now playing … DIFFICULT LOVE by Malcolm Todd

The two stood in front of your door, shoes off and instruments put down. Choso Kamo, Suguru Geto, in your living room with dim candles lit, brownies and a Youtube video of them playing on your laptop right now.

“…I take it you’re a fan?” You look at the deeper voiced man, Choso, who had an eyebrow raised at you. His eyes were so pretty… Nodding slowly, you move to quietly close the laptop.

“I am, yes. Um- if you’ll give me a second I can get you both some towels. I may have a few clothes you can borrow also.” You cough, Suguru looking around your apartment before his eyes landed on you. “That would be nice, yes. Can I have a brownie?” He gestures to the plate of chocolate goodness.

Your relaxing evening on full display. “Yes, but let me get your stuff first. Don’t want water to be tracked on my floors.” Rushing to grab the extra towels you had, you shakily look through your drawers for clothes. Luckily, you had a collection of big t-shirts.

After a brief moment of them stripping (without you looking), various apologies, drying off and ultimately showering while you put their clothes in the dryer. The moment finally hits you once Suguru walks back into the living room in your Kiss Angel band t-shirt from years ago- one of their earliest merchandise and a towel wrapped around his waist. “This is real.” You gasp.

“That it is, Angel. We’re sorry again for scaring you.” He sits in your love-seat, brownie in hand as he watches you. Looking over the man, it was interesting to see them not on stage or from your screens, and without makeup. Suguru had pretty clear skin, his long hair fully dried, cascading down his shoulders. You could spot his facial piercings, and the small tattoos he had peeking from behind his neck. “It’s..alright. Not everyday your favorite band wants to hide out from stalker fans.”

“We’re your favorites, huh? I couldn’t tell.” Tone dripped in sarcasm, the other man plops down on the couch with you. Towel and t-shirt on.

“I- well, yeah- but! I’m not too crazy, m’not gonna hold you hostage or anything. It’s raining a lot outside and people are following you.” You frown, “Seems pretty hard being a celebrity.”

“Comes with the job.” Choso shrugs, “But, it is really tiresome. The whole tour has been.” Suguru nods alongside his brother. You watch as the two converse back and forth, telling you how rough the last few tour stops have been while you all cleared the plate of brownies. “We’re planning on taking a hiatus for a bit.”

It felt unreal, and strangely comforting. Talking to them as if this was routine for you. Like you’ve known each other for years, and you were just a fan. “It doesn’t worry you being here? I’m a fan too. Could be crazier than the ones following you.”

Suguru hums in agreement, “Are you as crazy as they are, Angel?” A smirk forming on those pretty plump lips.

“Do you call all of your fans Angel?”

“Dodging my question, I see.”

“We’ll leave when the rain stops, if that’s okay?” Choso interrupts. His tired looking eyes land on Suguru before yours. “Ah you’re no fun.” Suguru waves him off. You found yourself giggling at the two. “Of course. Take all the time you need.”

“Perfect…and for the record, I don’t call all of our fans Angel. I prefer princess for the pretty girls.”

“Princess?” and then silence fills the air. Candles lit. The smell of vanilla and soft caramel in the air. Wrapped in a blanket in only a t-shirt, Kiss Angel sitting in your living room in your shirts, the smell of your soap radiating off their bodies. Your towels around their waist. Warmth fills your body.

“As a thank you, we’d like to return the favor.”

“It’s fine, really-“

“We insist, Angel.”

𐙚 𐙚 𐙚

“That’s a good girl…Just like that, Princess.”

Hot tears spilled down your cheeks, body trembling. Nothing but your sniffles and the messy sound of Choso’s pierced tip hitting that spot so deep inside of you, you were short of breath. “Mmmph- fuck! F-Fuck Choso…” He fucked the slutty whines right out of you.

A greedy hand grabs at your breast, the other cupping your throat. “Didn’t forget about me did you Angel?” Suguru’s voice had your pussy spasming around Choso’s dick. Hs squeezed just enough to make you gasp. “Sugu-“ Your eyes squeeze shut, his fingers rolling around the hard nub of your nipple- littered in bite marks. You felt the metal of his jacob’s ladder piercing twitch against your back, pre cum spilling down his girthy dick.

“Mmm like how he’s fucking you, hm?” He coos in your ear, pretty eyes mesmerized by the sticky mess that connected your pretty puffy pussy and Choso’s dick that he could see bulging your tummy.

“Y-es!” Your head leans back against his chest, the position had you feeling everything. Suguru’s hand still on your neck, and then you felt it, his hips shifting ever so slightly, low grunts fanning against your ear. “Fuck Angel.” He was getting off rutting against your back.

“Princess- s’o good nngh..o-oh fuck.” Choso’s grip on your legs tighten. “W-Wanna go deeper. m’gonna cum s-so deep inside.” Eyes in a daze, Choso lets out a string of incoherencies. “Taking me so good. Good girl.” It felt so hot. Suguru had a firm grip on your neck, his grunts stringing out longer than the last. His cum smearing on your back, the friction so intense on his dick- twitching. “You’re taking him so well, Angel. I can’t wait to be inside you.”

But Suguru could be patient, yes. As soft whines he spilled into your ear increased in volume, your eyes fluttered shut. Choso rutting in and out of you like an animal in heat. “Fuck, fuck fuck-“ Dick slipping deeper inside your gloppy mess, leaning down to touch foreheads with you. Suguru’s grip on your neck tightening. “Look at me, Princess.” Choso’s breath fans against your lips. Your pretty eyes stare right into his. “O-Oh go-“ You force out the loud moan that sent you pulsing. That heat in your stomach boiling over. “Thank you.” He smirks, You sob, orgasm hitting you so hard you could only fall into a whimpering mess. and Choso…oh Choso. The feeling too much for his sensitive length. Each inch of girth invading your pussy.

“Made for us.” Suguru chokes out. Fat glops of warm cum running down your back. “H-Hah..!” Your pretty pearl gushing around the louder man. His hips sputtered, “Fuck-“ Warm strings of seed spilling into your womb, filling that pretty pussy right on up. “You’re doing so well, Angel. So good for us. That’s it..take all of it.”

That wasn’t it, no. Your mind had a hard time catching up. Choso’s fat cock slipping from your pussy, globs of cum seeping from your pretty folds. Suguru kisses your cheek so softly, flipping you over carefully onto your stomach. “Such a pretty view…” He hums, thumb spreading your pussy open. You whine, pretty pussy gasping around nothing. “Sugu..stop teasing.” His dick twitched at the sight. “M’sorry, Angel. Just look so pretty back here.” Thumb spreading the cum, running over your clit. Fuckkk, He moans. Ruined, a mess. His dick red and angry, leaking from the tip and sensitive to the touch.

Choso had took Suguru’s place, kneeling in front of you. Gentle fingers grasp at your chin and tilting your head up. “Open up f’me pretty girl.” He licks his lips, snake eyes peeking out at you. Your mouth falls open, balancing your weight with your arms. “Good girl, Princess.”

Suguru taps the round of your ass with his heavy cock. “Ready for me, Angel?” Your pussy pulsed. It’s as if they had the same mind at the same time. The drooling head of Choso’s dick slips into the warmth of your mouth, while Suguru’s thick tip slowly pushes past the tight ring of your pulsing heat. “Oh…A-Angel- Mmfm feel so..s’good.”

Inch by inch they invade your holes so slowly the please was agonizing, and were a drooling mess. Glossy eyes looking up at Choso, his head tipped back while he used his other hand to push your head forward, feeding you inch by inch. “Think I’m gonna cum..” His hips stutter forward. Once your nose was buried into the small hairs rested at his base, Suguru pulls out the barely half of his dick that was buried inside of you. His tip sliding out of your pussy with a pop! Before he pushes it all back in- “Mmmfuck Angel you feel s-so good around me.” sending a shock wave through your body so hard that you choke up around Choso’s cock resting in your mouth.

And it went…all night, until you were on your back shaking from Suguru eating your pussy out, his tongue piercing flicking against your abused clit. Until you were crying from Choso choking you while you rode him reverse cowgirl, fingers rubbing your pretty pussy until you squirted. Until they both came inside of you, over and over. Until the rain cleared up.

The sun peeked from your blinds, waking you up. You groan, that throbbing feeling between your legs so intense that you laid there for at least another 15 minutes reminiscing about the night before. When did you fell asleep…

But you were clean. Your body washed and clear of anything, no cum spilling from your pussy. No ruined sheets. The Kiss Angel shirt that Suguru wore engulfing your body. And Once you finally did get up, trembling legs taking you as fast as they could to the living room, they were gone. No guitars by your door, their dried clothes gone from the dryer, the towels in your dirty clothes bin. “Wha..” You stared at the scene before you, it’s as if they never came.

Except the empty plate of brownies was now a plate of breakfast wrapped up with a note stuck to it.

Thank you again for letting us hide out in your home Angel. We left you a little something in your phone ;p . Text us when you get a chance, let me know if you’re alright okay?

XXX-XXX-XXXX — Suguru

Thank you so much Princess. We cleaned you up and changed your sheets. Enjoy this food that we cooked (you need to go grocery shopping btw) and take it slow today.

XXX-XXX-XXXX — Choso

P. S. There’s a plan B on the kitchen counter.

You had a routine now, one that didn’t include calling the hotline.

Work, groceries, laundry. Friends who call saying you need to make plans and hang out, but somehow neither of you ever follow through.

Life moved forward the way it always does. 

Slowly when you’re living it, quickly when you look back.

Once in a while, though, you linger on the number when you’re scrolling through your contacts. 

You could never bring yourself to delete it, something about seeing it every now and then brings warmth to your chest. 

Your thumb pauses over it for a second, maybe two, then you keep scrolling. 

You don’t think about him often anymore, not the way you used to.

But every now and then, usually during those strange moments when your brain has nothing urgent to focus on, you’ll catch yourself wondering what happened after the line went dead.

Did he quit?

Did he find something else?

Did he ever move to a different city the way he talked about too?

The thoughts never stay long though, you let them pass because here isn’t really anything else to do with them.

All it took was one afternoon.

This particuluar afternoon, you were standing in line at the fresh market, then heard a voice behind you.

You aren’t paying attention at first. You’re looking through your cart, trying to decide if six dollars for strawberries was unreasonable, when a laugh drifts over your shoulder.

“No, because that’s exactly what you said.” Something about it makes you glance up.

A man is standing a few places back in line, basket hanging from one hand while he talks to someone beside him.

You only catch pieces of the conversation,“…that’s not what happened.”

The person beside him says something you can’t hear, then he laughs again.

Your gaze lingers a second longer than necessary before you look away. That’s all, just a voice, just a stranger. By the time you leave the store, you’ve stopped thinking about it entirely, or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

Later that night, you’re halfway through brushing your teeth when you realize you’ve been trying to remember what Hyunnie sounded like.

You stand there for a second, toothbrush still in your mouth, staring at yourself in the mirror, then you shake your head and go back to getting ready for bed.

The thought should have ended there, somehow, it doesn’t. By the time you climb into bed, you’ve convinced yourself it doesn’t matter.

You close your eyes. A minute later, they open again.

You stare at the ceiling for a while, listening to the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional sound of traffic outside your window. Eventually, you roll over and check the time.

2:17 a.m.

You frown because for some reason, it feels familiar. It takes you a second to understand why, and when you do, you immediately roll your eyes at yourself. Most of your calls used to happen around this time.

You turn onto your other side, pulling the blanket up like it might help your brain behave, and try again to sleep. It doesn’t work, so instead, you reach for your phone again.

But not to call the hotline.

Your thumb hesitates over the screen for a moment, then you open one of those dating apps you downloaded weeks ago and never really used.

Profiles slide past one after another. Smiles you don’t know how to interpret. Bios that try too hard or not at all. A man holding a fish. A man holding a dog. A man posing in the gym.

You keep swiping anyway. It’s not that any of them feel right. It’s more like you’re checking if anything does.

After a while, your thumb slows.

You pause on a profile that doesn’t stand out in any obvious way. Nothing about it pulls you in, but nothing pushes you away either. That, somehow, feels like the closest thing to clarity you’ve had all night. 

Then you swipe right.

A match appears almost immediately.

You exhale a quiet breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Hey, you up late too?” he messages soon after. It’s simple, harmless, exactly the kind of message meant to open a door without forcing it.

You stare at the screen for a moment, thumbs hovering, then you reply, just enough to stay in the conversation.

It builds in short, careful steps after that. Where he’s from. What he does. The familiar scaffolding of strangers learning how to become less unknown.

At some point, he suggests meeting,“Nothing serious,” he adds. “Just a drink.”

You hesitate longer this time. A drink, in person.

Real voice, real presence. No phone screen to hide yourself behind of, so you agree before you can overthink it.

The day arrives faster than expected. You pick a place, show up early, sit where you can see the door.

When he walks in, you understand immediately why his photos felt understated.

He’s taller than you remembered, built with the quiet certainty of someone used to taking up space without asking for it. Muscular, but not in a way that demands attention, more like it simply exists as part of him. He looks confident in the room the way some people look confident in their own skin. He spots you quickly, and when he smiles, it’s easy, polite, the kind of smile that suggests manners as much as interest.

“Hey,” he says, holding your gaze for a second too long to feel accidental, then pulling out your chair for you before sitting across from you himself.

You thank him and he nods like it’s nothing.

The conversation starts to unfold after that, steady and unforced. He listens when you speak. He asks questions that land in the right places. He laughs at the appropriate moments, warm but controlled, like someone who knows how to make another person feel comfortable without overstepping.

On paper, he’s exactly right.

He orders carefully, thanks the server, keeps his elbows off the table without looking stiff about it. There’s an ease to him, a practiced confidence that doesn’t need to prove itself.

And still, somewhere between his first real laugh and the way he leans back slightly when he’s listening to you, something in you starts to drift.

Not away from him exactly, more so out of reach of the moment.

You nod when he speaks, smile when it fits, answer at the right times, but there’s a slight delay between what’s happening and where you are. It catches you in the pauses, in the way he finishes a thought and waits for yours, in the small quiet spaces that should feel ordinary and somehow do not.

Your mind keeps reaching for something else before you can stop it.

You blink, trying to stay with him. With the table. With the drink in front of you. He’s saying something about his week, something simple and easy to follow, but the shape of his voice keeps slipping sideways in your head, as if it belongs somewhere else.

Then he laughs, soft and easy, and it sounds so wrong in a way you cannot ignore.

Not like his. Not like your Hyunnie.

You look at him properly then. He is attractive, confident, and clearly comfortable in his own skin, the kind of man who knows how to hold a conversation and a chair and a room. There is nothing wrong with him, nothing you could reasonably ask for that isn’t already there.

He is, by every standard you can think of, exactly what someone is supposed to want, and still, something in you doesn’t move toward him.

Because he isn’t Hyunnie, not even in a close way. 

Later that night, you called for the first time in months. 

You laid flat in bed while staring at the ceiling. One arm draped along your stomach, while your forearm rested across your forehead and you held your phone. 

This was a horrible idea, almost felt like relapsing in a way. 

The date had been good, and that was the annoying part.

He'd been funny, easy to talk to, attractive enough that your friends would've demanded pictures afterward. There wasn't a single moment you could point to and say that's why it didn't work.

You stared at the ceiling and thought about the way he'd smiled when he walked you to your car. The way he'd hugged you goodbye. The way you'd caught yourself drifting halfway through dinner, comparing him to someone who technically didn't exist outside a phone line.

Your stomach twisted. "Jesus Christ," you muttered into the empty room.

For a second, you considered putting the phone down, going to sleep, pretending this realization hadn't followed you home.

Instead, you opened your contacts. Your thumb hovered over the number longer than it should have. Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you pressed call.

“Thanks for calling. Please listen closely as our menu options may have changed.”

You waited this time, allowing your body to re-familiaize itself with the automated system again.

“Press 1 for Channie. Press 2 for Lino. Press 3 for Binnie. Press 4 Hannie. Press 5 for Lixie. Press 6 for Minnie. Press 7 for Innie. Press 0 to repeat this message.” 

You frowned as the call ended. For a second, you thought you'd misheard it. Hannie. Not Hyunnie.

The difference was small enough to be easy to miss, but you caught it anyway. Your thumb hovered over the screen long after the call cut off, a strange, hollow feeling settled in your chest.

Not heartbreak exactly, not yet. Just the uncomfortable sense that something had changed without telling you, and you were only now late to finding out.

You called again before you could think too hard about it.

The menu started over. “Please listen closely as our menu options may have changed.”

You waited through it again, listening more carefully than before, the voice moving calmly through the list like nothing in the world had shifted at all. 

Channie. Lino. Binnie. Hannie. Lixie. Minnie. Innie.

Still no Hyunnie.

You hung up just as quick as you called. 

You didn’t try again. You told yourself it was nothing new, just a moment, a slip. Just something your brain had decided to latch onto for no real reason at all.

It almost worked.

The week had settled over you like humidity, something you couldn't shake off no matter how many showers you took or how early you went to bed.

You'd tried to forget the call. You'd told yourself it was administrative, a schedule change, nothing that concerned you anymore. But the absence had weight. It sat in your chest during morning commutes, during lunch breaks where you stared at your phone without meaning to, during the hours between dinner and sleep when your apartment felt too quiet and too full at the same time.

Your friends had noticed. Of course they had. You'd been turning down their invitations for weeks, making excuses about work, about needing to settle into the new city, about being tired. The lies had started to feel transparent even to you.

"You're coming out," Jae had said that afternoon, not asking. "No negotiation. We're driving up specifically to drag you out of that apartment."

You'd almost said no. Almost manufactured another excuse about an early meeting, about needing to finish something. But the truth was, you were tired of your own walls. Tired of the way your thoughts kept circling back to a voice you couldn't have anyway, a connection that had never been yours to keep.

So you'd agreed. You'd let them plan it, let them choose the place, let them pour you a drink before you even asked. The pre-gaming felt like borrowed courage, something to quiet the part of your brain that kept running through the hotline menu, that kept hearing Hannie instead of Hyunnie, that kept wondering if he'd quit or moved on or simply stopped being someone you could reach for.

By the time you stood in line outside the club, the alcohol had done its work. You were laughing at something Minji said, letting yourself be pulled forward by the momentum of bodies and noise and the promise of a night that didn't require you to think too hard.

But underneath it, the hollow feeling remained. You'd gotten good at carrying it, at letting it exist in the background while you went through the motions of being fine.

You told yourself tonight would be different. You told yourself you'd stop looking for him in strangers, stop measuring every interaction against a standard that didn't exist in real life.

The bass thumped through the doors as you finally stepped inside. You took a breath, let the sound swallow you whole, and tried to believe your own promises.

At some point, you lost track of your friends entirely.

Or maybe they lost track of you.

It didn’t matter much once the lights started shifting and the room stopped feeling like a place so much as a current you were moving through.

That’s when you noticed him at the bar.

There was something sharp about him at first glance, not in an aggressive way, more like everything about him has been placed carefully. Even when he wasn’t doing anything in particular, he still took up space.

His hair is kept short, light enough that it catches attention without asking for it, framing his face in a way that makes his expression feel even more precise, and his earrings, small details that shouldn’t feel significant but somehow do, like he’s decided exactly how much softness he’s willing to let show.

The lighting keeps rolling over him in slow bands of color: violet,  blue, then a flash of white that makes him look almost unreal for a second.

He’s not alone, but he also doesn’t look attached to anyone. That strange in-between state people sometimes have in crowded places, where they’re technically with others but still orbiting something private.

You only realize you’ve been looking too long when he looks back, and his gaze lands on you and stays.

A minute or two passes before you find yourself moving closer. 

It wasn’t a straight path. It was weaving through bodies, light, and pockets of sound where people are laughing too loudly or shouting into each other’s ears like the music stole their language.

By the time you’re close enough to speak without yelling, you’re not entirely sure what you intended to say. He leans in slightly first, like he’s making the decision easier for you. “You lost?” he asks.

His voice gets shaped by the music, softened at the edges, but still steady. Familiar in a way that makes something in your chest hesitate. You blink at him, smiling like it might cover the fact that your thoughts are a little scattered.

“I think I got separated,” you say. Then, after a pause, “Or abandoned. I’m still deciding which sounds worse.”

A faint curve appears at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile yet, more like he’s testing the shape of one. “That’s a pretty big gap between the two.”

“Its not surprising though.”

His smile grows and he nods towards the dance floor, “Let’s go.”

You hesitate just long enough to be aware of it, then follow anyway.

The floor pulls you in immediately, light flickering across moving bodies, bass so heavy it feels like it’s rewriting your pulse. He turns to face you once you’re fully into it, and for a second there’s nothing between you except sound and color and the strange awareness of being seen too clearly by someone you just met.

You catch yourself laughing at something he says, bringing yourself even closer.

At first it’s subtle, just proximity, just movement syncing without permission. But the longer you stay in it, the less it feels like separate dancing and more like being drawn into the same current.

Then his hand finds your waist, he turns you around, and it changes everything. 

He guides you closer in small, unspoken corrections; every shift of your hips met with his own, every step you take answered by the steady pull of him keeping you in rhythm. The music gets louder, but somehow the space between you gets quieter, like the world is being pushed out inch by inch until it’s just breath and heat and movement.

Your ass brushes the bulge in his pants at one point and stays there a little too long to be accidental. It became the baseline for how close you wanted to be tonight. 

You feel him lean in before you hear him. He doesn't stop at your shoulder; he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and smelling faintly of cheap alcohol. 

“You always move like this, or am I just lucky?”

The sound of his voice, that specific; low resonance, sends a jolt through you. It’s a ghost of a sound, something that triggers a flicker of recognition in the back of your clouded mind. 

You tilt your head back, looking up at him through heavy lids. In the strobe lights, his features are fragmented, shifting from shadow to brilliance, but the intensity in his eyes is unmistakable. You have an inkling, a sudden, sharp suspicion that you know this voice, this presence, but the tequila washes the thought away before you can grasp it.

You don't care. Not right now.

“Maybe you just don’t know how I usually move.”

That earns a low sound from him, something between amusement and disbelief, while his grip tightens. Even here, even with the bass dragging everything into motion, he still moves like he has time. Like nothing about you is something he needs to grab before it disappears.

You feel it before it registers, the way his attention narrows. The way his movements stop matching the music and start matching you instead.

He leans in again, but this time his index and middle fingers tilt you by your jawline, turning your face towards his, and kisses you like he already decided earlier. 

For a second, your brain tries to catch up to it, tries to name what just changed. 

Then it stops trying.

Your hand comes up instinctively, landing at his jaw first, then sliding higher to the side of his head where the buzz cut makes everything feel more immediate. There’s no softness of hair to lose yourself in, just clean warmth and the faint rasp of short stubble under your palm.

He reacts, just slightly, an exhale through his nose, like your touch interrupts something he didn’t expect to be interrupted.

His grip at your waist tightens by instinct as he turns you to face him. 

The kiss deepens slowly, not by urgency but by decision. Like he’s testing how far this is allowed to go and realizing neither of you is stepping back. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. You don't want to think; you just want to feel. You tilt your head back, inviting him, and he doesn't hesitate. His tongue pushes past your lips, sweeping through your mouth with a possessive urgency that leaves you breathless. You moan into the kiss, your body arching against him.

Everything else became background movement.

When he finally pulls back, it’s not far, its barely enough to separate breath from breath. His forehead is against yours as he stays close, eyes still on you like he’s recalibrating something he didn’t know he was building.

And for the first time all night, there’s no teasing in his expression.

His gaze flickers over your face, lingering for a second too long. "Have we met before?"

The question is quiet, sounding more like a thought that accidentally made it out loud than something he's genuinely asking.

You let out a breath of a laugh. "I don't think so."

His eyes stay on yours for another second. Then one corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah,” he says, shaking his head lightly. “I would remember the way your lips feel.”

Just like that, the moment passes. The thought dissolves as quickly as it came, swept away by the music pulsing around you and the warmth of his hand still resting against you.

Neither of you mentions it again.

The music shifts, another song bleeding into the next, and somehow you end up right back where you were before. Close enough that stepping away would feel stranger than staying.

His hand remained on your waist as he guided you back to the bar later.

"You know," he says after a while, "for someone who got abandoned, you seem to be doing okay."

You laugh, rolling your eyes, “I recover quickly."

"So I've noticed." The teasing has returned, lighter now, settling comfortably between you.

The time seemed to pass without either of you keeping track of it.

You dance, talk when the music allows it. You learn small things about each other without learning anything important at all.

His favorite drink.

The fact that you both hate waiting in long lines.

The ridiculous story behind the tiny scar near his eyebrow.

Names never come up. Neither do jobs.

No questions that matter outside the walls of the club. It feels strangely intentional, like you're both protecting the night from reality.

Eventually, your phone vibrates in your pocket.

Once.

Twice.

Then repeatedly. 

You pull it out and squint at the screen. A flood of messages: 

Where are you??? We're leaving soon. Are you alive??? Hello???

You laugh under your breath.

He glances at your phone. "Friends decided to look for you?"

"Looks like it."

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The night suddenly feels finite. You hate that.

"You leaving?" he asks.

"Soon."

He nods once, looking unsurprised. The two of you drift toward a quieter corner near the exit, neither quite ready to say goodbye but both aware it's coming.

"Phone," he says after a moment.

You laugh immediately. "Bossy."

"Don’t act like you weren’t going to."

He's not wrong. You unlock it and place it in his hand, and he calls his phone before hanging up and returning it. When you glance down, there's a new contact sitting in your phone.

Hyun.

When you look back up, he's already watching you. "Now," he says, "if your friends abandon you again, you know who to call."

The smile that escapes you feels helpless. "That's assuming I remember any of this tomorrow."

His expression softens. "I’m sure you will."

Before you can answer, another message lights up your screen:

Outside. Right now.

You groan and he laughs, the sound settled somewhere familiar in your gut.

Then, before the moment can stretch into something else, he steps back. "Go," he says.

Your feet linger for one last second. "So I'll text you?" you ask.

One corner of his mouth lifts. "That's usually how phone numbers work."

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. Then you leave. Halfway to the door, you glance back and he’s still there, still watching. And the second your eyes meet, he lifts a hand in a casual wave.

You shake your head and look away before he catches you smiling.

The cool night air hits your face the moment you step outside. Your friends are already gathered near the curb, arguing over whose rideshare app is cheaper and paying absolutely no attention to the fact that you were gone for over an hour.

You slip back into the group easily enough.

"Finally," one of them says. "We thought that guy was forcing himself on you."

"Please," another snorts. "She would've spent the whole night comparing him to that mystery man she won't shut up about."

You laugh and roll your eyes, but your hand drifts toward your pocket anyway, checking for your phone.

You don't think about why, but you smiled when you felt it. 

"Get in the car," one of your friends says.

"I'm getting in"

"I see you have that look."

"What look?"

"The one that means we're going to hear about this guy for the next six months."

You laugh and climb into the rideshare before they can keep going, and for the first time in a long time, you aren't thinking about the man who disappeared.

You're thinking about the one you just met.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

You tell yourself you're going to wait.

At least a day, maybe two. That seemed long enough to seem normal. The mature route. The “I’m not being thirsty” route.

Instead, you make it until noon. The message sits open for almost a minute before you finally type:

Did you make it home alive?

You stare at it, then hit send before you can change your mind, and his response comes less than a minute later:

Hyun: Barely Hyun: My head feels like a crime scene

A laugh escapes before you can stop it.

After that, texting him becomes surprisingly easy. Not consistently, or obsessive…..everything just flows easier than you expected. The kind of conversation that picks up wherever it left off. Sometimes it starts with something stupid. 

A picture of a grilled cheese you accidentally burned:

Hyun: I think that's arson

Or a complaint about work.

you: If one more person emails me “just circling back," I'm becoming a villain Hyun: Let me write the arc

Other times it's later than either of you should be awake. One night, sometime after two in the morning, your phone lights up while you're lying in bed:

Hyun: Why are you awake?

You smile before answering:

You: Why are YOU awake?? Are you stalking me?? Hyun: I asked you first....and no, If I wanted to I really would though :) you: whatever, I just couldn't sleep Hyun: Yeah? me either

You stare at that one a little longer than necessary. 2:17 AM. The numbers catch you off guard. You used to call at exactly this time, back when you needed someone to talk you down. You push the thought away, but it lingers like static: Hyun asks the same questions. Notices the same things. You thumb open your camera roll, find something stupid to send, bury the comparison under a joke.

The conversations stretch across days, then weeks. Sometimes they're barely conversations at all. A random observation. A photo of something ridiculous seen at the grocery store. A complaint about traffic. A meme sent without context.

Not because you need to tell him, you just want to. The realization sneaks up on you slowly.

One afternoon, after a particularly exhausting day at work, your responses were more lackluster than normal. On your way to the door your phone buzzes:

Hyun: bad day?

You stop halfway through unlocking your door. 

How did you know?

The typing bubble appears. Then disappears. After appearing again, he texts: 

Hyun: lucky guess

You narrow your eyes at the screen, and for some reason your stomach is doing flips. Before you were even able to recover, another text comes through:

Hyun: let me take you out tonight Hyun: forget about your day

You stare at the screen for a moment, leaving him on read. You type "I don't know if I'm ready" then delete it. Too honest. Too much like something you'd have said to Hyunnie.

You try "maybe another time," also deleted. What you want to say and what you should feel keep colliding. Finally you settle on something neutral, something that doesn't give away how hard you're working to want this.

you: thats a terrible plan Hyun: good thing I wasn't asking you: .......what time? Hyun: 7 Hyun: wear something cute

At 6:58, you're standing outside the restaurant wondering why you're nervous.

This isn't your first date. It isn't even your first date this month. Yet for some reason you're checking your reflection in the restaurant window repeatedly.

"You know that's not actually a mirror, right?"

Your head snaps up. He's standing a few feet away, one hand tucked into his pocket, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"You've been standing there this whole time?"

"Long enough."

"Creep."

He licks his bottom lip, "you're here with me though." He steps past you to open the door, "you look good by the way."

"Don't start"

He pouts, "But if I don't, how will you forget about your day?"

You narrow your eyes, "Pretty sure that's not how that works."

"No?" He places a hand over his chest. "I could've thought that compliments from a handsome man usually do the trick."

"Confidence looks good on you."

"I sure would hope so, I wear it all the time."

You groan and walk past him into the restaurant, as his laugh follows immediately after. Then you stop.

"What?"

You turn around and for a second, all you can do is stare at him.

That laugh.

You'd heard it before. Standing in line at a grocery store, trying to decide whether six-dollar strawberries were worth buying.

A laugh that grabbed your attention then, and a conversation that you could barely make out. You remember going home afterward and thinking about it far longer than you should have.

Then thinking about Hyunnie.

You point at him. "The grocery store!"

His eyebrows lift, “The what?”

“The grocery store,” you repeat. “A few weeks ago.”

Now he looks completely lost. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

You shake your head, “You were talking to someone. In line. I heard you laughing.”

His expression shifts from confusion to realization.“Oh.” A small laugh escapes him, “that’s somehow less concerning than what I thought you were about to say.”

You narrow your eyes. “What did you think I was about to say?”

“Honestly?” He leads you to the table with his hand resting on your lower back. “No clue.”

The smile tugging at his mouth makes you roll your eyes.

“Come on,” he says. “Tell me about it while we’re sitting down.”

And somehow, that felt easier than explaining why his laugh stood out in the first place.

So you did.

You talked about how nice the market was before the menus even made it to the table. Talked while the waiter stopped by once, then a second time, only to leave empty-handed both times. At some point, Hyun apologized and asked for a few more minutes, which only made you laugh harder.

Somewhere between discussing the best coffee shops in the area and arguing over whether unpacked boxes counted as furniture, the conversation drifted toward work.

You told him about yours first. The long hours. The weird coworkers. The way some days seemed determined to test your patience from the moment you woke up.

He listened with an amused smile. "You care way too much."

You narrowed your eyes. "That's a rude thing to say."

"It's true though."

"It is not."

"It is."

You pointed at him. "See? This is why I haven't asked about your job yet."

That earned a laugh, "my job's boring."

"Nobody says that unless their job is either incredibly boring or incredibly weird."

His grin faltered for the first time all evening and you almost missed it.

"Which one is it?" you asked. "Probably weird."

He glanced down at the menu even though neither of you had opened it in ten minutes.

"What do you do?"

His tongue dragged briefly across his bottom lip, "I'm a streamer."

You blinked, "a streamer?"

"Mhm."

"What kind of streamer?"

He paused like he’s listening to you again in his head before he answers.

“Games,” he says finally. “Talking. Mostly chaos.”

You smile a little. “That sounds like you’re admitting you don’t sleep.”

A faint exhale through his nose. Almost a laugh. “I don’t.”

He doesn’t reach for the menu, doesn’t break eye contact the way people normally do when they’re letting a topic drop. Something about the sound of your voice is still sitting wrong in his head.

He tilts his head slightly not quite curiosity, more like recalibration, like he’s trying to line something up in his memory that keeps sliding just out of place.

“You say things like you’re smiling when you talk,” he says.

You blink. “Is that… a critique?”

“No,” he answers too quickly, then softens it a fraction. “Just how it comes out.”

Your expression shifts, amused but faintly unsure now. “That’s a weird thing to notice.”

“I notice sound first,” he says, like it’s obvious. Then, a little more carefully, “Voice, rhythm… the way people end their sentences.”

That makes you pause and not because it’s flattering, because it’s too precise to feel casual.

He catches that shift in you and adjusts before it can gain traction, “I guess it’s a habit,” he adds, leaning back slightly. “From work.”

“From streaming?” you ask.

A small nod. “Something like that.” His attention has already started to drift inward again, because your voice isn’t just your voice to him right now.

It’s a pattern trying to surface, a cadence that keeps brushing against something buried deeper than tonight.

Not the club, Not this table.

Something quieter. A headset, dim light, late hours that blurred into each other. Voices on the other end of conversations he stopped answering eventually because they started following him from his day to day.

And then one in particular. He exhales softly through his nose, adjusting his grip on his glass without noticing.

You’re still speaking, but he only catches the last part.

“Sorry,” he says smoothly, cutting in just enough to reset the moment. “Say that again?”

You narrow your eyes slightly, but repeat yourself. He nods like he’s following perfectly, but he isn't.

Now the question isn’t whether your voice is familiar. It’s why it feels familiar in a way he hasn’t decided he wants to name yet.

He leans back a fraction, letting the conversation breathe again before it can tip.

“You always talk like that?” he asks after a beat, casual on the surface.

You blink. “Like what?”

“Like you’re used to being heard,” he says, “but not always listened to.”

It lands gently, almost like it could be nothing.

You let out a small laugh, but it doesn’t fully find its shape. “That’s a weird thing to assume about someone you just met.”

His expression doesn’t change much, but something in his focus tightens; subtle, internal, like he’s double-checking a detail he’s not ready to commit to. “Yeah,” he says finally, quieter now. “I guess it is.”

The moment doesn’t break exactly, but it shifts. Like both of you decide, without saying it, to let the conversation stop circling itself.

He picks up the thread of normal again first.

The food gets finished. The bill gets paid. The waiter returns a little too late and a little too amused. Outside, the air feels sharper, the kind of night that makes everything inside the restaurant feel slightly unreal in hindsight.

You assume it ends there, but it doesn't of course.

“You getting home okay?” he asks, hands in his pockets now, posture relaxed again like nothing strange just happened at all.

“Yeah,” you say. “My apartment’s not far.”

He pauses for a second, "Walk you?”

You nod before you can overthink it. “Yeah.”

Outside, the air is colder than the restaurant, quiet hitting differently after the noise inside. You start walking and he falls into step beside you without asking where you’re going. The silence between you isn’t empty. It feels like he’s paying attention to everything without needing to say it.

“You’re close by?” he asks after a bit.

“Yeah. Not too far.”

He nods once, like that’s all he needed to know.

You glance at him. “You always this quiet?”

“Not always,” he says. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

He pauses briefly, “Nothing you need to worry about.”

You huff a small laugh at that. “That sounds like something people say when it’s exactly something I should worry about.”

That earns the faintest shift in his expression, almost a smile but not quite. “You’re not wrong,” he says, but he doesn’t expand on it.

The rest of the walk stays steady after that. When your building comes into view, your pace slows without thinking.

“This is me,” you say. He stops with you, looks up at the building, then back at you. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

You blink. “You know?”

“I meant I figured,” he corrects, like it doesn’t matter either way. There’s a short silence, then you ask, “Do you want to come up for a bit?” He doesn’t answer right away, just looks at you for a moment.

Then nods once. “Yeah.”

Inside, your apartment is quiet in a way that feels familiar. You drop your keys into a bowl, and he follows you in, closing the door behind him. For a moment, neither of you moves further in.

“You live alone?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He hums faintly. “Okay.”

That makes you pause. “Okay?”

“It just explains things,” he says.

“What things?”

But he just shakes his head slightly, like he’s decided not to go further into it. “Nothing bad,” he adds, after a second, and that’s all he gives you.

Then he moves further into your apartment like he already belongs there more than he should.

His eyes scan the space briefly, not nosy, just observant, taking in details without commenting on any of them. He stops near your couch like it’s the most natural place to be and sits down without hesitation, leaning back as if he’s testing how comfortable it is.

Then he pats the space next to him, “you coming or what?” he says, like it’s obvious.

You laugh, shaking your head as you kick off your shoes. “You’re way too comfortable for someone I just brought home.”

“I adapt quickly,” he replies. You sit down beside him, still laughing under your breath.

A moment passes, Then, like it’s nothing, he leans back further and glances at you.

“Or,” he adds casually, “you could use my lap instead.”

It lands a second late.

You turn your head toward him. “Hyun!”

His expression doesn’t fully change, but there’s the faintest hint of amusement there now, like he knew exactly what reaction he was going to get and was fine with it.

“What?” he says, too calm to be innocent. "You act like you weren't thinking it."

He throws his head back against the couch, settling into it like he’s already decided he’s staying a while, then turns his gaze back to you from that angle.

You scoff, reaching for your water bottle just to have something to do with your hands. “I was absolutely not thinking it.”

“Mm,” he hums, not convinced in the slightest. He shift's softly, adjusting his arms, so one is resting on the back of the couch comfortably behind you.

“You’re very bad at lying,” he says softly.

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

"Maybe," he smirks.

That does it.

Just the way he’s looking at you like he already knows how you’re going to react, like he’s a step ahead of you and not bothering to hide it anymore.

You lean in first without fully deciding to. His attention drops to your mouth for a moment, subtle but real, like instinct catching up before thought does. “Don’t look at me like that,” you murmur.

“Like what?” he asks, quieter now.

“Like you already know what I’m going to do.”

His voice doesn't waver, “I do?”

That’s what closes the distance properly. You kiss him first and it isn't careful, or slow. It’s hurried, like something that had been circling finally stops pretending it wasn’t going to happen.

For a second, he doesn't move, allowing you to take the lead. There was something in the way he felt underneath you as you climbed on top of him. His solid chest that you rested your hands on, as if you needed to anchor yourself to the moment.

The way you could feel his heart pounding as he kissed you back.

The way that every breath he took, you could feel the definition of his pecs.

You were drowning in him, and at this point didn't want to be saved.

His undoing came when your hands drift upward, sliding from his chest to his shoulders, then higher still. The moment your fingers found the back of his neck, a low sound escaped him.

Every time your fingers brushed the short hairs at the nape of his neck, you'd feel his reaction against your core, causing you to rock against him softly.

His hands flew to your hips as he deepened the kiss. Every brush of tongue, every time you exchange moans, and his grip tightening while holding you; you started to feel overwhelmed and pulled away and rested your forehead against his.

He never let go. He felt as if he couldn't. He was just as drawn to you as you were to him. The concern in his face was too telling.

He spoke softly, with a sweet tone you normally would've gagged at, "You okay?"

You nodded, "It....its just been a while." Your shyness was making him grin like he got everything he could've asked for.

"We don't have to do anything sweetheart."

You bit your lip at his words. "But," he continued, "keep looking at me like that and we're going to end up in your bedroom."

You pecked his lips, "take me there then."

He wasted no time.

One second you were on the couch, the next he was lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you down the hall. You laughed softly against his neck, the sound disappearing between kisses as you pressed your face into the side of it.

Finding your bedroom wasn't an issue. Neither was finding the bed.

The problem was what happened after.

The problem was him.

The way his hand brushed your cheek. The way he looked at you. The way he leaned in close enough that his voice was the sweetest tone you've heard in a very long time.

“Don't think about it too much.”

The words should have been meaningless, but they weren't. Your stomach dropped. That's what Hyunnie always said whenever you got quiet. Whenever you were over thinking. Whenever he somehow knew exactly where your head was before you told him.

For a second, everything stopped. It all faded beneath the sudden rush of realization.

Your eyes searched his face.

The voice.

The laugh.

The grocery store.

The club.

Every strange moment that hadn't quite fit together before.

“...Hyunnie?”

The name left your mouth before you could stop it, and he pulled away suddenly.

Not harshly or too far, just enough for the air between you to change. His hands were still on you, but they didn’t feel the same anymore. Like his attention had split in two directions.

“What did you just say?” His voice was lower now. Stripped of the ease it had carried all night.

You blink, your own breath catching up too slowly. “Hyunnie.”

His expression shifts, subtle at first, like confusion trying to hold its shape, then cracking under something sharper underneath it. His gaze stays on you, but it isn’t the same kind of looking anymore.

It feels like he’s not fully in the moment anymore. Like part of him has stepped back to try and make sense of what the rest of him is still touching.

His thumb at your waist stills.

Not pulling away. Not moving closer. Just stopping completely.

“You don’t—” he starts, then cuts himself off.

The unfinished sentence hangs there between you.

Your stomach tightens, because you can see it happening in real time. The way his eyes flicker, not over your face like before, but through it, like he’s trying to match something in front of him with something that doesn’t belong in this room.

The club comes back first.

Then the voice.

Then the late nights you used to sit in silence after calls, replaying things he said without meaning to, memorizing patterns you didn’t realize you were learning.

His breath shifts.

A small exhale, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t become one.

“No,” he says again, quieter now, but not uncertain.

More like he’s trying to push the thought back into place before it fully forms. His hand adjusts at your waist, not pulling you in anymore, just holding steady.

“A—angel?”

That was all the confirmation you needed.

Hyun. Hyunnie.

How could you not see it?

A breath leaves you, shaky and disbelieving all at once. The realization doesn’t come in a rush so much as it settles, heavy and undeniable, like everything finally lining up after refusing to make sense for too long.

“Yeah,” you say softly, looking directly at him now. “That’s what you used to call me.”

You watch it happen in his expression in real time. The stillness first, then the smallest change in his jaw, like something in him tightens before he can stop it.

“You…” His voice starts, then stops again, like the rest of the sentence won’t cooperate. He exhales through his nose, slow, controlled, but it doesn’t smooth anything out. His eyes don’t leave your face.

And now it’s unmistakable.

Not the man from the bar. Not your date. Not even the version of him that had been flirting with you minutes ago.

The voice you used to fall asleep to. The one that used to go quiet for a second like he was listening for you to breathe.

He swallows once, and when he speaks again, it’s lower, "I got attached."

You stare at him, like saying his name out loud again might make it all fall apart.

“Attached,” you repeat softly.

A faint exhale leaves him, almost humorless. “Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious now that it’s been said. Like he’s annoyed at himself for not saying it sooner.

His gaze finally flickers, just once, down to your mouth, then back up again like he catches himself doing it.

"To you....to your voice. And I really shouldn't have," he adds, quieter.

You ignored the urge to talk about it, the urge to get answers, to see his whole thought process about it all, and pulled him back down towards you and crashed your lips against his again.

The kiss broke only because neither of you could breathe.

His forehead stayed pressed to yours, chest rising and falling against you like he'd been running. Your fingers were still tangled at the nape of his neck, the short hairs there damp with the faintest sheen of sweat.

"Angel," he said again, quieter now. Testing it. Letting it settle in the space between your mouths. "All this time."

You couldn't answer. Couldn't find words that wouldn't crack open something you weren't ready to examine yet.

His thumb traced your jawline, slow and deliberate. "You called the hotline again. After I left."

It wasn't a question.

"A few times," you admitted. "I didn't—" You stopped. Swallowed. "I didn't know why. I just kept thinking about your voice."

Something flickered across his face. Not surprise. Recognition. Like he'd been carrying the same weight and only now felt it shift.

"I thought about you too," he said. "Every shift. Every call. Wondering if the next one would be you." His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your neck, thumb resting against your pulse.

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was full of all the things neither of you had said on those late-night calls. All the boundary lines you'd both pretended were still in place even after they'd blurred past recognition.

"We should talk about this," you whispered.

"Yeah." He didn't move. "We should."

Neither of you spoke.

His heartbeat was still hammering under your palm where it rested against his chest. You could feel every inhale, the way his ribs expanded and contracted like he was trying to keep himself in check.

"But I don't want to," you finally said.

His eyes darkened. "Angel."

"That's the second time you've called me that tonight."

"Third," he corrected. "You missed one."

"Did I?"

"When we were on the couch. You climbed into my lap and I—" He exhaled through his nose, a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and frustration. "I almost said it then. Almost ruined everything before I knew what everything was."

Your stomach flipped. "Say it again."

"Angel." The word left him like a confession. Like something he'd been holding behind his teeth for months and only now allowed to escape.

You kissed him again, softer this time. Slower. Letting yourself feel every detail you'd missed before: the way his bottom lip fit between yours, the slight catch of stubble against your chin, the sound he made when your tongue brushed his.

When you pulled back, his eyes were still closed. "You're going to kill me," he murmured.

"Not yet."

That earned a real laugh. The same one from the grocery store. The one that had grabbed your attention and refused to let go.

He opened his eyes. The teasing edge was back, but softer now. Tempered by the weight of everything you'd just uncovered. "So," he said. "What now?"

You shifted beneath him.

"I don't know," you admitted. "I've never done this before."

"Done what?"

"Found out the stranger I've been texting is the same man I used to call at two in the morning because I couldn't sleep."

"Ah." He nodded sagely. "That specific scenario."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

The challenge hung between you, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then your hands found the hem of his shirt. Your fingers slipped underneath, brushing the warm skin of his stomach.

His breath caught.

"Is this okay?" you asked.

"More than." The words came out strained. "But before we go further—"

You paused and waited.

"I need to know," he said slowly, like he was choosing each word carefully, "that this isn't just because of the hotline. Because of who I used to be. Because I need it to be about now. About us. About—" He gestured vaguely between your bodies. "—this."

"It's about this," you said. "It's about the grocery store. And the club. And the terrible grilled cheese picture. And the way you said 'wear something cute' like you already knew I'd say yes."

His expression softened. "You did say yes."

"Because it was you."

Something in him broke, and you could see it happen. The last thread of tension unwinding from his shoulders. He kissed you again, deeper now. More urgent. His hands slid from your hips to your thighs, gripping just hard enough to make you gasp against his mouth.

Then he pulled back. "But," he said, "if we're doing this—"

"We are."

"—then we're doing it right." He gently shifted you off his lap, and before you could protest, he was standing beside the bed. Looking down at you with an expression that made your breath catch.

"Lie back," he said.

You stared at him.

"Angel." His voice dropped. Not harsh. Just certain. "Lie back."

You did.

The mattress dipped slightly as he sat on the edge of the bed, close but not touching. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough that his knee pressed against your hip.

"Comfortable?" he asked.

You nodded, throat suddenly dry.

"Good." He reached down and brushed a strand of hair from your forehead. The gesture was gentle, almost reverent. "Because I've spent months imagining what you look like when you're trying not to make noise."

Your face burned. "Hyun—"

"Shh." His thumb traced your lower lip. "I'm not done."

You closed your mouth.

"There it is," he murmured. "That's the part I couldn't see before. The way you go quiet right before you want something. The way your lips part just slightly." He leaned closer, breath ghosting over your ear. "I used to wonder. When you'd call late at night and your voice would get soft. I'd lie in bed after and think about it. Think about you."

Your hands fisted in the sheets.

"Now I get to see it." His voice was barely above a whisper now, each word deliberate. "So here's what's going to happen. I'm going to stay right here. And you—" His fingers trailed down your arm, featherlight. "—you're going to show me."

"Show you what?"

"Everything." He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. "Everything you thought about when you used to call. Everything you did after."

The room felt impossibly warm.

"I don't—" You swallowed. "I've never—"

"I know." His expression was unbearably tender. "That's why I'm going to walk you through it." He settled back against the headboard, one arm draping across his knee. Relaxed. Patient. Hungry.

"Start slow," he said. "Close your eyes."

You hesitated.

"Angel." The word was a command wrapped in silk. "Close your eyes."

You let them fall shut.

"Good. Now I want you to touch your neck. Just your fingertips. The way you did that one night you called and your voice was shaking."

Your fingers rose before you could think about it, brushing the hollow of your throat.

"That's it," he breathed. "Slower. I'm not going anywhere."

The air changed. Thickened. Every small sound felt magnified: the rustle of sheets, the distant hum of the air conditioner, the soft exhale he let out when your head tilted back.

"Now lower," he said. "Trace your collarbone. Tell me what you feel."

"Warm," you whispered.

"Just warm?"

"Tingly. Like—" Your breath hitched as your fingers found the dip between your collarbones. "Like static. Under my skin."

"Keep going."

Your hand drifted lower, over the fabric of your shirt. Over the swell of your chest. You could feel your heartbeat under your palm.

"Stop."

You froze.

"Open your eyes."

When you did, he was watching you with an intensity that made your stomach clench. His jaw was tight. His hands were gripping his own knee like he was physically restraining himself.

"Take off your shirt," he said. "Slowly."

You sat up just enough to pull it over your head. The cool air hit your skin and you shivered.

He didn't touch you or move from his spot. "Beautiful," he said, and the word landed somewhere deep in your chest. "Now lie back down. Hands at your sides."

You obeyed.

His gaze traveled over you slowly. Deliberately. Like he was memorizing every inch. "The things I wanted to say to you," he murmured. "All those nights. All those calls."

"Tell me now."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Bossy."

"You like it."

"I do," he admitted. "I really, really do." He shifted closer, and now his hand hovered just above your stomach. Not touching, just close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his palm.

"Now," he said quietly, "I want you to touch yourself where you're warmest. But don't rush. I'll tell you when."

You hesitated, hand hovering at your waistband. The thought of doing this while he watched made your heart race, and your pulse throb between your legs.

"Hey," he said softly. "Look at me."

You did. His eyes were dark with want, but his expression was gentle, encouraging. He looked at you like you were something precious, something he'd waited forever to see.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured. "You know that? I've thought about this. About you. About how you might touch yourself when you're alone." He shifted slightly, still not reaching for you, just adjusting to get more comfortable. The bulge in his jeans was unmistakable now, straining against the denim, but he made no move to touch himself. His focus was entirely on you. "I don't want to rush you. We can stop anytime."

You shook your head. "I don't want to stop."

His smile was small and real. "Then take your time. Slide your hand down. Let me know youu get there."

Your fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finding heat and wetness you'd been trying to ignore since he first kissed you at the club.

"Okay," you whispered.

"Okay," he echoed, like you were sharing something precious. "Now just... feel yourself. Don't do anything yet. Just let me see you feel good."

Your breath shuddered as you slipped your shorts and underwear down. Once you pressed against your own arousal, you let out a soft moan, the contact after so much buildup almost too much.

"Good?" he asked.

"Yeah." Your voice was thin. "Yeah, it's..."

"Tell me."

"Good. It's good, I just-" You bit your lip, hips shifting involuntarily. "I want more."

"I know." He leaned closer, close enough that his breath warmed your cheek. "But I want to watch you take your time first. Can you do that? For me?"

You nodded while finding a slow rhythm, circling you're clit, then sliding your fingers through your folds. The sounds were embarrassingly wet, but he didn't seem embarrassed. He seemed fascinated.

"You're perfect," he breathed. "The way your breath catches. I used to imagine this, you know. When you'd call so late. I'd hear your voice get soft and I'd wonder if you were still touching even after we hung up."

Your hand stilled. "You did?"

"Mmm." He reached out finally, just to brush hair from your forehead. "Sometimes I'd stroke myself, thinking about you. Wishing I could tell you."

"Tell me now," you said, and your voice was steadier than you felt.

His eyes locked on yours. "I'd imagine you in bed. The sheets pulled up. Your hand between your legs, moving just like that. Slow, because you're trying to make it last. Because you don't want to be loud. Because you're thinking about me."

You resumed the motion, emboldened by his confession, by the image of him doing the same. You let your knees fall open wider, giving him a better view, and his jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek.

"Faster now," he whispered. "Show me how you finish. Show me what I couldn't see."

Your rhythm increased, pressure building, his gaze holding yours like a tether. You could feel the orgasm gathering, low and hot, could feel your muscles beginning to tighten around nothing, wishing for him, for more.

"You're close," he said. Not a question.

"Yes-"

"Keep going. I've got you. I'm right here."

The orgasm rolled through you with his name on your lips, his hand finally closing around your wrist-not to stop you, just to feel you shake through it, to anchor you. After, when you opened your eyes, he was smiling that same gentle smile. "Hi," he said, like you'd just met.

You laughed, breathless. "Hi."

He leaned down and kissed your forehead, then your mouth, soft and unhurried. "Thank you," he murmured against your lips. "For letting me see you."

"I want to feel you," you said, and your hand found his chest, then lower, the hardness straining against his jeans. He was thick, impossibly hard, and you stroked him through the denim, making him groan. "Please. I want you inside me."

He caught your wrist gently. "Are you sure? We don't have to-"

"I'm sure." You sat up, reaching for his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency. "I want you inside me. I want to know what that feels like. With you. Now."

He helped you, fingers fumbling slightly in a way that made him feel more real, less like someone who had this all planned. His jeans hit the floor, followed by his boxer briefs, and his cock sprang free, heavy and flushed dark with arousal. You couldn't look away. He was beautiful, cut and thick, a bead of moisture already gathering at the tip.

"You're staring," he said, amused.

"You're worth staring at."

He laughed, startled, and kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against yours as he guided you back down to the mattress. His shirt followed, and then he was settling between your legs, skin to skin, his weight a delicious pressure you hadn't realized you needed.

"Tell me if I hurt you," he said, guiding himself with one hand, the other braced beside your head. He dragged the head of his cock through your folds, spreading your wetness, teasing your clit until you whimpered. "Tell me to stop."

"You won't hurt me." You reached down, wrapped your hand around him, felt him twitch in your grip. "I want you. Please, Hyun. I need you."

He entered slowly, inch by inch, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. You were wet from your own orgasm, but he was thick, and the stretch made you gasp, made your eyes water slightly at the intrusion.

"Okay?" he breathed, stilling halfway inside, his forehead pressed to yours, his whole body trembling with the effort of restraint.

"Don't stop," you whispered. "Please don't stop. More. Give me more."

He buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, groaning long and low, his eyes falling shut. "God, you feel-" He laughed, shaky, breathless. "I don't have words. You're so tight. So warm."

"Move," you said, rocking your hips against him, feeling him shift inside you, hit places that made stars burst behind your eyelids. "Please, Hyun. Move. I need you to move."

He did, pulling back and thrusting deep, finding a rhythm that started slow and built. Every stroke hit something that made your vision blur, made your toes curl. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, until you couldn't tell where you ended and he began.

"Angel," he gasped, and the word sounded different now, raw, broken, worshipful. "You feel so good. So so good. I've dreamed about this. About being inside you. About feeling you around me."

"Kiss me," you demanded, and he did, messy and desperate, his tongue matching the pace of his hips, his hand tangling in your hair to angle your head where he wanted you.

The bed creaked. Your nails dug into his back, probably leaving marks, and you didn't care. He shifted angle slightly, rolling his hips, and you cried out, the sound swallowed by his mouth.

"There?" he panted, doing it again, hitting that spot with precision that made your whole body sing.

"Yes, there, don't stop, please don't stop-"

He didn't. He kept that angle, each thrust driving you toward the edge again, faster than you thought possible. His hand found yours, fingers interlacing, pinning your palm to the mattress as he fucked you in earnest now, losing his careful rhythm, chasing his own release.

"I want to feel you cum," he said against your ear, his voice ragged. "Around me. Can you do that? Can you cum for me again?"

You were already close, the combination of his body and his voice and the weeks of wanting too much to resist. "Hyun, I'm-"

"I've got you," he promised, and his free hand slipped between your bodies, finding your clit, circling in time with his thrusts. "I've got you. Let go. Cum with me."

You came with a sob, clenching around him, your orgasm rolling through you in waves that seemed to go on forever. He groaned your name, burying his face in your neck, his rhythm faltering, becoming erratic, and then he was cumming too, pulsing hot and deep inside you, his whole body shuddering with it.

After, he stayed inside you as long as he could, kissing your shoulder, your jaw, anywhere he could reach. "Hi," he whispered again, his voice wrecked.

You smiled against his hair. "Hi."

"I think-" He pulled out slowly, making you whimper at the loss, and settled beside you, gathering you close, his arm heavy and warm across your waist. "I think I need a minute before I can form complete sentences."

"Take your time." You traced lazy patterns on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow, feeling the aftershocks ripple through you. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Good." He kissed your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "Neither am I."

You lay there in the dark, his heartbeat slowing under your palm, the sweat cooling on your skin. The room smelled of sex and him, and you felt more peaceful than you had in months. But beneath the peace, questions stirred: about the hotline, about his voice, about whether any of this was real or just a story you'd told yourself until it became true.

"Hyun?"

"Mm?"

"Stay tonight." You traced the line of his collarbone, feeling him shift to look at you. "I don't want to be alone. And in the morning... we should talk. There's a lot I need to understand."

He was quiet for a moment, then his hand found yours, fingers interlacing. "I'll stay," he said softly. "And we'll talk. Whatever you need to ask, whatever you need to know. I'm not going anywhere."

You believed him. Or you wanted to believe him, which felt close enough for now.

"Thank you," you whispered.

He pulled the blanket up over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders with the same care he'd shown all night. "Sleep, Angel. I'm right here."

a/n: can't believe I let peer pressure win and I gave yall a happier ending……and yes our mans is a camboy now