Please.”

You oblige, loosening your clammy grip on his palm. But you lose sight of him half a second later as he begins shallowly thrusting into you, and you suddenly feel thankful for your inability to keep your eyes open when he has you like this. It isn’t suspicious if you don’t look at the view above you, not if your eyes are too busy rolling back.

The pinch between his brows deepens as your eyes squeeze shut, but he can’t question it when you squeeze around him too.

He falls into a quick rhythm, one hand still pressing yours firmly as the other moves frantically. It cups your face, fixes your hair, pinches sensitive skin— anything that can get a reaction out of you to show him that he’s still desired. That your flesh still burns against his.

His thumb moves down to your clit out of panic. He rubs sloppy circles on it, eliciting a surprised moan from you.

“Mhm,” he searches your expression, thumb pressing much firmer than usual. “‘s good?”

You don’t bother to respond, a whine ripping from your throat when he taps two fingers roughly against your bud. He groans as he watches your reaction.

“I know, I— fuck, I know,” he rambles, body bending down and trapping his hand between you as he closes the space. “Do you remember? Tell me you remember.”

“Remember?” you reply breathlessly, left hand trying desperately to slide out of his grasp but failing. He only holds on that much harder.

He nudges his face right under your jaw, breath fanning against your neck as he responds, “Our first time. You couldn’t stop shaking. I thought I— ah— I hurt you. But I learned. You shake. Every time. Even now.”

The words are nearly nonsensical with how much he cuts himself off with groans, so unlike him, but you hum in acknowledgment anyway. He nods, “I love you. Don’t go. Please.”

You pulse around him, overwhelmed by every sensation. He’s rubbing against you so messily it nearly feels animalistic. You can smell his sweat smearing over your torso, and his deep voice right against your ear. Like clockwork, your legs begin trembling even harder and Yeosang fails to suppress a moan.

“There you are,” he encourages, pressing his face further into your neck and sucking at the sensitive skin, “Come for me. Please, please, I need… I need to feel you.”

Every push is pointed. Mean, so intentional that it knocks the wind out of you.

Pleasure shoots through your nerves like lightning, your head tipping back as he fucks you through it.

He doesn’t let up until his breaths become shallow and shaky against your ear, twitching twice before his body goes limp over yours.

It’s too hot in your room to keep him there. Ragged breaths and warm sheets, the heavy smell of sweat lingers in the air. Your eyes move to the ceiling as you attempt to ignore the way he pushes all the way in before pulling out of you. Your muscles twitch slightly with aftershocks as he slips the used condom off himself.

“You okay?” his skilled fingers tie the plastic and toss it to the bin near the feet of your bed.

You hum in response, nodding absentmindedly as he stares.

Normally, he would save his questions for later so as not to take advantage of your vulnerability. But right now, with your arousal spread all over his pelvis and his bite marks on your neck, his mind is buzzing with too many doubts.

“There’s something on your mind.”

The statement rings in your ears like an accusation. You can’t help but glance at him in surprise, all the hesitance in his expression replaced by determination.

It irks you. That he knows you inside out. That his endless worry encourages his own demise.

“I don’t think this… we are gonna work.”

Yeosang flinches, brows furrowing instantly as a grimace settles on his face.

Both of you sit up, exposed and hearts still beating wildly.

“I’m sorry,” you finalize, not giving him anything to work with.

He looks away, understanding exactly what you’re saying. He’s known it for a while. Subconsciously, he knew, but he had suppressed it. He’d fought logic with feelings. It was a losing game. His voice comes out small as he parts his lips, “Why?”

That’s the hardest question you have to answer. There isn’t a day you could pinpoint, nor a worthy offense to blame. So you keep silent, waiting for him to look back at you. He doesn’t.

“Is there someone else?”

“No! No, Yeosang, I would never do that to you,” you respond instantly, “It’s not anything like that. I just...”

His shoulders relax at your words, as if ruling out the possibility of a third party means your relationship is salvageable. “Just..?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t felt the same in months.”

“Months? Did I do something?”

You shake your head again, frustrated with his lack of understanding even though you give him no chance to look into your mind. “No, this isn’t your fault. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve started resenting you for no reason, and I don’t want to hate you. I loved you so much—”

“Loved?” he interrupts, like the word burns him, “You’re saying you don’t feel anything anymore? Nothing?”

“Don’t you feel that way too? Aren’t you bored of me?”

He huffs at your response, tears welling up in his eyes. “No. Recently, I started missing you even when we were together. I thought my feelings were growing even more. But it’s because you weren’t actually there.”

Your sight blurs as he speaks, but you blink your tears back. “Every time I wanted to talk to you, I’d hold back because I thought this would pass. But it hasn’t and I don’t want to lie to you anymore.”

"It’s not because of college? The distance won't matter to me, I swear.”

You shake your head, interrupting his train of thought, "It’s me, Yeosang. I don't want this anymore."

For some reason, you expect him to lash out. You had never seen him angry enough to raise his voice at someone. Not when you’d met him back in middle school. Not in high school. Not after. But you fear you really surpassed his limits.

You should’ve known that he’d stare at you in disbelief, a deep sadness swirling in his brown irises.

“I don't understand, but if this… if this is what it takes for us to be okay…” he trails off, biting his tongue. He has so many questions. How many times had those lingering voices been right? When had you faked excuses not to see him? Since when had you started avoiding telling him you loved him? Why had you let him lie with you tonight? His urge to protect your feelings overpowered his need to know. “I’ll go home.”

You feel small and immature as he regards you so gently. “Please don’t hate me.”

He smiles, speaking your name softly, eyes narrowing as if you’d told him he had two heads, “I love you. That won’t change. It wouldn’t have changed even if you cheated on me.”

You gasp, the exaggerated words pulling you out of your head, “That’s not a good thing.”

“I know.”

The room falls eerily quiet as he gathers his belongings, but there’s nothing else either of you is willing to say. You’d both told each other your conflicting truths. The more he loved you, the less you loved him. Breaking up is the only compromise. Yeosang was never one to push you for answers, and you don’t want to hurt him with a half-baked explanation.

When you hand him a bag of the gifts he’d gotten you throughout the years, he pushes it back towards you, “Everything I’ve given you is yours to keep.”

Once he reaches your front door, you stand in silence, as if neither of you can muster up a final goodbye. A broken exhale slips from him and you nearly reach out to trace the birthmark near his eye the way you always do when you comfort him.

But that is no longer your obligation.

The same songs you listened to on your first date still play from his car’s speakers, and your dates are even more consistent with all the free time summer gifts you. If anything, your love life should be more stable than ever.

“Hey,” he murmurs, soft eyes flicking to yours. The car’s engine rumbles roughly, brakes creaking slightly as he comes to a full stop, “You okay? You’ve been quiet the whole ride.”

Your attention rips away from the small letters on his display. You study his profile, the way his hair curls at the ends to frame his sculpted face and how his forearm flexes as he reaches over the console. His hand rests right over your knee, you make no move to cover it with your own. “I’m alright. Just thinking.”

He accepts the answer easily, sparing you a glance before turning back towards the traffic, “Did you put sunscreen on?”

The question makes your skin prickle more than the sun could ever manage, “Yes. I’m not a baby.”

“Okay,” he gently maneuvers into the right lane, checking the side mirror closer to you, “you forgot last time, that’s all. I'm making sure.”

You shouldn’t be annoyed. He cares, and you hate it. You hate the cologne that floods the car and how he always gives in.

Yeosang says nothing else. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, gulping down the comment that climbs up his throat. It’s gibberish anyway, unfinished thoughts about your mood and how you refuse to look at him lately. He thinks he might’ve noticed you holding your breath when he greeted you with a hug earlier. The idea slithers around his throat and strangles him. He doesn’t think he minds the burn. But the pressure is starting to dig into his skin.

It doesn’t take much longer to make it to the house party. You’re stolen from him as soon as you set foot through the back door. A group of girls surrounds you like you’ve blessed them with your presence, and soon enough, you’re stepping out of your tiny shorts to join them for a poolside drink. He takes the denim when you hand it to him without so much as a glance.

He keeps his eyes on you. The girls who are pouring liquor straight from the bottle into your mouth are completely unfamiliar to him. He racks his memory and finds nothing. He wonders when you stopped talking about the new friends you made. Or when you stopped introducing him to strangers.

The cooler on a lone beach chair sits invitingly by his side. He tucks your folded shorts under his arm, giving him the leverage to open the container. It’s all beer, the cheap kind he’s surprised a party of this caliber even allows inside. Maybe the mansion is just a front. Probably rented for the night, meant to be trashed and forgotten. He shrugs; it’ll taste good enough when he’s past a few sips.

You nearly choke on a big gulp of champagne, the sweet liquid burning as it struggles to pass down your system. The panic quickly subsides as Chae pats your back from next to you, stifling a giggle.

“By the way, is that your boyfriend?” she asks over the music, peering off to the side. You don’t have to look to know she’s got the right guy. Yeosang always makes a memorable first impression when you arrive anywhere with him. He’s gorgeous. Annoyingly so.

“Yeah,” you lean back on your hands, feet dipped into the clear pool water, “Pretty, right?”

Chae hesitates. She blinks rapidly, unsure on whether she should agree or not, and the bottle of champagne in her hand clicks as she puts it down on hot cement. “Um, you look good together.”

You raise a brow at her roundabout answer. She smiles like she’s been caught stealing.

“Yeah. Handsome,” she finally concedes, throwing another glance toward the beach chairs off to the side of the pool. “I didn’t even know you were dating someone. You don’t post him at all. If I were dating someone like that…”

Your stomach shifts uncomfortably at the comment. You barely know the girl. She’s a friend of a friend. A mutual that randomly sent you the invitation to the pool party through social media. You’re not sure if you’d call the feeling jealousy.

“Yeah, well,” you shrug, taking the bottle swiftly from her hands, “we’re private.”

“Huh.”

You follow her gaze this time, all the way to the opposite side of the pool. He’s opening a beer bottle with a spoon, one hand tight around the bottle’s neck while his wrist flicks effortlessly. The cap flies off, and he hands the green bottle to the girl in front of him with a grin. She says something to him, leaning closer. He shakes his head.

You find yourself wishing he hadn’t. You wish he’d take the bait, flirt with the pretty girl in front of everyone else, give you a reason to leave. But he finds your eyes like always, and you wish they weren’t such a pretty shade of persuasion.

Yeosang knows something is wrong.

Of course, he notices you declining more and more of his invitations to go out. He sees the way you look towards the door while you’re out with him, as if you’d rather be anywhere else. He thinks you might be doubting him. With you two going off to different universities, it’s only natural that you feel insecure about your future.

He wants to reassure you, to tell you that distance could never come between you. He’s been in love with you for so long that he’s forgotten what anything was like before you.

But you refuse to budge. You avoid him in every situation that doesn’t involve you in his bed.

Tonight is no different. After a shared look at the pool, he knows it’s time to go. So he calls a cab, mentally preparing to pick up his car on a random street in the morning. If his hangover didn’t kill him, the stress of remembering where he parked might.

The ride is silent. His house is equally quiet as it is most days, but you lead him to his room as if you need more privacy. You push him to sit on his bed and slowly climb onto his lap, legs draping on either side of his waist and sinking into his mattress. He squeezes your sides gently, attempting to get your attention. But your blood is buzzing with champagne and want.

You press kisses to the line of his jaw, attempting to quell the feeling in your gut. It started with Chae’s unnecessary comments and was fueled by the look he was getting from the beer girl.

You decide you hate both of them. Maybe all three of them.

Another squeeze goes unnoticed, so he gives in, kissing you back as if the exchange could feed him your every thought.

“I want you,” you whisper against his lips, the words feeling light on your tongue, like you’re speaking them to a hot stranger. Overly seductive, devoid of any soft intimacy. But that’s all you could muster anymore: lust.

A breath pushes through his nose before he replies against your lips, “I… think we should talk.”

Reluctance creeps onto your features, but you persist, “Later.”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he shifts away from you, “you’re acting different.”

The air freezes as he drops his hands from your waist, and you suddenly feel the urge to jump off him. But you stay still, too still, in his hold.

He continues, trying to get you to say it for yourself. To tell him that you’re scared to lose him. “You said we should be open with each other. So, to be honest, I think there’s something that’s making you avoid me. Did I do something wrong?”

Your pulse quickens at the idea of hurting his feelings, and you pull to look him directly in the eyes, “No, not at all. You’re always good to me.”

“Are you sure?” his eyes move away from yours with a quickness you’d long forgotten. “You have nothing on your mind?”

You still make him nervous. It’s more than apparent, with the way his eyes bounce around the room and how you can just barely feel him breathing hard underneath you.

If you wanted him to still feel love for you, it would be endearing. That isn’t the case. You want the easy way out of this. You want him to push you and yell at you that he’s sick of the silence and the awkward pauses and the bored stares.

But he’s much too sweet for that. Always too conscious of other people’s emotions, too afraid to prioritize his own.

“You’re overthinking things,” you lie before you can stop yourself.

He blinks once, twice, and then looks down to where your hand lies over his abdomen. “You… feel a little absent lately.”

“I’m here right now,” you force yourself to smile, a wave of nausea washing over you as you begin to comfort him. He’s giving you an opening. Yet, your mouth moves almost instinctually to shield him from yourself, “We’re good.”

Seeing you smile eases his worries if only a fraction, and he exhales. “You’ll tell me when I mess up, though?”

“You won’t mess up.”

He hums, the tension of his body subsiding as he cranes his neck for a kiss. He knows you’re keeping something to yourself, but he thinks you’ll come around eventually, “I love you.”

You get away with replying to his words with the press of your lips to his.

"It fucking sucks, Sana," you groan into your hands, dragging both of them down your face. Your friend simply hums, continuing to paint her nails as you speak. You glare at her from where you’re seated on her bed, watching her blow air on her hands without a care in the world. “Seriously, I mean it.”

“I know you do,” she tilts her head, swiping some excess paint off her ring finger, “People lose feelings sometimes. I don’t think you’re a bad person.”

That gets you to straighten up, socked feet touching the ground as you scoot to the edge of the bed. She always tries to see the best in people. In rude cashiers who might just be having a bad shift or reckless drivers who might be driving their loved one to the hospital.

You’re not really sure if you need unconditional support right now as much as you need a reality check. 

But it feels good to be assured that you’re not an evil entity feeding off your boyfriend’s energy, taking advantage of his cluelessness to save yourself from self-reflection.  “You don’t?”

She wipes the skin around her nails with a cotton swab drenched in acetone, a small smile climbing onto her features as she registers your relief. “I don’t. As long as you’re being honest, right?” 

You nod in silence, watching her concentrate fully on the pretty shade of pink on her nails. She holds her hand up to the small lamp on her desk, frowning as she spots a small hair on her pinky. She picks it off with caution, adding another layer of rosy pink before stopping her movements. 

She glances over her shoulder, regarding you with playfully narrowed eyes, “...right?”

The soft pop playing from her speaker suddenly feels a lot louder as you clear your throat. Sana giggles under her breath, leaning back in her desk chair and turning it all the way around. You press your lips into a thin line, and she looks at you expectantly. Her sparkly eyes ease you into honesty.

“I kinda… start choking up every time I try to break up with him. Last time I thought about bringing it up, we ended up having sex. It was good. Great, actually.”

“Do you still love him?”

Your heart hammers in your ribcage. You’re not even sure yourself. Because if you answer ‘no’, then you’d have to pinpoint when you stopped. And if you said ‘yes’, then you would have to explain what exactly you felt now. Not to Sana, but to yourself. And that’s somehow so much scarier.

So, you settle for the safest answer, “Kinda?”

Her brows furrow, soft voice quieter than usual, “Well, then maybe it’s salvageable, right? If there’s chemistry and love there…”

You sigh, deflating as you lie back on her comforter. It smells like her. Vanilla, strawberry, and everything sweet. You let the scent calm your system, turning to the side to watch her start decorating the nails on her left hand. “Is dating girls any easier?”

She snorts like you said something funny, her pretty features scrunching up as she examines her middle and ring finger. When you reply with silence, she spins around in her seat to face you. “Oh, you’re seriously asking? No. But at least girls are nice to look at. Even when you’re arguing.”

“Yeosang is nice to look at,” you cross your arms, gaze moving back up to the ceiling.

She hums as she goes back to painting white polka dots on her nails. “I seriously think you should bring it up to him. Maybe… if you had really lost feelings, you wouldn’t care this much about hurting him.”

You swing your legs beneath you, taking her words into serious consideration. “Maybe.”

Sana blows on her freshly done nails, watching you closely as you look down at her comforter. You pick lint off of it like you’re getting paid for it, collecting the small balls of fuzz in your hand. She sighs, standing up from her chair to pick a color from the collection in her dresser’s drawer. “Come here. Let me do your nails, and we’ll talk about how we’re gonna decorate our dorm instead, okay?”

After spending the night at your best friend's house, you thought maybe things would go back to normal. Perhaps Sana was right. There is still chemistry between you. He always takes his time with you, litters you with more kisses and touches, pulls you closer, and asks you to stay a little longer.

You feel wanted. You feel the envious stares and the weight of the 'high school sweethearts' title. You feel pretty and funny and sexy with him.

But the very next day, you can barely find the courage to text him back.

5:01 PM | sangie: i miss you :(

5:01 PM | sangie: dinner at my place? my parents have been asking about you

You stare at your phone screen, groaning as you read the messages. The Kang family adores you; they’ve treated you like one of their own for as long as you can remember. But you know that sitting down at their dinner table would only make it harder to address your nausea.

5:07 PM | do you mind coming over instead?

So he does, obeying your words without question as he usually did. When he arrives, your house is completely silent except for his shuffling as he takes off his shoes at the front door.

“Hi,” Yeosang mutters, reaching for your hand and pulling you into a soft peck. “Where is everyone?”

The thoughts swirling in your head still for a moment. A rush of heat spreads throughout your face at the casual affection, but you know the warmth is no longer love. It might be familiarity. Annoyance. Desire. Anything but the feelings that would have once urged you to pull him back for a more passionate kiss.

“Visiting family,” you reply meekly, gaze racking over him unconsciously. Since graduation, his hair has grown out a bit, framing his face in a way that highlights his delicate features. His eyes that were once darkened with exhaustion look more lively. His frame is slightly fuller, muscles more toned. “I’ve been home alone for a few days now.”

“Oh,” he manages to reply, thrown off by your uncharacteristic quietness, “I thought we’d have dinner with your family. That’s okay, though.”

You meet his eyes and immediately regret it, the excited grin on his lips twisting your guts, “I wanted to talk to you.”

“You didn’t greet me like usual,” he interrupts abruptly, eyes distracted by your lips.

Without giving you time to react, he pulls you into a kiss. Your tongue slides against his bottom lip out of habit, and you shudder as you swallow a strangled groan from him. This is something you could live in forever. His lips on yours almost convince you to stay a little longer. Almost.

Yeosang uses the hold he already has on your hand to walk you backwards until you reach a wall. His hand cradles the back of your head to shield you from the hard material, and you shiver at the slide of his hand from your head to your neck. He celebrates the response by moving his mouth to the skin beneath your ear.

You rake your hand through his hair and pull softly, your voice wavering slightly as you call out his name.

He presses a kiss to your pulse point. His hands slide under your shirt, the coldness of his fingertips electric against your warm skin. “You miss me. You never tell me anymore, but I can feel it. You start shaking when I touch you like this.”

The pad of his thumb traces the underside of your bra, and you jump at the sensation. You should push him off. There’s no point in allowing him to continue. You’ve already decided the fate of your relationship.

But everything’s always easier said than done. You watch him sink onto his knees in front of you, his hands moving slowly down your legs. The baritone of his voice wraps around your chest, “Do you want me?”

Your lips form the word “yes” out of habit.

Yeosang closes his eyes, savoring that one syllable and holding it as evidence that he is overthinking. That you’re still there. That he’s still yours.

He pushes through the unconvinced lilt of your voice that he knows too well, one hand traveling up the backside of your thigh, “Tell me.”

“I always want you,” you lie again, suppressing a full-body tremble as he kisses up your inner thighs. He’s lost in you, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he delicately brushes his tongue over bite marks.

He was never talkative during intimate moments, too focused on watching the tiniest movements of your body as it reacted to his. This is different. He can feel you slipping like water through his hands and he’s doing his best to close the cracks. To remind you.

The waistband of your shorts drags down your legs along with your underwear. There’s no time to waste— he knows this. Warnings swirl in his unconscious, commanding him to do what he knows best: show rather than tell.

He allows muscle memory to guide him blindly. His strong hands carry you to your bed, laying you out gently. He bends at the waist, kisses traveling down from your ear to the skin between your hipbones.

You’re urging him to hurry, but he can barely hear your words. They form a familiar melody, and his body knows every step of the choreography.

“Please,” you manage, hips bucking up when his eyes flicker up to yours. “I hate when you tease me.”

“Liar,” he whispers, but it isn’t a response to your words. It’s an observation, a word that he has been keeping to himself for weeks. It’s too harsh on its own, but he needs you to hear it. Even if you only take it as an offhanded reply to your sinful exchange rather than the beginning of the end.

He doesn’t know when he took the condom out from your nightstand. He isn’t sure when he’d littered all those bruises on your neck. He can’t find it in himself to care.

It was all mindless routine, from when your shorts had hit the floor to when he dropped you on the mattress. But it becomes intentional as he pushes into you, one hand on the back of your knee and the other holding your hand against the sheets.

“Look,” Yeosang murmurs, stilling inside you. He bites back an exhale when you look down to where you’re connected rather than up at him. “At… at me, angel. Please.”

You oblige, loosening your clammy grip on his palm. But you lose sight of him half a second later as he begins shallowly thrusting into you, and you suddenly feel thankful for your inability to keep your eyes open when he has you like this. It isn’t suspicious if you don’t look at the view above you, not if your eyes are too busy rolling back.

The pinch between his brows deepens as your eyes squeeze shut, but he can’t question it when you squeeze around him too.

He falls into a quick rhythm, one hand still pressing yours firmly as the other moves frantically. It cups your face, fixes your hair, pinches sensitive skin— anything that can get a reaction out of you to show him that he’s still desired. That your flesh still burns against his.

His thumb moves down to your clit out of panic. He rubs sloppy circles on it, eliciting a surprised moan from you.

“Mhm,” he searches your expression, thumb pressing much firmer than usual. “‘s good?”

You don’t bother to respond, a whine ripping from your throat when he taps two fingers roughly against your bud. He groans as he watches your reaction.

“I know, I— fuck, I know,” he rambles, body bending down and trapping his hand between you as he closes the space. “Do you remember? Tell me you remember.”

“Remember?” you reply breathlessly, left hand trying desperately to slide out of his grasp but failing. He only holds on that much harder.

He nudges his face right under your jaw, breath fanning against your neck as he responds, “Our first time. You couldn’t stop shaking. I thought I— ah— I hurt you. But I learned. You shake. Every time. Even now.”

The words are nearly nonsensical with how much he cuts himself off with groans, so unlike him, but you hum in acknowledgment anyway. He nods, “I love you. Don’t go. Please.”

You pulse around him, overwhelmed by every sensation. He’s rubbing against you so messily it nearly feels animalistic. You can smell his sweat smearing over your torso, and his deep voice right against your ear. Like clockwork, your legs begin trembling even harder and Yeosang fails to suppress a moan.

“There you are,” he encourages, pressing his face further into your neck and sucking at the sensitive skin, “Come for me. Please, please, I need… I need to feel you.”

Every push is pointed. Mean, so intentional that it knocks the wind out of you.

Pleasure shoots through your nerves like lightning, your head tipping back as he fucks you through it.

He doesn’t let up until his breaths become shallow and shaky against your ear, twitching twice before his body goes limp over yours.

It’s too hot in your room to keep him there. Ragged breaths and warm sheets, the heavy smell of sweat lingers in the air. Your eyes move to the ceiling as you attempt to ignore the way he pushes all the way in before pulling out of you. Your muscles twitch slightly with aftershocks as he slips the used condom off himself.

“You okay?” his skilled fingers tie the plastic and toss it to the bin near the feet of your bed.

You hum in response, nodding absentmindedly as he stares.

Normally, he would save his questions for later so as not to take advantage of your vulnerability. But right now, with your arousal spread all over his pelvis and his bite marks on your neck, his mind is buzzing with too many doubts.

“There’s something on your mind.”

The statement rings in your ears like an accusation. You can’t help but glance at him in surprise, all the hesitance in his expression replaced by determination.

It irks you. That he knows you inside out. That his endless worry encourages his own demise.

“I don’t think this… we are gonna work.”

Yeosang flinches, brows furrowing instantly as a grimace settles on his face.

Both of you sit up, exposed and hearts still beating wildly.

“I’m sorry,” you finalize, not giving him anything to work with.

He looks away, understanding exactly what you’re saying. He’s known it for a while. Subconsciously, he knew, but he had suppressed it. He’d fought logic with feelings. It was a losing game. His voice comes out small as he parts his lips, “Why?”

That’s the hardest question you have to answer. There isn’t a day you could pinpoint, nor a worthy offense to blame. So you keep silent, waiting for him to look back at you. He doesn’t.

“Is there someone else?”

“No! No, Yeosang, I would never do that to you,” you respond instantly, “It’s not anything like that. I just...”

His shoulders relax at your words, as if ruling out the possibility of a third party means your relationship is salvageable. “Just..?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t felt the same in months.”

“Months? Did I do something?”

You shake your head again, frustrated with his lack of understanding even though you give him no chance to look into your mind. “No, this isn’t your fault. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve started resenting you for no reason, and I don’t want to hate you. I loved you so much—”

“Loved?” he interrupts, like the word burns him, “You’re saying you don’t feel anything anymore? Nothing?”

“Don’t you feel that way too? Aren’t you bored of me?”

He huffs at your response, tears welling up in his eyes. “No. Recently, I started missing you even when we were together. I thought my feelings were growing even more. But it’s because you weren’t actually there.”

Your sight blurs as he speaks, but you blink your tears back. “Every time I wanted to talk to you, I’d hold back because I thought this would pass. But it hasn’t and I don’t want to lie to you anymore.”

"It’s not because of college? The distance won't matter to me, I swear.”

You shake your head, interrupting his train of thought, "It’s me, Yeosang. I don't want this anymore."

For some reason, you expect him to lash out. You had never seen him angry enough to raise his voice at someone. Not when you’d met him back in middle school. Not in high school. Not after. But you fear you really surpassed his limits.

You should’ve known that he’d stare at you in disbelief, a deep sadness swirling in his brown irises.

“I don't understand, but if this… if this is what it takes for us to be okay…” he trails off, biting his tongue. He has so many questions. How many times had those lingering voices been right? When had you faked excuses not to see him? Since when had you started avoiding telling him you loved him? Why had you let him lie with you tonight? His urge to protect your feelings overpowered his need to know. “I’ll go home.”

You feel small and immature as he regards you so gently. “Please don’t hate me.”

He smiles, speaking your name softly, eyes narrowing as if you’d told him he had two heads, “I love you. That won’t change. It wouldn’t have changed even if you cheated on me.”

You gasp, the exaggerated words pulling you out of your head, “That’s not a good thing.”

“I know.”

The room falls eerily quiet as he gathers his belongings, but there’s nothing else either of you is willing to say. You’d both told each other your conflicting truths. The more he loved you, the less you loved him. Breaking up is the only compromise. Yeosang was never one to push you for answers, and you don’t want to hurt him with a half-baked explanation.

When you hand him a bag of the gifts he’d gotten you throughout the years, he pushes it back towards you, “Everything I’ve given you is yours to keep.”

Once he reaches your front door, you stand in silence, as if neither of you can muster up a final goodbye. A broken exhale slips from him and you nearly reach out to trace the birthmark near his eye the way you always do when you comfort him.

But that is no longer your obligation.

He stayed awake for an hour, scrolling on his phone, opening and closing different social media platforms until his eyes started drifting closed again. He dreamt— he dreamt of something funny, something so funny he couldn’t breathe, clutching his stomach and choking on his spit. He dreamt of you, you laughed with him, tears streaming down your cheeks because neither of you could stop. 

Sleep was no longer comforting, no longer safe. He jolted awake, pushing himself off the mattress, he started hanging his clothes back up half-asleep, body moving on auto pilot. Something to do with his hands. 

He hears it, hands going still, spine rigid. Your laugh, all the way downstairs on the main floor, in the kitchen or the living room. It swims up through the vents, it sneaks under his door, it surrounds him and he’s drowning in it and he doesn’t understand why his life keeps boiling down to you you you. 

He stands there, staring into nothing, listening. Trying to see if he can map out any words, if he can hear the conversation downstairs, who and what has you sounding so bright. Fuck that. He showers, just for noise. Then he puts his headphones on, drowns himself in assignments instead just to keep his brain busy. Then when he feels like it’s been long enough–hopefully now the house is empty–he finally goes downstairs. 

Voices get louder with every step down the stairs, two. Four. He looks in the living room first, Hongjoong and Seonghwa sitting on the couch, laptops open, arguing about an assignment. Something they’re doing together. In the kitchen is Yunjin and San, giggling while mixing something in a bright orange bowl together, but they both stop laughing as soon as they see him. 

Yunjin starts, “Damn–”

San finishes, “Did someone die? Why do you look like shit?”

Wooyoung doesn’t change his expression, just a flat, blank stare. He gruffs out, “I didn’t sleep well.” 

“Clearly,” San huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he keeps mixing whatever’s in the bowl. 

“Is there a reason why?” Yunjin leaves the bowl to San, leaning her elbows onto the counter, slyly lifting her features. 

“No,” Wooyoung answers instinctively, defensively. He can feel her look, it’s hinting at something he doesn’t want to fucking hear. “I have a heavy workload right now.”

“Right,” Yunjin gives him a slow nod. “Assignments.”

San’s eyes peek upward from beneath his brows, glancing back and forth between Wooyoung and Yunjin. “What am I missing?”

Wooyoung moves for the cabinets, searching for the blender so he can make a protein shake; he needs something to do other than stand there and be fucking victim to Yunjin’s knowing eyes. The two of them didn’t even see him at the Penny last night. 

“Nothing,” she assures San, sticking her finger in the bowl, licking her finger. If he wasn’t so fucking hungry he’d leave the kitchen, instead he throws the blender on the counter and begins his hunt for ingredients. 

“Don’t eat the batter, Jen,” San hisses, tugging the bowl away from her. “Oh my god, you’re actually gonna eat it all.” 

“No I’m not!” she argues, leaning toward where he pulled it away. “One more. One more. Please?” 

San sighs, sliding the bowl toward her. Giddy as hell, she sticks her finger in again, licking it off. Wooyoung watches it all out of the corner of his eye, hoping they stay distracted. 

Of course not. Yunjin, that same sly grin painted on her cheeks again, turns toward Wooyoung. “So… What do you think about Yunho and my sweet baby angel being non-exclusive?” 

San picks his head up, immediately cutting it toward Wooyoung, brows tied together. 

He wants to sigh. He shrugs instead. “Good for them?” 

Yunjin’s eyes flare with amusement, grin growing wider. “You think so? I mean, she’s never been in that kind of relationship before, this is all pretty new for her.” 

Wooyoung’s jaw clenches as he shoves shit into the blender. “Again, good for her. I’m sure she’ll have a great time.” 

Yunjin’s grin turns borderline devilish. “She seemed to have a great time with Jihyo.”

Wooyoung slams the lid onto the blender harder than intended and slams his finger on the button. That was a little more intentional. He doesn’t dare look at Yunjin, but he can hear her giggling. 

“What am I missing?” San asks again, louder so Wooyoung can hear over the whirling of the blender. “I feel left out. Include me. Address me.” 

Wooyoung crosses his arms, leaning into the opposite side of the counter, and lets it run. San slides over, pressing the stop button, then puts his hands on his hips as he turns to Wooyoung. He doesn’t say anything, but his brows sit high. 

“Ask Jen,” Wooyoung points all five fingers toward Yunjin. “She’s the one who won’t just say what she wants to fucking say.” 

Yunjin sighs, defeated like he’s ruining her fucking joke or something. “Fine,” she stands a little straighter, bracing both hands on the counter behind her. “I wanted to know if that’s why you look so sad. Jihyo… Yunho.” 

“Why would that make him sad?” San asks, at the same time as Wooyoung asks, “Why would that make me sad?”

Yunjin blinks at San, then furrows her brows when she looks at Wooyoung. “Do you tell him anything?” 

Wooyoung pushes off the counter, “What did she tell you?”

“So there are things I don’t know,” San interjects, offended. “Why am I out of the fucking loop? One of you has about four seconds to fill me in on everything I don’t know.” Yunjin’s mouth doesn’t move, Wooyoung couldn’t speak if he tried. He wouldn’t know where to start. San’s eyes narrow as they bounce back and forth between him and Yunjin. “I’m trying really hard not to be hurt right now, someone tell me something for fuck’s sake.”

“I’m not sad,” Wooyoung finally answers, crossing his arms over his chest again. “She can fuck the whole campus for all I care, I’ve done it already.”

“But she didn’t fuck you,” Yunjin says plainly, then her lips scrunch like she regrets the way it came out. Wooyoung stiffens as the words sink in, cutting through his defense like a fucking blade. Quickly, she adds, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

Wooyoung can see San’s jaw slowly drop from the corner of his eye, and he feels like time has frozen for just a second as clarity cuts him wide open, his emotions showing in his wounded expression. It stings and he doesn’t fucking know why, her words sit heavy on his chest, they tie a knot at the base of his spine. His fists clench at his sides.

“Wooyoung,” Yunjin says carefully, her voice soft, another apology in the form of his name. 

He doesn’t know what to say. How to defend himself. All he can do is shake his head, “It’s fine.” 

He turns to the blender, pushes the button lighter this time. The loud noise it makes when it comes to life sounds a lot like the whirring in his mind. His bones feel heavy, his chest twists, his mouth runs dry. What the fuck is going on in his body?

Yunjin doesn’t press him any more, thankfully. San’s eyes are on alert, like the moment Wooyoung steps out of the kitchen he’s going to ask her for every detail imaginable. Fine. Wooyoung doesn’t care if he knows, but he wonders… he wonders what she’ll say. What you told her. 

He leaves the kitchen after pouring his shake into a cup, dragging his heavy bones back up to his bedroom. He barely drinks it, he showers again to wash the feeling off his skin, but he can’t scrub it off. His noise-cancelling headphones can’t even drown out his loud fucking brain. He can’t escape when he’s sleeping, he can’t escape when he’s fucking awake, he cannot live like this. 

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been in his room until he looks at the time at the top of his phone screen. He doesn’t even remember choosing to lay down on his bed again. He isn’t one to doomscroll for hours on the regular, but one video turned into another, and he supposes he needs the stupid videos today, because for the first time in hours, his brain feels quiet again. He stretches when he gets out of bed, grabbing his gym bag before dragging his body down the stairs. 

He grabs a banana from the kitchen island before walking out to the living room, stopping in his tracks when he sees Yunho and Mingi cuddled up on the couch, watching TV. Yunho’s laying halfway across Mingi, so comfortable, so normal it makes his stomach heavy. The two together isn’t surprising at all, but he can’t wrap his mind around how you went from someone who only allowed herself committed relationships to someone who’s okay with… this. Are you even fucking okay with it? Why didn’t you tell him? Isn’t he the person you come to for shit like this?

Mingi notices him first, eyeing him over the back of the couch, his dark hair unstyled and shaggy. “You headed to the gym?” 

Yunho’s head perks up as Wooyoung forces his voice into calmness, “Yeah. They close soon, want to run a little.”

“Run outside,” Mingi mutters, bringing his attention back to the TV. 

“Wait, that’s perfect, we’re all going over to Yunjin’s in a little.” Wooyoung can hear the stretch in Yunho’s voice, how his body is turned almost all the way around, blonde hair raggedy like Mingi was pulling on it. He wonders if you’d notice if you saw it. “Can you drive my sunshine girl home? You can come if you want.” 

“Nah, I’m good,” Wooyoung doesn’t miss a beat replying. Then he quirks a brow, “Her car isn’t fixed yet? Have you been driving her everywhere like her personal chauffeur?”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Yunho gruffs out. “Yes or no?”

His chest feels tight all fucking over again. “You don’t want to?” 

“It just makes more sense,” Yunho looks confused, like the answer is obvious. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

Wooyoung’s jaw clenches. “No,” he shakes his head, his body feels so fucking weird. “Yeah, I can take her. It’s fine.” 

“Thanks,” Yunho grins. “We’ll miss you later.” 

“You’ll be fine without me,” Wooyoung says through a breath before leaving through the front door.

Music plays full-blast through his car speakers. He doesn’t understand what the fuck happened in the time span of like, three fucking days. Three fucking days. You looked like you meant it, that night when you were a few inches away from where he’s sitting now, looking in his eye and telling him you want him. What did you want, then? Did you just want to kiss him? Did you just want to fuck him?

Why the fuck does that bother him so much? Why is he losing his goddamn mind?

His gut is still wrenching as he rips open the door to the gym. His palms feel sweaty against the metal handle, electricity in his fingertips, even his breathing is a little shallow. It’s instinct, taking two steps inside, his gaze darting to the counter. There’s a tall man with dark hair standing at the counter, leaning into it too casually, and just behind it he catches the tail end of you dropping to the floor, your hair moving a millisecond behind your body. 

“You’re kidding,” he whispers, fully under his breath. Did you just fucking duck? Are you hiding from him? Are you actually fucking joking?

You’ve worked at this gym for an entire year. A whole fucking year. And never once has Choi Soobin walked through the jingling doors, dressed in sweats and a tee like he belongs here or something. 

You haven’t seen him since that night in his condo when you walked in on Yeonjun and Beomgyu. But he looks the same, of course he does, mousey face, knowing eyes like secrets exist just for him to fucking find them out. The sight of him makes your blood boil, jaw clenching, eyes slanting like you could blow him up with your fucking mind.

You speak as soon as he’s close enough to hear. “The fuck are you doing here?”

It invokes a sly grin immediately. “I thought I’d come get a membership. It’s not expensive, right?”

You step back when he leans his elbows over the counter, peeking over it to see what’s behind. You hiss, “You’ve never worked out a day in your life, Soobin.”

“Maybe I want to start.” When he looks back up at you, a chill runs down your spine. “Sell me one. Do you make a commission?”

“No,” you answer, voice venomous. “It’s a commercial gym.”

“Damn,” he tugs his lips to one side, maybe pouty. “I wanted to make your paycheck a little fatter.”

“What are you doing here, Soobin?” You cross your arms over your chest, jaw tight. “If you’re here to watch another unveiling of a cheating scandal, I hate to break it to you, but I’m not dating anyone.”

“No?” His head tilts, a snarky smile stretching his lips thin. “Not even zip-tie Yunho?”

“We’re not exclusive,” you snap. “What does it matter to you?”

“Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice,” he pushes off the counter to stand up straight, shrugging. You can feel his height, head tilting upward to hold his eye. “Your real voice.” Your brows furrow, head tilting, ready to ask what the fuck he means, but he cuts off your thoughts. “Since when are you into non-committal shit, anyway?”

“Since now,” you answer, then your body does a full, disgusted shiver as his words sink in. “You wanted to hear my voice? Are you hitting on me, you fucking douchebag?”

He smirks, a small laugh tumbling off his tongue. “No, I’m not hitting on you. What made you switch sides? I heard a whisper about you and Park Jihyo.”

Your face warps into even more confusion. “Who did you hear that from?”

“It’s a small campus,” he shrugs. “I know lots of people.”

Now you’re just irritated. “Why the fuck do you even care? You’re like, speaking in fucking tongues, Soobin, spit it the fuck out.”

Soobin opens his mouth just as the front door jingles, and you catch the slightest glimpse of golden skin and black hair before your knees fold. Your heart drops to your ass, then your ass drops to the fucking floor. You’ve been wondering when you were going to see him since he rejected you in his car, but god, you could have had more time. You could have at least figured out what you’re going to say before you saw him.

Soobin’s head peeks over the counter, brows furrowed but eyes amused. “Are you good?”

“Go,” you whisper-yell, shooing him off with one hand. “Get the fuck away!”

Then Wooyoung’s head leans over the counter right beside his. He pops a brow, head tilting like a fucking dog, “Virgin?”

You force a smile, an awkward one at best. “I dropped something,” you blurt, then look beneath you at the spotless floor. You lean forward, praying to god your knees cover you grabbing whatever the fuck you can get your hands on from the bottom shelf. Holding it up, you pray to god it is what you think it is as you try to back yourself up, “A stapler. See?”

“That’s tape,” Soobin corrects you. 

You wince as you look at the tape dispenser. You stand back up too quickly, ignoring how your head goes light as you plaster a smile back on your face, “That’s what I meant. Tape.”

The corner of Wooyoung’s mouth lifts in a grin. “And what are you taping?”

You look around the desk that you’ve already cleaned twice, you can’t bullshit your way out of this. Instead you sigh, defeated, “Your mouth fucking shut.”

Wooyoung’s head turns to hide his laugh while Soobin’s eyes bounce back and forth between you. His lips scrunch like he’s figured something else out, and he taps one hand against the counter in farewell. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Never, please,” you shout in his direction as he turns on his heel, heading for the front doors again.

The jingle announcing his departure feels louder than usual. Your jaw clenches before you run both hands through your hair, pushing a long, heavy breath through your lips. Wooyoung is still present, hand resting on the strap of his gym bag, looking amused as fuck. 

“Oh, what?” you huff, irritated. “Is it annoy-me day? Is everyone gathering here just to bother me?”

His smirk grows. “You ducked.”

You push your shoulders back. “I did not duck.”

“You fucking ducked,” Wooyoung repeats, his laughter following. “You hid from me, you ducked. Why’d you duck, Virgin? Don’t wanna see me?”

“I dropped the tape!” your pitch raises, picking up the tape dispenser again. It’s a bullshit lie and you both know it, but it just makes Wooyoung laugh harder. “Oh, fuck right off. Go fucking run, you asshole.”

He’s still laughing as he turns away, he gives you a little wave over his shoulder, too. When he’s out of earshot you turn around, groaning, running your hands over your face like a child who’s about to throw a goddamn tantrum. Great. Now you have to get a new fucking job, far away enough that nobody will recognize you.

What’s worse is that you still have to do your job, the actual shit that’s left for your shift. Why is he here so fucking late anyway? He usually comes at least an hour before close, not thirty minutes. Your eyes betray you, eyes following him to the treadmills, watching as he puts his headphones on, starts the machine. You internally groan again knowing that you have to go over there, wipe down the machines, re-rack the weights on the Smith machines that are in perfect eye view from the treadmills. You feel sick. 

Don’t wanna see me? The jab lingers, even if it wasn’t really a jab. You do want to see him, you want to tell him about Yunho, you want to tell him about Jihyo. You want to hear what he thinks about it, if he agrees that it’s right for you. Your stomach twists when you realize you care more than you should about his goddamn opinion. 

You also want to know if you still want him. If he’d still reject you, with Yunho no longer an obstacle. 

Your cheeks heat up as you grab your cleaning supplies and head toward the machines. It’s muscle memory at this point, you try to let yourself breathe with the music playing from the speakers, the air conditioning doesn’t help dry the sweat forming at the base of your spine, nor does it cool you off. You swear you can feel him, his eyes on you, his presence is enough to distract you, to make you clean the same machine twice. 

“Was this one extra sweaty or something?” 

You yelp, jumping back a step. With all the mirrors in this fucking building, you should have seen him coming. His gray tank is drenched in sweat, a sheen laying over his bronzy, golden skin. His dark hair is pulled back, the strands hanging in the front heavy and full of moisture, his face glimmering. 

“Yes,” you answer quickly, turning away from him to the next machine. He pulls his bag farther over his shoulder, following you. You glance behind, coming to a stop, and he stops when you stop. “Do you need something?” 

His head tilts, like he’s thinking on it. But instead his bottom lip folds over as he shakes his head, shrugging. “I’ll be in the car, but don’t take too long. Gas is expensive.”

“Huh?” You verbalize your confusion. He’ll be in the car? Don't take too long? Yunho is supposed to be taking you home. To your home. His idea. His plan. 

Wooyoung doesn’t answer, instead he leaves the gym, and lets you put the pieces together yourself. You groan out in frustration after you hear the jingle over the front doors, nerves prickling at your scalp. How can you comfortably be around the person who’s slept with every single person on campus, but rejected you? 

Circumstances aside, that night was fucking humiliating. You haven’t been able to sit in the feeling since another can of worms was opened the moment you walked through the door to your apartment. Wooyoung rejected you. You told him you wanted him, and he said no. 

You take longer re-racking weights, cleaning mirrors, making sure the desk was organized for the opener tomorrow. Knowing he’s waiting just outside the doors makes your body move even slower, like if you made him wait long enough, he might leave. Then you don’t need to face the aftermath at all. Even if there’s things you want to say, things you want to ask, just to hear what he might respond. Like your body is split in two, you tug on the door handle after locking up the gym a third time, wishing your key would break in the door or something just to delay the inevitable further. 

He's there, in his blacked out sports car, engine running, LED lights brighter than the stage of a fucking rave. It feels like you’re walking to your demise, heartbeat picking up in your chest, moisture forming on your palms. 

At least the passenger side door is unlocked this time, opening as soon as you tug on the handle. He doesn’t give you a chance to speak, snapping as soon as you unfold in the passenger seat, “Were you in there trying to move machines by yourself or something? What the fuck took you so long?” 

“I’m sorry!” you immediately blurt, barely looking at him as you clip your seatbelt on. “I had to clean. Plus, I thought Yunho was picking me up.” 

“Don’t apologize,” he mutters, pulling the gear into reverse. “I hate it when you apologize, it’s like you’re speaking another language or something.”

You can smell the sweat on him, not a bad scent; it’s salty, human. Him. “Whatever,” you look out the window, not seeing anything as you pull out onto the main road. “Why are you taking me instead of Yunho?” 

“He asked me,” Wooyoung responds casually. Your jaw clenches, lips scrunching, nails picking at pilled fabric on your jeans. Yunho asked him. 

A minute goes by, and the silence feels awkward. You don’t think there’s ever been awkwardness between you and Wooyoung from the day you met. It makes you feel fucking weird, your stomach flipping, your body fidgeting with each second that goes by. 

“So,” he breaks it, and it takes you by surprise. When you look at him, his head is leaning towards you. “Since when do you like girls?”

Your cheeks heat up, heart beating even faster in your chest now. “How do you know?” you ask, the first words that come to mind. 

“You were making out with a girl at the Penny,” he says like it’s obvious. “Everyone that was at the Penny knows.” 

“You were there?” you ask again, facing him now, brows furrowed. “I didn’t even see you.” 

“I didn’t stay long,” he brushes you off. “Answer.” 

“Always,” you shrug, trying to feign casualty.

He pushes a breath through his lips like he’s choosing his next words carefully, or deciding whether or not he wants to say them. “Why didn’t you tell me you and Yunho aren’t exclusive anymore?”

Fuck. Your cheeks heat again, gut swirling with too many emotions to pinpoint which one makes your skin erupt with pins and needles. “I–” you start, then cut yourself off. Why does he fucking know so much? “I was going to.” 

“When?” he presses further, looking at you from his periphery. “You didn’t really seem eager to let me know at the Penny.” 

“I didn’t know you were there,” you defend yourself, but why the fuck are you even defending yourself? What is there to defend? “Why do I owe you an explanation?” 

“You don’t,” he answers with an attitude, short and clipped. “I just wanted to know.” 

Your eyes narrow, like you might see through his wall of ebony hair, straight into his mind. “Why did you want me to tell you, then?”

“Because you’ve come to me with all your other bullshit relationship problems,” he lifts his hand off the gearstick to shoot an open faced palm in your direction. “Excuse me for assuming that might be another one.”

You sigh, or try to, it comes out as a short breath of irritation. Your arms cross. “Why did you agree to take me home if you were just gonna be an asshole?” 

“I’m not being an asshole!” his pitch rises, sounding defensive. “Are you really not gonna tell me what happened?” 

“Say you want to know,” you turn towards him, a smile playing on your lips. “Ask me to tell you, and I will.” 

His laugh is full of pointed disbelief, “I’m not saying that shit.” 

“Say it,” you order him again. “Then I’ll tell you every single nasty detail I know you’d love to fucking hear, pervert.” 

His lips tighten, and there’s at least ten seconds of him fighting himself before he says plainly, “Fine. Tell me everything.” Then his voice gets smaller, uncertain as he adds, “I want to hear it.” 

“You didn’t ask, but I’ll let it slide,” you say, before starting the story when Yunho picked you up a few mornings ago to fix your car. You tell him that you learned how to jump a car, that you blabbed about wanting to kiss him, that Yunho was the one to suggest making your relationship non-exclusive. You tell him about the party, attempting to flirt with Jihyo, all the way up to dancing with her. 

“…she brought me into a coat closet,” you’re talking animatedly with your hands, eyes focused, mouth moving a mile a minute. 

“Wait,” he pauses, shaking his head. “She brought you into a closet to have gay sex?” 

You blink at him before it clicks together, and then you’re both laughing. You shake your head after a minute of laughter, jumping back into the story, “Wait– wait. Okay, so she’s really dominant usually, right? Like, always, that’s just Jihyo. But I challenged it, challenged her, and it worked.” 

“See?” His brows raise as he pulls onto your street. “I told you. You don’t get fucked, you fuck.”

“And you were correct, because I did fuck. I had her up against the fucking door, Wooyoung, oh my god– she was grinding against my thigh…” He quirks a brow. “And then I went down on her. Me. And it was liberating, like every single sound she made, every look on her face was like, getting me off. I felt like… I felt like–”

He parks in a spot, sits back in his seat, and looks at you like he might finish your sentence for you. And he might have, your ears are too busy ringing to hear anything, all the fucking color draining from your face. 

Use me. Let me hear you. Complimenting how she looked. You felt like Wooyoung.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, throwing a palm over your mouth as realization hits. You feel cold. The AC isn’t even on. Wooyoung loses his fucking mind. His laughter is loud, raw as he smacks his hands against his steering wheel. You cover your face with both hands, sliding into the seat, groaning out loud. You can’t believe this. This can’t actually be real. 

Wooyoung stops laughing just to choke on his words, “You– you copied me. You copied me!” 

You rip your hands away from your face, “I did not fucking copy you!” 

“God, should I call you my mini-me now? Fuck calling you Virgin, I’ll start calling you fucking twin,” he’s laughing as he says it, running his hands through his hair, sinking into the chair like this is the best thing he’s ever heard in his life. 

“I hate you,” you snap, unclipping your seatbelt. 

“No you don’t,” he’s still grinning wide. “You need me so you can steal all my moves, clearly. Do you want another lesson? Should we get in the backseat for when Yunho takes you to pick up your car from the shop?” 

You don’t answer, your entire body hot, feeling naked. Exposed, humiliated. This is fucking humiliating. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he stops, holding a hand up. It takes him three whole seconds before he starts laughing again. “You’re my fucking mini-me, I can’t believe it, Virgin. Who woulda thought?”

Your jaw clenches as you reach for the door handle. “You’re an asshole, and I’m leaving.” 

“Wait!” he shouts. “Wait, I’m sorry. I’m serious, I’m sorry. How did the rest of it go?” He snorts again, then forces his face into seriousness. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop, for real, twin.”

“Oh my god,” you bark out. “Oh my fucking god, I hate you. I actually fucking hate you.” 

“Okay, but seriously, how did the rest of it go?” he turns toward you again, brows high. “Did you make her cum?” Reluctantly, you nod. His head tilts, his tone playful as he asks, “Did she make you…?”

You shake your head no. He turns away from you to hide his laugh. You scowl, “I didn’t ask for anything back. She offered, but I said no.” 

“Fair, twin,” he turns back to say, and you launch yourself across the car, slapping him on the arm. 

“I wasn’t copying you!” you shout, slapping him again. “I wasn’t, that’s just how it went.” 

“I think it’s cute,” Wooyoung shrugs, his expression still reading playful. “That night stuck with you.”

“Nothing about you has ever stuck with me nor will it ever stick with me,” you snap, lying through your teeth, “I don’t even remember that night.” His brows raise. “Okay, that was a lie, but I meant all the other stuff.” 

He giggles again, but trails off, shaking his head, releasing a breath that sounds like relief. “I’m glad you had a good time. Did you learn something?” 

You nod before you say, “Yeah, I did. I don’t know, everything feels different now. Like, I feel different now. I understand you a little more, I think.” 

His brows furrow, “Me?” 

“You, asshole,” you reply, a smile tugging at your lips. “With casual sex and stuff. It’s kinda fun.” 

“Be careful,” he holds up a finger between you. “Next thing you know, you’ll have chlamydia.” 

You snort, deflating into the seat with laughter all over again. Then you shrug, turning your head toward him, “I think more people on our campus have had chlamydia than we know of.” 

He looks at you like he wants to say no shit. “You think?”

“Shut up,” you look through the windshield at your apartment, all the lights on. You turn your head to him again, “Are you coming up?” 

His brows scrunch, “Hell no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I see all of those people seven days a week. I need a day off.” 

Your lips scrunch to one side. “Do you want your hoodie back?” He thins his eyes at you, just as a smirk starts to form on your lips. You grab the door handle, “Come and get it then, bitch.” 

Wooyoung reluctantly drags himself out of his car just to hear you giggle your way up the lawn. He sighs as he closes the door, locking it by pressing his thumb onto the handle. He doesn’t have a reason to go upstairs, he doesn’t really care about getting his hoodie back. Is it weird that he hopes you didn’t wash it?

His dick feels twenty times bigger. He can’t believe you used his own moves on someone else. What does that mean? Other than the fact that you obviously enjoyed that night with him… it has to mean something more than that, right? He doesn’t know what he wants it to mean. All he knows is that he likes it, his chest hasn’t felt this light in a few days, and he wants it to feel lighter. He wants all that dark, depressing shit hanging over his head gone.

If that means being around you, he’ll take it. He doesn’t know what he wants that to mean, either.

He can feel the amusement radiating off of you as he follows you up to your apartment. The small laughs disguised as breaths with every step you take, he doesn’t comment on it, but he can hear it. You’re bright as you open up the door, and Wooyoung quickly realizes he’s been to your apartment twice. Once to fuck Yunjin, and another to rip into you, which ended in him rejecting you. He’s rejected you twice now, after he’s had you on his face.

What the fuck is happening to him?

You squeal your greetings, throwing your purse onto a little table next to your front door before skipping into your apartment. Yunjin sits over San’s lap, Mingi and Yunho are cuddled up together, Jongho sits on the other side, looking and probably feeling wildly out of place. Two couples, and Jongho. Wooyoung almost snorts at the sight.

His amusement leaves his face when you bend down to kiss Yunho. He closes the front door behind him, watching as Mingi pouts from beside him, “I thought I had custody tonight.”

You laugh, “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want a kiss, too? Would that make you feel better?”

Mingi’s grin is wide, and he nods before you even get the question out. You bend down to press a peck on his lips, and Wooyoung’s stomach does a flip. Who the fuck are you right now?

Yunjin whines from across the couch, “If you’re gonna kiss him, then you have to kiss me.”

You laugh even harder before skipping over to Yunjin, bending down to press a peck to her lips, too. And like fucking clockwork, San pouts, “Well, now I just feel left out.”

You kiss him, too. Yunjin watches with a smile like she couldn’t force herself to care if she tried.

Jongho leans over the back of the couch, glancing at Wooyoung, “Should we go before this turns into an orgy?”

Wooyoung quickly realizes he hasn’t moved an inch. He’s still standing there, completely still, face warped into shocked confusion. How much can a person truly change in just a few days? Who the fuck are you? And why did he miss all of the fucking changing?

“Oh, fuck,” you hiss, skipping around the back of the couch, holding your hair as you search the floor. You make your way toward him, still searching when Wooyoung sees it, his hoodie, crumpled in a ball two fucking feet away from the front door. “Yes! I knew I didn’t move it.”

You pick it up, and hand it to him with the widest grin he’s ever seen. His face still hasn’t changed as he grabs the ball from your hands automatically, blinking at you like he doesn’t know who the hell the person in front of him is. You pout, “Sorry it was on the floor. It was evidence.”

“Evidence?” he asks, but he doesn’t recognize his own voice. Or you. Or any of this.

You just laugh again before turning around, “I’m gonna go change, then we can watch a movie. Wait– did you guys start something without me?”

Everyone’s rattling off excuses for the TV being on, something playing, while you skip back into your bedroom with a frustrated groan. Without you in the room, he looks at everyone, and everyone looks at him. 

“What the fuck did I miss?” Wooyoung asks, suddenly feeling like his consciousness slammed into his own body again. He shakes his head as he makes his way to the couch, sitting right beside Jongho. He pulls his keys and his phone from his pocket, throwing them on the coffee table full of liquor, other drinks and snacks. He didn’t plan on staying, but he needs to know if there’s more he’s missed. He needs to be able to see the full puzzle again.

“Did we decide if we’re throwing on Tuesday?” San asks from beneath Yunjin. She’s sprawled out sideways, knees over his lap, her feet almost touching Mingi. Mingi seems to be aware of it, with how he’s turned into Yunho who has one arm stretched across the back of the couch, almost holding Mingi close to him. 

Jongho leans forward, elbows kissing his knees, “Isn’t Jungwon’s frat throwing Tuesday?”

Mingi’s brows tie together. “Who cares?”

“Ooh,” Yunjin sings, brows wiggling. “Frat rivalry?”

Wooyoung snorts. “There’s no competition. If they’re throwing Tuesday, they’ll have bodies in that house.”

Yunho suggests, “Why don’t we throw Monday, then?”

You come out of your bedroom still tugging a tee over your head, and you don’t shut the door behind you. Wooyoung can see the mess from where he sits, he can even see the white hair from one of your Gojo figures. You don’t seem to mind. 

“What’s Monday?” you ask, crawling over the back of the couch, sitting between him and Yunho.

“We might throw,” Wooyoung answers. “Jungwon’s frat is throwing Tuesday.”

“Jungwon?” You quirk a brow. “The hot one that tried to fuck me in one of the fuck rooms?”

Everyone except Wooyoung’s head turns toward you and asks, “What?”

You grin. “He brought me to the basement, that’s where people have sex, right?”

Then all eyes land on Wooyoung. He nods in confirmation. 

Yunjin asks, “When the hell was this?”

“The night you brought me out to get over Junie– I mean Yeonjun, woah,” you correct yourself, throwing your hands in front of you like you needed to recenter yourself. “Freudian slip.”

Jongho’s brows tie together, “I don’t think that’s what a Freudian slip is.”

You smack your teeth. “I’m not a psychologist, Jongho.”

Wooyoung looks away to hide his laugh. It’s a small snort, but fuck, you’re funny. 

You laugh, leaning over to smack his arm, “Don’t laugh at me. I’m a journalist, I don’t know that psychology shit.”

“Why are you hitting me so much tonight?” He grabs for his bicep that doesn’t hurt at all. “Are you abusing me for calling you twin?”

You gasp, eyes narrowing. “Don’t even bring that up right now.”

Yunho’s brows furrow, but his smile is amused, “Twin?”

You groan. Wooyoung can’t help the budding laughter, “It’s funny, actually–”

“It’s not funny at all!” you immediately argue. “Shut up, motherfucker.”

Yeah, he’s glad he stayed. “My bad, twin.”

You launch yourself at him again, and he’s laughing hard enough that the raincloud that’s been following him for days is finally nowhere in sight. His brain is blank, his chest is empty, his body feels weightless. 

He doesn’t know whether he should thank you, or blame you for causing it in the first place.