Jungwon's fingers trace the hollow of your throat, a touch so light it sends a shiver down your spine despite the heat clinging to your skin.

The room glows in soft gold, lamplight spilling across tangled sheets, across him, across you, turning everything into something slower, heavier. Intimate in a way that feels almost suffocating.

You've already lost count of how many times he's brought you to the edge tonight, Lost count of how many times you’ve fallen apart for him.

And still, he isn’t done.

"I want to see you fall apart for me again," he murmurs against your ear, breath hot and moist. His thumb presses into the pulse point on your neck, feeling it race under his touch. "Just one more."

You’re already exhausted, but he isn’t. He never is.

You want to protest that you can't, that you're already too sensitive, but the words dissolve into a gasp as his hand slides lower, tracing patterns on your overheated skin. Every nerve ending feels electric, sparking to life at the slightest stimulation. The room smells of sweat and your combined scents, an intimate aroma that surrounds you both.

His name falls from your lips like a prayer as he positions himself between your trembling thighs like he belongs there, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, completely consumed by you even though he’s wrung out countless orgasms out of you. The anticipation alone is almost enough to send you over again, your body arching toward his touch before he's even made contact. 

Your fingers thread through his hair, gripping tighter than you mean to, while your other hand twists into the sheets. Your chest rises and falls unevenly, your body already sensitive, already too aware of him.

And he knows.

Jungwon's tongue traces your entrance with deliberate slowness, savouring the way your body responds to every touch. You're already so sensitive from previous orgasms that this gentle exploration sends electric currents through your entire body. Your fingers tangle in the sheets, twisting the fabric as you try to ground yourself against the overwhelming pleasure.

He moves slower this time.

Not because he’s tired; but because he wants to drag it out.

Each slow roll of his tongue is deliberate; agonizingly slow, like he has all the time in the world to take you apart piece by piece. His hands trail up your sides, rough fingers grazing your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Every movement feels intentional, controlled, like he’s studying you, like he’s memorizing exactly what makes you fall apart.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Taking his time. Pushing you right to the edge—again and again.

God, he could drive you insane.

And he knows it.

His hand moves slowly, deliberate, tracing up your leg, not rushing, not pushing.

Just feeling.

Like he’s reminding you he can. Like he’s reminding you how easily he gets to you.

Your breath stutters. He notices, of course he does.

The air changes.

Everything slows but somehow feels heavier at the same time.

His touch isn’t rushed. It’s worse than that. Measured. Intentional.

Like he’s building something, piece by piece, just to watch it collapse.

“Say it,” he says suddenly against your core, voice quieter now but sharper. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

You open your mouth and nothing comes out.

Because you can’t, because it would be a lie and he knows it.

A small, almost satisfied smile tugs at his lips.

“Thought so.”

Your head falls back slightly, your breathing uneven now, your body reacting in ways you can’t control anymore.

It’s too much.

And not enough at the same time.

“You always get like this,” he murmurs, almost thoughtfully. “Act like you can’t take it… but you never tell me to stop.”

Your stomach drops.

Because he’s right, again.

He looks up at you, eyes dark with desire, watching every expression that crosses your face. "You taste so good after you come for me," he murmurs against your inner thigh before returning to his task. "Especially when you're this sensitive."

His words alone make you clench around nothing, and when he finally sinks his tongue into you, you cry out. This time he doesn't hold back, licking and sucking with renewed purpose. The flat of his tongue presses against your clit, circling with just the right pressure to build that familiar tension deep in your stomach.

His hand shifts slightly, grounding you when your body tenses, when everything starts building too fast, too tight.

“F-fuck… I can’t…” your voice comes out weaker than you expect, barely holding together.

He pauses just slightly, not enough to stop, just enough to make you feel it.

A low hum then vibrates against you; dark, pleased, as his tongue presses just a little deeper. His hands slide down, gripping your hips firmly as you writhe beneath him, like he’s pleased with exactly where you are.

Your reactions? He’s drinking them in.

“Can’t what, baby?” he murmurs, voice thick, teasing between slow, torturous flicks. “Can’t take it? Can’t come?”

His hands press more firmly against your hips, keeping you grounded as your body shifts restlessly beneath him.

He pulls back just enough for your eyes to meet; to look at you – to really look at you.

Flushed, breathless, completely undone.

And there’s something in his expression that makes your stomach twist.

Not softness.

Not comfort.

Something deeper. Sharper.

“Then don’t,” he says quietly.

But the second the words leave him he doesn’t give you the chance. He dove back in, relentless.

You let out a broken sound, your legs instinctively trying to close, your body overwhelmed by how much everything feels but his hands are already there. Grip tightening on your thigh, holding them open, giving you no escape, holding you in place.

"Uh-uh, no." he chided, lips hovering over your core. His breath is hot against you, teasing, as he glances up; brown eyes meeting yours.

His tongue brushes over you again; light, teasing as you still struggling in his grip

“Hey,” he murmurs, almost like a warning, his voice low as his gaze flicks up to yours. “Stay.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes you listen.

Even when your body wants to pull away.

“You agreed,” he reminds you, softer now, but no less intense. “Remember?”

You do.

And that somehow makes it worse.

Your head falls back slightly as he continues tongue fucking you, your grip in his hair tightening as your thoughts blur together. You don’t even know if you’re trying to pull him closer or push him away anymore.

“Jungwon—I can’t—” your voice cracks, tears slipping down your temples, your body trembling from the intensity.

Something shifts in his expression when he sees that. His grip tightens, grounding. Those tears, he knew they weren’t from discomfort; just the immense pleasure he can give you. He knows it’s a lot. Knows you’re overwhelmed. But the sight of you like this; completely wrecked because of him, does something to him.

“Can’t?” he repeats softly, eyes dark. “You said I had all day.”

His tongue drags over you again, slow, deliberate.

“Jungwon…” his name comes out uneven, barely a whisper.

His reaction is instant. A shift in the air. A flicker of something in his eyes.

He leans in again, slower now, more deliberate, like he’s savouring the way you say his name.

“Say it again,” he murmurs.

You shake your head weakly, overwhelmed, your body already trembling under his touch.

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

His voice is firmer this time. Not harsh. But steady. Grounding as you repeat his name.

His hands move again; not rushing, just holding you in place, keeping you from drifting too far, from completely losing yourself. As he dives in again

Your back arches off the bed, hips rolling instinctively to meet his movements. "Jungwon, please," you gasp, not even sure what you're begging for; more or less or both simultaneously.

He responds by sliding two fingers inside you, curving them just right against that spot that makes your vision blur. The dual stimulation is almost too much, his tongue working your clit while his fingers pump in and out of you, finding that perfect rhythm that has you climbing higher and higher.

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly against your clit, and this time it sounds different.

Not teasing. Not playful. Something real.

Your breath stutters. Because you believe him.

Even when everything feels too much, you trust him.

That’s what makes it dangerous.

That’s what makes it impossible to pull away.

Your body reacts before you can think, your back arching slightly, a broken sound breaking from your throat, your fingers tightening in his hair as your thoughts scatter.

A low, primal hum vibrates from his chest as he drinks in every broken sound, every desperate arch of your back. Your grip in his hair; tight, frantic, is the only thing grounding him to reality.

“That's it…” his voice drops against your skin, softer now, like he’s speaking just for you. His hot breath mingling with wet heat. “Take it all…let go for me…don’t fight it.”

His tongue works you ruthlessly, fast deep circles with a mix of sucking. His movements are more focus now, more intense; like he can feel exactly how close you are.

Everything feels too intense, too overwhelming, like your body doesn’t belong to you anymore.

“Beg,” he whispers, voice dangerously soft. “Just once more… tell me who you belong to.”

“Y-you…” you whimper.

That’s all it takes.

“Mhm,” he breathes, the sound almost reverent. “All mine.”

The pace shifts again; stronger, more certain, like he’s claiming every reaction he pulls from you. His tongue flattens against you; long, slow and deliberate. Like he's tasting you, learning your body all over again.

“Mmmmm” you let out a series of broken moans as you try to push his head away and close your legs around his hand, body arching desperately against the mattress.

But he doesn’t let you, he knows what you’re doing, knows you’re trying to escape the edge, and he won’t let you.

His free hand comes up to grip your hip, holding you steady as your movements become more erratic. The room fills with the sounds of your pleasure. Gasps and moans and the wet sounds of his mouth on you. The tension coils tighter and tighter in your lower belly, a sweet ache that promises release.

“You’re close,” he mutters. “I can feel it… let go for me.”

“Just stay with me,” he murmurs.

And you do.

Because you can’t do anything else.

His movements are purposeful, relentless, driving you higher and higher, further away from everything but him.

Your breathing turns uneven, moans more frequent, your thoughts dissolving into fragments as everything builds again—higher, tighter, until it feels like you’re balancing on something fragile.

Unsteady.

Uncertain.

“I can’t—” you sob, your entire body tightening; your back arching, thighs trembling, toes curling, and your hands unsure whether to pull him closer or push him away.

The sight of you; writhing, begging, caught between ecstasy and agony... Damn, it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. It should be illegal; the effect you have on him.

His hands tighten slightly, grounding you again.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “You can.”

His fingers slip out of you, and his hands slide up your thighs; strong, steady as he keeps you open for him, even as your body trembles like a live wire. He doesn't stop the relentless swirl of his tongue, just eases slightly, giving just enough mercy to keep you from breaking completely but not enough to escape.

"You're doing so good," he growls, praising through gritted teeth. "So fucking perfect for me..."

One hand slips beneath you—fingers curling into the soft skin of your ass, not pushing, just holding. Claiming.

"Come on my tongue," he whispers like a command. "Let me feel it."

Your fingers tighten in his hair again, your thoughts blurring, your body caught somewhere between resisting and giving in completely.

“I can’t…” you whisper, but it sounds different now.

Not refusal.

Not even protest.

Something closer to breaking.

His expression softens for a split second, just enough to make your chest ache.

“I know,” he says quietly.

And then—

“Do it anyway.”

There’s no teasing now.

No games.

Just certainty.

And somehow, that’s what pushes you over.

Your body tenses, your breath catching as everything finally breaks. Like something snapping under too much pressure. Your thighs tremble violently against his shoulders, toes curling as wave after wave crashes through you.

A broken whimper escapes; high and soft, then another… and another… until all you can do is sob into the pillow, fingers tangled desperately in his hair like he’s the only thing keeping you from floating away.

And maybe he is.

Your vision whites out, waves of pleasure crashing over you so intensely that you're unaware of anything except the sensation. Jungwon doesn't stop through it, drawing out your orgasm until you're trembling and oversensitive.

As you come down, panting and boneless, you expect him to give you a break. Instead, he merely shifts position, pressing kisses along your inner thighs.

"Just one more," he whispers against your skin. "I need one more."

A choked sound escapes your throat, half-protest, half-whimper. Your entire body thrums, a plucked string vibrating with a frequency that borders on pain. Every touch is a brand, every kiss a spark against gasoline-soaked skin.

"Jungwon," you manage, the name sounding fragile. "I can't... please."

A low chuckle vibrates against your thigh, the sound a dark promise. "Yes, you can," he murmurs, his voice a silken command. His breath ghosts over your folds, and you flinch, a full-body shudder wracking you. "You can give me one more. I know you can. Let me take care of you."

He doesn't wait for your permission. His tongue is on you again, but this time it's different. The building rhythm is gone, so is the calculated pressure. Now he's gentle, almost reverent. Soft, kitten-like licks that are somehow more devastating than the aggressive strokes from before. He's cleaning you, tasting the aftermath of your pleasure, and the intimacy of it is what has your head spinning.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, slipping silently down into your hairline. It's not from pain, not exactly. It's from the sheer, overwhelming sensation.

The silk of your pillowcase feels impossibly cool against your feverish cheek as Jungwon kisses the inside of your thigh again. You're already so sensitive that the mere puff of his breath against your slick folds sends a jolt through you, your toes curling into the mattress. Your entire body feels like a live wire, humming with a residual energy that makes your muscles quiver.

"Look at me," he commands softly, and when your heavy-lidded eyes meet his, the dark determination there makes your breath catch. "I want to watch you this time. Every expression, every shiver."

His fingers part you gently, exposing the most sensitive bundle of nerves to the dim lamplight. You feel vulnerable, exposed in a way that goes beyond the physical. He's not just looking at your body; he's looking into you, seeing the raw nerve endings that he's spent the last hour meticulously fraying.

When he leans in, you brace yourself for the onslaught, but instead, he places the softest kiss directly on your clit. The gentleness is unexpected, almost worse than the aggressive pleasure from before. Your hips lift involuntarily, seeking more, and he pulls back slightly, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Still so responsive," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His index finger traces your entrance, gathering the wetness there before slowly, torturously, pressing inside once more. Your inner walls immediately clench around him, already beginning the familiar climb toward ecstasy.

"Too much?" he asks, though he already knows the answer.

You can only shake your head, a strangled noise catching in your throat as he crooks his finger just so, finding that sensitive spot that makes your vision sparkle at the edges. His other hand rests on your lower belly, feeling the muscles there beginning to tense.

His tongue finally joins his finger again, starting with broad, flat strokes that cover your entire sex. The stimulation is diffuse, overwhelming, like being touched everywhere and nowhere all at once. Your hands fist in the sheets, your knuckles white, as you struggle to process the sensations flooding your system.

"Jungwon," you gasp, the name ripped from your throat as he zeroes in, the tip of his tongue now circling your clit with maddening precision. He adds a second finger, stretching you deliciously, and the added fullness combined with the targeted attention to your clit has that coil in your stomach tightening rapidly than before.

The sounds filling the room are obscene; the wet, rhythmic sounds of his mouth and fingers, your ragged breaths, the creak of the bed as your hips begin to move in earnest, chasing a release you both know is inevitable.

"I can feel you getting close," he says, pulling back just enough to speak. "The way you're squeezing my fingers... so tight, so needy."

His words are the final push. Your back arches sharply, a cry tearing from your lips as the pleasure crests. This orgasm is different, deeper, more intense. It starts in your toes and works its way up, a full-body tremor that leaves you gasping for air, your vision narrowing to a pinprick of light.

Through it all, Jungwon doesn't stop, working you through every wave until you're completely spent, collapsed against the mattress like a puppet with cut strings. You're trembling, oversensitive to the point that even the cool air of the room feels like too much against your heated skin.

He finally lifts his head, his chin glistening in the lamplight. He looks unbearably pleased with himself, a predator who has thoroughly devoured its prey. His thumb comes up to wipe away a tear you didn't realize had escaped, smearing it across your temple.

"So beautiful when you fall apart," he murmurs, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your mound.

You expect—need—a reprieve, a moment to collect yourself, to regain control of a body that no longer feels entirely your own. But when you try to close your thighs, to create some distance, his hands stop you, firm but not forceful. He holds you open, exposed, and your renewed whimpers are ones of genuine protest.

"No," you breathe, shaking your head weakly. "I can't, Jungwon, really. I can't."

He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he lowers his head again, and this time, when his tongue touches you, it's not a beginning or an end. It's simply a continuation. He licks into you with a slow, deep thoroughness that isn't about building you toward another peak, but about experiencing the aftermath of the last one. He's tasting your sensitivity, your exhaustion, your absolute surrender.

The overstimulation is a white-hot wire. Every nerve ending screams. It's pain and pleasure so intertwined they've become a single, indistinguishable force.

You thrash against the hold he has on your thighs, a desperate attempt to escape the onslaught, but he's relentless. His tongue is a soft, wet weapon, and he wields it with expert precision knowing you’d say the safe word if it was actually to much.

Your sobs are different now, harsher, more ragged. They tear from your chest with an almost violent force. You're not just crying; you're breaking. He's pushing you past the limits of what you thought you could endure, past pleasure into a realm of pure, unadulterated sensation.

"Shhh," he finally soothes, pausing for just a moment. His voice is a low rumble against your core. "I've got you. Just let go for me. One more. Give me one more."

His tongue returns, and this time, there's no gentleness. He's devouring you. The flat of it presses hard against your clit before swirling, a dizzying, repetitive motion that makes your vision swim. It feels like he's trying to lick you open, to taste every nerve ending, to crawl inside you through the pleasure he's inflicting.

Your body is a battleground. Your mind screams at you to push him away, to close your legs, to make it stop. But your hips have a mind of their own, lifting, grinding against his face, seeking the very friction that is your undoing. You're split in two, the part of you that wants to flee and the part that wants more, more, more.

The sounds are guttural now. A constant, high-pitched whine escapes your lips, punctuated by choked sobs and the desperate gasping for air. You feel slick with more than just your arousal; sweat beads on your forehead, on your chest, making the sheets cling to you.

"Jungwon," you manage to sob out, the word a broken plea. "Please. Please, I... I'm..."

He knows. He can feel it in the way your thighs are trembling uncontrollably in his grip, in the way your inner walls flutter around nothing, desperate for something to clench down on. He doubles down.

His fingers join the assault, two of them sinking into you, curving immediately to press against that spongy spot deep inside that makes your entire body seize up once more.

The dual stimulation is catastrophic. His tongue working your clit with relentless, focused pressure while his fingers pump into you, scissoring, stretching, massaging that spot that makes lights explode behind your eyelids. The coil in your stomach isn't just tightening anymore; it's being wrung out, twisted into a painful, exquisite knot.

Your hands fly from the sheets, one tangling viciously in his hair, pulling hard, not to push him away but to anchor yourself to something in the overwhelming sea of sensation. The other slaps against the pillow, gripping it like your life depends on it. The world has narrowed to the space between your legs, to the exquisite agony of what he's doing to you.

"There it is," he growls against you, the vibrations of his words a final, devastating assault. "Come on. Cum for me. I want to feel it."

You do. You break. The orgasm that rips through you isn't a wave; it's a tsunami. It's violent. It's painful. It starts as a deep, guttural scream torn from the depths of your lungs but no sound makes its way out. Your back arches into a perfect, painful bow, your entire body rigid as the pleasure convulses through you.

He works you through it, his movements unrelenting, drawing out the convulsions until you're nothing but a twitching, sobbing mess. You're vaguely aware of your own voice, making sounds you've never made before.

When the tremors finally begin to subside, you collapse, utterly boneless. You can't move. You can't think. You can barely breathe. You're a rag doll, limp and used, floating in a hazy, post-orgasmic fog.

He finally, finally, mercifully, lifts his head. The cool air rushing over your hyper-sensitive core is a shock in itself. 

He looks up at you from between your thighs, and the sight is obscene. His lips are swollen and glistening, shining with your arousal and the evidence of your repeated releases. A strand of slickness connects his chin to your folds as he pulls back, and he deliberately, slowly, licks it away.

His chest is heaving, his pupils blown so wide they look like pools of black ink in the dim light. He looks utterly feral, a predator who has gorged himself and is still hungry.

Your mind is a white haze of static. You try to form a word, any word—'stop', 'no', 'enough'—but your throat is raw, your vocal cords shot. All that comes out is a pathetic, breathy whimper. You try to close your legs, a last-ditch effort to protect the raw, hyper-stimulated nerve centre of your being, but your muscles refuse to cooperate. Your limbs are leaden, disconnected from your will. You are completely and utterly at his mercy.

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. He sees your exhaustion. He sees your surrender. And he revels in it.

"Don't tell me you're done," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates through your hypersensitive core. "I've barely even started."

He shifts his position, settling more comfortably, spreading your legs wider still with a grip on the backs of your knees. The stretch in your thigh muscles is a dull, distant ache, overshadowed by the anticipatory dread coiling in your stomach.

"Look how pretty you are like this," he says, his thumb gently parting your folds again. "All swollen. All pink. So fucking wet for me."

He leans in and you flinch violently, a full-body spasm. He doesn't touch you with his mouth yet. Instead, he exhales, a long, slow, deliberate breath of hot, moist air directly onto your exposed clit. The sensation is electric. It's not painful, not yet, but it's too much. It's everything. It feels like he's breathing fire, and you sob, a raw, tearing sound.

"Shhh," he soothes, the vibration of his voice a torturous counterpoint to the heat of his breath. "Just breathe with me. That's it. In and out."

He does it again. Another long, slow exhale. This time, you try to focus on your own breathing, but it's ragged, catching in your chest. Every nerve ending in your body is screaming, an entire network of live wires all converging between your legs. The skin of your inner thighs feels tight, prickling, as if a million tiny needles are pressing into it.

When his tongue makes contact again, it's the lightest imaginable touch. Just the very tip, barely there, tracing the delicate, inflamed skin of your inner labia. It's not a lick. It's a mapping. A survey of the territory he has claimed. And the sensation is so acute, so concentrated, that it feels like a burn.

"Jungwon," you gasp, the name a torn whisper. "Please. It... it hurts."

"I know," he says, and the absolute calm in his voice is terrifying. He doesn't stop. His tongue continues its slow, maddening exploration, tracing every crease, every fold. "It's supposed to hurt a little. That's how you know it's real. That's how I know you're feeling everything."

He changes tactics. The flat of his tongue presses against your entrance, and he licks upward, a long, slow, firm stroke that ends with a flick against your clit.

The pressure is too much. The friction is too much. Your entire body convulses, a violent shudder that racks you from head to toe. A high, thin keen escapes your lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated overload.

"That's it," he encourages, and then he does it again. And again. He establishes a rhythm, a slow, torturous, methodical lapping that is systematically breaking down every defence you have left.

There's no build-up this time. There's no climb toward a peak. You're already at a peak; a flat, agonizing plateau of overstimulation that threatens to shatter you completely.

You're aware of everything in excruciating detail. The scrape of his evening stubble against the tender skin of your inner thighs. The wet, slick sounds of his mouth on your soaked flesh. The way your own arousal pools beneath you, cooling against your overheated skin. The burn in your lungs as you forget how to breathe. The way the muscles in your abdomen and thighs are locked in a permanent, trembling cramp.

He presses the thumb of one hand against your perineum, a solid, grounding pressure that somehow manages to intensify everything else. His other hand slides up your body, fingers wrapping around your throat. He doesn't squeeze, not hard enough to cut off your air, but the threat is there.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice thick and muffled against your core. "Keep your eyes open. Look at me while I take you apart."

It's the hardest thing you've ever done. Your eyelids are heavy, weighted down by pleasure and exhaustion. But you force them open, staring down at the dark hair between your legs.

He lifts his eyes to meet yours, and what you see there sends a fresh wave of terror and a sickening thrill through you. There is no mercy in that gaze. Only a deep, dark, unwavering purpose.

He increases the pressure, the speed of his tongue becoming more insistent, more demanding. He's not just tasting you anymore; he's devouring you. The tip of his tongue dips inside you, fucking you with shallow, quick thrusts, before returning to circle your clit with a relentless, focused pressure.

The coil in your stomach is back, but it feels wrong. It's not the sweet, exciting tension of a building orgasm. It's a painful, twisting cramp. A violent, sickening clench that promises an excruciating release.

"Go on," he growls against you, feeling your body begin to seize up. "You will. Give it to me. All of it."

He shoves three fingers into you without warning, the stretch making you cry out. He curls them, hitting that spot deep inside with brutal precision while his tongue continues its merciless assault on your clit. The combination is a physical blow. Your back arches, a silent scream tearing from your throat.

The world fractures. Your vision doesn't just white out; it shatters into a million pieces of coloured glass. The sounds you're making aren't human anymore. The orgasm that tears through you is violent, ugly. It's a convulsion, a seizure. It's pain so intense it becomes pleasure, pleasure so intense it becomes pain.

Your entire body goes rigid, locked in a painful spasm as wave after wave of unbearable sensation crashes over you. You feel yourself gushing, a hot, sudden rush of fluid that he groans against, and drinking you down is the final straw. The world goes black.

When you come back to yourself, you're not sure how much time has passed. Seconds? Minutes? The only thing you're aware of is the feeling of him still between your legs, his movements now slow, gentle, almost reverent.

Jungwon doesn’t rush you through this one, doesn’t pull away immediately.

He stays there, steady, letting you come back down at your own pace, his hands still resting against your hips like he’s making sure you’re still here.

With him.

With slow reverence he presses one final kiss to your core before pulling back just enough to watch you come undone. His thumbs trace soothing circles over your hips as you ride out the aftershocks, chest heaving and skin slick with heat.

When he finally lifts his head, his eyes find yours again.

And there’s that look again, not satisfied, not even close.

Just waiting.

“Still with me?” he asks softly.

You nod, barely, your voice too far gone to answer properly.

Something flickers in his expression, subtle, but there.

Not softness, not quite, something that lingers somewhere in between control and something dangerously close to care.

“Good,” he murmurs.

His fingers trace along your side, slower now. Thoughtful. Like he’s deciding something.

And then, almost casually; “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Your stomach drops.

Your breath catches.

And despite everything, despite how completely ruined you feel, your body betrays you again.

A faint, involuntary shiver.

Because you already know, “one more” was never going to be just one.

@woniescheeks

LEE HEESEUNG

The soft morning light spills through the curtains, glinting off the ornaments on the Christmas tree. Heeseung is already awake, perched on the couch with a steaming mug of coffee in hand, the faint scent of cinnamon from your hot cocoa mingling in the air.

“Merry Christmas,” he says quietly, his eyes crinkling as he glances at you emerging from the bedroom. His hair is tousled, and the sleepy smile tugging at his lips makes your heart flutter.

“Merry Christmas,” you reply, slipping beside him and leaning into his side. He leans his head on yours with a small hum of contentment, and for a few moments, the world outside, the snow, the city, the busy streets; feels like a distant dream.

After a relaxed breakfast of fresh croissants, scrambled eggs, and hot cocoa, you decide it’s time for gifts. Heeseung reaches under the tree, handing you a neatly wrapped box with a teasing grin.

“Open it first,” he says, the excitement in his eyes barely contained.

What he gives you is thoughtful; something you mentioned in passing months ago, something practical but deeply personal. He watches your reaction carefully, eyes flicking between your face and the gift.

“You remembered,” you say quietly.

“Of course I did,” he answers, like it was never a question.

Touched, you hand him your gift, a customized keyboard. “For all your late-night gaming sessions,” you say, smiling. “I figured this would make things more fun… and maybe less frustrating when you’re in those intense matches.”

His jaw drops as he carefully lifts it from the wrapping, running his fingers along the keys. “You… thought of everything,” he murmurs, eyes wide. “This is… perfect.”

“You’re welcome,” you tease, leaning against the couch. “Now you can finally dominate without complaining about your old setup.”

The morning drifts into a cozy blur of activity. Later, the two of you set up his new gaming setup together, adjusting the RGB lighting, plugging in the keyboard, and testing out the keys. He insists on showing you a few of his favorite games. You sit on his lap as he sits in his gaming chair, your legs draped on his as you watch him navigate through intricate levels with concentrated skill.

Afterward, you bake cookies together, flour flying everywhere as you taste-test each batch. He sneaks a kiss every time you hand him a cookie, the warmth between you growing with every shared glance and laugh.

By the afternoon, wrapped in soft blankets with the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree surrounding you, you challenge him to a lighthearted gaming match of Mario Kart. The controller clicks under his fingers as he smirks, attempting to trash-talk you while his cheeks betray him with a subtle pink flush.

“Not fair!” he laughs after you win a round, throwing a small cushion at you.

“You’re the one who underestimated me,” you tease, nudging him with your shoulder.

As evening falls, you prepare a small, cozy meal; roasted vegetables, chicken, and warm apple pie. You feed each other bites, laughing over underseasoned chicken and playful teasing.

Finally, curled up together by the tree, Heeseung holds your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “This… all of this… it’s perfect,” he whispers. “And… the gift. I love it, really.”

You smile, resting your head on his shoulder. “I just wanted you to have fun. And… maybe remember me when you’re gaming late at night.”

He laughs softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Believe me, I will. Every time.”

The night stretches on in quiet contentment, the soft glow of Christmas lights surrounding you both as you linger in the warmth of shared joy, laughter, and playful intimacy.

PARK JONGSEONG

Jay wakes up to the sound of movement before he wakes up to the light.

It’s subtle; fabric shifting, a quiet sigh, the mattress dipping ever so slightly. His arm tightens around your waist instinctively, pulling you back before you can fully slip away.

“Where’re you going?” he murmurs, voice low and still heavy with sleep.

You laugh softly, settling back against his chest. “Nowhere. Just woke up.”

“Mmh.” He presses his face into your hair, breathing you in. “Good. Stay.”

The room is warm despite the winter outside. Soft morning light filters through the curtains, painting everything gold. Jay’s eyes open slowly, blinking as if he’s piecing the world together one detail at a time; your face, the quiet, the date.

“…It’s Christmas,” he says finally.

“Merry Christmas,” you reply.

He smiles, small and genuine, the kind he doesn’t show often enough. He leans in and kisses you; not rushed, not dramatic; just warm and sure, like it belongs there.

Unlike you, Jay doesn’t stay in bed long. The moment you both finally get up, he’s already rolling his sleeves up, moving around the apartment with quiet purpose.

“I’ll make breakfast,” he says, firm, like it’s non-negotiable.

“You made dinner yesterday.”

“And?” He arches an eyebrow. “It’s Christmas.”

You watch from the doorway as he cooks; focused, calm, completely in his element. The kitchen smells like butter and coffee, something sweet baking in the oven. He hums under his breath, occasionally glancing over at you just to make sure you’re still there.

“Stop staring,” he says without looking. “You’re making it weird.”

“I’m appreciating.”

He scoffs, but you catch the faint smile tugging at his lips.

Breakfast is hearty and warm. You sit across from him, legs brushing under the table, sunlight spilling across the wood. Jay eats slower than usual today, like he’s in no rush to get anywhere. He reaches out halfway through and laces his fingers with yours, squeezing gently.

Presents happen after, again on his terms. He insists on cleaning up first, muttering about not wanting a mess. When he finally hands you your gift, his expression is unreadable, jaw tight like he’s nervous.

When you open it, he watches you carefully.

Inside was an oversized cashmere sweater, soft and luxurious. You held it against your skin, feeling warmth spread through you even before wearing it. Tucked inside the fold was a small note, written in his careful, rounded handwriting: “For the moments I want to hold you close even when I can’t.”

“You like it?” he asks, too quickly.

You don’t even answer, you just stand and hug him. Hard.

Your chest tightened. “Jay… it’s beautiful,” you said, voice catching.

He exhales, arms wrapping around you just as tightly. “Good,” he murmurs. “I thought about it a lot.”

His own gift is something practical but meaningful, something you know he’ll use every day.

Inside was a custom leather guitar strap, embossed with a subtle design of a city skyline and a small heart at the end. His fingers traced the stitching, eyes lighting up.

“You… this is incredible,” he murmured. “It’s so… thoughtful.”

“I wanted something that’s yours, that you’ll use every day,” you said softly. “So every time you play, you remember I’m here, rooting for you.”

He tries to play it off, but when he realizes what it means, he goes quiet, eyes soft.

Jay’s hand lingered on the strap, a quiet laugh escaping him. “You really know how to make someone melt, huh?…Thank you,” he says, voice steady but sincere.

The rest of the day unfolds gently. You go out for a walk in the cold, hands stuffed into each other’s pockets, breath fogging the air as you laugh. Jay buys hot chocolate from a small café, insisting on paying even though you argue.

Back home, you decorate cookies. Badly. Jay pretends to be annoyed by the mess but ends up laughing when you smear icing on his cheek.

“Oh, you’re dead,” he warns, chasing you around the kitchen.

You watch movies in the afternoon, your head resting on his shoulder, his arm solid and grounding around you. At some point, he starts absentmindedly rubbing your back, slow and soothing, until you nearly fall asleep.

Dinner is quieter. Candles lit. Music low. Jay sits across from you, expression thoughtful, like he’s memorizing the moment.

Later, when the lights are dim and the city outside is quiet, he pulls you into his lap, forehead resting against yours.

“You know,” he says softly, “I don’t really care about holidays.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“But this?” He gestures vaguely around you—home, warmth, the two of you. “This matters.”

You kiss him, slow and sure.

And wrapped in his arms; Christmas with him isn’t loud or flashy; it’s steady. Safe. Intentional. It’s love that shows up, every single day.

SIM JAEYUN

Jake wakes up smiling before he even opens his eyes.

He knows it’s Christmas because you’re still there curled into his side, warm and heavy with sleep, your breathing slow and even. His arm is draped across your back, hand resting between your shoulder blades like it’s always belonged there. He doesn’t move right away. He never does when mornings feel this soft.

Instead, he presses a quiet kiss into your hair and lets himself stay.

Eventually, you stir, shifting closer without fully waking. Jake laughs quietly under his breath, the sound warm and fond.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispers, even though you can’t hear him yet.

When you finally wake up, it’s unhurried. No alarms. No rushing. Just the pale morning light and Jake’s voice when he says your name, gentle and familiar.

You make coffee together, moving around the kitchen in practiced ease him starting on the coffee, you reaching for mugs. There’s music playing softly in the background, something christmasy. Jake hums along, occasionally bumping into you just to be close.

Breakfast is simple. Toast, eggs, fruit. He insists on cutting your fruit for you like he always does, and you tease him for it.

“I like doing things for you,” he says easily, like it’s obvious.

Presents happen on the couch, legs tangled together. There’s no dramatic buildup just quiet anticipation.

You give him your gift first. It’s something thoughtful: a leather cardholder engraved with his initials, something he’ll carry every day without thinking about it. When he realizes what it is, he turns it over in his hands slowly, eyes soft.

“…You’re really good at this,” he says quietly.

“At what?”

“Knowing me.”

He leans in and kisses you, slow and lingering, hand resting warm against your jaw.

When it’s his turn, he hands you a neatly wrapped box, watching you with that slightly nervous smile he gets when he really cares about your reaction. Inside is a necklace. Simple, understated, something you can wear every day. Not flashy. Just… you.

“I saw it and thought of you,” he says, shrugging like it’s nothing. “Didn’t want something that felt like it would just sit in a drawer.”

You don’t say anything right away. You just put it on and smile at him.

That’s enough.

The rest of the day flows gently. You go out for a long walk, bundled up against the cold, fingers intertwined. Jake talks about his childhood Christmases. How loud they were, how warm, and listens just as intently when you share yours.

Back home, you bake together. Flour ends up everywhere. Jake laughs when you smudge it on his nose, then retaliates by pulling you close and kissing you until you forget what you were doing.

In the evening, you curl up on the couch with a movie playing in the background. Jake’s arms wrap around you easily, thumb tracing lazy circles on your arm. At some point, he murmurs, “This is my favorite part.”

“Of Christmas?”

“Of everything.”

Dinner is cozy and unpretentious. Wine glasses clink softly. Conversation drifts from serious to silly and back again. Jake reaches across the table to hold your hand more than once, like he just wants to feel you there.

Later, when the day winds down and the lights are low, you sit together in comfortable silence. Jake rests his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“For what?”

“For choosing me. For making today feel like home.”

And in that quiet moment, wrapped in warmth and familiarity, Christmas with him isn’t about the date, it’s about how safe it feels to be exactly where you are.

PARK SUNGHOON

You wake up before the light does.

Not because of an alarm, or noise, or excitement that jolts you out of sleep, but because your body knows him. The steady warmth pressed against your back, the familiar weight of an arm loosely draped around your waist, the quiet rhythm of his breathing just behind your ear. The room is still dark, the kind of soft, blue-dark that only exists early on winter mornings, when the world hasn’t quite decided to wake up yet.

Sunghoon shifts slightly in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, his nose brushing against the nape of your neck. His grip tightens unconsciously, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on. You smile to yourself, careful not to move too much. Christmas can wait. This moment can’t.

Eventually, he stirs more fully. You feel it before you see it, the change in his breathing, the faint tension in his arm as awareness creeps in. He hums softly, low and sleepy, then presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder.

“…Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough, warm, still half-dreaming.

“Merry Christmas,” you whisper back.

That does it. His eyes open, blinking slowly as if he’s recalibrating to reality. When he registers the date, his lips curve into a soft smile, the kind he only wears at home, the one that isn’t for fans or cameras or anyone else.

“Merry Christmas,” he repeats, quieter this time.

You don’t get up right away. Neither of you do. Sunghoon pulls you closer, tucking his chin over your shoulder, fingers tracing idle patterns against your stomach. Outside, the world is silent. No schedules. No practice. No pressure. Just the two of you and a whole day stretched out ahead.

Eventually, hunger wins.

You end up in the kitchen together, both of you still in pajamas, his oversized hoodie swallowing you whole, socks mismatched because neither of you bothered to check. Sunghoon insists on making breakfast, despite the fact that it’s Christmas and you argue that you should do it together.

“We are doing it together,” he says, nudging you aside with his hip. “You’re moral support.”

“Wow. Promoted from girlfriend to cheerleader.”

He laughs, that full, unguarded laugh, and steals a kiss before cracking eggs into a bowl. Music plays softly from his phone; something old and warm, something that feels like December. You sit on the counter, swinging your legs, occasionally sneaking bits of food or poking his side just to hear him complain.

Breakfast turns into a mess of laughter and half-burnt toast and him pretending not to care when you tease him about it. You eat curled up on the couch afterward, sharing a blanket, feet tangled together as snow drifts past the window.

Presents come next. Sunghoon insists on watching your reactions more than opening his own.

It’s a small velvet pouch. Inside was a delicate bracelet, subtle and beautiful, engraved with a tiny symbol that reminded him of you. You slipped it onto your wrist, feeling the intimacy of the gesture settle warmly in your chest.

He sits cross-legged on the floor, eyes fixed on your face, memorizing every smile, every laugh, every soft “you didn’t have to.”

When it’s his turn, he’s oddly shy. He opens your gift carefully, like it might break.

Inside wasn’t just a journal; it was a handmade, leather-bound journal filled with letters from you, little notes scattered between the pages: memories, inside jokes, encouragements, and future dreams. Every page was meant to remind him of your bond.

When he sees what you got him, he goes quiet, swallowing hard before pulling you into a tight hug.

“You… you made this?” he breathed, voice cracking slightly.

“I wrote them,” you admitted with a small smile. “For you. So whenever you’re stressed, tired, or just need a reminder… you’ll know I’m always here, and I’m proud of you.”

“You always know me too well,” he murmurs into your hair.

Later, after lunch, he suggests going out.

The ice rink is calm, not crowded, winter light reflecting off the surface. Sunghoon skates effortlessly, like breathing comes naturally to him, but he stays close. One hand lightly holding yours, guiding rather than showing off. You circle the rink together, laughing softly when you wobble, him murmuring reassurance near your ear.

“You’re doing fine,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

It doesn’t last long, just enough to feel the cold air, just enough to share the moment, before you’re back home again, cheeks flushed, hands cold.

The afternoon fades into something soft and lazy. You watch movies, half-paying attention. You nap together on the couch, his head in your lap, your fingers brushing through his hair while he sleeps. At some point, he wakes up just enough to kiss your palm before drifting off again.

Dinner is simple. Homemade. Comfortable. You cook together this time, stealing tastes, bumping into each other in the small kitchen, dancing slowly while something simmers on the stove.

By night, the lights are low, the tree glowing quietly in the corner. Sunghoon pulls you close, resting his forehead against yours.

“This,” he says softly, “is my favorite Christmas.”

You know he means it, not because of the day, or the gifts, or the season, but because it’s you. Because it’s home.

KIM SUNOO

Sunoo is already awake, lying on his side facing you, his head propped up by one hand as he watches you sleep. The Christmas lights you forgot to turn off the night before glow softly behind him, casting little flecks of gold across his face. When you finally stir, he smiles instantly, bright, genuine, the kind of smile that makes mornings feel kinder.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispers, like he doesn’t want to scare the moment away.

You smile back sleepily. “You’ve been awake for how long?”

“Long enough to consider waking you up,” he admits, laughing softly. “But you looked too peaceful.”

He leans down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. Slow, unhurried, like there’s nowhere else either of you need to be today. Outside, the world is quiet. No schedules. No rush. Just the two of you.

Eventually, you drag yourselves out of bed and into the kitchen, both of you wrapped in the same blanket. Sunoo insists on making breakfast together. Not anything fancy, just warm pancakes, fresh fruit, and coffee. He hums softly while he cooks, occasionally poking your waist on purpose just to hear you laugh.

“Christmas calories don’t count,” he says seriously as he hands you a plate. “That’s a rule.”

After breakfast, you sit together on the floor in front of the tree, backs against the couch, sipping your drinks while the room smells faintly of pine and vanilla. Sunoo hands you your gift first, his eyes shining with anticipation.

When you open it, you find a delicate ring, simple, elegant, something you could wear every day. He watches your reaction carefully, fingers nervously fidgeting with the sleeve of his sweater.

“I thought…” he starts, then pauses. “I wanted to get you something that feels like us. Comfortable. Something that stays.”

You don’t even say anything at first. You just lean forward and hug him tightly, your cheek pressed against his shoulder. He laughs softly, arms wrapping around you immediately.

“I’ll take that as a good sign,” he murmurs.

When it’s his turn, you hand him a carefully wrapped box. Inside is a high-quality skincare set you know he’s been eyeing for months, nothing flashy, just thoughtful. Along with it is a soft, expensive blanket in a neutral tone, something cozy enough to wrap around himself on quiet nights.

Sunoo goes still.

“You remembered,” he says quietly, running his fingers over the fabric. “I mentioned this once.”

“I know,” you reply. “You deserve to be comfortable.”

For a moment, he doesn’t joke. He just pulls you into his chest, holding you there a little longer than necessary.

The rest of the day unfolds slowly. You put on a Christmas playlist. Nothing overly loud, just soft songs filling the space while built a Christmas Lego together.

Later, you build a small excuse for a blanket fort in the living room, stringing fairy lights over it and crawling inside with mugs of hot chocolate. You watch a movie, but neither of you pays much attention. Your head is resting on his shoulder, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on your arm.

“This is my favorite kind of Christmas,” he says quietly. “No pressure. Just… us.”

In the evening, you cook dinner together, stealing bites from each other’s plates and dancing slowly in the kitchen while the food simmers. Sunoo laughs easily today, lighter, freer, like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

By nightfall, you’re curled up on the couch again, wrapped in the blanket you gave him. He tucks you closer, resting his chin on your head.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “For today. For always making things feel warm.”

You smile, eyes drifting shut as the lights glow softly around you.

“Merry Christmas, Sunoo.”

“Merry Christmas,” he replies, kissing your hair gently.

And for the first time all day, neither of you feels the need to do anything else.

YANG JUNGWON

You wake up to the sound of quiet movement rather than an alarm.

At first, you think you’re dreaming. There’s a soft clink of ceramic, the low hum of the heater, footsteps moving carefully like someone is trying not to wake you. When you finally open your eyes, the room is washed in pale winter light, the curtains barely parted.

Jungwon isn’t in bed.

You sit up, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders just as he reappears in the doorway, holding two mugs and wearing an hoodie you’ve never seen in his closet before. He freezes when he sees you awake.

“…You’re up,” he says, voice soft, almost surprised.

You smile. “You were sneaking around.”

He exhales a small laugh and walks over, handing you a mug. “I was trying to be quiet. Merry Christmas.”

The words sound gentler coming from him. Like he means them deeply rather than loudly. You take the mug, warmth seeping into your palms, and he sits beside you on the bed, close but not rushed. Your knees touch. His shoulder brushes yours.

“What time did you wake up?” you ask.

Jungwon shrugs. “Not that early. I just… wanted the morning to feel calm.”

That’s him. Always thinking ahead. Always steady.

You lean against him, resting your head on his shoulder, and he instinctively shifts to make you more comfortable, his arm coming around your back. For a few minutes, neither of you speaks. You just sip your drinks and watch the slow drift of snow outside the window.

Eventually, he presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Let’s take our time today.”

You do.

After getting dressed, soft knits, neutral colors, everything comfortable; you move to the kitchen together. Jungwon cooks breakfast with quiet focus, sleeves rolled up, hair still slightly messy from sleep. You sit at the counter, watching him more than helping, and he pretends not to notice the way your eyes follow him.

“You’re staring,” he says, not looking up.

“You’re handsome,” you reply easily.

He pauses for just a second, ears turning faintly pink. “Eat your food.”

Breakfast is warm and simple. French toast, maple syrup, fruit. He insists on plating it nicely anyway, because he likes things done properly; even today. You eat slowly, talking about nothing important. Plans that don’t matter. Thoughts that don’t need conclusions.

Afterward, you sit together in the living room, the Christmas tree glowing softly. Jungwon hands you your gift first, carefully wrapped, neat edges and a simple ribbon. He watches you closely as you open it.

Inside is something thoughtful and practical. Something you mentioned needing months ago but forgot about. Along with it is a small handwritten note.

Thank you for always choosing me. I’ll keep choosing you too.

You look up at him, throat tight.

He clears his throat. “I didn’t know how to say it out loud.”

You lean over and kiss him gently, slow and warm, and his hand cups your cheek like it’s instinct.

When it’s his turn, you give him a box a little heavier than expected. Inside is a high-quality leather planner and a pen engraved with his initials. Something subtle, something that fits him. Tucked inside is a small photo of the two of you.

Jungwon stares at it for a long moment.

“…You know me too well,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t laugh this time. He just pulls you into his chest, holding you firmly, protectively, like the world outside doesn’t exist today.

The afternoon passes quietly. You take a walk together, bundled up against the cold, hands tucked into the same pocket of his coat, talking about anything and everything. Snow crunches under your boots, and Jungwon keeps glancing at you like he’s memorizing the moment.

Later, you cook dinner together; him chopping, you seasoning, the two of you moving around each other like it’s second nature. Soft music plays in the background. At one point, he wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Thank you for being my safe place,” he says quietly.

You turn around and smile softly before hugging him. “Always.”

By the time night falls, you’re curled up on the couch beneath a blanket, lights dimmed, the tree glowing softly. Jungwon’s arm is around you, fingers absentmindedly tracing circles against your side.

“This,” he says softly, “is exactly how I wanted today to be.”

You smile, eyes drifting shut.

“Merry Christmas, Jungwon.”

He kisses your forehead gently. “Merry Christmas.”

And in the stillness, you realize there’s nowhere else you’d rather wake up. Today or any day after.

NISHIMURA RIKI

You wake up to warmth before sound.

Ni-ki is still asleep beside you, one arm draped loosely over your waist, his breathing slow and even. The room is dim, curtains barely letting in the pale winter light. Outside, the world feels hushed, like it’s waiting.

For once, he isn’t moving first.

You let yourself stay there a moment longer, listening to him breathe, memorizing the weight of his arm, the way his fingers twitch occasionally like he’s dreaming. He looks softer like this. Lashes resting against his cheeks, hair falling into his eyes without the usual effort to tame it.

Eventually, he stirs.

“Why are you staring,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, eyes still closed.

You smile. “It’s Christmas.”

“That doesn’t explain the staring.”

“You look peaceful,” you say. “Rare sight.”

He hums, pulling you closer instead of arguing. “You’re lucky I love you.”

That’s the thing about Ni-ki, he doesn’t shout his affection. He lets it settle into moments like this.

You don’t rush out of bed. There’s no urgency. Just quiet jokes, lazy kisses, his thumb tracing absentminded shapes against your side while you talk about nothing important. Eventually, he sighs and sits up, rubbing his face.

“Okay,” he says. “Coffee. Then presents. I need caffeine before emotional vulnerability.”

You laugh softly as you follow him into the kitchen.

He moves comfortably in the space. Grabbing mugs, grinding coffee, stealing glances at you like he’s checking whether you’re watching. When he catches you, he raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say. “You just look… content.”

He scoffs. “Don’t make it weird.”

But he doesn’t deny it.

The morning unfolds slowly. Music hums quietly from the speaker, something soft and familiar. You cook together, not anything fancy, just comfort food. Ni-ki stands close behind you at the stove, correcting your technique in mock seriousness.

“That’s too much butter.”

“You literally just added more.”

“Different kind of butter,” he argues, deadpan.

After breakfast, you finally move to the living room. The tree lights glow softly, gifts tucked beneath it like they’ve been waiting all night.

Ni-ki sits beside you on the floor, shoulder pressed to yours. “You first,” he says again, calmer this time.

His gift to you is thoughtful, something practical but personal, something you’ll actually use. There’s no big speech, just a quiet, “I remembered you wanted this.”

When it’s his turn, you hand him a box that immediately makes him pause.

He opens it slowly.

Inside is something meant for him. not flashy, not for show. High-quality gaming gear he’s been debating buying for months, paired with a note written in your handwriting.

For the nights you unwind, and the worlds you escape into.

Ni-ki doesn’t say anything at first. He just exhales, long and quiet, jaw tightening slightly.

“…You pay too much attention,” he mutters.

“You deserve it.”

He looks up at you then, really looks. Eyes warm, something unspoken settling between you. “Come here,” he says softly.

You don’t hesitate.

The rest of the day is unstructured in the best way. You go out for a walk in the cold, hands brushing, shoulders bumping occasionally, a snowball flying here and there. Ni-ki teases you about your gloves, you tease him about how he keeps adjusting his scarf. You stop for coffee again because he insists it “hits different” on Christmas.

Back home, you change into something comfortable and sink into the couch together. A movie plays, but neither of you pays much attention. Ni-ki rests his head against your chest, one hand lazily wrapped around your waist.

“This,” he says quietly, “is better than I expected.”

“Christmas?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “Us.”

Your heart tightens, but you don’t make it heavy. You just continue to play with his hair.

Dinner is simple. Music low. The kitchen warm. At one point, he comes up behind you and rests his chin on your shoulder, arms wrapping loosely around your waist.

“Thank you,” he says. “For today.”

“For what?”

“For making it feel like home.”

Later, when the lights are off and you’re back in bed, Ni-ki turns toward you, voice barely above a whisper.

“Let’s do this again next year.”

You smile into the dark. “I was planning on it.”

He pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours, and for a long moment, neither of you says anything. You don’t need to.

They say success changes people — you just never thought it would change him.

When Niki took over the company, you were proud. He’d always been ambitious, brilliant even, and you believed that no matter how high he climbed, he’d still come home to you at the end of the day.

But somewhere between late-night meetings and endless deadlines, you lost the man who used to hold your hand through crowded streets just because he liked how perfectly your fingers fit.

Now, you live with a stranger who wears your husband’s face.

The house feels different these days — quieter, colder, like it’s holding its breath. Sometimes you think it mirrors the two of you, the way the air sits heavy with things neither of you says anymore.

Tonight is no different. He sits in the chair beside the bed, his attention fixed on the glow of his laptop screen, surrounded by a fortress of documents and coffee cups. His tie hangs loose, his hair slightly tousled, yet the softness you used to love in him feels long gone.

You watch him from the edge of the bed, tracing the familiar lines of his face, searching for the boy who used to pull you into his arms just to complain about how much he missed you, even if you’d only been apart for a few hours. That boy who used to be all warmth and laughter, who used to make everything feel light and easy. The boy you fell in love with. Your Riki.

Now, his eyes are sharp, his jaw set, his voice distant whenever he speaks. It’s like his responsibilities have swallowed him whole. And as the silence stretches between you, you can’t help but wonder when exactly you stopped being his peace and became just another part of the noise.

You clear your throat softly. “Hey… can we talk?”

He pauses, fingers stilling over the keyboard. The screen’s glow flickers across his face, highlighting the faint exhaustion under his eyes. For a second, he doesn’t move, the air between you thinning like glass pulled too tight. You almost think he won’t answer, that he’ll just go back to pretending you aren’t there. But then he exhales; slow, uneven, and finally lifts his gaze to meet yours.

His eyes are dark, stormy, conflicted. And in that silence, everything you’ve both been avoiding sits heavy between you, all the things said, unsaid, and quietly breaking.

Then, just like that, the distance between you cracks. One hesitant brush of his hand, a shiver, and suddenly it’s not about deadlines, responsibilities, or control anymore. It’s about him, you, and the fire that never truly went out.

@woniescheeks

LEE HEESEUNG

You were lounging in the dorms when Heeseung stood up to grab something from the kitchen. As he passed by, your hand instinctively shot out, landing a playful smack on his ass. The sound echoed in the room, and Heeseung froze mid-step, turning to glare at you with wide eyes. 

“What the hell was that?” he asked, his voice a mix of disbelief and amusement. 

You shrugged nonchalantly, biting back a grin. “What? It was right there. I couldn’t resist.” 

Heeseung scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable. You can’t just go around slapping people’s asses like that.” 

“Oh, but you do it to the members all the time,” you retorted, leaning back against the couch. “Double standards much?” 

“That’s different!” he exclaimed, pointing at you accusingly. “They’re my members. You’re—” He stopped himself, his face reddening slightly. “You’re you.” 

“And?” you teased, tilting your head. “What’s your point, Hee?” 

Heeseung groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You’re such a pain in the ass, you know that?” 

“Speaking of asses...” you said with a smirk, wiggling your eyebrows. 

“Don’t even start,” he warned, though the corner of his mouth twitched into a reluctant smile. “You’re so lucky Iove you.” 

“Aw, you love me?” you cooed, batting your eyelashes at him. “Say it again, Hee.” 

“Not a chance,” he shot back, grabbing a pillow from the couch and throwing it at you. “Now stop harassing me, you menace.” 

“Admit it, you secretly liked it,” you called after him as he walked away, flipping you off over his shoulder. 

PARK JONSEONG

Jay was busy cooking in the kitchen, his back turned to you as he stirred something on the stove. The delicious smell filled the room, but your focus was elsewhere—specifically, on the way his sweatpants fit a little too well. Before you could think twice, you walked up behind him and gave his ass a sharp slap. 

Jay jumped, almost dropping the spoon in his hand. “What the fuck?” he yelped, spinning around to face you. His eyes were wide, and his ears were already turning red. 

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “Sorry, it was just... right there. Couldn’t help myself.” 

He narrowed his eyes at you, pointing the spoon in your direction. “You have a death wish, don’t you?” 

“Relax, Chef Ramsay,” you teased, leaning against the counter. “Consider it a compliment.” 

“A compliment?” he repeated, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, sure. Nothing screams ‘compliment’ like getting smacked in the ass while I’m cooking.” 

“Exactly,” you said with a grin. “It’s like... encouragement. You’re doing a great job, babe.” 

Jay groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re insufferable.” 

“And you love it,” you shot back, grabbing a piece of chopped carrot from the cutting board. 

“Love is a strong word,” he muttered, though the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. 

“Admit it,” you said, stepping closer and poking his chest. “You secretly liked it.” 

Jay leaned down, his face inches from yours. “If you do it again, I’m kicking you out of the kitchen,” he said, his voice low and threatening—though the blush on his cheeks ruined the effect. 

“Noted,” you replied sweetly, patting his chest. “But no promises.” 

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, turning back to the stove. You could still see the tips of his ears burning red as he focused on cooking, muttering something about how you were a menace under his breath. 

SIM JAEYUN

Jake was sprawled out on the couch, scrolling through his phone while his legs dangled off the armrest. You walked by, taking in the perfect opportunity. Without hesitation, you swung your hand and smacked his ass. Hard. 

“Holy shit!” Jake yelped, nearly dropping his phone as he bolted upright. “What the hell was that for?” 

You doubled over with laughter, clutching your stomach. “Your reaction! Oh my God, Jake, you looked like you saw a ghost!” 

He glared at you, his cheeks turning pink. “You’re so fucking annoying. Who even does that?” 

“Me, apparently,” you said, grinning. “Nice reflexes, by the way.” 

Jake rolled his eyes, leaning back against the couch. “You’re lucky I didn’t accidentally kick you.” 

“Oh, please. You’d never,” you teased, plopping down beside him. “You’re too soft for that.” 

“Soft?” he repeated, looking offended. “I’ll show you soft—” He lunged forward, grabbing a pillow and whacking you with it. 

“Hey!” you protested, laughing as you tried to fend him off. “Violence isn’t the answer, Jake!” 

“It is when you’re the problem,” he shot back, though he was laughing now too. 

You managed to grab the pillow from him, holding it over your head in victory. “Admit it, though. You secretly liked it.” 

Jake scoffed, crossing his arms. “In what world would I like being slapped in the ass?” 

“This one,” you said confidently, smirking at him. “Don’t lie, Jake. I saw the way you blushed.” 

He groaned, burying his face in his hands. “You’re so goddamn annoying. Why do I even put up with you?” 

“Because you love me,” you replied with a cheeky grin, poking his side. “Admit it.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, but the small smile on his face told you everything you needed to know. 

PARK SUNGHOON

Sunghoon was standing in front of the mirror, fixing his hair for the millionth time. He was so focused on his reflection that he didn’t notice you sneaking up behind him. Without warning, you slapped his ass, the loud smack echoing in the room. 

“What the fuck?” Sunghoon exclaimed, spinning around to glare at you. His cheeks flushed pink as he stared at you in disbelief. “Did you just—” 

“I sure did,” you said, grinning up at him. “Nice reaction time, by the way.” 

Sunghoon scowled, crossing his arms. “What the hell is wrong with you?” 

“Nothing,” you replied innocently. “I just thought you needed a little... appreciation.” 

“Appreciation for what?” he demanded, narrowing his eyes. 

“For being so pretty,” you said with a smirk. “You’re welcome.” 

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You’re unbelievable.” 

“And you’re blushing,” you shot back, pointing at his red cheeks. 

“I am not,” he said quickly, turning back to the mirror. “You’re just imagining things.” 

“Sure, Hoon,” you teased, stepping closer to poke his side. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” 

He swatted your hand away, muttering something under his breath. “You’re so annoying.” 

“But you love me,” you said, grinning. 

“Debatable,” he replied, though the small smile tugging at his lips said otherwise. 

KIM SUNOO

Sunoo was lying on his bed, scrolling through his phone. You walked by, smirking as you saw the perfect opportunity. Without hesitation, you slapped his ass, earning a loud yelp from him. 

“Yah! What the hell?” Sunoo exclaimed, sitting up to glare at you. His cheeks were already turning red. 

“Sorry,” you said, not sounding sorry at all. “Couldn’t resist.” 

He narrowed his eyes at you, pointing accusingly. “You’re so dead.” 

“Oh, come on,” you teased, holding your hands up in mock surrender. “It’s not that big of a deal.” 

“Not that big of a deal?” he repeated, his voice rising an octave. “You just smacked my ass!” 

“And it was a good one,” you said with a grin. “Props to you, Sunoo.” 

He groaned, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at you. “You’re the worst.” 

“And yet, here we are,” you said, dodging the pillow. “Admit it, though. You secretly liked it.” 

“In your dreams,” he shot back, though the blush on his cheeks gave him away. 

YANG JUNGWON

Jungwon was tidying up the living room, humming to himself as he carefully folded a blanket. You watched him for a moment, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. The moment he turned slightly, you took your chance—your hand shot out, landing a loud smack on his ass. 

Jungwon yelped, nearly tripping over his own feet as he whipped around to glare at you. "What the hell was that?!" 

You shrugged, barely holding back laughter. "A well-executed ass slap, obviously." 

His jaw dropped as he stared at you in disbelief. "You—you can't just do that! What is wrong with you?" 

"Plenty of things," you admitted with a smirk. "But that’s not the point here." 

Jungwon groaned, covering his face with both hands for a second before pointing an accusing finger at you. "You’re the walking embodiment of ‘this is why we can’t have nice things’. Do you even think before you act?" 

"Nope," you answered proudly. "It’s called living in the moment, Wonie. You should try it." 

"Living in the moment doesn't mean violating my personal space!" he exclaimed, his ears burning bright red. "I should report you for this." 

"Report me?" you laughed. "To who? Enhypen HR? Oh wait, you’re the leader. What are you going to do, write me a sternly worded memo." 

"You know what, go ahead, report me," you taunted, smirking. "I'm dying to see who you think handles that kind of thing around here."

Jungwon huffed, crossing his arms. "I swear, you get away with way too much." 

You stepped closer, tilting your head. "You’re still blushing, by the way." 

His hands shot up to his cheeks immediately. "I AM NOT!" 

"Oh, you totally are," you teased. "Just admit you liked it, Wonie. I promise I won’t tell." 

Jungwon groaned loudly, dramatically throwing himself onto the couch. "I can’t deal with you. I actually can’t." 

You sat beside him, nudging his shoulder. "You love dealing with me." 

"No, I tolerate you," he muttered, shooting you a side-eye. "And barely." 

You grinned. "Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that." 

NISHIMURA RIKI

Ni-Ki was in the middle of dancing, testing out a new choreography in the practice room mirror. He was completely lost in the rhythm, his body moving fluidly, his focus locked on the routine. 

Which made it the perfect moment. 

You crept up behind him, watching as he executed a clean spin, and right as he landed—you swung. Your hand connected with his ass with a loud SMACK. 

Ni-Ki let out a scandalized squawk as he stumbled forward, nearly face-planting into the mirror. He caught himself just in time, spinning around to glare at you with wide eyes. "WHAT THE FUCK?!" 

You doubled over in laughter, clutching your stomach as you watched his reaction. "Oh my God, your face! I should’ve recorded that." 

"Your such a gremlin," Ni-Ki gritted out, running a hand down his face. "What is wrong with you?!" 

"Nothing," you wheezed between giggles. "Your ass was just asking for it." 

Ni-Ki groaned dramatically. "MY ASS WAS MINDING ITS OWN DAMN BUSINESS!" 

"It was too minding its own business," you teased. "I had to do something about it." 

He pointed at you accusingly. "You are literally out of control." 

"And yet, you keep me around," you shot back, smirking. "Which means you must like the chaos." 

Ni-Ki rolled his eyes, turning back to the mirror. "I don’t even know why I bother with you." 

You stepped up beside him, resting your chin on his shoulder. "Because you’d be bored without me." 

He sighed, shaking his head. "You are so lucky I tolerate your bullshit." 

"Love, Ni-Ki," you corrected with a grin. "You love my bullshit." 

He snorted, finally cracking a reluctant smile. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever helps you sleep at night." 

LEE HEESEUNG 

You were sitting on the studio couch as Heeseung wrapped up his practice session. His voice effortlessly hit the high notes, leaving you completely mesmerized. When he finished, he looked over at you, slightly out of breath but wearing that proud smile he always had after nailing a tough section.

“How was it?” he asked casually, grabbing a water bottle from the table.

You tilted your head at him, a playful glint in your eyes. “It was… perfect. As always.”

He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “You don’t have to butter me up, you know. I’m just practicing.”

You sat up straighter, your expression growing mock-serious. “Heeseung, I’m not buttering you up. I’m being 100% serious. The way you sing—it’s like you were born for this. Honestly, I’m so impressed I’m questioning why I even deserve to sit here and listen.”

He choked on his water at your dramatic delivery, turning away to hide his flustered expression. “O-Okay, that’s a little too much. Tone it down!”

You grinned, leaning closer. “Tone it down? Absolutely not. I’m a big fan of yours, Lee Heeseung, and I will shout it from the rooftops if I have to.”

He groaned, running a hand over his face. “Stop, you’re making me embarrassed.”

“Aw, you’re blushing!” you teased, poking his cheek. “I knew you were soft behind all that stage confidence.”

“I’m not soft!” he protested, his voice cracking slightly, which only made him blush more.

“Sure, sure,” you said with a laugh. “But seriously, Heeseung, you’re incredible. And I think people don’t tell you that enough.”

For a moment, his teasing demeanor softened, and he looked at you with a shy smile. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “It means a lot coming from you.”

You poked his cheek again, grinning. “Adorable.”

“Stop calling me adorable!”

PARK JONGSEONG 

You were lounging on the couch with Jay, enjoying a lazy afternoon while he scrolled through his phone. Occasionally, he’d chuckle at something and show you, but for the most part, you just admired how effortlessly good-looking he was, even in his most casual outfit.

Out of nowhere, you blurted out, “You know, you’re really attractive.”

Jay froze mid-scroll, his thumb hovering above the screen. He turned to look at you, wide-eyed. “What?”

“You’re attractive,” you repeated, completely nonchalant. “Like, ridiculously so.”

Jay blinked rapidly, his ears turning red as he tried to figure out how to respond. “Oh… uh… thanks?”

You smirked, leaning closer. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not!” he shot back, sitting up straighter.

“You totally are,” you teased, pointing at his reddening ears. “It’s cute, honestly. You always act so confident, but one little compliment and you’re all shy.”

He groaned, covering his face with his hands. “You can’t just say stuff like that out of nowhere! It’s not fair!”

“Why not?” you asked innocently. “It’s the truth. You’re stupidly handsome, and sometimes it’s distracting.”

Jay peeked at you from behind his fingers, his face still red. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little,” you admitted with a grin. “But admit it—you like hearing it from me.”

He sighed, shaking his head with a shy smile. “Okay, fine. Maybe I do. But don’t think I’ll let you get away with this again.”

“Sure, sure,” you replied, laughing. “Whatever you say, blushing boy.”

SIM JAEYUN 

Jake was sitting at his desk, typing furiously on his laptop. His brows furrowed in concentration, and his lips were pursed slightly. You couldn’t help but admire how cute he looked when he was so focused.

Feeling mischievous, you walked up behind him and gently wrapped your arms around his shoulders, resting your chin on his head.

“Hi,” you whispered softly.

Jake froze, his hands hovering over the keyboard. “Uh… hi?” he replied, his voice slightly shaky.

“You’ve been working so hard,” you murmured, leaning into him a bit more. “I thought you could use a hug.”

Jake let out a nervous laugh, his ears turning red. “Oh, uh… thanks? You didn’t have to, though.”

“But I wanted to,” you said simply. “You’re always so sweet to me, Jake. I wanted to return the favor.”

He fidgeted in his seat, trying to hide his obvious flustered state. “You’re really good at this, you know. Flustering me.”

You grinned, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head. “Only you. You’re easy to fluster.”

Jake groaned, leaning back in his chair to look up at you. His cheeks were bright red, but he couldn’t hide his smile. “You’re gonna kill me with all this, you know that?”

“You’ll survive,” you teased, ruffling his hair. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

He let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. “You’re lucky I love you so much,” he muttered, though the fond look in his eyes betrayed him.

PARK SUNGHOON 

Sunghoon was scrolling through his phone as you sat across from him at the cafe. His cold brew sat untouched, the ice slowly melting as he furrowed his brow at something on his screen. 

You tilted your head, watching him with a small smile. “What are you looking at so intensely?”

“Skating videos,” he replied without looking up. 

You leaned forward, trying to peek at his phone. “Are you studying or just reminiscing about your glory days?” 

He shot you a playful glare, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. “First of all, they’re not ‘glory days.’ I’m still a legend, thank you very much.” 

“Oh, my bad,” you teased, leaning back in your chair. “The legendary Park Sunghoon. How could I forget?” 

He rolled his eyes, finally putting his phone down. “You’re impossible.” 

“But you like it,” you said with a grin. 

Sunghoon leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand as he gave you a smirk. “Maybe I do. What about it?” 

You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden boldness. “I—uh—well…” 

He chuckled, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “What happened to all that teasing? Cat got your tongue?” 

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to regain your composure. “I was just surprised you actually admitted it. You’re usually so aloof.” 

He shrugged, sipping his cold brew. “Maybe I like seeing you flustered. It’s cute.” 

Now it was your turn to blush. “Touché.” 

KIM SUNOO 

Sunoo was rummaging through a pile of snacks on the coffee table, his face lighting up every time he found something he liked. You sat beside him, watching his childlike excitement with a fond smile. 

“Do you ever stop being adorable?” you asked suddenly. 

He paused, a bag of chips in hand, and turned to look at you with wide eyes. “What?” 

“You’re just so cute all the time,” you said, leaning your chin on your hand. “It’s unfair, really.” 

Sunoo’s cheeks turned pink as he tried to play it cool. “I mean… I can’t help it if I’m naturally charming.” 

You laughed, reaching over to poke his cheek. “There it is—the confidence. But seriously, Sunoo, you’re like a human ball of sunshine. It’s impossible not to smile around you.” 

He beamed at your words, his blush deepening. “Well, someone has to keep you smiling, right?” 

You grinned, leaning closer. “Mission accomplished. But what about me? Do I make you smile too?” 

Sunoo looked at you for a moment before breaking into a shy yet radiant smile. “All the time,” he admitted softly. 

Your heart skipped a beat at his sincerity, and you couldn’t help but ruffle his hair. “You’re too sweet for your own good, you know that?” 

“Maybe,” he said with a giggle. “But it’s worth it if it makes you happy.” 

YANG JUNGWON 

Jungwon was sitting next to you on the floor, going over some choreography videos. His expression was serious, brows furrowed as he replayed the same clip over and over, analysing every move with a laser focus. 

You, however, had long since zoned out. It wasn’t that the video wasn’t interesting; it was just that Jungwon himself was far more captivating. The way his lips pressed together in thought, the way his eyes narrowed slightly as he concentrated—it was hard not to admire him when he got like this. 

Without thinking, you reached out and brushed his hair back. It was such a casual, natural movement that it didn’t even register as anything out of the ordinary. 

But to Jungwon, it was a completely different story. 

He froze immediately, his whole body stiffening as his eyes widened in surprise. Slowly, he turned to look at you, his lips parting slightly as if to say something, but no words came out. 

“What?” you asked, confused by his reaction. “Your hair was in your face. I was just helping.” 

Jungwon blinked, and then his cheeks flushed a bright pink. “You... You can’t just do that,” he stammered, his voice uncharacteristically high. 

“Do what?” you asked, tilting your head. “Fix your hair? It’s not a big deal.” 

“Not a big deal?” he repeated, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just... you caught me off guard, that’s all.” 

A small smile tugged at your lips as you realized what was happening. “Jungwon,” you said teasingly, leaning closer, “are you flustered?” 

“What? No!” he said quickly, his voice defensive. He avoided your gaze, but the redness spreading to the tips of his ears betrayed him. 

“You totally are,” you teased, your grin growing. “It’s cute, though. You’re cute.” 

Jungwon groaned softly, covering his face with his hands. “Stop,” he mumbled, his voice muffled. “You’re going to make it worse.” 

“Make what worse? The fact that you’re blushing?” you teased, reaching out to gently nudge his shoulder. 

“I’m not blushing,” he insisted, though his voice lacked conviction. 

“You so are,” you shot back, laughing. “It’s okay, though. It makes you even more endearing.” 

Jungwon peeked at you from between his fingers, his eyes narrowing slightly in playful annoyance. “You’re enjoying this way too much,” he muttered. 

“I can’t help it,” you said with a shrug, your smile softening. “You’re really cute when you’re flustered, you know?” 

He let out a sigh, finally dropping his hands from his face. His cheeks were still pink, but he managed to muster a shy smile. “You drive me crazy,” he said quietly, shaking his head. 

“And yet, you still hang out with me,” you replied with a grin. 

Jungwon chuckled softly, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Yeah, well... I guess you’re worth it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

His words made you freeze this time, and he smirked at your wide-eyed reaction. “Now who’s flustered?” 

NISHIMURA RIKI  

Ni-Ki was sprawled out on the couch, gripping the video game controller like his life depended on it. His eyes were glued to the screen, lips pressed into a focused line as his character dodged another attack. You sat next to him, your legs crossed and a bag of chips resting in your lap.

“You’re way too serious about this,” you teased, munching on a chip.

“You say that, but you wouldn’t last ten seconds in this game,” he retorted, his tone dripping with confidence.

“Oh, is that a challenge?” you quipped, setting the chips aside.

He chuckled, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “If you think you can handle the humiliation, sure.”

You smirked, grabbing the controller he tossed your way. “Watch and learn, Ni-Ki.”

The moment the game began, chaos ensued. Your character staggered around, hitting walls and completely missing the enemies. Ni-Ki didn’t even try to hold back his laughter, practically doubling over as you flailed.

“This is—this is so bad,” he wheezed, clutching his stomach. “I knew you’d be bad, but this?!”

“Okay, stop laughing before I throw this controller at you!” you huffed, cheeks burning from embarrassment.

“You couldn’t even aim that right,” he teased, wiping away a tear.

“Oh, that’s it,” you said, setting the controller down and turning to face him. He didn’t even notice the mischievous glint in your eyes as he kept laughing.

“Ni-ki,” you said sweetly, leaning closer.

“Yeah?” he asked, still smirking.

Without missing a beat, you rested your hand on his knee and leaned in until your faces were barely a breath apart. “You talk a big game, but you’re blushing harder than I am right now.”

His laughter stopped instantly. His smug grin faltered as his eyes widened. “W-What?”

You tilted your head, pretending to examine him. “Your ears are turning red, too. Cute.”

Ni-Ki blinked rapidly, scrambling to lean back against the couch as if it would put more distance between you two. “I—I’m not blushing! What are you even talking about?”

You laughed, leaning back and crossing your arms triumphantly. “Uh-huh. Sure. Totally not flustered, right?”

“I’m not!” he insisted, his voice an octave higher than usual. He covered his face with his hands, only making his obvious reaction worse.

“Riki,” you cooed, leaning toward him again. “Are you embarrassed because I got close? Or because I caught you staring at my lips earlier?”

His jaw dropped, and his blush spread all the way down his neck. “I wasn’t— I didn’t— You’re making that up!”

“Oh, really?” you teased, narrowing your eyes. “Then why can’t you even look at me right now?”

“I’m—ugh!” he groaned, burying his face in a pillow as you erupted into laughter.

“Admit it,” you said between giggles, poking his side. “I totally won this round.”

“Whatever,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by the pillow. “I’m never playing games with you again.”

“Don’t be mad,” you teased, leaning closer to ruffle his hair. “You’re cute when you’re flustered, you know?”

He peeked out from the pillow, his face still bright red. “Stop saying stuff like that!”

You smirked, your victory sweeter than any high score.

LEE HEESEUNG

You’re curled up on the couch, scrolling through your phone with a blanket draped over your legs. Heeseung walks into the room, holding his guitar like it’s no big deal. He plops down beside you, the couch dipping slightly under his weight, and starts strumming lazily. 

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Practicing again?” 

“Something like that,” he says with a smirk before breaking into a sweet melody. The song sounds oddly familiar, and then you realize—he’s improvising lyrics about you. They’re cheesy, talking about how your laugh is his favourite sound and how even your messy hair is perfect to him. 

“You’re not serious,” you say, raising an eyebrow as you glance at him. 

“About what?” Heeseung asks innocently, a teasing glint in his eyes. 

“About playing me a song right now,” you reply, crossing your arms. “You know I’m not falling for that cheesy stuff.” 

Heeseung only grins and leans in closer. “I’m not trying to be cheesy,” he says, strumming the guitar a little louder. “But I think you’re already falling for it.” 

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help but smile. “Please don’t make this any worse, Heeseung.” 

But before you know it, he starts singing again. The lyrics this time were about how you light up his world, how he’s so lucky to be with you, and how even your quirks are perfect to him.  

You groan, hiding your face behind your hands. “Heeseung, stop!” 

“Why? Am I making you blush?” he teases, leaning closer, still playing. His voice softens, and he gives you this look—part playful, part sincere—that makes your heart skip. “You’re really cute when you’re embarrassed, you know?” 

“Not cute! I’m dying of second-hand embarrassment,” you reply, but you can’t help but smile. Heeseung’s face lights up as he continues to sing, and for a moment, nothing else matters but his voice and the way he makes you feel like you’re the most important person in the world. 

PARK JONSEONG

You’re in the kitchen, huffing in frustration while trying to open a jar of pasta sauce. “Ugh, seriously?” you mutter to yourself, tugging at it harder. Just as you’re about to give up, you hear Jay’s voice behind you. 

“Need some help, babe?” he asks, his voice dripping with that familiar confidence. You turn to see him standing there, hands casually in his pockets.

“No, I got it,” you say quickly, not wanting to admit you’re struggling. You give the lid another twist. 

Jay just raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, it looks like you really got it,” he teases. “Let me just do it.” he says, already reaching for the jar. Before you can even answer, he takes it from your hands and pops the lid off like it’s nothing with a smirk on his face. “You can’t do everything yourself, you know.” 

You cross your arms, huffing in mock annoyance. “I could’ve gotten it! It’s just a jar!” 

“Sure you could,” he says, giving you a look that says he’s not buying it for a second. “But you didn’t. And now I’m the hero of the day.” 

“Show-off,” you mutter, but before you can grab the jar back, he steps closer. His chest brushes lightly against your shoulder as he leans down to whisper in your ear, “How would you survive without me, huh?” 

His voice is low, smooth, and so close that you freeze. The warmth of his breath on your skin sends a jolt straight to your stomach. You try to come up with a comeback, but all that comes out is a flustered laugh. 

Jay pulls back with a grin, clearly proud of himself. “You’re welcome,” he says casually, setting the jar down like nothing happened, leaving you to process your racing heart. 

“Ugh, whatever,” you mutter, trying to hide the smile tugging at your lips. “But I definitely don’t need a ‘hero.’” 

“Of course you do,” he replies, winking. “Every superhero has their sidekick.” 

SIM JAEYUN

 You’re standing in front of the mirror, frowning as you debate between two outfits. Jake sits on the edge of the bed, watching you with his head propped up on his hand. 

“Which one do you like better?” you ask, holding up both options. 

He doesn’t even look at the clothes. Instead, he says, “You.” 

You pause, blinking at him. “What?” 

He grins, standing up and walking over to you. “I mean, you could wear either of those—or nothing at all—and you’d still look amazing.” 

You roll your eyes, trying to hide how flustered you are. “That’s not helpful.” 

Jake laughs softly, wrapping his arms around you from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder. “I’m serious. You could wear a trash bag, and I’d still think you’re the most beautiful person in the room.” 

Your cheeks burn as you swat at him. “Stop it, Jake!” You laugh nervously, but Jake isn’t done.

“Actually, scratch that,” he says, his voice softer now. “You’d still outshine the sun even if you wore a potato sack.” 

Rolling your eyes, you try to step away, but Jake gently pulls you back, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist. He rests his forehead lightly against the side of your head, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur. “Why do you always get so shy when I tell you how amazing you are?” 

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “Because you’re so extra sometimes,” you mumble, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. 

Jake chuckles, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “Can’t help it,” he says with a grin you can feel more than see. “I mean, have you looked in the mirror lately? You make it way too easy for me to hype you up.” 

You glance at him, finally letting out a real laugh as the warmth of his words starts to sink in. “You’re ridiculous,” you tease, but your voice is soft, affectionate. 

“And you love it,” he quips, pulling back just enough to look at you properly. His expression shifts, becoming more tender as he brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “For real, though,” he adds, his voice steady and sincere, “you’re beautiful” 

Your face warms, but this time, you don’t try to hide it. Instead, you lean into him, resting your head on his chest with a content sigh. 

He just laughs again, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “You’re perfect without even trying.” 

PARK SUNGHOON

It’s a lazy Saturday morning, and you’re lounging around in an oversized hoodie, feeling cozy and not at all concerned about how you look. You’re still in your pajamas, hair a mess, and in your fuzzy socks on the couch when Sunghoon enters the room, looking as put-together as ever. 

He stops in his tracks when he sees you. “Wow. Are you trying to set a new record for the ‘cozy chic’ look?” 

You glance over at him and laugh, tugging the sleeves of your hoodie over your hands. “What do you mean?” 

“Well,” Sunghoon says, crossing his arms, “I mean, it’s kind of unfair. Even when you’re like this”—he gestures at your hoodie—“you’re still so cute it’s ridiculous.” 

You blink, completely caught off guard. “Excuse me?” 

He walks closer to you, his eyes playful. “I mean, you could wear literally anything, and I’d still think you’re cute, but you’re not even trying today.” 

“You’re ridiculous!” you exclaim, grabbing a sofa pillow and throwing it at him. 

But Sunghoon catches it effortlessly, his smirk only growing. “What? I’m just stating the obvious. You know you’re perfect, even when you don’t try.” 

He rests his arms on the armrest of the sofa and leans in as you give him a funny look. “What? Can’t handle a little truth?” 

You sigh dramatically. “You’re such a handful, you know that?” 

“I know,” Sunghoon says, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. “But you still love me, don’t you?” 

You bite your lip, trying not to smile. “Maybe.” 

KIM SUNOO

You’re walking through the park with Sunoo, holding hands and chatting about everything and nothing. The day is perfect—blue skies, a light breeze, and his hand warm in yours. 

Suddenly, he stops walking. “Hold on,” he says, looking down. 

You follow his gaze and realize your shoelace is untied. Before you can bend down to fix it, Sunoo crouches in front of you, taking your foot gently in his hands. 

“Sunoo, I can do it,” you protest, feeling your face heat up as people glance your way. 

“Shh, I’ve got it,” he says, tying the laces with a practiced ease and looks up at you with a cheeky smile. “You don’t want to trip, do you?”  

You roll your eyes. “I’m fine! I can tie my own shoes.” 

“Yeah, but I’m the one who always makes sure you don’t fall,” Sunoo teases, finishing the knot with a neat little bow and standing up. “Can’t have you getting hurt on my watch.” 

You’re about to thank him when he stands up and brushes off his pants. “You’re lucky I’m here to take care of you,” he teases, linking his arm with yours again. 

You try to act annoyed, but the affection in his voice makes it impossible not to feel warm inside. You shake your head, trying to ignore how flustered you feel. “You’re too much sometimes.” 

“And you love it,” he shoots back with a grin. 

YANG JUNGWON

It’s another quiet night, and you’re both on the couch, wrapped in your favourite blanket. The warm light from the lamps in the room casts a soft glow, and the sound of the movie playing in the background is just a distant hum compared to the peaceful silence between you two. You’ve been talking here and there, laughing about silly things, but now you’re both just enjoying each other’s presence. 

You notice your hands are getting colder, and you instinctively start rubbing them together to warm them up. At first, you don’t think much of it. But then, you feel Jungwon’s gaze on you. 

Without a word, he shifts closer to you, his arm around you tightening slightly, as if to pull you into him even more. You’re about to make some sarcastic comment, but before you can, Jungwon takes your hand gently, his fingers warming up your cold ones. 

“You’re freezing,” he says quietly, his voice laced with concern, as if he can’t stand seeing you uncomfortable. 

You chuckle softly, trying to brush it off. “I’m fine. It’s just a little cold. It’ll pass.” 

Jungwon’s brow furrows slightly, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. He’s staring at your fingers, noticing how icy they are, and his dimple pops out as his lips curl into a small frown. “You really are freezing,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand slowly, trying to transfer his warmth to you. 

You feel your heart flutter at the tenderness of his touch. It’s so simple, yet it feels so intimate. You look up at him, not expecting the softness in his eyes. 

“Jungwon, you really don’t have to do that,” you say, your voice almost a whisper, suddenly feeling more vulnerable than you thought you would. 

But he just shakes his head, his expression softening as he looks at you. “I want to.” His voice is low, genuine, and you can tell he’s not saying it just to reassure you. He means it. 

Before you can argue, Jungwon scoots even closer, taking both your hands in his. He brings them to his lips, gently kissing the tops of your fingers, sending a wave of warmth through your body that has nothing to do with the temperature. 

“You’re not used to people taking care of you, huh?” he says with a small smile, but there’s a hint of curiosity in his voice, almost as if he’s trying to understand you better. 

You look down, feeling a little embarrassed but also touched by how attentive he’s being. “I guess not. But it’s not like I need it all the time,” you murmur, trying to play it cool. 

Jungwon just smiles, this time with a hint of mischief in his eyes. “It’s not about needing it. I just want you to feel comfortable. And I’m always going to make sure you’re okay, even if you don’t ask.” 

Your heart skips a beat, and for a moment, you can’t find words. His kindness always catches you off guard, especially when it’s so genuine and effortless. He’s not doing this for any reason other than that he cares. 

You shift, leaning into him a little more, suddenly feeling the weight of his affection, making everything seem so much more real. “You’re going to spoil me, you know that?” 

Jungwon chuckles, his hands still holding yours. “Maybe. But I like doing it. You’re worth it.” 

NISHIMURA RIKI

You’re walking through a crowded mall, shopping with Ni-ki. The place is packed, and as you’re navigating through the crowd, someone accidentally bumps into you. You stumble slightly, but before you can even react, Ni-ki is already there, stepping in front of you like a shield. 

“Are you okay?” he asks immediately, his eyes scanning you for any sign of discomfort. 

You quickly nod, trying to downplay it. “I’m fine, don’t worry.” 

But Ni-ki’s eyes narrow, clearly not convinced. “Stay close to me,” he says firmly, his hand gently slipping around your waist to pull you toward him as he expertly manoeuvres through the crowd, guiding you with ease. 

You look up at him, a little startled by how serious he seems. “Ni-ki, you don’t need to protect me from everything,” you say, trying to brush it off. 

But he just shrugs, still holding you close. “I’m your boyfriend, it’s my duty, I just want to make sure nothing happens to you.” His tone is calm, but the protective edge in his voice is obvious, and there’s no way you can argue with that. 

You roll your eyes, but there’s no denying how sweet he’s being. “You’re such a mom sometimes,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood. 

Ni-ki smirks, his protective hold never loosening. “Well, I’m a good one, aren’t I?” 

“You’re impossible,” you say, though your heart skips a beat at how endearing he’s being. 

“I know,” he says with a wink, squeezing you closer. “But you’ll thank me later when nothing happens to you.” 

You can’t help but smile. “Fine, fine. But only because you’re cute.” 

Ni-ki’s grin widens as he leads you through the crowd, making sure to keep you close, and for the rest of the day, it’s clear he’s not about to let anything happen to you. 

“Stay close, okay?” he says softly, a little more quietly this time, and it’s in that moment you realize just how much he cares. 

You smile, leaning into him a little more as you walk side by side. “Yeah, okay. I’ll stay close.”