The day you were informed of the arrangement, your whole world crashed on you. To be fair, you knew it was coming, your parents made sure of it. The constant reminders to not waste time on the boys around you because you were bound to marry one of their choice.

Jake Sim, Son of one of the most wealthiest CEO’s in Australia. Before you married him, you met him briefly when your parents dragged you to Australia to confirm everything. You had no choice of course.

One thing you didn’t miss was how handsome he was. Not to mention that ridiculous accent, if it hadn't been an arrangement you would have definitely gone after him.

He didn’t love you though. Not in the way husbands love their wives. Because this was all for one thing, to join your families. And that's all he saw it as, just another task his parents assigned for him.

After you got married, he didn’t touch you for almost eight months. The only reason he did was because both of your parents, demanding, constantly asking why you haven’t announced your pregnancy to them. 

The night he did touch you that way, he could barely even look at you. If he was being honest, he enjoyed it but he wouldn’t dare to admit that out loud.

It felt good. You remember the feeling of him, the sounds, the words he let slip out in the moment, but after that it was meaningless. 

You lived together during the pregnancy, he helped you, he was caring. Caring in a way he hadn’t been before you had his child in you. Over the course of those nine months you grew a special connection together.

Becoming a mother was something you expected, but you had always thought of it to be different, not something arranged, a duty needing to be fulfilled.

Like the movies you would watch, the books you secretly read, maybe even the dreams you had, but then again—do they really always come true?

Then the arguments started, the fighting. He never laid a hand on you, never hurt you, but most of all he never touched you sexually again. Was it because he thought it wouldn't be good? Because you were no longer ‘fit’?

Which was many people's explanation why their husbands wouldn't touch them. But you constantly reminded yourself, he’s hardly your husband, this is simply an arrangement.

Which is exactly why you’re in your car now, with your four year old daughter, driving to Jake Sim’s house to drop her off for the week. 

On paper you two are married, but in reality you moved out when your daughter turned one. You couldn’t handle it anymore, and you figured it would be best if she didn’t grow up in a house full of arguments from the people who were supposed to be her role models.

Jake didn’t seem to mind, his time mostly consisted of working, trying to expand his knowledge on his father’s company which he was going to inherit. 

One thing you did agree on, was that you were able to see other people, date whoever, fuck whoever. Obviously you both had needs, needs that you weren’t willing to fulfill with each other. The only thing was you couldn’t introduce said person to Layla.

“Daddy said he’d buy me the whole barbie section from the store!” Your daughter says, playing with the dolls he apparently just bought her a few weeks ago.

“You already have all of them right sweetheart?” You ask, turning into the gated neighborhood, the houses are pretty spaced apart since they're huge. You don’t understand why he didn’t just move to a smaller place afterwards,  6 bedrooms is extremely unnecessary for one man.

“Not the camping ones” she looks out the window as you pull into his driveway with a smile on her face. You glance down at your outfit, So what if you are wearing something nice, and a little more makeup then normal..nothing wrong with dressing up a little. 

You move to the trunk to get the backpack with everything she needs from your place before getting her from the backseat “You ready Lay?” You ask helping her out, and holding her hand as you walk to his front door, before you're even on the front porch the door opens, you pause, she lets go of your hand to run to him, jumping in his arms. 

He’s wearing some jeans with a casual sweater, his hair styled, but messy at the same time. “Aw, sweet girl, you missed me?” He says hugging her back, holding her in his arms.

He offers a tight lipped smile to you before inviting you in, “I wanna play with the barbie house!” She says, squirming to get out of his arms, he puts her down, watching as she runs off to the living room to play.

You set the backpack down on the kitchen island before looking around, nothing seems different from the last time you were here.

“The drive was okay?” He asks, walking past you into the kitchen, hips brushing yours. You don’t know if it was intentionally, but you do know every nerve in your body felt it. “Yeah, traffic wasn't terrible.” You nod, slightly cringing at the attempt in small talk. 

“Im going to use the bathroom” You say abruptly, “Second door on the right.” He offers, “I know.” He lets his eyes drop to your outfit for a split second before you disappear down the hall.

You walk to the bathroom, shutting the door behind you before bracing your hands on the counter, looking up at your reflection. 

God, you're actually pathetic.

You wait a few minutes before you flush the toilet, you didn't even have to use the bathroom.

Jake moved to the living room, sitting on the couch watching Layla play with her toys with a smile on his face. You don't look at him before crouching down beside her 

“Mommy’s going to leave now okay?” You smile softly, “But I want you and Daddy to both play!” she frowns, looking at Jake than at you, you can't help but share the same frown before leaning in to give her a hug, she wraps her arms around your neck.

Jake watches the interaction, he cant help the slight ting of guilt that hits his chest, he watches you pull back to kiss her forehead before standing up. 

“I'll walk you out” he stands with you, following you to the door, you step out before turning to face him “I won't be able to call her goodnight tomorrow.” You say, watching him lean against the door frame, eye brow raised.

“Why?” he asks the question like it’s his business to know. “I'm just- I’ll be busy.”

“Ah, a date?”

“What- Thats none of your business” You say defensively 

“So a date then.” He sighs, watching the way your face morphs to irritation.

You dodge his question “No ice cream for dinner.” You mutter before turning to walk to your car, he closes the door once you drive off, before putting his attention back on his adorable daughter.

-

“She’s dating now? Damn, about time.” Sunghoon mutters, putting down the weights he was just lifting.

“About time? No, fuck no.” Jake replies back, grabbing heavier weights just to feel something. “Why’re you pressed about it? You’ve fucked plenty of girls since.” Sunghoon says casually.

“Well it’s–different..” 

“Nope, not that different.” 

“You’re not helping.”

“Did you guys not agree to do just that? It’s not like she’s getting married to another guy. She probably just needs to get laid.” Sunghoon offers bluntly, earning a glare from Jake.

Yeah, that was the agreement, but it doesn't help the thoughts going through his mind. Sure he’s had plenty of useless fucks, using his hand gets boring. But he hasn't dated officially, so you going on a date, just makes shit worse.

“When was the last time you actually got pussy then?” Sunghoon asks, finishing his set of bicep curls.

“Shit, like a few weeks back–”

“That’s why you’re so fucking frustrated.” He says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. 

“How’s things going with that Sara girl?” He questions, downing his water

“Who?” Jake asks, genuinely confused

“Sara, the girl you met at the bar?” 

“Oh–I don't know, She’s just kind of..boring.” 

“Wish she was y/n huh?” Sunghoon smirks 

“Bro fuck you, when was the last time you–”

“Last night.” Sunghoon replies immediately, Jake opens his mouth to speak, closes it.

“Okay, what were you saying about the weights?” Jake asks, changing the topic, earning a laugh from Sunghoon.

As soon as Jake gets home, he wakes up Layla, who attempts to sprint down the stairs just to see the guest he brought back.

“Hoon!” Layla practically screams, running up to his best friend to give him a hug, “Hey Lay, Just had to stop by to pick up something” Sunghoon smiles down at her, the cocky bastard exterior gone, making Jake roll his eyes. “The papers are in my study. I'll be right back.” Jake says, walking upstairs.

Sunghoon is his best friend, someone who he can really trust. He’s one of the few people in his life who know about the arrangement between you and him.

He also happens to work at his fathers company, one that Jake will soon inherit. The only steady thing in his life consists of work at this point. 

He can't help the laugh that slips past his lips when he sees Sunghoon sitting on the ground, holding a fairy barbie and talking in a pitch way too high for a 25 year old man.

“No! You were supposed to give up your wings so mermaid Barbie can swim!” Layla says in a sharp tone talking to Sunghoon “Sorry, sorry, take the wings please–” He apologises as if he’s scared of upsetting her-

“Having fun?” Jake smirks walking over to him “So much fun” Sunghoon replies standing up and taking the papers from him.

“Bye Layla, ill see you soon” Sunghoon says, rubbing Layla's head before turning to the door “Gym same time tomorrow?” He adds

Jake nods, walking to the kitchen as the front door shuts.

“Hm I guess ill just eat all this ice cream by myself” Jake says loud enough, less then 10 seconds pass until Layla's running over to the kitchen with a smile on her face.

-

The date was genuinely horrible. Some guy your friend tried setting you up with, all he did was talk about himself the whole time. You slip off your heels before stepping inside your house, who knew listenting to someone brag about themselve could be so fucking exhausting. 

You’re so sexually frustrated it's insane. Since when did finding a quick hookup become so hard? You crawl into your bed not bothering to change out of your dress. 

You lay there for a moment, contemplating, before deciding to reach into your side drawer, pulling out one of the things that has kept you sane this entire time.

You hike up your dress to your hips before brushing your fingers in between your legs, feeling the dampness coat your fingers through the thin fabric of your panties. You push them to the side before clicking the button on your vibrator.

The low buzz filling the silence of the room before you bring it down to your core, your hips instantly jolt at the feeling, you rub small circles on your clit with it, pinching your nipples through your dress before closing your eyes, trying to imagine someone else pleasuring you, bringing you closer instead of yourself..someone like–Jake..

Oh hell no.

You open your eyes, turning off the vibrator before sitting up. “No, no, absolutely not.” Anything but him, anyone but him. It’s like the universe wants you to think about him as his name flashes across your screen.

“Fuck.” You whisper, grabbing the phone, you fix your hair in the reflection looking back at you before clicking accept.

“Hey y/n, Layla wanted me to call you, she said she wouldn't sleep unless you said goodnight–are you good?” He pauses, looking at your flushed face on his phone

“What? Good, yes I'm good- why are you asking that. Just show me Lay.” You feel your heart racing in your chest, why does it feel like you've been caught doing something you shouldn't.

“Okay.” He simply says before giving Layla the phone

“Daddy said you wouldn't be able to call tonight but I still wanted to see you” Layla pouts, you can't help the warm feeling in your chest at how cute she is “I'm here now sweetheart, I hope you sleep well and have good dreams okay?” You say sweetly, blowing her a small kiss before Jake takes the phone back.

“Goodnight Layla” He says, you don't see his face but you watch the lights turn off and listen to the sound of the door shutting. “Alright bye-”

“How was the date?” He asks, walking to what seems to be his room and sitting on his bed, the camera is now on him, you watch him push his black framed glasses up his nose with his finger, fuck, why are his hands so damn hot.

“What–” 

“That bad huh?” He chuckles, the sound low, in amusement. “It's none of your business.” You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“I think it is my business what my wife does.” That has you fucking shook. “Your wife? Are you serious right now?”

“Very. If the date went well, you wouldn't have answered the phone. Yet here you are.” He can't hide the smirk that coats his face. “You have no room to talk–” You snap back, “You just answered my question for me anyway” He dodges your statement, with a proud look on his face, God–he’s such an ass.

“I’m not talking to you unless it's about Layla. Goodnight.” You say, tone stern before hanging up.

What the hell is wrong with him? You knew he was a cocky asshole the second you met him all those years ago.

But you can't deny, he’s a damn good father.

-

You got the call in the middle of the day while making yourself coffee in your offices lounge.

“Is she hurt?” You ask frantically, packing your bag and letting your boss know you have an emergency.

You don't have to work honestly, you're wealthy enough to spend your days slouching around the house, but you like being on your feet, because sitting down for too long is when the overthinking happens.

“No Mrs. Sim, She’s not hurt, but she did lay hands on another student. Which is completely unacceptable here.” The Director of Layla's pre-school says.

“Did you call her father as well?”, “Yes ma’am, Mr. Sim is on his way right now.” She says cliply. You let out a sigh “I’ll be there right away.” You say before hanging up and getting in your car immediately.

Once you get to the school, you see Jake pacing outside of the Director's office, he’s in a suit, he must have just come from work too. You smooth down your blouse and business pants before walking over to him, the sound of your heels being the only thing in the empty hallway, he stops to look at you, not having time to fully take you in

“Where is she?” You ask, hand gripping your phone hard. “They took her to a different classroom, some bullshit about needing to calm herself down.” He says, pushing his hair back.

“Layla would never do something like this, not just because anyway. There has to be a reason.” You bite your lip in frustration before knocking on the door of the office. “Come in.” you hear the stern voice of the Director say, before looking at Jake who nods. 

You both walk in, taking the seats in front of her desk, “Good evening Mr, and Mrs. Sim, I'm sure you know why I've called you here.” She says, eyes darting between the two of you.

You can't help the way your hand grips your phone tighter at the use of the last name, the one that feels like it doesn't even belong to you. “We also do not tolerate any form of violence here. Since this is the first and hopefully only time, we've given her a warning, due to the..circumstances of the action.” You raise a brow at that 

“What ‘circumstances’?” Jake asks, tone serious. “Well, another student had actually taken her..barbie doll, and–” She clears her throat “Ripped the head off..” She finishes, looking at the both of you and the confused looks on your faces

“So she kicked him.” You see Jake slightly relax in his chair, “So she was just defending herself then.” He offers, “Well, in a sense, but it's still not acceptable, like I said we forbid any violence. So there is another reason I called you both here today.” You raise your brow as she continues talking

“Is there something going on at home?” She asks, looking at you then at him. You scoff at that “No, everything's perfectly fine.” You simply say, you watch the way Jake shifts in his chair, earning a glare from you and a curious look from the director

“And you Mr. Sim?” She says, “Right, Yes everything's fine, nothing more than the perfect family.” He smiles, that performative one you always see in the business photos. “Good to hear. Layla should be waiting outside, Thank you for coming all this way.” You nod, before standing up, Jake follows after you. 

As soon as you see her, you crouch down to her level in the chair “Lay, baby–” You look down at the doll in her hand, ruined.

“Layla-” Jake whispers, sitting down next to her, she looks up at you, tears in her eyes, her face slightly red from crying earlier. You swipe them away with your thumb gently “H-he took it from me..a-and he broke it mommy” She says, voice trembling, you look up at Jake, you see that familiar look of anger flash on his features.

“I k-kicked him..I know I shouldn't have Im s-sorry” She says before breaking into a sob, and hugging you.

You hug her back immediately, hand smoothing down the back of her head before looking at Jake, He doesn't say anything before standing up and storming back into the directors office, shutting the door behind him. You don't stop him either, because you know exactly what he’s going to do.

You pull back to look at her, your heart hurts to see her like this. “Listen, I'm not saying violence is okay, but I'm glad you defended yourself okay?”

You tuck her hair behind her ear “I don’t want you to solve problems with violence, do you understand?” you ask gently, she nods looking down at her barbie ashamed, you press a kiss to her forehead before standing up. 

Jake walks out of the office not even 5 minutes later, "I've got the kids parents contact, he wont mess with her again.” Is all he says before picking up Layla in his arms and walking outside to his car, you follow after him, watching as he buckles her up in the car. He swipes a thumb over her cheek gently before shutting the door and turning to face you. 

“Perfect family huh?” You cross your arms over your chest, watching his face “She bought it.” He simply says. “Yeah, you’re pretty good at lying.”

“Fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means what I said.” You reply back snappy 

“Yeah okay y/n, im not doing this shit” He rubs his nose bridge before looking at you again “Typical of you, being an avoidant asshole.” You don't know where this is coming from, but you can't stop the words from coming out, the pent of frustration boiling in you.

He sighs, looking down at his shoes before back at you, something you can't quite pin flashing in his eyes. “I’ll see you on Friday.” His tone is sharp before turning around and getting in his car.

You don't say anything before walking to yours, the sole of your heels digging into your feet irritating you, but nothing can possibly be more irritating than Jake Sim.

-

Friday comes sooner than expected, Jake messaged you a brief “On the way.” 20 minutes ago.

You opted for some lounge pants and a sweater today. “Mommy!” Layla's bright voice says the second you open the door “Hi angel” You smile when she hugs your leg, before looking at Jake.

He’s wearing a navy suit today, glasses. You try not to think about how good he looks in those glasses.

You look down at the pink backpack on his shoulder “Oh- um, you can come in–” You say, walking back.

The place is perfectly curated to how you want. So much more different than his house, You don't see the deep inhale he takes.

It smells so much like you. “You can just put the bag wherever” You say briefly. “Y/n-”

“Mommy guess what!” Layla drags your attention to her, you tilt your head “Daddy said we're going to Italy with grandma and grandpa!” she says, tugging your pant leg, you don't smile. You look up at a very nervous looking Jake,

“Oh really sweetheart?” You ask, still looking at him. “Yup! Grandma called” She giggles, you lower yourself to the ground to talk to her face to face “Can you go to your room angel? Me and daddy need to have an adult conversation okay?” She nods, completely clueless that she just practically dropped a bomb on you.

When you see she’s down the hall you whip your head to Jake “What the fuck?” You look at him eyes wide

“I know, okay I know.” He buries his face in his hands, “When is this happening.”

“Two weeks.”

“Two weeks Jake, are you serious? When the hell were you planning on telling me?”

“Come on y/n. You know how they get. They want us all to be one big happy family or something–” He sighs “Who else is going "

"I don't know, it was brief.” You look at him like he has two heads “No. No I cannot do this, I absolutely cannot fucking do this.” You walk to the kitchen, pacing around, he follows

“Like what the fuck was going through your head when you said I would go?” You try not to raise your voice so Layla doesn't hear.

“If I had a choice I would have said no. You know how they are, they expect you to be there.” He says, watching you.

“How long is it?” You ask, trying to remain sane.

“A week.”

“No fucking way, no actual fucking way.” You don't even know what to say. “I cannot be stuck in Italy with you for a week, no way in hell.”

“Geez, didn't know I was that bad.” He says, leaning against the counter, like he belongs in your house. 

It’s true, Jake isn't horrible, he picks up, he doesn't snore, too loud anyway. But that's not why you're stressed about this. It’s because you don't know what could happen.

“There's more..” He says, watching your reactions

“No.” because you know exactly what he’s going to say, you can feel it.

“They dont want us to stay at the estate with them in Milan. Something about us needing ‘couple time’.” You're going to throw up. You're actually going to throw up in front of him.

“I don't need them to butt into our–relationship, it's perfectly fine how it is right now.” He doesn't say anything to that.

“I know y/n. I tried to talk them out of it, but they are dead set on it.” You sit down, you can't be on your feet right now, you inhale and exhale, trying to calm the rapid pace of your heartbeat.

“I’ll probably be taking care of shit for the company anyways, it’s this whole thing with our partners from America–” He sighs, hand running through his hair in irritation.

“Okay. One week, seven days. Not bad, I can do that.” You voice your thoughts out loud unknowingly. You see him check his phone, “I have to go. We can talk about this later.” 

“Thats it? You're just leaving again? Dropping this on me?” You stand up, following him to the front door

“In case you weren't aware, I still have a company to run. Trust me I'm not thrilled about this at all, so don't get it twisted.” He says, looking down at you. 

“Fuck you.” 

He scoffs at you, “You’re fucking ridiculous.” he mutters before walking down to his car. You watch him for a moment before slamming the front door behind you. The pain in your chest doesn't go away, even when you tuck Layla in for bed that night. 

-

“Holy shit–Yeah, you might actually be fried,” Sunghoon says, not bothering to ask before sitting down at his desk across from him. “What does that even–” Jake mutters, running his hand through his hair. Attention that was once on the laptop before him gone. 

“All I'm saying is that this is not good, I mean when was the last time you two were actually together for more than one hour?” He doesn't respond

“Exactly.”

“I still haven't told her about the room situation.” Sunghoon laughs at that.

“So what? You’re just going to sleep in the same bed together” Jake nods, rubbing his eyebrows in thought “You gonna be able to resist then?” 

“What do you mean–”

“You know exactly what I mean. Let's not forget the fact that every woman you’ve been mildly interested in represents her in at least one way.” Sunghoon says, bluntly.

Jake looks down at his computer, not even bothering to argue because it's true. He made sure of it.

“I don't know, okay?” he finally says, that makes Sunghoon do a double take

“Shit. I wasn’t expecting you to admit it.” 

“Its not fair. Nothing about this is fair to her, to me. I just wish they would fucking stay out of it.” He mutters, almost to himself. Thinking back to when he first met you, he couldn't deny the immediate attraction he felt, but it all felt like this was just another thing given by his parents, you were just a task, a duty he had to fulfill. 

“It’s going to be torture. Having to put up that front, that everything is okay. Making it believable to all of them. When this whole situations fucked up.” Jake says, standing up, looking down at the city from his office window.

“I can’t say I understand it man, but if I was you, I'd meet up with her. Tell her how it’s going to go, I mean.. maybe she won't make it a big deal, right?” Sunghoon suggests, shrugging.

Sunghoon also doesn't know you as well as he does.

—“No, I dropped her off an hour ago.” You put your phone on speaker before setting it down on the bathroom counter.

“So you’re home right now?” Jake asks, you roll your eyes.

“Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Mhm, I'm working from home.” you say, trying on some designer dress you bought specifically for Italy.

And yes, obviously you would be excited to go, It’s not like you actually have to be with Jake the whole time anyway. You can spend some time by yourself, or with Layla.

You slip off your bra, the braless look is better for this type of dress anyway. “-outside”

“huh?” you ask, completely forgetting you were on the phone. “Im outside” He says like its the most normal thing

“Wait what-” You look at yourself in the mirror and then back at your phone “Im at the door y/n, let me in.”

“Fuck, fuck–shit” you hiss

“What, do you have someone you don't want me seeing?” That pisses you off even more. You storm downstairs, swinging the front door open with an irritated look on your face.

His gaze drops to your feet, the miss matched socks, to the extremely short, almost see through dress, to your face, and then the messy pony tail on your head.

“Playing dress up huh?” He says, walking in. You scoff before shutting the door, watching as he walks into your living room and sits on your couch.

“What are you doing here? I already said Layla was at pre school.” You walk to the living room, standing in front of him “I need to talk to you about Italy.”

“Okay what about it?” you ask, attitude leaking from your tone. “And aren't you supposed to be at work?” You look down at him, his outfit, black dress pants, to the white button up.

“No, meeting got cancelled.” Even if he was the one to cancel it himself. He decided to come straight here after talking to Sunghoon.

“Okay, spit it out then.” You cross your arms over your chest, he lets out a quiet chuckle. God, you need to be put in your place so bad sometimes.

“I tried requesting a separate room, but my parents found out about it.” He says, casually unbuttoning his shirt collar “So what the hell are you trying to say?” 

“You know exactly what I'm saying y/n.” He runs his hand down his face “Look– its one fucking week okay? Just play the part–”

“Of the perfect wife. Right.” You don't even bother sitting next to him. “We don't even have to talk to each other, I mean– when we get there we obviously have to see my mother and father, maybe the partners from America.”

He pulls out his phone “Great.” You watch him scroll through it. “This is a pretty big fucking deal for us y/n. Not everything is about you okay? You knew what you were doing the second you signed that contract five years ago.”

He stands up, gripping his phone tighter than normal in his hand. You open your mouth to speak–close it.

Jake immediately regrets his choice of words, of course you didn't know it would end up like this– separated family, separate houses–

“Y/n–” He drops his head, biting his lip in concentration “Get out Jake.” You watch the way his eyebrows furrow. You two stay there like that for a moment, in a silence, before he turns away from you. You only look at him when he speaks, his voice rough.

“I’ll message you more details later.” He says, shutting the front door behind him. You scoff, sitting down where he just was, trying to keep your cool, even if the very thing you want to do right now is slap his stupidly perfect face. 

-

You refused to take his offer of being driven to the airport, which was probably really stupid considering you were literally going to ride in his private plane, While also staying with him in Italy, while playing the part of his wife.

So obviously you wanted to hang on to your last ounce of dignity, even if paying for parking at the airport was definitely avoidable.

You look for the woman that Jake said to follow once you got to the airport. Spotting her immediately since she stood out, young, pretty.

You recognized her from when you were dragged to past work events, ones that you left 30 minutes into after making your appearance as Jake's “wife”. 

“Mrs. Sim,” She nods at you, offering to take your bags. “Thank you.” You reply shortly, falling into step beside her as she leads you to the plane, the very spacious one to be exact, from the brown leather reclining seats, to the marble accented ceilings.

You spot Layla immediately, she's sitting next to a man you recognize, Park Sunghoon. He's smiling down at something she said, holding one of her barbies in his hand. The woman next to you stares at him for a moment before facing you.

“Mr. Sim is talking to the Pilot, he wanted me to let you know this is your seat as well” She points to the window seat, among the many other ones, ah–so he's assigning shit to you now.

You set your bag down on it before walking over to Layla, “Hi angel” You smile down at her, her eyes lighting up the second she sees you “Mommy!” She yells in a high pitched tone, standing up in the seat and holding her arms out, you take her in your arms, hugging her back. 

“Nice to see you too, Mrs. Sim” Sunghoon says with a smirk, the tone he uses for your name hitting a nerve only someone as cocky as him could.

“You as well, Park.” Layla twirls a strand of your hair, before wiggling out of your arms, a sign she wants to be put down.

“Here you go Miss. Layla” Sunghoon hands her the fairy barbie in his hand, eyes looking past you to the woman you were talking to earlier..

You turn around, taking Layla to your seat.

Jake comes through the Pilots cabin shortly after, glancing down at you, his eyes softening when he looks at Layla beside you.

He stops at where Sunghoon and the other woman are sitting across from each other, both with their laptops out.

“You two do realise you don't have to work while we're on the plane. Save it for when we actually get to Milan.” He sighs,

“I just like to stay ahead.” The woman says, “Let's just say I'm feeling motivated.” Sunghoon adds, eyes not living Jake's other employee. “Yeah– okay, just don’t kill eachother.”

He rolls his eyes, walking back over to where you and Layla sit, you give her the tablet you occasionally let her use, along with her pink unicorn headphones, she happily takes it, leaning against your arm.

Your hand mindlessly brushes through her hair as Jake loosens his tie, his blazer discarded already. You look down at your outfit, a pair of nice fitted jeans, silk blouse, before looking back at him.

“Whats up with those two?” You ask, nodding behind you to where Sunghoon and Jake's other coworker sit. “Ever since I hired her, Sunghoon has had this– inferior complex thing going on.” He sighs, leaning against the cushioned plane seat.

“When they work together, they definitely get shit done, but when they argue it's annoying as hell.” Jake says bluntly, glancing down at Layla, whose focus is on her tablet.

“Oh, I see.” You reply quietly, looking out the window as the plane begins rolling for take off. 

-

After an extremely long flight, and parting ways with Jake's coworkers, you finally arrive at his parents' estate in Milan.

“Just play the part” He nods at you, moving to open the car door and get Layla from the backseat. You two don't even have a chance to mentally prepare yourself when you walk in, to see Jake's mother and father both at the door.

Ignoring you and Jake, their focus immediately goes to your daughter “Princess!” His mother says, Layla skips over to her, giving her a hug, “Grandma! Grandpa! I missed you” She says, voice filled with joy, something that both you and Jake can't mirror no matter how hard you try.

His parents finally look at the two of you, “Nice to see you y/n.” His mother says, you smile tightly. “I need to talk to you son, it's about the partners from America.” His father says, giving Jake a pointed look, he fixes his posture, looking at you for a split second before following his father to his study. 

“Mommy, you and Daddy will still come and see me right?” Layla looks up at you, eyes wide and childlike.

“Of course sweetheart, we just have important stuff to take care of” You smile down at her, before looking at Jake's mother for a split second, if you looked a little longer you would see the brief concern across her face.

She has no right to feel concerned for you though, considering she's one of the reasons you're here in the first place. 

Jake shuts the door behind him, following his father to his desk in the center of the room. “My assistant got the dates wrong for when you were supposed to come.” His father says, eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

“What do you mean she ‘got it wrong’? You couldnt have let me know that before I flew my fucking family out?” Jake says, irritation written all over his face.

“I would have, if I knew. Park Jongseong landed a few hours after you, trust me this isn't ideal for either of us.”

“I need you to go to the Park international office headquarters before you and y/n head where you are staying. He expects you to be there, not for long, just to confirm meetings and etcetera.” His father says, leaning against the desk.

“This is a fucking mess.” Jake groans, running his hand through his hair. “Just get this done, there's going to be issues bigger than this when you actually fully take over the company son, take care of it.”

For some reason, that makes Jake even more upset. Hes fully aware of how this all ends up becoming his responsibility, hell, his whole fucking life has revoled around it, just a bunch of deals, negotiations, arrangements.

“I’ll handle it.” Jake straightens moving to the door, not looking back at his father as he approaches you.

“We need to go.” he looks at you for a brief second before he faces his mother and Layla in her arms. “Bye angel, mommy and daddy will come see you later this week okay?” His voice is gentle when talking to her

“Okay!” She says cheerfully, playing with Jake's mother's expensive diamond necklace, His mother leans up to press a kiss to his cheek, “Drive safe okay?” His mother says, giving him a look of warning.

“I know.” He sighs, walking towards the door, you give Layla one more kiss on her head before following him. Somehow it feels like all of this is a bad decision. 

“Where are we going.” It's not a question, it's something you're demanding to know as he pulls out of the stone driveway of his parents estate.

You look at him, his tense jaw, to his hands that are gripped on the steering wheel dangerously tight. “The Park International Office.” He replies back, eyes not leaving the road. “Okay, drop me off before then.”

“No.” 

You scoff, looking at him in disbelief “Why the hell not?” you ask, irritation leaking in your tone. The same tone he recognizes so well from when you two actually used to live together, even before you were pregnant with Layla.

“The faster we get this over with, the better.” His voice is stern, unmoving. “Fine. Don't expect me to be all enthusiastic and shit to meet your fancy clients.” You add a mocking flare to the last words, this time he actually looks at you, disbelieving.

“Gosh– I forget how fucking bratty you get.” He says, slight amusement leaking from his voice.

“Can’t forget how much of an asshole you are.” you reply back, rolling your eyes. He pushes his tongue against his cheek, gripping the steering wheel harder. 

As he puts the car into park, taking off his seatbelt, he pulls his black framed glasses from the center console, putting them on. You try not to notice the way they sit perfectly on his nose bridge.

“Just play the part.” He says low, opening the door, walking over to open yours but you already got out the second he did. You smooth down your silk blouse, he reaches to hook his arm around yours but you pull back.

“Y/n.” you let out an annoyed sound before taking his arm, the touch foreign, yet almost comforting in a way you don't want to admit. 

You see Sunghoon and Jake's other coworker once you enter the building, both with irritated looks on their faces as if they were arguing before falling into step beside Jake.

Sunghoon smirks down at you, before looking at Jake with his brow raised in a knowing look. You watch everyone's eyes follow a man, black hair, sharp features, even sharper jawline as he approaches you.

Jakes hand rests low on your waist, you feel the heat radiation off his palm through your shirt.

“Mr, and Mrs. Sim” He nods politely at you, before doing the same to Jake's coworkers out of respect. 

Jake nods back “Mr. Park.” He nods back, you cant help but notice how the man in front of you also looks like he doesn't want to be here.

You stay by Jake's side, even as the man you now recognize as Park Jongseong speaks business, the woman from the plane writing down things on a glass clipboard, while Sunghoon joins the conversation with them.

You sigh, slightly annoyed, your performative exterior crumbling the longer you have to stand by his side. 

What felt like hours, but was most likely only 30 minutes of having to perform as his ‘perfect little wife’ you two finally got to the place you were staying, an extremely nice estate, it was almost like a penthouse, overlooking the water.

You still don't understand why you and Jake couldn't have stayed at his parents estate, but you guess this is what everyone insisted on.

You shove past him to get in the room, ignoring the way he glares daggers at the back of your head, only to pause when you reach the bedroom.

He follows after you, letting one of the room service workers bring in your stuff. You both freeze, staring at the bed.

The rose petals covering the white comforter, you feel your cheeks flush when they land on the condoms, assorted to make some sort of heart on the nightstand, you quickly move, opening the drawer to shove them inside of it only for your whole body to still.

“What the fuck–” Your eyes meet a pair of handcuffs, next to them, a bottle of unopened lube.

You swear your whole body is on fire, “I-Is this some kind of like– sex resort?” You turn to Jake, gaping at him. 

He looks like he's at a loss for words, hand clutched tight around the suitcase handle. You move past him to the room service workers who are bringing in your stuff.

“Hi, sorry, I think we have the wrong room, I'm confused with all the–stuff laying around.” You can't help the slight tremble in your voice, the woman unloads your suitcase off the carrier, before standing straight.

“Ma’am, this was booked specifically with the additions to it.” She says warily.

Jake follows out the bedroom, realisation dawning. Sunghoon.

He should have known better than to have the idiot be the one to book where to stay.

“Shit.” He mutters, before looking at the woman, and the other two who helped bring your stuff up here

“You may leave, Thank you.” He hands her handfull of money, you couldn't see how much, but from the slightly shocked look on her face, you knew it was more than needed. 

The door shutting behind them, leaving you and Jake in a penthouse in Italy, alone.

One that practically screamed sex, you crossed your arms over your chest, giving him that look.

“Sunghoon booked it. I was busy with meetings– Fuck, I knew I shouldnt have let him.” He takes off his glasses rubbing the bridge of his nose in irritation.

“God, of course he would do something like this.” You look around, besides the..stuff, it was a really nice place, probably the nicest you could have gotten, but that was expected with how wealthy he was.

You sigh, not looking back before walking towards the bedroom to unpack your things.

His eyes follow you, trailing a path down your body, the way your jeans cling to your hips, swaying in a way that could make any man weak.

Example being the way some of the men in Park Jongseongs office eyed you down. 

You looked around the room- hell, Even the bathroom held the same aura as the bedroom, built for something intimate.

The shower lining the back, completely open, besides the glass in the middle, one shower head on the left, and one on the right, a fair distance away from each other, the dark tile made it feel even more dangerous.

This whole place was just one big temptation, with Jake being the center of it all. 

-

For being in the same penthouse as him, it was surprisingly easy to avoid each other. He mentioned something about Sunghoon, and this and that, in which you were half listening, half trying to ignore the way his short sleeved button up fit him.

There must be something in the air, there's stuff for that right? Perfume that makes you obnoxiously horny. Because that's the only reasonable explanation. 

You finish blow drying your hair, running the detangling oil through it, the one that smells like fruits.

Checking the time, 9:48. Layla is probably already asleep, you open your phone, checking for any notifications, a part of you already knows who you're looking for.

“Im so fucked.” Jake groans, hair messy, glasses forgotten, the first few buttons on his shirt open, his tone chest revealed.

He takes the drink the bartender offered him, her hand grazing his at the exchange, Jake doesn't even notice it. 

Sunghoon raises a brow at his state, looking at the woman behind the counter now serving a group of girls vodka shots.

The music isn't too loud, considering he specifically wanted a bar that wasn't meant for too much partying.

Jake looks around, the couples sitting down, happy, intertwined.

“Like I said, you just need some pussy.” Sunghoon mutters causally, looking as composed as ever.

“Yeah, hers.” Jake mumbles, making Sunghoon laugh, actually fucking laugh in his face. “I take it back, no amount of pussy is gonna save your ass.” 

“Fuck Hoon– they even put flowers on the bed. Don’t even get me started on the handcuffs either.” Jake rubs his temple in irritation.

“Hey, it took some real convincing to get them to go all in with the kinky shit.” Sunghoon raises his hands in defense, like that makes it any better.

“What makes you think I even–”

“Trust me, I know. Real recognizes real.” He says through a smirk. Jake can't help but let out a huffed chuckle, filled with amusement, and also disbelief.

“You know, this is honestly your fault.” Jake levels his gaze, downing the rest of his drink.

“You sure you don’t just need someone to blame for your heart throbbing obsession with your baby mama?” Sunghoon says through that shit eating grin he wears when he knows he's right. I mean hell, he might just be. 

Jake shakes his head, trying to get rid of any irrational thoughts, focusing on the truth, you want nothing to do with him in that way.

You probably hated him, most likely wouldn’t even be talking to him if it werent for Layla.

“Alright prove it then.” Sunghoon says, challenging. Jake raises a brow suspiciously, “That bartender right there in the tiny shorts, she's been eyeing you this whole time. You were too busy sulking about how much you want to fuck y/n to notice.” Sunghoon pauses for a moment, watching as Jake looks at the woman, her eyes locked on his before turning back to him.

“Flirt back, see where that leads you.” Sunghoon finished, downing the rest of his drink.

Jake chuckles, although there's no amusement filled in it, just straight up boredom. “Im not flirting with her, let alone fucking her.” Jake says, voice low.

Sunghoon's eyes light up immediately, victory gleaming in them. “Knew it.” He shakes his head, knowingly.

He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it as his screen lights up with a notification. Jake watches as Sunghoon picks up his phone, reading whatever it is, typing, sending, and standing up.

“We’ve been here for less than 24 hours and you already found someone?” Jake asks, a tone of exhaustion.

“You already know it.” Sunghoon offers a playful wink, shoving his phone in his pocket. “Don’t forget about the meeting we have with Park Jongseong either, The Prada ambassadors are also attending.” Jake says sternly, his voice he uses for business coming out.

“Yes, sir.” Sunghoon chuckles, leaning against the stool for a second “You good for tonight though?” he asks, slight concern around the edges.

“Yeah, I'm fine. I'm headed back soon anyway.” Jake says, giving him a tight smile, Sunghoon watches him for a moment, before parting ways.

Jake stays for about five more minutes before standing up and walking back to the penthouse– to you. 

He's always been good about handling his alcohol, plus he didn't have much to drink anyway. So when you hear the sound of the door being unlocked, shut, and footsteps coming to the bedroom, you attempt to put on the facade of being fast asleep.

He walks in, closing the bedroom door shut behind him, eyes immediately on you, curled into the sheets like it was natural.

He doesn't know what comes over him when he walks over to your side of the bed, wanting to get a closer look at you, because it's been so.. so long since hes seen you like this.

He can't help himself when he brushes a finger over your cheek, it takes everything in you to stop your body from reacting.

“What are you doing to me..” He whispers, low, that you almost couldn't hear it. The slight smell of the crisp fresh air, his signature cologne,  and faint alcohol lingering off of him.

He steps back immediately, touch gone from your skin, like you burned him, or like realisation finally dawned.

You don't open your eyes yet, You listen to the sound of his footsteps, descending away from you, moving to the bathroom. 

You let out a breath, the one you've been holding ever since he opened the bedroom door, your heart beating rapidly, in a way it did when the boy you had a crush on in high school glanced your way. Childish, stupid. 

The shower feels big, empty, even more so as the cold water hits his skin repeatedly, hardly helping with the burning of his body, or the way his dick throbs the second you invade his thoughts without permission, again.

He’s fucking pathetic, you have every right to hate him.

In this moment of him being alone, surrounded by the dark, the dimmed lights illuminating the cold bathroom, all he can think about is how he would do anything to go back in time.

Put his fucked up pride to the side, anything to not be in this situation right now, with this need– not just for anyone, not for some random woman, but for you.

Because it's something about you, not just because of Layla, not because you’re ‘forced’ to be in each other's presence, he can't deny it anymore.

He can’t deny that he’s utterly obsessed with you, and absolutely fucked. Just like Sunghoon said. 

-

Falling asleep last night might have been one of the hardest things, considering you could practically feel the heat radiating off his body the second he slipped in the bed with you.

You stayed turned so you were facing the large balcony slide door, watching the moonlight seep in.

You didn't want it to affect you this much, but somehow it still did. So after finally getting the strength to get up, and get ready for the day, because you might as well attempt to enjoy being here in Italy. 

You see Jake, standing up at the edge of the counter, taking a sip of some expensive coffee.

“Took you long enough.” He tries, and fails to hide the way his eyes roam down your body, the way the floral dress clings to you, it could be considered modest, but the way it hugs your curves, makes him think things he probably shouldn't.

You raise your brow in question, closing the distance to make yourself coffee as well. He places a mug in front of you instead, catching you off guard.

You turn to look at him, eyes scanning his face, the glasses sitting on top of his head to the rather simple outfit he's sporting today.

“Whats with you, do you want something?” You ask skeptically.

Fuck yeah he wants something, preferably you though, sitting on his face perchance?

“Am I not allowed to make coffee for the mother of my child?” He turns fully, using the counter as support to lean against. 

You level your eyes even more, “I was going to head to the estate, see Layla, maybe we can take her out for the day.” He takes another sip of his coffee, brushing past you to place the mug in the sink.

“Together?” You ask suspiciously, confusion settling in your tone. “Yes y/n, together.” He says like it's the most obvious thing. Like you two do this all the time, when in reality you don’t even remember the last time he suggested something like this, if he even did.

“I mean we're both here, she's always going on about how she wants us both.” He offers lightly, watching the way your face softens.

“Okay then, for Layla.” You clarify, taking a sip of the coffee he prepared for you, the rich taste settling just right. 

“We also have dinner in 2 days with Park Jongseong and his girlfriend.” He adds in casually. Washing the mug off in the sink.

Your brain pauses for a moment, processing what just came out of his mouth. “Knew you wanted something.” You chuckle, but it's humorless.

“Its one fucking dinner y/n.” he turns, facing you. “Yeah, and a whole week of being here, stuck with you.”

He opens his mouth to speak, closes it. “We can talk about this later. Right now let's focus on Layla.”

He says it like he's being the bigger person here. As if he's not dropping things on you left and right, and that irritates you even more.

But you don’t fight it, because a part of him is right, you two can stop your bickering for a few hours to spend time with your daughter. 

-

“The purple one?” Layla asks, looking up at you, than at Jake, you glance down at the gelato in front of you, “One lavender please” You smile at the man behind the counter as he scoops it into a cone, “One lavender Gelato for you” He hands it to her, her eyes lighting up as she takes it,

“Anything for the happy couple?” He asks, eyes darting between you and Jake, you don't notice the way he stills beside you. “Can I get the Raspberry please?” The kind man nods, handing you the cone, some of it dripping on your hand due to the warm weather.

“Ill take the salted caramel” He pays for it, walking on the other side of Layla, “Should we sit at the table?” You ask Layla, looking down at her as she tries to keep up with the steps you and Jake take, her pigtails swaying with her, you smile at how happy she is.

“Yes!” Jake helps her up, taking the seat next to her, you settle for the one across from them.

Jake smiles at Layla, as she goes on about something related to her toys, and how ‘Hoon’ needs to come back and play as the fairy doll again, his eyes go to you, the light pink gelato dripping down your hand, the way your tongue darts out to lick it off.

It's like his body reacts before his mind does, he reaches over, swiping his thumb across the bottom of your lip, the gelato that dripped being cleaned up.

You freeze, eyes immediately on him. He retracts his hand immediately, “Sorry– you had something-” He stops talking when the sound of his phone cuts through, picking it up and reading whatever is on his screen.

“Are you done, Lay?” Jake looks down at Layla beside him, she nods, “Let me guess, you have somewhere to be?” You ask unsurprising. 

“Its Park Jongseong and the Prada ambassadors— nevermind” He replies blandly, standing up and helping Layla, you chuckle, but not in amusement, or in surprise, because you knew this was going to happen anyway.

“Come on Lay, you know..” You smile down at her, before looking up at him, a certain glint in your eyes. “Daddy apparently has better things to do.”

You can feel his eyes boring into you, you don't look at him when you stand up and hold her hand. Who cares if it's childish, or bratty, you’re right anyway.

“I love you angel, be good okay?” You press a light kiss to Layla's forehead, Jake gives her a hug, before heading to the front door, you offer a tight smile to his mother before following after him. 

You don't bother looking at him, or trying to talk to him once you're both in the car. You watch as Sunghoon’s name flashes across the screen, a call.

Jake looks at you for a second, before hesitantly pressing accept. “Final fuckingly man, had me thinking you actually got some–” “You’re on speaker Sunghoon.” Jake cuts through his words.

“Oh shit.. Uh– hey y/n” you can practically see the fake concern on his face. Jake sighs, urging him to continue

“Right so, Park Jongseong’s assistant said the Prada ambassadors are already at his office, they're just waiting on us.” Jake bites down on his lip, hard. “Fuck– okay, tell them ill be there shortly.” 

“I got you, don’t get too distracted..” Sunghoon says through a chuckle before hanging up. You feel a slight blush coat your cheeks at that, turning your head more towards the window to avoid Jake's gaze.

Every few minutes, he can't help when his eyes shift to you, the faint sunkissed glow coating your skin, the way your dress clings to your body–

You regret the way you acted earlier, it was a little bratty, and petty..but then again you've always been, at least according to him.

He puts the car into park, unlocking the door, you don't say anything but before you step out, you turn your face towards him.

“About earlier.. It was uncalled for, I understand you’re busy, I shouldn't have said that in front of Layla.” You bite on your lip nervously, a habit he's noticed since the day your parents introduced the two of you. 

He raises a brow, a playful smirk on his face “Are you apologizing?” He asks, eyeing you up and down

“What– I mean.. I-” You stumble over your words, making him let out an amused laugh “It’s fine y/n. I know I'm not the best..” He pauses, looking down for a split second to think of the right word “..arrange..ment.” he cringes at the end,

“I try for Layla, even with the shit from the company piling up.” His hand rests steady on the steering wheel, You watch his face, his eyes, taking in the sincerity.

“You’re a good father, Jake.”

You don't try to put on a forced smile, before stepping out of the car fully, shutting the door behind you, the second you're out of sight he buries his face in his hands, letting out a strangled groan. God– you’re killing him, so fucking slowly. 

-

“Fuck– Ive been wanting to do this for so long” Jake says through a groan, pounding ruthlessly into you. You mutter something back, face buried into the soft pillows beneath you, not even caring about the saliva coming out of your mouth from how hard he’s fucking you. 

“Want me to fill this pretty pussy up again?” he leans down, pulling your hair back to expose your neck, hips slamming into you, making your back arch against his chest. You're a moaning mess under him, his teeth nip below your ear, his free hand holding your hip, grounding you as his thrusts grow sharper—

Jake freezes at the door of the bedroom as soon as he opens it, eyes wide looking at you, the sheets tangled around the ends of your feet, almost your whole body exposed, the oversized T-shirt you're wearing ridden up to reveal a glimpse of your underboob, your light pink sleep shorts practically sticking to your core, a faint outline of your pussy visible even through the clothing layers with how wet you seem to be.

Theres no fucking way– 

A whine escapes your lips, or was it a moan? He can't help but step closer, lingering at the edge of the bed, your body squirms, thighs squeezing together in a poor attempt to satisfy the throbbing heat between your legs.

The smell of you so fucking delicious, clouding his senses. He almost feels sorry for you, gosh you must be desperate if you're having a wet dream in the middle of your shared bed with him. You let out another small noise, or was it a word? 

He brings his finger up, gently swiping away a bead of sweat from above your eyebrow, trailing down your arm, lightly over the curve of your exposed hip, leaning closer to hear you better

“J-Jake..” You whisper, barely audible, he stills, stepping back, running a hand through his hair.

Fuck this is wrong.. This is so, so wrong, He looks down at you again, biting his lip in thought. 

He ultimately grabs the sheet, bringing it up from your feet to cover your body, trying to ignore the heat of your skin.

This cannot be real. He glances down at you one more time before going to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a soft click, leaning against it.

Letting the cool crisp air swallow him, anything to get rid of what he's feeling right now. He looks down, the hard bulge now clearly visible in his pants.

Bringing his hand down to palm himself through them, he hisses at the contact, how sensitive he is right now. 

He wastes no time unbuttoning his shirt, discarding his pants and underwear next, stepping inside of the big shower, cool tile against his feet, he turns on the water, the warmth coating his skin.

The water drips down his body, he lifts a hand to steady himself against the black tile wall, bringing his other down to wrap around his thick cock, practically standing on its own, tip angry and red from how much he's neglected his own pleasure.

Pumping his fist once, a bead of pre cum slips out of the slit, mixing with the warm shower water as it drains beneath his feet.

“Fuck..” He groans, fucking into his fist faster, leaning his head back as the water falls onto his face, his mouth hangs open, he closes his eyes, trying to imagine what you were thinking about, fuck his name sounds so pretty coming from your mouth, especially like that. 

His groans grow more ragged as he strokes himself faster, “y/n..” he bites his lip, hard enough to draw blood as his warm cum spurts out, coating the dark tile wall, dripping down, making a mess on his hand, he looks down, eyebrows furrowed as he attempts to milk every last drop, watching as the water washes it away.

He lets out a breathless chuckle, almost pitying himself and this whole situation. 

The next morning you woke up to an empty bed, the bright sun shining in through the sheer curtains illuminating the bedroom.

Even in the shower as the warm water hits your skin, you couldn't shake the dream you had last night, how real it felt, the way he spoke, the way he touched you– the closeness of it all, so vividly in your reach. 

You decided, well actually you were technically forced to use this day for yourself.

He was working. In all honesty, he didn't have to, but being with you again, alone, was killing him. 

You were enjoying yourself, as one would do in Italy of all places, soaking in the warm sun on the balcony, book in hand when you got the text, the one that made your phone vibrate a little too loudly against the glass side table.

Something about it already told you it wasn't going to be good.

Jake: Client dinner tonight with Park Jongseong and his girlfriend. 7:00. Your dress is being dropped off now. I’ll be there at 6:45 to pick you up. Clean up for me, yeah?

You read the message once, twice, practically hearing the smugness in his voice at the last few words.

You type out a reply, delete it. He smirks down at his phone, seeing that you read it was enough. 

Exactly 30 minutes later, the same woman from the airplane stands at the front door of the penthouse, garment bag in hand.

“Thank you.” You give her a soft smile, one that she attempts to mirror back, handing the dress to you. “Mr. Sim informed me you had the jewelry you needed, but if you need me too I can arrange–” 

“It's fine.” You reply back dryly, she pauses for a moment “God, Sorry I'm just stressed” You fold the dress over your arm.

“Thank you, and yes I have everything I need.” You say, breathing out. She offers a tight lipped smile, giving a polite nod before walking back towards the elevator, you shut the door once she's out of sight.

“Oh my gosh–” you gape at the dress, fully taking it out of the garment bag, laying on the bed before you.

The dark red contrasts with the white sheets, the cut a little too deep for something like this. You glance at the time on your phone, 5:26, if you start getting ready now you should be done before he gets here.. You bite your lip, contemplating. No harm in starting early, you have nothing to do in the meantime anyway. 

“Y/n–” Jake's eyes trail down your body, shamelessly, like he has the right– “You look..”

“Dont.” You hold your hand up giving him an almost strict look, while also suddenly feeling conscious of how low cut the dress is, the silk material soft on your skin.

He lets out a breathless chuckle, eyes staying glued to your chest without you knowing before putting the car into drive. 

Park Jongseong, or Jay, as his girlfriend called him came in shortly after you and Jake sat down, the restaurant had a warm glow to it, truly an elegant place.

His girlfriend had the most genuine smile on her face. The dinner was going smoothly, as anything work related with Jake could be until she asked a question that had both you and Jake tensing beside each other

“So, How long have you two been married?” She asks sweetly, genuine curiosity in her eyes, you look at Jake for a split second, missing the way Jay squeezes her thigh, “Um- well we-” Jake interrupts quickly

“We had Layla four years ago, so around that.. Time.” He says, clearing his throat. The conversation quickly switches thanks to Jay.

The ride back was quiet until Jake decided to open his mouth. “Do you think I was too obvious?” He asks, eyes on the thin road before him, you turn your head from the window, looking at him, analysing the nervous way he brings his lip between his teeth, the slight movement of his jaw.

“What? About how we’re not actually the perfect, happy family you seem to paint us as?” You ask, a surprising calmness in your voice.

He shoots you a look, eyes dropping to your lips for a split second, before looking away just as quickly.

You scoff, “Anyone with half a brain could see.” 

“Fuck is that supposed to mean?” He pulls the car into park, looking at you, expecting an answer.

“Im not doing this tonight.” You reach to open the car door but he stops your hand, grip tight, not enough to hurt, but enough to assert something deep. 

“No. Tell me what you mean.” You shake off his hand, the heat of it too much on your skin, praying that he didn't notice the way your pulse spiked the second his skin made contact with yours.

You sigh, facing him fully.

“You don't act like my husband Jake. You never have, anyone could see that. Honestly, we're practically strangers at this point, the only thing keeping us together is Layla.”

You pause, trying to point out whatever emotion is flashing behind his eyes before continuing with a sigh, “Our marriage is a mere title, so dont be fucking shocked when it becomes clear as day to everyone else.”

“Y/n—“ he starts but you’re already leaning away. He doesn't stop you when you open the door, shutting it a little too hard behind you as you make your way into the building, the sole of your heels digging into your feet in a way that makes you want to throw them on the ground.

Jake slams his hand down against the steering wheel, running a hand through his hair, he turns off the car, locking it behind him before following you, because no way in hell is he ending the night like that. 

Your heart is racing when you shut the door behind you, all while resisting the urge to sink to the ground.

You take off your heels by the door, immediately removing the unnecessarily heavy jewelry from your neck and ears.

You hold your hand up to your chest, feeling the consistent beating of your heart. The familiar click of the door lets you know Jake just walked in. 

You stand up quickly, moving to the bathroom, shutting the door behind you, acting as if it was another barrier between the two of you.

Without a thought you slip off the red silk from your body, letting it fall to the dark tiled ground. Walking into your side of the shower you turn on the water, letting it warm up enough till the steam is visible, you’re in need of anything to drown out how you're feeling right now, you step under it, letting the water fall into your hair, wetting your body, the steam clouds around you, almost creating a blanket in the open coolness of the bathroom.

You thread your fingers through your hair, letting the water seep into every bit of your scalp. The warm, dimmed light of the bathroom reflecting slightly off of the dark glossy tile wall before you. 

Jake tosses his keys on the marbled counter, swinging open the bedroom door, only to find it empty.

The faint sound of water falling onto tile seeping out from under the bathroom door has his attention immediately.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, leaning against his knees.

God, he's going to regret this.

He stands up, taking off his tie with practiced ease, doing the same with his belt, untucking his white button up, and unbuttoning it halfway before opening the door to the bathroom, the fan does nothing to get rid of the steam filling the open space. The large glass wall is fogged up, he can almost see the outline of your silhouette if he squints. 

You don't see him, or hear him, the only sound filling your ears being the water hitting your skin and the tile beneath your feet.

You turn to the side slightly, eyes closed, he traces the curve of your breast, swallowing before unbuttoning the other half of his shirt and discarding the rest of the clothes on the ground beside your dress.

He lets out a breathless chuckle, looking down at his flushed dick practically standing on its own from how fucking hard he is. 

Jake steps in, turning on the shower head a few feet away from you, the new heat bringing a fresh cloud of steam to cover you.

He doesn't look at you as he steps under the water, letting it wet his hair. You watch him, a slightly stunned expression on your face “Jake–” The word comes out breathless, almost pathetic.

He chuckles low. “Y/n.” He glances in your direction, eyes staying on your face.

The awareness kicks in, that you're in the shower alone, with only a few feet of distance between the two of you. 

You can't help your eyes, you really tried, but they trail down his body, his toned form.

Fuck, hes definitely been working out.

Your eyes ultimately land on his cock, watching the way the water drips down his body. The wetness forming between your legs has nothing to do with the shower water falling on your body, and everything to do with him. 

He notices you looking, even with the barrier of steam between the two of you.

He doesn't bother turning off his shower head, closing the space between the two of you. His hand reaches out, not touching yet. Completely lost in the moment.

You let out a noise, it was supposed to be a word, maybe for him to stop?

No, it was definitely for him to keep going. When he speaks it comes out rough, uncontrolled, so  different from how he speaks to everyone else. “Strangers huh?” You don't meet his gaze. 

He brings his hand to your chin, forcing you to look in his eyes, his thumb swipes over your bottom lip, your mouth opening almost on command.

His cock jumps at the sight. The warm water soaks through your hair, the sensation of it forgotten with this new heat before you.

“Do strangers do this?” He brings his hand down, tracing your collar bone with his finger, you shudder at the touch. 

He smirks at the way you're body reacts to his featherlight touches.

You gasp when his finger circles around your nipple smoothly. “Fuck, these tits are perfect” He brings his other hand up, repeating the motion on the other side.

You shudder, letting out a breathless sound, your nipples hardening from his teasing touch. “You’re sensitive huh?” He chuckles down at you, nudging his cock against your stomach.

“Shut up..” You’re cut off when he gives both of your nipples a firm pinch. “When was the last time someone touched you like this?” He asks, voice low, only for you to hear even though you’re alone.

He brings one of his hands lower, just past your belly button, pausing for an answer. You shake your head, closing your eyes. 

“Come on mama, give me words.” He encourages sweetly even as his cock jumps at the sight of you before him like this.

“Not since you.” You whisper so low the sound of the shower water covers it. He shakes his head, inching down lower, cupping your soaking heat in the palm of his hand, you let out a moan, reaching both hands out, grabbing his veiny forearm to steady yourself.

He slowly rocks his palm against you. “Say that again.” He presses harder, reaching around to tilt your head back so he can really see. 

“I said, not since you.” He lets out a sound that you definitely aren't mistaking as a moan.

“Fuck–” He bites back his words, hand still cupping you, your juices leaking past his fingers, blending with the warm water pooling beneath you both.

“So this whole time..” He pauses, removing his hand from your heat, earning a whimper from you, "..you've had nothing but these.”

He lifts your right hand up, brushing over your middle and ring finger, the touch gentle. 

You nod, a slight blush creeping up your face, a part of you would feel a little embarrassed, maybe ashamed if not for the situation right now.

“Show me.” He urges, bring your hand down, he backs you up a few inches until your back is flushed against the cool tile walls, the warm water contrasting,

“You have to do it too then..” You look down at his cock, veins prominent, tip aching. He follows your gaze, smirking.

You two match each other's pace, you spread your legs ever so slightly, the best you can for standing up, rubbing small circles on your sensitive bud, the feeling even more exhilarating with him watching you so intently.

The little ‘ah’ sounds you’re letting out sending pulses straight to his dick. He brings his own hand down, swiping his thumb over the slit of his cock. Mouth hanging open as he wraps his hand around the base.

You feel yourself get even more wet at the sight, the desperate huffs he's letting out, his eyes don't know what to focus on, ultimately landing on your pussy when you push one of your small fingers in, the squelching noise so clear above everything else, he lets out a groan, a bead of pre cum leaking from his tip.

“Let me taste you” He breathes out, hand stopping your wrist. You freeze, looking up at him “Please..I- fuck, I need to.”

He brings your fingers up to his mouth, tongue darting out to lick before sucking them clean, the sight alone draws a wrecked sound from you.

“Jake..” You whisper out, dragging your fingers out of his mouth, smearing them on his chin, he looks so pathetic like this.

He reaches beside you, turning down the pressure of the water before lowering himself to the ground, his eyes never leave yours.

He lifts one of your legs, pressing a light kiss on your inner thigh, trailing smaller kisses closer to where you need him most, he rests your leg on his bare shoulder, completely exposing you to him,

“You dont know how fucking bad ive wanted this y/n..” He whispers breath ghosting over your slick folds. “..how much I've craved this, even all those years ago.”

You bump your pussy against his face and he wastes no time licking a stripe from your hole to your clit, you arch against the cool tile wall, pressing yourself even more on his face, his hands travel up your body, cupping your ass in his hands, palming the soft flesh, bringing you impossibly closer.

He's completely lost in you, not letting a single drop of your arousal leak anywhere except in his mouth.

His nose nudges your clit every time he fucks his tounge into your hole, “Yeah.. fuck, f-feels so good..” You bring your hands up, lacing them in his wet hair.

He mumbles something back, the vibration making your hips jerk, he brings one of his hands down from your ass, sneaking it up to replace his tongue with two of his slender fingers, the new feeling so different from your own fingers.

He looks up at you, the way your head is thrown back against the cool wall, mouth hanging open, fuck you’re beautiful like this. 

He latches his lips onto your aching clit, flicking it with his tongue as his fingers work your tight hole.

You tug his hair harder, encouraging him without words, his fingers inside of you curl just right, hitting a spot that has you seeing stars, he sucks even harder on your clit, feeling your walls flutter around his fingers, greedily sucking them in.

A moan, almost a scream escapes from your lips as a fresh round of juices flood out of you, soaking the lower half of his face, he greedily drinks everything you let out, not letting a drop go to waste. 

He lowers your leg back on the ground, pressing a light kiss to your thigh before leaving wet ones up your body, kissing his way along your jaw, your cheeks, your lip–

He pauses when he feels your body tense against his. His lips less than an inch away from yours.

“Whats wrong–” He leans back slightly, eyes darting across your face “I..I cant” He tilts his head, hands still on your waist but a confused look washes over his face

"I'm not going to force you to do anything mama, but why?” He searches your eyes for an answer “Jake– we haven't even kissed since the wedding” 

“Y/n, you just let me eat you out, which to be fair I would do it a thousand times more, but a kiss is too much for you?”

You bring your hands up, burying your face in them “Fuck, I know okay? We were just caught up in the moment–” You don't see it, but he's looking at you with genuine sadness, not because you won't go any further, but because you’re not even comfortable enough to do so,

“Baby-” he starts, bringing his own hand up to pull yours from your face but you stop him, moving around, too ashamed to even look in his eyes.

“We can just forget this happened okay?” His hands fall to his sides, “But-”

“Please, I–I can't go through it again.” Your voice cracks, a pain sharpening in your chest.

He opens his mouth to speak but you turn before he can, grabbing a towel from the nicely folded pile, the water feels cold now, almost limp as he stares at the spot you were just standing in. 

He licks his lips, the faint taste of you still lingering.

He curses himself for acting on instinct, it was too fast and he knew it. But how couldn't he? You’re irresistible, the only constant desire in his life that never fades. So no, he's not just going to ‘forget this’.

He'd be stupid to.

-

You try to ignore Jake's eyes on you throughout the plane ride, focusing on anything except for him, whether it's Layla showing you something on her I pad, or Sunghoon and Jake's other coworker bickering over something useless.

It's best to just pretend like nothing happened, so treating him the exact same as you did before this trip is the best way to do that. 

You grab your bag from the overhead bin, helping Layla put her dolls in her small backpack, moving to get off his plane without a word, when he grabs your wrist.

“Sunghoon.” He says, eyes not leaving yours for a second. Sunghoon closes the distance, “Take Layla to y/ns car.” he nods before picking her up, Jake's other coworker follows after.

You turn fully to look at him, arms crossed over your chest in annoyance. “What?”

“I’m not forgetting what happened.” His eyes drop to your lips, making it known he's looking.

“Well I am.” you try to reply calmly, composed. But there's a slight tremble in your voice, one that he doesn't miss. Something washes over his face.

He straightens his shoulders “Okay.” Is all he says before brushing past you, leaving you in the middle of the wide aisle.

Him with the last word, one that you're trying to make sense of. Because there was so much more hidden underneath it, a part of you doesn't even want to know. 

You see Sunghoon crouching down to Layla's level, saying something that makes her giggle. He stands when he sees you, a cocky smirk plastered on his face.

“See you later Mrs. Sim.” You roll your eyes, opening the car door to help Layla get inside, closing it.

“Park.” You call out, Sunghoon stops, turning slightly with an eyebrow raised in question.

“Make sure he doesn't do anything reckless.” 

He lets out a low chuckle, looking at the ground before his focus is back on you. “I can try, but I can’t promise anything.” Is all he says before offering his infamous wink, hands tucked nonchalantly in his suit pant pockets, walking away.

-

Everyone has different ways of coping, sulking around could be one.

But that was never something Jake found relieving. So here he is, at some club with none other than Park Sunghoon.

“You’ve got this sexy dad look about you..” Some girl, who he doesn't even remember the name of says, fingers brushing over the collar of his shirt along the thin silver chain that clings to his skin. 

Jake's attention is brought back to her, she's a pretty girl, short black hair, but nothing she's saying is interesting to him.

She presses closer to him, purposely positioning her tits on his arm, teasing. She thinks she's being subtle but it's painfully obvious.

He looks over her shoulder, at the dance floor where Sunghoon has his hands on some blonde girl's waist as they practically dry hump each other.

He chuckles, the girl in front of him beaming proudly, thinking she's the one who made him laugh. 

“Do you wanna maybe..” The girl leans in close, standing on her tip toes to reach his ear, lips grazing “..get out of here?”

He looks down at her, boredom plastered on his face. “No.” Is all he says, the girl raises her brow, offended.

Jake takes another sip of his drink, not even sure what one he's on. She scoffs, stepping back from pressing against him

“What do you mean ‘no’?” She asks accusingly. “No, as in I don't want you.” He states in an obvious tone. 

Sunghoon curses under his breath whispering something into the ear of the woman he's dancing with before walking through the crowd effortlessly to get to him.

“Fucking—” She yells, a little too loudly, to the point where Sunghoon can hear it a few feet away, and heads are turning towards the scene.

Jake rolls his eyes, “Im not interested.” He shrugs, downing the rest of his drink, the girl straightens to say something else, but Sunghoon cuts in between the two.

“Alright, I think it's time for us to go!” He says a bit too energetically, hand resting on Jake's shoulder. The girl rolls her eyes “Your friends an asshole.” She mutters before walking away to go flirt with some other guy, Sunghoon turns, facing Jake completely now. 

“What?” Jake asks, like it's completely normal.

“Dude, you were the one who said you ‘needed some pussy to take your mind off things’ and when a chick practically throws herself at you, literally by the way, you reject it?”

Sunghoon looks Jake up and down like a mad man, "She's not her.” Jake mutters, voice low, as if you could hear him talking right now. 

Sunghoon chuckles, actually fucking chuckles at his state. “Oh I see, let me guess, you did some shit, right? Thought with your dick instead of your head?”

When he doesn't respond, Sunghoon laughs in his face. “I should’ve known, man.” 

“I fucked it up.” Jake groans, running his hand through his tousled hair, down his face, the slight stubble that he let grow a few weeks after the Italy trip scratching his hand roughly.

“You didnt fuck her right?” Sunghoon asks, an unfamiliar seriousness in his voice. “What– thats” “Okay thats answer enough.” 

“Maybe try actually sitting down, having a conversation?” Sunghoon suggests, trying his best with advice.

“She won't even look at me, and besides that she acts the same. But it fucking hurts.” Jake sighs, leaning against the bar counter.

Sunghoon watches him for a few seconds, making a ‘yikes’ face “Damn, you really got it bad huh?”

Jake pulls out his phone from his pocket, fingers finding their way to your contact, he clicks on the messages, the last thing in the chat being a photo of Him, Layla, and you eating Gelato in Italy together.

In the photo, someone might actually think he had the perfect family, beautiful wife, and daughter. If only they knew.

Jake types something, fumbling over the keyboard, Sunghoon looks down at the phone, eyes widening

“Absolutely fucking not.” He snatches the phone from Jake's hand earning a glare “I need to talk to her.” Jake says firmly.

“Not when you’re wasted like this” Sunghoon chuckles, tucking the phone in his own pocket. “Give me the fucking phone Hoon.” 

“No, because you’re literally going to kill me tomorrow for letting you text her.” Sunghoon backs up a step, Jake takes a step forward.

“Or I could now for not letting me text her.” Jake levels his gaze on him, “Alright fine” He says finally, pulling out the phone from his pocket

“Let me do something first though” Jake watches as he types something random on his phone, multiple times before realising “You fucking–” Jake snatches his phone back, 

iPhone Unavailable

Try again in 3 hours

“Whoops” Sunghoon shrugs, before his attention is pulled from the same blonde girl from earlier tapping his shoulder, Jake watches as his flirty persona immediately makes a comeback

“Bathrooms empty if you wanna..” Jake blocks out the rest of the words, signaling the bartender to come over “Do you guys have a phone I could borrow?” He asks, genuine curiosity in his tone, the younger man nods, handing him one from the counter.

Sunghoons eyes turn back to Jake for a split second to see him dialing your number “Fuck– fuck, no.” He snatches the phone from him, cursing before turning to the girl he was just talking to,

“Gimme a few minutes okay baby?” Sunghoon says to the girl, she blushes and nods, his attention goes back to Jake and the phone immediately.

“Hello?” You say confused, sitting up in bed, trying to see if you heard the words right.. Maybe someone accidentally called your number?

Sunghoon curses, glaring at Jake who shrugs with a cocky shit eating grin on his face. “Yeah, hey Y/n.” Sunghoon says, defeat evident in his voice. “Park?” You ask, now fully seated up in your bed.

You turn up the volume, the faint sound of music and chatter in the back, but the sound of him bickering with someone covers most of it, you only catch every other word–”Give me–the phone!” You sigh

“Park what's going on?” You hear him groan on the other end, and persumabley Jake say something along the lines of “Fuck you” 

“Sorry! Wrong number” Is all you hear before the line goes blank, you look down at your phone in confusion. 

“Yeah, we're leaving now.” Sunghoon says, turning to the blonde girl who was definitely about to be his fuck for the night.

She looks up at him, hope gleaming in her eyes, but frowns when he says he has to go. 

“You’re so fucking lucky to have me, I actually just saved your ass.” Sunghoon mutters, “Maybe I should just email her..” Jake contemplates, saying his thoughts out loud, tapping his screen to see there's 2 hours and 48 minutes left on his phone.

“Okay noted, take away the computer too.” Sunghoon shakes his head, chuckling.

-

Holy fuck. Is all you could think of when Jake answers his front door, grey sweatpants, and black fucking compression shirt out of all things on. Hair tousled, slick with sweat.

You should have known coming to drop off Layla in the morning wasn't a good move, especially since Sunghoon's car was also in the driveway. 

He chuckles at your reaction, like he knows something you don't. “Daddy!” Layla says, practically jumping into Jake's arms as if she wasn't falling asleep in the car a few minutes ago.

You tighten your grasp on her light pink backpack, Jake moves for you to step in, “You missed me Princess?” He asks in a gentle tone.

You walk to the open kitchen, but pause when you see Sunghoon, dressed in familiar attire to Jake, pouring what is probably a protein shake into two different cups. 

He doesn't look up to know it's you. “Hoon!” Layla wiggles out of Jake's arms, running over to Sunghoon who just laughs at her, “Mommy, can I have the mermaid doll please!” She asks, looking up at you with those adorable brown eyes, the ones that look just like Jakes.

You can't help the smile that lights up your face before getting them from her bag. She giggles before looking up at Sunghoon who sets down his shake.

“Well Miss. Layla, im ready when you are” He says, taking the doll from her and going to the living room where Jake has her toys set up. 

Jake lets a small laugh slip at the interaction. You bring your attention back to him, his eyes take in your clothes, from the business pants, to the blazer that fits you all too well.

“Okay, um– don't forget she has ballet lessons twice a week.” You bite your lip, trying to conceal how fucking nervous hes making you right now.

I mean, who even looks that good after the gym, gosh you shouldn't be thinking like this right now. Especially with everything–

“Y/n.”

“No.” You feel your heart racing as the word comes out, “I haven't even said–” He starts “Jake.”

“mama, please let me talk to you..” He closes the distance between the two of you, you try not to show a reaction at the name, the one he called you that night, the night you can't seem to forget.

You peak over his shoulder to see Sunghoon sitting on the ground with Layla, playing with the dolls. “Not here, not when she can hear.” You say quietly.

He nods, walking upstairs to his office, catching Sunghoon's eye, who just cocks a brow at him. 

“Okay, what's so important.” You shut the door behind you, watching as he leans over his desk, back to you.

He turns to face you, "I'm sorry for the other night, calling you like that was immature of me and as Layla's father I shouldn't have–” 

“Yeah, I know.” You interrupt, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I'm trying to apologize here y/n.” He sighs frustratingly, as if this is some chore or task he has to do.

“No, you’re trying to make yourself feel better.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation, “You would think someone who was going to inherit a billion dollar company in the next year would know better, but no–” 

“Im fucking trying here okay?!” He lowers his voice, trying to avoid getting into an argument loud enough for Layla to hear, even though the room is already noise cancelling.

“Thats the same shit ive heard since I was 13 years old y/n, its fucking drilled in my mind.” He steps closer to you, towering over your frame.

“Everything, planned, laid out, my whole future already decided the second I came out the womb.—So yes, I'm aware of what I inherit, I'm aware of the responsibilities I have.” You open your mouth to speak, but close it when nothing comes out.

He continues, “I know I fucked up–” He pauses, resisting the urge to pull you in, cling to you, because as of right now, even if you hate him you’re still the only thing he sees as an anchor in his life. 

“—And not just the other night. In Italy, I shouldn't have, it was reckless and-”

“Jake.”

“-and stupid, you just- I couldn't resist you”

“Jake!” You cut through his words like a knife. The only sound in the room being your trembling voice, and his unsteady breath.

“Dont do this to me. Not right now.” You clench your fist to steady the way it shakes. “Y/n, please– you wont let me any other time besides when either one of us drops off Lay.”

“Because you’re her father Jake! That's all you are. It might say you’re my husband on paper, but you’re not. We dont owe eachother anything, and you made that very fucking clear 5 years ago.” You watch his eyebrows furrow in the way a lost puppy would, an almost pleading look in his eyes.

You bite your tongue, regretting the way the words came out. It takes everything in you to not crumble to the floor, right here in front of him. 

Something shifts in his eyes, he takes a step back from you, distancing himself as much as he can in the confined space.

He doesn't look at you as he turns his back to you, leaning against his desk.

“You know the way out.” He says over his shoulder, tone cold. “Jake..” you whisper

“You know the way out.” he repeats more firmly. You watch him for a moment, before turning and walking out. 

It takes everything in him to not take back his words, to beg you to come back for him to say sorry a thousand times if he has to.

-

That night, you still couldn't get the interaction out of your head, you don't know how many times you tossed and turned in your empty bed, the silence of the house unbearable.

Even throughout the week, it replayed. The look in his eyes, the shift in his face when he told you to get out. 

You know he works hard, you know he is a good father. And you definitely know what it's like to have your life laid out for you. 

So walking through the front doors of the company building wasn't exactly a part of the plan, but it's like your feet were carrying themselves.

The bright daylight shining through the completely glass walls, the city streets bustling outside as usual.

As you walked to the front desk, heads turned towards you, some whispering, some silently observing. 

“Mrs. Sim?” You hear a familiar voice say, walking towards you, You don't have to look to know who it is.

“Park.” You say, turning to face him, leaning against the front counter. “What a surprise.” He can't hide the smug grin on his face as he approaches you. “Im here to see Jake.”

“Oh, you mean you’re not actually here just to see the office?” His tone is laced with sarcasm. You roll your eyes.

“I was just heading up there, come on.” He chuckles, “But I need to inform Mr.Sim–” The woman at the front desk starts, “Greta, baby, It's the Bosses wife we're talking about here.” You roll your eyes, “Don’t give us a hard time m’kay?” he says sweetly, winking down at her. You watch as she blushes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. 

You follow after him, stepping into the elevator. “You’re actually disgusting." You cross your arms over your chest, glancing sideways at him.

“What? It's not my fault they can't resist my charm.” Sunghoon shrugs, adjusting his tie.

The elevator dings, signaling its reached the top floor, you look at him, but your eyes drop to the hint of color below the collar of his white button up.

Your brow raises, squinting to see the slightly red hue of it. “First door past the window.” He nods down the hallway, stepping out of the elevator. 

You watch him for a split second, but he pauses when you call after him “Park.”

He turns to look at you, humming in response “You got a little something.” You say, pointing to his collar, he looks down, and you notice his frame immediately still.

You offer one of those too sweet smiles before making your way down the hall. 

Your hand hovers over the door, before finally knocking. Jake assumes it's one of his assistants so naturally he says a steady “Come in.”, accent sharp and cutting through your train of thought.

You inhale once before opening the door. He doesn't look up until the door clicks shut behind you, and when he does, his face shifts. 

“Y/n– what are you doing here?” He doesn't know why he stands, but he does anyway, hands braced on his desk, you look around his big office, the dark brown leather couch, to the tall bookshelves, and the window with a perfect view of everything 50 stories below.

You try not to stare too much.

“Um- well I just wanted to make sure you knew about Layla's ballet recital in a few weeks, they just sent the email out so.. Yeah.” You cringe slightly at the words, and with how obvious you are. 

He raises a suspicious brow at you, “So you drove here, to the same building you haven't bothered visiting in 5 years, just to tell me something that was sent in my email.”

It's not a question. “Well- I.. you know,” He can't hide the small smirk that plays on his lips

“I–” You pause, trying to regain your composure. “I wanted to..apologize.” You watch his reaction, the curious tilt of his head.

“Apologize?” he rounds his desk, leaning against the front of it, arms still crossed over his chest, assessing you. 

“For the other day.. In your study.” You try not to cringe at the memory, “And for Italy.” Something flashes over his face

“Y/n–” he starts “No. Let me finish.” He shuts his mouth immediately and you continue.

“I said some hurtful things that night, In the..shower.” You avoid his gaze “It was wrong for me to use you like that.” His tongue runs over his lips, remembering the taste of you that night. 

“And then in your study, when you tried apologizing to me– I didn't mean to go off on you like that, and I know you’re trying, I know the pressure you feel, and with everything you said about your life being planned–”

He's watching you closely as you speak, not interrupting. “But God, Its so fucking hard to forget Jake. I try so hard, for Layla—You look at her with so much love. And then you look at me, like I'm a– task.. A chore?”

You question your choice of words. “And it hurts so fucking much.” You breath out, the words rough and vulnerable.

You blink back the tears threatening to pour out, his hands fall to his sides, and it's like his body moves before his mind can process it. 

He closes the distance between the two of you, pulling you towards him , one hand wrapping around your back, the other cradling your head against his chest, resting on the top of your head.

“Jake..” You say through a trembling breath, hands clawed at his chest. “Shh mama, I got you.” he whispers, his thumb rubbing small circles on your back.

He pulls back, "I'm sorry too, I didn't mean to hurt you–I.. Fuck” He runs his hand through his hair, taking a step back to breath.

“You cloud every thought in my mind y/n. Every single day, every single hour, I can't stay mad at you for the life of me. Im—Im really not good at this..” he looks down at you, biting his lip nervously

“I don't think you understand how bad I regret how I treated you, How I made you feel.” He steps closer again, “I was– no I am an asshole. God, you have every right to hate me.” He chuckles but it's humorless

“Jake.. I don't hate you..” He meets your eyes at that, looking at you, really looking at you, the shared vulnerability between you two right now in this moment. 

Your hand moves from your side, hesitating before cupping his face in your hand, he leans into the touch immediately, his eyes fluttering shut at the contact.

“I can't get you out of my head y/n.” He turns his head to press a gentle kiss to your palm, a small gasp leaving your lips at the intimacy of it.

“Im sorry, I know we have a lot to work on—but please..” He whispers, holding your hand in his, moving it to press a kiss to your wrist, just above your pulse point, feeling how rapidly your heart beats.

His eyes don't leave yours. “I'm sorry..” He whispers again, lower this time, trailing small kissing along your arm, those same words leaving his lips in between.

His other hand slips to your waist again, pulling you closer, He cups your face in his hand, threading his fingers through the back of your hair, shutting his eyes, leaning against your forehead.

“Im so fucking sorry.” he breathes out, ghosting over your lips, you tilt your head up slightly, letting your lips graze over his. “Baby..” 

You close the distance between your mouths, lips pressed firmly against his, he pulls you closer, running his fingers through your hair more deeply, his other hand gripping your waist as if you were the only thing grounding him, your lips move together in a rhythm, his tongue runs along your bottom lip, begging for more access, you grant it and he groans into your mouth, eyebrows furrowing.

His tongue explores your mouth, tasting you. He pulls back, a string of saliva connecting between the two of you, “Please..” He begs, looking between both of your eyes, an almost pathetic look on his face.

You tilt your head “Please forgive me, y/n” He brings his hand down from out of your hair, gently rubbing small circles on your neck, tracing his thumb over your exposed collar bone, the touch electric. “I–” 

A sharp knock on the door has you two pulling away from each other like you've been caught doing something you shouldn't.

“Mr. Sim, I just wanted to inform you we have an online meeting with Park Jongseong in five minutes” A shy voice says from the other side, he watches you, the way you stare at your feet, he tries not to smile at your clear nervousness.

“Have the notes ready, let them know I'm coming.” He says, voice back to that professional tone. 

He leans down one more time, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before opening the door to his office and walking down the hall to the meeting room.

Once the door shuts behind him, you bring your hand to your heart, the rapid beating of it pounding against your palm.

You trace your lips with your fingers, still trying to process what just happened, and what's going to happen..

Jake turns the corner of the hallway, to see Sunghoon, leaning against the wall, his eyes trace over Jake's form.

“What the hell happened to you?” Sunghoon says through a knowing smirk, “Dont.” Jake replies, straightening his tie and walking into the meeting room. Sunghoon raises his hands innocently, following after. 

-

As soon as Jake got out of that meeting the first thing he did was pull out his phone, shutting his office door behind him, but pausing to inhale the faint smell of you, your sweet, sweet perfume and hair wash lingering in the air.

“Jaeyun?” His mother says into the phone curiously, “An important event came up, do you mind watching over Layla tonight?” He asks, knowing exactly what the answer will be, if anything he's surprised she didn't beg him to let Layla come over. His parents even have a room specifically for her on the rare occasion she go to their manor. “Yes!” she says eagerly, Jake chuckles, “Alright, I'll drop her off in a few.” He says briefly before hanging up. 

The feeling of his lips still lingered on yours even hours later. The memory of them causing a warm feeling to pool in your belly.

You tried to distract yourself, you really did. But not even working could make you focus. Slipping on your soft robe, you shuffle around your house, eager to take a bath, maybe that would help ease the consistent throbbing in between your legs. 

You were just about to untie it when a ring on your doorbell took you by surprise, you checked the time on your phone, 8:23.. 

You make your way downstairs, opening the door, freezing. “What are you..” You swallow, “What are you doing here?” a nervous excitement slipping through your tone.

Jake takes a step forward, eyes not leaving yours as he shuts the door behind him. “Where's Layla?”

“With my parents.” he replies, eyes trailing down your frame shamelessly, taking in the way your thin robe does nothing to conceal whats underneath. His tongue darts out for a split second, wetting his lips. 

Your eyes fall to his attire, wearing the same dress pants he had on earlier, blazer gone, white button up rolled up his forearms. He chuckles at the way your eyes drag along his arms, bringing your attention back to his face.

“You still didn't answer me.” He tilts his head, studying you. “What are you doing here?” He takes another step forward, crowding you in the entrance of your home.

“You think after what happened today, I was going to just leave you alone?” His eyes drop to your lips. 

“Well– I mean.. I didn't know you were going to just show up..” His eyes fall to the way you nervously play with the end of your robe.

“Mama, of course I did.” he brings his hand down over yours, stilling it so you could stop fidgeting.

“I wanted to see you.” He says confidently. He sighs, defeated, even though you haven't even said anything back. “wanted to touch you.”

His hand comes up, brushing his thumb softly along your cheek, you lean into it. “I want you–” He pauses, breathes–“I want you so bad.”

His eyes search yours before continuing “So bad that I can't fucking concentrate anymore, I can't think straight—“

“The idea of you not wanting me back–not loving me back, makes me sick.” You both freeze at the words, he opens his mouth to speak, closes it.

“I- fuck..” He pulls his hand away from your face, you stop it, placing yours above his. “I want you too, Jake.. I– I love you.” The second the words leave your mouth, something shifts in his face.

His other hand comes up to the other side of your face, holding you like you’re something precious.

“You don't know how long I've wanted- No, I've needed to hear that.” He tilts his head down, lips ghosting over yours, your lips part instantly

“I love you baby.” He whispers before pressing his lips to yours. 

You immediately melt into the kiss, giving him access to your mouth, his hand cups the back of your neck, holding you closer.

He kicks off his shoes, lips never leaving yours, you wrap your arms around his neck as he guides you backwards, you stumble back slightly, his hand immediately wrapping around your waist, you giggle against his mouth, earning a laugh from him. 

You gasp as he picks you up, wrapping your legs around his hips, his hands splayed on your ass. He makes his way up the stairs with you, carrying you with ease.

His lips crash against yours again, backing you up against the wall, you roll your hips in his hold, grinding against his hardening bulge in his pants.

“Fuck ma—you’re killing me..” He breathes, biting your bottom lip, a whimper escaping your lips at that.

“If I wasnt such a gentlemen, I’d fuck you right here, on your floor.” The dirty words have you grinding harder against him, he chuckles

“You’d like that huh?” You nod, a little bit too frantically, instead he walks further down the hall, in your bedroom, he kicks the door shut behind him, laying you down on the bed.

“No, I wanna take my time with you.” He presses a light kiss to your lips, savoring your taste. “Jake–please..” It comes out breathless. 

“Please what?” he teases, hand coming up to wrap around your throat, not to hurt you, more to claim.

He trails it back down, to the loosely tied knot of your robe. “Want you to fuck me..” You plead, squirming.

He smiles at that, pulling the string of your robe, causing it to fall open limply, he sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of you, laid out for him like this, like his next fucking meal.

He peels it off your body, tossing it to the ground, leaving you bare. “So needy, hm?” He parts your legs, nearly groaning at the sight and smell of your slick pussy.

You whimper at the cold air nipping your skin. He brings his hand down, cupping your breast in his hand, kneading the soft flesh

“I love these tits so fucking much” He says almost to himself, rolling your nipple between his fingers, his other hand comes up, repeating the motion on your other, making sure no part of your body feels neglected.

He bites his lip at the delicious sounds leaving your lips, the pathetic light moans. 

You expect him to undress next, but instead he kneels down, hitting the soft carpet, right between your spread legs, you prop yourself on your elbows, not wanting to miss a single moment of seeing him like this.

His eyes close, like he's already gone, licking a sensitive spot on your inner thigh, sucking on it gently, making sure to leave a mark.

Your mouth hangs open, letting soft moans leave your lips, he can't help the smirk that covers his face at how you’re not being shy with him.

He takes his time, leaving marks on your inner thigh, teasing you even more, while also making you even more wet.

His eyes lock on your glistening cunt, “This all for me?” He chuckles, earning a groan from  you, he blows on your puffy clit, enjoying how your hole clenches around nothing, the way you’re already throbbing.

You whine at his teasing, “Shh mama, wanna make you feel good.” He uses his hands, pushing your thighs farther apart, giving him even more access.

Your eyes roll at the first lick, sensual, gathering your juices on his tongue, his eyes flutter shut at the taste of you, how fucking natural it is.

One second its slow licks, the next he's diving in, devouring you. His nose bumping your clit as his tounge works your hole, he looks up at you, your absolutely fucked out face before focusing back on your pussy. Your juices coating the bottom half of his face.

He brings his attention back to your clit, taking the sensitive bud between his lips and sucking with such precision it has your back arching off the bed, hands flying to his hair.

He groans at the feeling of you tugging on the strands, sending a vibration straight to your core. He flicks his tongue on your clit, rolling the sensitive bud with the wet muscle.

bringing one of his hands down from your leg, watching how your pussy reacts as he rubs small circles on your clit.

You watch as he gathers some spit in his mouth, spitting right on your aching clit.

“So pretty,” He says quietly, mixing the spit with your juices leaking out, He pulls you even closer, hands tightening around your thighs, mouth closing around your pussy, making out with it messily.

“Fuck..Jake–” You cry out, gripping the sheets at your sides, He looks up, watching the way your breasts move with each movement, making his cock throb in his pants even more. 

He gives your hole a teasing lick, before plunging his tounge in, greedily fucking it in and out of you, he feels you clench around him. Burying his nose closer against your clit, applying the right pressure that has your hips bucking as you come on his face, you bite down on your lip, trying to conceal the moans leaving your mouth.

He greedily laps up everything you let out, your slick coats his chin, his mouth, the sheets beneath you, but he loves every second of it. 

Your legs fall spread limply, he stands up, unbuttoning his shirt, and his pants, discarding his clothes like they're useless, which in this case–they are.

His eyes are trained on the reddish purple marks coating your inner thighs. “Jake..” You breathe out, watching the thin silver chain glint under the dim light.

He pauses, looking at you curiously, “You still have it?” you point to your neck, and his fingers touch the chain, “I never took it off baby.”

Your mind goes back to when you gave him that necklace, it was when you were pregnant, and you felt like you had to get him something for helping you out so much, even with the arrangement. He had told you he didn't need anything, but you insisted.

He shifts and your attention is immediately back on the present. 

You watch him slide off his boxers, his cock springing out, hanging heavy, thick, veins prominent, similar to the ones coating his hands and forearms.

You let out a sound as your eyes lock on the bead of pre cum leaking out of his flushed pink tip. He leans down, lifting your hips to move you farther up the bed before climbing on top of you.

He strokes his cock, one, twice, the pre cum leaking down his length, Your hips buck up, chasing any form of friction you can.

“Hm, you’re so cute when you’re all needy.” He chuckles, nudging your sensitive clit with his tip, smearing his precum.

“Jake.” You meant for it to come out more firm, but it comes out with a whimper to it. “You want me to stuff you full mama?” He coons, tone playful.

He slaps his dick down once on your puffy folds, before guiding his tip to your entrance. He barely pushes the head of his cock in before letting out a choked groan, “Fuck, you’re tight.” He grunts, hands clasping around your hips, anchoring him. 

“Breathe for me yeah?” He looks at your face, eyes leaving the delicious sight of you trying to adjust to his size.

You nod, attempting to ease yourself, he slides in some more, your pussy clamping around him tightly, he hisses at the feeling, so warm and wet.

“Loosen up for me mama..” He breathes out, thumb traveling down to apply pressure to your clit, he pushes in slowly, you moan when he bottoms out, his tip nudging that spongey spot inside you. 

It takes everything in him to not come right now, like some fucking teenager.

“Fuck– you’re squeezing me–” He leans down, pressing a kiss to your jaw, before sliding out halfway, setting a slow pace that has his balls tightening.

His lips hover over yours as you both let out pleasureful sounds, “F-faster jake..” You manage to say,

“Knew you were greedy” He smirks, before you can say anything back he crashes his lips onto yours, rolling his hips, thrusting in and out of you, his balls slapping against you at every thrust, the wet sounds filling the room are filthy. 

Your tounges tangle together as he fucks into you, hitting a spot you could never reach with your own fingers.

His other hand comes up to pinch your nipple, earning a shocked gasp from you, You clench around him, hole fluttering, greedily taking his cock, he presses harder on your clit, pinches your nipple, you thrash against him, moaning into his mouth as you reach your second orgasm of the night.

But he doesn't stop, instead he wraps his hand around you pulling you up so you're sitting on his dick facing him, he cups your ass in his hands, grinding you on him, you're pulsing around him, your nerves on fire with every drag of your clit against him.

You’re both slick with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead, he's lost in the feeling of your pussy dragging on him, “You gonna let me fill you up mama?”

He grips your ass harder, delivering a smack, you let out a high pitched sound at that, “God, you would look so pretty–”

He lays you back down on your back, the vision already clear in his mind, you–belly swollen, carrying another one of his children, breasts full, so sensitive– He'd take such good care of you, giving you everything you deserve and more.

“Can I breed this pretty pussy mama? stuff you full?” He fucks into you deeper, your legs lock around him in response, He lets out a sound almost a whimper, arms wrapping around you in a bear hug as his hips move frantically in and out of you, he can feel the pressure building, and by the way you’re fluttering around him again, he knows you’re close too.

“I love you baby– fuck, I love you so much..” He groans into the crook of your neck, your hands claw at his back, grasping on his hair as he buries himself deep inside you, your pussy clamps tight, eyes rolling back as your juices leak out, his cum shoots into you, the warmness pooling in a way that has your legs shaking, He doesn't pull out all the way, but he fucks into you once more, hard, making sure none of his seed leaves your sweet hole. 

You two stay like that, him inside you, hugging you with so much love it makes your heart flutter.

When he pulls out, he falls to your side, pulling you closely to him. You wrap your leg over his hip, and he nuzzles his face in between your breasts, causing a soft laugh to leave your lips.

“I love that sound,” he murmurs, “Hm?” You ask curiously, He lifts his head looking at you with so much adoration “Your laugh.” He whispers, pressing a kiss to your neck before wrapping his hands around your body, embracing you, savoring this moment, because if he could, he'd stay here forever. 

— Bonus —

Jake is half asleep below you, one hand draped on your belly, your 6 month old baby growing healthily inside of you.

You try not to wince at the fabric of your shirt rubbing against your very sore nipples, but you fail miserably.

“Mmm..” He mumbles, feeling your body tense beside him, he opens his eyes slowly, looking up at you.

Worry flashes across his face at your pained state, he sits up immediately, "What's wrong? Are you okay mama?” His hand cups the side of your face, pressing his wrist to your forehead, checking your temperature

“Tell me what you need? Water?” His eyebrows furrow together, he runs a hand through his hair, his body flexing at the movement, you can't help your eyes from dragging down his frame, his bare chest, and his loose hanging sweatpants with no boxers underneath. 

You tug at your shirt, “They hurt Jake–” You breath out, realisation flashes across his face, his eyes falling to your pebbled nipples poking through your shirt.

“Ah..I see,” He swallows, before moving to lift your shirt over your head, the fabric dragging along your breasts making you wince.

He tosses the shirt on the bed, memorized with how full your breasts are, how hard your nipples get, he cant help himself when his hands come up, weighing them.

“Fuck–you’re so beautiful,” His fingers graze over your nipples, making the already damp spot in your panties grow, You whimper at the touch “So sensitive baby..” He dips his head, tongue grazing lightly over the peak.

You let out a sharp moan at the feeling, the pleasure overtaking you. He watches your face, his tongue flicking over the bud before lifting his fingers, he presses them on your lip, your mouth opening on instinct, you wrap your lips around his fingers, wetting them, he pulls them out, circling your other nipple with them, spreading your saliva on it.

“So warm, and soft..” He massages one with his hand, it helps ease the tension, making your body relax more into his touch, he presses his nose against your breast gently, your warm skin making the bulge in his sweatpants strain even more.

His hand inches down, past your belly, dipping between your spread thighs, His mouth freezes over your nipple at the wetness already soaked through your loose shorts.

“Shit, you’re dripping–” He moves the shorts to the side along with your underwear, dragging two fingers through your wetness, making a soft gasp leave your lips

“M’ gonna make you feel good” He whispers, before both of his fingers slip inside of you, curling immediately.

The sounds coming from between your legs are so lewd, wet squelching every time he takes his fingers out, just to shove them back in, his palm grinding against your swollen clit as he hits that spongey spot deep inside you.

“Jake–ah..” You breath out, hands lifting to grasp his veiny arm, it's all so sudden, the way you clamp down on his fingers, the juices that flood out of your pussy soaking the sheets, He drags his fingers out, rubbing your sensitive clit with the two, spreading your slick all over.

“God– you’re pretty when you come on my fingers like that..” He brings the two digits to his mouth, sucking them clean, eyes not leaving yours, your mouth hangs open as he does so.

He glances down at your lips, plump from the biting you’ve been doing, before closing the distance, letting you taste your musky sweetness on his tongue that he loves so much.

You don't register it, but his hand inches back down your body, rubbing your pussy slowly, before he shoves three digits inside of you, your nails dig into his forearm at the stretch, gasping into his mouth

“Oh my gosh–” You moan out, his fingers repeating the curling motion, “Shh.. let me make you feel good.” He whispers, repeatedly hitting that sweet spot inside of you just right, his tongue flicks just under your ear, spiking your sensitivity even more.

A warm gush of liquid coats his hand, your eyes flutter shut as you squirt on his fingers, soaking the sheets beneath you even more.

He curls his fingers deeper, letting as much as he can seep out, the wetness coating your inner thighs gradually. He kisses your lips once more, before pulling his fingers out slowly, admiring the way they shine under the faint morning sunlight. His palm slaps against your sensitive pussy lightly in a teasing manner.

"I'm going to get the bath ready, we still have some time before I take Lay to school.” he kisses your cheek softly, standing up, bulge evidently clear in his sweatpants. “But what about–”

“Mama, I said to let me make you feel good, we can worry about this later, Okay?” He walks around the bed, opening the door to your shared bathroom.

Jake insisted on you relaxing in the bath, while he gently rubbed your skin with your vanilla soap, but you had other plans, sneakily reaching behind you to stroke his aching cock until the only thing he could focus on was how good your hand felt around him while moaning softly into your neck.

After the bath he helped you get dressed, helped you down the stairs, making sure to set up the pillows so you were well supported before waking Layla up.

Once she was all dressed for school, her 2nd week of being a Kindergartner, she came running up to you, careful to not press against your baby bump.

“Mommy!” She smiles, you look at Jake's attempt of pigtails before chuckling, Layla reaches her small hand out, touching your stomach gently, as if she was petting a small puppy.

“You look pretty Lay,” She giggles, Jake walks back over,  bowl of strawberries in hand with nutella drizzled on top, a craving he knows you love.

He presses a light kiss to your forehead before handing Layla her sparkly pink backpack. “Ready princess?” He asks, looking down at Layla, she nods, skipping past him, you and Jake both laugh at her eagerness. 

“Ill be back in a bit” he says, pressing another kiss, this time to your covered baby bump, you can't help the blush that coats your face as he gives you that boyish smile.

Even when they both leave, shutting the door behind him, the warmness stays in your heart, Because this is even better than your dreams. 

-

Yeah so I need Jake asap.

okay hope you guys enjoyed!

peep the Sunghoon plot building.. (hoping to start writing it soon after i finish some of my other wips👀)

Clatter.

Your hairbrush hit the porcelain sink with a sharp, plastic crack. You stared at your own reflection in the mirror, wide-eyed, frozen, the bristles of the brush still vibrating against the white basin. Behind you, leaning against the closed door, Park Sunghoon stood, his face a mask of unnerving calm. His thumb hovered over his phone screen.

The sound that had just torn from the tinny speaker wasn’t just any moan. It was yours. A high, breathy, desperate gasp, followed by a choked, “Ah—fuck, ngh, feels so good—” before he’d paused it.

“Care to explain?” he asked. His voice was low and flat, completely devoid of the teasing lilt or the familiar, exasperated warmth you’d come to know over the last two years.

Your mouth was dry. “What—what is that?”

“You tell me.”

It had started, weirdly enough, with Wonyoung.

Freshman year, you’d won the roommate lottery. Jang Wonyoung was sunshine incarnate: bubbly, kind, and surprisingly tidy. You’d bonded over shared instant noodles and a mutual hatred for your 8 AM biology lecture. Then she’d started dating Park Sunghoon, the quiet, devastatingly handsome guy on the ice hockey team. He’d become a fixture in your tiny dorm, a silent, polite presence who’d nod hello and then spend hours on the floor, his long limbs folded as he helped Wonyoung to study.

When they broke up at the end of that year, the fallout was swift and clean. Wonyoung, tears sparkling but chin held high, packed her things and moved into a single. Sunghoon, seemingly stranded and already having moved into your dorm, had looked at you with an uncharacteristic hint of panic. “I can find somewhere else,” he’d mumbled.

“Don’t be an idiot,” you’d said, surprising yourself. “Nowhere will take you at this time of year.”

So he’d stayed. And slowly, a strange, solid thing had grown between you. It wasn’t the giggling, gossipy friendship you’d had with Wonyoung, but you found yourself enjoying his presence nevertheless. He became the person you went to for no-bullshit advice. “He asked you to split the bill on the first date? He’s cheap and insecure. Block him,” Sunghoon would say over a shared lunch, not looking up from his phone.

You’d laugh. “That’s harsh!”

“It’s true. You can’t settle for someone like that.”

In return, he’d tell you about his dates. They were fewer, but just as disastrous in their own way. You’d sit cross-legged on his bedroom floor as he paced, dissecting their texts with you. “She said ‘k’ after I sent her a paragraph about my day. What does ‘k’ mean in this context? Is it a good ‘k’? A hostile ‘k’?”

“It’s a bored ‘k’,” you’d say. “Abort mission.”

Now, by junior year, you’d become inseparable. You knew his coffee order off by heart (iced mocha with Frappucino chips), he knew your college timetable. You borrowed his hoodies, he ate your leftover kimchi jjigae when you ordered too much (which, to be honest, was every time). You’d curl up on opposite ends of the couch, your feet on his lap, and watch terrible reality TV. It was comfortable. Safe. He was your person.

But there was one thing you were hiding from him.

The camgirl thing hadn’t been some deep-seated fantasy. It was pure, pragmatic economics. Part-time jobs were picky with schedules, and the one you’d landed at a campus cafe paid peanuts. A friend of a friend had mentioned the site—it was discreet, decent payout, and you controlled everything. It started as a hesitant experiment, a way to pay for textbooks. Then it became rent money. You invested in a good webcam, a ring light, a collection of toys that you hid in a locked case under your bed. You crafted a persona: confident, insatiable, a man’s wet dream. It was acting, of course. It had nothing to do with the real you. And, of course, you were meticulous. You only streamed when Sunghoon was definitely gone—at the rink, at the library, at the gym. You used headphones and a VPN. You soundproofed your door with your duvet. It was a separate world, hermetically sealed from your real life.

And now, that world was crystallized in the palm of Park Sunghoon’s hand.

“Explain,” he repeated, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the small space.

“It’s not… it’s just a job, Hoon-ah,” you stammered, finally finding your voice. It sounded pathetic. “It pays the bills. You know how hard it is to afford—”

“I know how hard it is,” he cut you off. He took another step. Now his chest was almost touching your back. You could see the tight line of his jaw in the mirror, the faint pulse in his neck. “I just don’t understand why you never told me. You literally told me about the guy who picked his nose at the movie theater the other day, Y/N,” he frowned. “Why not this?”

“It’s private!”

“Is it?” He lifted the phone again. This time, he didn’t play the video. He just held it up so you could see the thumbnail. It was you, back arched, mouth open in a silent cry, a familiar silicone shape disappearing between your thighs. “Because this looks pretty public to me.”

Shame, hot and acidic, burned through your veins. “Sunghoon,” you whispered, your voice trembling. You finally turned from the sink to face him directly. The small bathroom felt like a cage. “Where did you even get that?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he took a step forward. The movement was slow, deliberate. He placed his phone on the edge of the sink, screen-down. The silence was worse than the audio.

“A guy on the team,” he began, his tone conversational yet deadly soft. “He sent it to our group chat last night. ‘Hey, doesn’t this look kind of like your roommate?’ He thought it was a joke.” Sunghoon’s eyes flickered over your face, studying your reaction. “I told him it was a shitty deepfake and to delete it. I threatened to break his nose if he ever shared it again.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. He had defended you.

“But then I watched it,” he continued, taking another step. You were backed against the sink now, the cold porcelain pressing into your lower back. “The whole thing. And then I watched another. And another.” His gaze was intense, burning. “I know the birthmark on your left hip. I know the way you sigh when you’re tired. I know the little sound you make when you’re trying not to laugh.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that caressed your skin. “I know you, Y/N.”

“It’s not…” you started, but the lie died in your throat. There was no point.

“Why?” The single word was loaded.

“The money,” you breathed out, looking down. “It’s just for the money. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” His finger came up, hooking under your chin, forcing your eyes back to his. The contact was electric.

There was no teasing now. No roommate-ish camaraderie. You saw it in the darkening of his eyes, the slight flare of his nostrils. You felt it in the heat radiating from his body, so close to yours.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he asked, his thumb stroking a slow line along your jaw.

“No,” you admitted, the word a mere breath. “It was my secret.”

“And now it’s mine.” His other hand came up, palm flattening against the cabinet door beside your head, caging you in. “What do we do with our secret now, hm?”

You couldn’t think. You could only feel. The rough pad of his thumb on your skin. The clean, scent of his body wash and cologne. The overwhelming want that suddenly drowned out the shame. You’d fantasized about him—of course you had. He was Park Sunghoon, for fuck’s sake. But those fantasies had been vague, safe daydreams. This was so much more visceral, him knowing your deepest secret, having watched you come multiple times on his phone screen.

Your gaze dropped to his mouth. It was a mistake.

He broke.

He let out a sharp, frustrated breath, his hand dropping from your face as if your skin had burned him. Then he took a full step back, turning away to rub both hands roughly over his face, through his dark hair. The sudden distance was a shock, leaving you cold against the sink.

“Fuck,” he muttered into his palms, the word muffled. He straightened, his back to you for a long moment, shoulders tense. When he finally turned around, some of the predatory intensity had been replaced by a bewildered, almost hurt confusion. “Does it… I mean, does it really pay that well?”

The mundane question, after everything, was so jarring you almost laughed. A hysterical bubble rose in your throat. You swallowed it down, your voice still shaky. “I—yeah. I guess. It’s… good.”

He leaned a hip against the bathroom door, crossing his arms. He looked like he was trying to solve a complex equation. “How good? Like, better than the cafe?”

“Obviously better than the cafe,” you said, a sliver of your normal self seeping back in. “It’s… flexible. And the tips can be… significant.”

“Hm.” He chewed on his lower lip, his eyes drifting to the ceiling, avoiding looking directly at you.

You cleared your throat. “I mean, obviously not as well as the couples on the website, but yeah. It’s pretty good.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Couples?”

“Yeah,” you said, a shaky exhale escaping you. You leaned back against the sink for support properly. “The top earners are almost always couples. People like it more, I guess? You can do a lot more with two people, you know. More… interactive. Rather than just one person, like. Masturbating, or whatever.”

“Interactive,” he echoed, his tone flat. He finally looked at you, and you saw the gears turning behind his dark eyes. There was a flush creeping up his neck, staining the tips of his ears a faint, rosy pink. It was such a stark contrast to the man who had cornered you moments ago. It was almost sweet, kind of endearingly awkward. “So, theoretically, if you had a… partner for a stream. The revenue would, what, double? Triple?”

“Something like that,” you whispered, your heart beginning to pound for a completely new reason. You couldn’t possibly be thinking what you thought he was thinking.

He uncrossed his arms, shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. He studied the tile floor as if it held the answers. “And you—you’d be in control? Of everything. What happens.”

“Always. I set the rules. I can end it anytime.”

He nodded, once, sharp. He took a deep breath, his ears now fully aflame. When he lifted his head, his expression was a mixture of fierce determination and profound embarrassment. “Okay.”

“Okay… what?”

“Next time you schedule one.” He cleared his throat, his voice dropping. “I’ll… I’ll be your guest. For the—um. Interactive element.”

The world tilted. “What?”

“You need the money, right?” he said, his words coming faster now, a defensive, logical ramble. “I skip the gym anyway sometimes.” A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips and vanished. “And it sounds like a pretty good workout.”

You were speechless. Park Sunghoon, the guy who got flustered when a date used too many emojis, was volunteering to star in your cam show. To have sex with you. On camera. For money.

“You don’t have to—” you started.

“I know I don’t have to,” he interrupted, his gaze finally steady on yours. The shyness was still there, but beneath it was a layer of steel. “But I want to.” The admission hung in the air, raw and undeniable. “So. Let’s do it.”

A slow, treacherous heat was spreading through your core, melting the last of your shame. This was insane. This was the most insane thing that had ever happened. And you wanted it. You wanted it so badly your knees felt weak.

“Tomorrow night,” you heard yourself say, your voice surprisingly steady. “You go to the gym at seven. Skip it.”

He gave a single, tight nod. “I’ll be there.”

The following evening, even the air in the apartment felt charged. The normalcy of the day had been a fragile illusion. You’d shared a quiet breakfast. He’d asked if you wanted coffee. You’d both pretended to study in the living room, and the hours had dragged, each tick of the clock a pounding heartbeat.

At six-thirty, you retreated to your room. Your usual ritual—putting your VPN on, positioning the ring light, logging into the encrypted site—felt surreal now. You’d retrieved the small, discreet remote-controlled vibrator from its case. It was a sleek, egg-shaped thing. You’d never used it with the remote function live before; it had always been a prop, something you’d pretended was controlled by a faceless, tipping ‘dom’.

Tonight, it would be real.

You dressed in the lingerie you’d chosen after an hour of frantic deliberation: a set of black lace, delicate and sheer, more suggestive than revealing. It felt different against your skin. It wasn’t for an anonymous audience anymore. It was for him.

At five minutes to seven, a soft knock came at your door. Your breath hitched. “Come in.”

Sunghoon entered. He’d changed into sweatpants and a plain grey t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders. He looked casual, relaxed, almost, but his eyes were dark pools of focused intensity. He took in the scene, the soft lighting, the camera on its tripod, you perched on the edge of your made bed in your lace—but his expression didn’t flicker. He was in work mode.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice steady.

You nodded, unable to speak. You handed him the small, black remote. His fingers brushed yours, and a spark jolted up your arm. He examined the remote, thumb testing the dial and the single button.

“How does it work?”

“The dial controls the intensity,” you whispered, your mouth dry. “And the button… pulses.”

He nodded, his face a mask of concentration. “And me?”

“Start over there,” you said, pointing to the corner just out of the camera’s main view. “I’ll introduce you.”

He nodded, fingers curling around the remote. “What do you want me to do with this?”

“Whatever you want,” you said, your own boldness surprising you. “Just… um,” you laughed. “Don’t make me scream before I’ve said hello.”

He gave you a slightly nervous smile. “No promises.”

He moved to the shadowed corner of your room, leaning against the wall, a silent, watching statue. The remote was loose in his hand. You took a final, deep breath, clicked the Go Live button, and felt the familiar, terrifying drop in your stomach.

The viewer count began to climb almost immediately. 50, 120, 300. Familiar usernames popped into the chat, along with a flood of new ones.

“Hey everyone,” you purred, slipping into your persona. Your voice was lower, smoother than your normal one as you played with your bra strap. A smirk played on your lips. “Miss me?”

The chat exploded with hearts, fire emojis, and greetings. You bantered for a few minutes, teasing, leaning into the camera to give a glimpse of cleavage, running a hand through your hair. You could feel Sunghoon’s gaze on you from the corner, a physical weight. It should have been unnerving, but it was thrilling.

“So, I actually have something special planned for you guys tonight,” you said, your eyes flicking toward the shadows where he stood. “A little… collaboration, if you will. Say hello to my friend.”

You gestured. Sunghoon stepped forward, moving gracefully, but there was a new stiffness to his shoulders. He stopped just at the edge of the light, his face partially in shadow, his body a tall, taut silhouette. He lifted a hand in a slight, awkward wave. The chat went absolutely feral.

injangsdad: HOLY SHIT????

BbyDvl: WHO IS THAT???!

ilovesalsa02: Bro is BUILT holy shit

heehee: why is he so shy?? u deserve a real man like me

“He’s going to be helping me out tonight,” you explained, lying back against your piled-up pillows, spreading your legs just a little. The black lace rucked up your thighs. “He’s got a little controller for this.”

You opened your legs wider, giving the camera a clear view as you took the egg vibrator and slowly, deliberately, pressed it inside yourself. You were already wet, anticipation and sheer nervousness doing their work. A soft sigh escaped you, genuine this time. You caught Sunghoon’s eye. He was staring, his jaw tight, the remote gripped in his hand tight.

“And he’s in charge of the intensity,” you breathed into the mic. “Shall we see if he’s any good?”

You gave a slight nod.

Sunghoon’s thumb pressed a button.

A low, steady buzz erupted inside you. It was a gentle hum, a pleasant warmth. You let your head fall back, a smile touching your lips. “Mmm, starting off easy on me? That’s sweet.”

The chat scrolled.

stickiriki: TELL HIM TO TURN IT UP

injangsdad: He looks so focused lol

seonwoo333: His hands…

Sunghoon’s eyes were fixed on the screen, watching the live feed, watching you. His expression was unreadable. He pressed another button.

The vibration jumped in intensity. It was no longer a hum now, more a persistent, insistent thrum right against your most sensitive spot. Your breath hitched. Your hips gave an involuntary little jerk. “Oh,” you gasped, the sound soft but picked up crisply by the mic. “Okay. There we go.”

He watched your reaction on the screen, his own breathing deepening. He was a quick learner. He adjusted the setting again, this time cycling through a pattern. It started slow, then escalated to a frantic pulse, then dropped back to nothing, leaving you aching and clenched around the empty buzz.

“Fuck,” you whispered, your persona slipping for a second. You were no longer performing for the faceless crowd, you were performing for him. You were trying to read his face, to see what made his breath catch, what made his knuckles whiten on the remote. God, you were so fucking soaked for him, pussy clenching around nothing but air, desperate for his thick fingers or that fat cock to stretch you wide instead of this teasing toy buried deep in your dripping slit.

He finally settled on a rhythm that had your vision blurring little by little: a frantic, buzzing assault like a swarm of eager tongues lashing your swollen clit and inner walls without mercy. A sharp cry ripped from your throat, back snapping off the pillows as electric jolts shot straight to your core. One hand clawed at your heaving tits, fingers twisting your stiff nipples through the sheer lace until every part of you throbbed like a second heartbeat, the other pressing flat against your quivering belly, as if you could trap the sensation inside your spasming cunt.

“Sungh—,” you almost moaned his name, cutting yourself off with a bitten lip. “More.”

He didn’t increase the power. Instead, he started to play.

He’d let the brutal pattern continue until you were writhing, your thighs trembling, until pleas were tumbling from your lips unbidden—“please, god, right there, don’t stop”—and then he’d cut it off entirely. The sudden absence was a torment worse than the vibration. You’d whimper, your body seeking friction against the sheets. He’d just wait, eyes hooded and ravenous on the feed, devouring every twitch of your sweat-slicked skin, every heave of your lace-clad tits, as you crashed down from the edge only for the hunger to claw back fiercer. Then he'd flick it on again, slamming you right back into that torturous bliss, your juices squirting in messy spurts around the buzzing egg.

It was torture. It was exquisite. You were his marionette, strings yanked by his whims,  and he was discovering the joy of pulling on them. Fuck, it made you wetter than ever. The chat was a blur of encouragement and tipping notifications. The sound of digital coins chiming was a constant backdrop.

userace: Shit lmao look at that slut squirm

BbyDvl: dont let up until shes screaming

Lurkr89: Edge her until she breaks

You were close. So, so close. The coil in your belly was wound tight, a spring about to snap. You were mumbling, a stream of consciousness filled with “yes” and “there” and “just like that.” You looked directly into the camera lens. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna come. Please, let me come.”

Sunghoon’s thumb hovered over the button. He looked from the screen to your actual body on the bed, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He gave one sharp, definitive nod.

And turned the vibrator to its maximum setting.

The orgasm ripped through you with no warning, a white-hot detonation that seized every muscle. You moaned, high and loud and continuous as the vibrations continued, milking the shockwaves from you, until you were a shuddering, boneless heap, the babydoll soaked with sweat, your inner muscles fluttering weakly around the still-buzzing egg.

Slowly, he turned the remote off.

Silence, save for your ragged panting and the chime of more tips. The viewer count had skyrocketed.

You lay there, spent, floating. You saw Sunghoon place the remote carefully on your desk. He stepped fully into the ring of light. He came to the edge of the bed. He didn’t look at you. He looked directly into the camera lens.

His first words on stream were not to you.

“Was that good for you?” he asked the audience, his voice a low, smooth baritone that sent a fresh jolt through your spent body. He reached down and hooked his fingers in the waistband of your babydoll. In one fluid motion, he pulled it up and over your head, tossing it aside. You were completely naked now, exposed under the bright light and the gaze of thousands, your skin gleaming.

You made a small, vulnerable sound, trying to cover yourself, but he caught your wrists in one large hand, pinning them above your head on the pillow. He held them there effortlessly, finally glancing down at you. His eyes were black with lust.

“She comes pretty easily, doesn’t she?” he said, back to the camera. A patronizing, almost clinical tone. As if you were an object. “One little toy and she falls apart.” He used his free hand to trail a finger from your throat, down between your breasts, over your quivering stomach. “But that was just the warm-up, right? You didn’t pay to just see a toy do the work.”

The chat was moving too fast to read, a waterfall of explicit encouragement and demands.

He released your wrists. “Turn over,” he said, the command quiet but absolute. “On your knees. Face the headboard.”

Trembling, every nerve still alight from your orgasm, you obeyed. You got onto your hands and knees, presenting your pussy to the camera behind you. You heard the rustle of his clothes, the snap of elastic. Then, the hot, heavy weight of his erection rested against your inner thigh.

He didn’t enter you immediately. He ran the head of his thick, hard cock through your soaked folds, gathering your wetness, teasing your entrance. You pushed back against him, a needy little grind, but he held your hip firmly, keeping you still.

“Look at her,” he said to the lens, his voice dripping with condescending admiration. “Desperate for it. She’s dripping all over my cock and I haven’t even put it in yet.” He gave a short, dark chuckle. “Should we make her wait? Let her beg a little more? What do you think, guys?”

You heard the ching of a large tip. He hummed. “A hundred dollars says ‘fuck her now.’ Can’t argue with that.”

Without any further preamble, he gripped your hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and drove into you in one deep, merciless thrust.

You shrieked, the massive girth stretching your soaked pussy walls to their limit, filling every inch of your greedy hole in a way no toy ever could. He held still for a torturous second, letting you feel his veiny shaft throbbing inside you, letting the audience watch how his fat cockhead kissed your cervix while your puffy lips clung to his base.

Then he started pounding you raw.

He was relentless, his deep, punishing strokes rocking your body forward, heavy balls slapping wetly against your swollen clit with every filthy plunge. The room filled with obscene sounds: the slick squelch of your arousal coating his pistoning cock, your desperate whimpers turning to drawn-out moans, his ragged grunts as he fucked you like an animal. One hand clamped on your hip, yanking you back to meet his thrusts, the other braced on the headboard, his dark eyes glued to your face.

“See how this dirty little slut takes my cock?” he growled for the viewers, voice gravelly and commanding, treating you like his personal fucktoy. “No shame at all,” he scoffed. “She’d beg for this pounding all night if the tips rolled in, wouldn’t you?” He rammed in extra hard on the last word, grinding his thick shaft against your g-spot until you sobbed, your cunt gushing fresh juices of arousal around him.

valsbn: Fuck yeah, wreck that sloppy pussy

heehee: Pound her harder, I wanna see her squirt all over that dick

bnoo: hot as hell ill tip more for creampie close-up

pjjong: $200 to make her say thank you.

He read it. He leaned down, his chest pressing against your sweaty back, his mouth near your ear, but his words were still for the audience. “They want you to say thank you to me for railing your sloppy cunt. Think you can manage that while I’m fucking you like this?”

You were a babbling mess, reduced to pathetic whines and gasps, your brain fried from the relentless stretch. He yanked your hips back viciously, tilting his angle to batter that sweet spot deep inside, making your vision explode with white-hot pleasure. “T-thank—fuck—ngh! Thank you!” you wailed, the words torn from your throat as your pussy clenched hungrily around his invading girth.

“Good,” he purred, straightening up again, resuming his punishing pace. “But I don’t think she’s learned her lesson yet. Hiding this from me. Putting herself on display for everyone but me.” His thrusts turned feral, each one slamming his thick head against your cervix, your arousal squirting out with every withdrawal, soaking his balls and the sheets. You felt another orgasm building, clit throbbing desperately. “Should we let her come again?” he hummed, as if he was thinking about it. “I don’t know. She seems pretty greedy. Maybe she needs to earn it.”

His hand snaked around your waist, rough fingers zeroing in on your engorged clit, rubbing furious, slippery circles in perfect sync with his pounding rhythm. The onslaught shattered you—his massive cock dragging along your slick walls, hitting every sensitive ridge, while his digits ground against your nub, sending electric jolts straight to your spasming core. You babbled incoherently, a filthy stream of pleas spilling from your drool-slick lips.

“Please—hngh—please, I’ll earn it, I’ll be good—be your good girl, just let me, please—”

“Since you asked so nicely,” he said, his tone mockingly gracious, ramping up the pressure on your clit until it pulsated with need. His thrusts went wild, losing all control—frantic, hip-snapping drives that chased his release while demolishing yours, his thick cock swelling even bigger inside your clenching heat.

The second orgasm was different—a deep, rolling quake that started in your core and radiated outwards, making stars burst under the darkness of your eyelids. Your internal muscles clamped down on him in vicious, rhythmic pulses, milking his cock, and you heard his sharp, guttural groan right next to the microphone.

“Fuck—she’s squeezing me so tight—gonna—” His voice cracked, all narration forgotten. He buried himself balls-deep one final time, body jerking violently, hot ropes of thick cum erupting from his pulsing tip to paint your insides white. He pumped you full, overflow spilling out around his still-twitching girth.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing and the final, celebratory chimes from the tip jar on screen. The viewer count was holding steady.

Sunghoon stayed buried inside you, his weight partially on your back, both of you slick with sweat. Them, slowly, he pulled out. The loss was acute, and you collapsed onto your stomach, turning your head to look at him.

He didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, his hand came down hard on your ass in a sharp, stinging slap that made you yelp, your spent body jolting. “Turn around,” he ordered, his voice still rough with the aftershocks of his orgasm. “They want to see you.”

You whimpered pathetically, muscles like jelly as you rolled onto your back, legs splitting open, your drenched thighs slick with sweat, arousal, and his leaking cum. Your tits heaved with every ragged breath, nipples hard. Sunghoon’s strong hand seized your jaw, fingers digging into your soft skin as he wrenched your face toward the camera, forcing your swollen lips into a pouty ‘O’ shape. His other hand clamped onto your inner thigh, yanking it high and wide to expose your wrecked cunt to the lens—puffy lips gaping, creamy cum oozing out in thick rivulets, mixing with your gushing juices to form a filthy puddle on the sheets.

Your face was pure pornographic bliss: eyes glazed, lips swollen, hair a tangled mess, and a drowsy, cock-drunk expression that left no doubt about just how thoroughly he’d ruined you. The chat exploded instantly.

userace: bet her pussys still twitching for round two fill her up again

stickiriki: Fuck i need my mouth on those tits

ilovesalsa02: holy shit she looks like a glazed donut lmao

jsxlo: $500 TO KISS HER RN

Sunghoon glanced at the monitor, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He leaned in closer to the camera, his grip tightening on your jaw ever so slightly. “Look at her,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, dripping with possessive satisfaction. “So fucking pretty.” More tips chimed like a victory song, and Sunghoon’s smirk deepened as he straightened, still holding you in place for the audience to gawk at. “Well, I hope you enjoyed the show,” he said. “That’s all for today.”

With that, he reached out and ended the stream with a decisive click.

The sudden silence was deafening. The bright ring light felt exposing, harsh. You were both panting.

Sunghoon looked down at you, and in his eyes was something complex that you couldn’t quite decipher in your fucked-out state. He opened his mouth to speak just as your phone, connected to the stream dashboard, buzzed violently on the nightstand. The notification preview glowed:

STREAM SUMMARY:

Peak Viewers: 6.8k

Total Tips: $1,547

New Top Tipper: @/pjjong

PARK JONGSEONG HAS NEVER KISSED YOU. 

Maybe you have never even felt his touch, the mere sensation of fingers brushing innocently against each other was unknown to you. 

And as you realise it, your chest tightens, and you dig your fingernails way too deep into your palms until they form little red crescents which burn. You realise he’d never seen you shed your tears as well, so you keep them at bay, praying that it’ll be enough to hide the storm brewing inside you. 

Park Jongseong is your fiancé, an arranged marriage. Bound to you by the weight of expectation, tradition, and a polished ring that sparkles mockingly on your finger.

To anyone else, you might seem like the perfect couple—well-dressed at formal dinners, walking side by side at events, exchanging polite smiles that barely reach your eyes. But behind closed doors, the gap between you feels insurmountable. 

Sometimes during those boring and forced events, all you want to do is to pull Jongseong closer by his arm. You want him to look at you and smile, to hold you by the waist and kiss you, to at least, acknowledge your presence in a room. 

But Park Jongseong is careful, too careful.

His words are measured, his actions restrained, as though every interaction is scripted. When he walks beside you, there’s always a polite distance, just enough to make it clear he’s near but never close enough to feel his warmth. Even when he hands you something—a pen, a glass of water—his fingers never brush yours.

It’s like he’s built an invisible wall between you, one that neither of you has dared to tear down.

“Ah—!” he winces in pain as you dab the medicated damp cotton a little too hard over his bruise on his cheeks. 

“S-sorry, I had something on my mind,” you stutter, immediately discarding the cotton into a trashcan.

“Its fine,” Jongseong whispers. 

“Wait let me see—” you reach your trembling, careful hand towards Jongseong’s bruise, in high hopes to cure it. 

“Its okay I'm fine,” Jongseong reiterates, slapping your hand away in a hurried motion.

Ouch. Does he not want you touching him? 

You gulp. The previous plaguing thoughts dawning over you once again. Doubt, insecurity and disturbance hurls at you at a threatening velocity once again, and you can feel yourself falling into a black void. 

You gulp again, your throat suddenly dry, your fingers tightening around the edge of the bathroom sink. You wish you had something to hold onto, something solid or real. Because standing here, staring at your fiancé, you felt like you were slipping into something dark and unknown. 

Jongseong sits on the marble countertop, his long legs spread apart, hands resting on either side of him like he was trying to keep himself steady. His crisp white dress shirt rumpled, the top buttons undone, revealing the faintest hint of a bruise blooming against his collarbone. His knuckles are scraped raw, his lip slightly swollen, and yet, god, yet he still looked unfairly handsome. Even now, even like this. 

You wish he would just kiss you. 

Just once. 

Just so you could taste something other than this awful, gnawing suspicion twisting in your gut.  

“How’d you hurt yourself?” you finally ask, your voice quiet but firm, pushing past the lump in your throat. The words feel too small in the vast space between you.  

Jongseong exhales sharply through his nose, shifting where he sat, as if he suddenly found the countertop beneath him unbearably uncomfortable. He lifts a hand, raking it through his raven-black hair, the strands falling messily over his forehead. His dark eyes never met yours.  

“Just fell first on my face,” he mutters, his voice tinged with forced nonchalance. “I was late to the office.”  

The explanation is simple. Too simple. Like a script he had rehearsed and rewritten a thousand times before finally presenting it to you. His words echo in the cold, tiled room, but they lack weight. Lack of honesty. 

Your fingers clench at the fabric of your sleeves as you nod slowly, pretending, for now, that you believed him. But the walls around you felt thinner, and the air between you was suffocating.  

Because deep down, you know.  

Jongseong is lying.

You nod slowly, trying to process his words, but they feel so hollow, so rehearsed. Jongseong doesn't even meet your eyes as he speaks, his gaze fixed on the tiled bathroom wall behind you.

“You should be more careful,” you sigh, ultimately rearranging all the medicines back to the first aid kit, with all your hopes of holding a long conversation with Jongseong slipping away into the trash can, “Its okay if you're late to office one day—” 

“How'd you get this?” Jongseong mumbles, his hand was flying slowly towards you from your peripheral vision. 

In a moment he stands up, easily towering over you. You can't dare to look in his eyes, so you settle yours at the loose buttons of his shirt. Your heart thumps faster as he moves in closer, a concerned yet bored tone in his voice. 

And then it finally happens, the impact takes place. The rough, calloused yet gentle pads of his fingers touch the apple of your cheeks. 

An electric shock runs through your veins— Park Jongseong touches your face. 

“Uhm- I uh I was-” you stutter, unable to form a proper sentence. 

“Weird,” Jongseong scoffs, retracting his hand. You wince at the absence of his touch, wishing it’d lasted longer. Jongseong continues, “we got hurt in the same place.” 

Your breath hitches.  

The warmth of his fingers lingered on your skin, even though the touch had been fleeting. Insignificant, maybe, to him. But to you? It was enough to leave your thoughts spiraling, to send your heart into a frenzied rhythm you couldn’t control.  

Jongseong’s expression doesn’t change. It’s still composed, unreadable, but there was something else in his eyes now. Not warmth, not affection, but something bordering on curiosity. As if he were piecing together a puzzle, one he didn’t quite care enough to solve.  

You force out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s just a coincidence,” you mutter, lying through your teeth. Because, just like him, you aren’t being honest either.  

Because your bruise wasn’t an accident.  

And neither was his.  

For a second, just a brief second, the two of you stand there in silence. The space between you feels suffocating, but not because of proximity. It was the weight of everything left unsaid. The doubts, the unspoken questions, the invisible wall that had existed from the very start.  

You want to reach for him, to bridge the gap. To ask him what had really happened, to tell him you weren’t as blind as he might think. But the words die in your throat when Jongseong took a step back, like he had just realized he’d gotten too close.  

“I should go,” he says flatly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off some invisible burden. His hand brushes over his lip, pressing lightly against the swelling before he turns toward the door.  

“Jongseong—”  

He pauses. Just barely. Not enough to turn around, not enough to give you hope.  

You clench your fists at your sides. “Be careful next time,” you finish, your voice softer, weaker than you wanted it to be.  

There was a moment where you thought—hoped—he might say something back. But instead, he simply nods once before slipping out of the bathroom, leaving you standing there, alone with your own reflection.  

Your fingers reach up, tracing the ghost of his touch on your cheek.  

Park Jongseong had never kissed you.  

And at this rate, you aren't  sure if he ever will.

THE EVENING AIR BUZZES WITH CONVERSATION AND CLINKING GLASSES.

You sit rigidly at the long aok dining table, forcing a smile.

Jongseong is beside you, distant even in proximity, his fingers lightly tapping against the stem of his wine glass. You steal glances at him when you think he’s not looking, searching for any crack in his polished mask.

Across the table, your cousin Daisy leans forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“So…” she begins loudly enough to catch everyone’s attention, “how’s the arranged love story going? Still playing house or have we upgraded to actual feelings yet?”

The table erupts into laughter. You stiffen, your heart dropping into your stomach.

You try to laugh along, but it comes out awkward and brittle.

“You know, busy schedules. Hard to plan our fairy tale ending around board meetings and conference calls.”

The words taste sour in your mouth. 

You glance sideways at Jongseong, silently begging him with your eyes— Say something. Tell them it’s more. Tell them I’m more to you.

He simply chuckles, a soft, detached sound, and lifts his glass. The knot in your stomach tightens.

“Work always comes first,” he says, voice smooth, almost rehearsed.

There’s a pause. A small, hollow space opens inside your chest, which Jongseong manages to disturb.

Daisy snickers. “So romantic. Truly the love story of the century.”

Someone else jokes about putting bets on how long the marriage will last. More laughter, even more jokes. Insensitive and overlooking.

You feel your face heating up, but it's not embarrassment, it’s humiliation. And Jongseong, just sits there. Smiling politely, like he’s miles away.

You press your lips together tightly, stabbing your fork into a piece of roasted vegetable.

The moment passes, conversation flowing into safer topics, but your appetite is gone. All you can taste is the bitter disappointment.

As dessert is served, Jongseong’s phone vibrates on the table. He glances at it quickly, then tucks it away without a word. The tiny movement feels monumental. Another reminder that there's always somewhere else he'd rather be.

Finally, after what feels like hours, people start gathering their things, pulling on coats, exchanging hugs and goodbyes.

You and Jongseong step out into the chilly night. The cold air slaps your cheeks, a stark contrast to the stifling warmth inside.

You walk side by side in silence towards the car.

You can't hold it in any longer.

“Why didn’t you say anything back there?” you blurt, voice trembling despite your best effort to stay calm.

Jongseong stops walking. Turns to you slowly. His face is unreadable under the dim porch lights.

“About what?” he asks, feigning innocence. Oh, how you hate that face.

“About us,” you snap, your voice cracking under the weight of it all. “When they joked, when they implied we’re just business partners?”

He shrugs. “It was just a joke. Why give them more to gossip about?”

You stare at him, blinking rapidly to keep the sting of tears at bay. “Because it’s not just a joke to me.”

He exhales, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re overthinking it, Y/n.”

You laugh bitterly. “Am I? Because it feels pretty real when you don’t even try to correct them. When you act like you’re fine with everyone believing this marriage is just some... some arrangement you’re tolerating.”

His jaw tightens. “What would you have wanted me to say? That we’re madly in love? That we’re inseparable? That I can’t breathe without you?” His voice is low, cutting. He snaps, “Would that have made you feel better? Lying to everyone?”

You flinch like he slapped you. The hurt pools behind your eyes.

“I don’t need you to lie,” you whisper. “I just—”

The words hang between you, heavy, fragile.

For a second, just a second, something flickers across his face. Regret? Guilt? You can't tell.

But just as quickly, he turns away, walking briskly to the car. “Let’s not do this here,” he says sharply. “It’s late.”

You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, watching his back retreat from you like a closing door.

When you finally move, your feet feel like lead. You climb into the passenger seat without a word. The ride back home is suffocating. Silent. A chasm grows wider with every passing streetlight.

You want to reach out, to grab his hand, to say something, anything, that will fix whatever's breaking between you.

But you’re too afraid you’re the only one who still wants to fix it.

So you stare out the window, watching your reflection blur against the passing night.

And beside you, Jongseong drives on, his hands tight on the wheel, his face carved in stone.

Park Jongseong is giving up, maybe you should too.

PARK JONGSEONG THOUGHT HIS TO BE WIFE HAD FORGOT HIS BIRTHDAY.

But then he reminds himself, all these months of carrying a diamond ring of mockery on his hand— a symbol of bondage, marriage —he had never felt the fleeting touch of his soon to be wife.

And so he doesn't bother to kiss her goodbye, maybe pull her closer by her waist, whisper something not so innocent in her ears to watch her face flush in enticement, and leave for work with the motivation to come back to his fiancé’s arms.

No. He does nothing.

Park Jongseong doesn't even take the day off and stays at home. He leaves in a hurry, first thing in the morning. He doesn’t like celebrating birthdays anyway, it’s just a year closer to his demise, nothing to like about it.

He packs his briefcase in silence as he steals one last glance of you, groaning lazily as you make your way to the washroom. Of course, you have your job too, and Jongseong expected even less. It’s just a birthday, nothing too much.

9:30 am, he reaches his office building.

The heir to the prestigious, Park Company. The weight of expectation hung in the air like a finely spun chandelier, too delicate to touch, too grand to ignore. After all, he wasn’t just any director. He was Park Jongseong. The upcoming CEO. The heir.

The revolving glass doors of the company building spun to a slow stop behind him. Jongseong adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, eyes half-lidded, movements precise. He could hear the echo of his polished shoes as he walked through the marble tiled lobby, his reflection following him in the towering glass panels.

“Good morning, Vice President,” several voices chorused as he passed, accompanied by clipped bows and tight smiles.

He gave them all the same nod. Unbothered. Distant.

The elevator doors open and steps out alone, the silence laying on him like a second skin. The floor is cool and quiet, save for the typical office noises. He reminds himself that it's just another day, just another date on the calendar which could be overlooked without any problem. His team gathers up to the front door, clapping and smiling at him. Some senior executives push a forced smile in front of their young boss, the juniors more enthusiastic about someone they fear athough Jongseong doesn’t know if theirs are forced or natural.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY JONGSEONG,” they all sing song as confetti pops out in the air and paper freckles of his least favourite colours flutter down on him.

A distant banner said: TO THE FUTURE CEO. He shrugs, a polite smile on his face.

Among the crowd he spots Sunghoon, his first cousin as he steps out with a jovial smile and hands still clapping. He was in line to be the CEO as well, before he put down the offer to be COO instead, saying he's not a natural leader like Jongseong is.

“To the youngest CEO our company has ever seen!” he exclaims to the crowd as he stands beside Jongseong, pulling him to an encouraging hug. “What?” he snickers, “don't like the celebration?”

“No, I love it,” Jongseong hopes his smile is not too fake looking as he faces his team, not all of them are happy to be here, some are bored and waiting for their shift to be over. He sighs, “thank you guys for this, it means a lot to me.”

A celebration follows, and Jongseong does what is needed. A polite tight lipped smile, respectful bows and a small speech. Said the expected words. Cut the cake, nodded through small talk, and endured hugs from coworkers who’d never even dared to speak to him before today.

When noon rolls around, someone chirps, “We ordered lunch in! Come eat with us, Vice President Park!”

But Jongseong shakes his head.

“I’ll stay in,” he says, voice as smooth as glass. “I have calls to take.”

He turns, walks into his office, and shuts the door behind him.

Silence falls like a blanket. The cheers and loud noises quickly fade as the second Jongseong pulls the door close to his office, making slow and steady steps to his chair. He sits down on it, sighing as he lets out a shaky breath.

Birthday.

The word still rolls bitterly in his mind, not festive, not celebratory—just sharp edged and cold. A reminder of time ticking forward, dragging him further into a life that never felt like his own. A year older, a year deeper into expectations that weren’t his to begin with. The title. The company. The marriage.

He remembers the uncomfortable tight-fitting tuxedos, blinding camera flashes, tight lipped smiles of relatives he didn’t know and as usual, a script.

A script he had to learn every year, which is now installed in his brain. Jongseong just has to open his mouth and utter the same, mechanical and monotonous words in front of everyone as his parents would reassure him after, of how well he did, how well he behaved. And before he even knew it, birthdays meant nothing to him.

But then again, it was made cold and unbearable to him by the world. By his parents.

“Whatever,” he sighs and shrugs his blazer off him. And just as he’s about to throw it on his desk, he notices something.

A lunch box, covered neatly in pink satin cloth. A small note on top.

Jongseong doesn’t want to make assumptions, but he does anyway. What if it's from you? What if you really remembered his birthday? With a gulp, he steers his chair closer to his desk and picks up the lunch box, opening his cloth and reading the note in his hands, holding it up close.

Hope you like it. Happy birthday Jongseong, from y/n.

His breath falters, you remember.

His name in your handwriting. A little crooked, like you were in a rush, or were nervous. His throat tightens as he peels the lid off the top container.

And the scent hits him instantly.

Curry.

Rich, warm, and spiced exactly the way he likes it. Not the kind served at expensive restaurants with dainty portions, but the real kind. Homemade. The kind that sticks to your ribs. The kind that reminds him of chilly weekends in Seattle when he was small enough to sit on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs while his grandmother stirred the pot.

Something coils in his chest.

Carefully, he lifts the second container. The rice is shaped into a perfect flat surface. Neatly pressed, fluffy, hot. And across it—seaweed sheet, hand-cut with meticulous patience—spells out three letters.

JAY

Jongseong feels his heartbeat faltering. He winces as his offices’ air conditioning hits the bruise on his cheeks. He carefully sets the curry down on his table, before gaping at the rice again.

It indeed spells, JAY.

He scoffs at this weird feeling. The more he stares at it the more his heart burns and coils.

Only his grandmother had ever called him that. Not his father. Not his mother. No one in the stiff, lacquered halls of his youth had bothered to learn the name that made him feel… human. Small. Loved.

And now here it was. Cut delicately in seaweed. Sitting quietly in a box on his birthday.

By you.

“You’re really not going to join us for lunch?” Sunghoon barges in his office, striding towards Jongseong's desk.

Jongseong hurriedly tries to close the lunchbox, but it’s too late. Sunghoon’s eyes have already zeroed in on it like a hawk spotting prey.

“Is that curry?” Sunghoon gasps, leaning over the desk like an excited child. “Oh my god, it smells amazing. Who got you that? Is it from that expensive place across the street? Is that seaweed spelling your name? That’s so cute—”

“Get your hands away from it,” Jongseong snaps, dragging the lunchbox closer to his chest like it’s a newborn baby he’s sworn to protect with his life.

Sunghoon’s hand freezes mid-reach. His eyebrows shoot up.

“Wow. Wow. Possessive much?”

“This is mine,” Jongseong mutters defensively, clutching the lunchbox tighter. “You guys have a whole lunch downstairs. Go eat that.”

“But that’s communal food,” Sunghoon whines, poking the air toward the lunchbox. “This looks special. Homemade. You should share. It’s what Grandma Jay would’ve wanted.”

Jongseong glares at him.

“Grandma Jay would’ve wanted you to mind your own business.”

Sunghoon snickers, undeterred, and tries to lunge for a bite. Jongseong immediately swivels his chair away, putting his entire body between Sunghoon and the precious lunch like a shield.

“Jesus, you’re like a dragon hoarding treasure,” Sunghoon laughs, hands on his hips. “You’re gonna die alone with that lunchbox in your arms.”

“Good,” Jongseong says without missing a beat. “But I'm not going to share.”

Sunghoon makes one last dramatic, fake sob attack at the lunchbox. Jongseong kicks at him under the desk until he stumbles back, defeated.

Grumbling, Sunghoon heads for the door, shooting Jongseong a betrayed look over his shoulder.

“You’ve changed, man,” he says dramatically. “Fame, fortune… personalized seaweed letters. You’re not the same Jongseong I knew.”

Jongseong just smirks to himself as the door swings shut again. 

Finally, blessed peace.

He opens the lunchbox once more, the smell of curry filling the room, and the sight of your careful seaweed letters warming a space inside him he didn’t even know was still hollow.

A dull sting pulses along his cheek as he chews, and his hand drifts to the bruise you both pretended not to see. He clicks his tongue, annoyed. Coincidence, he tells himself. Nothing more. But the throbbing settles under his skin like a reminder—of you, of your quiet lies, of his own.

But this time, when he takes the first bite, he laughs under his breath.

YOU DESERVED A BETTER GRATITUDE THAN A JUST SIMPLE THANK YOU.

Park Jongseong sighs as he stares at the window of his car, watching the raindrops race against each other. His fingers drum restlessly against the steering wheel, the soft patter of rain against metal filling the silence inside the car.

He leans back against the headrest, staring at the road.

“thank you for the lunch, y/n.” he said last night, “it was so delicious.”

He remembers the tension between your brows, how they knotted up gently and relaxed a second after. Disappointment. He was offhand, rushed and sudden with his words, not even looking into your eyes as he said how warm the meal was. So why wouldn’t you be disappointed? Jongseong remembers the way you rolled your shoulders back, a small sigh escaping you as if you had to physically push the disappointment out of your body, tuck it somewhere he wouldn’t notice.

“you’re welcome,” you said simply, unmuting the ignored show playing on the tv with a soft clenched jaw, which Jongseong wished he wouldn’t notice.

He knew that your welcome wasn’t genuine. And maybe he could’ve tried to find the stars in your eyes to make things better, maybe he shouldn’t overthink.

But he also remembers the way you took a second glance of him when he stood there like a robot, holding his almost empty briefcase in his hands, wanting to say something else than just a thank you.

Your eyes were cold then. Faint traces of tears sticking to your lashes, catching the soft glow of the overhead light as you looked at him like you were trying to read him one last time. He thought you would say something, maybe shout or scoff at his posture.

But nothing came out of your mouth except a tired sigh as you abandoned your discomfort and disappointment on the cold couch as you made your way towards the shared bedroom, agonizingly slow.

Maybe you had that pace intentionally, for him to call you back and say something real. Cause fuck, you remember his beloved nickname which was lost, you remember how he liked his curry, you remember him.

Lost in own thoughts, something interesting catches Jongseong’s eyes.

Is that you?

Jongseong gets startled at the sight. You, in this heavy and cold rain, trying to cross the road with your blazer above your head, which does nothing to keep you dry.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, quickly starting his car as he drives across the road, stopping just beside the pavement.

“Y/n!” He shouts your name clear in the heavy rain, loud enough for you to turn around to his voice, “get in, you’re going to get sick!”

You pause mid-step at his voice, blinking through the rain as you turn to face him. The car idles beside the curb, headlights casting a pale glow across the drenched street. His figure leans across the seat, the passenger door wide open like a quiet plea.

But you stay rooted where you are, water soaking through your shoes, the cold seeping deeper beneath your skin. Your hands clench at your sides.

“I’m fine,” you call out, loud enough for him to hear but it’s tough at the edge, shaking, “go home, Jongseong—”

“Y/n please,” he pleads, although it doesn’t sound like one, “you’re soaking wet, just shut up and get in!”

“I’m- I’m fine,” you snap. You don’t want to get in the car just because he happens to see you and is inviting you to stay dry. That’s the only case, isn’t it? Jongseong is here by coincidence, he wouldn’t deliberately check your location to pick you up in this awful weather. Would he?

“I can go by myself, the rain is not too bad.”

You can hear him sigh, as he gets out of his car, slamming the door behind him.

“Get in,” he steps into the rain, the downpour immediately plastering his shirt to his skin, darkening the fabric, “You will fall sick, y/n. Get in the car.”

He steps even closer, his hair now sticking to his forehead by this insufferable rain as he narrows his eyes. “If you want to be sick so bad, do this another day.”

Your throat tightens. You want to scream at him, shake him, ask him why he always waits until things fall apart before showing up. Why he only steps into the rain once you’re already drenched.

But instead you force your chin up, press your lips into a tight smile as you gather your blazer tighter around yourself.

“Don’t act like you care if i’m sick, Jongseong,” you didn't want to say that, but do anyways.

He blinks. For a second, his expression falters. Barely. “Why not?,” he says quietly, almost like he’s confessing something he hadn’t intended to say aloud. But then his gaze hardens again, guarded. “You’re freezing, Y/N. Stop being stubborn.”

The wind blows past you both, cold and biting. You shiver, teeth clattering as you try to recover whatever warmth the soaked blazer has to give.

“I won’t go—”

“As much as I would love to argue with you right now,” Jongseong cuts off, standing so close that your hands could meet, “I can't let you get sick.”

Your lips part, another protest rising, but before you can speak, Jongseong’s fingers curl around your wrist, not harsh, but firm. His brows draw together, rain sliding down his temples, his lips a tight line.

“I said get in the car,” he repeats, lower this time. His voice carries an edge, not pleading, not begging—commanding. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You glare at him, heart wrenching in the cold rain as it seeps into your work clothes.

“You only come when it’s convenient for you,” you try to hold it together.

He steps closer, raindrops sliding down the sharp lines of his face. “You think this is convenient for me?” he says bitterly, tone low, controlled. “You think standing here like an idiot in the rain for you is easy?”

The proximity hits you suddenly. He’s standing close, too close, as the rain damps his shirt next. Jongseong’s grip around your wrist tightens, indicating he’s not going back home without you in his car.

And somehow that warms you a bit in this coldness.

His eyes are direct, confronting as they try to soften into yours. Try, you can see it, how his eyebrows lift and slowly fall, trying to find the ease in the situation to gently pull you into the car with no trouble, with no one getting sick.

“Y/n…” he whispers your name, as if for the last time when he finally eases his brows, “get in the car. Please.”

You gulp at his seriousness, a droplet of rain rolls from his chin to fall on your cheeks. It’s cold, making you flinch.

“And if i don’t go?” you test the waters, voice trembling as you watch him roll back his shoulders.

“Then I’ll carry you,” he says without hesitation, his gaze hardening. “Don’t test me right now.”

Something in his tone makes your breath hitch. He’s not bluffing—you know that.

You swallow, lips pressing into a thin line as you hesitate, your pride warring with the exhaustion creeping into your bones. But just as another gust of wind leaves you shivering, your resolution breaks.

You look away first, “You are a very bad liar—”

Jongseong doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile or smirk or gloat. He just scoops you up before you can finish the sentence.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as Jongseong’s arm slides under your knees and the other wraps firmly around your back, pulling you against him. Your soaked blazer slips uselessly from your shoulders, rain immediately lashing against your skin, but his body blocks most of it. He’s solid, unyielding, warm in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Jongseong—!” you protest, instinctively gripping the front of his damp shirt. His name tears out of you softer than you intended.

“I warned you,” he mutters, jaw clenched as he turns toward the car. His grip tightens reflexively when you shift, as if afraid you’ll fall or run. “Stop fighting me.”

He reaches the car and nudges the passenger door open with his knee, maneuvering you inside with careful precision.

When he slides back into his seat, drenched and stoic, he doesn’t look at you immediately. Just stares ahead as the engine hums softly beneath the rain. And with that, he pulls the car into drive, headlights cutting through the downpour, his hand steady on the wheel even if everything else between you trembles on the edge of falling apart.

“Take this,” he says, reaching towards the backseat and grabbing his dry blazer, “you’ll be cold.”

“T-thanks,” you don’t argue much as your teeth clatter together, quickly draping the blazer over your damp clothes.

“Y-your clothes are soaked too,” you gulp, voice soft and nervous. You glance at Jongseong’s side profile as he drives, “you’ll get sick—”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, his voice low and steady, almost too calm, “I’m not the one shivering. And it’s just a little rain.”

“So much for the guy who didn’t let me walk home in the rain,” you giggle softly, hoping to elevate his mood but his expressions remain stoic, indifferent.

You pull the blazer tighter around yourself. It smells like him. espresso, cologne and ironically, like home.

“Thank you for—” you clear your throat, taking time to rethink your gratitude towards him when he himself barely shows it. He’s always words, one or two, never sentences like you. But at the end of the day, someone has to express something.

“Thank you for the blazer, and for picking me up anyways. I know you didn’t mean to and I’m sorry for being a nuisance—”

“You’re not a nuisance,” he admits, eyes still on the road. Your heart stops. “I’m not that big of a jerk to let my fiance come home with a fever.”

There’s a silence that stretches long and sharp, the rain outside tapping impatient fingers against the windows. You sink deeper into the passenger seat, your hands curling in your lap. His words aren’t romantic. They aren’t sweet. But they tear through something inside you, a part that’s been holding itself together with hope and delusion.

It’s the bare minimum. It’s something, and something is better than nothing. Right?

“Really?” you whisper, unsure if you really heard that right.

He nods slightly, still focused on the road ahead. “What’s there to question? If you don’t want me picking you up next time, just say so.”

Your heart tugs, this is coming from him. You don’t need anything more than this quiet ride, the shared space between you, the knowledge that he’s here. Whether it’s out of obligation or something deeper.

Jongseong reaches forward, turning on the car’s heating system inside.

“You can keep the blazer,” he mumbles.

You leave it here for now, basking into the silence with his cologne around you, questioning whether or not you really have space in his heart.

RAIN ALWAYS MAKES HIM SOFT.

Not in the obvious way. Not the cinematic way where he confesses or reaches for you or lets himself be held. It makes him quiet first—eyes lingering on windows, fingers tapping restlessly, shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing for something unseen. You notice it the moment you step onto the rooftop, the smell of wet concrete clinging to your coat, droplets sliding down the glass doors behind you.

It’s Sunghoon’s birthday, technically, though no one is really treating it like one. You almost didn’t come. Long days at work, the quiet tension waiting for you at home. But Sunghoon had called, cheerful and insistent, saying it would be “good for everyone,” which usually meant good for Jongseong.

You arrive later than Jongseong and spot him near the bar, surrounded by men in expensive suits. Business partners, maybe friends, you don’t linger long enough to figure it out. After greeting Sunghoon and handing him a gift you picked up last minute, you drift toward the railing instead, letting the city stretch beneath you.

The air is cold. Damp. The kind that creeps under your skin.

He doesn’t see you at first.

Or maybe he does, and pretends he doesn’t. He stands with a glass in his hand, ice melting faster than he drinks it, head tilted just enough to listen without really engaging.

You watch him from the corner of your eyes. Careful, as he would have been. You watch the way his jaw tightens when someone laughs too loudly, his thumb rubs the rim of his glass over and over—a nervous habit he probably doesn’t realize he has. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.

He looks up suddenly, eyes catching you the first thing he looks at besides his drink, as if rehearsed.

You look away quickly. Ever since he rescued you from the rain, he’s gotten quieter. Maybe shy. You notice how quickly he looks away from your eyes, how he hums shakily in response to your soft thank yous, how his cheeks filled with color when you wore his blazer home, rain soaked and cold.

You hope none of that was your imagination.

Sunghoon’s laughter rings behind you, bright and careless, and you force a smile as someone hands you a drink. The rooftop is warm, string lights overhead, music low and conversation easy. You lean against the railing.

That’s when someone steps beside you.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” a familiar voice says.

You turn. Sim Jaeyun—coworker, colleague, friend, whatever fits best these days. Casual clothes, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like he doesn't care. He smiles easily.

“Neither did I,” you admit. “Long week.”

“You look tired.”

“You have no idea.”

He says your name gently. He asks about work, complains about his boss, makes you laugh with a stupid story about getting lost. At some point, without thinking, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, fingers grazing your temple.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t notice the shift in the room.

But Jongseong does.

He notices the untouched drink, the way your sleeve keeps slipping, and he sure as hell notices someone else standing in front of you. Touching you. Smiling with you.

The sound around him dulls, like someone turned the volume down. He sees the touch, the way you tilt your head, the smile he doesn’t think he’s ever earned. Something hot and sharp coils in his chest.

He downs his drink.

“Vice President Park, what are your thoughts—”

He doesn’t hear it.

Another glass appears in his hand. He gulps it down. His throat burns.

The weather crawls under his skin. Anger blurs into something uglier, something dangerously close to fear.

Why are you smiling like that?

He tells himself it’s none of his business. He has no claim. You’re his fiancée by contract, not by touch, not by confession.

And yet his feet move before his thoughts catch up.

He doesn’t storm. He detaches himself from the circle, sets his glass down with too much force, and walks. Slow. Measured.

You feel it before you see him.

The air tightens. Jaeyun is mid sentence when your gaze flickers past his shoulder and lands on Jongseong.

He’s coming toward you.

Tie loosened. Hair disheveled. Jaw set hard. Alcohol makes him tipsy, but his intentions are clear.

Your heart stutters.

You straighten, fingers curling around your glass. Jaeyun notices, glances back.

“Uh,” he clears his throat. “Is that—”

Jongseong stops beside you.

Too close.

Close enough that you smell him—whiskey, rain, something bitter underneath. Close enough that his presence redraws the space.

“Jaeyun,” Jongseong says calmly, nodding once. Polite. Cold.

“Vice President Park,” Jaeyun replies, straightening.

Jongseong’s gaze slides back to you. Lingers on your face, the loose strand by your temple, the slipping sleeve.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” he says to you. You swallow. “I told you earlier.”

He blinks, like he’s replaying the memory too late. “You did.” A beat of silence.

Jaeyun shifts, uncomfortable. “I was just keeping her company,” he says lightly, attempting to diffuse. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

Jongseong hums low. His eyes don’t leave you.

“You don’t have to,” he says. Then, softer, but sharper. “I’ve got her. She’s taken.”

Your breath catches.

Jaeyun hesitates, glancing at you. You open your mouth, but Jongseong’s hand lifts first.

Not entirely touching you.

Hovering at the small of your back, close enough that you feel the heat through your dress. A careful, controlled claim.

“I’ll… grab another drink,” Jaeyun says. “Nice seeing you.”

When he leaves, the space collapses.

You’re alone with Jongseong.

Silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid. He looks away first, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers trembling.

“I can— can talk better than him,” he hiccups.

“Seriously, how much did you drink?” he basically reeks of alcohol and slightly sways side to side as you guide him down the stairs to the empty hallway.

“Are you—,” your sentence is left unfinished a Jongseong cages you against the wall, shaking hands on each side of your head.

He’s close, too close. His eyes are red, unfocused, flickering between your eyes and your lips. His breath is warm but reeking of whiskey. His hands stay planted on the wall, shaking, fingers flexing like he’s reminding himself not to touch.

“You shouldn’t let—” he starts, then hiccups softly, the sound almost humiliating in how it breaks his authority. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, reopens them, tries again. “Let someone who is not your h-husband touch you like that.” The words come out crooked, slurred at the edges, but the intent behind them is painfully clear.

You stare at him, stunned, then a breathy laugh slips out despite yourself. “God,” you murmur, “you’re so drunk.” His brows knit together immediately, offended and wounded in the same breath.

“So what I’m— drunk?” he demands, swaying closer before catching himself, forehead knocking lightly against the wall beside your head. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Yes,” you say, heart thudding. “Jongseong. You did.” You lift your chin, meeting his gaze even as your voice trembles. “You’re not my husband. You’re only my fiancé. And I can have my own friends.”

For a second, something hollow flashes across his face. Then he laughs, short, disbelieving.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head too hard. “No one else w-would check the—” another hiccup, quieter this time, “—weather and deliberately get wet in the rain just to bring you home safe.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, sinking deep and slow, like cold seeping through fabric. For a moment, you can’t breathe properly. You remember the rain too well. The way you’d laughed it off, the way he hadn’t, how he’d checked the rain twice and still stepped outside without an umbrella, coat already darkening at the shoulders because you hated walking alone.

“I would do that,” he continues, voice lower now. “As your— fucking fiancé or husband. Not Jaeyun. Not— not anyone else.”

His hands leave the wall. They hover instead, uncertain, fingers twitching in the space near your waist like he’s begging himself for restraint. He leans in despite it, forehead nearly brushing yours, breath warm and unsteady against your cheek.

“I would do it in a heartbeat,” he whispers.

Your chest tightens, a quiet ache blooming behind your ribs, because no one else has ever noticed the weather for you, has ever overlooked their own comfort for yours, yet some voice in the back of your head insists that he's just drunk.

But the way he says it hurts worse than any confession.

“I didn’t like him,” he admits. “Near you.”

“Why?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand comes up to his chest again, fingers pressing there like he’s trying to steady something beneath his ribs. His breathing is uneven now, shallow.

“Jongseong,” you say, alarm creeping in. “Are you okay?”

He nods too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats.

But he isn’t.

You see it when you guide him to the parking lot, cold wind tugging at your hair. He leans too much on you, apologizing under his breath.

“Sorry—sorry, I’m— I’m heavy,” he mumbles, fumbling for the car keys before giving up and letting you take them from his shaking fingers.

“You’re drunk,” you say gently. “Not dying.” He huffs out a weak laugh. “Feels close enough.”

The drive home is quiet, wipers sweeping rhythmically. Jongseong slumps in the passenger seat, eyes fluttering close like he’s afraid of what happens if he lets them stay closed. His breathing evens out only when the car stops at red lights, like only motion keeps him awake.

At one point, he murmurs your name. Just once. Soft. Unconscious.

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel.

Getting him inside is harder than you expect. He insists he can walk, immediately proves he can’t, nearly folding until you hook an arm around his waist.

“Easy,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”

“I know,” he says. “You always— always do.”

You ease him onto the bed. He collapses face first into the pillows. You tug off his shoes, straighten the blanket, careful not to linger.

When you turn away, it feels like stepping back from something fragile. You make it two steps toward the door.

His hand closes around your wrist. Not rough but enough to stop you.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, barely awake, eyes still closed. His grip tightens slightly, like his body knows what he wants even if his mind can’t form it. “Cold.”

He tugs again, weak but insistent, pulling you down to the edge of the bed. He shifts, arm draping around your waist, face pressing into your side like he’s searching for warmth.

“Rain,” he mumbles into your dress. “Hate it when you’re out in it.”

You freeze.

His words dissolve into half formed apologies, your name tangled with quiet plead. His breathing slows, forehead resting against your stomach like it’s the safest place he knows.

You don’t move.

Because for the first time, his softness isn’t guarded or conditional. It’s just him, clinging in his sleep like he trusts you not to disappear.

And you realize, with startling clarity, that rain doesn’t make him weak.

It makes him tell the truth.

YOU WONDER IF YOU CARE TOO MUCH SOMETIMES.

Because no matter what you do for Park Jongseong, it never feels like enough to quiet the ache that lives with you. Loving him feels like holding something fragile and priceless in your bare hands, knowing that even your gentlest grip might hurt him, knowing that letting go might destroy you both.

You care in a way that feels reckless. Although you do see the consequence of it, that has now finally for once, in your favour.

Jongseong doesn’t pull away after that night.

If anything, he does the opposite.

He lingers.

At first, it’s subtle enough that you convince yourself it’s coincidence. He waits for you in the mornings, jacket already in hand even when the forecast promises clear skies. He sits closer at the dining table, knee brushing yours beneath the polished surface, never once apologizing for the contact. When you move around the apartment, he follows. Not hovering, not watching, just present.

You tell yourself it’s temporary. That he doesn’t remember what he said. That the drunken softness was a one-time fracture.

After all, this whole thing is arranged, and you’ve managed to gaslight yourself into thinking this softness is just obligation wearing a kinder face. That this is him playing his part better now.

You repeat it like a rule. Like something that can keep you at bay.

But rules blur when he learns your steps.

He starts matching his pace to yours without realizing it. Slowing when you slow, pausing when you hesitate, turning back when you forget something even if it makes him late. When you sit on the couch, he chooses the space beside you instead of across the room. When you’re tired, he quietly rearranges his schedule around yours, meetings shifted, calls taken later, priorities subtly rewritten.

It’s never announced. Never even whispered.

It just happens.

And it scares you more than it comforts you. Because this is what you wanted, wasn’t it? For him to care, to notice, to stay. But now that it’s happening, it feels unfamiliar in your hands. It feels like obligation. Plain obligation.

Still, sometimes you catch him looking at you with something like relief. Other times, something closer to fear.

That’s when it starts to bleed through.

In the way his fingers tighten around your sleeve when you mention staying late at work. In the way his jaw sets when your phone lights up with unfamiliar names.

At night, he sleeps closer.

Not always touching, sometimes just angled toward you, arm thrown over the empty space between your bodies like he’s reserving it. Other nights, he curls into you without thinking, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath steadying only once you’re there. When he stirs from whatever restless place his dreams take him, his hand finds you first. Barely there. But always you.

You start waking before him just to watch.

The way his brow smooths in sleep. The way his lips part slightly when he exhales. The faint tension that never fully leaves his body, even at rest. You notice the moments when his breathing stutters, when his hand presses briefly to his chest before settling again. So subtle you wonder if you imagined it.

You don’t ask, even when you know you should.

Instead, you slip out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb the way Jongseong’s arm lies over your hand, loose but deliberate, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You peel his fingers away one by one, apologizing in your head for a crime you haven’t committed yet, and pad toward the kitchen.

The apartment is still. Morning light spills softly through the curtains, pale and forgiving. You make coffee the way he likes it now, without thinking about when you memorized that detail. The realization only hits after the mug is already warming your palms.

You’re setting plates on the counter when the bedroom door opens.

Jongseong stands there, hair mussed, shirt half-buttoned, eyes heavy but searching. He looks relieved when he finds you in the kitchen, like something in his chest loosens at the sight.

“You’re up,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“So are you,” you reply.

He hums and drifts closer, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you move, each small action tracked like he’s afraid to miss it.

Sunlight catches the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

“You didn’t sleep well,” you say without thinking.

He stiffens for half a second, then shrugs. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

That alone feels like a confession.

The moment lingers too long, fragile, exposed. Jongseong seems to realize it too, because his shoulders tense, his gaze drops, and the softness retracts all at once.

“Schedule’s tight this week,” he says abruptly, voice clipped. “Might come home late.”

You nod, even though you know that’s not the reason the air has cooled.

Breakfast is quiet after that.

He sits across from you instead of beside you, answers short, eyes fixed anywhere but your face. When you pass him the toast, your fingers brush, and he flinches.

It’s barely noticeable.

But you notice.

You lift your mug, letting the warmth settle your nerves. The coffee tastes familiar, comforting in a way that makes your chest ache. You don’t realize he’s staring until he turns back to the counter and starts brewing coffee again.

“You already have one,” you say.

“I know.”

He pours it into a different mug. A plain one. You ask, very confused, “Why are you using a different cup?”

He pauses, then nods toward your hands. “Because you’re holding mine.”

You freeze, eyes dropping to the mug. His mug. Heat rushes to your face.

“I— I’m sorry,” you say quickly, already standing. “I didn’t realize—”

“Hey.” His voice is gentle. He steps closer, stopping you with a light touch to your wrist. “It’s fine.”

You look up at him, still braced.

“It’s just a cup,” he adds, softer.

Something in your chest loosens. “Isn’t it your favorite?” you murmur.

He pours milk into his coffee, hesitates, then adds a little more—your preference, not his. When he notices you watching, he clears his throat.

“I can share,” he says.

You smile, small and careful. This time, he doesn’t look away.

But to your luck, softness doesn’t last.

It creeps into the days quietly, settles into routines, hides in shared cups and matching steps. Until one evening, it snaps under the weight of everything neither of you is saying.

Jongseong comes home late.

You know it the moment the door opens, not because of the time, but because of the way it opens. Sharper. With a thud.

You’re on the couch, half curled into the corner with your laptop abandoned beside you, the apartment lit only by a lamp you forgot to turn off. You look up instinctively.

He doesn’t greet.

His tie is loosened, jacket still on, hair slightly damp like he washed his hands too aggressively and dragged his fingers through it afterward. His expression is shut tight, jaw clenched in a way that makes something in your chest tighten in response.

“You’re late,” you say. Not accusing. Just stating.

“I know,” he replies, cold.

He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t take his jacket off. Just stands there like he hasn’t decided whether to stay or leave.

Something prickles.

“You said you’d text,” you add, softer now.

His eyes flick to yours. There’s irritation there, not fully directed at you, but sharp enough to cut.

“I was busy.”

The way he says it feels deliberate.

You close your laptop slowly. “You’ve been busy every night this week.”

Silence.

You stand as if to confront him. The distance between you shrinks without either of you meaning it to.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you say, carefully. “But don’t shut me out either.”

His laugh is quiet. Humorless. “I’m not shutting you out.”

“You are,” you say, firmer now. “You come home exhausted, you won’t talk, you won’t let me ask if you’re okay—”

“I am okay,” he snaps.

The sharpness makes you flinch before you can stop yourself.

He sees it.

Something dark flashes across his face—regret, anger, fear, all tangled together.

“I didn’t mean—” He stops. Swallows. “You’re overthinking.”

The words land badly.

“You hate it when I watch you,” you say quietly. “But you hate it more when I stop.”

His hands curl into fists at his sides.

“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me,” he says. “You don’t know what it’s like—”

“Then tell me,” you cut in. Your voice shakes despite your effort. “Stop standing five steps away from me like I’m a stranger in my own house.”

That does it.

He crosses the space between you in three strides.

Too fast. Too close.

You barely have time to inhale before he’s there. Towering, breathing unevenly, the air between you charged and dangerous. His hands come up, bracing against the wall on either side of your head.

The sound it makes is soft.

The effect is not.

Your heart slams against your ribs. You can feel his warmth now, feel the tension vibrating off him, feel how hard he’s fighting himself. His face is inches from yours, so close you can see the faint pulse at his jaw, the way his eyes flicker down to your mouth before snapping back up.

“Don’t,” he says hoarsely. Not a command, but warning to himself.

“Don’t what?” you whisper, breath catching.

“Look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

He gulps, as if holding back very specific words. “Like I owe you something I can’t give.”

Your chest aches. “I’m not asking for anything.”

“Yes, you are,” he says, voice low, strained. “You ask just by standing there. By—” His breath stutters. “By caring.”

You don’t move.

You can feel his breath on your cheek. Warm. Unsteady. His lips are dangerously close now, close enough that the slightest tilt would end everything you’ve been holding apart.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to risk.”

“Then why are you here?” you ask, tears threatening. “Why do you come back to me every night if you’re so afraid?”

His eyes darken.

Because he wants to kiss you.

Because you can see it. The way his mouth softens, the way his body leans in despite his mind screaming no. His forehead dips, brushing yours. He gulps again, eyes glued to your lips. For half a second, you think he’s going to give in.

You think this is it.

Then he pulls back.

Abrupt. Violent in its restraint.

He steps away like he’s been burned, dragging a hand through his hair, breathing hard. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again.

“I need air,” he says, voice rough. “I can’t do this tonight.”

He grabs his jacket off the chair, pauses at the door just long enough for you to think, hope, he might turn back.

He doesn’t.

The door closes behind him, leaving you alone in the charged silence, lips still tingling from a kiss that never happened, heart aching from how close he came.

And how far he ran.

PARK JONGSEONG SMOOTHENS HIS TIE IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR.

He does it twice. Then a third time. Slow, precise movements, like repetition might quiet the unease sitting low in his chest. The mirror reflects a version of him he knows how to wear, pose and pretend. The heir. The fiancé. The man who never falters.

Except his fingers hesitate at his collarbone.

Just for a fraction of a second.

He exhales, steadying himself, and reaches for his cufflinks. The room smells faintly of cologne and starch and something warmer beneath it. Home, he thinks, before he can stop himself.

The bedroom door opens softly behind him.

“Jongseong?”

Your voice.

He straightens instinctively, shoulders squaring before he turns around.

You stand there in the doorway, light spilling in behind you, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe.

The dress drapes over you like it was designed with patience, soft fabric, gentle lines, nothing loud. It doesn’t demand attention. It invites it. The kind that lingers. The kind that stays. Your hair falls neatly over your shoulders, collarbones catching the light, skin warm and real in a way that makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest.

You shift your weight, suddenly self conscious beneath his stare.

“So?” you ask, trying to sound casual. “How do I look?”

The question hangs between you.

Jongseong opens his mouth. But then closes it back.

His eyes trace you—too slow to be polite, too careful to be careless. He notices everything: the way the fabric settles at your waist, the slight dip at your collarbone, the way your hands fidget like you’re bracing for something. For him. Because of him.

Because the last thing he remembers clearly is your breath on his lips and the way he walked away like a coward.

“You look—” Jongseong gulps, the words getting stuck between his throat and his heart. His eyes dart away from your eyes and he opens his mouth again.

“You look—”

“Sir,” the driver’s voice cuts in from the hallway. Why, the perfect timing. “The car is ready.”

The moment collapses.

Jongseong nods once, grateful and irritated all at the same time. “We’ll be right there.”

The door closes again, leaving the words unsaid. You smile at him, understanding, and he hates himself for not being fast enough with his words

----

The family house is already alive when you arrive.

Laughter spills from the open doors. The clink of glasses. Familiar voices layered over one another in practiced warmth. Jongseong’s mother greets you first, eyes sharp and appraising, a practised smile.

“You look lovely,” she tells you, hands light on your shoulders. “Perfect.”

Jongseong’s father nods at him from across the room, just acknowledging his presence with his perfect wife. But he doesn’t come up to you both for once.

“Do you want to sit?” he asks quietly, leaning in just enough that no one else hears. His voice is neutral, but his shoulders are tense.

“I’m fine,” you reply. Then, after a beat, softer, “Are you?”

He exhales through his nose. “I will be.”

That’s not an answer.

You drift toward the window under the pretense of admiring the garden lights. Jongseong follows a moment later, stopping beside you.

“I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer to your ears.

You keep your eyes forward. “Which part?”

His jaw ticks. “All of it.”

“That’s convenient,” you say, not unkindly, just bored.

He glances at you then, eyes dark. “This isn’t the place.”

“No,” you agree, nodding. “It never is.”

Dinner starts shortly after. What is meant to be a family gathering feels like business meeting soon.

Everyone takes their seats, chairs pulled back in unison, napkins folded just so. Jongseong sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours beneath the table, a small anchor in a room that already feels too large.

Conversation starts harmless.

Someone comments on the weather. Another praises the dishes. Jongseong’s uncle talks about a recent business acquisition, his voice carrying authority. You nod when appropriate, smile when addressed, keep your posture perfect.

But then the atmosphere shifts.

“So,” one of his aunts says, swirling her wine, eyes flicking to you with something like curiosity, “have you settled into married life yet?”

Not yet married, you want to say, You know that.

Instead, you smile. “We’re adjusting.”

She hums. “That’s good. It’s important to learn flexibility early. Especially for women.”

Another voice joins in, you don’t recognizethe face. “You still plan on working after the wedding, right? Or is this just, a phase?”

You open your mouth, then hesitate. Choose your words carefully. “I enjoy my work.”

“Of course,” someone else laughs lightly. “But family should always come first. Jongseong’s responsibilities are already immense.”

The implication lands quietly. You are not one of them.

You glance down at your plate, appetite gone. Your hands curl slightly in your lap, nails pressing into skin just enough to ground you.

“But it must be nice,” his cousin adds, smiling sweetly, “to have everything taken care of. Some people don’t realize how fortunate they are.”

Fortunate.

The word lands softly, almost politely—and still, it sinks its teeth into you. It curls somewhere behind your ribs, sharp and humiliating, because you know exactly what they mean by it. Not lucky. Not loved. Arranged. Chosen for you. Your hands rest neatly in your lap, fingers folded just right, posture perfect, because this is what fortune looks like from the outside.

You smile because you’re supposed to, because anything else would be impolite. Your chest tightens anyway. They don’t see the waiting, the wanting, the nights spent staring at a ceiling beside a man who won’t touch you. They don’t see how much of yourself you’ve learned to shrink just to fit into this version of “enough.”

You’re just another asset for them. A doll beside Jongseong.

Your eyes burn, vision blurring just slightly, and you lower your gaze before anyone notices. Because crying here would be unforgivable.

Jongseong’s fork stops moving.

It doesn’t clatter. He doesn’t drop it. He simply stills and puts it down.

He looks at you. Really looks this time.

The way your shoulders have gone rigid. The way your smile hasn’t quite reached your eyes. The way your head tips lower, lashes casting shadows over cheeks that are just a little too flushed, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears.

“That’s enough,” Jongseong says.

The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut through the table cleanly, like a blade sliding between ribs.

Conversation falters. Glasses pause halfway to lips.

His aunt blinks. “Jongseong, we were just—”

“You were being disrespectful,” he interrupts, voice steady and controlled. His hand moves under the table, fingers brushing your knee once. “And you’re not going to continue.”

His cousin scoffs softly. “Oh, come on. We didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know exactly what you meant,” he says. His glare flicks across the table, sharp and unyielding. “And you don’t get to talk about her like she’s a convenience. Or something handed to me.”

The silence thickens.

His mother opens her mouth, but hesitates.

His father clears his throat. “Jongseong,” he says carefully, in a warning tone. “That’s enough. This is a family dinner.”

Jongseong turns to him slowly.

For a moment, his expression falters. Not with doubt, but with something older and buried.

“Just because you never said anything to defend Mom,” he says, voice low and shaking, “doesn’t mean I’ll do the same for my—”

He stops. Breathes shakily.

“—my wife.”

The words lands heavy. Your head snaps up to Jongseong, tears almost running down.

“She is not fortunate,” he continues, eyes never leaving his father’s. “She is capable. She is intelligent. And she does not owe anyone gratitude for being here.”

A pause.

“If you can’t respect that,” he finishes, “then this dinner is over.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

You stand before anyone can respond, chair scraping softly against the floor.

“Excuse me,” you say, voice thin but steady. “I need some air.”

You move before anyone can stop you.

The chair scrapes softly against the floor as you stand, the sound far too loud in the thick silence Jongseong has carved open. Your hands tremble, but your spine stays straight.

No one stops you. No one knows how.

You walk out before the tears can fall.

The hallway feels endless. Too bright. Too quiet. Your heels click too fast against the marble as you head toward the garage, breath coming shallow, chest tight like it’s caving in. You tell yourself not to cry. You’ve done this long enough. You can do this too.

You don’t hear him at first.

“Y/n—!”

Jongseong’s voice cuts through the space, urgent in a way you’ve never heard before. You turn just as your foot slips, heel catching awkwardly on the edge of the concrete ramp.

You twist your ankle, pain shooting up.

You gasp, stumbling forward, but arms catch you.

Strong. Jongseong absorbs you without hesitation, one arm braced around your waist, the other gripping your forearm.

“Shit—” he breathes, crouching instantly. “Don’t move.”

Your ankle throbs, hot and pulsing. You bite your lip hard, tears finally spilling over.

“I’m fine,” you whisper.

“No,” he says, “You’re not.”

He doesn’t ask for permission.

Jongseong lifts you into his arms. Your face presses briefly into his shoulder, the scent of his cologne grounding you despite everything.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “I won’t drop you.”

He carries you to the car, sets you down gently, buckles you in himself with shaking hands. When he slides into the driver’s seat, his jaw is tight, eyes dark with something fierce and protective.

Neither of you speak as he pulls out of the driveway.

The house disappears behind you.

THE APARTMENT IS QUIET WHEN YOU GET THERE.

Muted, like it’s holding its breath with you. Jongseong helps you inside without a word, arm firm around your waist, movements careful in a way that feels practiced and panicked all at once. He sits you down on the couch, kneeling immediately in front of you, jacket discarded somewhere behind him.

“Let me see,” he says, voice low.

You hesitate. “It’s probably not that bad—”

“Please,” he cuts in, gentler now. “Just… let me.”

He slips off your heel slowly, like he’s afraid even the air might hurt you. His hands are warm, steady despite the tension still living in his shoulders. When his fingers brush your ankle, you flinch.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs instantly, retreating. “I’ll be careful.”

He fetches the first aid kit, crouches again, and wraps your ankle with slow precision. His brows knit together, jaw tight, focus unwavering.

The silence stretches.

“You didn’t have to say that,” you whisper suddenly. “Back there.”

He doesn’t look up. “I did.”

“I could defend myself—”

“I know.” His hands pause. Then he looks at you. Really looks at you. “But I wanted to.”

Something in his expression fractures then. Eyebrows relaxes, shoulder dropping. His thumb lingers at your ankle a second too long, like he’s forming words.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to,” you say, even though part of you aches because he did. “Not against your family like that—”

“Yes,” he replies immediately. Too quickly. “I did.”

Your gaze drops to his hands, still hovering around your ankle, fingers warm and careful. He exhales through his nose, steadies himself, and resumes wrapping the bandage, slower now, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might make something crack.

“Maybe they were right,” you murmur, fidgeting with your fingers, warm agaisnt your lap. “About me being fortunate.”

His looks up, immediately. “Don’t.”

“It’s fine,” you add quickly, reflexive. “I’m used to it.”

That makes him stop again.

“No,” he says, quieter. “You shouldn’t be. They were wrong about everything.”

You laugh under your breath, bitter. “Jongseong—”

His thumb presses lightly into your ankle, apologetic and voice soft. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

“A little.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and you can’t tell what he’s apologizing for anymore.

“You didn’t push me,” you try. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“I should’ve been there faster.”

You look at him then. “You caught me.”

“Still,” he insists, a crease forming between his brows. “I should’ve—” He cuts himself off, breath hitching slightly. His hand shifts, pressing briefly to his own chest before he seems to realize you’re watching.

His hand lingers at his chest for half a second longer than necessary.

Then Jongseong straightens.

The shift is subtle but unmistakable. He rises to his full height, standing between your knees, close enough that your breath catches. From where you’re sitting on the counter, he feels impossibly tall, shoulders tense, frame rigid like he’s holding himself together by force alone.

You tilt your head up to look at him.

His expression is unreadable at first. Guarded. Then something in it gives way, like a crack spreading through glass that was never meant to be unbreakable. His jaw clenches. His eyes soften, dark and conflicted, flicking over your face as if he’s memorizing you again.

“I’m okay,” he says quietly.

You don’t answer.

Jongseong finishes securing the bandage. The movement puts him directly in front of you, close enough that his knees brush yours, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

He reaches up hesitantly, knuckles brushing your cheek. His thumb wipes at the corner of your eye before you even realize tears have slipped free.

“You’re crying,” he murmurs, voice rough.

You laugh weakly, giving up. “I think it just… caught up to me.”

His gaze lingers on your face, your red rimmed eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way you’re trying so hard to stay composed even now. Something in him gives way.

“I hate that they made you feel small,” he says quietly. “I hate that you let them.”

You swallow, looking down as if it solves something. “I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

“You didn’t,” he says, “They did.”

His hand stays on your cheek, warmer now, more certain. He uses his other thumb to brush under your other eye. Your heart thumps loud, you hate it and yet you crave it.

“You shouldn’t have to be strong all the time,” he adds. “Not here. Not with me.”

Your chest tightens. “Then why do you keep pulling away?”

The question is soft. Careful. It lands anyway.

His jaw flexes. He looks down at you, then away, then back again.

“Because if I don’t,” he says, voice dropping, “I won’t know how to keep this… contained.”

“Contained from what?”

“From wanting more,” he admits,  voice shaking at its edges. “From wanting you.”

“Do you really want me?” you whisper louder than you meant to.

That’s all it takes.

He leans in slowly, as if giving you every chance to change your mind. His forehead brushes yours first, breath warm against your lips. You can feel the trembling tension in him.

When his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft.

Almost reverent.

The kiss is hesitant at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. His lips move against yours slowly, learning, relearning. When you sigh into it, his control fractures.

He kisses you deeper then, still gentle but unmistakably desperate, like he’s been starving quietly for too long. His hand slides up your back, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to doubt what this is.

He trails a hot line from your lips down your jaw, then to the hollow under your ear, and you arch without realizing, breath hitching.

“Jongseong—” you whisper, when his mouth finds the tender skin at your neck. The sound breaks somewhere between his teeth and the small gasp that slips out of you trembles against his chest.

“I—” he says, voice swallowed by another kiss. “I’ve wanted—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, pleading, yet a part of you wants him to finish the sentence.

Between his kisses, your thoughts scatter and then narrow to an aching truth—you had wanted this for so long it almost hurts to finally have it.

You don’t know why, because you have always yearned for Jongseong’s warm touch. But right now, you can only hope that you won’t wake up from this.

He pauses, forehead against your temple, eyes dark and vulnerable. “I don’t know if I have the right to want,” he admits, so quiet you almost miss it. Then, louder, “But I do.”

His mouth finds your pulse at the base of your throat and presses, the kiss wet and demanding. Your hands go up, tangling in his hair at the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his strands as he deepens the kiss.

He lifts you without fussing and carries you towards the bedroom. The movement is fluid, as if he’s imagined this a thousand times and finally stepped into it. You wrap your legs around his hips instinctively.

“Careful,” you murmur, breathless, face burning up with shyness.

“I am,” he answers, voice low. “Always.”

He lays you down gently, not breaking the kiss until his forehead rests against yours and you both are dizzy with it. He leans over you lips roaming—down your throat, to the soft slope between collarbone and shoulder—leaving a trail of heated kisses like a map.

“Say my name,” he murmurs against your skin, “Call me Jay, please.”

“Jay,” you answer.

He lifts his head, mouth quirking into something close to a smile. “Good,” he says, and it’s a laugh with no humor.

Jongseong feels himself fading quietly, the way a man does when he’s held something back for too long. Every brush of your lips against his reminds him how close he is to losing the careful distance he built to survive

He’s terrified by how easy it is to forget everything else when you sigh against him, by how instinctively his body leans closer to you and the guilt eats him alive because he never allowed himself to touch you.

“Why didn’t you kiss me earlier?,” you say at one point, trying not to cry, awkward under the weight of his closeness.

“I’m sorry” he simply says, voice hoarse. “I was... scared.”

“Of what?”

He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he brings his soft, wet lips to yours again, capturing you into another kiss.

MORNING ARRIVES QUIETLY.

The morning light slips in through the opaque curtains and fills the space in the bedroom. The city outside is awake, but your apartment isn’t, not really. It’s suspended in that soft in between where the night hasn’t fully let go yet.

You wake first.

For a few seconds, you don’t move. You just register. The warmth at your back. The steady rise and fall of his chest against you. His arm draped over your waist, heavy and protective, with his face nuzzled deep in your neck.

Last night comes back to you in fragments rather than a rush—his mouth at your neck, the way he carried you like something precious, the way his voice broke when you said his name. The way he held you afterward, forehead pressed to yours, breathing uneven but calm, like he’d finally stopped being cold.

You turn slowly, careful not to wake him.

Jongseong looks different in sleep.

Softer. Younger. His brows aren’t drawn together like they usually are, his mouth slack, lashes resting against his cheeks. There’s no heir, no expectation, no weight in the way he rests right now. Just a man who looks tired in a way that makes your chest ache.

Jongseong stirs when you shift slightly, his arm tightening instinctively around you. He hums, drowsy and half audible, and presses his lips to your hair without opening his eyes.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You smile before you can stop yourself. “Morning.”

He opens his eyes slowly, dark lashes lifting, and for a split second you see it, his eye are actually soft this time. Then his expression even warms when he focuses on you.

“Did I wake you?” he asks quietly.

“No,” you whisper. “I was already up.”

He hums again, eyes drifting shut as he pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm, steady. You can feel the way his body relaxes when you don’t pull away, when you fit into him like this is something practiced rather than new.

“Stay,” he murmurs, like it’s a reflex.

You smile, your hands resting against his chest, “I’m not going anywhere.”

That makes his eyes open again.

Something passes over his face. Relief, maybe, or something more fragile. His hand tightens at your waist just a little.

“You’re warm,” he says, almost distracted. “Did you sleep?”

“A little,” you admit. “You?”

He exhales softly, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Better than I usually do.”

There’s a pause. Not an uncomfortable one. Just space.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, unhurried. It feels different in the daylight. His thumb brushes gently under your eye.

“You’re staring,” you tease quietly.

“Let me,” he replies. “I don’t do it enough.”

Its crazy to think how only just a week ago, this softness intimacy with your own fiance was just a dream, something that you could only imagine. Back then, his touch felt like a concept rather than a reality, his warmth something you imagined in quiet moments before sleep, never something you expected to wake up to, wrapped in it.

Now he’s here, breathing against you, holding you as if he always did, as if he was never any cold to you.

Your chest aches with a cautious kind of hope, the kind that blooms slowly, afraid of being noticed, because part of you is still bracing for him to pull away, for the walls to rise again.

He presses another kiss to your forehead, lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“I’ll make coffee,” he says finally. “Don’t move.”

You laugh softly. “I won’t. Promise.”

He disappears into the kitchen, barefoot and rumpled, sleeves pushed up, hair still tousled from sleep. The sight of him like this, unguarded and domestic, fills you with a warmth that almost hurts.

You sit up on the bed, glancing around the bedroom as you wait.

As the duvet cover pools around you, you can’t help but wonder how he must have felt last night, after sleeping with his back turned to you for months, after restricting your touch for months. You remember the way his voice trembled when you said his name, the way his breathing finally evened out only when you were tucked against him, and you realize he must have been carrying something heavy for a long time.

Maybe, just maybe, he was yearning for you the same way you were yearning for him.

And you let yourself believe that. You believe that mornings will be like this from now on. Soft and domestic. Romantic, even.

You glance around the bedroom as you wait, trying to find to pull you out of your thoughts.

That’s when you notice the folder.

Tucked beneath the edge of the coffee table, partially hidden, beige and unassuming. You wouldn’t have paid it any attention if not for the bold hospital logo printed across the corner.

Your stomach twists.

You tell yourself not to touch it. You really do.

But something twists in your gut, sharp and familiar, the same feeling you had when he pressed his hand to his chest last night. The same unease that’s been following him like a shadow for months.

You stand.

Your bare feet barely make a sound against the floor as you walk over. The folder is thin. You hesitate with your fingers resting against it, heart already racing like it knows what’s coming.

You pull the paper free.

Your eyes skim at first, unfocused.

The papers inside are neatly stacked, clipped together. Medical reports. Test results. Dates. Charts.

You scan the first page. And then the words blur.

Diagnosis: Atherosclerosis.

Your breath leaves you all at once, like someone punched it out of your chest.

Atherosclerosis, a condition in which plaque builds up inside your arteries, which overtime hardens narrows the arteries.

You read the other pages. Slower this time. Clinical language. Risk factors. Progression. Treatment plans that sound too careful, too conditional. Phrases like advanced, monitor closely, high risk.

Your fingers tremble as you keep reading, as if slowing down might somehow soften the meaning.

But it doesn’t.

Is this why he always kept you at an arms' distance? Why he always left you wondering for his love? Never touched you, or held or kissed only until last night? He doesn’t actually have limited time, does he?

A quiet, broken sound leaves your throat before you even realize you’re crying. You clamp a hand over your mouth, but it doesn’t help. Tears spill freely now, dropping onto the papers in dark, blurry spots. Your shoulders shake as you try to breathe through it, try to make sense of the hurricane hurling towards you.

Footsteps sound behind you.

“Coffee will be ready in—”

The sentence dies in his throat.

You hear it. The way his voice stops, the way the air shifts. You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re staring at the paper like it might rearrange itself into something less devastating if you keep looking.

“Y/n…” Jongseong says carefully, slowing down at the threshold of the bedroom.

When you finally lift your eyes, he’s frozen near the doorway, mug in hand, color draining from his face. His gaze drops from your tear streaked cheeks to the papers in your hands.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he says quietly.

The words land softly, but they split something open inside you.

Your fingers tighten around the papers, knuckles white, the thin sheets trembling with you. Your throat burns the moment you try to speak, like your body already knows what your heart is refusing to accept.

“H-how long?” you ask, the question barely holding together. It comes out thin. Fragile. Like if you press any harder, you’ll shatter completely.

He doesn’t answer.

That silence is worse than anything he could have said. It stretches heavy, filling the space between you until your chest feels too tight to breathe.

“How long, Jongseong?” you ask again, louder this time, tears spilling down without restraint. Your voice cracks right down the middle. “How long have you known?”

He sets the mug down slowly on the counter, like even that small sound might break you further. The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim, unnoticed. His shoulders rise and fall once, a controlled breath that looks rehearsed. Like he’s done this alone, over and over.

“A while,” he admits.

The words feel vague on purpose. Cowardly.

“A while?” you echo, disbelief laced with hurt. Your laugh is short and broken, more like a sob caught in reverse. “What does that even mean, Jongseong? Weeks? Months?”

His jaw tightens. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers shaking just enough that you notice. He looks away from you—toward the window, the wall, anywhere but your face.

“Years.”

The word drops into the room like a blade.

For a moment, everything goes quiet. Not muted, but gone. Like your ears are ringing after an explosion.

“Years?” you whisper, the syllable barely surviving your lips.

Your knees feel weak. Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels physical, like something is crushing your ribs from the inside. You clutch the papers harder, as if they might anchor you to the floor.

“You’ve been—” Your voice gives out. You swallow, forcing the words through tears. “You’ve been sick this whole time?”

“Yes.”

The answer is immediate. Too immediate. Like he’s tired of lying, or maybe tired of carrying it alone.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” The hurt finally spills into anger, your voice rising, shaking, raw. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”

He turns back to you instantly, panic flashing across his face, all that carefully built composure cracking at the edges.

“That’s not—” he starts, stepping toward you.

“Then what was it?” you cut in, backing away without realizing it. Your chest heaves, every breath uneven. “What was all that distance? All those nights you wouldn’t touch me, wouldn’t even look at me?”

Your voice breaks again, softer now, more wounded than angry. Memories flood back uninvited, the cold space between you in bed, the way he always kept a careful inch of distance, the way his hands would clench like he wanted to reach for you and stopped himself.

“You made me feel unwanted,” you whisper. “Like I was asking for too much just by loving you.”

His face twists at that, pain cutting through his features so sharply it almost scares you.

“I was trying to protect you,” he says, voice strained. “I was trying to protect us.”

“By shutting me out?” you snap, tears blurring your vision. “By letting me think I wasn’t enough?”

“That’s not what it was,” he insists, stepping closer again. “I couldn’t— I didn’t know how to let you get attached when I don’t even know how long I—”

He stops himself.

Your heart stutters. “When you don’t know how long what?” you take a shaky breath in, “Why after all this time—”

“Because Im dying, okay?” Jongseong snaps.

The words don’t land right away.

They snatch the land away from right beneath your feet, and for a second you feel falling down. For a moment, all you can hear is your own heartbeat beating way too loud agaisnt your ribcage.

“What…?” Your lips move, but the sound barely comes out. “What did you say?”

He looks like he regrets it the instant the words leave him. Like they tore out of him without permission. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. His eyes are glossy. Hes not crying yet.

“I said I’m dying,” he repeats, quieter now. Hoarse, and you know that hurts him. “Eventually. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this year. But it’s there. Hanging over everything.”

You shake your head slowly, as if that might undo it. As if disbelief alone could rewind time to ten minutes ago, when the world still made sense.

“No,” you whisper. “Don’t say that like it’s—like it’s already decided.”

He laughs under his breath, bitter and exhausted. “It kind of is.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “Then why are you standing here?” you demand, tears streaming freely now. “Why are you pretending this is just another argument we can talk through?”

“Because I didn’t want you living your life around a countdown,” he says, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “Because I didn’t want to be the reason you wake up one day alone, wondering why you stayed.”

You clutch the papers to your chest like they’re the only thing keeping you upright. “So you thought hurting me would be better?”

“I thought distancing myself would make it easier when I leave,” he says quietly.

“When you—” Your breath stutters. “When you what?”

“When I go away,” he admits. “Anytime, Y/n. My whole life is unsure. I don’t get guarantees. I don’t get to plan ten years ahead like everyone else.”

He drags a hand down his face, the movement slow, weary, like the mask is finally too heavy to hold up.

“I didn’t want this marriage,” he says suddenly, the confession sharp and honest. “I didn’t want a wife whom I can just leave behind.”

The words gut you.

“Then why did you agree?” you ask, voice small despite everything tearing through you. “Why stand there beside me, say vows you didn’t believe in?”

His eyes lift to yours then, and something raw breaks open in them.

“Because I didn’t know how not to,” he says. “Because everyone kept telling me it was the right thing. My family wanted stability. I—”

He stops. Swallows hard.

“Because part of me hoped I was wrong,” he finishes. “That maybe I’d get lucky. That maybe if I kept my distance, I could survive it without hurting you.”

Your chest feels like it’s caving in on itself.

You want to scream at him for keeping something this devastating from you, for deciding on your behalf what you could and couldn’t handle. You want to cry for the months you spent feeling unwanted, for the nights you lay beside him wondering what you’d done wrong, for every time you swallowed your need for affection because you thought you were asking for too much.

And beneath all of that, cutting deeper than the rest, is fear.

Your mind keeps replaying every small moment from the past days. The way he would sometimes pause mid-step, fingers pressing briefly to his chest before he noticed you watching. The exhaustion he tried to hide behind clipped answers and silence. He was living life on borrowed time. And now it all makes a horrifying kind of sense. The distance wasn’t indifference. It was fear. Fear of attachment. Fear of leaving you behind. Fear of loving you too much when he wasn’t sure how long he’d be allowed to.

Your hands shake as you clutch the papers, the thin sheets crumpling slightly under your grip. You don’t even notice. All you can feel is the way your chest feels too small for everything trying to live inside it at once.

Anger. Fear. Grief. Love.

Love, most of all.

You take a step toward him before you realize you’ve moved. Your legs feel unsteady, like they might give out at any second, but you keep going until you’re standing right in front of him. He looks braced, like he’s expecting you to push him away, to scream, to tell him you’re done.

Instead, your voice comes out broken and soft.

“So you decided for me,” you say. Not accusing. Just devastated. “You decided that I couldn’t love you through this. That I couldn’t stay.”

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t want you trapped.”

“I wasn’t trapped,” you whisper. “I was confused. I was lonely. I was wondering every day what I did wrong.”

That hits him harder than shouting ever could.

Jongseong’s shoulders sag, like something finally gives up holding itself together. He closes his eyes briefly, breath shuddering as it leaves him.

“I know,” he says hoarsely. “I know I hurt you.”

The word hangs in the air between you.

Dying.

It doesn’t sound real. It feels like a foreign language, like something meant for hospital rooms and strangers, not the man standing in front of you with his jaw clenched and his eyes shining like he’s trying not to break apart in front of you.

Your breath stutters. Your fingers loosen around the papers, and they slip from your grasp, fluttering to the floor.

“You—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help. “Don’t say it like that. Don’t say it so casually.”

Jongseong exhales sharply, like the word tore its way out of him. “I’m not being casual. I’m being honest for once.”

The room feels too small. The walls press in. You take a step toward him without even realizing it, your chest aching with something that feels too big to fit inside you.

“You really did decide a huge part of my life without asking me,” you whisper.

His gaze flickers to your lips and then back to your eyes, conflicted, raw. “Because it hurts more than anything to know I might leave you behind.”

The words knock the breath out of you.

“You already did,” you say softly. “Every time you made me doubt your love.”

His shoulders sag, like the fight drains out of him all at once. “I cared too much,” he admits. “That was the problem.”

You’re close enough now to feel the warmth of him, the tension vibrating through his body like a live wire. Your hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt at his chest. You feel his heart beneath it, beating hard and fast, like it’s trying to run from the truth too.

“You should’ve told me,” you say, your voice breaking. “I would’ve stayed. I would’ve chosen you anyway.”

His breath shudders. “I didn’t pity.”

“You really think that?” you say, tears blurring your vision. “It would’ve been love.”

That does it.

Something in his expression finally gives. The careful distance he’s kept for months collapses in a single moment. He reaches for you like he’s been holding himself back from doing it for far too long, one hand coming up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing under your eye where your tears spill over.

“Don’t say that,” he murmurs, voice low and unsteady. “If you say that, I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”

“Then don’t pretend,” you whisper. “Not with me.”

For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. Like he’s memorizing every line of your face, every fragile breath you take.

Then he leans in.

The kiss isn’t gentle at first. It’s desperate, like all the words he’s swallowed are finally finding a way out through his mouth instead. His lips press into yours with a quiet, aching intensity, and you gasp against him before melting into it, your hands clutching at his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.

His breath mingles with yours, warm and uneven. The kiss deepens, not rushed but heavy, loaded with everything unsaid—regret, longing, fear, love. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between your bodies.

“God,” he exhales against your lips, the word breaking like a confession. “I shouldn’t—”

You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again, softer this time, slower, like you’re grounding him, reminding him that you’re real, that this moment is real. Your forehead rests against his when you finally pull back, breaths mingling, your noses brushing.

“I don’t care about anything,” you whisper. “I only care about you.”

His eyes search yours, dark and vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, lingering, like he’s fighting the urge to kiss you again and losing.

“You make this so hard,” he murmurs.

“Sorry” you reply quietly.

He lets out a breath that sounds like surrender. His forehead drops to yours, his eyes closing briefly as if he’s bracing himself for the weight of what he’s about to say next.

He opens his eyes then, and they’re wet now, shining dangerously. “I didn’t think I’d survive watching you look at me like this every day. Like I was your future.”

Your heart twists painfully.

“You are my future,” you say without thinking.

The words hang in the air, fragile and terrifying.

He shakes his head immediately. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?” you demand, voice cracking. “Because it scares you?”

“I can’t promise you anything,” he says sharply, desperation bleeding through his restraint. “I can’t promise you years. I can’t promise you safety. I can’t even promise you tomorrow.”

He gestures vaguely to his chest, frustration and fear tangled together. “My body could fail me at any point. I live knowing that. I didn’t want you living like that too.”

You step closer, until there’s barely any space left between you.

“I would’ve chosen it,” you whisper. “If you’d told me, I would’ve chosen you anyway.”

His breath stutters.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say fiercely. “Because I already did. Every night you turned away, every morning I woke up hoping you’d look at me differently. I stayed even when I didn’t understand why you were pulling away.”

Your voice softens, trembling. “Do you know how much it hurts to feel unwanted by the person you love?”

He winces like you’ve struck him.

“I never didn’t want you,” he says immediately. “God, Y/n, that was the problem.”

Silence falls again, thick and heavy.

You wipe at your tears with the back of your hand, inhaling shakily. “Then say it,” you challenge quietly. “Say what you were so afraid to say.”

He stares at you, chest rising and falling unevenly, like he’s standing at the edge of something irreversible.

“I was afraid,” he admits finally. “Afraid that if I let myself love you the way I wanted to, it would destroy me when I leave.”

“When you die?” you whisper, hating the word even as it leaves your mouth.

His face tightens, but he nods once.

Your knees feel weak again. You reach out instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself against him.

“And the wedding?” you ask suddenly, voice trembling with the weight of the question. “Will you— will you not—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“I will marry you, Y/n.”

The certainty in his voice steals your breath.

He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks where tears keep falling, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s afraid this might be taken from him too.

“I will marry you,” he repeats, softer now. “Not because I have to. Not because anyone expects me to. But because I want to. Loving you is the one thing in my life that feels real.”

Your lips tremble. “Then why were you pushing me away?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, voice breaking. “maybe because I have limited time.”

Something inside you shatters completely at that.

You press your forehead to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, strong and terrifying and precious all at once. Your tears soak into his shirt as you sob quietly, fingers gripping him like if you let go, he might disappear.

Jongseong wraps his arms around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm at your waist. He holds you like he’s afraid the world might steal you away too.

“I didn’t want to give you a life full of hospitals and waiting rooms,” he murmurs into your hair, his palms caressing your back slowly. “I didn’t want to be the reason you’re scared all the time.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes red and swollen. And then press your face against him again.

His breath catches.

“If I miss someone the most in this world,” he says suddenly, voice thick with emotion, “then it is my grandma.”

You still, listening.

“She wanted to see me grow up. Be successful. Be happy.” His lips tremble as he speaks. “She wanted to share her blessings with my future wife.”

He swallows hard. “But she couldn’t. She didn’t get to see any of it.”

Your heart aches as he continues, voice barely holding together.

“If she’d be here, you would love you,” Jongseong’s voice cracks, but he lets out a melancholic laugh through it. It cracks, brings water to his eyes.

He lets out a shaky breath, eyes dropping to look at you.

“I...” His voice drops to a whisper. “I love you, Y/n.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“I love you,” he repeats, like he needs to hear himself say it. You bring your head up to see him again. A tear slips past his cheeks, enhancing his now flushed features. Jongseong’s breath hitches, “I’m sorry for being a bad fiancé, I’m sorry I made you doubt. But I love you, god, I do.”

A broken laugh slips out of you through your tears.

“I love you enough that it hurts,” he continues, pressing his forehead to yours. “And I should have said this sooner to you.”

You cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears he’s finally letting fall.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, smiling through tears, “Just don't love me halfway anymore.”

He nods slowly, eyes closing as he leans into your touch. “Then stay,” he murmurs. “Even if it’s scary.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, echoing your words from this morning, but now they carry weight. Promise. Choice.

He kisses you then. Again. Not desperate like last night. Not restrained like before. But full and trembling and honest, like he’s finally stopped running from the truth.

And when he holds you afterward, arms tight and protective, you don’t care about anything else in this world.

Park Jongseong has finally kissed you, heck, he's even holding you. And even if he can't do that forever, it’s all that you ever wished for.

EPILOGUE

The wedding does not feel like how weddings are described in stories.

There is no loud music spilling into the street, no crowd pressing in on every side, no overwhelming spectacle. It is small, intimate to the point of fragility, held in the quiet hall of an old heritage house on the outskirts of the city, where the windows are tall and the light filters in pale and gentle, as if even the sun is careful not to intrude too loudly on something this delicate.

Both your families wanted a huge crowd, too many heads to feed in the wedding; but much to their bad luck, Jongseong had stood his ground. He’d said it calmly, without raising his voice, without the sharp edge he used when he was tired or in pain. He didn’t want a stage. He didn’t want a day that felt like it belonged to everyone except the two of you. He wanted something small enough to breathe in. Something that wouldn’t exhaust him before the vows were even spoken, that would feel like yours.

So here you are.

The guest list is trimmed down to the people who matter, the people who know—at least partly—what this day costs him and what it means. There are no distant relatives you barely recognize, no business acquaintances pretending this is a celebration more than a formality.

Except Sunghoon brought in his whole friend group back from his college days, to which Jongseong knew he couldn’t say no to.

Your mother had argued, of course. His family had too. There were expectations. But Jongseong had only said, “Y/n doesn’t want crowds, and I want us to live our wedding day and not rehearse it.” And that had been the end of it.

The hall is simple. Old wood floors that creak softly under careful steps. White fabric draped along the walls. A narrow aisle lined with lilies that smell clean and faintly sweet. The kind of place that feels more like a promise.

You stand at the far end of the aisle, hands folded in front of you, trying to steady your breathing.

Your dress is lighter than you expected it to be, the fabric falling in soft lines instead of stiff layers. You wanted something you could move in. Something that wouldn’t weigh you down. Something that felt like you. The veil brushes your shoulders, and for a moment you close your eyes, just to take it in.

This is real.

When you open them, you see him.

Jongseong is already at the front, standing beside the officiant, posture straight but not rigid. He looks.fragile, in a way that makes your chest tighten. The suit fits him perfectly, but you can see the faint signs of fatigue he never quite manages to hide. The slight hollowness beneath his eyes. The careful way he holds himself, like he’s measuring his energy even now.

And still, when he looks at you, everything else falls away.

His expression changes the moment your eyes meet. The tension in his shoulders eases, just a little. His lips part, like he forgot to breathe for a second. There’s something raw there. Something open. Something that makes your throat ache.

You start walking.

Each step feels slow, because your body seems to understand the weight of this moment better than your mind does. The quiet hum of the room wraps around you. You’re vaguely aware of people watching, of soft movements, of the way the light catches in the tall windows, but mostly, there’s just him.

With every step, memories rise up uninvited.

The distance that used to sit between you like a wall. The silence. The nights you lay awake wondering what you had done wrong. The day you found the papers. The way his voice broke when he said he was dying. The way he looked at you like he was both terrified and relieved that you knew.

And then the nights after that. The long talks. The quiet understanding. The way he started reaching for you again, slowly, like he was relearning how to trust himself with your heart.

You stop in front of him.

Up close, you can see the way his hands are clasped together, fingers tight, knuckles pale. You can see the faint tremor in his breath. But you can also see the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, like you are the only steady thing in a world that keeps shifting under his feet.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The officiant clears their throat gently and begins, their voice low and respectful, as if they, too, understand that this is not a day for grand speeches. The words drift around you—about love, about commitment, about choosing each other not just when it’s easy, but when it’s hard.

“In sickness and in health” lands heavier than the rest.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, and Jongseong notices. His gaze flickers to your hands, then back to your face, and he gives you the smallest nod. Like he’s reminding you. Like he’s reminding himself. We’re here. We’re still here.

When it’s your turn to speak, your heart is hammering so hard you’re afraid your voice will shake.

But when you look at him, really look at him, the words come out steadier than you expect.

His eyes shine, but he doesn’t look away.

When it’s his turn, he swallows hard before speaking.

“I spent a long time trying not to want this,” he admits. “I thought distance would protect you. I thought if I didn’t let you get too close, it would hurt less when…” He stops, breath catching, then continues more softly. “When I leave. I was wrong. All I did was waste time I could have spent loving you properly.”

His voice steadies, just a little.

“I can’t promise you forever. I wish I could. But I can promise you honesty. I can promise you every day I’m given. I can promise you that as long as I’m here, you won’t face anything alone.”

Your eyes burn, but you don’t look away.

When the rings are exchanged, his fingers linger around yours, like he’s afraid of letting go even for a second. When he leans in to kiss you, it’s gentle, unhurried. Not a performance. Not for the room. Just for you.

And when the officiant declares you married, there’s no thunderous applause. Just soft clapping. Warm smiles. A quiet, collective exhale.

The room exhales around you, a collective softening now that the vows have been spoken and the weight of them has settled into something real. There’s a quiet shuffle of movement as people begin to rise from their seats, the soft murmur of congratulations beginning to bloom through the hall. The light shifts as a cloud passes outside, turning the windows briefly dimmer, then bright again.

Jongseong’s hand is still wrapped around yours.

His palm is warm, his grip a little too tight, like he’s anchoring himself to the reality of this moment. You squeeze back, a silent reassurance, and he looks down at you with something fragile and bright in his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief that he’s actually here, standing beside you, that the day did not break apart before it could begin.

“You okay?” you whisper, leaning in so only he can hear.

He nods. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”

You recognize the tone. The carefulness. The way he’s learned to pace himself, even in moments meant to be joyful. You don’t press. You just stay close, your shoulder brushing his arm, your presence a quiet support rather than a demand.

The officiant steps aside, offering you both a small, gentle smile. Someone from the back laughs softly—Sunghoon, probably—trying to cut through the heaviness with something familiar. Your mother wipes at her eyes, her expression torn between pride and worry. His family watches him closely, too closely, like they’re counting his breaths without realizing it.

You and Jongseong take a step forward together.

The motion is small, but you feel the shift in his balance immediately. It’s subtle, you feel it in the way his fingers tighten around yours, in the way his shoulder brushes yours a little harder than before.

“Jongseong?” you murmur.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, the words practiced. He gives you a faint smile, the kind he uses when he doesn’t want to worry you. “Just stood up too fast.”

You search his face. The color has drained a little, leaving him paler than before. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temple that wasn’t there moments ago. Your chest tightens with a familiar, creeping fear.

“Do you want to sit for a bit?” you ask quietly. “We can—”

“I don’t want to sit,” he replies, more firmly than you expect, though his voice is still gentle. “I want to walk out with you. Just… slow, okay?”

So you walk slowly.

Each step is measured, careful. The old wood floor creaks beneath your feet, a soft, grounding sound. The lilies lining the aisle blur in your peripheral vision. You keep your attention on him, on the steady rise and fall of his chest.

His inner world feels loud in a way you can almost sense without him saying anything. There’s a stubborn pride in him, a refusal to let this moment be overshadowed by his body’s limits. He has fought for this day. He has insisted on being here, standing, choosing this with you. The thought of needing help, of letting weakness show in front of everyone, presses against something old in him.

And yet, even as he tries to hold himself together, there is a quieter fear threading through him. A whisper that this might be too much. That joy, even when it is gentle, still costs him something.

Your own thoughts are no less tangled.

Part of you is floating, still wrapped in the soft glow of being married, of hearing him say vows that felt like a promise against the dark. Another part of you is coiled tight with worry, hyper-aware of every change in his breathing, every slight falter in his step. Loving him has taught you this strange duality, how joy and fear can exist side by side, neither fully eclipsing the other.

You reach the middle of the aisle.

There’s a soft ripple of applause, gentle and restrained, as people make space for you to pass. Someone murmurs congratulations. Someone else whispers his name, concern threading through the sound. The room feels warmer than before, or maybe that’s just your nerves making everything feel too close.

Jongseong exhales, long and slow.

“I’m glad we did it like this,” he says under his breath. “Small. Quiet.”

You smile up at him, though your heart is beating too fast. “Me too.”

His gaze lingers on you, something tender and aching in it, like he’s trying to hold onto this exact version of you in this exact moment. Married. Here. Alive in front of him.

“You look…” he trails off, then shakes his head slightly, eyes glues on yours. “You look like something I don’t deserve.”

You start to protest, but the words die in your throat when you feel his grip falter.

It’s subtle at first, the tension in his fingers loosening, his hand slipping slightly in yours. His step stutters. His breath catches.

“Jongseong?” you say, louder now.

The room seems to tilt.

For a second, he’s still standing, eyes unfocused, like he didn’t expect this to happen now, of all times. His inner world fractures in that moment.

“I’m okay,” he tries to say, but the words come out wrong, thin and unconvincing.

Then his knees buckle.

The world lurches forward in a rush of motion and sound. You feel his weight shift suddenly, too heavy, too fast. Your grip tightens instinctively as you reach for him, calling his name as the room erupts into startled gasps, chairs scraping back, someone shouting for help.

Your arms wrap around him as he falls, your body bracing against the impact, heart slamming painfully against your ribs.

“Jongseong—!”

The lilies blur into white streaks at the edge of your vision. The quiet hall fractures into chaos, voices overlapping, footsteps rushing closer. You sink to the floor with him, cradling his head against your chest, your hands trembling as you search his face.

His eyes are half-lidded, breath shallow but there, still there. His brow is drawn, like he’s fighting to stay with you.

“Stay with me, please,” you whisper, the words pouring out like a plea. “A-Always” Jongseong breaths out.

Around you, the room is a blur of motion and worry, but your world has narrowed to the feel of his weight in your arms, the fragile warmth of his skin against yours, the uncertain rhythm of his breathing.

AUTHORS NOTE hello hello again! thank you so so much for reading this all the way and making it through here 💗 i decided for the ending to be open because making jay pass away would be too sad and i couldnt think of any other endings 😞 so for my angst ending haters, you can just pretend that the epilogue never happened!!! phew, its finished and i definitely took way more time than i should've, but like i was sooo confused on this one. anyways, please let me know how it was and reblog to support! see you in my next long fic 😛

edit: and now to clear up some doubts about the ending, jay doesn't actually passes away in the ending! its just shown that he collapses to the ground, and whatever happens after that is left to your imagination, making this an open ending! once again, thank you for reading <3

©BYWONS, 2026 DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE OR REPOST

From ♡ : have fun tonight.

From ♡ : love you!

Have fun?

Sunghoon sighs at the message notification, looking up from his cellphone to glare around the room. The apartment is nearly packed to the brim with his roommate’s party guests, though that wasn’t saying much, given how small the place was. Jake is hosting and naturally, being the loser he is, all of his other friends are losers too. Which means he has to steep in the stench of this loser-filled apartment all night, counting down the seconds until all of them leave. As if dealing with three loser roommates isn’t annoying enough as is. Needless to say, he would not be having any “fun”.

“God, it stinks,” Sunghoon says under his breath, bringing his shirt to his nose, “do Jake’s friends, like, know what deodorant is?”

“Shouldn’t you be used to it?” Heeseung’s eyes are glued to his phone screen, doomscrolling. And normally, Sunghoon would mock him for acting like a damn iPad kid at a party of all places, but honestly, he’s itching to do the same. “I’m willing to bet your Comp Sci lectures smell a whole lot worse.”

“At least that’s a lecture hall and not my apartment.”

“Our apartment,” Jay corrects, emerging from the crowd to hand them each a can of beer. Sunghoon takes his, and Heeseung doesn’t notice until Jay rests the cold metal atop his head. He takes it without so much as glancing up. “Which always smells anyway, thanks to you.”

“Me?” Heeseung scoffs, opening the can with one hand before taking a loud, careless gulp. Sunghoon watches with disgust as the drink spills down the sides of his mouth, rolling down his chin.

“Your room is a fucking biohazard. The whole place gets stink-bombed every time you open your damn door.”

“Yeah? And what about your shits stink-bombing the bathroom every morning?”

“That’s a normal bodily function!”

“There’s nothing normal about that smell, dude.”

He rolls his eyes, scrolling a little further on his phone until Sunghoon’s most recent post pops up. It’s him and his girlfriend arm in arm, smiling like they’re on the cover of a Hallmark movie.

“Shit, you had your anniversary?” He squints, reading the caption, “How long has it been, anyway?”

“Two years.”

“Two years?” They answer in unison.

“…Yeah?” Sunghoon raises a brow, raising his drink to his lips. He glares from one to the other as the pair exchange side glances.

“Didn’t realize it was that serious.” Jay adds, and before Sunghoon can even open his mouth to ask what that’s supposed to mean, he interjects himself, raising his hands in surrender, “Don’t get me wrong! I’m happy if you’re happy. It’s just, you never bring her around, so…”

Sunghoon brushes a hand through his hair, avoiding Jay’s gaze. It’s not like he doesn’t want to bring his girlfriend around. Rather, she’s the one who doesn’t want to come.

“Don’t you think they’re kind of… immature?” She had asked carefully, the very night after meeting them for the first time. He recalls his heart sinking with disappointment. The relationship had still been fresh, and like anyone else at the beginning of something new, he was eager to please. No one wants to hear that their girlfriend disapproves of their closest friends. Though perhaps the worst part of it was that he couldn’t even blame her for it. Jake and Heeseung had decided to make the world’s most abysmal first impression, after all. He cringes at the memory of them trying to prove who could burp the loudest in the middle of dinner, shamelessly and completely unprovoked. As a result, she chooses to avoid any gatherings that involve his friends entirely, though she’d never admit it upfront.

“She’s busy, that’s all,” Sunghoon brushes it aside, “but I am happy. Things with her are easy.”

“Don’t make me throw up,” Heeseung fake gags, swiping away from the post to some meme below it. “Keep your happy, healthy, long-term relationship to yourself.”

“Maybe you should try it sometime,” Sunghoon deadpans, eyes narrowing at his phone screen when he sees his friend stop at some Instagram model’s post, zooming in on her ass. “You know. Instead of doing whatever this is.”

“Nah,” Heeseung chuckles, still biting his lip as he opens the girl’s DMs, typing out god knows what. “Gotta play the field while I’m young. Make good memories before getting tied down.”

“Good memories? Like that time your ex’s ex-gang-member-ex-boyfriend threatened to beat your ass?” Jay taunts, “No, wait. It must be the time the police showed up to arrest that drug dealer chick you were sleeping with. Then searched our entire fucking apartment.”

“You gotta experience the lows in life to experience the highs. And both were good fucks, so at least I got something out of it.”

“Probably got chlamydia out of it, too,” Jay mutters, prompting Heeseung to finally look up from his device, flashing him a glare.

“Never heard of quality over quantity?” Sunghoon finally says, “Maybe if you didn’t sleep with the first bitch that gave you attention, you’d realize it isn't all that worth it.”

“Quality, huh?” Heeseung purrs, and Sunghoon feels his arm snake its way around his shoulders, leaning in with a low voice, “So she keeps you that satisfied?”

"She does." A light flush rises to Sunghoon’s cheeks. His voice drops to a mumble, “Not that it’s any of your business.”

It’s not entirely a lie. He is satisfied… in the ways that mattered. His girlfriend is stable. Mature. Kind. Responsible. The kind of girl you’d take home to your mother, who sits with her legs crossed, back straight, whose shirts are always ironed, whose hair is always neatly tied back from her face. The kind of girl who always shows up on time— who never says anything wrong. A girl who is friends with the right kind of people, who is respectable. The kind of girl you’d expect to be dating Sunghoon, who is equally as respectable and high-esteemed in his own right. And yet, he couldn’t help the gnawing feeling inside, the one that kept reminding him of how he is so deeply bored. Everything with her is so predictable. Every conversation is like an interview. Every touch, devoid of a spark. Every social media post is an unspoken obligation to keep up appearances. And the sex? It’s just… fine. And while an evening alone with his right-hand and laptop was enough to keep his desires bay, it was never enough to satiate them.

It’s not as if he’s unhappy. But satisfied? Does anyone truly feel satisfied, anyway? His friends certainly aren’t— Jake, who can’t land a girl to save his life. Jay, who can’t keep a girl to save his life. And Heeseung? He shudders at the recollection of Heeseung’s ex-situationship breaking into their place and stealing their PS5, along with the myriad of other shit his long list of past partners have done to wreak havoc on him and his roommates.

He’d take boring over that any day.

“Don’t listen to him. He’s just jealous. Everyone wants something real. You’re one of the lucky ones who found it,” Jay’s hand lands on Sunghoon’s shoulder.

“I don’t know about that,” Heeseung’s eyes shift across the room, landing on you, and he nods in your direction, “I’d feel pretty damn unlucky if I were taken, and laid my eyes on her.”

With the slow turn of his head, Sunghoon’s breath catches, eyes travelling the length of your silhouette. You lean against the kitchen counter as Jake hands you a red solo cup, a perfectly manicured fingernail tapping nervously against the plastic. Your other hand tugs at the length of your white-blue floral dress just a bit and shoots up to adjust your white cardigan. He can’t help the way his eyes fixate on your exposed shoulder, where the cardigan seems to keep slipping down. You, doe-eyed and doll-like, stick out like a sore thumb in the sea of male STEM majors that litter the house party. You laugh at something Jake says, noting how he smiles widely. Jake would’ve bragged about someone like you if he could. Which means you’re not his.

“Oh? What’s that, lover boy?” Heeseung teases, “Think you might have a little bit of drool riiight there—”

Sunghoon tears his gaze away from you to shove his roommate’s hand away, ignoring his rather punchable-looking grin.

“Talk to me when your hinge matches stop ghosting you.”

“And his tinder matches. And bumble. And…”

Heeseung and Jay’s bickering falls deaf on Sunghoon’s ears as his eyes drift back in your direction. A pang of guilt hits him when you and Jake turn to look right at him in return. Jake gestures to him, and all too willingly, Sunghoon wades through the party until he’s standing right next to you, taking in the sight of you up close. He tries not to inhale too deeply as your scent, warm and sweet, engulfs him, invading his senses. And rather unfortunately, your voice is even sweeter, his brain short-circuiting as you introduce yourself with an outstretched hand. He stiffens, eyeing your hand with caution before shaking it. He tries not to think too hard about how soft it feels in his own, a flush rushing to his cheeks.

“This is Sunghoon. Also in computer science,” Jake exclaims, throwing an arm around Sunghoon’s shoulder. He’s not drunk yet, but the slight sway in his movements indicates that he’s getting there. “And don’t worry. He’s got a girl, so he won’t try hitting on you or anything.”

Sunghoon carefully chooses not to dwell on why the mention of his girlfriend makes him uneasy.

“You’re in computer science?”

He cringes at the way the words leave his own mouth. He’s only shocked because at least 80% of his lectures are filled with greasy, antisocial guys who moderate Discord servers in their free time. Not girls who look like you.

“Well, I used to be in mechanical engineering. That’s how we met,” you gesture to Jake, “Unfortunately.”

“What the hell?” Jake gapes, “I invite you into my home, and this is how I’m treated?”

“I totally carried you through that group project in our first semester. Remember?” You shook your head, “I did basically all the work. You’re lucky I even wrote your name on the final document.”

“…which I apologized for! Verbally and financially.”

“Wait. First year, first semester?” Sunghoon pauses, “Wasn’t that when you got addicted to ranked league?”

“Dude, I was so close to reaching platinum.”

“Seriously?” You gasp, “Jake, you nearly cost our grade to reach platinum in League of fucking Legends? I should’ve extorted you for way more free Uber Eats orders.”

“What am I, a walking wallet to you?”

“Yeah. Basically.”

“Ouch.”

Against his will, Sunghoon feels himself start to smile, his eyes fixated on the way you laugh, rocking back and forth on your heels ever so slightly. It wasn’t just because of how effortlessly gorgeous you were, either. Whatever energy you had brought in with you that night, it was contagious, a warmth blooming in his chest and spreading through him head to toe like a disease. He hasn’t felt anything like it in a while.

“And here I was, trying to help you find friends in your program who aren’t creeps,” Jake clutches his heart dramatically, “Should’ve just thrown you to the wolves.”

Ah. So that was what it was.

Sunghoon had heard the horror stories from his other female classmates over the years— all the project partners who turned out to be creeps, all the guys who sit just a little bit too close to them in their lectures and shamelessly stare, or the worst of all? The guys who pretend to be their friends just to get in their pants.

For a girl like you, he could see it clearly. It was one thing to be pretty. To be pretty and meek-natured? It’s a socially-awkward, creepy nerd’s wet dream.

“You know, I think I’ve seen you before. Well, the back of your head, at least,” you tilt your head towards Sunghoon, though he notices your eyes struggle to stay on his, always being the first to break eye contact. Your hand toys with the dainty necklace at your collarbone, absentmindedly. “Data Structures and Algorithms. Section C. I sit a few rows behind you.”

“Didn’t know I was being watched.”

“You’re hard to miss,” he raises his brow as you continue, “You come in early, sit right at the front and centre of the class, you open up that giant laptop with the bright RGB lights. Like, literally, I cannot focus on anything else, it’s so distracting.”

“You bring your gaming laptop to your lectures?” Jake deadpans, “and I thought I was the nerdiest one in the friend group.”

“First of all, you are. Second, those are the only kinds of laptops that meet the system requirements for the lab assignments, so—”

“Relax, I have the same one. I just turn off the RGBs,” you smile, your hand brushing his shoulder just a little bit. He flinches instinctively, and you notice, drawing back your hand in embarrassment. Selfishly, he wishes you didn’t, but he shoves that thought deep down, praying it never finds its way back to the surface. You look down at your cup, pitifully, the sight of you evoking an overwhelming ache in his fast-beating heart.

“We should sit together next time,” he clears his throat, offering a tender smile. He readjusts himself as he leans too close. “If you want.”

“For sure!” You beam. “Socials?”

You offer your phone, and he types his username into the Instagram search bar, swallowing dryly at the profile picture of him and his girlfriend. Pushing the ugly feeling to the back of his mind, he hands the phone back to you.

“Aw, two years,” you say, eyes immediately landing on the anniversary post. He shifts his weight where he stands. “Cute.”

Sunghoon scrunches his nose as he pours some awful-looking concoction down the drain, throwing the now-empty cup into the nearest trash bag. Everyone had long since left, and yet here the roommates were, still cleaning up the messes left behind in a tired, empty silence. Well, save for the lovely symphony of Jake’s coughing and hacking as he spills his guts out in the bathroom.

“You good?” Heeseung calls to him through the door, giving it a few knocks, “'cause I kinda need to piss really bad.”

There’s a silent pause and a sniffle before the door swings open, Jake wobbling out. His hair hangs over his eyes.

“Woah, woah, Jakey, take it easy,” he catches his friend, and Jake whines, trying to shove him away.

“I’m okay. Don’t touch.”

“Sure you are.”

Heeseung helps him over to the couch, sinking into the cushions uselessly, staring at the ceiling. Jay stands a few feet away, shaking his head at the sight.

“Such a lightweight, holy shit.”

“Am not…”

Sunghoon sighs, grabbing a glass from the overhead cupboard. And soon, with a full glass of water, he joins the three in the living room, setting it down on the coffee table.

“Drink. Unless you want the worst hangover of your life tomorrow morning.”

“Okay, mom,” he scoffs, picking it up and gulping it down. Sunghoon quickly moves to help him lift the glass to his lips, his friend holding it with the fine-motor skills of an infant.

“Grown man, by the way,” Heeseung mutters, Jay and Sunghoon holding back their snickering. Jake glares at him. “Guess I shouldn’t make fun of you too much, though. Since you did bring that pretty little thing into our apartment.”

When all the water is successfully gulped down, Sunghoon moves to place it back on the nearest surface. Jake takes in a deep breath, then he blinks once. Twice.

“Sorry, what?”

“Uh, earth to Jake?” He waves a hand in front of his face, “I’m asking about her. You know who I mean.”

“Ohhhhh, right,” he draws out his words, a smile creeping up on his face. He bites his lip and nods his head, as if he’s replaying the memory of you in his mind, “Yeah, she’s pretty cool.”

“Cool?” Heeseung’s eyes go wide. In seconds, his hands are at Jake’s shoulders, shaking sense into him, “Jake. My guy. That’s the hottest woman that’s ever willingly spoken to you.”

“Dude, stop, he’s gonna throw up everywhere,” Jay tears Heeseung’s grasp from Jake, whose head slumps back the instant he’s let go. His hand moves to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah, yeah, but she clearly has noooo interest in me, so I don’t even bother,” he waves his hand dismissively, “We’re just friends.”

“Just friends,” Jay echoes in air quotes, snorting to himself.

“There’s no such thing as being just friends with a girl who looks like that,” Heeseung adds.

“No, really,” Jake replies, sounding maybe a fraction more conscious, though his words still drag, “Like, yeah, obviously I’d fuck her if she asked. But like, once the butterflies fade and you get used to her hotness, you start to realize she’s just like… normal. You know?”

“So she’s a friend that you would fuck.” He says flatly, “That’s not called being friends. That’s called being friend-zoned.”

“This is Jake we’re talking about. He’ll fuck anything with a pulse if it gave him a chance,” Sunghoon rolls his eyes. “For everyone else, it’s normal to be friends with girls, even if you find them attractive. Your brain’s just rotted from all the porn you jerk off to.”

“You’re such a fake, you know that?” Heeseung retorts, taking a moment to scoff at him, “Acting like you weren’t eye-fucking her all night. Sounds like someone’s coping.”

“Sounds like you only know how to think with your dick,” Sunghoon hisses, his blood pressure rising.

Heeseung pauses, taking him in, and how worked up he is over his off-handed comments. He can practically see the steam coming out of Sunghoon’s ears.

“Alright, Mr. Good guy,” he chuckles, “Whatever makes you feel better about yourself.”

Sunghoon takes a breath before leaving, making his way back to the kitchen.

“Have fun tucking Jake into bed or some shit. I’m not dealing with this.”

“Oh, you know I will.”

“Hey, don’t leave me alone with him!” Jake’s voice cracks watching Sunghoon walk off. He watches in horror as Jay walks away, too, continuing his garbage pickup. Heeseung tries to lift him up, and he yelps, sliding off the couch as he crawls away helplessly, leaving the elder boy to laugh his ass off on the couch, alone.

Three times a week.

Sunghoon sees you three times a week, twice for lectures, once for labs. And in only the first week of sitting next to you, he already has every little habit of yours mentally noted down. He swears he isn’t doing it on purpose— it’s not like he’s trying to keep tabs on you. It’s just that every little thing about you is so hard to miss.

Almost subconsciously, his eyes seem to wander from the board to you, noticing how you rest your chin in your hand, how you get antsy towards the end of class from sitting in one place for too long, how your elbow seems to drift in his direction as you write in your small notebook, occasionally brushing his arm on accident. He notices and appreciates how, in a room of sweatpants and hoodies, you always wore your pretty skirts and soft cardigans, with ribbons in your hair, and dainty necklaces adorning your collarbone. Everything about you is new, uncharted territory, and the desire to learn more is unrelenting, as well as deeply unacceptable according to his own moral code of conduct.

Of course, it doesn’t come without guilt; There’s the guilt for being so curious about a girl who isn’t his own, and then there’s the guilt he feels, given that he’s supposed to be your guy-friend, not another lustful loser trying to bother you. Though his shame, while constant, is nothing more than a low hum, not quite loud enough to call attention to… yet.

It’s not like he’s doing anything wrong, after all. Thoughts and desires aren’t actions. They’re just a normal, human reaction, and you don’t exactly make it easy for him, either. Really, what else is he supposed to do when you’re laughing just a little too hard at his terrible jokes? When he swears, he sees your eyes linger just a little too long on his body as he leans back to stretch, mid-lecture? And how you always seem to lose your train of thought as he leans in just a little closer, stumbling over your words? He could just be imagining it, but it makes him wonder.

So, maybe he starts telling more jokes, just to hear a little more of your laughter. And maybe he starts wearing shirts that are a little bit tighter, just to see if you’d rake your eyes across his body like he suspects you’d do (and as it turns out, you do). And maybe he enjoys invading your personal space just a little bit, if only to feel that certain rush he hasn’t felt in ages. If only to quell his stubborn curiosity, to enjoy the small moments of your attention, and to bask in the wonders it does for his ego.

There’s nothing wrong with that. There’s nothing wrong with making these long, tedious lectures just a little more interesting. Anyone would do the same in his shoes. If not, worse. What he’s doing is completely harmless. After all, he knows himself. He knows he would never cross that line.

Yet, when he walks early into class that day, as his gaze shifts to his usual spot, he notices some other guy who had taken his place, who is leaning way too close to you than you appear to be comfortable with. And, from the way his jaw clenches and his fists curl at his sides, Sunghoon feels it is too close for his comfort, as well.

“See, your code is technically correct, but it’s not optimal,” his voice is grating to Sunghoon’s ears, watching him point to your laptop screen, “it’s fine to use multiple recursion for this example, but if your algorithm were to use much higher values, the runtime would skyrocket.”

“Thanks, but—”

“I could tutor you, if you want,” he hasn’t listened to a word you’re trying to say, eyes dragging down the length of you, shamelessly. You scoot further away until you’re practically on the edge of your seat. "You could pay me with cash. But I also accept other kinds of favours—"

“Hey,” Sunghoon’s voice is low, teetering on the edge of his self-control as he slams your laptop shut onto the guy’s hand. He keeps his palm there, applying just enough pressure to make sure the pain lasts. He leans over him, his tall frame casting a dark shadow over the irrelevant, pathetic loser. “Nobody asked.”

As soon as Sunghoon lets go, the guy cusses him out, scrambling from his seat immediately. Then, turning to you, he watches you breathe a sigh of relief. Sinking into the seat next to you, he can’t help but glare at the asshole across the room. Who does he think he is? All your other admirers had been silently resigned to watching you from afar, as they saw how you clung to Sunghoon’s side. Especially the first week you had been sitting together, he’d gotten a good few laughs out of feeling their jealous glares, shooting daggers at the back of his head. But this guy? Is he stupid? Has he failed to notice that you’re always with him?

Suddenly, the thought of all the other men who must be looking at you in your other classes crosses his mind. Do you sit alone in those lectures? Or, do you have other “guy friends” who get to talk to you like this? Sunghoon pauses before he can get ahead of himself, taking several mental steps back, because why the fuck does he feel like crawling out of his own skin? Why is this uneasy feeling so aching, so all-consuming?

“Are you okay?”

“You’re asking me?” He allows his expression to soften, if only for your sake, but his tone does not, venom dripping from every seething word, “Guys like him just piss me off. That’s all.”

The professor starts the class moments soon after, and Sunghoon lets his gaze drift forward, in search of anything to ease the whirlwind of emotions that rumbled beneath the surface of him, barely contained. Distracted, he doesn’t process that you’re leaning towards him, only snapping out of his trance the second he feels the warmth of your breath tickling his ear.

“Then I’m lucky to have a good guy like you around to look out for me.” You whisper, a shiver running up his spine. He swallows, and when he looks at you, taking in your wide-eyed gaze and how you look up at him through your lashes with pure, unfiltered, undeserved gratitude, he knows he's done for. “Thank you, Sunghoon.”

Maybe it’s the way you whispered his name in his ear. Or maybe it’s the way you looked so fucking appreciative when you really didn’t need to be. But whatever had been clouding his mind only seconds ago clears in an instant, replaced with that newly familiar rush that only you seem to awaken in him.

It’s ridiculously unfair how easily you could have him crumbling, falling apart at the seams, only to rebuild him seconds later. It’s ridiculously addictive how good it feels to have your full attention on him, as if he hadn’t been stewing in his own shameful, confusing misery only moments prior. Whatever it is you’re doing to him? It’s exhilarating. It’s dangerous. It’s wrong.

And yet…

He’s hard. Embarrassingly hard, as if he’s a fucking teenager again. He carefully crosses his legs, thanking his past self for choosing to wear jeans instead of sweatpants, and though he’s able to calm himself down in time to leave class undetected, it all comes back to him the moment he’s kicking off his shoes at his front door.

It takes everything in him not to jerk himself to the thought of you. Instead, opting for a cold shower, as if soap could scrub away the absolute filth that is his thoughts. Bracing himself against the tiled walls of the bathroom, under running water, he closes his eyes and thinks of his girlfriend— his kind, unsuspecting girlfriend. He’s supposed to be a good boyfriend. The kind of man a girl can brag about to their friends, who they can take home to their mother without shame. But these days, he feels anything but good.

Though the guilt passes too quickly, morphing into something else entirely when he recalls the events from earlier. You, talking to some other guy. You, whispering in his ear. You, looking so tempting, so forbidden, so infuriating. And just like that, you’re doing it to him again; making him writhe in an agony he didn’t know he could feel, torturing him without even needing to be in the same vicinity. You make him lose his grip. It only makes him want to reach for you even more.

To ♡ : I’m taking you out tomorrow

To ♡ : Wear something nice

Stability. Predictability. Assurance.

That’s what Sunghoon decides he needs. He hasn’t had a restful night in ages, between the stress of keeping up with school and the mind fuckery, that is, you. So he booked the nicest restaurant he could afford on his broke college student budget, brushed off the nice suit that collected dust in Jake’s closet (courtesy of his stupidly rich parents, who would probably collapse if they found out that their son lounges in dirty sweatpants all day), and picks up his girlfriend who greets him with that same old chaste kiss to his cheek.

He does everything right. He holds every door open for her. He asks about her week. He smiles, unwavering, even as she tells the same stories he’s heard over and over again, and he profusely apologizes when his phone starts blowing up with notifications mid-meal, trying not to let his determination shake when he notices your Instagram handle in the notification window. It must be that time of day, he thinks, when the sun goes down, and you curl up for your usual evening scrolling session. He turns it on silent, tucking it away into his pocket.

“Busy these days?” She asks.

“This semester is… frustrating. I’d rather not think about it,” he sighs. Then, he reaches across the table, taking her hands into his, “It doesn’t matter. Keep talking. I want to hear you.”

She giggles, fingers interlocking with his, “What did I do to deserve you?”

He tries. He tries so hard to care about whatever it is she’s talking about, but he doesn’t. He can’t. Because truthfully, he doesn’t feel anything.

He drives her home later, and though she kisses him and drags her hand down his chest with the hint of offering something more, he pulls away. He gives some excuse, talking of an early morning tomorrow, and kisses her one last goodbye with the same politeness and appropriateness she’d greeted him with.

Selfishly, his mind drifts to you as he drives home, wondering how you would’ve acted had he taken you on the same kind of date. You probably would’ve thanked him profusely, eyes shining with delight when he tells you that you can order anything you like— always so easily impressed by any small act of kindness. You’d probably get flustered when he kisses you at the end of the night, but kiss him back with fervour, so eager to show him your appreciation that you wouldn’t be able to contain yourself. You’d probably drop to your knees, wouldn’t you? You seem like the type. He pulls into his parking spot, snapping back to reality.

He groans, a hand moving to his face.

What the fuck.

It’s surprisingly loud when he walks through the front door, his roommates' laughter wafting down the halls. But he’s even more surprised to hear the sound of a certain familiar laugh, one that is unmistakably yours. And for a moment, he thinks he’s hallucinating, taking slow steps down the hall as he loosens the tie at his neck. But when he rounds the corner, he sees you there, sitting on his living room couch with a Nintendo Switch controller in hand.

“Why the fuck do we always pick the map with Rainbow Road?” Heeseung groans, his character falling off the map for what Sunghoon can only assume is the umpteenth time.

“Just get good,” Jake proudly raises his beer to yours, the two of you taking a celebratory sip as you both sit comfortably in first and second place. The creak of the floorboards behind him makes his head turn. “Hey, there he is! Thought you were— what the fuck, is that my suit?”

“Stole it from your closet earlier,” he states plainly, ignoring Jake’s annoyed expression. Sunghoon glances uncomfortably at where you sit, sandwiched between Jake and Heeseung on the couch. “What is this?”

“Mario Kart,” you shrug, “Was kinda bored and Jake said they could use a fourth player since you were out. But hey, now that you’re here, you should join!”

Right. You were Jake’s friend first. He has a habit of forgetting that, given how much time he spends with you alone. He glares down the way Jake’s arm is casually slung over the back of the couch, where you sit, just behind your head. And then there was Heeseung, who manspreads so wide that his entire leg is pressed against yours. He inhales sharply, suddenly hit with the overwhelming urge to grab you by the arm and drag you far, far away from his friends.

“Weren’t you on a date?” Jay asks, narrowing his eyes, “thought you’d be out all night.”

“Shit. Did all that just to get blue-balled, huh?” Heeseung snickers, looking him up and down. But his grin grows even wider when he notices the look on his roommate's face, and how his fists clench at his side, gaze unrelenting. And, more interestingly, how Sunghoon can’t tear his eyes from you. “Oh. I get it.”

A silence falls upon them, save for the end-of-match music from the game playing on loop in the background.

“…get what??” You ask so cluelessly, glancing between them. You nudge Jake, and he stammers, clearing his throat.

“Uh. It’s uh…”

“It’s guy stuff, baby, you wouldn’t understand,” Heeseung leans in just a little too close as he says it, looking to Sunghoon to make sure he’s watching. He brings his hand to your chin, raising it slightly with his fingertips. “Wouldn’t wanna worry your pretty little head with any of that, hm?”

Sunghoon goes cold seeing how your breath hitches, nodding your head like an obedient little dog. He hates the way his pulse quickens, heart thumping loudly in his ears. He hates, hates, hates this feeling so fucking much. He hates how it makes him want you more. He moves to the couch, shoving Jake out of the way, so that he can sit next to you instead.

“There’s nothing to get. Don’t listen to him.” He flashes you a smile, but the warmth of your side pressing into him is only a fleeting comfort. He turns to Jake, eyes landing on his remote before snatching it, “Give me this. And go get me a beer.”

“Are you deadass?” Jake blinks at him.

“I’m almost done mine, I could go—” you start.

“I’ll get it for you,” Jake rises to his feet in an instant, flashing you a ‘look how useful and helpful I am’ smile. He side eyes Sunghoon. “And you, I guess.”

He steps away, and the four of you shift in awkward silence as Sunghoon and Heeseung stare each other down.

“So, uh,” Jay clears his throat, turning to you with a gentle smile, tired of watching the unspoken dick comparison contest between his two roommates. “You said you guys take a class together, right?”

“Yeah. And thank god we do, 'cause I would be totally lost if we didn’t,” you laugh nervously, looking to Sunghoon almost adoringly, “he’s a way better student than I am.”

Your hand brushes his shoulder, and he melts.

“She’s just saying that.”

Without a second thought, he nudges you in return, every shy touch he shares with you feeling like the most monumental moment of his life. Like he couldn’t possibly get any higher. He wishes he could bottle the feeling up, keep it in his pocket forever. But like always, it is ripped from him in an instant, as his roommate reopens his loud, obnoxious mouth.

“Nah. You’ve always been a real good student,” Heeseung leans back, kicking his feet up on the coffee table, “Always listening. Always doing your work on time. Always following the rules.”

Sunghoon frowns.

“You must’ve been a real goody two-shoes in high school, huh?” You tease him, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“Oh yeah,” Heeseung continues, “I remember, we always had these stupid weekly quizzes in our History class. And even though the teacher would practically be asleep, he would always cover his answers so that I couldn’t cheat off him. I always thought it was cruel, ya know? Considering we were friends and all.”

“I don’t like to share,” Sunghoon snaps, “especially not with someone who didn’t put in the work.”

Heeseung ignores his retort.

“But you know what the funny thing is? You would cheat off of Jake in Physics.” He laughs, dryly, and Sunghoon most certainly does not find anything about his tone humorous as he sits there, biting his tongue. When he’s had his final laugh, he sighs, turning to him in a low voice, “You know what that makes you, right? A hypocrite.”

Neither of them moves. Jay definitely doesn’t dare to move, tired of playing mediator. And you just sit there. Jake’s return cuts through the tension like a knife.

“You guys not gonna play another game?” He asks, throwing a beer can carelessly in Sunghoon’s lap while placing the other gently in front of you on the coffee table.

“We definitely should,” Jay’s shoulders slump with relief.

Time ticks by, and one beer turns into two, three, six… until eventually, Sunghoon is barely able to hold the remote in his hand, and the room is spinning. But no matter how many drinks he took down, that ugly, despicably possessive feeling wouldn’t leave.

You’re not his. You don’t belong to him. But seeing Heeseung nudge your shoulder, touch your arm, look you up and down like you’re his next meal, then look back at him with a wolfish grin made him want to tear him apart limb from limb. He’s the embodiment of everything he despises; a careless, lazy, college dropout and unemployed asshole with zero shame. He’s disgusting, inside and out, and embraces his filthiness instead of hiding it like everyone else does— like everyone else is supposed to do. He doesn’t deserve to be rewarded. He doesn’t deserve a prize like you when he’s done nothing to earn it.

And then there’s you. With each drink you finish, you return Heeseung’s touch, brushing his shoulder when you laugh. Hell, even placing a hand on his knee, making his stupid grin grow even wider. And Sunghoon just has to sit there and take it, pretending like it’s fine. Because it should be fine. It’s not his business, and if your standards are that low, then so be it.

But when you beat Heeseung yet again, and he’s stealing your remote, holding it above his head,Sunghoon watches in horror as you squeal, reaching up for it, and climbing to your knees. You decide to straddle Heeseung in his lap as you reach further, using a hand at his shoulder to steady yourself, and it makes him sick.

Sunghoon’s head is spinning, and his stomach… his stomach aches. He can barely breathe or form any kind of thought that isn’t murderous. He stands up, stumbling only a little bit, because if he watches whatever the hell the two of you are doing for any longer, he’s not sure he can restrain himself from strangling his roommate any longer.

“You good?” Jake asks, watching his remote control fall to the ground. It hits the carpet with a soft thud.

Sunghoon locks eyes with the bathroom and bolts for it.

The world spins around him as he dry-heaves into the toilet, knees on the bathroom floor. He’d spilled his guts already, but is far too exhausted to will himself to stand. He barely even registers that the bathroom door clicks behind him, eyes shifting upward to find you above him. The overhead light frames you in a golden glow, like a halo around your gentle silhouette, and for a second, he wonders if he’s dreaming when your hand reaches to push his hair from his forehead.

“Jeez, Hoon, you’re burning up.” Your words are slightly slurred, eyes a little unfocused, like his own. Everyone has had too much to drink tonight.

Your lips are still moving, but he’s too distracted by them to process what you’re even saying. Then, you’re lifting a glass of water to his mouth, and he drinks it loudly, unceremoniously, your finger tips lifting the tip of his chin. He, rather ungracefully, moans as it washes away the traces of acidic aftertaste in his mouth, soothing the throbbing in his head. Soon enough, the image of you is clearer. He mourns the loss of your touch as you set the cup aside, and he brings his wrist to wipe his chin with his sleeve.

“Don’t fuck Heeseung,” his words slip out in a deeply drunken, deeply desperate voice. He doesn’t care how pathetic he looks, eyes half lidded, face flushed, kneeling before you like you’re the altar he worships. Though he doesn’t pray. He selfishly demands, even if his tone resembles something of a plea. “He’s a fuckin’ asshole. He’ll treat you like shit. I’m telling you he’s…”

A sharp, throbbing pain shoots through his head, and his words trail off. Face falling forward, his forehead lands flat against your thigh, unable to support his own weight. He’s exhausted, mentally and physically, panting, and his hands reach to dig into your skirt for support. Though the fog is starting to clear up now that he’s evicted most of the alcohol from his system, he thinks— no, he knows he’s drunk on something else. Your closeness is a drug. Your touch intoxicates him.

He hears you laugh. God, how he loves that laugh.

“You’re telling me what to do?”

“Yeah,” he swallows, “so don’t do it.”

“Why?”

“'Cause I said so.”

“Hm, and why should I listen to you?” Your fingers are threading through his hair, and a careless, guttural groan is escaping him as you tug his head back to meet your gaze.

“'Cause you’re mine.”

Your eyes go wide, conflicted, but you don’t push away. Your hand still runs through his hair in a gentle, soothing manner. You try to laugh it off nervously.

“We’re just friends, Hoon. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Friends,” he scoffs, “How could I ever be friends with you?”

His eyes flicker from yours, then to your bare thighs, just millimetres away from his face. He’s so close, the warmth of his breath is tickling your exposed skin, and whatever remaining shred of morality he thought he could cling to is thrown out the window as he leans forward. He brings his hands to caress the back of them and presses a few kisses into your soft skin, a prideful feeling spreading through him when you let out a breathless whimper. He looks up your skirt and notices the wet patch on your white, lace panties. He smiles at that, adoring how your fingers curl into his hair a little more harshly.

“Don’t fight it. Know you want it too.”

“Sunghoon, this is wrong.”

He ignores you, his tongue darting out to suck at the skin of your inner thighs, fully intending to leave his mark.

“Love the way you say my name, baby,” His breath hovers above your clothed clit, his nose nuzzling just above the waistband of your underwear. “Say it again for me.”

He tastes you through your underwear, hands at your hips, gripping into your skin as you whimper. He can practically feel you twitching on his tongue, though he’s barely started, tasting your arousal, which has long since soaked through your underwear. You taste like heaven, and it’s probably the closest he’ll ever get to it, now that he’s certainly going to hell.

“Hoon…”

“Gonna have to be a little louder than that if you want me to give you what you want, pretty.”

He tugs the useless piece of fabric down enough to allow him to lick a stripe up your clothed cunt and you cry out, already twitching with need.

“Fuck, Sunghoon—!”

“That’s it. Don’t hold back,” he growls, “Let them know how badly you need me.”

He kisses your soaked cunt before sucking hard, grinning at the sound of his name on your lips like a broken record. He fucking hopes Heeseung can hear his name coming out of your breathy, pleading voice— hopes he learns not to play with other people’s toys. He hopes Jake feels pathetic knowing you chose the one guy in the friend group who already has a girl, instead of him, who's been begging for a crumb of pussy from you since your first year. There’s nothing to feel guilty for anymore. Not when your legs are shaking like this for him as he laps you up and sucks on your clit, your essence dripping down his chin.

His dick twitches in his pants when you tug at his hair even harder, your cries sinful as you finish embarrassingly fast on his tongue. He drinks up every drop, even as you try to push his face away, loving how you writhe uselessly in his half-drunken grasp. He finally pulls away, bright-eyed as he watches you catch your breath. He muses at your expression; half ashamed, half lustful.

“Don’t tell me you feel guilty, now,” he rises to his feet, caging you in against the sink. He doesn’t kiss you yet, preferring to drink in the sight of you first, now that he finally has you. “You wanted this. Gave me all this attention all semester. I’m not stupid.”

His knee slips between your legs, and he presses into you until your soaked, throbbing cunt is pressed right against his thigh. You whimper, your hands fiddling with the end of his tie as you rock against him.

“Opening your legs so easily. If you really thought this was wrong, you’d push me away,” he whispers in your ear, before dragging his lips down to your neck, “You’re just an easy little slut.”

“I’m not a—”

“Baby, you’re dripping,” he chuckles, looking down at the wet patch on his pants. He hikes your skirt higher on your hips to get a better view, “Probably dreamed of me fucking you stupid, as my little side piece.”

His eyes move down to your chest, heaving in that tight little tank top you wore. He palms your breast through the fabric, kneading the flesh before slipping under to pinch your hardened nipples. But his gaze darkens when he pushes the fabric down, revealing the white, lacy bra beneath it.

“What’s this?” His hand gropes your chest through your bra, his thumb swiping over your hardened nipples through the material. “Were you planning on getting fucked tonight?”

You don’t get the chance to answer because he’s flipping you around, bent over the sink as he drags your matching panties down, tossing them over his shoulder carelessly. He slides two fingers inside you, holding your wrists down against your back, and you gasp as he fills you deep, pace unforgiving, not bothering to even pretend to be gentle. The way you tense around him, choking on your own gasps in shock, only feeds his depraved desires even more.

“By who? Heeseung?” He seethes, then pauses for a second, laughing, “Or were you gonna let Jake hit it for once? Fucking slut.”

“For you,” you manage to choke out, “Not that I thought we would, but… just…”

The words leave your mouth pathetically, and you can feel your face burn with embarrassment. You had done your best to keep your crush on him at bay. But, there was always a small part of you that couldn’t help but wonder. You rationalized it by saying it was something every girl did— it’s like shaving your whole body before seeing an attractive artist’s concert, imagining what it would be like to get noticed in the crowd. Or wearing your prettiest outfit for that one class with the hot married professor. You didn’t wear a matching set because you thought this would actually happen; you did it to entertain your twisted little fantasy of getting with your off-limits campus crush.

Your confession makes him pause entirely, his fingers leaving you hollow.

“For me?” His voice is slow, smooth, “You wanted to look all pretty for me?”

You nod, timidly.

You wanted to act like you felt bad. Wanted to pretend like it was wrong. And yet, he caught you red-handed. Some part of you, deep down, wanted this to happen. You can’t run from the truth now. And when he turns you to face him, you’re not sure what you expect, but you definitely weren’t expecting to be kissed slowly, tenderly, and yet at the same time, so cruelly.

“You wanna be mine?” He mutters against your lips.

“Please,” you breathe out. He hums approvingly.

His hunger only grows from the taste of you. He slips your breasts from their pretty lace confines and latches his mouth on them, licking and sucking them, using his teeth, and continues upward. He kisses up your collarbone and your neck, mercilessly, until you’re littered with marks. And when he’s satisfied, he pulls back, admiring his work, thumb sliding across your skin in gentle circles.

“If you wanna be my pretty little slut,” you feel his hands snake behind you, and his tie wrap around your wrists, “then you’re gonna have to start acting like one.”

He shoves you to your knees, and you stumble a little, struggling to regain your balance, given your hands were tied. Your knees burn where you’re certain you’ll have nasty bruises tomorrow, and you watch as he lifts your chin, “Well?”

Your eyes land on the bulge in his pants. Obediently, you nuzzle your nose at his clothes crotch, looking up at him in a lustful haze. He’s painfully hard, throbbing with need, and he tries not to show how the sight of you like this is making him crumble.

“Please, Hoon. Wanna taste you.”

He undoes his belt and lets his pants fall to the floor, cooing as you immediately move to mouth him through boxers, desperate to please him like the whore you pretend you aren’t. It’s amusing, really, and while he adores the sight of you drooling on him, soaking the fabric of his underwear, he’d much rather feel your mouth on him without anything in the way.

He pulls them down and laughs, watching it slap your cheek, standing tall, thick, and in desperate need of being touched. Your fascinated expression and the way you lick your lips tells him you’ve never taken someone of his size, and he loves that. He guides the tip to your lips, and your tongue reaches out, tasting his precum on your tongue, spreading it around as you then take the tip of him.

“Shit,” he groans, “You drive me fucking insane. You know that? Haven’t had a moment of peace since I met you.”

But it’s worth it, he thinks, as he slides past your lips, hands in your hair, pushing you down his length. And though he can’t wait to fuck your face, he can’t help but take his time first, sinking into your mouth, admiring just how good you look being fed his cock.

“It’s like you were made for this,” a smile toys at his lips, thinking of all the times he’d woken up with sticky sheets from a dream just like this. “You like being on your knees for me?”

He glances down at how you rub your thighs together, and how your wrists struggle against its restraints with desire to touch yourself. His girl hated doing this for him. But you? You’re moaning as he hits the back of your throat, taking it like a champion. He could cum from the sight alone if he weren’t trying to savour every second of your mouth around him.

He sinks his fingers into your scalp, pulling himself out before fucking right back into your mouth again, your throat constricting around him as you choke on his thick cock. There are tears stinging your eyes, and your mascara and lip gloss are smudged, and yet you’ve never looked more beautiful to him than you do right now.

“Sorry, pretty, but I have to be a little rough on you. Gotta teach you a lesson, you know?” He’s panting now, his groans falling effortlessly from his lips, “That’s what happens when you rile me up. When you flirt with my friends just to get my attention.”

He reaches from your hair to cup your cheeks, a thumb swiping at a single tear that falls and he sighs. And then, he cracks a twisted smile.

“They’ll never get to see you like this. Now that you belong to me.”

He finally slows, sliding from your mouth and coos at your exasperated breaths, eyes locking on your marked chest as it heaves up and down. He presses his tip to your swollen lips again, but this time keeps his cock in his hand, fist sliding up and down to the mere sight of you.

“Gonna cum all over your pretty face.” You hum around him in approval, “You like that? So fucking messy.”

He cusses finally, pulling himself out of your mouth to paint you with his spend, shooting ropes over your face, your chest, watching it stain your little tank top, which still hung onto you uselessly, though your breasts were on full display. You blink a few times, mouth agape, because never in your life had you seen this much cum come out of anyone. He stares at you, a gorgeous, pathetic mess, in complete pride, admiring his work. How beautiful it was to have you on your knees for him, completely ruined and marked up, covered in his cum. He wished he had his phone to capture it.

“All mine now,” he reaches out, spreading the cum at your lips, gathering it on his fingers before slipping them into your mouth. You moan around his fingers.

He hoists you to the sink and throws your panties somewhere across the room, while he pushes up your skirt, revealing your wet, needy pussy. You’re practically weeping when he finally touches you because you’re aching for release. And, to your surprise, he kisses you, open-mouthed, desperately, tasting himself on your lips, not giving a single shit about how it gets on his face or in his hair. You feel his fingers prod you, entering your cunt with little resistance.

“Want you,” you manage to say, despite his unyielding, feverish kisses. “Want more.”

“That’s not how you ask,” he teases, his fingers reaching that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, “try again.”

“Please fuck me.”

All he does is laugh.

“You’re real sweet when you beg, but…” he adds a third finger, and your eyes flutter shut, “You’ll take what I give you.”

His other hand grips your neck as he fucks his fingers into you, relishing every cry that leaves your lips. And he takes his sweet damn time, waiting until you’re at the brink of finishing to pull his fingers out of you. And though you open your mouth to whine, you’re quickly shut up when you feel the head of his cock pressing against you, sliding along your needy cunt. Behind you, you can feel his hands undo the tie at your wrists, freeing them from their confines. And now that you could touch him, your hands move instantly, purring with delight at the feeling of his broad, muscular shoulders beneath them. His tip catches at your entrance.

“Don’t have a condom. You care?” he sputters out, as if he isn’t already sheathing the tip of himself inside you, cursing at the feel of your tight, wet walls.

“Just— don’t cum inside.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he growls. At least not yet. He’d fill you with his cum another day.

He pushes your skirt up further to watch himself enter you, lifting either leg to the side, and your fingernails sink into the white button-up that still hangs from his shoulders. And, at the realization, you decide to start unbuttoning it, practically salivating at the sight of his body.

“Fuck,” he hisses, your pussy wrapped around him so tightly, “Could do this every fucking day.”

He buries to the hilt, leaving you barely a second to adjust before he takes another deep thrust. He’s so deep inside you, you swear you can feel him in your guts, splitting you on his cock. And you love it. You love the way he stretches you, the way he takes and takes from you so unfairly.

“Bet you’d like that. Letting me use you whenever I want. Wouldn’t you?” He picks up the pace, and you can feel every inch of him inside you, every vein and curve making your head spin. He grasps your chin, forcing you to face him. “I asked you a question, pretty girl.”

Dazed, you nod fervently, your teeth sinking into your lower lip.

“Wanna be used by you. Just wanna be fucked like I’m yours.”

“Already said you’re all mine now, remember?” he groans when he feels you clench around him, looking down again just to watch your tight little hole be ruined by him, “My dirty little slut. All mine to ruin. This one time won’t be enough. I need to have you again, and again. Fuck—”

He shakes his head at himself, almost laughing, to think he tried to deny himself of this. Of you, spread open for him, moaning his name loud enough for the whole damn building to hear. He can feel your walls start to tense, your breath catching, and when he feels you fucking claw at his back, shaking around him, he knows you’re about to finish.

“Gonna—”

“That’s it,” he purrs, “Cum on my cock.”

You cry out his name, your pussy gushing around him, squeezing him like a vice. Your vision goes blurry, and your body shakes all over. And soon, his hips are stuttering.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

Cursing, he pulls out, jerking the rest of himself until he’s cumming all over you again. He’s everywhere. All over your glistening pussy, your skirt, your thighs, the sink, probably the floor, too. It’s disgusting, and yet, so beautiful.

With a relieved smile, he practically collapses on top of you, his face buried into your chest as his arms wrap around your waist. And for a while, he just breathes, the thought of knowing that he is now covered in his own jizz shoved momentarily to the back of his mind. Because now, as he lies in his own filth with you, he can say with certainty that he finally feels completely satisfied.

So much for being a good guy.

You tried staying up later, phone warm in your palm, eyes half-lidded while he talked about university life. You tried not to mind the missed calls, the delayed replies, the way silence began to feel less like rest – from college? Or you?

Jake tried too and you know he did. He promised visits that almost happened but something came up, I’m sorry, baby. He tried coming back on some weekends, but the demands of freshman year doubled in no time and you’re left on delivered for double hours.

He says his phone's broken but he just forgot to charge it.

You try to pull the plug, suddenly verbal about how it felt like you were the only one bending your time around him, about how effort shouldn’t feel like something you had to ask for. You told him that love shouldn’t feel like this.

Jake didn’t argue; didn’t even try because the way you sounded was worse than any petty fight. Instead, he starts working it out at twelve in the morning.

His alarm was already set for an 8am lecture, but that night, he got in his car and drove three cities back to hometown to get you. There was no warning – just the familiar headlights of his Bronco outside your house. He looked tired and concerned, and you immediately apologized before he could say anything, told him it was just a lot – senior year, the pressure, the uncertainty. He listened, arms squeezing you closer, just nodding.

He stayed until four (despite your protests that he should leave earlier), long enough to make sure you’re okay. He's sweet, no others boys would compete – your words run on scraps.

"We almost broke up again last night."

You've been there a thousand times and there's clear selective memory here. All the I love you's and I'm sorry's were said, but they feel futile. It's drifting apart, a big deal you've been in before and will be in tomorrow.

So the actual breakup wasn’t loud, loaded with knowing.

You talked on your couch when he came from uni, the tears coming before either of you could fully start. He kept wiping his hands on his jeans, fidgeting because he didn’t know what to do with them. 

“I don’t know how to fix this anymore,” you said, voice breaking on the word fix. Because you’d tried fixing, tried patience, tried understanding, tried being quieter about how much it hurt.

A part of you wished he insists, that he thinks otherwise and this is still fixable. Maybe because a part of you was still willing to fix it even when the odds were out.

But he only nodded slowly. “I think it just got… way too demanding, and I don’t know if I’m ready for something like that.”

That was the worst part.

“I love you,” he said, immediately. “I know,” you replied. “I love you.”

The exhaustion of wanting more and having nothing left to give.

You sat there for a long time after that, shoulders slumped, knees still touching, your hands finding his. His thumb brushed over your knuckles in the way it always did, familiar enough to hurt. He left quietly, making no promises, no maybe someday. Just a long, very long hug at the door, his chin resting on the top of your head, breathing you in like this would be the last time.

You watched him walk down the driveway the same way you always did, only this time, he didn’t turn back.

1 year, 2 months, 15 days, folded neatly in a corner of your room, hidden in your ballerina music box.

Tip #2: Do not use Instagram as a test. It’s dumb.

The summer after senior year was something.

College decisions loomed in the background like unfinished business, and it’s sometimes the very thing you dread just remembering. There was one you waited for specifically and God, you were scared shitless because it’s the very thing you’ve always wanted.

The dream university. The one you’d talked about since forever, with passion and persistence of the 13-year-old you. It’s also the school Jake goes to now – of course, with that kind of grit and intelligence? No doubt.

The email came on an ordinary morning, much to your distress because you were just eating cereal when –

The confetti registered first before Congratulations! itself because the decision portal specifically throws confetti across the screen when you’ve been accepted. That’s what makes you scream and cry and hug your mom and dad buys cake with custom icing and Evan calls you a crybaby, but he’s got a wide smile on his face for you. 

Then like muscle memory because your body tends to forget – it comes like instinct when you know it shouldn’t have.

You thought of Jake; your former number one supporter. The first person who’d told you you could do it, who’d sent you links to campus resources, who’d promised about showing you all the best spots when you get in. Back when when still existed.

You hadn’t talked ever since the break-up, as things should be between people with history (11-year-long history, to be precise). Although you still followed each other in social media, only at a distance so deliberate and established even without negotiation. No liking posts, no watching stories, just a quiet agreement to let each other live separately while still being one call away.

Definitely unhealthy – it’s really not good and it speaks a lot about your attachment.

You added the screenshot to your close friends with a caption of “see you”, balancing both the meaning of academic and, maybe, him, which is pathetic but who can blame a yearning (and desperate, clearly) heart. You included him after overthinking it for 35 more minutes which you reason out as “to see what would happen”.

Until a whole day passed and you received nothing.

Fucking hell, you are pathetic.

Of course he wouldn’t check, of course it was a dumb idea. You settled with screaming into your pillow, then you picked yourself back up with the notion that it doesn’t matter because this moment was yours and it didn’t need an audience – much less one from an ex.

The first week of college was easy. 

The campus was bigger than you ever thought it was – so you did indeed get lost multiple times and walked in lecture halls late with shame chiming around you. By the end of the week, you learned the schedule, learned shortcuts across campus (for when body and alarm clock betrays you), and discovered a coffee shop that made the best tactic to stay awake for your 8am.

For the next month, weeks blurred, lectures became routine, notes just got less pretentious, assignments demanded attention.

The crazy part — aside from your mind — was that you haven’t seen him yet, let it be in the library after staying there for hours, or in the hallways when you’re trying to get to your next class.

Not that you were hoping but – okay, you were and that’s not a crime, just very self-inflecting and sad. But you go on anyway.

Tip #3: All this tension, baby, let your body loose.

“You have to come!” Mia said, bouncing on the balls of her feet like she had stakes in your social life. “It’s the first real party of the semester. Everyone’s going.”

“Yeah,” Lila chimed in, voice dragging your name out like a cautionary tale. “We deserve a night off.”

You cross your arms, melting back against your friends cushions like ice cream. “I have dues tomorrow,” you muttered, though the thought of seeing new faces – and maybe forgetting about deadlines for a few hours – was tempting. However, saving yourself the hangover for a promised productivity tomorrow seems even more enticing.

“You are so –” Mia basically pounces you and starts tickling your sides, as you shriek and swat your arms in defense, “ – boring!”

Once you finally get her off you, both of you breathless, you glare at her with mock offense.

You truly do think about it, staring at their posters that stuck loosely against the wall while you do. A month in, and everything already felt like a balancing act in the circus – classes, expectations, this new version of yourself you were still figuring out. Maybe a few hours off wouldn’t ruin anything.

Lila nudged you. “Stop overthinking. Just come. It’s a cool, chill night. We’ll keep you safe. We’ll make you dance. We’ll –”

“Fine, fine,” you cut her off, laughing despite yourself. “I’ll go. But I’m not getting drunk.”

It’s still early when you arrive (12am), early enough that the place hasn’t fully filled in yet. There’s space to breathe and move without squeezing past bodies, but the music is already loud and colored lights sweep lazily across the room. Mia spots someone the moment you three managed to move through the crowd. “Oh my god – hey!” she calls out, already waving, and before you can process it, you’re being pulled along. Quick introductions are exchanged over the music – name you only half-catch, smiles that come easy.

He leads your group through the room to an open table near the back, just far enough from the speakers that you don’t have to shout. You slide into one of the couches, the leather smooth against your legs and Lila leans close to say something you barely catch over the music. At some point, you realize Mia isn’t beside you anymore, but before you can even text her, she’s back – grinning, triumphant, weaving through people with three plastic cups in her hands.

“Miss me?” she asks, setting one in front of you.

You blink, surprised. “When did you –”

“Don’t ask,” she cuts in, sliding another drink toward Lila. “Just drink.”

You lift the cup and take a cautious sip because you don’t trust the palate of a drunkard. It’s sweet before the bitter taste of alcohol comes, making you cringe back from the unexpectedness. It’s honestly exciting.

Mia clinks her cup against yours. “To surviving the first month!”

You have no idea yet that this is where things start to shift.

The friend Mia greeted earlier comes back, smiling at all of you. “Uh, would it be okay with you guys if our groups kind of merge? My friends just came.” his hands do gestures and immediately, you all agree before he even finishes the sentence. Lila’s already scooting over to make space, Mia’s cheering over the music.

He looks relieved, flashing a quick thank-you smile.

You take slow sips of your drink, letting the liquid cool the small knot of nerves you didn’t realize had formed in your stomach. You don’t get to be all jumpy and edgy in the function that demanded someone buoyant and convivial.

Though, you definitely should have expected doom – when some already-drunk dude comes and stumbles on your lap that you shriek in pure horror like a lead in Scream. You immediately shove him off and he lands on the floor, wasted and absolutely gone, while his friends apologize with pressed palms. You try to contain the sour expression on your face – but you can’t, because half your drink has spilled on you.

Great. Love that.

Because now you feel sticky and you smell like alcohol before anything real even began, your mood spoiling like you personally invited the bacteria in. Before you could curdle further into deciding to leave and plunge into the comfort and sterility of your bed, Mia’s already pulling you up on your feet to get to the bathroom.

Like some cruel, cinematic twist, the growing crowd press bodies closer and someone knocks into you without meaning to, of course, because you’re God’s number 1 favorite child besides the Redeemer. Either way, you stumble on your heel and you’re pushed into someone else for the nth time tonight, though you don’t really try to bother with a genuine apology. You mutter something half-assed, preparing yourself to squeeze into the crowd until you decide to glance.

Holy. Fuck.

For a split second, your brain stalls. And you’re frozen and you think that this has to be some kind of divine intervention as they like to call it, because this man has to be one of God’s loyal angels with the way the party lights start to uncoil as strobes behind him, and he’s here to announce the birth of some Messiah that will save the world.

Maybe you’re supposed to be expecting soon with the way alcohol isn’t the only thing making you wet now.

Everything rushes in at once – and you’re bombarded with the unfair reality of male supremacy in genetics. He’s taller than you remember, even with your heels on. Broader shoulders, solid in a way that makes it obvious time didn’t just pass him by, it worked on him. He’s filled out, grown into himself that didn’t change him but made him look more mature.

And now, Jaeyun Sim's staring at you like this was exactly what he didn’t expect in some random Friday party, much less in his local university club.

(Backtrack – Jake knows you’re attending the same university after receiving the news from Evan, who, despite the breakup, announces certain things about you as if to keep Jake updated. He never asked and never really stopped him either. So imagine how he feels, when the woman he knew didn’t exactly like parties bumps into him in one after one whole month on campus.)

The guy Mia knows is still talking, introducing his friends, but you can barely process anything past this one in front of you. The music isn’t helping, by the way, because it’s playing ‘Shout Out to My Ex’ by Little Mix.

Then he fucking smiles at you. Casually. Amused.

What the fuck?

“Hi.”

Jake reaches a hand out and you stare at it, well, first at his long fingers, then his wide palm, then the veins that travel all the way through his arms. “Didn’t know you go to parties.” he says and you look up at him through your lashes again, seeing that smile that doesn’t show much, just that he’s seeing you right here in front of him and he doesn’t hate it.

You try smiling too (works out fine; you look hot, he clears his throat), because you can’t be the one flustered while he’s here looking like God’s favorite, and casually reaches out his hand to you like you’re just someone he kind of knew back in high school.

Finally, your hand clasps with his. A dap, a squeeze; he taught you how to do it properly back then when you were together, something you do every after making out.

“I always do,” you reply, clearly pointed. His eyebrows knit for a few seconds, before he realizes what you mean, then he breaks out to a wider smile.

Before anything else can happen, Mia grabs your arm like a lifeline and yanks you through the crowd until you’re finally pressed up against the bathroom wall, the sounds of the party muffled behind the door. “How do you know that guy?!”

You basically scream into your hands once you get inside, while Mia yanks you beneath the hand dryer, pulling specifically the wet patch underneath to let it dry. 

Right. You got alcohol on you. You practically forgot how wet you are.

“That was my fucking ex, Mia!” you shriek.

She freezes immediately, eyes going wide when she realizes who you’re talking about.

“Wait. Wait. Wait. That’s… no. That’s the guy? Wait, first or second?”

“Second,” you groan again, slumping against the wall. “The same one. Holy shit, Mia. The same one.”

She grabs your shoulders and shakes you lightly. “And he’s here. At this party. And he’s… what. Hotter? Better?”

You groan again, throwing your hands in the air. “Mia, I can’t. I wanna go home.”

She rolls your eyes and shakes you by the shoulders again to get yourself together because you’re too hot and gorgeous to malfunction like this. After much encouragement from her (it didn’t work, you still feel like a slug against the wall), you two finally get out of the bathroom. She promises a drink just to get you your guts back, and of course, she delivers. She orders you two shots to salt the slug out of you, demanding you drink them now like the alcoholic-maniac she is. And like the disaster you are, you chug the burn down your throat.

The last thing you need right now is to care about your ex.

And to think about how hot he’s gotten after a few months. Like he needed to glow up, like how he looked wasn’t enough.

You know how to handle your drink well, but chugging down two straight shots must’ve fucked you up good because your knees feel weaker and your vision welcomes the lights as streaks that do wonders with feeling afloat.

You steady yourself by the table once you two get back. Your head feels light, but not in a bad way – only like the world softened around the edges and you remember that this isn’t high school; this is something you have to explore and enjoy.

So you do that. You don’t mind the reminder of high school at the corner of your peripheral, sitting on the couch so easily. 

You shake hands. You do the half-hug introductions like you’ve been friends for years. You repeat your name more times than you can count, watch it get lost immediately in the music.

Every now and then, you glance.

It follows him; the noise, the lights, the looks, because it’s him. Jake. The handsome guy in the group, the hot one in the team, the golden one even when he’s just smiling. No matter where, even in the corner of the room when he’s not doing anything – not even drowning himself in intoxication like you are. 

You know that much – the girl beside you has been eyeing the ‘guy in a leather jacket and eyeglasses at the side’. Jake, of course, who's got his sleeves rolled up like he doesn’t know just what kind of effect his veiny arms have. You admit, your heel might have jabbed her foot a few times, accidentally or not.

Jake’s a few feet away in the other table, leaning back with the natural ease of directing himself through social gatherings without trying hard. He’s talking to someone, head tipped slightly as he listens, smiling at something you can’t hear.

He’s not looking at you

A twinge blooms in the middle of your chest, just between the bones that cage your lungs. But before it worsens, you’re already bottoming out a drink Lila offered to you because you’re not about to orbit someone who somehow had the time for social stuff but never enough time for you. 

You wonder about the nights you waited for Jake’s reply while he was out partying. The thought steadies you more than the alcohol does.

You straighten a little, roll your shoulders back, remind yourself that this isn’t a competition, and you look too hot to treat the night like a loss

You don’t realize it at first. That some guy’s flirting with you.

You recognize him though, he’s part of the group that came in with who-shall-not-be-named.

He’s tall, and sometimes he leans down to hear you. His smile’s great and you remember him talking something about engineering. You don’t care, you don’t even try to care. But your own body betrays you because your heels have been slowly killing you, and your legs don’t function the way they do when you’re sober. So when someone accidentally bumps into you again, you stumble back and lean against him. He laughs low, ducks down to whisper how clumsy you are while his hand settles on the small of your back to steady you.

This is stupid. You feel stupid. Not ecstatic in any way at all.

The guy beside you says something again – teasing, light, trying – much of your disinterest. He takes a step closer and says your name like it’s something he wants to remember. 

You look around when the guy beside you takes a sip of his drink, letting this moment catch. 

But Jake’s eyes are already on you. He’s not laughing nor talking anymore, just watching you.

His expression is unreadable, jaw set tightly, the muscle jumps once and his hand curls around his cup like he’s finally clocking the distance between you and the guy, like he’s noticed the hand at your back.

The guy beside you leans in again. “So,” he says, voice easy, confident. “You're single, right?”

You don’t answer – you don’t even look at him. Your eyes stay on Jake and he doesn’t look away either. He’s looking at you like he’s sick of pretending he does not see you. Like he’s wondering if he’s been too patient waiting for a sign.

He turns away, taking a sip of his drink like he meant for you to catch him too, and now he’s frustrated that he's caught something else he didn't want. His jaw is still clenched, tight enough that the line of it looks sharper under the dim lights when he tilts his head slightly to the side, licking the inside of his cheek in the way he does when he’s mad.

You see that goddamn nose, tall and pointed. And you want nothing but to sit on it in front of this guy.

VIRGINs™.

You close your eyes and pull away like you’re burnt, not even managing a simple polite excuse before you practically shove him away from you and find your way to your friends.

Mia’s there immediately, she grabs your wrist and yanks you back into the safety of your circle. “Come on, babe. Drink up.”

Lila’s already pressing a cup into your hand, eyes sharp, knowing, and they’re assholes for this. Still, it’s comforting, the way they’re holding you now. “Bottoms up!”

You drink it immediately, barely registering the taste before you feel the rush, the way it hits your bloodstream and scrambles everything before they could form something coherent such as Jake’s face and how mad he looked when someone else had you.

“Dance?” Mia asks with an encouraging yell, but she’s already pulling the three of you together into the dance floor. 

The music crashes over you again, bass rolling through your chest and loosening something in your knees. The alcohol smooths everything out until moving feels easy and impulsive. You follow Mia and Lila without thinking, letting the rhythm carry you forward like a tide. Bodies blur together around you – all grinding, swaying, hands reaching up toward the lights as they flash and stutter. You drift closer to them, arms brushing, steps syncing, three girls caught in the same pulse, heat and laughter and movement packed into a space too tight and too loud. 

You close your eyes. You let the music hold you. And even when you try not to, you feel it; Jake’s gaze lingering on you like a ghost of warmth, woven into the rhythm, impossible to shake.

Tip #4: Think imgonnagetyouback mindset.

It’s 4am.

The music has started to die down. The chaos of the party is reduced to less and scattered laughter, half-empty cups, and people basically fumbling for their coats with wobbly feet and fucked vision. You swear you can smell vomit somewhere near, you’re just not sure if it’s on you and dangerously close by. 

You’re halfway gone on the couch, leaning against Mia’s shoulder because it’s the only thing keeping you upright right now. Deadweight, basically. Lila is fussing over you, holding a bottle of water up your lips like it’s a lifesaver. “C’mon, just one sip. You’ll thank me.”

“‘m fine,” you mutter in that slurred way, eyes half-closed, and completely stubborn while you swat her away like a useless baby. “You’re not fine. Look at you, Ms. I’m-not-getting-drunk.”

“‘m fiiiine,” you repeat, muffled against Mia’s shoulder, mostly because speaking more feels exhausting.

You don’t see it, but Jake’s with his friends. He’s laughing quietly, ready to disappear into the cold late hour, early morning. He’s completely normal and okay, sober compared to the disastrous sight of you. Which should be very embarrassing, but you’re way too blacked out to even know what’s happening.

He stops. His gaze flicks toward you. “Hey,” he calls softly.

Mia and Lila immediately exchange a look  – half amusement, half mischief – because of course, of course this is happening. And your ass is too drunk to handle your own plotline, so what would these simple women do if not steer it for you?

“Uh… he’s asking about you,” Mia says slowly, patting your leg. You groan softly. “Tell h’m ’m fine,” you mumble, voice battered with alcohol, low and coarse from fatigue.

“Tell him yourself,” Lila says, and you groan again.

Jake’s friends start moving toward the door, laughing under their breath and nudging him along. But Jake stays where he is across from you, doing something he knows he shouldn’t be doing (has been doing for the past few hours anyway), which is staring. Because whatever he’s feeling right now has him frozen in place, ethics slipping through his fingers, all because of you.

And in that second, when he looks at you better and sees just how disheveled you look, the tiniest smirk tugs at his lips, not even attempting to restrain himself. He looks like he’s holding back a joke, like he knows exactly what your stubborn little face is doing, leaning there, stubborn and tipsy and entirely (not) his.

“Is she okay?” he asks, not teasing, just him.

Mia snorts, Lila laughs quietly. Then, you lift your head to shoo away this man, until you see him and freeze, dignity crumbling little by little the more time you spend in this godforsaken club.

Jake. Standing there, relaxed, very much sober, and looking at you. Just you.

“You okay?” he asks again, softer than before.

And you can’t help it. A tiny, annoyed frown slips onto your face, one you didn’t mean to make, because of all the alcohol and the chaos and the mess of people bothering you, you see him and you remember you’re not exactly goody-goody with him, but he’s here asking if you’re okay anyway, acting so concerned about you.

Last time you remember, he can’t make time for you!

“’m fine,” you blurt, slurred, stubborn, mad, and a little breathless.

Then you fall back on Mia’s shoulder, deciding upon yourself that this is just a dream and he will disappear and you can go back to the life he wasn’t a part of.

Of course, he’s not convinced. 

Jake’s gaze flicks to Mia and Lila. He knows that you’re stubborn enough to try to walk home on your own if left unchecked.

“How are you getting her home?” he asks them this time, voice calm but with that subtle edge of concern.

Mia straightens a little, gauging just how to strategically use this wild card given to her by the guardian angels themselves like it’s fucking Uno. “Honestly? I don’t fucking know.”

Jake looks at both of them – at you – much in disbelief. Mia firmly believes she made the best choice.

Jake’s gaze shifts back to Mia and Lila, serious now, like now he’s assessing the logistics of this situation. “Where’s… uh, her dorm?” he asks, calm but firm.

Mia smiles and has the nerve to relax against the couch. “Oh… uh, it’s actually a bit farther away,” she says quickly, waving her hands vaguely. “But…it’s 4 am, there’s creeps out, and, you know…we’re all girls.” She lets the last part hang, her eyes flicking to you and Lila for piteous effect, acting the part of damsels in distress.

Jake raises an eyebrow. Before he can even open his mouth, Mia’s already talking again. “So… do you think you can take her? Please? We are soooo tired, it’s sooo late, and she’s basically useless right now.” She glances down at you slumped against her shoulder, half-asleep, barely clinging to consciousness.

Lila’s already nodding emphatically after understanding this turn of events, giving you a little squeeze for emphasis. “Yeah. You’d be, like… her hero or something,” she says, grinning.

Jake lets out a quiet, almost exasperated laugh.

“Guess that’s my job, then,” he says, voice low and soft, almost like he’s talking just to you about something only you’d understand. 

Always to the rescue, apparently.

One second you’re warm and hazy against Mia’s shoulder, the next you’re being shifted, hands lifting you under your arms, voices overlapping in a blur of wait – careful – okay, got her – 

And then, Oh. This is familiar.

You press into his chest without thinking, forehead tipping forward until it rests just beneath his collarbone. His sweater is warm and smells faintly like detergent and something unmistakably like his perfume – you know because you bought it for him last Valentines.

Jake stiffens for half a second.

Then he exhales, adjusts his grip, one arm sliding more securely around your back, the other settling under your knees. He struggles a little, just a little, shifting his footing, maybe because he’s still registering the reality of you in his arms.

You make a tiny sound in protest, brows knitting faintly in your sleep, and he smiles wider.

Mia points a finger at him immediately, all serious now. “You take care of her. I will hunt you down.”

Lila crosses her arms. “I know where you live.” (she doesn’t)

Jake snorts quietly. “Duly noted.”

He looks down at you again, expression softening, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your side like muscle memory never left him. You shift closer, nose brushing his sweater. “I’ve got her,” he says, steady now.

Mia and Lila exchange a look, satisfied with their contribution to this plot twist and turning the course of events in your life effectively, then step back, already halfway to freedom. The script’s flipped and you’re leaving a dumb party with him, no handcuffs needed.

“Text us when she’s in bed,” Mia adds. “And water. Make her drink water.”

Jake nods. “Yeah. I know.”

With you tucked against him, asleep and unaware, Jake Sim turns toward the door and carries you out into the quiet, early-morning air. He slips you into the passenger seat of his Bronco, which smells like faint cologne and pristine, organized and fixed while – you are basically deadweight, heavy, and uncooperative, completely misplaced in his world. So when you shift in the passenger seat to get more comfortable after he slides you in, your elbow swings out without warning, smacking him lightly in the face while he’s trying to buckle you in.

“Whoa – hey,” Jake mutters, voice low but amused. You groan softly, like you’re the one who deserves to get mad, eyes still half-shut. 

You slump further, letting yourself sink into the seat, muttering something that barely comes out as a coherent “sorry” that obviously isn’t meant. He doesn’t say much, just shifts the car into gear, and starts driving.

The next memory hits and you’re in the dorm lobby, blinking at the familiar walls while Jake has you wrapped up in his arms. Suddenly, you notice your own weight again and decide, maybe you can walk on your own.

“Okay, I’m good,” you mutter, pushing lightly at him.

“No, you’re not,” Jake protests, tightening his hold.

“I can walk, thank you very much.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you pry yourself from his clutch and take a shaky step forward, bare feet on the cold marble, instantly a washing regret because it’s freezing. Only then do you realize – you’re not wearing heels, you’re not even holding your bag, and Jake is standing there with basically everything you own, dangling in his hands like some overzealous luggage attendant.

“Really, you’re just showing off now, aren’t you?” you huff.

He gives you an “are you serious?” guise, and he looks fed up if it weren’t for the small smile that says otherwise. Like he’s entertained and he likes this, watching you with the kind of gaze too thrilled for someone who’s supposedly your ex. 

Maybe around five steps later, your foot catches and you stumble, losing balance instantly. Before you even fall, his arms are around you again, steadying you — and once again you’re pressed against him. He lets out a soft scoff of amusement, finding you both irritating and adorable simultaneously.

“We should stick to plan A,” he murmurs, the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’re too drunk to pretend you’re not.”

You groan into his chest, limbs still heavy. But you don’t protest anymore, letting him guide you to the elevator. He gets you to your room with minimal fighting this time.

The door clicks shut behind you, the familiar quiet and comfortability settling in way too fast because now you just want to sleep pronto. Jake guides you over gently, hands warm and steady at your waist until the backs of your knees hit the bed. You sit down obediently, blinking up at him like you’re trying very hard to stay awake and failing anyway.

“Okay,” he murmurs, already turning. “Stay.”

You do. Shockingly.

By the time he comes back with a cold bottle of water, you’re slouched slightly, hands folded in your lap, hair falling over your face. He presses the bottle into your hands and nudges it toward your mouth.

“Drink,” he says softly, the way he used to – like he knows you’ll listen if he keeps his voice gentle.

You do. You take small sips, nose scrunching at the cold, eyes half-lidded as he watches to make sure you actually swallow. He waits until you’ve had enough, then takes the bottle back and sets it on your desk within reach.

“There you go,” he says, quiet praise tucked into the words.

He thinks he should go now, now that you’re safely in your room and in your bed. Though he hesitates, eyes flicking to your face – your lashes clumped with false lashes and mascara, faint shimmer still clinging to your lids, concealer intact, lipstick smudged. A smile tugs at his mouth, fond, and a little resigned.

“You’re gonna hate it if you sleep like that,” he says lightly, gently poking your cheek. “D’you want to take your makeup off?”

You nod immediately, just small and sleepy, still fighting your way to stay awake.

“Mm,” you hum.

He exhales a soft laugh and heads to your bathroom, carefully of course, cautiously going through your room and locating familiar products on your counter. He comes back with your remover, cotton pads, even your headband.

He places everything carefully into your hands. “Here.”

You stare down at it – long, blank, confused – like you’re waiting for them to work themselves out onto your face. Then you look up at him, brows pinched slightly, lips pouting in concentration like you’re trying to remember a thought you just had.

“‘M just… gonna sleep,” you decide, voice small and stubborn, followed by a yawn.

Jake closes his eyes for a second, pinching his nose bridge before his hands fall on his hips. “Yeah,” he sighs, smiling despite himself. “I figured.”

He gently takes the things from you before you can drop them, then crouches properly in front of you. He tilts your chin up with two fingers, touch feather-light. 

“Don’t move,” he murmurs.

He gently and carefully removes your false lashes first. Then he soaks a pad and starts slow, careful, wiping beneath one eye first, one side at a time. His touch is patient like he’s handling something fragile.

“That okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod again, leaning into his hand without thinking. He smiles at that, just gently holds your jaw.

He works in silence, almost reverent in the way he handles you so gently. He’s switching pads, murmuring the occasional “there we go” or “almost done,” wiping makeup away until your face is bare and clean again. His thumb lingers for half a second at your cheek, warm, familiar.

You sway slightly, fighting sleep, eyes drooping.

“Hey,” he says gently, tapping your knee, tipping your chin back with his two fingers. “Stay with me, yeah?”

You hum in response, something content and sleepy, and his chest tightens.

He stands when he’s done, then he sets everything aside and looks at you for a long moment – sitting on your bed, hair messy, makeup gone, eyes heavy but trusting. You’re looking up at him through your lashes, and he really likes you that way. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs before he can stop himself.

Your brows knit together, lips pushing into a soft, unhappy pout, like something about this doesn’t sit right with you – because with all honesty, this feels like something you’d look back with regret and hate.

Jake notices immediately. He straightens a little, eyes searching your face. “What is it?”

You blink at him, slow and glassy, like you’re trying to line your thoughts up and they keep slipping away. “…why’re you here?” you ask, voice slurred, small, and drunk.

He shouldn’t engage with you when you’re like this.

Still. He can’t not.

“What?”

You frown deeper, shaking your head slightly, hair falling into your eyes again. “You’re… you’re acting like you care,” you mumble. “Why are you pretending?”

His brows furrow this time. “I’m not pretending,” he says quietly.

You scoff, weak and breathy, clearly unconvinced, clearly drunk. “It’s not fair.”

Jake swallows. “You’re drunk,” he says gently. “You’re tired.”

You nod once, sharply. “Yeah. And you’re here. And you’re… being like this.” Your voice wobbles despite your effort to sound annoyed, you point a finger at him. He glances at it then back to you, not being able to keep himself from smiling. “So which one is it, Jaeyun?”

The way you say his name undoes him. Completely.

When he doesn’t answer you, you frown, trying to focus through the fog in your brain. “Probably like this with all the girls you meet, then?” 

He blinks once before he chuckles quietly, very amused with your insobriety. Then, slowly and deliberately, he leans over just enough to tap your forehead with a finger, teasing but gentle. “Aren’t you the one who was flirting with some guy tonight?” he asks, half-smile tugging at his lips. His eyes shine with something you can’t quite name – soft amusement, pride, maybe even jealousy in the right angle.

You let out an incredulous laugh. “I don’t like him.” you mumble, head leaning back, eyes half-lidded when you look up at him through your lashes.

Jake’s smile softens, grows warmer, almost proud. “I know,” he says simply.

Your chest hammers, and it’s not just the alcohol anymore – hasn't been, really – it’s him. He watches you like he’s memorizing every detail – the messy hair, the curve of your hips, the way your eyes drift between amused and annoyed – and you feel seen. Now, you know, you’re hopelessly, irreversibly caught; drunk or not.

You murmur something then, so soft it barely makes it past your lips.

Jake blinks. “What?”

You don’t repeat it. You just stare at him, eyes unfocused, lashes heavy, mouth tight because the words slipped out before you could decide if you meant them.

He leans in a little. “Hey,” he says quietly. “What’d you say?” As he moves closer, his hand lifts on its own. He gently tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear like he’s afraid of startling you.

You both know this shouldn’t happen, that this is beyond the rules of exes and the quiet decency you’re supposed to keep between people who already broke each other once. This look, this closeness, the way his attention lingers like he’s forgotten how to pull it back – it’s all wrong. And yet he’s looking at you like he’s still falling, slow and helpless, like nothing ever ended, and in the quiet of it you realize the worst part isn’t that it’s happening. It’s that you want it to. Drunk or sober.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you look up at him from under your lashes.

“I miss you,"

Jake's heart? It does a sharp, traitorous jump, like it’s trying to climb into his throat, and for a split second he forgets how to speak. The golden star he is, known for being well-spoken and articulate with his sentences now rot speechless in the presence of the only girl he’s ever loved.

“Oh,” he says, because it’s the only sound he can manage.

His hand drops slowly back to his side, turning into a fist, like he needs the grounding of knowing better than let this thrive.

“Hey,” he murmurs, quieter now, steadier than he really feels. “You’re drunk.”

You nod, breaking away the eye contact. “I know.”

Jake swallows, jaw tightening as he looks down at you. He looks… a bit wrecked, like he’s trying to decide whether this is real or just the cruelty of 4 am and too much alcohol. His hand slides to your jaw again, thumb warm against your cheek, grounding himself just as much as it does you.

Then he leans in.

He dips his head just enough that his lips brush on your forehead. And with hesitance, he presses another kiss at the bridge of your nose.

You let out a small, breathy laugh. It slips out of you, soft, a little incredulous, and you lift your hand to weakly shove at his chest. “What the fuck are you doing.” you say through a breathy laugh, half-protest, half-something else entirely but feels close to intimate.

Jake smiles. The tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction. “Relax,” he murmurs, fond – always fond. “You’re gonna knock me out like that.” His sarcasm makes your blood and chest curl with heat. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but your hand lingers at his chest instead of pulling away. He glances down at it, then back at you, smile deepening just a little. You try to shove him again, this time with even less force, because you’re everything messy but he likes that anyway. “You’re weird.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, eyes warm. “You’ve told me that before.

Bygone will be the bygone’s era, yet they fade into gray, blurry, and uncertain. Because he who should remain obsolete looks the most vibrant in the dull vision of intoxication. You can’t decide whether you’re gonna curse him out or pull him into bed with you – but now, you hate him all the same. Because you can hear the whispers in his eyes – and they sound a lot like late night apologies for not finding time for you.

Jake straightens at last, hands lifting in surrender. “Okay,” he says gently. “That’s my cue.”

You start to fall back on your mattress, head back against your soft pillow from incredulity at what the fuck life has brought you to.

You’re just drunk, you think, for the way indignation (from remembering) and nerves blend into a tarty smoothie in the pit of your stomach. Jake carefully helps you tuck in and pulls the blanket higher around you.

“Sleep,” he whispers. “We’ll talk when you’re not like this.”

He waits until your breathing evens out, which doesn’t take long. Once the tension leaves your shoulders, your lashes finally rest against your cheeks, and your fingers loosen their grip on the blanket. Only then does he move again. Jake slips into the bathroom, opening the cabinet above the sink, and finds what he’s looking for almost immediately. He takes a couple of painkillers then places them beside your water bottle, lined up like a reminder for the morning.

You’re curled slightly on your side now, blanket pulled up to your chin, hair fanned like feathers across the pillow. He dims the light instead of off, and steals one final glance over his shoulder – like he’s imprinting the sight of you into memory.

Then he leaves. That familiar smile lingers on his face – the kind that’s always been yours.

He finds it that he was never not yours.

Tip #5: He’s responsible, proceed with caution.

You wake up with a really shitty hungover. Your head hurts, your mouth tastes like regret, and your brain keeps replaying things it shouldn’t be replaying. Then there’s knocking at 10:17 am, according to your phone, which feels too early for anything.

You consider pretending you’re dead, but Mia has never respected boundaries, not even in theory.

They settle in like this was always the plan, like your room is a recovery ward for debriefs and recollection and greasy sandwich breakfast. 

Then they say his name casually like it doesn’t still do things to you. 

Jake pretended he didn’t care.  Jake was normal.  Jake was looking at you every time you moved.  Jake was looking when you weren’t. 

You don’t know which part makes your stomach twist harder, the fact that you weren’t imagining it or the fact that it changes nothing, because knowing he still looks doesn’t mean he’s allowed to.

You’re feeling everything all at once, which you shouldn’t, by the way, because he’s your fucking ex.

And then the water bottle and the pain killers on your nightstand – a reminder from him and the physical evidence of his tracks that he was here.

You go on to fill their hearts content with what happened last night, about how Jake was so responsibly firm and gentle with you and treated it as if it wasn’t an inconvenience. As if he had the time to do all of it; slowly, carefully, steadily, not in a rush for a deadline he’ll say sorry for later – not anymore. Last night, in your own room while you were drunk and gone, Jake Sim played daddy.

Mia peeks through her fingers. “You’re saying this very emotionally.”

“I’m saying this very hormonally,” you snap. 

Right now, you remember the wet patch of alcohol from last night. As well as the tears you’ve shed from high school because he wasn’t able to manage his routine in a way that he can balance his school life and your relationship. 

Right now, Jake isn’t that. He can hold you without it feeling like he’s losing time. Right now, you get fucking wet from the thought of him being a responsible guy, treating you like he was supposed to do – and yeah, you remember the tears, except they’re running down your thighs now.

A little “There you go,”, “Drink.”“Don’t move,”, “That okay?”“Stay with me, yeah?”, and of course, “Good girl,”, which is plainly ideal foreplay.

You’re mid-chew when your phone buzzes on the mattress behind you.

Mia manages to snatch it before you can, and you basically start whining for her to give it back. Too late, she’s read the preview and says it out loud, 

jake: you alive?

You groan, dropping back on your bed because you’re absolutely emotional and embarrassed and hungover and turned on by your ex. 

You can’t believe it. After months of no contact ever since the breakup, specifically 7 months and 2 days ago, he breaks it to ask if you’re alive like he didn't just kill you.

“I hate him,” you mumble.

“You absolutely do not,” Mia says, shoving your phone back to you immediately. “Text him back.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Mia says, already sitting on your legs to pester you.

You stare at the screen. This totally isn’t fair and you know that he knows this is wrong – exes don’t talk to each other and check up on one another and tuck each other in and kiss each other’s foreheads. 

Before the girls protest which reponse sounds natural, your phone buzzes again.

jake: drink water btw

You shut your eyes and try to calm down your heart while he tries murdering it with Instagram texts. What is he doing? Why’s he doing it? Does he know he’s actively committing felony?

“Oh my God,” Lila whispers. “He’s still taking care of you."

Mia flops beside you. “Okay. We’re doing this strategically.”

“No strategy,” you say quickly. “I am not opening a door.”

“Too late,” Mia says. “The door is already cracked. He carried you through it.”

Fuck, she has a point. 

Your head still aches, but it’s not just the hangover anymore. It’s the memory of his hands steady on your waist while he talks you through it, his voice low and patient. He didn’t rush you. Didn’t take. Didn’t demand anything. Just stayed. Willingly. And smiled charmingly while he did – with extremely good teeth too.

You exhale slowly, then finally type: alive. sorry if i was a lot.

You hit send before you can chicken out, and the three of you stare at the screen like it’s a bomb.

The reply comes almost instantly. Oh wow, now he remembers how to use a phone – how to charge it too.

jake: you werent

That’s it. No flirting, no emotional ambush, no anything else, just a message that makes you think if he’s letting you open a conversation or if he’s closing it himself. He really is messing with your brain, and it’s not good for you – nothing about Jake Sim was ever good for you.

Tip #6: Prepare for the Instagram story.

Your phone stays quiet from his messages for the rest of the following weeks. At first you tell yourself that it’s good. It’s proof that you’re both mature and healthy, because you acknowledged that the night happened, but didn’t see it as an opening for anything else. 

Except you, maybe. You’re back to wondering where he is on campus. It’s life playing tricks on you; letting your heart go on a rollercoaster of events only to snatch it and buckle you back in your routine that didn’t include him.

Jake wasn’t an online kind of person ever since college started, only really posted stories when someone else mentions him on theirs. Stalking him through social media is futile, but you always go back to his posts, anyway – like a temporary remedy.

There used to be four posts, three highlights. But for very obvious reasons, your proof of occupation was removed.

It feels like highschool, when you danced this humiliation pirouette around something you wanted but had to pretend you didn’t. To act like you’re not itching even though your concentration has been compromised, which is obviously piteous for someone as bright as you. 

So you don’t do anything, more than willing to participate in this game of composure to see who’d break first. You keep your decorum. You keep your dignity folded neatly in your back pocket.

Nothing happens.

‘Til it’s late out and you’ve just finished studying 2 lessons – which obviously immediately means you’re more emotionally unstable and desolate tonight. And you’re not exactly expecting a tragic ambush for the cherry on top, because you're not thinking right now, not when your mind’s running on about limits in Calculus 1 – which is ironic because you're clearly on one.

It’s muscle memory, really – open app, tap, tap, oh. You don’t even register it until the screen loads and the familiar username appears on the top of your screen.

You’ve viewed it 52 seconds after he uploaded the story. Like you were waiting on his proof of life and decided to pounce him, straddling and all, the moment it shows.

And then when you process just what the story is, that’s where your stomach drops. It’s a repost from a girl’s story, who took a picture of Jaeyun leaning against the table, using his phone while she’s holding coffee and sitting really close – as in, legs brushing, overly intimate, something old you would post when he was your boyfriend – that you scoff so loudly and practically fling yourself back against your chair.

So that’s why. That’s why he didn’t text even though he said you’ll talk when you’re sober. He has a girlfriend and obviously, you’re the last thing he’d ever have in mind. And you? You remain lonely and single and pathetic and pining for another man in other girls stories and leg-brushing-tionship.

That’s also when you notice the little caption tucked in the corner. thanks for the coffee ig

Right, and she’s flirting plainly and publicly and clearly claiming territory. You don’t even see her face but you could tell immediately how perfect she probably is, as far as your insecurities are concerned: she’s the same year, probably shares ⅔ of his classes, sees him all the time, and gets free coffee from him.

And your phone’s been suffering lately, attempting to function on 1gb left on your storage. It’s laggy, that’s when it downright betrays you after 2 years together. It lags and your hand probably slips or something, because you like the story.

Shit.

You blink. Then you scream. You unlike it then you throw your phone away after, shrieking against your pillow while you decide whether it’s time to delete your Instagram account for good. You decide on multiple options here actually, but all of it comes to a choice when your phone buzzes.

jake: ?

God you wish you could sleep. But there are monsters in your head called impulse and pride, and they’re tag-teaming you while your phone lights up like it knows exactly how weak you are. You stare at the screen. The single question mark feels louder than any paragraph he could’ve sent and it’s annoying and he feels like the asshole he never was.

you: phone lagged mb

You hit send before you can overthink it into something kinder. In your best efforts to be civil, there’s still a faint aftertaste of not my fault, it’s yours. 

Three dots appear almost immediately. Disappear. Reappear. Like it was meant to piss you off. You roll onto your back, arm flung dramatically over your eyes like you’re auditioning for a film about female suffering directed by Greta Gerwig.

When you said ok, you thought he meant on a customary, normal-person time and date. And you should think like what a regular citizen act on this eccentric occasion – such as declining his absurdity and sleeping because you have lecture tomorrow. You ask yourself what you’re doing in this cafe now, in a tee and sleep shorts, arms crossed while you wait for the man who somehow still knows how to summon you with two texts and zero explanation.

You look around like you might recognize another idiot who showed up for emotional closure in pajamas, but there’s no one. Just you, your crossed arms, and the creeping realization that you look like a girl waiting to be let down. You’re not the girlfriend, not even the ex that gets proper boundaries, but the one he can call at 1 am – the punchline practically knows your name.

The bell over the door rings and there he is, exactly as expected, annoyingly composed in a hoodie with sleeves rolled to his elbows – and this time, you’re both sober. You look at each other a second too long, like you’re both checking for signs of intoxication that might excuse whatever happens next. When you find none, you decide that it’s the worse version of the night – clear-headed and intentional: there’s no buffer tonight with excuses to lean on. 

Jaeyun gestures toward the counter. “You want coffee?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine,” you say with a sigh. “I have lecture in the morning.”

And then he just nods, tongue poking the inside of his cheek while he decides what to do now. You both sit in a table for two, across from each other – which isn’t anywhere in the safebook because it’s close enough to feel familiar, but far enough to be safe.

“You said things the other night,” he starts carefully. Of course, because he treated your fleeing like a lesson, and he now talks like a man (doesn't make him one, though). “When I helped you home.”

Your stomach tightens and you chew on the inside of your cheek to try for casual. “I was drunk.”

“That all?” His brow cocks up, like he obviously doesn’t believe that’s all. “You didn’t mean it?”

Honesty has always been your downfall with him, even after spending half your life pretending and lying about what you feel for him. “I said I missed you,” you say flatly, owning it before he can dress it up. You laugh under your breath in disbelief of your position now. “There. Are you happy?”

He looks at you then and whatever he sees makes his shoulders drop a little. Jake sighs, fingers fidgeting underneath the table while he thinks of what to say now, just before he swallows and looks back into your eyes. “I didn’t text because I didn’t know if you wanted to talk to me sober.”

“So you waited,” you say. “Until I embarrassed myself.”

Honestly, the phone does work two ways. Maybe he was also pensively standing by for a sign that you’re still willing to let him in solemnly – but for fuck’s safe, was he meant to play hard-to-get while you chase?

Now he smiles, tongue poking the inside of his cheek because clearly you’re being petty and he’s measuring just how much patience he has tonight. Jake says your name quietly, low and firm, which does 7 natural wonders in your abdomen.

“Honestly? I was wondering if you remembered, or if it was just something you said because you were drunk.”

He delayed, he avoided, he compartmentalized, and he resurfaced at this ungodly hour. So yes, you get to be petty in thin sleep shorts because he fucking messaged you at 1am after posting another girl in his story. 

Indifference isn't respect, avoiding isn't civility.

When he looks back at you, his expression is composed, which is unusual for someone as emotional as him. “I didn’t say anything back that night,” he says, meeting your eyes.

You nod. “I noticed.”

“Yeah.” He practically huffs out a laughter. “I just didn’t want to say the wrong thing.”

You watch him, unimpressed despite the heartaches that say otherwise; loud and thrumming through your body in the form of your foot tapping. 

“I figured if I answered at that moment, it would either sound like I was some guy who’s going to take advantage of a moment just because it’s convenient.” Then he straightens, like now he’s talking out of judicious judgment and not out of the heavy first-love impulses to work it out with you. “I chose time,” his voice steady. “For both of us.”

A minute of silence passes but you don’t try to break it, not that you had the proper words to do it anyway. He sees you though, even when he can’t see your eyes.

When it’s clear that you won’t say anything anymore, Jake swallows, then leans his elbows against his knees to at least try to find your gaze.

“I missed you,” 

You look up at him before you can stop yourself, like your body reacts faster than your pride ever could. His eyes are on you already, open and honest and a little scared, despite the composure he holds tight.

“But missing someone,” he continues, “doesn’t automatically mean going back is the right move. And I don’t want to pretend it is.”

The cafe noise swells for a second, people talking about their much jovial nights, but the only words ringing in your head are Jake's.

Dumb and easy, that’s what you are, what always will be. Because you should be mad at him right now, right? You're supposed to curse him out, block him in social media, and never reminisce the past like an aspiring historian.

He leans back in his chair, measuring exactly how much gravity to put on the moment. “I know I messed up,” he admits softly. “Not texting. All of it. I’m sorry.”

You huff a laugh that’s equal parts bitter and incredulous. “That’s just your character, isn’t it?”

He smirks faintly like it’s an inside joke he fully understands, that half-smile that used to make your chest do dumb things when you were 18 and convinced he was untouchable. “Maybe it’s strategic inconvenience?”

You roll your eyes. “Strategic inconvenience,” you repeat, flatly, like it’s a brand. “You mean… you’re an asshole.”

“Point taken,” he says, hands up like he surrenders but he doesn’t flinch when you call him that, doesn’t ask for sugarcoating, doesn’t even try to defend. He just accepts.

“You know, you can't decide I’m already guilty before I finish talking.”

You tilt your head, crossing your arms. “You are guilty.”

A corner of his mouth twitches. “Exhibit A.”

“Don’t make jokes,” you say firmly. “That’s how you get out of things.”

“I’m not getting out of anything,” he replies with a smile that almost mocks. “I’m sitting right here.”

“Bare minimum,” you mutter.

He leans forward this time, elbows on the table, eyes on you. “What do you want me to say?”

Now you feel the aftertaste of bad decisions and ideas, when he’s looking at you that despite how gone pride is in this moment – now just running on want and unhealthy self-management – he looks like he won. ‘Cause sure, he fucked the circadian rhythm and pulled you out in pajamas like hauling a rabbit out a magician's ass and pissed you off again, but he thinks it’s worth it. Because he got to see you.

You scoff, narrowing your eyes at him, "I thought you know the right shit to say now, Jaeyun."

The way you say his name again undoes him. He grins, shaking his head like he can't believe himself for that reaction.

“I’m not here to charm my way back in. I know that doesn’t work on you anymore.”

You raise an eyebrow and he shrugs, long fingers tracing the edge of the table.

“I came because I missed you,” he continues, eyes following the lines of your features. "And because I figured if you were going to be mad, I’d rather you be mad to my face.”

You cross your arms tighter. “That’s not an apology.”

He tilts his head, eyes flicking over you – your crossed arms, your shorts, the way you’re still here despite yourself. "You're sick of apologies. I'd rather show."

You swallow. Annoyed at him, at yourself. “You look way too pleased for someone who’s supposedly guilty.”

He chuckles. “I am guilty.”

Your jaw tightens. “Don’t get comfortable.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” his smile turns stupidly fond. “You’re terrifying when you’re mad.”

This is idiotic and you do feel like one. But that has always been the deal with Jaeyun; always complicated even before you got together. And now you’re in the after being together department, you’re not sure you find yourselves to be… ex-materials. 

This is really unhealthy, but he doesn’t see you trying to leave your seat.

Jake smiles, no teeth, just smug, and pulls out his wallet from his pocket like he’s getting comfortable. “So,” he says. “Do you want me to buy you coffee now?”

He's the bad decision – the one you already made.

Oh, this is fucked.

Tip #7: Use your mouth. He likes it.

You know better than to stay up late for a guy – you swore you learned your lesson. But… the conversations were easy and traitorously familiar, exchanging stories and laughter with the natural cadence of people who knew how to do it. And to add to the betrayal, it’s… not awkward. Which is bad, like really really bad, because that means you both still have chemistry.

Jake drives you back to your dorm at 4am again like it’s your personal devil’s hour. You thank him and get down the Bronco, but he gets off too, and meets you on the other side after he rounds from the hood.

You try passing by him but he grabs your wrist and tugs you back. He gives you a once-over, smirking a little at the sight of your bare legs in this cold. 

“I’m sorry for not catching up sooner." he suddenly says. You blink, just once, like you’re trying to understand. "and for posting that girl." he adds.

“That’s not my busin –”

“It is.” he cuts you off, thumb now running over your wrist. “You get to be annoyed.”

You force the smile off from your mouth, settling to bite the inside of your cheek instead. “I know better than to pine for someone’s boyfriend.”

Now, Jake smiles like you dropped a good pun. He shakes his head, and pulls you a little closer which you could easily mistake as being clingy if you’re careless with your thoughts. “I haven’t dated or even talked to anyone after you.”

Your heart jumps and your stomach lurches. “That’s sad.” you say, light and dismissive.

He huffs a laugh through his nose. “Yeah,” he says. “Guess I’m a little pathetic.”

He pulls you just a little closer. Then he leans in, just a little. “So am I forgiven?” he says softly.

You scoff, turning your face just enough to avoid how close he is. You're not in the mood to confront just how he's looking at you. “You’re asking like you didn’t keep me up at four in the morning.”

“Strategic timing,” Jake says easily. “You're nice when you're sleepy."

"I am not."

He hums, amused, eyes dipping to your mouth like he’s thinking something he has the decency not to say. “You didn’t say no.”

You tug your hand slightly, testing him. He lets you go immediately but the warmth of where he was lingers, traitorous.

“Have a nice night, asshole.” 

Jaeyun looks at you like you’re still his favorite smart mouth. “You too, princess.”

Back in your room, you check your Instagram. Jake removed the story.

Tip #8: He's your ex, there's no slowburn.

Days pass and there’s buildup faster than what you’re used to.

After that day, the campus feels smaller. Now that you know where Jake Sim exists inside it (he shared with you his classes and where they were, just a small thing he mentioned when you guys talked). You’re not tracking it – obviously, come on. At least not consciously. It’s only inevitable, you tell yourself, knowing a place holds meaning.

You start seeing Jake Sim more, also inevitable.

At first it’s coincidence; a glimpse across the quad, a passing figure near the library steps. It’s a quick ‘hi’ and wave. Then it becomes routine – eye contact that happens faster, his hellos that always suggest more conversation. He intends them to be quick but they always takes up more time than necessary, only to end up with him running to get to his next class, you trying not to smile on the way back to your dorm. 

Then comes the heart.

You, Mia, and Lila go out for dinner – nothing fancy, just food and girls night. You take a picture, you post it to your Instagram story without thinking. Your phone buzzes less than a minute later.

A very specific like. From him, of course, his username and his profile picture. You stare at the screen for half a second before Mia notices, then Lila notices, then all three of you are shrieking because slowburn doesn’t seem to exist here at all.

Okay. Whatever. It’s fine. It’s nothing. That’s the theme with Jaeyun Sim, and you’re more than adamant to keep it rolling. You don’t think about it – well, you do but you try not to, it’s just that you pause to breathe while brushing your teeth. So yeah, you do think about it way too much for your own good. 

Enough that later, you post with more purpose and intention, though you try not to be obvious. It’s just to see.

Sometimes he likes them. Sometimes he doesn’t.

Even when it’s a really cute selfie of you – of course he doesn’t like it. But if it's a random picture of food, he likes it. 

Whatever! It probably just means that he’s totally not into you and you should actually start to realize how pathetic it is to post a story for a guy. You have to accept that he’s a player, a real NBA baller with how he manages to flirt with you and turn you over for food. 

One night, you’re out again – this time it’s loud and late and sticky with sweat and bass-heavy music. You’re back to a party after a week long of demands, dragged back to blinding strobes and catching names you’ll forget later. You slip into a bathroom stall, mirror fogged, lighting criminal but flattering enough. Mia takes a selfie, and you pose in between them while Lila stands behind you, not really overthinking it. Your outfit shows more skin than usual – not obscene to the point of out-of-character unordinary, but something’s undeniably different this time. 

You post it because it’s a good picture. You drink, you exchange names, you drink more – more importantly, you have fun and let loose. You check your phone and other than the usual flood in your inbox, you see a specific username that manages to hitch your breath every time.

A like. And a reply.

jake: i thought u had to be dragged into parties? 😂

Your breath catches so sharply you almost choke on it.

You stare at the message, grin spreading before you can stop it, warmth curling low in your chest – something light and stupid and undeniable. Because yeah, this is happening, he really is starting to be part of your life again, in these dumb ways that mean more to you. You don’t even reply right away, you just sit there for a second, phone in your hands, heart traitorously satisfied.

You don’t go home drunk that night. But you go home with an epiphany that gets you smiling into your skincare like a dumbass, replaying the message in the dark like you find something you’ve once lost.

You physically press the phone to your chest, eyes squeezed shut, a sound leaving your mouth that you will never admit happened. You stare at your screen for a long time, smiling into the quiet of your room, the night suddenly too soft, too full.

This isn’t nothing anymore.

It’s the beginning of something you’ve swam in before.

Tip #9: Post the selfie.

The next few days shift in a way that’s subtle enough to deny, and you still say it’s nothing even when you start to think otherwise. Jake’s messages start coming more. Not in a good morning beautiful way that takes things too fast and icky. You don’t talk all the time, but once a week turns into once every two days, then replies that used to lag start coming quicker.

It starts small.

A reply to something you were meant to send to Mia that accidentally ends up in his DMs instead because you’re stupid and half-asleep and maybe you’ve been backreading that’s why you were in his chat log.

You: omg im sososo sorryyyyy

jake: its aight 😭

jake: seems like my business now tho

jake: tell me 😂😂

Then there’s him reacting to things he never reacted to before – your complaints about deadlines, a blurry picture of your coffee, a story of your notes spread across the table with a self-deprecating caption.

02simjake: liked your story.

02simjake: replied to your story: real

Then one afternoon, when you’re sitting on the steps outside your building finishing up some work, your phone buzzes again.

You shake your head, laughing under your breath, heat crawling up your neck. This easy back-and-forth, this familiarity slipping back into place like it knows where home is – like you know where home is.

Back to the boy who never failed to make your heart thump like a drum.

And on some random night when you finally breathe from the uni demands, you post a simple selfie. It’s nothing. But he messages, and it’s enough to get you back on adrenaline.

simjakee_ replied to your story: go to sleep

You stare at it and type anyway.

You stare at the ceiling, a grin slowly spreading across your face, chest warm and buzzing in that unmistakable way. This is real, your ex is flirting with you on Instagram and you feel as giddy as you did at 13-years-old; back when it was you and him learning how to tie ribbons and landing on skateboards. It’s intention, soft and careful and unmistakably him, with the wisdom that came from learning the past and letting you see just how far it has improved. 

The boy who couldn’t balance you and his studies is now a responsible guy with fixed time management, on the way to your apartment – because he wants to see you. With no excuse that he doesn’t have time, or that he can’t because he’s really busy. Now, he’s asking if you have time, and he follows your schedule.

5 minutes after your dumb hoax impatience, he texts again.

jake: im here

If you had good instincts, which you doubt you do, you’d turn away with the defense mechanism of someone with avoidant attachment issues just to protect your heart – but you can’t, not when it feels this… thrilling.

You open the door and there’s your ex; tall, hoodie pulled over his cap, hands shoved into his pant pockets like he’s pretending this is casual, like he didn’t just show up at your door on impulse. You look up at him through your lashes before you can stop yourself and – God. Yeah. This looks exactly like toxic, bad decisions.

“So,” he says quietly, eyes dropping to your face. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” you answer. “Why, were you hoping?”

Jake huffs a short laugh, shaking his head. “Just checking.”

Then you let him in before you could decide to shut the door in his face and regret whatever this is. His gaze drifts, just taking in the room like he hasn’t seen it before. When his eyes come back to you, you see them check you out while you try to process that he’s standing in your room at an hour where intentions blur and honesty slips out too easily.

You cross your arms, suddenly hyper-aware of how you’re dressed. “So what do you want to do?” 

He shrugs, eyes on yours. “You really wanna ask me?”

And when you blink multiple times, the heat crawling up your neck, he smiles playfully like he didn’t realize how that sounded. He shakes his head before settling on your bed, spreading his legs while he sits on the edge, putting his cap down. “Relax. I’m not gonna do anything.”

You raise a brow. “Bold of you to assume I was worried.”

That earns another smile, warm and dangerous.

“Okay,” he says, amused. “Then what are you thinking?”

You hesitate, shifting your weight, pretending you need to fix something that isn’t actually wrong. You lean against the desk instead of sitting, arms still crossed like they might save you from yourself and your thoughts and the dooming questions. “Why did you come over?” you ask finally, voice lighter than you feel. 

Jake looks up, brows knitting together just a little, elbows resting on his thighs. “You invited me.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes like you didn’t fucking know that. “Yeah, but I didn’t force you. It’s not like I dragged you here. What made you come?”

For a second, you think he’s going to deflect, make a joke, or shrug it off the way he used to – but he doesn’t. Right now, he licks the inside of his cheek, before saying, “I wanted to see you.” No overthinking, no qualifiers, just the truth, laid down with pure honesty.

Your mouth curves before you can stop it. You immediately try to swallow the smile, turn your face away like you’re suddenly very interested in the floor.

“Oh,” you mutter. “That’s… dumb.”

“Is it?” he asks, amused.

You glance back at him. “A little.”

He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “You invited me this late and I’m the dumb one?”

“Touché,” you concede, shrugging.

Another pause settles in, thick but not uncomfortable. The kind that only exists when it’s loaded and even though it feels good, it doesn’t make it any less right. Now, again, you’re never the arbiter on what’s correct and not – yet you look at him like you’re battling with your moral compass because wrong looks so fucking hot if it’s Jake Sim.

Jake exhales through his nose, then slowly reaches out – open palm, unhurried. “Come here,” he says quietly, a balance of order and ask. 

Your heart stutters, and you hesitate just a second too long only to slip your hand into his anyway. His fingers close around yours gently, and he pulls you toward him with care. You end up standing between his knees. His thumb moves without thinking, brushing slowly over your knuckles, grounding and absent-minded all at once. 

"Thought you weren't going to do anything." you whisper. He ignores.

He leans forward, stopping just short of touching you – then tilts his head and rests his forehead against your stomach. He stays there for a moment, eyes closed, like he’s anchoring himself and is starting to realize he needs this more than he’s willing to admit.

"Is this okay?" he asks quietly.

Your stomach drops. "Yes," you answer.

He exhales, relieved, shoulders relaxing as he settles there properly. One hand still holding yours. The other resting loosely at your hip, and it’s a lot like threading dangerously down a line he isn’t sure he should cross.

Your free hand lifts before your brain can stop it. Your fingers slide into the hair at the nape of his neck, which is devastating to Jake, who lets out the smallest sound but it tells you everything.

You shouldn’t be doing this. You know it. And yet, your thumb strokes slowly, guiltily, like muscle memory never really left. Jake doesn’t move, just stays there, forehead pressed to you, breathing you in like this is the quiet he’s been missing.

“God,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I missed this.”

This. Not you.

“Jaeyun,” you call. He only hums, thumb rubbing against your hip and you feel the warmth of his touch through your shorts. Your fingers curl slightly in his hair, grounding yourself as much as he is with your hips.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” you say quietly, half a joke, half a warning. “Doing this.”

His lips twitch, but you don’t see. “I know.”

“The –"

“I missed you,” he repeats, this time not to himself but to you for sure this time. “I really don’t want to fucking pretend I don’t.”

You exhale shakily, shaking your head but you’re smiling. “You’re so annoying.” You huff out a laugh, breathless.

He looks up at you, eyes practically doe before he breaks away and shakes his head. Then he stands, hands fully to himself which fidget at the side of his jeans. At first you're confused, then scared, because you don't want him to leave.

“We can just chill.” he tells you, obviously holding his composure tight while he avoids your eyes.

You cross your arms and stare at his chest, shaking your head because you don't know what you're doing. Clearly, so does he, because when he looks at you, he's trying to read you.

It's silent, save from the sound of your appliances and the casual drive of cars outside. He's looking into you while you pick at your elbow, studying just what you want from him.

You take a step back without realizing it and Jake notices instantly, his body tensing just slightly. “You want me to go?” he asks, careful.

The thought makes your stomach drop.

“No,” you say too fast, shaking your head.

You look at each other like that – like you’re standing at the edge of something familiar and dangerous, both knowing exactly where it leads.

He swallows, throat bobbing, and your gaze follows it before you can stop yourself.

You step forward, still enclosed in your own embrace, and he watches you tensely because you've got the reins and he's just letting you steer. Your fingers curl on his hoodie, eyes refusing to meet his for now as when you tug the fabric, he willingly follows.

You look up, finally, and he's looking into you like he's reading the directions off your gaze.

He knows now, of course, plain in sight, what you need him to do.

Jake leans down slowly and carefully, enough that you feel his breath, warm against your cheek, your nose. He stops there, giving you time. “Tell me to stop,” he says.

Your noses brush and the world narrows down to breath and heat and the memory of how this used to feel.

Jake exhales, slow and shaky. “Fuck.”

Your lips brush his first – just a graze, like you’re both checking if the other will pull away because you know better than to indulge. When neither of you do, he exhales into you, a soft sound of relief, and then ducks down to your height to press his mouth on you. You flinch when his hand finds your hips. Your lips move together like you’re relearning something you never really forgot.

Jake pulls back like he got burnt. “Fuck,” he whispers, breath warm against your mouth. Then, quieter: “I really –”

His hands caress the soft curve of your waist and hips, firm but careful when he pushes you back against the counter of your kitchen – decisive in a way he’s made up his mind and isn’t going to pretend otherwise. You let out a soft breath as you stumble back, the back of your legs bumping the wood. He kisses you again, hungrier this time, hands steady on you while your tongues meet in your mouth.

Your hands find his hair again instantly, fingers threading through it like they always naturally do. Jake groans quietly this time and his hands flatten against your back, warm and grounding, holding you like he can’t handle space.

You can’t help the little sound that leaves you, and he tenses, just a little, catching your bottom lip between his teeth like restraint’s something he’s never known. You tug him down and he follows, ducking down his height just to chase your mouth. His large hands slide underneath your shirt and touches your skin there, fingertips slightly grazing the hooks of your bra.

When you pull back just enough to breathe, your noses brush. Jake rests his forehead against yours, breathing heavy but controlled.

“Shit,” he whispers again, softer this time. “This feels unfair.”

You smile despite yourself. “Do you hate it?”

He laughs under his breath, arms still wrapped around you. “Hell no,” he admits. “I’d do it again.”

You lean in for another kiss, worse than last time because his tongue presses fast into your mouth, and his warm fingers caress the skin underneath your bra hooks. You tear away for a startled laugh, smacking his arm and he smiles, before pulling you back in for another kiss.

It’s almost 3 am when you finally tell him he should go.

Jake doesn’t argue. You walk him down the building, hoodie sleeves brushing your wrist in the elevator, the air between you calmer but heavier obviously.

Outside your building, the street is empty and quiet, in a way that shows the impropriety of this rendezvous.

"Well," he says, rocking back on his heels. "Text me when you’re inside."

You scoff. "You don’t get boyfriend privileges."

He grins. "Worth a try."

You dap him out (because he always he insists you should after making out, just for tradition) and you’re already pulling your hand back when he tugs you forward just enough to press a soft kiss to the bridge of your nose.

"Goodnight," he murmurs.

Back in your room, the silence hits different.

You sit on your bed, staring across you with the post-experience clarity of what you have just done. You laugh under your breath, sharp and humorless because of course he’d do that, of course you’d let him.

This is how it starts. This is how you forget why it ended. This is how you convince yourself this time will be different.

So stupid, you think. So predictable.

So, very, toxic.

Tip #10: Let it become a habit.

For the first day, you two kinda tried pretending nothing happened. 

Jake answered texts the way he always had – flirty but polite and measured. He showed up to class, ate, slept – all in time. He even convinced himself that the warmth lingering in his palms was psychosomatic, some delayed response to nostalgia rather than the very real memory of pushing you against the counter he pretended not to remember. You were equally complicit. You waved at him across campus like nothing had shifted tectonically between your bodies. You spoke in full sentences and didn’t stammer once, so it was going pretty great.

This mutual delusion lasted exactly thirty-five hours. Because at precisely 11:07 pm, Jake Sim’s on your door unannounced, looking faintly apologetic and was simply bracing for consequences. “I was nearby,” he said, which was a lie. “I figured,” you replied, which was an acceptance. 

He stayed until 1 am. You worked on an assignment but was cut for intervals because he’d pull you in his lap and kiss you. 

Jake had always been a creature of habit, as once something entered his routine, it stayed. You slipped back in as if you’d never left. He started showing up with intent disguised as coincidence, your study sessions lasted longer than needed. There’s also late-night drives where the music stayed low and you laugh about stupid things together while munching down on McDonald’s fries.

Weeks passed and there also came the moments when the day’s busy for anything particular, that even hanging out in the same room was a little close to impractical. However, Jaeyun finds the time he couldn’t give before. He makes sure to call when you don’t meet, or a quick snack to hand over between in-between class schedules. Your favorite is when he promises just five minutes to see you after a lecture.

"Five minutes," you say. "You promised."

"I stand by that."

Then he hugs you, chin-hooked-over-your-head hug that immediately eats up about forty-five seconds. After 5 minutes;

“Time’s up.”

He doesn’t move.

“…Jaeyun.”

“Just one more,” he says quietly, arms still locked around you.

In the hallway, you’re walking with your Foreign Language partner, running lines for a presentation due the next day. He laughs at something you mispronounce, leans in to correct you, points at your notes. You don’t even think twice about it until later, until Jake decides it is a big deal.

He’s on your couch now, sprawled while you tell him it was just your partner, he scoffs.

“Yeah, right. Nothing,” he mutters.

“Literally, leave it, Jaeyun,” you say, arms crossed, irritation buzzing under your skin.

He glances at you. “Didn’t look like nothing,” he says, quieter now, sulking like he hates that he noticed at all.

You bite back you don’t get to be mad or anything at all that would turn this to a fight. Instead, you turn to your laptop, pretending to care more about another language than the way his presence tilts your focus off-center.

From the couch, his foot nudges yours absentmindedly, like muscle memory.

“You still need help with that presentation?” he asks eventually, casual, almost bored.

On some random week, Jake has had too much to drink. Now, he loves a good beer and can endure it more than the average man, but clearly, everything's been building up – you, to a great degree actually – that he comes up your building and knocks at 2am and clearly, at the very least, is tipsy.

When you open the door, all he had to do is follow the silhouette of your body underneath your thin sleepwear and listen to your very angry remarks about respect and time or whatever, before he's already letting himself in and kissing you against your bed.

He's respectful, always is, but you feel how tight he holds your hips like he's trying not to touch the skin of your thighs grazing his fingertips.

The morning comes around and you wake up with his chest pressed against your back and his arms around your waist in your bed – no hookup, clothes still on, just messy makeouts – but it's enough for you to groan in disappointment anyway.

"We need to set boundaries." you state while you make your waffles.

Jake hums, trying not to get distracted by the curve of your ass when your back's turned to him.

You look at him, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed. "You're always like that. Always so pushy and breaking boundaries and breaking the rules – "

He manages to chuckle. "That was two years ago."

"And last night! And the nights before!" you scoff, shaking your head while you massage your temple.

It's bad. This is bad.

When you turn to look at him again, he's already in front of you, pressing close while his hand finds the side of your neck. You tilt your head up towards him, meeting his eyes which seem to study your face so closely.

You can't really think properly when he's this near, when he's touching you.

Jake’s thumb pauses at your neck. His voice is softer now, clearer than last night but still low. “I know,” he says. “Tell me to stop.”

You open your mouth, nothing comes out.

He exhales a laugh under his breath, fond and frustrated all at once, then leans his forehead against yours instead.

That's so unfair.

You swallow, and push lightly at his chest. "Stop showing up at 2am, Jaeyun."

“I know.” He nods immediately. “That’s on me. I'm sorry."

When push comes to shove, between self-respect or Jaeyun, you run on drunk impulse on a sober gut.

Your studies? A bit compromised. You still show up and pass and look functional on paper, but there’s a fog where focus should be, thoughts drifting where they shouldn't.

And the thing was – Jake Sim was still exceptional and brilliant. Still building a future with the same relentless precision that once earned him accolades and recognition, but now there was something else threaded into his life, something not quantifiable with the integers he mastered in so well.

You. A variable he no longer tried to control and pretend wasn’t doing mass decimation to his sane meter.

“…Are you serious?” Mia turns to you after what she’s dubbed an essential debriefing, legs tucked beneath her as she stares like you’ve just confessed to crime. Your life odyssey – past tense colliding violently with future tense – has been laid bare between sips of iced coffee. You sink further into her couch, picking at your nails. “I mean. I think so?”

Lila blinks. “You’ve been meeting your ex, who’s been acting like your boyfriend minus the title?”

You think about Jake – about the way he waits for you outside lecture halls, pretending to scroll through his phone like he hasn’t been tracking the time down to the minute. About the way he listens now, really listens, like he’s afraid to miss something important and is completely terrified that you’d have to repeat yourself. 

You tell yourself – just this once – that it’s fine not to define it yet. After all, habits take time to name, even the really bad ones called making out with your ex in his Bronco and going on a dinner date in a real lavish restaurant billed in his card after.

Later that night, when you’re back in your room, phone face-down beside you, you wonder when exactly it happened. You wonder if he’s thinking about you too and your phone buzzes like it heard you.

Oh, this is sick. You've become a dog.

Then once upon a time, you were only supposed to be passing through to find Jake and return the borrowed charger, then leave.

He's near the steps of the humanities hall when you spot him, surrounded by friends. He’s leaning back against the railing and there’s a girl beside him whose shoulder brushes his arm when she says something. He laughs at what she says, doesn't really flinch when she touches his arm.

His eyes lift and immediately he's already jogging over. Once he's right there, you reach the charger out but he grabs your elbow instead, then pulls you closer to him.

Jake's eyes search search your face like it's checking damage.

“What,” you ask flatly.

A slow, crooked, and infuriating smile tugs at his lips. “You look like you’re about to murder me,” he says quietly.

“Stop,” you say, low and clipped, even as you tug at your arm. He doesn’t let go, thumb warm against your sleeve to keep you there.

“Relax,” he murmurs, tone easy, almost lazy. Like you’re not two bad decisions away from ending what shouldn't have started. “I’m not doing anything.”

You glare at him. He just watches you, gaze steady in that way that’s always made you feel seen without being put on the spot.

He finally lets your elbow go, hands dropping into his pockets. “Didn’t mean anything,” he adds, glancing briefly back toward where he was standing earlier, then back to you.

Back to you.

"You look so fucking annoyed." Jake laughs, hand reaching up to ruffle your hair.

You shove lightly at his chest, more reflex than force. “Don’t.”

He stumbles back a step anyway, like you’ve wounded him, hand flying to his chest. “Wow,” he says, dragging the word out, eyebrows lifting. “Violence on campus.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you – curling slightly despite yourself.

He catches it instantly even though it's barely anything. His grin widens, smug and triumphant. “There it is,” he says, pointing at you like he’s won something. “I knew you still liked me.”

Then he positions his arm over your shoulders, dragging you to lunch off-campus just to hook you back again.

Fuck. It's fucked.

Tip #11: Give him something to remember.

November is fucking hell. It was the month professors collectively decided that sleep was a suggestion and deadlines were a personality test. They expect submissions on top of other “minor” requirements that demand just as much work anyway, just to reason it out as a growth strategy for the harsh, professional world of jobs. As if the real world operated on 72-hour days and the sustained abuse of caffeine. 

You do try to see the good at the end of the tunnel from all the sadism, because in the middle of your aggressively color-coded annotated calendar sat one date circled in ink: Jaeyun’s 21st birthday. 

It wasn’t going to be another birthday to pass with simple dinner, much less under the vituperative ultimatum of the endless projects and studies.

You insisted he celebrated it with everyone.

Not just a rushed meal squeezed between deadlines or a quiet “we’ll do something later” promise that later never really comes.

So you booked the fancy restaurant, you sent the texts, and herded his friends like you're the Shepherd Himself. You told them to dress nice, and prayed no one would accidentally ruin the surprise with a dumb slip.

Jaeyun was wearing a simple crisp white button-up with trousers.

The night of, he showed up thinking it was just the two of you, until he walked in.

The table was already full with familiar faces and grins, singing happy birthday the moment Jaeyun's at the entrance like a humiliation ritual. For half a second, he just stood there, blinking, processing – then he laughed, stunned, hand dragging through his hair like he didn’t know what to do with himself and the moment of everyone he loved in one huge ass table.

“What the hell?” he said, turning to you.

You shrugged, way too casual for the amount of effort this took. “Happy birthday?”

The dinner itself was loud and warm and unpretentious despite the restaurant itself being conspicuous of poise. His friends made the space theirs anyway – chairs pulled closer, voices overlapping, utensils clinking. They toasted him for things both sincere and stupid, and his ears end up turning to a color red.

Sunghoon starts first, hand in his pocket and red wine raised high. Riki follows, then Jungwon, then Sunoo who smiles a little bashfully.

His friends told stories you hadn’t heard yet and ones you’d heard too many times, and Jaeyun took it all with that soft, crooked smile like he couldn’t believe he was being celebrated this openly.

Cake came with a candle and off-key singing he definitely didn’t ask for. Jaeyun made his wishes, cheeks warm, eyes bright.

At some point in the night, draped in Jaeyun's coat, you stand near the edge of the balcony overlooking the city below. When he slips behind you, his hands automatically settle on your waist. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, smile lazy and unguarded.

“Hi,” he says, like he hasn’t seen you all night.

You laugh, one hand on top of his, and the other hand threading up to the hair on his nape. “Hi, birthday boy.”

He rocks you side to side, barely moving, chin resting against your hair. “You know,” he murmurs, voice low so only you can hear, “I was genuinely okay with just us two. I meant that.”

“I know,” you say.

“But this?” He glances around at the inside, his friends, the calmed chaos. Then his gaze drops back to you. “This is… insane. In the best way.”

You tilt your head up. “You like it?”

He laughs, soft and breathless. “I’m obsessed with it. With you.”

He presses a kiss to your temple first, slow and lingering. Then another to your cheek. He pauses there, lips hovering, like he’s savoring the moment.

“Can I?” he asks quietly, eyes flicking to your lips.

You don’t answer with words. You just turn around, hands settling on his nape.

The kiss is warm and unhurried, his hand sliding up your back, thumb brushing over your spine. It’s full, sweet, and certain. Like this is exactly where he wants to stay.

Jake pulls back just enough to grin. “I love this.”

“Your party?” you ask.

“You.” he corrects easily, like the word belongs there now. Like it always has.

Later, he drags you back onto the dance floor in front of the live musicians. 

He dances badly on purpose – spinning you too fast, dipping you slightly too low your back is lowkey bad now, laughing when you squeal and clutch onto him. At one point, he lifts you off the ground just because he can, grinning like he’s won something.

“You’re showing off,” you accuse.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “It’s my birthday.”

Eventually, when your feet ache and your voice is hoarse from laughing, when the night’s adrenaline has settled on your bodies, the crowd starts to thin and some people head out. You thank them for coming, waving as they disappear into the elevator with tired smiles and leftover cake in hand.

As you make your rounds, thanking people for coming, accepting hugs, the night starts folding in on itself.

That’s when you hear it. Something that wasn't meant for you – low, lazy voices carried over by the balcony doors still cracked open.

Jake and Sunghoon are leaning against the edge, sharing what’s left of the wine. Jake’s sleeves are rolled up, posture loose in a way that only happens when he’s had a good night.

Sunghoon tilts his glass, watching the last drops swirl. “So,” he says casually, too casually. “You and her.”

Jake huffs out a breath, not defensive just honest. “No.”

Oh.

Sunghoon looks at him and waits.

“We’re not together,” Jake adds, after a beat. It's not denial, just a fact that still makes your chest curl.

Sunghoon hums. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Jake’s mouth quirks, something complicated flickering across his face. He takes a sip, eyes drifting somewhere distant like he’s replaying moments instead of looking at the present.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Like last time.”

There’s no bitterness in it, not something like regret either. Just that strange, suspended place between was and isn’t clouding over like a storm coming.

Sunghoon clinks his glass lightly against Jake’s. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “you look happy.”

Jake smiles then. “I am.”

You hide behind the wall before either of them notices you lingering, heart doing something uncomfortable in your chest.

When you reappear a minute later, Jake looks up instantly – like he felt the shift in the room.

“Hey,” he says, easy smile snapping back into place.

“Hey,” you reply, mirroring it.

But this time, when he reaches for your hand, his grip is a little tighter.

"Wanna go?" he asks, hand soothing the small of your back.

You nod, giving Sunghoon a hug before you slip behind the doors before Jake. They make their goodbyes and you wait outside, Jake's coat protecting you from the cold.

It rings, that one single word that makes the night cooler than it really is.

No, you're not dating. And he's vocal about it too, probably with all his friends who also asked. You start to realize how stupid you must've looked, sending the invites, kissing his cheek throughout the night while everyone knows that – there's nothing between you two.

Your heel taps against the concrete, lips quivering, getting into your thoughts before his palm finds your lower back and his lips press on your temple.

"I love you." he whispers while he pulls you into him.

No. We're not together. Could've fooled me. Yeah. Like last time.

The drive is quiet, the city blurs past, lights streaking softly through the windows. His hand finds your thigh at red lights, thumb brushing slow, absent-minded circles. You try not to think, because it's his day and you'd hate to ruin something this good.

So you swallow and turn to him.

“I don’t really wanna go home yet,” you admit quietly.

He glances at you, surprised for half a second, then smiles. “You can stay with me for a bit.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he says easily. “We’ll keep it chill. I’ll get you home before two.”

It’s only 11. 

At his place, everything is hushed. The shoes are off by the door, lights kept low. His apartment is very much him – some legos half-built on a shelf, posters slightly crooked, figurines taking up their space, a hoodie draped over his chair – and you’ve been over a couple of times but it’s only now you really look over his orderly clutter. 

You smile. “You never finished that one.”

He groans. “Don’t expose me.”

There’s a pause, comfortable, charged, settling in while you throw your heels somewhere across his floor. You look over the lego cars and books aligned in his book shelf, giving them a better look, until he slips his hand in yours and pulls you towards him. Jake rests his chin on the crown of your head, humming in contentment at your warmth underneath him.

“Thank you for tonight.” he says quietly. You tip your chin up to look at him and simply smile as a silent you’re welcome.

He leans in first, kissing you softly, like he’s testing the water. It’s slow, his hands on your waist with your fingers on the back of his neck.

Then another kiss, lasting longer this time. You shift closer without thinking, pressing, pulling him down to you as he melts in. His hand slides to your hips while your fingers curl into his hair, tugging just slightly.

When you pull away, you press one last kiss on the tip of his nose before telling him you'll just change out of your clothes. He nods and lets you go to his bathroom to slip into the comfort of sleepwear.

You rethink, even though you're trying not to. Let it be not another bad decision you make yet everything about him is – though you can't resist. The reminders echo but the image-driven mind can't lose the way he kisses you so good, and holds you the way you need to be held.

So when you get out, his shirt's still on but more crumpled and loosened. He's talking about something that happened in dinner, rambling the way he always does. Except when he turns to you to tell you what Riki did with the cake, Jake freezes. You look shy but still, you meet his eyes, the same ones that can't even pretend to be respectful as he stares at the imprint of your nipples through your tulle and lace nightdress.

Jake's silent and frozen, eyes wide and jaw slack. You manage a smile, softly padding your way to him. Once in front of him, you stand on your toes to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down to you despite how stiff he is, how careful he is not to touch you.

Still, when you kiss him, he kisses you back.

The kisses deepen naturally, like neither of you really wants to stop. But he feels your rush, when you pull closer like you’re looking for something, how you kiss harder and lick into his mouth. He pulls back suddenly – not far, just enough to look at you. He looks ragged and trying to collect his thinning composure, blinking like it will save him.

You meet his eyes, breath a little uneven, heart loud in your ears. You don’t say anything – don’t really feel like you have to. Whatever he sees in your expression makes his face change, something startled and tensed passing through it like an epiphany for something like he didn’t expect. 

His thumb brushes your cheek, slow and careful. “You’re okay?”

You nod, eyes flicking back to his mouth. “Yeah.”

He exhales, leaning his forehead against yours, eyes closed for a second like he’s steadying himself because if he doesn’t, then he’ll lose the thin veil that’s keeping him restrained. When he kisses you again, it’s still slow but more breaths – like he’s losing a part of himself when he’s giving this much to you. He keeps his hands on your waist, pulling you closer without really meaning to but because his body needs it.

And when he finally rests his forehead against yours again, smiling weakly and knowing and wanting but respecting –

“We can just stay like this,” he says, swallowing. “I don’t need anything else.” he reassures because he’s terrified that you think you need to do this for him.

You look up at him through your lashes, nodding. “I know.” you add, “I want this.”

You kiss him again before he can process it – harder and faster this time, with a weight behind it that makes his breath hitch immediately. Your hand slides into his hair, fingers threading through it as if you need something solid to hold onto.

He makes a sound he doesn’t mean to.

It’s quiet, caught in his throat, but you feel the way his hands tighten at your waist, the way his shoulders tense before he gives in. He shivers, just a little, like the kiss reached somewhere deeper than he expected and pulls out a moan from his chest. You pull away, your hands lingering. Jake has to bite his lip, feeling your warm and soft palm move from his hair, down to his shoulders, across his chest, until they finally rest flat against his abs. You feel it, the way his muscles contract from your touch, the way his breath catches shakily against your mouth.

You look up again, your eyes undeniably dark, and you see his restraint breaking as his Adam's apple bob, sweat glistening down his skin. You nudge him back, guiding him with your palms until he sits on the edge of the bed. He lets you. He doesn’t resist at all. His legs hit the edge of the bed and he sits down almost automatically.

He looks up at you then.

His hair is messy, lips pink and swollen, eyes dark and searching – like he’s trying to read you without pushing, without asking for more than you’re giving. His hands slide from your waist to rest at your hips, grounding, reverent. You stand between his knees, letting your fingers comb through his hair. 

“Baby,” he says quietly, voice rough, like he’s trying to stay in control.

Your nails graze his scalp just enough to make him inhale sharply. His eyes flutter shut for a second, forehead dropping forward until it presses lightly against your stomach.

He exhales there, like he’s holding himself together one breath at a time – but you know he’s failing. You slide one knee on one side of his hip, followed by the other, your thighs framing him as you settle in place. You straddle him perfectly and fully, hands braced on his chest as his breath stutters beneath you. 

He thinks this is fine. Straddling isn’t new. Making out isn’t new. You’ve done this a dozen times.

Until you smile, letting your nose bump against his, and lips brush together. “Hi,”

He clears his throat. “Hi.”

It's just another dress. It's new with intent and purpose, but it was alike to the others – just that you're not exactly wearing a bra underneath. He tries being rational but he can't, not when he can feel just how soft your breasts are against his chest.

You tilt your head, letting your lips glide against his, teasing the birthday boy as he tries catching your mouth with his. Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently, and he responds with a low groan that vibrates straight through you. Then you kiss him, harder, claiming, his large hands pulling you closer. You shift slightly, letting the heat of your bodies sink together – until your hips press against his so suddenly that he has to stop you and pull away. 

“B-baby,” he gasps, looking up at you, eyes wide and confused and needy. “What are we doing?”

You look at him beneath you, breathless and kiss-drunk, already fucked out before anything has even happened. 

“Do you not want it?” you whisper.

He practically chokes on the air. His hands tighten instinctively at your hips.

“I –” He swallows hard, throat bobbing, eyes blinking. A little flustered, very Jaeyun. “I thought we’d wait. Like –” He exhales, embarrassed. “Until marriage.”

That’s true, he thought this is something you’d like to do after passing the eye of God or something like that. Yet you only hou hum softly, sounding dangerously close to something else, his shoulders tensing immensely. Your hands slide up, thumbs brushing his jaw as you lean in, pressing a slow kiss there – right beneath his ear. Again, you’ve never really been for righteousness.

“Do you not want it?” you ask again, slower, deliberate.

He swallows again, and you can feel him think and break, especially when you feel this soft and good in his hands. Because honestly, committing sacrilege feels sweet when it tastes like you.

You don’t wait for an answer anymore, letting your hips rock against his pants that he lets out a soft, strangled whimper. His fingers tighten against your hips, unsure whether to keep you still or press you closer.

“Jaeyun,” you whisper, tugging his hair back gently but enough for him to open his eyes to you again. He looks at you with reverence, like you’re God herself pressing your clothed pussy against his growing erection. “Do you not want it?” you ask again, needing an answer.

He blanks, zeroes, knows enough that this is all he needs to cum.

He thinks about the time he didn’t want it – which goes down to the answer: never. Not ever since he tasted you for the first time almost 2 years ago, his tongue in your mouth, your soft chest pressed against his, your thighs enclosed around him. He always felt guilty, while he fisted his cock after a hangout with you, but couldn’t really help it when he gets horny even just from kissing you. 

Things never escalated between the two of you, never anything more than breathless makeouts that always had been respectful and not overly touchy. He thought you’d like it that way, and he liked it too. He knows now, as he finds desire in your eyes, how months of missing and wanting has finally come down to this. As exes that doesn’t know how to be exes, or a situationship that’s more romantic than any other crude paperback.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, husky and suede. You smile from how meek and small he sounds – it makes you clench around nothing. 

“Am I sure if I want your dick in me?”

He fucking chokes at how vulgar you are. Gone is the woman who pretended to be annoyed with him, gone is the girl he used to bribe popsicles with.

It’s his 21st birthday, and you want nothing but to make it his most special day ever – you made sure to include this in the itinerary.

You run your hands from his hands on your hips to the length of his veiny arms, until the collar of his top. You slowly start unbuttoning his shirt, and he makes no protests, keeping his eyes on you while he lets you do the work. Once it’s off, the firm muscles of his arms flexes underneath your touch when you let your fingers graze. When you glance up, you see him clearly struggling to breathe.

You’re not rushing this – even when you think you should, just as you think how you have every right to be angry at how respectful Jaeyun Sim is.

You feel like a sex demon because of how much you think about fucking him. Yes, you’ve been masterbating even back when you were together because how could you not. You’ve been drinking pineapple juice these past few weeks. You’ve been stretching out your hole through your own fingers for this moment. You feel crazy and that’s very much an underreaction, considering how hot Jake is.

“Do you not want me?” you ask, voice small, trying to sound pitiful, while you kiss his jaw.

Want you? He’s been having wet dreams of you. When he was fucking you balls deep, or when he had you bent over your vanity, or when you were riding him in his Bronco –

He doesn’t understand why he can’t move now, when you’re still grinding your pussy against his hard cock. He curses himself for not doing anything more than hold your hips against him. So, like the sensible guy he is, his hand trails up your skin. Your breath finally catches when his large hands caress the softness of your side, just when his thumbs innocently graze the underside of your boobs.

He breaks into a grin and before he could say more, you lean in again, kissing his mouth with the intensity of a starving woman. It’s messy fast, his tongue slipping into your mouth, intertwining as he finally finishes unzipping your dress. Your own palm press against the hard lines of his abs, making him gasp and breath shake against your mouth. He makes a sound at the back of his throat – urging you to press harder, feeling the hard bulge against his jeans.

He pulls back, letting out an amused huff of a laugh. “Fuck, baby,” his eyes are completely half-lidded.

You giggle, and you feel like an animal as you lick his bottom lip, plump and swollen. 

You push his shirt off him. Once it’s off, you gape at the hard muscles of his torso, broad, and all very yours. He’s lean without being too big, lines of strength visible beneath smooth skin, shoulders wide, waist narrowing just slightly. You let your fingers trace the solid lines, liking the way he reacts at your touch.

You gasp when he suddenly shifts you in his lap, letting you grind against his boner. He reacts too, like he didn’t mean that, but rocks underneath you anyway. His hands – large, veiny hands, rub at the sides of your dress, and you could feel his desperation starting.

“Take this off,” he says, already pulling your dress. “please, baby. Let me see how pretty you are.”

You shift a little on his lap again, just to let the hem of your dress pool around your waist.

“Arms up,” he states, soft but firm.

You follow, putting your arms up as he pulls it off, and just in one go, your breasts spill out in front of him. He smiles and exhales, “There you go,”

His teeth bite down his bottom lip as your nipples stare at him, all hard and practically begging to be put in his mouth. His cock twitches in his tight pants at the sight, pupils dilating visibly.

His hands meet your sides, softly brushing your supple skin, causing shivers to run down your spine. “Damn…” 

Then finally, he ducks his head down, pressing his face at the valley between your breasts. He finds the swell through feverish bites and licks, taking his time with his tongue. After, he finally latches his mouth around one nipple after, teeth gently biting down, earning a gasp from you at how good it fucking feels. Then he sucks, tugging even, letting his tongue twirl the bud.

The sight of it should be a sin, at how he seems so content with sucking your breast. At fondling with them like he’s having the time of his life. 

It’s his birthday. So you pull away, his mouth detaching with a pop. His eyebrows knit with confusion, large hands tightening instinctively around your hips when you try moving away. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You soothe his hands, prying his fingers off you. “Trust me, birthday boy,” 

You press a kiss on his nose, making a mental note to sit on it later – finally.

When he lets loose, you slowly get off his lap. Still on the edge of the bed, he watches you with wide eyes when you sink down on your knees in front of him. Jake breath catches like he hadn’t been ready to see you below him like that – on the fucking floor of his room. You smile at him, eyelashes fluttering as your palm glides over his clothed thigh. He flexes at the contact, blinking like he’s in the midst of trying to survive this, at the way you look on your knees for him. He’s never been this hard in his life, he thinks. 

“Baby?” his voice is unbelievably soft and whiny, sitting up to look at you while you keep his knees spreading. Your hand slides over the muscle of his thigh, watching the way he slightly twitches beneath your manicured fingers. You trail further up, and just when he realizes, he takes your wrist.

You know he doesn’t mean it, but his grip’s tight. He clears his throat, and he’s genuinely kind of scared of you. His cheeks and ears are flushed pink. “Y-you don’t have to, do this. For me.”

You’re not sure if this is his way of telling you to stop, or if he’s so overly sweet and cares so much. Well, you care quite little, only really needing that cock in your mouth right now.

“Well,” you pull your hand away, shifting further on your knees as you reach for his zipper. He stares, intently watching how close you are to touching him. “I think…” 

You start pulling it down, keeping an eye on the light twitches on his face; biting down his lip, eyebrows knitting closer, breathing uneven. “I think I also deserve to blow… a candle.”

You smile at him, finally pulling the zipper down, and cupping the huge bulge against his boxers. He chokes on his breath, head tipping back at the relief of your hand despite the cloth between. You stop wasting time, tugging the hem down to reveal just how hard he really is.

Jake’s big. And long. And veiny. And pretty.

You eye the way his sharp v-line leads to his cock, all hard and pretty, tip so pink and flushed – you can’t help but lick at your lips, imagining the way it would cry and twitch in your mouth. You pray thanks because pink really is a lovely color.

Jake’s looking down at you like he’s with fever, all flustered and intoxicated, and you could see how scared he is of how excited you look, your eyes are practically sparkling at the sight of his cock. 

You wonder if it will fit.

You hold it against your warm palm and he groans, voice rough when it hums against his throat. His hips buck, wanting more of you already – needing more of you because it’s impossible not to. Your thumb meets with the head, toying with the slit that’s already wet with pre-cum while your hand starts a slow stroke. 

“Ahh–” Jake whines, and when you look up to see, his eyebrows are furrowed, eyes half-lidded watching you, completely fucked out while he tries rocking into your hand, hips lifting off his bed just a little.

“C-can you…” he tries talking but you squeeze him, biting your bottom lip as you tilt your head slightly to the side to tease him. The sight makes him hum out another whine. “...go faster? J-just a bit, baby, please.” the way he begs makes you wet your panties a little.

He’s fucking sublime and you think you could go on with teasing him, not really giving him what we wants until he’s puddled with tears, begging that you finally put him in your mouth. But, it’s his day, you can’t be mean.

You hum, like you’re thinking about it. You pull his pants and boxers down further, before rubbing his dick just to spread his pre-cum all over. Then, without warning, you lean in to lick his head, your tongue teasing the slit.

He whimpers and his head falls back completely, lips parting and neck glistening with his sweat. He’s flushed and heavy against your hand, finding yourself playing with it with a few kitten licks and rubs at the base. Then you drag your tongue from his base back to the tip with a long lick, earning a moan that sounds close to drowning.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he whines, biting his bottom lip as his large hand shoots into your hair. He grabs a handful from your scalp, although you can tell just how gentle he’s trying to be even when he’s losing all control. 

You open your mouth and enclose it around his head first, tongue twirling around it. Then slowly, you take him in, letting him slide further into your lips. “Fuck,” he groans, his hips jerking forward immediately. The head touches the start of your throat and you can’t help but choke at the sudden intrusion, sending vibrations around him. You watch through your lashes, how his bicep flexes while he guides your head down his dick, abs contracting when your nose almost touches v-line, eyes narrowed at how his length disappears into your lips.

“O-oh, fuck, that’s s-so dirty…” he groans, seeing drool spilling from your chin as you cheeks hollow around him. Your hand tightens around the parts you can’t reach, squeezing and rubbing fast. You pull back up, leaving only the head in your mouth before sliding it all back down your throat. 

You set a pace, not so fast, but it’s still too much for Jake whose chest is heaving while he forces his gaze on you, burning and dark. “Mmmm,” he moans, trying to keep his mouth shut from all the pathetic noises he’s making. He looks like he’s in heaven, watching you suck his cock on the floor of his bedroom – you can tell that he’s practically finishing already. “Ahh… y-yeah, I like th-tha – ahh–”

He groans, shaking his head at how good and dirty he feels. “Just a-a bit more, mhmm, yeah,” he exhales deep, shaky breaths, using your hair as anchor while he guides your mouth down his cock. “Just like that– ah, o-oh, g-god…”

You see how his eyes are rolling back, teeth biting down his plump bottom lip. That’s when you tug back, pulling off with a wet pop from the tip. You give him a few more kitten licks, rubbing slower until he feels the loss and snaps his eyes back down to you.

“Uh, I was just,” he sits up properly, looking at you confused when you pull away fully. He’s eyeing you with desperation – brows pressed together, lips tight in a line, hair messy and reaching his eyes. Then he shakes his head, blinking while he tries rebuilding his control.

“Are we done, baby?” He forces his eyes away like he’s convincing himself he’s okay with what you’re giving, even if it leaves him with blue balls. He’s still so gentle with you, tone soft and whispered while he watches your face, checking if you’re still okay.

You smile so wide and bright, not needing any convincing to know how much you love this boy.

Then you stand back up, body still bare as the soft lace of your panties is the only thing keeping you, well, completely exposed. He stares at your soft breasts again, swallowing at the way they bounce slightly when you help him out of his pants and boxers. He smiles just watching them, his hand reaching out to fondle with one. His thumb glides over one nipple, playing with the hard bud.

You laugh, taking his wrist when he starts fondling with the swell of your breast, like he’s memorizing how its weight looks on his hand. “Staring is rude.” you say, kicking his pants and boxers away once they’re off. His pretty cock’s still hard against his pelvis, lubricated with your saliva and his own pre-cum.

“They stared first.” he says, keeping his eyes on your nipples, pinching one with his fingers.

You smack his bicep, prying his hand off you with a playful shove. He looks up at you, a small frown on his mouth like you did something mean. “You’re taking away my fun.” he pouts dramatically.

Then, you hook your fingers on your lace panties and start sliding them off you, the fabric gliding over your smooth thighs before pooling around your feet.

Oh shit.

His eyes are glued to the way your pussy glistens for him, slightly amused with just how wet you are too, without being touched. He gently reaches out for you, deciding how far you really are. His palms slide at the back of your thighs, guiding you closer to him as your hands settle at the back of his head, gently caressing through his black silky locks. You’re now standing in between his knees.

“My pretty girl,” he whispers, ducking his head slightly to get a closer look. Although you don’t feel super embarrassed, you can’t help but shift inevitably, closing your thighs when you feel his breath fan in between your legs. 

Jake looks up at you, eyes twinkling and an amused smile on his lips. “Don’t do that, baby,”

He spreads your thighs, hands firm against the plush, supple flesh. He gets closer, addicted to the way it smells so sweet and enticing. His nose basically subtly nudges your clit, earning a cracked gasp from you, your fingers tightening against his hair.

“Can I?” his eyes briefly glances up at you before looking back down. When you hum an approval, he leans in further, licking your folds.

“Ah, Jaeyun, wait –” he grabs your thigh and props it over his shoulder suddenly, helping you find your balance before plunging his tongue through the folds, finding your clit almost immediately.

Wow? To think this is both your first time?

“F-fuck–” you caress the back of his head, his tongue lapping up at the hole while his nose pokes against your clit. Cunt-hungry man, he thinks he can do this forever, just latching his lips around your clit and holding your shivering thighs around his head.

“I n-need your,” you tip your head back, words lost in your throat. 

“My what, pretty?” he moans against your pussy, his cheeks now messy with your juices and his saliva combined. “God, she’s fucking talking to me. Look at that,” he uses his thumb to spread out your fold, watching the way it shines before using his tongue to tease the hole.

Your things are quivering in strain and pleasure, too much, that you feel your knees buck. He groans when he realizes you’re pulling away, propping your thigh back and forcing your legs up with his hands. “Stay still.”

“Y-your fingers, baby, please.” you whimper, and he likes that sound. He nods, following you obediently, letting the tips of his fingers graze your entrance before suddenly plunging one inside.

Oh God.

His fingers are thicker and longer than yours, so even one feels too much. Your knees are wobbling but he helps you still. Jake keeps it slow, feeling just how your walls squeeze around him, the sweet smell wafting through the tension. Jake can’t help it, wanting that back in his mouth, so he teases your clit with his tongue in tandem with the thrust of his finger. He sneaks in another thick finger inside, thrusting two at the same time, stretching you out definitely. You let out whines, holding tightly on his hair while he fucks you with just his hand and mouth.

“Jaeyun, wait –” you tap his shoulders, just as he speeds up the pace, addicted to the way your cunt squelches around his fingers. “Jaeyun – ah – w-wait, please,” you tap insistently and when he realizes, he stops at once, a bit irritated. Jake pulls away with a bitter exhale, but softly and slowly strokes your thighs, letting you stand on both your feet now. He looks up at you, eyes finding yours, still soothing your thighs with his warm hands. “Why do you keep stopping, love?” He laughs, amused and humorous, but there’s a tone of annoyance tucked in.

Your eyes flick down to his dick, and his gaze follows, looking back at how hard and angry it looks against his abdomen like that. Long and begging to be touched. He huffs, grin widening back up at you with disbelief and lack of control. 

He swallows, shaking his head. “I don’t have a condom, baby,” his voice is rough, hands soothing your thighs still.

You scoff, using your palm to push him further into the bed. When he’s moved, you slide your knees on either side of his hips and he has to physically hold himself back from the sight of how close your cunt is to his dick. It makes him twitch against his stomach, bite his lip from making a pitiful sound.

“I want you raw.” you say, leaving a mark on his skin.

“And I want you safe.” he says, softer this time, gently caressing your hips.

You laugh, getting back to his face as you nudge his nose with yours. “Just fuck me, Jaeyun.”

He exhales, both from exasperation and how turned on he is from your straightforwardness. He likes it, he likes you, and clearly he’s torn between fucking you until you’re full of his cum, or being responsible with sex and –

Fuck that.

You stroke his cock underneath you, giving it slow rubs just to lubricate it. He sighs, watching you work on his length like that. Even with just you on top of him like this, bare and looking at him and only him, he’s happy. The wishes that blew his candles do not compare to this; a prayer in flesh and soft breasts and plush thighs and a pretty face – what else could he need if this is not enough salvation. Then you shift closer, aligning his angry tip with your entrance. He watches it all happen, hands still on your hips, half-lidded eyes completely dazed with desire and anticipation of when your cunt meets his cock. His lips are parted, taking heavy shaky breaths.

“Will it fit?” he swallows, looking back up at you with wide eyes. 

Just then, his sensitive tip grazes your hole, and he lets out a quiet whimper. You drag the head into your wet folds, pushing the thick tip with a wet pop, and Jake practically jolts up at the feeling – fingers so tight against your hips you know it will bruise. “W-w-wait, baby, y-you’re too – ah–”

It stings so you pause, adjusting to the size first. You rest your forehead against his, catching your breath as he catches his – and something about it is so intimate, at the way he holds you close, hand soothing your back to ground you and himself.

“Y-you okay?” he asks, rubbing your back, pupils blown wide you could practically see hearts form in them.

You smile, weak and soft, pressing a kiss on his mouth. He tilts his head for you, your tongues meeting in his mouth before you pull away. “Perfect.”

Then slowly, you start to sink down his cock, earning grunts while he holds you close. “Sh-shit– tight– fuck–”

He guides you down his shaft, and he really does fight the urge to shove himself inside you in one go. “S-slow down for me, yeah?” Jake holds you, thumb rubbing against your skin. “There, mhm, I-I know you can do it.” 

You cry out his name when you bottom down, his leaking tip touches your cervix deliciously and your walls tighten around him so right he’s convinced he’ll finish right here. It’s warm inside you and you’re tense, arms wrapped around his neck, chests pressed together, gummy walls choking his cock. You wrap your legs around his hips closer, squirming slightly while he’s still inside you that he moans loud, feeling just how you vacuum him in and grind against him – he’s done.

Jake’s mind is blank, nothing except the way you look like Sunday worship with how you kneel above him. He knows now, that this is heaven, and that being good does not mean anything to him when you feel like every sin eaten in Eden. He doesn’t mind dying lying this, he thinks, in between your thighs while you introduce what greed truly means, and as you show him just what the fuck Adam betrayed God for underneath that tree.

He’s in so deep and tight that you could feel every vein that throbs inside you. Like he was meant to fill in that space, with how perfect it fits, you can’t help but roll your hips against him a little. Because it’s too good not to, too fucking slow to wait. 

Jake though, very much cannot let you move because you look so incredibly hot riding him and taking him in so good that he will come from cockwarming. He grabs you before you can even try again, his hands a paradox of gentle and strong, keeping you still from any ideas. His long fingers run down your spine, shivers trail your skin, inevitably making you clench from the sensation. He exhales, struggling and trembling, huffing out a sick laugh as he licks his bottom lip. “I’ll cum if you move.” he says, rough and no more breaths to give when you’ve taken everything.

Even though his hold is firm, it’s not bruising, so you decide to tease, just a little, by rolling your hips subtly and when he realizes what you’re doing, he grabs your hips quick – tight and strong, his biceps flexing. “D-don’t move, baby, c’mon,” his hoarse voice is soft in contrast to how hard he’s holding and staring at you now. You giggle, leaning in instead to kiss him. It’s slow, the smell of sex so heavy in their air and in between you two. 

With an exhale from coming down the high, he finally nods, falling on his back. “Ride it, love.” Then you lift yourself, slowly, showing a white ring at the base of his cock. It’s lewd and better than any pornographic he’s seen.

Leaving just the head inside, you slam yourself back down, a strain moan spilling his lips like confession. “F-fuck– o-oh– so g-goddamn tight…” you do it again, loving the way his eyebrows push together, his lips parting as he moans your name. He whimpers when you squeeze your cunt around him. “H-holy s-s-shit.” he holds your hips as you find the pace, speeding up as you practically bounce on his dick like a mad woman. Every thrust spills a whimper or your name in the form of a gasp. He helps you slam right back down on his cock, touching just the right spot inside you with precision.

“T-that’s it – just like that, baby, f-fuck yeah,” he huffs, abs tightening. Your palms are flat against his chest, admiring just how his hair is now slick with sweat, sticking to his forehead. He runs a hand through it, pushing it back. You go faster, riding him to the point he can’t even talk right. “W-w-wait, s – holy s-shit, please, s-s-slow down,” his words turn into broken moans, hoarse and cracked as you pound yourself down his dick. Skin slapping echoes throughout his room, your breaths merging in this hot air.

Jake can feel it too fast, the way his abdomen and balls tighten because he’s about to cum already. It’s warm and so good. But he sits up and stops you, his strong arms quickly pulling you off him while you grow stunned. “Wha–” 

He huffs an incredulous laugh, shaking his head in disbelief of the situation. He was seconds away from cumming, way too fast for how long he wants to spend this moment with you. His grip’s strong, tight compared to how gentle he places you down his bed. You lie chest-first on the mattress, your abdomen tightening with a slight heaviness from not releasing tension. You try asking him again but cuts you off, “Wait for me, yeah?”

He looks over you with hunger in his eyes; from the gentle curve of your shoulders, to the arch of your back, down to the plumpness of your ass. Jake smooths over it, admiring it as his fingers squeeze the fat, just before giving it a smack, earning a gasp from you. “Jaeyun –”

Jake lifts your hips to put you on your knees, chest against the sheets for him, and leans down to press a kiss on your folds. “Need that ass,” he smacks one cheek again, then uses one thumb to spread out your labia and lick one stripe.

And he’d love to keep this going, munching down until your knees would give out and he’ll have to hold you up to continue devouring what your pussy could give him, but the tension in his dick begs otherwise, especially after knowing how it feels to be choked inside. So he flips you, taking your arm and getting you on your back.

Jake spreads your thighs, pressing your knees down against the bed so you’d allow him in between your legs. He props himself there, hovering over you when he puts his hands beside your head. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, sliding his own knees underneath your legs, shifting you against him. He soothes your inner thighs, making sure you feel comfortable.

The coil in your core is too hot for you to talk, mind blank except for the way Jake’s body glistens with his sweat and how he feels on top of you, his presence a clash of need and relief. You just nod, reaching your hands flat against his chest, trailing down towards his abs which tighten from your touch. He chuckles, raspy and rough, leaning down just slightly that you could feel his breath fan your face. “I need words, love,” he smooths over your thighs again, though this time closer to where you need him most. “Can you do that for me, hm?” he purrs.

You whine, biting your bottom lip at the sight of his cock so hard and straight, faintly brushing your entrance. “Jaeyun, stop teasing.” you mewl, reaching down further to let your fingertips graze the slit on his head. He lets you stroke him, smiling down at you as you do.

“Words, come on. I need to know you’re still okay.” he asserts, voice patient but firm.

You sigh. “Put your cock inside me, Jaeyun, please.” 

Then he smiles, pressing a kiss on the bridge of your nose. “Good girl.” he coos.

Jake pulls you closer by your thighs, squeezing the fat before he gives himself a few strokes. You watch him eagerly, hips unintentionally squirming at the sight of him touching himself, his own juices spilling just a little to give it slick. Then he shifts, nudges your legs up with his knees before propping himself in between you. You keep your legs up as he aligns his cock with your throbbing clit, giving it a few rubs. Moans fall from your pretty lips. He gets closer, uses his thumb to push back your folds and find your entrance, before finally positioning himself against you. He presses a kiss on your mouth just to distract you a bit, then pushes himself inside, the slick sounds obscene.

You pull away from the kiss because of the stretch, Jake’s big cock squelching inside your pussy. “S-so fucking tight, s-shit…” he groans.

Your hands find purchase on his traps, nails digging down the skin there when he squeezes himself inside you, veins throbbing against your walls. Thick and long, touching your cervix as it did earlier, and you’re addicted to the feeling of him filling you up, kissing every crevice like he’s made for you. You clench, thighs pressing against his hips – he lets a low growl when you tighten.  He finds your gaze and for some unknown reason, you get flustered, and he smiles. Jake kisses your warm cheek. “That feel good?” he whispers, waiting for your nod of approval before he starts moving. 

Teeth sink into his bottom lip as his hips rocks into yours. It’s slow at first, letting you feel every little detail of his dick inside you. Until he speeds up, the sound of skin slapping echoing in the corners of his bedroom. Low whimpers slip from Jake’s throat, breathing your name against your mouth. It’s vulgar, the smell and sound of cum when he pulls out and slams right back in, at a pace like he can’t handle being apart from you for long.

He loves the way you shove against the bed when he pushes in, loves the way your tits bounce every time, the way your swollen and bruised lips part and moan his name like you’re his. Your moans, sweet and thick like honey, your nails when they dig into his muscles like you’re claiming him.

“C-can you clench, baby? Just – t-there– fuck, baby – f-fuck yeah, just like t-that, ah–” he whines, veins running along his arms beside your head as he grinds into you, head stroking your fucking womb.

His cock drives into you with perfect precision, somehow hitting the right spots, rubbing against your walls so good. His abs taut, muscles flexing above you. “Y-you feel so good, baby, ah– so fucking good,” he coos, stealing your mouth for a kiss.

He speeds up, rutting into you like he can’t handle any more time not cumming in you. And it feels good, for sure, but something about the fact he’s enjoying himself in you, his thick brows knitting together, teeth into his lip, makes it better. Jake looks at you then, and when he finds your wide, innocent eyes gazing up at him like that, his hips suddenly stutter to a slow and his arms falter. His chest tightens, caught off guard from how pretty you are.

You laugh, smacking his arm in amusement. He huffs an embarrassed chuckle, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Shit,” he murmurs against your skin, while your hands run through his hair, scratching his scalp gently. You hum, pressing a kiss on his hair while he holds you closer, sneaking an arm underneath you.

“That’s not fair,” he murmurs against you and you laugh again, softer and quieter. “You’re so perfect.” he whispers, peppering kisses all over your neck. Before you can respond, he pushes into you roughly again, a cracked moan slipping from your lips. You hit his arm for doing that, before squeezing it when pleasure comes back.

He straightens, finding his pace again as you breathe heavy, fisting the sheets behind you. Jake’s hands find your thighs again, pushing your legs back against the bed, stretching you out further. “Fuck, Jake–” you sob, and the name makes him pound into undeniably faster and rougher.

“Again, baby,” he sneaks a thumb against your clit, rubbing it to add into your pleasure, “Say it again, come on,”

You stretch out your arm, your palm pressing against his taut abs. He doesn’t stop, if not his movements become faster, fucking your pussy so aggressively you practically recoil back on his bed every thrust. He hisses at your warm touch, baring his teeth a wolfish grin. “J-Jake, fuck,” yeah fuck him, ‘cause how could someone be so sweaty and still look hot.

Jake adds more pressure, stroking circles on your clit. You practically wail, that knot starting to form and tighten in your core. His other hand presses on your lower abdomen and you feel it – a stimulation in your wall and obviously, his fucking cock bruising your cervix. He leans down, hovering over you closer. “You feel me, baby?” he whispers, pressing harder that you choke on your own moans.

You arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair, his thumb stimulating your pussy continuously. Each push of his hips starts bringing you closer to the edge, that knot tightening harder and hotter – the image itself is pornographic, with how powerful his pelvis wrecks into you.

“Jaeyun, I-I’m gonna –”

“Gonna b-breed this fucking pussy,” he murmurs, rutting harder, his thrusts getting sloppier and losing measure. He flashes you a grin again. “Will you let me, love? Let me cum i-inside – f-fuck –” 

You nod, eager and urgent, letting your nails scratch down his back, making him wince in pain and pleasure. He pushes your hips before pulling it back, his own orgasm arriving. 

“F-f-f-fuck, I’m cumming – I’m g-gonna, w-wait baby –” he moans.

“Jaeyun, p-please– ah–”, one final thrust has you milking him before he does, pussy clenching so tight as you grab his hair to ground yourself when your orgasm washes your vision white. He continues, pounding into you so deep, before Jake whimpers low and loud. You feel the thick white ropes spill into you, hot and full and sticky, hips stuttering. “Shit, b-baby, god– that’s so hot– baby, you’re so hot–”

He rides out the last of your pleasure before you pat his biceps to stop him from overstimulating your sensitive walls. Jake falls on top of you, weight pressing down on you before he could even stop it, muscles tensing before they relax.

You’re both breathless, mixed cum warm inside you and slowly oozing out. Neither of you move just yet, he’s holding you close, resting his forehead against your collarbone. You soothe his back, tracing the outlines of his muscles while you hum, helping each other out to come down from your high. 

A few beats stretch out before you tap him, a tired smile on your lips as he musters back his own strength and straightens, his darkened gaze meeting yours when he gets on his hands again. His pupils are in the shapes of hearts, mouth pulled to a sheepish grin, face still flushed with heat and sweat.

Jake practically inhales you like it’s what will bring him back to reality. When he pulls back, he swallows, resting his forehead against yours. “J-just, let me catch my breath,” he huffs out a laugh then lies his head back down your chest.

He listens to the rhythm of your heartbeat, closing his eyes at the calming sounds of it. His cock still is very much inside you, softer than it used to be, twitching and you feel it.

After a few minutes or so, Jake starts shifting and you let him get up, releasing him from your embrace. He then slides out of you, hissing at the feeling, slick oozes out of your hole, but you don’t pay any mind anymore.

For a moment you're frightened, because he just lies there beside you, not touching you. You rethink again, once the high's gone and he's got his fill, whether this is just another bad decision you'll regret –

Until Jaeyun places his blanket around the both of you, arms wrapping around you underneath the weight of it. With your back pressed against his chest, he peppers soft and light kisses on your head, holding you tight. He's muttering sweet nothings that make up of praise and affections, although your mind is too hazy to comprehend any syllable.

His breathing finally steadies, finding himself comforted and grounded with you against him like this.

After 5 minutes, hand rubbing your belly, he calls your name. When you hum and turn to him, he studies your face for a second, eyes warm and attentive.

“Water?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You hum against his chest, voice small. “And chocolate.”

He nods. “Okay,” he says softly, like it’s the easiest decision in the world.

Jake rubs your back, soothing and gentle, pressing light kisses to your temple because he can't really afford to let you go yet. Pressing one long kiss on your forehead, he finally sighs and loosens. “Okay, I’ll go,” he whispers before slipping away, murmuring reassurance that he’ll come back immediately. He stumbles when he attempts to put his sweatpants on fast, making you giggle watching him.

He returns quickly with water and snacks. He settles back beside you, guiding the glass into your hands, watching as you drink like you're deserted dry. “Slow, baby,” 

When you’re done, you both curl back into bed and he hands you a piece of chocolate to munch down on. Neither of you speaks for a while, the room quiet except for rustling of sheets, and your chewing.

Jake’s thumb traces lazy, soothing circles against your arm. You rest there together, warm and close, his cheek resting against the top of your head. “Okay,” he murmurs. Then, almost shyly, “Uh… in a bit, you’re gonna have to pee, yeah?”

You let out a small, tired sound, half a laugh. “Okay,” you whisper.

His hand keeps moving along your back, lazy, repetitive, like he might fall asleep doing it. There’s a beat of silence, then he speaks again, words blurring together in that half-awake honesty.

“Hey,” Jake murmurs again, thumb slowing where it traces your arm. His voice is quieter now, careful, shy again. “Was that… okay?”

You tilt your head slightly, enough to look up at him. His brows are knit just a little, not anxious, just attentive like he’s waiting for your answer to matter.

“Yeah,” you say with a smile, honest and warm. “It was amazing.”

He exhales, shoulders easing like he’d been holding that breath on purpose. “Okay,” he says, nodding once. Then, softer, “I just wanted to make sure.”

You shift closer, tucking yourself into him more fully. “You’re really sweet, you know that?”

He lets out a small laugh, embarrassed but pleased, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Only with you.”

His arms tighten around you – not confining, just secure in that way he's grounding himself against you too. He stays like that, no hurry to move, no agenda beyond keeping you comfortable, no plan other than staying right here with you.

You hum, already drifting while his hand still moves in those slow, steady circles. After a beat, he sighs softly and nuzzles your hair, tapping your forearm while sitting up. “Okay… bathroom time.”

He helps you shift gently, sliding an arm under your back while you get on your feet. “Easy,” he murmurs, careful.

Once you’re upright, he walks just behind you, steadying you with a hand lightly on your lower back. “Like a professional escort,” he jokes softly, voice low.

He takes you to his ensuite and you have to smack him again because he’s babying you, acting like you need this much help when in reality, he just wants to stay close. “I can sit on the fucking toilet on my own, Jaeyun.” you laugh in disbelief and amusement.

He frowns but follows through, leaning against the doorframe while you pee. Once you’re done, you two head back, one hand still on the small of your back. He takes his shirt, one too big for your frame, and slides it on you. He also helps you into your panties because your legs are still worn.

"I love you." he whispers, not from post-sex haze, but because it's you. You smile and say it back.

Back in his bed and in his shirt and in his arms – everything that makes this entirely his, you melt into it remembering,

You're not his.

And to Jake, the 4 seconds of silence before you said it back hurts like fucking hell.

Tip #11: Refuse to be simplified.

Nothing about Jake is suddenly different.

He’s always been around – always walking you to class, always waiting. He’s somehow at every corner, leaning against the doorway of your lecture hall when you exit, waiting outside the library when you need to grab a book, showing up at the cafeteria exactly when you do. But now, there’s touches intertwined with them. Fingers immediately finding yours in the hallway, shoulder nudges to tease, quick kisses pressed to your temple or hair.

In your dorm, it’s worse than it is outside. Not all moments or hang-outs transition to heat, sometimes he crashes over just to lie on your lap and sleep there, or he helps you out with laundry and folds your clothes with you. But of course, there are moments when a kiss brushes your lips before you’re even fully aware. Your fingers trace his jawline, catch his shirt, pull him closer, and suddenly he’s already in between your legs, pounding into you recklessly. After your first time, he insisted he’ll use condoms instead, you respond with a pout.

At the last stretch of the first semester’s finals, it’s hectic. Every single day is packed with tests, essays, group reports – sometimes they share the same due date and you try not to collapse under it all. It’s not easy, but you feel that you have some kind of cheat code to steer away from chaos.

Jake finds a way to meet up when the schedule’s too tight for anything else. A text ping between classes: coffee. 5 minutes. i’ll be outside. He shows up just when you need a break, just when the stress is too much to carry alone, he makes sure you know he’s there.

Even if it’s just ten minutes, even if it’s a rushed chocolate handoff, even if it’s just to hold you for 5 minutes – they’re all enough. Enough to feel like he’s keeping the storm at bay, like you’re not drowning in deadlines because he’s always there, tethering you to sanity with soft touches, stolen kisses, and the reassurance that no matter how chaotic, he’ll always find you.

No more begging for time and counting minutes. Now, time finds you both without asking, offered freely and instinctively because he tries.

He plans around you without making it feel like effort, he adjusts his pace to match yours.

There was one week specifically that was busier than any other, all subjects demanded something for their final submissions and the over-achiever in you always had to give everything. Jake says you’re over-stressing and overworking, that you’re going way too hard on yourself even when you didn’t have to. You also did try brushing him off, that this was okay. He brushed you off by unexpectedly coming over and relieving you off your tasks, and you unexpectedly broke down into tears in his arms. After that, once you’re refreshed, he helps with productivity which he doesn’t rush, just eases you into slowly.

You find your rhythm again and lo and behold, your hardwork and efforts have been greatly rewarded with an A that you practically smell the 3.8 gpa coming your way.

And to graciously show your appreciation to his thoughtfulness towards you, you ride him. Jake’s a gentleman as he is kind, but he’s also just some guy. Simple, knows-what-he-wants guy. So sometimes, it’s a gentle switch from kissing to sex on the bed with a pillow under your hips. There are times where he doesn’t even take off your shirt and slip off your underwear and he fucks you from the back while you’re brushing your teeth. Or cooking. He seems to find you in a domestic state completely fuckable and hot. Sometimes it’s in the shower and he spends half the time kissing you and eating you out under the running water than actually cleaning up.

Very, very clingy. Kisses your forehead suddenly, presses some on your knuckles, hands on your breasts and nipples when you’re spooning in your sleep, then later when he’s really stressed with engineering he practically urges you on your knees and slips his cock down your throat.

It’s a duality you don’t mind, obviously. But sometimes you’re caught in surprise just how strong this man’s sex drive is. 

He keeps a stack of your clothes in his closet, though he insisted you grab a pile from your dorm. He quite literally bought you clothes specifically for his own place so you don’t keep going back. And in no time, your belongings have infiltrated his entire place; half his closet was yours, the sink’s cluttered with your cosmetics and skincare products with his one single cleanser and toothbrush in a quiet corner. And the bed, of course, where he fights for space because your plushies also had their own. He doesn’t mind it – he loves it actually, the constant epiphany when you walk around his place in nothing but his shirt that yeah, this is his life now, being colonized by your over-the-top possessions. 

One night, he comes home kinda late and finds you curled up in his bed, laptop balanced on your thighs, his shirt slipping off one shoulder. For a moment, he just watches. You call him a creep and you throw a pillow at him, but he sneaks in between your legs and takes your clothes off and fucks you in the same minute.

There’s no conversation about moving in. He just presses a kiss into your hair and murmurs, half-amused, half-awed, “You know you basically live here, right?”

Normally, ambiguity didn’t bother him. Jake was built for uncertainty in the academic sense – he lived in probabilities and margins of error. He trusted that if you applied enough rigor, enough time, the answer would eventually reveal itself. Variables could be isolated and noise could be filtered out. Systems, no matter how complex, always collapsed into something legible if you were patient enough.

People, however, were not systems.

You were not something he could model without interference or reduce into inputs and outputs without losing the essence of you. And yet, that was exactly what he did – slotting you into his life with the same quiet efficiency he applied to everything else. You were there when he woke up, there when he came home, there when his brain finally shut down. 

And he had also followed through, coming over to your own place and integrating his dominion over your space – his deodorant, some hot wheels he forgot to take home, clothes you both can wear, and sweatpants when you accidentally cum on his pants. Yeah, the setup was nice, but even if ambiguity was something he thoroughly enjoyed exploring in the world of science; you’re not science.

He can’t treat your relationship like a margin of error he can back up from and retry again when shit’s messy – that’s never his intention with you, and he does regret that faulty. 

You’re not his girlfriend. You’re not not his girlfriend.

When the grocery cashier comments how much of a lovely couple you two are, you laugh that sweet laugh he loves, until you say, "he's not my boyfriend" and he tries not to die from a heart attack.

Jake feels sick.

Tip #12: Remember how you got him.

Jake hates it. Didn't realize how bad it actually fucking sounded when it comes from you saying that no, you're not dating, he's not your boyfriend, that you might as well cut his dick and shove it between his lungs.

He spends the weekend in your apartment as some unnamed lover. You both settle with ordering takeout for dinner after much negotiating where to order.

The movie keeps playing, something you just randomly chose to pass time. Snow taps faintly against the window, Jake’s fingers tracing absent-mindedly on your thigh. You’re also in the middle of your face mask when his phone dings, then he says he’ll get the food.

He takes a while. You hear the door first – the soft click of the lock, the familiar drag of his shoes against the floor – and you’re halfway through complaining about how long it took when he appears in the doorway.

With a bouquet of your favorite flowers. And a big, obscenely plush bunny tucked under his arm. And an envelope pinched between his fingers like it’s nothing.

You blink, lips part, jaw slack, completely frozen with a dumb hydrating mask on your face.

“Uh,” Jake says, shifting the bunny like it’s inconveniently large and like he doesn’t understand what this means. “So.” He frowns slightly, then jerks his thumb back toward the hall. “I think the delivery guy is flirting with you.”

You stare at him, still in the middle of processing the sight and reeling back in from the shock of everything. You're in the middle of trying to understand what the fuck this is. “Jaeyun.”

“What?” he says, defensive. “I’m just saying.”

You’re still trying to understand the fact that there is a bouquet and a giant bunny and an envelope in your bedroom when he walks closer and hands you the letter like it’s a receipt he forgot to give you earlier. Like a delivery guy, that’s what he is. 

“Anyway,” he adds, too casual. “This is yours.”

You look from the letter to him, still completely confused and startled, handing you the bouquet and bunny next like it’s just something he found in the mailbox. “You’re not even going to explain?”

He shrugs, lips twitching. “Explain what?”

“The –” You gesture vaguely at everything. “All of this.”

He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Delivery guy must’ve felt bad.”

You kick his knee and he laughs. “You’re such a liar!”

You stare at him for a couple of more seconds, biting down your bottom lip from a wide smile. You feel giddy and excited and astonished and hydrated.

Is this it.

Is this the moment you're finally going to rid the expired not-dating label.

"Tell me what this is, dork!" you're being mean because you're skittish, but he loves it, loves how you're mean sometimes.

"I don't fucking know, baby!" he laughs, still pretending before he leans in and presses kisses on your thighs. "Fuck I know why the delivery guy is flirting with you."

You open the envelope immediately and Jake suddenly finds the floor very interesting. He watches you from the corner of his eye, pretending not to, pretending this isn’t a big deal, pretending his heart isn’t doing something stupid and loud. 

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

dec 1

You and I have never been simple. We never moved in straight lines or clean timelines, and there were breaks and overlaps and wrong timing and a lot of moments where we probably should’ve stopped and didn’t.

You were never simple. You were a really really complicated interpretation.

We’ve tried being nothing. We’ve tried pretending. We’ve tried acting like what we do doesn’t mean what it obviously does. And every time, we end up right back here. I always find myself coming back to you.

I also really hate getting denied at the grocery cashier.

So… can I be this complicated girl’s boyfriend again?

– Jaeyun

━━━━━

When you finish, you don’t say anything right away. You look at him then, at the way he’s trying so hard not to make this a thing while making it very much a thing. At how he stands there like he’s bracing for rejection even though he already knows you’re not going anywhere, not with that face mask you’re not.

Jake shifts. “So… food’s getting cold.”

You throw the face mask away, a wide smile on your face as you tug the end of his shirt. “Come here,” you say.

He doesn’t hesitate. He’s already leaning over you in between your legs, and then he kisses you slowly. It’s warm and nice and romantic and when he pulls away, he’s smiling like he’s in heaven on earth. It just so happens to be right here, right next to you.

You knew it’d come around, this thing called love that comes crashing down. 

“So,” he murmurs. “Still think the delivery guy was flirting?”

You smile, playing with his hair. “Yeah.”

Jake sighs, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.” 

Then he leans in again but before you can kiss him, he stops.

"So is that a yes?" he knits his brows.

You laugh, smacking his arm with no real effort before you smooth over the muscle there, then sensually down to the veins leading down his wrist. He clears his throat and presses closer, pelvis against your ass.

"I don't know," you drag the last syllable to tease him and he groans.

He ducks down, nose brushing yours. "Fuck, baby," he whines. When he kisses you again he totally forgets the food waiting outside.

Guess getting your ex back 101 did work, then? Real genius.

jungwon is every parent’s dream. polite, hardworking, respectful, fun, and annoyingly handsome—so you already knew that the second he met your parents, they’d be absolutely head over heels for him.

it was a wrap from day one. after only two months of dating, you were already introducing him to your family. you didn't have any second thoughts about moving that fast because you just knew jungwon was the one—the guy you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. and just like you predicted, your parents were hooked the moment they laid eyes on him. it got to the point where they were bragging to every single relative about their "incredible son-in-law" and how you’d basically hit the jackpot with him. (never mind the fact that you were their actual daughter, but whatever).

after that first meeting, your parents were practically begging you to bring him over every time you visited. the gossip about him spread through the family like wildfire. soon enough, all your aunts and cousins—even the ones you couldn't stand—were dying to meet the man. that's how you ended up getting roped into the annual family retreat, where everyone packs up and rents a massive vacation house for the weekend.

when your mom called you monday morning to extend the invitation (which, let’s be real, was more for jungwon than it was for you), your gut instinct was to shut it down. none of those people actually gave a damn about you; your aunts were professional shit-talkers who, before jungwon, loved to whisper about how you’d end up a lonely cat lady. but jungwon, being the "perfect" boyfriend he is, jumped on the phone and promised your mom that you guys wouldn't miss it for the world.

and that’s exactly how you ended up stuck at a country estate with at least twenty people, half of whom were practically tripping over themselves to get a second of jungwon’s attention. at least your male cousins and the little kids weren't phased, but the rest of them? it was embarrassing.

you were left fighting for crumbs of your own boyfriend's time while dealing with backhanded comments about how you better "keep it tight" or you’d end up losing a guy like him. and don't even get started on your fifteen-year-old cousins—they looked like they went into heat every time he walked into the room.

by the time friday night rolled around, the crowd had drained you both so much that you just crashed into bed, barely having a second to breathe, let alone touch each other. saturday morning gave you a tiny window—a five-minute getaway behind one of the guest houses that turned into a frantic make-out session—but it was cut short when your dad started shouting for jungwon to go fishing. that little taste of him didn't help; it just poured gasoline on the fire.

the rest of the day was straight-up torture. see, despite the "golden boy" act, you knew the real jungwon. he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and he got off on pushing your buttons.

he spent the family lunch with his hand hidden beneath the heavy tablecloth, his fingers dangerously close to the hem of your panties. he’d squeeze your inner thigh, his thumb grazing your pussy every time he laughed at one of your uncle’s jokes, leaving you breathless and clinging to your fork just to stay upright. later, when you leaned over to pull a cake out of the oven and your grandma stepped out for five seconds, he didn't just smack your ass; he kneaded the flesh firmly, his rings cold against your skin, before whispering a filthy promise about what he’d do to you later.

even in the pool, with your little cousins splashing around just a few feet away, he was relentless. his hands were steady underwater, tracing slow, agonizing lines over your ribs and down to your hips, his fingers hooking into the side of your bikini bottom just enough to let the cold water rush in against your heated skin. he was playing you like an instrument, making sure you were well-aware of exactly how much he wanted you, all while flashing that innocent, dimpled smile at your mom.

by sunset, you were flushed—partly from the sun, partly from being annoyed by your cousins, but mostly from the sheer desperation jungwon had been building up in you all day. he’d spent hours keeping you dripping wet, making sure your lace was soaked and your head was spinning, with no sign of when he was actually going to finish what he started.

you were counting down the minutes until you could finally get him alone. but then, the universe decided to fuck with you. your uncle showed up, rallying all the men for an overnight hunting trip. jungwon gave you this fake-ass "guilty" smile as he said goodbye, his eyes dark with a secret amusement as he watched you struggle to keep your composure. you had to head to bed alone to take care of your own problem, frustrated and aching, while they spent the whole night out in the woods.

when you woke up sunday morning, the sun was already blazing through the windows of the vacation house. your dad, your uncles, and jungwon had just gotten back from the hunt, and all you got was a quick, sleepy "goodnight" kiss before jungwon crashed into bed, completely dead to the world. you knew right then that, once again, you weren't getting a single second of alone time with your boyfriend.

frustrated and still feeling the tension from saturday, you threw on your bikini and a pair of denim shorts—the only thing that made sense in this heat—and tried to get through the morning. you spent the next few hours in the kitchen with your mom and aunts, helping prep lunch while the sounds of the kids splashing in the pool echoed from outside.

"the roast is almost done," your mom noted, pulling off her apron and wiping some sweat from her forehead. "another thirty minutes and we can call everyone for lunch." you nodded, letting out a tired yawn as you leaned against the marble counter, scrolling through your phone.

"can you keep an eye on it for me? i want to go get some sun and gossip with your aunts before your father wakes up and ruins the vibe," she said with a little smirk. you just shrugged.

"sure, mom. no problem," you replied, just wanting some peace and quiet.

"perfect! just yell if you need anything, we’ll all be out by the pool," she smiled, planting a quick kiss on your cheek before heading toward the glass door that led to the patio.

you caught yourself yawning again, your mouth feeling dry from the heat. you reached into the fridge to grab a soda, but the second the cold air hit your face, you felt firm hands grip your hips. something warm and hard pressed right into your ass, and before you could even let out a gasp of surprise, a large, warm hand clamped over your mouth.

"it's just me, baby," you heard him whisper. the vibration of his voice—that low, smug rasp that only jungwon had—made the tension drain out of your body instantly, replaced by a massive jolt of adrenaline.

"jungwon, you scared the shit out of me!" you hissed against his palm as he let go. you turned around in his arms, hooking your hands behind his neck, feeling the heat radiating off his skin.

his hands didn't stay still, though; they slid down to possessively cup your ass, his thumbs tracing the thin line of your bikini bottoms peeking out from the waistband of your shorts. he bit his bottom lip, pulling back just an inch to look at you, his eyes dark and hungry—the look of a man who was done playing the polite guest.

"it wasn't my intention," he says, though the smugness in his voice implies the exact opposite. his hands giving the soft flesh of your ass a firm, full-handed squeeze that makes you jump. you can feel the heat of his erection pressing hard against your stomach, and you instinctively swat at his chest in a weak attempt to keep him at bay.

"jungwon, not here! anyone could walk in at any second," you protest, your voice barely a whisper. he lets out a mock sigh, pouting like a disappointed kid who didn't get his way.

"too bad. i really thought you missed me as much as i missed you," he murmurs, leaning in until his lips are brushing against the shell of your ear. the heat of his breath sends a violent shiver down your spine, leaving you weak in his arms.

"i did," you say, your voice failing you. "you know perfectly well i did." the words come out as more of a whimper when he slides one hand back to your waist while the other slips underneath the loose fabric of your denim shorts. his bare palm meets your skin, kneading your ass without the barrier of your clothes, and you lose your train of thought completely.

"but we’re in the kitchen... anyone could come in," you try to argue again, but your body is betraying every word. you tilt your head to the side, exposing the sensitive line of your throat and giving him all the room he needs to leave a trail of wet, bruising kisses against your skin. he bites down on the junction of your neck and shoulder, his teeth grazing you just hard enough to leave a mark.

"then just don't make any noise, baby," he smirks against your skin, licking his lips as he pulls back to look at you. before you can even think of a comeback, he crashes his lips onto yours, taking you in a kiss that's hot, desperate, and heavy with everything he’s been holding back all weekend.

your tongues battle for dominance, the kiss turning filthy and hungry—the kind of kiss that absolutely does not belong in a family kitchen with a roast in the oven. you lose yourself in him, one of your hands tangling into his hair, messing up those perfect strands, while the other grips the back of his neck, your nails scratching lightly against his skin. the small growl that escapes the back of his throat only makes your heart race faster.

jungwon doesn't hold back either. his hands are everywhere, roaming possessively over your sides, his touch so hot it feels like he’s branding you through your skin. he pulls you even closer, hitching your leg up over his hip to pull your center flush against his hardness, making sure you feel exactly what you’ve been doing to him. his fingers hook into the edge of your bikini, tugging it just enough to make you gasp into his mouth, his tongue swirling against yours to catch every sound.

the kiss deepens, turning into something carnal and frantic. his tongue sweeps against yours with a desperate rhythm, tasting like he wants to swallow you whole. your fingers dig into the short hairs at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until there’s no air left between you. just as you're starting to feel lightheaded from the sheer intensity of it, jungwon suddenly grips your waist and spins you around, pinning your front against the cold marble counter.

the sudden change in position makes your head spin. you try to find your voice, try to be firm and tell him this is too risky, but he’s already burying his face in the crook of your neck. his kisses are messy and hot, trailing down your spine and making your skin crawl with a desperate kind of electricity. you can feel his rock-hard erection pressing ruthlessly against your backside, and he doesn't stop there—he starts simulating slow, agonizing thrusts against you, the friction of his own shorts against your skin making you see stars.

"jungwon, seriously," you whisper, your hands clutching the edge of the counter so hard your knuckles turn white. "someone... someone is gonna walk in."

he doesn't even pause. his hands move to the button of your denim shorts, undoing it with practiced ease before sliding the fabric down your thighs. "then don't make a sound, baby," he murmurs against your shoulder, his voice dropping into that dark, gravelly tone that always undoes you.

as soon as your shorts hit the floor, he delivers a sharp, stinging smack to one of your bare cheeks. the sound echoes in the quiet kitchen, followed immediately by a muffled moan that you can't quite catch in time.

"god, you're so perfect," he growls, his fingers digging into the soft flesh he just marked. he doesn't waste another second, his nimble fingers finding the thin strings of your bikini bottoms. with a sharp tug, the bows unravel, and the silk fabric falls away, leaving you completely exposed to him in the middle of your parents' kitchen.

jungwon picks the small piece of fabric up, bringing it to his nose and taking a slow, deep inhale. his eyes never leave yours, dark and clouded with a hunger that makes your blood run hot.

"you're such a pervert," you hiss, your face flushing a deep shade of crimson as you try to cover yourself.

he just lets out a low, dark chuckle, stuffing the bikini into the pocket of his shorts for later before stepping back into your space. he wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling your naked heat flush against his body. he starts to grind his covered cock against your bare skin, the thin fabric of his shorts barely providing any barrier as he grazes your sensitive pussy in a way that makes your knees buckle.

"maybe," he whispers, his lips ghosting over your earlobe. "but no one out there would ever suspect a thing, would they?"

you open your mouth to complain, but the words die in your throat the second you feel him shove his own shorts down just far enough to free his pulsing length. you bite your lip, glancing over your shoulder to see your boyfriend giving himself a few quick, firm strokes. his eyes are dark, clouded with nothing but raw lust as they roam over your body, curved helplessly over the counter. it’s like he’s trying to burn the image of you into his brain forever.

a shaky sigh escapes your lips as he uses the head of his cock to spread your own slickness along the length of his member. by now, you’re so incredibly wet that you can feel it starting to drip down your inner thighs. you rub your legs together, the friction making your core pulse with an ache that’s becoming unbearable.

"look at you," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "you're already a mess for me, aren't you? been thinking about this all night while i was gone?"

with one hand, he gathers your hair and pulls it over your shoulder, exposing the sensitive skin of your back and neck. his other hand clamps down on your hip, his fingers digging in deep to anchor you. he lines himself up, the broad head of his cock stretching you open as he begins to push inside your cunt, agonizingly slow.

you immediately shove your own hand into your mouth, biting down on your knuckles to stifle the cry that wants to rip out of you. jungwon lets out a low, guttural grunt into your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

"fuck, y/n... you're so warm. it feels like you're trying to swallow me whole," he whispers, his pace picking up as he finds his rhythm. "i've been waiting for this, you know? all day yesterday, every time i touched you under that table... this is what i wanted"

he starts to fuck you with a steady, punishing rhythm, the sound of skin hitting skin echoing through the kitchen, muffled only by the hum of the oven. just as you're starting to lose your grip on reality, he drives in with a particularly deep, heavy thrust that hits your sweet spot perfectly. a loud, sharp moan escapes you before you can stop it.

"y/n? honey, is everything okay in there?" your mom’s voice rings out from the pool area, sounding way too close for comfort.

your entire body freezes in an instant, your muscles clenching around him in a tight, panicked grip. jungwon lets out a choked, pained grunt at the sudden sensation, his eyes rolling back for a second.

"fuck," he hisses against your neck, his voice trembling. "you just got so much tighter... you're trying to kill me."

you look back at him, your eyes wide and filled with pure panic, but jungwon just flashes you that same devilish, dimpled smile that everyone else thinks is so innocent. he gives you a playful, demanding little nudge with his hips, urging you to keep it together.

"answer her, baby," he whispers, his eyes dancing with mischief as he waits for you to lie to your mother while he’s still buried deep inside your dripping cunt.

you’re shaking so hard you can barely breathe, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. the irony isn't lost on you—your mother is just outside, thinking you’re being the helpful, responsible daughter, while the perfect boyfriend she adores is currently buried deep inside you on the kitchen counter.

"y/n? did you hear me?" your mom calls out again, and this time you hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching the sliding glass door.

jungwon’s eyes flash with a predatory glint. instead of stopping, he grips your hips and forces you to lean even further over the counter, stretching you out until you can barely see the digital timer on the oven. the movement forces his cock even deeper into you, and you have to bite your tongue to keep from screaming.

"y-yeah, mom! stay out there, don't worry," you manage to choke out, eyes blurry as you stare at the glowing numbers. "i'm keeping a close eye on it... it’s got about five minutes left. just... just stay with the others!"

"alright, if you say so!" she calls back, her voice finally fading as she heads back toward the pool.

the second she’s gone, jungwon loses all restraint. he slams back into you with a ferocity that makes your knees shake, his hand flying up to cover your mouth to muffle the desperate, high-pitched moans breaking from your throat.

"good girl," he growls against the back of your neck, his breath coming in ragged hitches. "watch your voice, baby. we wouldn't want anyone coming in to check on you now, would we?"

he pulls back just an inch before driving home again, harder this time. "look at you," he whispers, his voice dripping with a dark, degrading edge. "my little slut, getting so worked up because your mom is right there. you loved that, didn't you? getting filled up while she’s asking about lunch. you’re so much wetter now just because we almost got caught."

the sensation is overwhelming—the heat of the kitchen, the scent of the roast, and the raw, heavy thud of his dick hitting your sweet spot over and over. as he continues to fuck you senseless, one of his hands slides down from your waist, reaching under your body to find your clit. he starts to rub you with a frantic, expert rhythm, his thumb circling the sensitive peak while his other hand remains clamped over your mouth.

the double stimulation is too much. your vision swims, and your internal walls start to seize around him in violent waves. you come hard, your body bucking against the counter as a muffled, broken cry is lost against his palm. jungwon grunts, his own body tensing as he follows you over the edge, a low, guttural growl vibrating through his chest as he cums inside you.

he doesn't pull out immediately. he stays there, breathing heavily against your shoulder, giving you a few more slow, possessive thrusts to milk every last drop. he watches with a dark sense of pride as a white ring starts to form around the head of his cock, your combined fluids slicking the skin. you let out a weak, overstimulated whine, your body far too sensitive.

finally, he slides out of you with a wet, heavy sound. he reaches down, pulling your shorts back up over your shaking legs and adjusting his own clothes with a terrifying level of composure. he leans in one last time, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to your flushed cheek from behind.

"be a good girl and keep all of that inside you for the rest of the day, okay?" he whispers, his voice returning to that innocent, "perfect boyfriend" tone. "i’m gonna head back to the room and wait for the food. see you at lunch, baby."

he gives your hip a final squeeze and slips out of the kitchen as quietly as he entered. you’re left leaning against the marble, legs trembling and head spinning, staring blankly at the glass door.

a second later, the sharp, piercing beep of the oven timer fills the quiet kitchen.

the roast is done. and so are you.

Let’s establish something immediately: this is not a how-to guide for the weak-hearted, the romantically hopeful, or anyone who still believes that “communication” fixes things. This is a social experiment, a field study, and, if we’re being honest, a public service announcement.

For years, we’ve been fed the same recycled advice: Be chill. Don’t text first. Play hard to get. Don’t scare him away.

But what if… hear me out… What if we did the opposite?

What if instead of shrinking ourselves into palatable, low-maintenance versions of human beings, we leaned all the way in? What if we became everything men claim they want, just… all at once?

This article exists for one reason and one reason only: To answer the age-old question: How hard is it, really, to make a man leave?

(Spoiler: not very.)

Consider this your cheat sheet. Your cautionary tale. Your "do not try this at home... unless you're me, and you're petty, and you have a Substack deadline."

THE HYPOTHESIS

Men love the idea of romance.They fear the practice of it.

They adore:

mystery,

independence,

“cool girls who don’t ask for much.”

They panic at:

emotional availability,

expectations,

a woman who remembers what they said last Tuesday and asks follow-up questions.

Thus, the experiment. Over the next ten days, I will attempt to drive one (1) willing male participant away using nothing but socially accepted behaviors that women are constantly told to suppress. No manipulation. No cheating. No cruelty. Just… too much honesty, too much affection, and too much presence.

I'm calling it: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.

DISCLAIMERS (PLEASE READ BEFORE YOU GET MAD)

This is satire. If you feel personally attacked, that’s between you and your conscience.

Names will not be used (unless you deserve it).

If this article ends your relationship, that relationship was on life support already.

If you’re a man reading this and thinking “That wouldn’t work on me”— thank you for volunteering as our control group.

WHY THIS MATTERS (UNFORTUNATELY)

Dating culture is obsessed with control. Who cares less. Who texts slower. Who “wins.”

But women are still penalized for wanting:

clarity,

effort,

reassurance.

We’re told to relax, be patient, stop overthinking, while men are praised for doing the bare minimum with a straight face and a podcast microphone.

So instead of asking, “How do I make him stay?”I asked a better question: How fast will he run if I stop pretending I don’t care?

THE STRUCTURE

This is not a step-by-step manual. This is an incomplete guide, updated in real time, because frankly, watching this unfold is more fun than finishing it.

Each day introduces one strategic behavior designed to test a man’s emotional endurance.

Think of it as exposure therapy. For him.

DAY 1: OVERSHARE IMMEDIATELY

Men say they want “emotional depth.” What they mean is: selective vulnerability, delivered slowly, with breaks for football.

On Day 1, we ignore that. Meet cute at a bar/coffee shop/dog park (pro tip: always pick a venue where escape routes are visible). 

Objective: Establish emotional intimacy before he’s decided whether you’re “serious” or “casual.”

Methods may include:

Mentioning childhood trauma on the second date. Not "my parents divorced," but "my dad left when I was seven because he said my mom's emotional unavailability was contagious, and honestly, I've been chasing unavailable men ever since, hey, therapy is expensive, but patterns are free!"

Casually referencing your abandonment issues before the appetizer arrives.

Using the phrase “I’ve never told anyone this before” while maintaining unbroken eye contact.

Expected reaction:

Initial concern.

Followed by quiet panic.

Followed by a sudden, very urgent need to wake up early tomorrow.

Notes from the field:Men claim they want honesty. They just don’t want it unscheduled.

Bonus points: Cry prettily while stirring your iced latte. Mention how you've already named your future cats after your exes (for closure). Watch his eyes glaze over like he's calculating the nearest exit.

DAY 2: BE TOO INVESTED

This is where we separate the boys from the men, and then watch both groups back away slowly.

Objective: Remove the illusion of low stakes.

Recommended tactics:

Ask about long-term goals unironically. Text him good morning at 6:47 a.m. Follow up at 6:52 with "miss u already 🥺." 

Mention baby names “as a joke.” By noon, casually mention you've been thinking about baby names. "If we have a girl, I'm leaning toward Seraphina Moonbeam, it's celestial but grounded, you know?"

Say “when” instead of “if.”

Examples:

“When you meet my parents—”

“When we live together—”

“When this becomes something real—”

Important: Do not laugh after saying these things. Confidence is key.

Expected reaction:

Nervous laughter.

Statements like “Let’s not rush things.”

A sudden interest in “seeing where things go.”

Translator’s note:“Seeing where things go” means hoping you forget you said that.

Pro move: Call him "babe" in front of his friends. Refer to yourself as "your girl" in the third person. "Your girl was thinking we should do couples' yoga this weekend. Namaste, right?"

DAY 3: VIOLATE PERSONAL SPACE (CONSTANTLY)

Men love physical affection. They just want to schedule it.

Show up unannounced at his gym/work/happy hour with "surprise!" energy. Bring homemade cookies shaped like hearts (bonus if they're slightly burnt, shows effort). Hug him from behind while he's mid-conversation with colleagues. Whisper, "I just couldn't wait to see you."

Objective: Remove his sense of autonomy without technically doing anything wrong.

Suggested behaviors:

Sitting too close.

Touching his arm while he’s mid-sentence.

Leaning your head on his shoulder unprompted.

Holding his hand in public for longer than socially necessary.

If questioned, smile and say:

“What? I just like you.”

This phrase is lethal.

Expected reaction:

He will say it’s “cute.”