It was a most casual day, nothing special had actually happened. The most exciting thing was that Changbin was supposed to come over later in the evening. Naturally you were more than excited to see him, due to your busy schedules you didn’t get to see each other that much. So it was safe to say you missed him quite a lot.

You were also really excited to try this new challenge with him. It was no news that Changbin couldn’t multitask. So when you saw a challenge where basically men had to cut out different shapes on colorful papers while telling a story you just knew you just had to try it on your boyfriend.

“Baby I’m here!” Hearing Changbin’s booming voice immediately put a smile on your face. How was is possible that even being in his presence immediately put a smile on your face.

“I’m in the kitchen baby!” - You yelled out as you continued stirring the pasta sauce. Changbin had said earlier that he was craving some. So you went out to make some, you even bought some white wine to go with it.

“It smells so good baby.” Changbin mused as he hugged you from the back.

“It will be ready in two minutes baby, can you help me serve the table before that? And open up the wine please? It’s on the counter.” You asked, but not before kissing him on his cheek.

“Of course baby!” Changbin squeezed you one last time before getting to work. He was so cute waddling around carefully not to disturb you as you finished up the pasta. It was something else watching him do something simple yet domestic. You couldn’t explain it but it really warmed up your heart. Also it kind of amazed you how he just knew where everything was, even the wine opener. You didn’t even remember most of the time where you put it. You might wonder what the big deal was but it just showed how close you were. Thinking about it you also knew his house like the back of your hand. You knew where he put everything and all. You hadn’t been dating that long so it was an interesting observation of how well you two actually knew each other.

“I’m all done baby! He cheered as you finally finished carefully putting pasta on the plate. You were sure he would like it, it smelled just amazing. Youwere glad you really put your heart into it.

Walking to the table with two plates you couldn’t help but smile at the careful but the still a bit messy way he had set the table.

Changbin had already poured the wine too and everything, he even had bought some cake and sweets with him and set them up too. It was another endearing thing about him how he never came at your house without bringing you something.

“Baby!” You couldn’t help but jump a little when he cheered quite loudly. He immediately got up from his chair and walked over to you talking your hands in his. What baffled you the most is when he got on his knee all dramatically.

“What are you doing Bin?” You asked as you tried to control your giggling at his silly antics.

“What I’m doing? I will tell you what I’m doing! I am going to kiss the magical hands of my baby for making something this delicious!” And to make his point more apparent he leaned in and covered your hands in kisses, not missing a single knuckle.

You couldn’t help but burst out laughing, he was so sweet and silly. “You’re so cute Binnie.” Leaning in you connected your lips in a short but loving kiss. “I’m taking you like my cooking.”

Changbin smiled and pecked you softly. “I’m saying that I’m regretting not buying a ring for you. So what if we have been only dating for two months.”

Smiling you shook your head. ”My cooking can not be that good!”

“First of all how dare you it’s top tier, second of all even if it wasn’t, the fact that you got out of your way to do something for me speaks volumes about how kind and loving you are. As I’m saying marriage material.” God you loved this man.

Oh.

Oh.

You were in love.

You loved Seo Changbin.

As if happy you finally realized it your heart felt like it doubled in size, it just bloomed in joy. You felt like you could yell it on top of your lungs, to let everyone know!

You gazed into his loving eyes, full of light and joy, sparkling oh so beautifully.

Suddenly you were rendered speechless. Your pulse quickened, your breath fastened, hands felt more clammy. You just couldn’t muster up anything to say. It just baffled you how nervous you got in a second. It was Changbin! The person you you felt most comfortable and safe with. Why couldn’t you say you loved him? You two had been dating for two months and he told you that he would marry you, why couldn’t you say something way more simple? Why did you feel so nervous now? Why couldn’t you tell him that you love him? This felt like such a right time too. Maybe you should think over your emotions first. Not that you needed any thinking about it. As soon as you realized everything just clicked together, like it was the most natural thing to be in love with him.

Taking a deep breath you forced yourself to say something. “All in it’s time okay baby?” Leaning in you gently held his face and kissed him, more passionately and now. If you couldn’t voice just yet how you felt you would try to show your feelings through the kiss.

Changbin gladly reciprocated, standing up slowly he also held onto your cheeks to bring you closer and deepen the kiss.

Everything seemed to disappear. It was only you and Changbin. Nothing else, not that it mattered anyway when you two had each other.

You only remembered about the forgotten dinner when you leaned back for some air.

“Baby the food will get cold.” You giggled at the annoyed huff from Changbin when you dodged his kiss.

“I want to kiss you though.” He tried to kiss you again but you skillfully avoided his lips and made him kiss your cheek instead.

“Dinner first! I promise I will kiss you as many times as you want later.”- You suggested smiling.

Changbin thought for a second, his eyes not leaving yours. Then quickly held your face so he could quickly peck your lips. “Deal!”-He muttered against your lips before giving you another quick peck. You couldn’t help but mirror his grin. He was such a dork.

The dinner was mostly quiet, with you occasionally talking about how your days went. It was comforting and somewhat healing to just eat dinner together and sip some wine while talking about mundane stuff of everyday life. You could get used to it and definitely wouldn't mind if this was an everyday occurrence. His earlier marriage rant really had shifted something inside you.

After eating you quickly tidied up with Changbin insisting that he do the dishes because that was “the least he could do” as he said.

So here you were now, sitting on your couch sipping your wine, enjoying each other’s presence, with some soft music playing in the background. You were debating if you should try the challenge with him, you were enjoying yourself and you didn't really feel like moving even a centimeter.

In the end you couldn’t resist the temptation. And decided to ask. “Binnie, I saw this challenge earlier on TikTok, will you try it with me?”

Changbin raised an eyebrow, looking intrigued. “What’s the challenge?”

“Nothing special, I just thought we could try it. I’m not going to post it or anything, but I think it will be a cute thing to do. You know we can look at it later, maybe years later and just reminisce you know?” You tried to not show too much excitement but you might have failed at that a little bit. Also it flustered you how you slipped up and said how you could at the video years later. You really saw future with him, but was this a good time to say this? Two months wasn’t that long to have those types of conversations? Or was it? You and Changbin were in for the long run, you surely knew that but still, it did make you feel a bit nervous.

Maybe Changbin noticed the little bit of hesitation in the end of your suggestion, or maybe he just felt like it, but he leaned in and gently kissed your lips which momentarily made you forget how to breathe. “Of course baby, what do you want me to do?” His voice was gentle, so loving.

God you loved this man.

“One second!” Somehow, with your legs feeling like jelly and your heart fluttering uncontrollably in your ribcage, you managed to get up to get the supplies for the challenge.

Changbin looked at you for a second then at the camera, a playful smirk appearing on his face. Suddenly with the most dramatic gasp ever he clutched his heart. ”Not my baby, my darling targeting my biggest weakness! How could you do this to me baby! When you think you know someone!” Suddenly he straightened up and gave you a playful glare. “For this betrayal you shall pay double the price! I demand as many kisses as I deem necessary and cuddles on top of that!”

You set up your phone and started to record, you would edit the video later if it got too long.

You handed him some papers on which you drew some flowers and hearts earlier and some scissors. “Basically, it’s a challenge to test your multitasking skills, I will also do it. You see how there are different shapes drawn on the papers? You just have to cut them out while telling a story without interruptions, like how we met for instance! Sound good?”

For the nth time that day you found yourself giggling at your boyfriend’s silly antics. Leaning in you kissed the top of his nose. “That’s a given baby, I will give you as many kisses as you want and maybe even more!”

Changbin grinned triumphally, his chest puffing out in pride.

“Okay let’s do it! I will make sure to win this challenge! Also you can’t back down I have the evidence of your promise on camera right there. So brace your pretty lips.” It was cute how fired up he got.

He looked at the papers his face suddenly more serious. In the end he chose glittery pink paper with a heart drawn on it.

“How we met huh? Okay!” He took the scissors and brought it to the paper. “I was with Hyunjin at the new café he wanted to go to. He found it on Instagram or something and he liked how artsy it was, so asked me to go with him, so I agreed.” Not to lie you were impressed on how well he started. He was talking confidently as he carefully started to cut out the shape. “It was a sunny day too. Then…” You not breaking the eye contact you still noticed how his hands faltered. He must have not noticed, he was gently smiling at the fond memory. “We got americanos because we had a lot of work to do…” He must have noticed he had stopped so he quickly picked up the pace. “And then…” He faltered again. Resumed to cut and faltered again. ”Wow this is hard…” He sighed, looking a bit annoyed at the paper, which wasn’t even halfway cut yet. “And then you bumped into me, because you weren’t really looking forward and was distracted by something. My drink spilled over me and…” Another falter followed with an annoyed huff. “You were so sorry, you kept apologizing” A few scissor movements without saying anything. ”You looked so cute; I couldn’t even take my eyes for you.” His stands stopped moving at all. “You were so embarrassed you almost looked like you were about to cry, but you looked to beautiful I can’t even describe it with words, you were apologizing and muttering about how you had the most horrible day ever. You were wearing all whites which made you look more angelic than ever. I couldn’t even say anything. It was the first time I understood the meaning of being rendered speechless by the sheer beauty of someone and I'm friends with Hyunjin! You were just so captivating. There was something so enchanting about you! And then you offered to buy me coffee and to pay for my dry-cleaning. That was when I noticed that my shirt was dirty. Honestly I didn’t give a damn about it I had clothes to change into at the studio but I agreed, because it meant that I would see you again. I quickly gave you my number and left with Hyunjin saying that I was busy and all. Honestly, I left so quickly because I was afraid you would change your mind. Usually I’m confident and everything but you just made me feel so nervous! “Changbin smiled softly, his eyes gentle and loving, looking at you with all the love in the world. You were speechless. Maybe even seconds away from crying, because hearing him talk about meeting you, sharing his thoughts…You couldn’t even begin to describe how it made you feel. You felt so loved and cherished and appreciated. Listening to this, you felt like a hero of a most touching romance book or a movie who gave a damn.

Smiling Changbin continued. “And that evening when you texted me I was so overjoyed! You asked me when was I free and I…” You didn’t let him finish, not giving a damn about anything, you wrapped your hands around him and kissed him.

You could feel Changbin’s hands fumble for a second. He clearly wasn’t expecting you to kiss him like that. He felt stiff for a second but he quickly regained his senses and leaned into the kiss. You heard a small thud, he must have thrown away scissors and papers somewhere away, because in a second his arms, free of anything, held you oh so tightly, as if he was afraid of letting you go.

“I love you!” you muttered against his lips, as you leaned in to kiss him some more.

Suddenly Changbin leaned back. Bewilderment written all over his face. Honestly he was a sight to behold. With his hair all messy from your wondering hands, cheeks all flushed. His glasses he decided to wear today sitting a bit crooked on his nose. His lips looking swollen and being most prettiest shade of pink from your kissing. God you loved him.

“What did you say?” His voice trembled, his wide eyes looking at yours, searching for answers.

You returned the confused stare. What was he getting at? Did you say something?

“You love me?” Changbin looked like he couldn’t believe his own words.

As the realization of your slipup hit you felt your face flush with embarrassment. Suddenly all you wanted to do was to crawl somewhere and hide.

“Baby…” Changbin held your face gently and made you look at him. “Do you love me?”

Unable to hide it anymore you nodded your head before answering.  “I do. I love you.”

Changbin looked at you, his face portraying all sorts of emotions, you couldn’t really descipher. “I’m sorry. I know we haven’t been dating for that long. But I love you. A lot. I really love you…”

You didn’t even have time to even blink before his lips were on yours. He held you so tight as his lips devoured yours. This kiss was nowhere near countless small loving kisses you had shared before this. This was just something else. Something so raw, so passionate, so full of love and longing. It was whole another experience. You had never been kissed like this before. It made you feel so alive. Like there was this fire inside of you, making you feel ignited. You felt like you were on top of the world, like anything was possible and reachable. You felt truly alive.

Alive and falling.

And you did fall.

Changbin had deemed it necessary to just fall with you on top of him on the sofa.

Your sofa creaked in distaste for the sudden weight but both of you chose to ignore it. Choosing to kiss each other instead. Truth be told, you wouldn’t even give a damn if it broke into a million pieces right now.

“I love you!” Changbin whispered against your lips. “I love you.” Another peck. “I love you so much!” He grinned against your lips. “God I’m so happy I could die.” Another short but loving kiss followed by countless another, not limiting to your lips. He kissed you everywhere he could reach you.

“Please say it again.” He asked you after making sure to cover every visible part of your skin in kisses.

“I love you Binnie.” Smiling you caressed his cheek, loving how he leaned into your touch. His eyes looking at you with so much love, shining oh so beautifully they could rival any star in the universe.

Your heart had never felt fuller.

It was surely a miracle how seemingly most uneventful and regular day at first became most memorable and special day for you. And you hoped it would be followed with many more days like this with Changbin making them more memorable and special with you.

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"Unfair!" You throw a cushion in his direction. He half-dodges it, but it still scrapes his face. "You have to show me one now!"

"No!" He pushes your legs off his lap, "the whole point of this is that you go in with no expectations."

Your shoulders slump and you fall back against the couch. You cross your arms when he scooches closer to you. You sigh, "it's hard."

"I know," Felix soothes, reaching out to calm his hand down your arm, "but I've told you, he is a complete gentleman okay? And if he does anything that remotely makes you uncomfortable, you can brag about it all you want and give up on men entirely." He watches your face for a reaction, but there's only a small tilt of your head. He continues, "I refuse to let you give up on love because of-"

"Don't even say his name."

"That little twerp." He finishes, "I promise you Y/N, Changbin is nothing like him."

Date One:

"I feel ridiculous." You slump, smoothing over the outfit Felix practically forced you in to.

"Well you look beautiful," he mutters, rounding your figure to adjust several things on your outfit.

You think for a moment, a small blush creeping up on your face as the question forms on your tongue. Usually, you'd be embarrassed to ask such things, but with Felix, there's never any judgement. "You... you told me he was hot..." you let your eyes flick over to his, "how hot exactly?"

"If you're wondering if he's going to be attracted to you, I'm going to stop you right there." He doesn't look at you, just keeps fiddling with the outfit.

"You said he was rich."

"Okay yes, but you can't tell him I told you that... he hates people knowing."

"So what you're saying is he could have anyone... any girl he wants... and he's being forced to go on a date with me."

"Right," Felix drops his hands and sets his eyes on you, "I don't know how many times I have to tell you. I've shown him your instagram, I've talked to him about the things you like. He wants to go on this date with you. If you saw the way he blushed when I showed him that picture I took of you at Hyunjin's New Years Party, you wouldn't be doubting him for a second."

"Don't remind me of that party..." you huff, "that's literally my favourite picture of myself and it's tainted with memories of him."

"Yes, it's tragic..." he muses, taking a step back to take you in. "You're so beautiful Y/N."

"You have to say that."

He sighs, "you know, one of these days, someone is going to say that to you and you'll believe it."

"No we've been through that. And now he's god knows where, burying himself in god knows who." You smile at him, rather sarcastically. 

"Right." Felix perks up, "no more talking about what's in the past. Tonight is about your future. Tonight is about healing," he grabs your shoulders, "you don't owe him a second date, but you owe it to yourself to go on this one. To open yourself back up. Trust me, this is good for you."

You can do nothing else but nod. 

You shift silently on the pavement. You feel ridiculous. Ridiculous and nervous. Felix insisted you arrive 10 minutes early. You hate to admit it, but it was smart. Changbin, having known what you look like thanks to Felix, would be the one to approach you. You wouldn't need to look around the restaurant awkwardly trying to find a man you'd never met. 

"Y/N?" His voice is like a siren call, drawing your attention to your left. "I'm Changbin," his voice makes you so weak you forget to be cynical for a moment. 

You allow your eyes to rake over his body. Felix wasn't lying when he said he was built, but he failed to mention his arms would be straining against the fabric of his black button-up. The first two buttons are undone, revealing a gold chain that catches the light of the street-lamp. And then there was his face, round, angled jaw and a mop of curly dark brown hair. His eyes, dark brown and dreamy, are hidden behind small-rimmed round glasses. And then his lips. Plump, bottom trapped between his teeth.

You hate how right Felix was. He was exactly your type. But you tell yourself it's physically. He can be hot all he wants, but he could have a horrible personality. 

"These are for you," he reveals a large bouquet of flowers. Shit. 

"Thank you..." you finally manage, "sorry.. um... I'm Y/N."

"I know," when he smiles it's sweet. His cheeks go full and his lips pull taut. He points to the restaurant door, "shall we?"

You nod. 

Before you can even reach for the handle, he's pulling the door open for you. He gestures inside, waiting until you're inside before he enters too.

He booked a nice table. A quiet one in the corner, with a view of the river outside.

The chatter was classic first-date small talk. You force polite smiles and craft the perfect responses. He does the same.

But then that demeanour slips.

"You're really beautiful," he whispers, nearly like he wasn't meant to say it out loud. But you heard it. And because he hasn't looked away from you, he sees the flinch in your reaction. He clears his throat, "sorry. I'm trying to be respectful but I'm having a hard time taking my eyes off of you."

You chuckle, because is this guy serious? You narrow your eyes at him, "you're good at this."

"At what?"

"Flirting."

He chuckles and drops his eyes to his plate. You feel it in your own stomach. He looks back up to you, shurgging, "I'm just being honest."

"Sure you are."

He watches you for a moment before, "Lix told me you almost pulled out of coming."

"Did he?" You ask, but already know the answer. You mutter, "snitch."

"But I'm glad you didn't," he says it with a straight face. He says it with a softness that has you double take. Because how can a voice that soft tell you something untruthful? He waits a moment, like building the courage to ask, "can I ask why?"

You shift, "why I almost pulled out or why I came anyway?"

"Both," he leans forward, caught on your every word. 

You allow yourself a breathy laugh, "well I came because Felix can be pretty persistent when he wants to be."

He laughs, "I know that much."

"And the why I almost pulled out..." you let your words die, "that's a story for another day. Not really first date material... let's just say my dating history is full of shitty men who can only think with their dicks."

You expect something more. A reaction, an argument, a 'not all men' speech. But he fixes you with the gaze he's had all night, a small smirk tugging at his lips. Not smug, but knowing. And then, he mutters something that nearly has you choking on your water. Because it's bold, entirely too bold, but said in that sweet, soft tone he's been speaking to you in, "I can change that."

You blink. He's not looking at you when he says it. He's looking down at his plate, like he's just accepted a challenge for himself. Not a sleazy one, but determined to be a mark in your history. Whether you let him stay and be your future to is up to you. At the very least he wants you to look back at his chapter and think 'maybe there is such thing as kindness.'

The waiter comes over with a little black folder and places it on the edge of the table. You both reach for it, but he snatches it up so quickly you think you've offended him. And clearly you have because he scoffs, "absolutely not. What kind of man would I be to let you pay for a date you were forced to be on?" He laughs.

His eyes are darting over the bill, hands reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. You don't think you've ever seen anything more attractive. The way his bicep bulges under the shirt as his arm flexes with the movement, the way he flips open his wallet and drops his card into the folder without care. When he signs the bill, he closes it, and hands it back to the waiter with a small kind smile.

When the waiter walks away, his eyes are back to you. You swallow, "I wasn't forced."

"Mm?"

"To be here. I wasn't forced, just heavily encouraged. I've just... it's been a while and I was nervous to come... that's why I nearly didn't... but Felix knew that... he kind always knows what's best for me."

Changbin chuckles, "I get that..." he thinks for a moment, "and for the record I was nervous too. If you could see my bedroom right now, I think I threw every shirt and pair of pants I own onto my floor and over my bed. I nearly had a breakdown at the florist because all of the bouquets looked so different, and I wanted to get the right ones for you."

You laugh. A genuine, unmasked laugh. 

When you're outside the restaurant again, he poses the question, "can I drive you home? You can totally say no, I'll understand."

You smile, "it's a 10 minute walk, I'll be fine."

"Can I walk you?" He asks, hands wringing together. His eyes flick down to the flowers in your hand, "they look heavy. I could carry them for you?"

And you found yourself saying yes. For yourself? Maybe not. But to tell Felix you said yes? Definitely. 

He takes the spot closest to the road, and you're convinced he read that somewhere. He walks close, but not enough to brush against you. His hands remain behind his back, gripping the flowers like a lifeline. 

"So how do you know Felix?" He asks.

"We met through my ex actually. He um... he kinda screwed us both over so he and I were kinda there for each other... we've been really close since."

"I see..." he nods like he's still processing.

"Sorry," you defend, "I shouldn't talk about my exes on a first date."

"It's fine Y/N." He smiles. Something about that felt genuine, like he really didn't care. 

You stop just in front of your building, "this is me."

He nods and reveals the flowers to you again, "I had a really nice time tonight."

You hum and can't help the smile that forms, "yeah.. me too."

He smiles big, but tries to lessen it a little, scared he might run you off with his eagerness. He clears his throat, "goodnight Y/N."

"Goodnight Changbin.."

You turn and walk up the small set of stairs outside your building. As you reach for the handle, his voice calls you back.

"Sorry if this is too forward but... I'd um... I'd like to see you again... if... if you'd like to as well..." he waits for your reaction, but is too impatient, "sorry I don't do the whole 'wait three days to call you back' thing."

You laugh, "I'd like to see you again too Changbin."

Date Two:

He'd insisted on something more casual, that's how you found yourself walking into a higher end bar. You see him immediately when you walk in. Still unruly hair flopping over his glasses-covered eyes, but the tight black t-shirt he wears feels a little different. 

Yes, the button-up suited him well. But there was something so simple about seeing him look so casual. 

"Y/N," he beams, walking over to you, "this is my favourite bar. I was thinking we could play billiards?" 

You nod and allow him to guide you over to the table. 

You'd be lying if you said you knew how to play. Instead of hiding it, you admit to it. Luckily for you, you're not playing with just anyone. You're playing with Changbin.

He takes his time to explain the rules, restating anything he thinks is complicated and helps you pick a cue. 

And now you both dance around the table, pool cues in hand, quiet chatter amongst you. 

"What is it you do again?" You ask, lining up a shot the best you can.

"Producing," he answers. He's planted the pool cue on the ground, leaning against it with one hand, the other holding onto the table. 

"You enjoy it?" The white ball rolls and rebounds off the side of the table. You sigh and stand up again.

"Very much," he starts lining up his own shot. "I would have gotten into music myself if I didn't need to come back home to take care of my mother."

"Oh," you hum, watching as he tried several angles to get the cue positioned right. "She's unwell."

"She was," he mutters and your heart drops. "But she's okay now."

You breathe a sigh of release, "that's good to hear. Would you take it up now?"

"Not a chance," he laughs, moving away to pick up the chalk and rub it on the cue, "turns out I love producing music more than I ever liked performing it."

He tries again, but the angle feels awkward. He huffs and straightens up, swinging the cue behind his back to line up the cue one last time. Satisfied, he knocks the ball and watches as it sinks his green one. He smiles.

You watch in awe, "how do you do that?"

He tries to sink another, but fails, "practice. Learning about angles and power and position."

"You sound like a professional." You state, leaning down to line up your own.

"It's rather easy actually," he watches you for a second, "here."

He rounds the table, finding a place beside you. He leans his cue against the wall and lifts his hands. He doesn't touch. Instead, he asks, "may I?" 

You nod. 

He moves beside you. Not behind like most men would do. It's intentional. His moves are intentional. One hand hovers gently around the middle of your back, still not touching. His other finds your hand and moves it back on the cue. From there, his hand glides up your arm to position your elbow better. He crouches, eyeing the angle of the cue before moving it over slightly. When he rises, he's close to your ear, "I want you to aim for the centre of the ball," he moves the cue forward a little to show you before pulling it back. "When you hit it, make sure to follow through, and with enough power," he pulls the cue back himself and your hands follow. The hand by your back is now warm and splayed across it. You're not sure when he did that.

With his grip still on the back of the cue, he pushes. You watch the white ball knock into your red one, and sinks in the back corner. You straighten with a bright smile, as it's your first one. You nearly knock him over with how quickly you rise. 

Your faces are closer than they've ever been. His eyes flick down to your lips, for a second too quick for you to comprehend before he's stepping away. 

"So yeah," he starts, but his voice is squeaky. He clears it before, "you have another turn now. You sunk it so..." he points to another ball, "why don't you try this one?"

You watch him for a moment longer before moving to line up the cue again. 

And then it's the same routine as last time. You walk outside the bar to both head home. 

"I can drive you if you'd like? It's a longer walk this time," he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. 

You smile, thankful for the darkness in the street as you feel your face heat up under his gaze. He leads you to his car. No, he leads you to his lamborghini. Slick, black, low to the ground. He opens the door for you. You've never been in a car with doors that open up instead of out. You step inside and he closes the door after you.

You blame the hormones. Or maybe just the attractive man in the seat beside you. But watching him drive, one hand up on the wheel, the other propped on the centre console, makes heat drop right to your stomach.

"I've really enjoyed tonight Y/N. Next time we'll have to do something that you like." He laughs, sneaking a glance over to you.

"Next time?" You ask.

His smile drops, "uh well... I mean... I'd like to see you again..."

You smile, "yeah... I guess that wouldn't be too bad."

He laughs. It's more of a cackle really, but it's endearing and sweet. 

Soon you find yourself on the stairs in front of your building again. He's a step below you as you mutter goodbyes to each other. Then you get the sudden urge to be bold.

Because how can he stand there, with cheeks this kissable, but no lipstick marks to stain them? So you lean forward and press one to his cheek. He immediately goes red and coughs slightly, "uh... thank you." He mutters, before scurrying down the stairs and back into his car.

You flop onto the couch with a loud sigh. Felix pauses his movie.

"What?"

"I think I like him." You admit before slapping your hands over your face. You scream a little into them, thrashing your body a little before dropping your hands and groaning. "I hate that you've done this to me."

Felix laughs, "done what?"

"You put me in front of an attractive, sweet, caring, gentleman and expect me to be calm about it!"

"I never said you had to be calm!" He exclaims. 

You crawl up the couch more to rest your head in his lap. "Do you think he's seeing anyone else?"

"Doubt it."

You sigh, "what if I mess this up? What if... what if he's just pretending? What if when the time comes, he shows me who he truly is?"

"I can guarantee you, that whoever he is around you, is who he is."

You sigh again and settle further into Felix's lap, allowing him to push against your muscles to ease them.

Date 5:

You bumble down the stairs to meet him. He's wearing a leather jacket tonight, and you have a hard time keeping your thoughts quiet. 

You let out a small giggle as you lean to kiss his cheek. He slips his hand into you, smile wide across his face. He leans back to look at you, "how do you manage to get more and more beautiful everytime I see you?"

You smack his arm playfully, "stop it."

"I'm serious," he looks over you once more, nodding like he's agreeing with someone other than himself, "I could look at you all day."

"Well you can't," you tease, "we have a booking."

He smiles and leads you over to his car. 

The theatre is packed. You find yourself gripping tighter to Changbins hand as he guides you through the crowd. He weaves through people, trying to make his way to the snack bar. You'd insisted it was okay, and that you didn't need any snacks.

But then he said, "I'm not taking my girl to a show and not feeding her. You will have snacks." And you melted.

You don't think he even realised he called you that. 'My girl', like it was nothing or natural or something he had always on the tip of his tongue and just couldn't use the brain power to keep it in anymore. 

He stops at the front of the line, and you hug his arm. You didn't realise he'd paid for the premium package until you arrived. It's not like he every flaunted his money, and it was never really a point of conversation for either of you.

But Felix had also told you how much he enjoyed spending on other people. Yes, he bought himself a fancy car and nice apartment, but those were needs that he decided to upgrade. When it comes to the wants of other people, he spares no expense. 

You watch him order the snacks and drinks you want and hands one to you. The rest he balances in his other hand. Neither of you let go of the ones you're holding.

Tonight was good. You'd maybe even risk saying it was perfect. You felt yourself slowly melting into Changbin. His gentleness, his patience, his ability to ask questions without probing too much. Both of you knew there were things you weren't telling him, but he didn't mind.

Not that he'd told you, but he wanted you to feel safe enough with him to tell him. But he could go his whole life not knowing and be completely fine. 

He feels your hand tense in his, "Y/N?"

Your eyes are locked across the room. A familiar mop of hair, standing out amongst the crowd. He smiles like he hadn't ended your world a year ago. And before you can do anything about it, he's walking over to you.

"Y/N." That voice. That horrid, scratchy voice. And those fucking eyes. You feel disgusting under his gaze. "It's been a minute." He eyes the way you cling to Changbin.

Who, still confused by the situation, introduces himself. But he can feel how uncomfortable you are. 

"This is my ex." You whisper to Changbin, "this is Changbin," you say louder.

"Ah, your new side piece huh?"

Your stomach drops, your heart breaks. He's still the same, still the asshole, dickhead, son of a bitch you once knew. 

Changbin straightens, "are you being territorial about a girl you barely know anymore?"

Your ex blinks, and his demeanor falters. "You don't know anything."

"No, but I can tell just by looking at you that you're a dickhead."

You choke on air, turning to see Changbin's demeanour. His straight, chest puffed out and shoulders rolled back. He looks confident. Confident and hot. 

"Listen here-" your ex nears.

Changbin tuts and nods his head towards the security guard, whose eyeing them both up, "I wouldn't go doing anything crazy now."

And with that, he scoffs and walks away.

Changbin turns to you, "are you okay?"

You can't form any words. 

Why does he have to show up now? Now, when you'd just started letting yourself heal, after you had just met Changbin?

"Hey, let's go," he says, dragging you towards the doors.

"No, we paid for the tickets."

He shrugs, "I heard it's lame anyway. Plus, we got our snacks so we're set for the rest of the night." He pulls you outside.

Instantly you feel better. Whether it's the cool, fresh air hitting your face, or maybe it's the absence of the vile creature you used to date. Or there's another option, where it's the presence of Changbins hand in yours. Either way, your heart doesn't feel so heavy.

"If you want, we can go back to my place and watch that movie you've been talking about?"

You think for a moment, eyeing him off suspiciously.

"What?" He asks.

"Are you not put off by that?"

"By seeing your ex?" He asks and you nod, "no. Should I be?"

"No."

He waits a moment, "well then I'm not. I can drop you home if you'd prefer?"

"No, I um... I like the sound of movie night."

"Perfect," he smiles, opening the door of his car for you, "you can wear something of mine if you'd like so you're not so uncomfortable." He drops, before closing the door and rounding the car. 

And when you walk into his place, the nerves start to build up again. Because this apartment, which you thought would be void of all personality, is surprisingly cozy. The building itself is modern, the technology is modern, but the furniture provides a warmth you hadn't expected. 

"Here," he hands you a pair of basketball shorts and his hoodie, "the bathroom's just in there."

He points and you enter. 

When you emerge, you find him making popcorn in the kitchen and pouring you each a drink. He's wearing a tank top. A fucking tank top. It's the first time you're seeing his arms exposed like this. 

"Hey," you croak out, trying to sound unaffected by him.

"Hi," his voice is sweet and his eyes find you in the doorway. He mutters, "fuck. Careful jagi, you look that good in my clothes I might have to pack you a suitcase full of them."

"Binnie..."

"Fuck," he drops what he was doing to turn his body to you fully.

"What now?"

"You've never called me that before."

"Oh, sorry."

"No don't apologise." He walks over to you, "I liked it. A little too much actually. You can... if you want... you can call me that anytime."

"Okay Binnie," you chuckle when he squeezes his eyes shut.

"You're going to kill me," he laughs, walking back into the kitchen to retrieve the popcorn.

Once you're settled on the couch, close but not cuddling, you decide to bring it up. He's searching for the movie, trying to find which platform it's on.

"Binnie?"

"Yes Princess?" He responds, eyes still glued to the screen.

"Can I... can I tell you something?"

The remote is out of his hand in a second and his body is turned to you, "anything."

"I... I just wanted to thank you for before. With my ex," your heart is beating like crazy. You hadn't spoken about it with anyone other than Felix. And it was your fifth date with Changbin. But you had to say something. "He wasn't exactly... he... he just treated me like shit... like I was his maid, and his cook and his therapist... and everything was always about what he wanted... what meal he wanted, what show he wanted to watch. We only ever had sex when he wanted to... even sometimes when I wasn't even in the mood..."

"Princess," he grips your hands tightly, "I'm so sorry..."

"You don't need to apologise. I feel like I need to apologise to you!"

"What? Why?"

"Because I haven't been able to... like... give myself fully to you... like we haven't even kissed and I haven't been that open with you..."

"Princess..." he soothes, "I don't care about that. I do, but I care that you do right by yourself first. You tell me what you need. You tell me what you want me to know when you're ready, not because you feel you owe it to me, because you don't."

"I just," you're holding back a tear, "I'm just worried that the waiting is going to make you resent me..."

"I don't think I could ever find a reason to resent you. And I'll wait until you're ready. And even if, a month from now, you decide you can't do it, I'll respect it and move on." He moves closer to you, "because-" you're not looking at him, "listen to me. Eyes up here. Because, you deserve happiness. You deserve love."

You're not sure how, or why or when, but a moment later, your lips are on his. He stills, breathing you in by letting you take the lead. It's soft, charged and addicting. You pull away a moment later and "sorry! Sorry- I should of asked! I should have-"

"Do it again." His voice is low and his tongue darts out to taste what's left of you on his lips. He's staring at yours, "please Y/N..." he flicks his eyes back up to you, "unless you-"

"Don't ask if I want to." You stern, "you always ask that. You always add 'if you want to' like I would ever say no to you."

"Jagiya," he breathes before your lips meets again.

This time it's hungrier, like the thought of not kissing you would kill him. His hand comes to cup your cheek, as he brings your face closer to his own. He moans into your mouth, like he's been holding back for so long. 

When he pulls back for air, his hand remains on your face and his eyes stay closed. "God I don't think I ever want to do anything else ever again." His eyes flutter open, "I just want to kiss you for the rest of time."

You laugh and lean back in.

Date 10:

"Binnie! Come on!" You giggle, dragging him over to the shooting game. You pause in front of it, "you have to win me a prize or else you're not a real man."

He gives you a fond smile, "is that so Princess?"

"Mmhm," you nod your head.

"I assume you want the big one?" 

"No!" You scoff, "I want the pink bunny!"

He looks over the prizes, eyebrows screwing together. "Jagi, that's a pig."

"It's very much NOT. It's a pink bunny!"

"It's clearly a pig!" He turns back to you, "but if you want the pig you can have the pig," he leans down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. 

You pull back, but your faces remain close together and you whisper, "bunny."

"Pig," he whispers back.

If you weren't sure about your decision before, you're sure of it now. You want to call him more than just the guy who spends all his money on you. You want to call him more than the guy you have fun with. 

And seeing him now, handing over the last tickets in exchange for more turns to win you the prize, you couldn't be more sure.

Eventually, the guy behind the counter fishes down the plush and hands it over to him. Changbin beams, turning to you immediately, "your pig m'lady."

"Bunny!" You laugh, but pull it close anyway. 

"I don't know why you wanted that one so badly..."

"It reminds me of you!" You giggle.

"How?"

"It has your energy!" You laugh together, the sounds of the carnival allowing you to be as loud as you want. 

Your eyes drift over to the ferris wheel, "come on," you say, picking up his hand and dragging him over. 

The wheel whirs to life, the carriage you're in rocks a little under the movement. It moves, then stops, and moves then stops. With it rocking like this, you scooch closer to Changbin to steady yourself. 

"It's so pretty from up here," you laugh and turn to him, "and don't pull the 'you're the better view' bullshit on me."

"At least you know it," he shrugs, "means I've done my job."

You smile at him, and soon the wheel stops at the top. 

"Binnie?"

"Yes Princess?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything, Jagi." He smiles.

You take a deep breath, smile impossibly big and painful. "Binnie, would you be my boyfriend?"

"What?" His smile drops and his eyes widen. You know it's not a bad reaction, it's just a reaction. "You... you want me... to be... your boyfriend?"

"Yes."

"YES!" He shouts and you flinch. He reaches for you, "sorry- sorry Jagi I got excited." He clears his throat, "yes Y/N... I want nothing more than to be your boyfriend."

"Really?"

"Are you kidding?" He leans over and smashes his lips into yours. It's quick, heated and adorable. He pulls back, thumbs caressing over your cheeks. He sighs and takes you in, "you're as beautiful as the day I first saw you."

"Lixie showed you a picture before I saw you."

"No..." he shakes his head, "do you know how long I was standing around, building up the courage to approach you?" You look at him confused, "I was half an hour early Jagi. I watched you arrive, I watched you stand there and I had to psych myself up to approach you because holy shit, that's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, how on earth would I ever be in her league? And now..." he leans over again, "and now she's my girlfriend. I have a girlfriend!" He turns his head to shout into the air, "I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND!"

You slap your hand over his mouth, "oh my god Binnie."

He pretends to bite your hand, forcing you to pull it back. You're laughing, and so is he. 

It fades into his sweet smile, the one you've grown so fond of. 

"I have a girlfriend," he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again.

taglist:

pairing: ot13 x reader

category: omegaverse au, a/b/o dynamics, sports au: volleyball, polyamory

status: ongoing

content warnings: omega!reader, fem!reader, this is set entirely in omegaverse so read at your own risk! exploration of secondary gender and pack dynamics, ruts, heats, knots and scenting. angst, fluff and smut. insecurity, the feeling of being lonely, abandoned, hurt, being ‘othered’. jealousy, some hostility. unprotected sex, nsfw, mentions of breeding, mating, knotting, omega subspace, multiple orgasms. there’s love between all subgenders. all members of seventeen are featured: alpha - seungcheol, jeonghan, junhui, soonyoung, wonwoo, seokmin, mingyu, hansol. beta - joshua, chan. omega - jihoon, minghao, seungkwan.

𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐗

☆ prologue (wc: 1.4k)

☆ chapter 1 - (wc: 7.2k)

☆ chapter 2 - (wc: 8.9k)

☆ chapter 3 - (wc: 8.3k)

☆ chapter 4 - (wc: 9k)

☆ chapter 5 - (wc: 8.4k)

☆ chapter 6 - (wc: 9k)

☆ chapter 7 - 07/11/25

☆ chapter 8 - 11/11/25

☆ epilogue - 14/11/25

a/n: okay, this has been a long time coming! i’ve been working on this series for a while now, and im very proud of the story I have lined up. ot13 omegaverse is already an interesting concept but my haikyuu loving ass decided to through volleyball in there LMFAO and this might just be my magnum opus ㅠ but full disclaimer there isn’t really that much volleyball in it. ANYWAY I hope everyone likes it. you can add yourself to the taglist here

Meanwhile, you're absolutely bewitched by Lee Jihoon; entranced, enchanted, charmed. Sharp eyes that catch everything, soft hands that wrap around the edges of tables and counters so you don't get hurt. Careful words chosen for efficiency, lips gentle against yours and the ability to pick up on what you liked and didn't — simply from the twitch of your body at his touches.

He liked you, loved you. You liked him, loved him.

You love him. You think he might love you, still. Maybe.

You hope.

You were together, went on dates. You went on trips. You had conversations.

Typical, casual boyfriend-girlfriend conversations — if you'd eaten, if you slept well, if you wanted him to come over. Over a quick kiss in greeting, when he handed you a bottle of water, when you complained about the bed being too cold.

Flirty, enamored boyfriend-girlfriend conversations — if he could get a kiss, if you could take your top off, if he could go down on you. These were more hushed begs from his lips, whispered pleas from your mouth as your hands carded through his hair.

Serious, committed boyfriend-girlfriend conversations — when you'd get married, buy a house, if you'd keep working…if you'd maybe have a kid. Fewer than the others, farther between but always ending in a sudden silence before either of you switched the subject.

Until he was no longer your boyfriend, you were no longer his girlfriend and the casual endearment seemingly slipped away from night to morning. You weren't sure what happened, and he wouldn't tell you — simply ending your relationship over a bowl of gamjatang at your usual date-night restaurant. A restaurant you chose for the privacy he valued more than anything, and a restaurant you haven't been to since.

It's been a year. Winter, spring, summer…now, autumn.

And it took exactly one week after the breakup for you to fully realize Jihoon was not someone who could let go easily, even if he was the one to pull the plug on it. He was so engraved in your life, in his routine, and you wondered if that part of him held every part of you that he shared — dancing in his living room together, sleeping in your bed with your limbs entangled, and eating gamjatang at that restaurant.

You wonder if he's been back since.

You wonder if the aunties that had grown to love you both so dearly ask him about you.

The biggest proof that Jihoon could not let you go was that, like clockwork, he stood in front of the shop with a cigarette in his hand and a cup of coffee from the 7-Eleven across the street from his apartment every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Four in the morning, dressed in head-to-toe black and his stupid watch that made you feel insane — just to carry your bag and walk you home. Sometimes share a cigarette, and on the even more rare occasion — hold your hand on the walk up. His fingers curl around yours, holding it inside his pocket as you wonder if he'll kiss you next.

And you wonder why you would allow it.

Probably because it's Jihoon.

You never talk during these walks, either. You don't bring up his job, he doesn't bring up that your unbuttoned work shirt shows a fading hickey on your collarbone from the last time the two of you slept together. He doesn't ask questions, and you pretend that your chest doesn't ache when he slips into your apartment to make you breakfast before leaving without so much as a goodbye.

It's weird. It's weird and you can't say you hate it, but you can't say you love it, either. It felt like a strained relationship, a bodyguard of sorts, that took care of you without expecting anything in return aside from a paycheck. Except you didn't pay Jihoon, and he didn't call or text — he simply knew your schedule by heart.

"Shift change, babe."

You hear Jian crack her gum as she walks into the shop, stopping at the sunglasses display to swipe on her signature red lipstick. She rubs her lips together as you chuckle inwardly, signing your name on the envelope that holds your register count and sliding it into the safe below the counter. She smiles brightly as she hops over the counter, bumping her hip to yours in greeting.

"How're you this morning? You took your break, right?" She asks nicely, crossing her arms as she leans on the counter. She twirls a lighter in her hand, one that looks oddly like one you'd gotten Jihoon in Japan — and you shrug one shoulder as you greet a tired man practically crawling through the door. She unwraps a piece of bubblegum halfway, holding it out to you. You take it between your teeth, tucking it into your cheek as she dumps the wrapper into the trash can next to you.

"Yeah. I'm…tired, I guess. I just wanna go home." You admit, counting cash to slip into the register for her. She cracks her gum again, patting your hip as she gestures towards the door. You're punching your employee number into the system, clocking out as she speaks.

"Loverboy's here. Here, he left this when he came over to see Soonyoung earlier, and I figured I'd let you guys have something to talk about." She holds it out, and you see your initials engraved onto the silver lighter, right next to the tiger's head etched into the metal. You tongue your cheek as the tired man drags his way up to the counter, holding his items to his chest tightly. "I've got it. You go home. I'll see you later, babe."

"Bye, Jian." You murmur, grabbing your bag out from under the counter and slipping around it. You roll your shoulders back, draping your coat over your arm as you make your way out. The door jingle makes Jihoon look up, and he pushes off the side of the shop to fall into lockstep with you. He doesn't have a cigarette this time — instead, holding a lollipop that stains his lips, between his teeth. He reaches for your bag silently, slipping it off your shoulder as you stare at the ground, opting to tug your coat on so you don't catch a cold.

You hold the lighter out to him as you both make your way up the hill, the only sound the crunch of your shoes on fallen leaves. He stops as you shove your hand in his chest, his fingers brushing your palm as he takes it. It's silent for another moment, before you glance over your shoulder at him.

"Jian found it. Don't lose it again, I'm not getting you another." You mutter, shoving your hands in your pockets as you clench your teeth around your gum. He doesn't reply, and you keep walking when you realize he's stopped a few feet behind you. You check your watch, rolling your eyes as you walk backwards to meet his eyes.

"If you're not going to walk—" "I missed your voice."

The admission is so soft, you almost don't catch it. You blink, his hand still held to his chest where you shoved the lighter, clenched so tight his fingertips have turned white. You glance at his face, raising a brow as you scoff.

"Seriously?" "Seriously." "I'm going home, Jihoon."

"Are you?" He asks, his other hand tightening around the strap of your bag. You feel an odd rage crawl up your throat at the insinuation that it's not home without him, even if you know it's the truth. Your jaw clenches, his eyes traveling your face as he takes half a step closer. "Is it home?"

"You don't get to do this to me, Jihoon." "I'd argue that I can do whatever I want. I have free will." "You dumped me."

"Which makes it my job to fix things, and beg for another chance. Not yours." He says pointedly, looking at you with that stupid look that tells you he knows he's right. "I should fix this."

"There is nothing to fix, Jihoon. We broke up. It happens." You feel like you're yelling, but you can hardly hear yourself as he leans forward, almost like he can't hear you. You still, looking at him like he's out of his mind when he shrugs.

"It bothers me." "It doesn't matter if it bothers you. We're broken up. It's over." "Is that why you're holding your breath like you're expecting something crazy to happen?"

"I don't do that," You mutter, but feeling annoyance bubble in your belly as you let out the breath you'd had stuck in your throat. He nods, stuffing his hand in his pocket as he twists the lollipop with his tongue, moving forward. "You can't act like you care now, Jihoon. It's not fair to me, especially when you didn't even give me a reason."

"I've always cared. And I don't remember you asking for a reason." "I wanted to trust your judgment. Maybe you knew something I didn't; but the decent thing to do is give a reason when you are breaking up with someone. Even it's not you, it's me would've been a reason, albeit a shitty one."

He shrugs again, a tick in his jaw as he blinks at you, "maybe I was did, and maybe I was wrong. Why would I half ass a breakup by adding some lame excuse like it's not you, it's me?"

He scoffs, turning the lollipop in his mouth again, "let's get you home, you'll catch a cold and you won't let me take care of you if you do."

Your hands clench in your pockets as he starts walking again, and you hate how easily you follow after him, opting to walk just a foot behind him. He glances over his shoulder, opting to stop every few steps before you get annoyed and move in front of him.

You hate the way your heart beats a little faster when his hip bumps yours at a stop sign.

The way to your apartment is straight for fifteen minutes, take a left for five and a right for another ten. Typically, you're home by 4:32 AM at the latest — with the time it takes to get into the elevator and get to the second floor, plus unlocking your front door.

If you were headed to Jihoon's apartment, you were there by 4:19 AM. Twelve minutes straight, a right for three and then four minutes trying to surpass his stupid lobby guy that always insists you're not on the approved visitors list when you literally are.

Well, you were.

You're kicking gravel, eyes glued to the ground when you see the doormat of Jihoon's complex under your feet. He punches the code into the door, the beep familiar as you hesitate to duck into the lobby. He holds the door open, checking his watch almost obnoxiously to help you make a choice.

You duck into the warm building with a huff.

"Hello, Mr. Lee…Miss Y/N."

Your head snaps up, the same grating voice that makes your ears hurt. The receptionist blinks back at you, your scowl evident as you look at Jihoon, who is coolly making his way towards the elevator. He presses the button, looking over his shoulder as if asking are you coming?

You glance at the watch on your wrist, reading 4:16 AM. Your eyes remain fixed on the ground as you tongue your cheek, huffing inwardly as you move to stand behind Jihoon as the elevator opens. You both duck inside, and you press your lips into a thin line as you hit his floor button. You shove your hand back into your pocket, but you don't miss the way he nods slightly, in that way that he does when he's surprisingly impressed.

No words are shared between the two of you, and you angrily chew your gum — feeling his thumb suddenly pad between your eyebrows. You swat his hand away, only for him to grab your wrist and interlace your fingers. Your fingertips are warm against his cool skin, and you instinctively pull it into your pocket; ignoring the flame of heat that coats your cheeks.

The elevator opens, and you both slink out, walking down the hall with the cadence of your boots bouncing off the empty walls. He punches in his key code, the familiar beeping making your stomach hurt as you remember that it's your birthday. The door opens, and he steps inside, pulling you with him before letting go of your hand to close the door behind you.

You hate the way tears prick at your eyes at the familiar detergent smell that fills his home. Detergent, and something a little musky. His cologne, probably, and you feel around the wall for the light switch. You find it, flicking it on to see the foyer is still meticulously organized, and you slip onto the bench to untie your boots.

He kneels in front of you, untying the laces before you can say anything. He pulls the boots off, carefully slotting them on his shelf before standing up and hanging your bag on the wall hook. He shrugs his jacket off, holding his hand back for your coat. You slip it off silently, handing it to him and making your way out of the foyer. Your hands are shoved into the pockets of your work pants as you walk into the living room — everything is the same, except the blankets that are usually folded on the side table are strewn on the couch. There's a bottle of water on the coffee table, and his television is quietly playing Shark Tale.

He doesn't speak as he slips past you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants as he walks to the kitchen. You rock on your heels, leaning against the back of his couch with your eyes fixated on the television. You force yourself not to get too comfortable, glancing over your shoulder once as you hear the click of his stove being turned on.

He slides back in front of you, yielding a paper towel in his hand. You glance at it, and he raises a brow as he moves it closer to your lips, "spit your gum out."

You do just that, keeping your eyes glued to the ground as he takes it and tosses it into his kitchen trash can. You tongue your cheek, rolling your shoulders back as you hearing clinking around behind you. You shift your weight from foot to foot, before hearing him suck his teeth.

"You can sit down, you know."

You respond almost robotically, gripping the armrest of his couch before awkwardly perching on it. He huffs, holding a bowl in his hand as he walks over. He pushes your shoulder gently, and you scowl as your butt slides off the armrest, your back hitting the cushion. You frown up at him, moving to sit up when he settles the bowl on the coffee table, sliding a spoon in your hand before turning back to his kitchen.

"Want coffee?" "Want to know what the hell we're doing, Lee Jihoon." "I'm feeding you. Do you want coffee or you wanna be a brat?"

"Why not both?" You mutter, shoveling the rice into your mouth. It's warm, covered in broth and sliced egg. You look up when you see a glass of water being slid onto the table, before he glances down at you. He holds a mug in his hand, stirring the spoon in it lightly.

"No coffee for me?" "No answer for me?"

He shrugs as he mocks you, and you click your tongue, rolling your eyes.

"Can I have—" "Absolutely."

You feel your cheeks hot as he slides a mug of coffee on the table — perfect amount of cream as the steam hits your face.

"You're an ass." "And you're a spoiled brat, but I still love you."

You huff, rolling your eyes as you reach for the mug, your heart fluttering in your chest like a dumbass. You take a quick sip as he moves around the room, folding the blanket and fluffing his cushions as the movie plays the penthouse musical number. He sweeps the living room, and you fold your legs under you as he runs the broom around the coffee table. Your spoon clatters the empty bowl and he takes it from the table as you lean back on the couch with the glass of water in your hand.

"You want more?" He asks from the kitchen, and you raise your hand to give him a thumbs down as your eyes grow slightly heavy. You slide the glass back onto the table, leaning your head against the back of the couch when he leans into your space. You blink up at him, "hey."

"Hey. Sleepy?" "A little." "You wanna come lie down?"

You scoff, folding your arms on your chest as he tucks a stray curl behind your ear. He thumbs at the earring looped through your lobe — a small pair of gold hoops he'd gotten you for Christmas during your first year together. He pulls at the black hair tie in your mess of curls, letting it slide up his wrist as he runs his fingers across the back of your head where the ponytail sat tightly. He tilts you back a bit more, smoothing his fingertips up and down the side of your throat, before cupping your jaw gently. His thumb pulls at your lower lip, "I miss you."

"Why did you break up with me?" You mumble, and he sighs. A blush creeps up his cheeks as he nibbles on his lip, "because I'm a coward."

You furrow your brow, your knees sinking into the cushion as you turn to look at him. Your hands hold the back of the couch, your nose almost brushing his from how close you are to his face. His breath hitches in his throat, eyes full of guilt…and an adoration that makes your heart beat all that faster in your chest, despite the wave of rage crawling up your throat.

"What the hell does that mean?!" "It means I bought a ring and I let my insecurity get the best of me before I could do anything with it."

Your eyes widen, your courage faltering. "You…what?"

He runs his hand over his face, "I bought a ring. Two months after we started dating, and I freaked out because I wanted to be everything to you and…"

He trails off, carding his fingers through his hair and letting a groan of frustration out, "and I thought you'd be better off with someone else. Someone who doesn't have to hide in obscure restaurants because he values privacy more than love, someone who can hardly make time for you because I'm always working. Someone that doesn't have to keep arguing with the fucking concierge about you being on the approved visitors list because you'd fucking live with me instead of still paying up the ass for that fucking apartment that we hate. Why do you still live there? Why don't you live here!?"

"Because you're a coward." You whisper, leaning forward. "That's why. Because when I said yes, you said no. When I said up, you said down. Everything was always the opposite, you always wanted—"

"I want you." He interrupts, "I want you so bad, it makes me fucking sick. I'm constantly worried about you, I'm constantly asking Jian about how you're doing when you're not at work. I had Soonyoung make sure you made it home the other day because your icon on FindMy stopped moving at eleven at night and I was stuck at work. I can't stop being in love with you. I can't do this, where I can't sleep three times a week because you're working overnight when you shouldn't have to fucking work at all; when you should be here. Asleep in our bed, with your name on the fucking lease and we're together."

He takes a deep breath, his eyes brimming with tears as he looks away, "but I can't stop you from being independent. This is also about what you want, and what you need to feel fulfilled. It's not that I said no when you said yes, or down when you said up. I just wanted you to feel…free. Like you can do what you want and I'll still be here because you can, but God, it's so hard to act like I don't want you glued to my hip all the time. It's infuriating to want you so much, because I was hindering you, I am hindering you. You wanna live in that apartment? Fine. You wanna work, fine. Work. Just…not until four in the morning, when you're supposed to be asleep. If not for the sake of your own health, then because I love you. And because I know you love me."

He doesn't wipe the tears that fall from his face, staring at the floor like the absolute coward he is.

"Two years, Jihoon." You whisper softly, your voice thick as he meets your eyes. His own soften more, if humanly possible — as you take in a choked breath. "Two years of watching you work yourself to the bone, of begging you to go to sleep on nights I worked until four. Two years of gamjatang every Friday night before I went to work because you valued privacy and I valued you. We went to Japan. We kissed, we held hands, we slept together, Jihoon. I met your mother. I met your mother, and you introduced me as her daughter-in-law."

Your hands tighten around the back of the couch, your throat tight as you try to clear it.

"How can you throw that away with the excuse of being a coward?" "On top of it all, I'm also an idiot. That's how. And I'm so, so sorry."

He sniffles, looking up at the dim ceiling light as he clears his throat. He doesn't speak, and you find yourself clambering over the back of his couch and wrapping your arms around him tightly. He doesn't stiffen, immediately melting into your chest with a sag of relief in his shoulders.

"You're stupid." You mutter, dragging your fingernails across his upper back, "you're an absolute fool."

"Please, don't leave me without you." He murmurs, voice thick as he yanks the back of your shirt up, untucking your thermal as his fingers grow desperate for the warmth of skin on skin. "Please forgive me, please."

"You're an idiot. You make me fall in love with you for two years, you parade me around, you take me on trips, just to dump me because you're a fucking wimp. You're absolutely awful and there is no reason that I should forgive you, because I deserve more." You grumble, and he buries his face into your neck, his lips brushing against your skin. Your eyes prick with tears, feeling his arms squeeze you tighter.

"And I wish you would've said something earlier." You sigh, your lips brushing his cheek as you sniffle, "I wish you would've told me because I would've told you that you're wrong. And you knew you were wrong, too. That's why you feel stupid now."

"I do. God, I feel so fucking stupid." "Good."

There is a moment of silence, his hands sliding up and down your sides as he holds you impossibly closer. You rest your head on his shoulder, sighing before he pulls back. He peers at you through wet lashes, making you shake your head as you hold five fingers up. You put your thumb down, "one, if I leave my apartment, you are paying that fat fee they're gonna charge me for breaking my lease."

His eyes widen slightly as you put your forefinger down, "two, you desperately need a new mattress. The one you have is too soft and it does nothing for my back."

"Three: you are gonna talk to Jian about my schedule. You want me around? You make that effort." You put your middle finger down, before putting your ring finger down as well, "four, we are not together. You're gonna court me, all over again, and I want to go to Mingyu's diner. Tonight, at six."

He doesn't interrupt you, glancing at your pinky finger still up.

"And five, I need a toothbrush. Get me one." You pat his chest, giving him a curt smile as you move to pull away; only for his arms to tighten around you. You look at him, brows raised as he juts his lip out, "no way you're pouting right now. Is this Lee Jihoon?"

You knock on his head gently, and the pout only grows deeper as you let out a laugh of disbelief.

"Stop laughing at me." "You're so cute." "I love you."

"I know, Jihoon." You nod, cradling his cheeks in your hands, "I know you love me. But that doesn't mean I'll forgive you right now."

"I'm not asking you to." He says softly, "I just want you to know. To hear it from me."

"Show me, Jihoon." You press a chaste kiss to his lips, ignoring the absolute eruption of fluttering in your lower belly at the feeling of his soft lips on yours. You give him another, his hands on your sides squeezing tightly as he tries to deepen it — but you use all the willpower you have to pull away. "Toothbrush. Need it."

"I'll be back." He nods, but can't seem to let go of you. He keeps himself rooted to the ground, and you hold his face gently, "you've gotta get a move on. I'm tired."

"Don't leave. Please. Be here when I get back." "Where would I go?" "Home?"

"I wasn't aware you wanted me to go with you?" Your voice is cheeky, and you press a kiss to his jaw before squeezing his shoulder. "Hurry back."

Jihoon is forces himself out of his spot as you slip out of his grasp, and you stretch your arms over your head as you make your way to his bathroom — the apartment hadn't changed a bit. Your eyes are glued to all the photos on the wall, your chest warming as you see the one of you; your first anniversary, and you had gone out in a pretty black dress that Jihoon chose, to a restaurant neither of you ended up liking.

And the photo was taken at your gamjatang place right after. Your dress strap had fallen from your shoulder, and you were holding a soju bomb with a wink. It was in a heart-shaped frame, the receipt from that date night tucked into the edge of the frame with the stamp of your red lipstick on it.

You stood closer, looking around the wall of framed photos. So many of you — so many small memories tucked into frames. Receipts, movie tickets, two concert ticket stubs from when you both got to see AKMU. There was dozens of little papers with your red lipstick kissed onto it, and in the middle of all the photos was you and him — a photo taken from behind that you don't remember ever seeing. He's kissing your cheek in front of Gwangjang Market, your hands clutched inside his pocket as your brown coat compliments his navy blue one that he only wore on dates with you.

Even if it was just to get gamjatang.

There is a gum wrapper stuck to the frame, folded into a small heart. You glance over your shoulder, not seeing Jihoon as your fingers ghost over it. You pluck it off, peeling it open to see yesterday's date scrawled across the top in familiar handwriting, scrunched to fit the small canvas.

september 14: day 369 since you made the biggest mistake of your life. how can you love the heartbreak, when she's the one you love? i know you still do. i know you listen to that song and think of her. stop being a coward and get her back. double date gamjatang awaits you! - your friendly neighborhood matchmaker, jian (and hoshi!)

You blink, the smell of the gum still fresh though mixed with the ink. You look at the photo, the white strip at the bottom also having something written on it. This time, in Jihoon's penmanship.

The One I Love — February 17.

Your eyes burn with tears as you fold the gum wrapper back perfectly, sticking it back in the corner as you wrap your arms around yourself. There is a photo of you on your second anniversary, in another black dress chosen by Jihoon — the sleeves long, covering your arms aside from the sparkle of a gold bracelet Jihoon had gotten you earlier that day. You were smiling brightly in the photo, Jihoon's hand seen holding yours at the bottom of the frame, where another receipt sat.

Your handwriting, your lipstick stamped over it once more.

always yours, my angel! ♡ i love you, lee jihoon.

Hot tears roll down your face, and you fan at your face as you trill your lips.

"Stupid man." You grouse, wiping at your face haphazardly as you make your way to his bedroom. You sniffle, your hand shoving his door open to reveal his neatly made bed. Fumbling around for the light switch, warm lighting fills the room as you move around. Opening drawers, procuring shirts and sweatpants he doesn't wear because he once told you they're too heavy.

Whatever that means.

You change your clothes, folding your work uniform into a neat little pile and putting it atop his dresser — opting not to hide your black bra under your shirt. Wandering into his bathroom, you see the picture of you and Jihoon brushing your teeth the first time you ever slept over still nailed to the wall by the light switch — a wink from both of you as you held the camera high. You feel a small smile tug at the corner of your lip, turning his sink on to wash your face when you hear the beeping of his front door.

You hear him walking around slowly, the rustle of a bag in his hand getting closer as he lets out a breath of relief when he crosses the threshold of his bedroom. You snort inwardly, swiping some of his face moisturizer on your cheeks as you lean back out of the bathroom to see him moving your clothing into an empty drawer in his dresser, and he's wearing pajamas. He glances at you, and you raise a brow before shaking your head and moving back into the bathroom.

"You don't like that toothpaste." He mumbles as he slides in behind you, your hands smoothing the rest of the cream into your neck as you look down at it. It's cinnamon-mint, and you scrunch your nose, "you're right. Ugh, why do you like that stuff?"

"It feels fresh longer! I explained this to you so many times." He huffs, and you purse your lips as he pouts, pulling a new box of toothpaste out of the bag. He picks at the box, tearing into it before holding the tube out to you. You take it gingerly, opening it as he fishes the toothbrush out. Pink.

You brush your teeth in silence, neither of you saying anything as you disregard his cinnamon-mint toothpaste on the sink. You glance at him, holding the toothbrush between your teeth before holding your hand out.

"Give me your phone."

He pats his pockets, reaching into the left one before handing it over. You swipe onto the camera, holding it high as you pull him closer. You wink at the camera, watching him do the same as you press the shutter. You shove his phone back into his pocket, crossing your arm over your chest as you continue brushing your teeth.

"Send it to Jian later." You mutter when you rinse your mouth out, rooting around his medicine cabinet for floss. He hands it to you from the drawer, giving you a deadpan look as you make a point to place it in the medicine cabinet. You continue about, giving him room to wash his face as you obnoxiously gargle mouthwash while walking around his room.

"They're kind of annoying, aren't they?" You ask as you flick the lights off, watching him dab on lip balm as he snorts.

"Who, Jian and Soonyoung?" "Yes, Jian and Hosh. Who else?"

He shrugs, swiping his finger in the pot of lip balm once more and holding it out to you. You oblige, letting him swipe it on as you think.

"I think they just care." "I mean, obviously. But why? Why do they need double dates?" "Couple friends are just important as regular ones, honey."

"Sure, but why do they know everything about us?" You put your hands on your hips, tapping your socked foot as Jihoon nods, pulling his duvet back. You quickly round the bed, pulling your corner out and hugging the display pillows to your chest, "Jian calls you Loverboy when you go pick me up."

"Soonyoung says your name out of nowhere to psych me out. Asshole." He grumbles. You bite back your smile, placing his pillows at the bench on the end of his bed. You stretch your arms over your head, rolling your shoulders back before sliding into bed. Jihoon dims the lights down but doesn't turn them all the way off, the clock on his nightstand reading six-forty-nine in the morning.

"You're gonna be late to work." You sit up, and he shakes his head, sliding under the covers.

"I took vacation time." "Why?"

He turns on his side, looking up at you with tired eyes. You slide back down, resting your face on the back of your hand as you face him.

"I wanted time to settle myself if you said no." He admits, "I wasn't prepared for this today. I thought I'd have more time. If I hadn't left my lighter at Soonyoung's, you wouldn't be here right now."

"Then I don't think you missed me as much as you want me to believe." You scoot closer, the minty smell of toothpaste wafting up as you rest your forehead on his. He scrunches his nose as you press a kiss to it, "was it hard? Without me?"

He nods as much as your proximity will allow, a tear rolling down his face and onto his pillow as he looks away. You sigh, throwing your leg over his hip and pulling him into you. His arm immediately wraps around you, his face burying into your neck as you dip your fingertips into the collar of his shirt. He shivers, inching impossibly closer to you.

"You'll tell me more later, right?" You whisper into his hair, feeling him nod as his lips brush your throat. He presses a kiss to the skin, nuzzling the area with his nose before you click your tongue.

"Goodnight, Jihoon." "I love you."

You trace circles into the nape of his neck, smoothing your fingertips across the necklace he never takes off. His breathing slows, his fingers gripping the back of your shirt loosening slightly as he falls asleep with your perfume filling his nose. You feel tears brim your eyes, and you let out a shaky breath as you card your fingers through his hair.

"I love you, too."

ONE YEAR LATER — SEPTEMBER 10.

You nibble on your lip as you stare at the door. It's a Friday night, and Jihoon is standing next to you with your sweater draped over his arm and chewing his cheek. The aunties were the fear here, knowing you'd get scolded for disappearing after they've had a bunch of pictures of you both posted up on their guest wall like you were celebrities. Mrs. Kang was the owner, and you are worried.

You hadn't been here in two years. Two full years, and much to your surprise — Jihoon had also stopped coming. He'd stopped eating gamjatang period, saying it reminded him of you and the break-up only soured it for him. You both agreed you'd go back when you felt ready, and you'd go together…

So now, six months into your rekindled relationship, you stand in front of it. Your hand is in his, and you're wearing a pretty white dress, holding your purse strap tightly; watching him reach for the door. He pulls it open, and you take a deep breath as you walk in, not letting go of his hand as the aunties barely glanced up from the counter. You glimpse at him as he closes the door behind him, your hand tight around his as Mrs. Lee, an older woman with dyed burgundy hair that had scolded Jihoon for spilling soup on you once, tells you to take a seat anywhere in the empty restaurant and she'll be right with you — without looking up from the register.

Jihoon pulls you into the corner booth you used to sit in, the left side of the booth still comforting as you slid in first, his thigh brushing yours as he sat next to you. Neither of you bother to speak, his hand in yours pinching the hem of your dress skirt and pulling it down slightly to cover the bite mark on your inner thigh. You feel your cheeks hot as you rest your chin on his shoulder, making him look at you as you silently beg for a kiss.

He presses a chaste one to your lips as clambering is heard, one of the aunties carrying two steaming bowls of gamjatang to your table when her eyes meet yours.

Mrs. Kang.

She blinks, sliding the bowls onto the table as you shift slightly. She crosses her arms on her chest, looking at you like she's disappointed. Jihoon's hand squeezes yours, almost like he's bracing for something when she throws her hands up.

"It's about time you find your way back to one another. This was getting ridiculous." She huffs, your cheeks burning hot as she yells over her shoulder for rice wine. "Do you know how annoying your friends are? They eat here every Thursday, whine about the two of you breaking up for an hour and they drink like fish. I had to take your pictures off the wall because they kept crying against it."

"I'm sorry." You both murmur, Jihoon earning a soft smack on his shoulder.

"And you! How can you break this poor girl's heart, Jihoon? Two years! You came to my restaurant every Friday for two years, and that's not counting the other times you were here together! Two anniversaries I saw you celebrate together, four birthdays!" She shoves his shoulder lightly, huffing with tears pricking at her eyes. Your own widen as she lets out an annoyed breath.

"Don't do it again! I won't have it!" She scolds, before her hand picks up one of the bowls. She rolls her eyes, "you still hate perilla leaf?"

You shift again, nodding silently as she scoffs, "picky girl. I missed you."

She bites back her smile, whisking the bowl away as Jihoon pouts.

"How come she misses you and not me?" "You wanna ask her?" "Absolutely not. She scares the socks off me."

Jihoon waits patiently for Mrs. Kang to return with your bowl, leaning his head against yours as you rest your cheek on his shoulder. You watch the steam rise off his bowl, your stomach growling just as Mrs. Kang makes her way back — the door nearly being torn off the hinges and making you all jump. You look over Jihoon to see Soonyoung and Jian standing in the threshold, sweaty and out of breath with Jian's phone on full brightness; her screen displaying your location on FindMy.

"You're here!" Jian cries, shoving past Soonyoung and throwing her arms over you and Jihoon. Mrs. Kang scowls as Soonyoung joins the dog pile, giving you an annoyed look as she holds up your soup and a kettle of rice wine. You hurriedly pat Jian's back, and she pulls away with a quickness that rivals the beating of your heart as Jihoon covers the bite mark on your thigh with his hand.

"Sorry," you breathe out, and Mrs. Kang just shakes her head as she slides your bowl onto the table. Soonyoung and Jian greet her quietly, making her suck her teeth, "two more?"

"Please," Jian nods, and she purses her lips as she turns on her heel. She stops, glancing over her shoulder at Soonyoung, "no perilla leaf?"

He nods quickly, practically shoving Jian into the booth as she disappears back into the kitchen. You all watch her walk away, before Jian kicks Jihoon under the table.

"You bitch! Why didn't you tell us you were coming? I said gamjatang double date." She complains, and Jihoon just scowls as you rub his shin.

"We hadn't been back yet." You reply, rolling your eyes. "Mrs. Kang hates you guys."

"No she doesn't." Soonyoung argues, and Mrs. Kang appears next to his head with two bowls.

"Yes, I do. Stop crying in here. I had to take down my favorite pictures because of you." She huffs, setting the bowls down and procuring a camera from her apron pocket. "Y/N and Jihoon, take two?"

You grin, inching closer to Jihoon as he fixes the pendant on your necklace. A gold locket — holding a picture of you and him.

"Ready? 3, 2, 1, money!" She holds it up to her face, and you both smile brightly as you smush your cheeks together. The flash goes off, and you feeling Jihoon's lips press a quick kiss to your cheek. You see Jian and Soonyoung pout across the table from you as you blink away the effects of the flash, and Mrs. Kang tongues her cheek as she moves to your side of the booth, resting her arm around the back and leaning down.

"What do you think? Jian and Hoshi, take one?" She smiles, and you nod your head as they wrap their arms around each other excitedly, pressing their cheeks together with animated smiles. She rolls her eyes, taking their picture before patting your head, "welcome back, sweet girl."

"Thank you." You smile softly, your cheeks sore as she rubs her knuckles on the back of Jihoon's head, making him pout as she huffs, "be good to her. She loves you."

"I will! I am!" He sulks, sinking into the booth as she chuckles, "you want extra broth? I'll bring you some, sit tight."

You watch her walk away again, laughing as Jihoon rubs the back of his head, "see? She missed you, too."

"Whatever." He huffs, reaching for spoons as Soonyoung and Jian lean across the table. He raises a brow at them, "what!?"

Soonyoung grins, "so…double dates again?"

"We can get ice cream after this! Double trouble!" Jian claps her hands cheerfully, and you give Jihoon an amused look. He tongues his cheek.

"They are annoying." He mutters, sliding a spoon into your soup and draping his sweater over your lap so you won't stain your dress. You snicker, "ice cream sounds good. We're in."

"Perfect! Because I also have sixteen other places we need to hit before the end of the year. Oh, and how do you feel about Japan for New Years? I really wanna go back to Mr. Iguchi's, he's been texting Hoshi nonstop!"

You and Jihoon let your friends ramble on and on, eating quietly as Mrs. Kang refills your rice wine pot twice before cutting it off when Soonyoung and Jian start getting sappy. He sends you up to pay with his card, helping Jian pull a heavily tipsy Soonyoung to his feet as Mrs. Kang gives you a receipt.

"Can I get a pen, please?" You ask softly, and she hands you one as you carefully reapply your lipstick. She watches you with her arms crossed, a lopsided smirk on her face as you scribble your note on the top of the receipt paper before kissing it gently.

"You be good, okay? I'll see you on Friday." She says, eyes pointed as you give the pen back.

"Yes ma'am. I will see you on Friday. Thank you!" You stuff his card in your purse, carefully folding the receipt as Jihoon lugs Soonyoung out the door with shouted thanks to the aunties. She waves you off, and you quickly catch up to them as Soonyoung forces himself upright at Jian's mention of ice cream. The door shuts behind you, and you press a kiss to Jihoon's cheek as his arm wraps around your waist. His cheeks are warm from the alcohol, but you watch the way his eyes soften before pressing his lips to yours.

"Do you like the ring?" He whispers, and you glance down at your left hand. It sparkles up at you, like it knows something. You fix it so the stone is centered on your finger, and you hold it up the light, "it's pretty on me, isn't it?"

"Stunning." "You're buttering me up, I know it. We're already engaged, knock it off."

"Why would I need to do that? You're mine anyway. Something about 'til death do us part, I heard." He rolls his eyes, pressing another kiss to your cheek as you make it outside, the air cool against your hot skin. You rest your head on his shoulder, his fingers squeezing your waist lightly before pressing another kiss to your head.

"I love you, honey." "I love you, my angel."

You make a note to stop and by a picture frame, and to pick up your copy of the photo from Mrs. Kang next Friday.

After all, you've got a new little scrap of paper.

let's take the long way home, my angel. ♡ i love you so much, lee jihoon. always yours, take two!

Campus is buzzing. Not the usual hum of sleep-deprived students dragging themselves to class, but the kind of chaotic energy that only comes around when the weekend stretches ahead, warm and wide open.

The quad is drenched in golden late-afternoon sunlight, and the air smells like grass, iced coffee, and the subtle hint of sweat from people pretending they aren’t trying to look hot in 85-degree heat.

You’re weaving between bodies, textbooks tucked under your arm, when it catches your eye: a bright neon flier taped to nearly every lamppost, tree, and bulletin board in sight.

SINS & SAINTS BIGGEST PARTY OF THE SEMESTER — 10PM @ THE PIT SEVEN MINUTES IN HEAVEN GAME 🔥 DON’T BE LAME

Yanni snatches one off a pole as you pass. “This is the moment, ladies.”

You don’t even give the flyer a second glance. “What moment? The one where you both fail your ethics paper because you were too busy shotgunning White Claws in someone’s moldy basement?”

“Oh my god, relax,” Jenna says, laughing. “It’s not moldy. They fixed the leak in April.”

You roll your eyes but let yourself smile as the three of you walk along the sidewalk, the late sun casting long shadows across the pavement. Yanni and Jenna look like they just stepped out of an Urban Outfitters ad — crop tops, layered jewelry, and enough confidence to set fire to half the student population.

And then there’s you. Not quite invisible, but definitely more “background character” than “main event.”

“You know this party’s gonna be huge, right?” Yanni says, waving the flier like it’s a golden ticket. “Last year someone jumped off the roof into the kiddie pool.”

“And broke their collarbone,” you point out.

“Legendary,” Jenna says, smirking.

You snatch the flier from Yanni’s hand, skimming it again. “Why would anyone voluntarily go to something with a ‘Seven Minutes in Heaven’ game advertised like a feature? We’re adults.”

“Are we?” Yanni asks, eyes twinkling.

“Technically,” Jenna adds. “But also—imagine the chaos. What if someone pulls Jungkook’s name?”

Your heart does a completely unacceptable little stutter at that.

Jeon Jungkook.

Tattooed, mysterious, chronically late to lectures (if he shows up at all), and very much the guy every girl on campus either wants to date, make out with, or get over. He’s got a motorcycle. He barely talks. He shows up to parties, hooks up with girls, then disappears like smoke.

And he’s beautiful. Obviously.

You’re not immune. You’ve had a crush on him since last semester, when he walked into your shared Intro to Media class twenty minutes late, helmet under his arm, chewing gum like he wasn’t the reason every girl in the room forgot what the professor was saying.

But Jungkook is a walking red flag. A whole carnival of them. And you’re smarter than that.

At least, you pretend to be.

“Literally everyone wants him,” Jenna says, reading your mind. “Even the TA from psych. She was full-on blushing when he asked for an extension.”

“Not surprised,” Yanni mutters. “He has that look — like he’s good at everything and knows it.”

“He probably is,” you say before you can stop yourself, then immediately regret it.

Your friends both stare at you, smirking like sharks.

“Wait,” Jenna says slowly, “do you have a thing for Jungkook?”

“No.” You say it too quickly. “God, no. I mean—everyone does. But I’m not stupid.”

“Just stupid-adjacent,” Yanni teases.

“Shut up.”

Before they can press you further, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Well, well, well. Look who we have here.”

You look up to see Park Jimin approaching, all sunshine and mischief, with Kim Taehyung sauntering behind him like he owns the sidewalk.

Jimin’s wearing a denim jacket over a mesh tank, and Taehyung’s got sunglasses on even though the sun’s nearly down. Between the two of them, they look like trouble you want to get into.

“Hey, ladies,” Jimin says, flashing a grin as he throws an arm over Yanni’s shoulders. “You’re coming to the party tonight, right?”

“Obviously,” Yanni replies, leaning into the attention.

“Can’t miss the annual disaster,” Jenna adds, high-fiving Taehyung like they’re in on some secret joke.

You cross your arms. “You guys seriously hyping up a party where people get locked in closets like it’s summer camp?”

“It’s not just any party,” Jimin says. “It’s The Pit. Sins & Saints theme. Black lights. Fake angel wings. Maybe some fake confessions.”

“Cages,” Taehyung adds casually, like that’s normal.

You blink. “Cages? What kind of party is this?”

“The fun kind,” Jimin winks. “You coming, Y/N?”

“I have an essay due.”

“So bring it with you. I’ll give you moral support while you drink tequila.”

“Tempting,” you say, deadpan. “But I actually want to pass this semester.”

Taehyung leans in, smirking. “Well, in case you change your mind… Jungkook’s gonna be there.”

There it is again. The name. The spark that lights your nerves like a match to gasoline.

You try to play it cool. “Why would that matter to me?”

Yanni coughs loudly. Jenna bites her lip to keep from laughing.

Jimin just grins, already turning away. “No reason. See you at ten.”

And with that, the two boys melt back into the crowd, leaving you with your friends, your unfinished essay, and the creeping sense that this night might not go according to plan.

The quad’s stretched out like a painting, glowing and slow, the heat bleeding off the pavement in soft waves. Everything’s dipped in gold — the trees, the brick buildings, even the stupid neon flyers plastered to every pole.

The bench — their bench — is right where it always is, half in shade, half in sun, like it can’t decide whether it wants to be chill or dramatic. Typical.

Jungkook drops down into his usual spot on the backrest, boots braced on the seat like he owns it. He probably does, at this point — nobody ever sits there unless one of them’s already claimed it.

Taehyung arrives next, flopping into the grass with a sigh so theatrical it could win awards.

“Dying,” he declares. “Melting. This is my final form.”

Jimin shows up with a popsicle he definitely didn’t pay for. “It’s like 85. You’re from Daegu, you’ve survived worse.”

“I have delicate lungs now,” Taehyung replies. “I’m an artist.”

“Your lung capacity’s fine, bro,” Jungkook says. “You were yelling at Rocket League until three.”

Taehyung scowls but doesn’t argue.

A group of girls walks by — upperclassmen, probably — and Jungkook doesn’t miss the way they glance over, not subtle at all. One of them straightens her hair in her reflection on a car window.

He ignores it. Sips his drink. Lets the sun warm his tattoos.

“Party’s gonna be insane tonight,” Jimin says through a mouthful of cherry ice. “Everyone’s going.”

“You say that like you’re not part of the chaos,” Jungkook mutters.

“I am the chaos.”

Jungkook smirks. “You’re five feet of glitter and bad decisions.”

“I’m five-nine,” Jimin says automatically.

“You’re lying.”

“Anyway,” Taehyung cuts in, flopping back so his head hits the grass with a dull thump, “I heard there’s gonna be like… cages. Real ones. Hanging from the ceiling.”

“Where the hell are they getting cages?” Jungkook asks.

“Probably the theater department,” Jimin says. “They owe me after I fixed their soundboard last semester.”

Jungkook makes a face. “You fixed it by slapping it until it stopped buzzing.”

“And it worked.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence for a bit — the kind only friends with a lot of shared damage can fall into. People keep walking past, all heading somewhere, all talking too loud, dressed like they're auditioning for the same indie film.

A guy on a skateboard nearly eats it trying to check his reflection in the library windows. A girl in a baby tee trips on absolutely nothing when she sees Jungkook watching her. Classic.

He doesn’t react. Barely blinks.

“You know,” Taehyung says, eyes still closed, “I was thinking about that Seven Minutes thing.”

“Oh god,” Jungkook mutters.

“No, listen. Imagine someone wild pulls your name. Like that girl who wears fangs and drinks blood out of a Hydro Flask.”

“She’s a performance artist,” Jimin corrects. “You’re so uncultured.”

“Imagine,” Taehyung continues, undeterred, “you walk into the closet and it’s just like—BAM. Straight-up vampire romance. Feral energy. No escape.”

“I’d rather die,” Jungkook says.

“Sounds like fear,” Jimin singsongs.

“It’s common sense,” Jungkook replies. “That game is high school energy. It's gonna be twenty minutes of giggling and some drunk dude falling through the door trying to kiss someone who already regrets being born.”

Jimin snorts. “Wow. Poetic.”

“Look, I’m going,” Jungkook says, “but I’m not doing closet games. Not my scene.”

“You say that,” Taehyung mutters, cracking one eye open, “but if someone hot pulls your name…”

Jungkook shrugs. “Then she’s unlucky.”

And he means it — mostly. It’s just that… parties like this always end the same. Music too loud, drinks too warm, somebody crying in the bathroom, somebody making bad decisions on a lawn chair.

He doesn’t know why he keeps showing up. Maybe he’s bored. Maybe it’s the thrill of it — the crash of noise, the lights, the way nothing matters for a few hours.

Or maybe it's that feeling.

The possibility.

The moment right before something happens — when everything is charged and uncertain, and the right glance could flip the night on its head.

He exhales, eyes flicking toward a passing group of students. One girl — vaguely familiar — walks by clutching a tote bag and a half-melted iced matcha. Her face jogs something in his brain. A lecture hall, maybe? Media Studies?

He thinks he remembers her — quiet. Always early. Never looked at him, not even when he showed up late and took the seat next to the plug.

But it’s gone in a blink. Just another girl. Just another day.

Taehyung claps his hands suddenly, breaking the silence.

“Alright, sluts. Waffle truck or convenience store noodles?”

“Why are those the only options?” Jimin asks.

“Because I’m a man of taste.”

They get up, stretching, moving like they’re already vibrating with pre-party adrenaline. Jungkook trails behind, helmet in one hand, unread messages buzzing in his pocket.

He doesn’t look back.

He doesn’t notice the girl from the quad still sitting under the tree, book open, eyes half-lifted just as he passes.

He doesn't know her name.

Not yet.

The Pit is already pulsing when you arrive.

Bass thumps under your feet before you even step inside — not just music, but vibration, like the building itself is alive and slightly pissed off. The air smells like tequila, cheap perfume, and those weird vanilla vapes everyone insists are “barely noticeable.” Spoiler: they are very noticeable.

You stop just inside the doorway, blinking.

The party is absolutely unhinged.

There are blacklights everywhere — mounted on the rafters, strung across the ceilings, probably duct-taped to questionable surfaces. Someone’s set up an old confessional booth near the far wall, graffitied and backlit in red. A girl in a rhinestone halo is taking selfies in front of it while a guy dressed as a fallen angel — shirt unbuttoned to nowhere — does a keg stand behind her.

Above it all, a massive banner reads:

SINS & SAINTS: ENTER IF YOU DARE.

...which feels both deeply dramatic and deeply accurate.

There are actual cages suspended from the ceiling — only waist-high, like glorified birdcages, but still. One of them has a guy in white mesh pants swinging in it like it’s Cirque du Soleil. He howls something about forgiveness. No one knows what’s going on.

You take all of this in with wide eyes.

“Okay,” you say slowly, “what the hell.”

“I TOLD YOU,” Yanni shouts over the music, eyes lit up like a kid on Halloween. “They WENT OFF this year!”

“They should be arrested,” you mutter.

Jenna laughs beside you, tugging at the hem of her dress. “I feel like I just walked into the end of the world but make it horny.”

Yanni is wearing a sheer black top over a bralette made entirely of tiny silver crosses, her eyeliner winged out to her temples. Her skirt is so short it might be a threat to public safety.

Jenna went full Saint — white silk slip dress, little feathery halo bobbing over her curls, but with Doc Martens that say she’d still throw hands in the bathroom line.

And then there’s you.

You’d protested the theme all afternoon, but eventually gave in. You’re wearing ripped black jeans, a mesh top over a tank, and a red ribbon choker Yanni tied on you with too much enthusiasm. You didn’t go all-out like them, but you’re here. You showed up. That’s saying something.

Yanni loops her arm through yours and yells, “I swear to God, if I don’t end up in a cage by midnight, I’m suing.”

“They have cages, Yanni,” you say, scandalized. “That’s not normal.”

“I’m not normal,” she grins.

“That’s not comforting!”

You’re halfway toward the drink table when a blur of movement passes you — a guy in a leather jacket, dark hair, jaw like a hate crime. You don’t get a good look, just the impression of tattoos, combat boots, and a casual arrogance like he’s got the party rigged in his favor.

You turn back to the drinks.

Jenna, meanwhile, is adjusting her halo in her phone’s camera. “Okay, I’m thinking I make out with someone with wings. That’s my only rule.”

“Are they required to earn them first?” you ask.

“No, they just have to not be annoying.”

“So… no one here, basically,” you deadpan.

Yanni dumps some suspicious jungle juice into a cup and hands it to you. “Drink. Or at least pretend to. You’re giving off ‘I’m only here for field research’ energy.”

You take a sip and grimace. “This tastes like Hawaiian Punch and college debt.”

“Exactly,” Jenna says. “We’re setting the tone.”

You pass by a hallway draped in red curtains — probably where the Seven Minutes game is happening. Someone stumbles out with smeared lipstick and a dazed smile.

“Oh my god,” you say. “This is summer camp. This is hot, humid, horny summer camp.”

Yanni beams. “A dream come true.”

You’re halfway across the room when you bump into someone — solid chest, sharp elbows. You step back, muttering, “Sorry,” but the guy’s already moving, weaving through the crowd like he’s done it a thousand times.

Again, you don’t get a good look.

Again, you feel that flicker — like something important just brushed past you.

“Who was that?” you ask, mostly to yourself.

Jenna squints after him. “I don’t know. Pretty sure he walked out of a Calvin Klein ad though.”

You shake it off.

This night is too much already — too loud, too crowded, too… Jungkook-shaped. And you’re not here for that. You’re here to survive, observe, and possibly rescue your friends from questionable decisions.

So far, you’re one-for-three.

Yanni grabs your arm. “Okay. I’ve spotted three girls from my art class, two guys I ghosted, and a literal priest costume. Where are the drinks that don’t taste like regret?”

“There are none,” you say. “We are the drinks that taste like regret.”

Jenna raises her cup like a toast. “To sinning responsibly.”

“To surviving this chaos,” you mutter, sipping again.

And across the room, under strobing lights and smoke machine haze, Jungkook leans against the wall near the DJ booth, scanning the crowd.

His eyes flick right past you.

Just a blur of black mesh, red ribbon, and glittering annoyance.

He doesn’t even register it.

But something in him shifts — like he knows he’s missing something. Or someone.

He adjusts the cuff of his sleeve, lifts his drink, and watches the crowd move like waves around him.

You’re both here.

You’re both waiting.

You just don’t know it yet.

Jungkook leans against the wall like he’s not trying.

He isn’t.

He’s dressed in all black — ripped jeans, oversized button-down left open over a tank, silver chains catching just enough light to look intentional. His boots are scuffed from the bike ride over, and he hasn't even bothered to fix the strands of hair falling into his eyes.

Still, people look.

People always look.

The Pit is packed. The lights strobe like they’re malfunctioning, bodies moving in all directions, glitter and sweat and wings everywhere. The blacklight catches on teeth, neon paint, the rims of Solo cups. Music throbs like a second heartbeat, drowning out anything that sounds like common sense.

Jungkook watches it all unfold with the calm detachment of someone who’s done this a hundred times.

Which, to be fair, he has.

“Cages,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Really.”

Taehyung reappears at his side, holding two drinks and no sense of subtlety. “You say that like you’re not impressed.”

“I’m not not impressed,” Jungkook says, eyeing a girl in LED horns who’s currently being hoisted into one of the hanging cages by two frat boys in priest collars. “I’m just wondering if this place passed fire code.”

Jimin sidles up on the other side, chewing gum like a menace. “God, I love when everyone’s desperate and underdressed. The vibe tonight is filthy.”

“It’s not a vibe,” Jungkook says, deadpan. “It’s a liability.”

“You’re just mad because you haven’t been recognized by someone hot yet.”

“I literally got here three minutes ago.”

“That’s three whole minutes too long, lover boy.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling faintly.

He scans the room again, letting the visuals wash over him: angel wings, devil horns, fake blood, fake rosaries, someone with a real sword (???), a couple making out aggressively near the “Confess Here” booth. Typical Pit energy, just turned up to eleven.

His gaze passes over a trio near the drink table — glitter, halos, fishnets — then slides away again, uninterested.

Then—

No. He pauses.

Barely.

There’s a girl in black mesh, red ribbon tight around her throat. Not the type trying to be seen. Not the type posing or pouting or clinging to someone’s arm. Just… there. Head tilted. Brows drawn. Like she’s trying to make sense of the chaos.

She’s not looking at him.

He doesn’t know why he notices.

Something about the way she holds herself — casual, a little stiff. Like she showed up for the party but didn’t want to. Like she’s in it, but not of it. It’s a detail, but he’s always been good at catching those.

He’s pretty sure he’s seen her before. Class maybe? One of the early ones, back when he still showed up?

He narrows his eyes. Something tickles the back of his mind — a row of seats, a laptop screen, a girl who never once looked his way even when he was late and loud and trying not to be noticed by a professor.

He’d filed it away as nothing.

And maybe it still is.

He watches her for one more second — how she crinkles her nose at the drink in her hand, how her friend with the silver cross top yells something and throws her head back laughing.

Then someone claps a hand on his shoulder, and the moment breaks.

“Hyung,” a guy shouts over the music — some junior he’s barely talked to — “the Seven Minutes room is right there. You better hope someone sins you into the closet.”

“I’m good,” Jungkook says without missing a beat.

“You sure?” the guy winks. “Heard even the quiet girls are wild tonight.”

Taehyung lets out an ungodly laugh.

Jimin fans himself. “God, I love this place.”

Jungkook exhales slowly and glances back toward the girl in the mesh top, the one he maybe-kinda remembers from Media Studies.

She’s walking away now, swallowed by bodies and wings and fog machine haze.

And just like that, she’s gone again

SINS & SAINTS

10:47 PM — The Pit

You’re halfway through your second regrettable drink — something red and radioactive that tastes like melted cherry Jolly Ranchers and lies — when you realize:

Jenna is gone.

Not lost in the crowd gone. Not hooked up with some guy in a halo gone. Like, vanished.

You scan the sea of limbs and glitter, the swirling blacklights and wall-to-wall bass drops.

No halo. No white silk dress. No Doc Martens stomping some poor frat guy’s foot for getting handsy.

“Wait,” you say, turning to Yanni. “Where’s Jenna?”

Yanni’s still dancing, holding her drink above her head and vibing to something bass-heavy. She doesn’t hear you.

You poke her side. “Yanni. Where. Is. Jenna.”

She freezes, eyes scanning the room with the same dawning horror you’re feeling.

“Oh my god,” she says, gripping your arm. “She was just here.”

“She was literally next to us two minutes ago.”

“She does this sometimes,” Yanni says, frowning. “Remember Halloween? She disappeared for an hour and came back with a matching tattoo with a guy named Car Battery.”

“That was ONE time,” you groan. “And she still won’t tell us where the tattoo is.”

Yanni downs the rest of her drink like it’s going to give her psychic powers. “Okay, we split up. You check the front half, near the drinks. I’ll do a lap by the DJ booth. Scream if she’s in a cage.”

“Or if you end up in one,” you mutter.

She kisses your cheek and takes off, glitter trailing in her wake.

You push through the crowd, slipping past a group of devils grinding to a slowed-down Britney remix, dodging a couple who are definitely fighting and definitely still holding hands.

You pause near the drink station again, heart thumping a little harder than it should.

Still no Jenna.

Just more suspicious liquids in plastic cups and a guy pouring straight vodka into a Capri Sun.

Then—

“Y/N!”

You whip around just as Yanni reappears, hair a little more disheveled, glitter smudged under one eye like war paint.

“I found her,” she pants, grabbing your hand. “You’re not gonna believe where she is.”

“Dead in a bathtub?”

“No.”

“In a cage?”

“Worse.”

“Yanni—”

“She’s at the Seven Minutes in Heaven room.”

You blink. “You’re lying.”

“I swear on my third ex’s face tattoo.”

You let her drag you toward the back hallway — the one that’s been curtained off with red velvet and glowing like Satan’s waiting room. A line snakes down the corridor, people laughing and hollering and shoving toward a closet door guarded by two dudes in fake pope robes.

You round the corner and — yup. There’s Jenna.

Sitting on a stool like royalty, halo tilted sideways, red Solo cup in hand, absolutely thriving.

She’s laughing, clapping, cheering as two strangers stumble out of the closet, sweaty and flushed and looking either victorious or traumatized. Probably both.

You stop in your tracks. “She’s a ringmaster.”

“She’s drunk on power,” Yanni adds, mouth open.

Jenna spots you both and waves like you’re long-lost war heroes.

“MY GIRLS!!” she yells. “You made it!!”

“You left us,” you shoot back.

She shrugs like that’s a problem for another timeline. “I was recruited.”

“What does that even mean?”

“They needed a hostess! I’m very charming!”

Yanni sighs. “This is how cults start.”

Before you can pry her off the stool, someone shouts, “NEXT UP!” and the line shoves forward. A girl pulls her own roommate in by the arm, both of them shrieking as the door slams shut behind them.

You look at Jenna. “This is out of control. We’re leaving.”

“Not until you try it!”

“Absolutely not.”

Yanni laughs. “Let’s just grab her and go—”

But the line moves again, someone shoves forward, and suddenly—

Everything goes wrong at once.

Hands. Shouting. Laughter. Some guy yells, “MAKE ROOM!”

You’re trying to yank Jenna off her unofficial throne, still yelling about how this is not how a party should go, when chaos breaks loose.

Someone shoves the line. A drink spills. People are yelling. The couple in front of the closet stumbles out like they’ve just done three laps around a football field.

You try to back away — but too late.

Hands shove you forward. “Next up!”

Yanni screams, “Wait, she’s not playing!”

“I’m not playing!” you yell, too.

Doesn’t matter. The crowd’s already decided.

The closet door swings open.

You get pushed inside — completely alone.

Click.

The door slams shut behind you. Darkness swallows everything.

You stumble, trip over a shoe or someone’s forgotten dignity, and land against the back wall, trying to breathe.

“Oh my god,” you mutter. “Oh my god. I’m gonna die in here. This is it. I’m gonna be found in a party closet.”

You fumble toward the doorknob, already plotting your escape—

And then the door opens again.

A warm body stumbles in, tall and solid and smelling unfairly good — like cedarwood, clean laundry, and a bad idea.

The door slams shut again.

Across the party, Jungkook is just trying to find a bathroom that doesn’t reek of four Loko and sin.

He’s halfway through a hallway that looks suspiciously off-limits when someone calls his name.

“Jeon Jungkook!”

He turns.

It’s some girl he barely knows. She’s got lipstick on her teeth and one shoe in her hand.

“Come ON,” she says, “we need more hot people for the closet game. You’ll save this party. I swear.”

He blinks. “I’m not doing that.”

“Too late!” she says, grabbing his arm with terrifying strength. “Come on, it’ll be funny! You’re hot and mysterious and your face should be illegal.”

“I’m going to sue this entire building,” Jungkook mutters, but the girl is already dragging him.

He doesn’t know why he lets her. Maybe he’s bored. Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe it’s because this party has reached new heights of ridiculous and he needs a story to make it worth the hangover.

They reach the red curtain. The line parts.

You don’t know who you hate more — Jenna for signing a blood pact with the party demons, or the crowd for shoving you into this glorified coat coffin like it’s part of the plan.

You've been in here for maybe a minute. Two tops. But time moves differently when you’re trapped in darkness, breathing the humid remains of other people’s bad decisions.

It’s cramped. It smells like body spray and spilled White Claw. The door has no handle from the inside. And you're about to start monologuing to the ceiling when—

The door opens again.

You freeze. “Wait—”

A guy stumbles in. Tall, broad-shouldered, all dressed in black with just enough chain action to suggest this person owns at least one motorcycle and zero alarm clocks.

You recognize him in an instant — because your subconscious hates you and made sure to memorize that face like it was an exam topic.

Jeon Jungkook.

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s too busy brushing off whoever just shoved him in.

“Okay, okay—Jesus. Don’t break my arm,” he mutters. Then, to the closet, “Sorry, whoever you are. I’m not here voluntarily.”

You don't say anything.

He finally glances your way.

A pause.

“…Huh.”

You cross your arms. “Not who you were expecting?”

“Not even close,” he says, like it’s a compliment and a complaint in one.

The door slams behind him. The lock clicks.

Now it’s just you. Him. Darkness. And a six-inch gap of air between you that’s slowly shrinking the longer you try not to acknowledge how small this closet actually is.

Jungkook shifts, probably trying to give you space, which is hilarious because there is none.

“Look,” you say, “I’m only in here because someone shoved me.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Cool. So neither of us is having fun.”

“Yet,” he says, too easily.

You narrow your eyes, not that he can see it. “You really think that line works on girls in closets?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “You tell me.”

You make a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Okay, no. You’re not allowed to be hot and full of shit.”

“Not full of shit,” he says. “Mildly irritating at most.”

“Mildly?”

He leans back against the wall. “Okay, moderately. Maybe.”

“Glad we agree.”

You try to shift your weight without brushing against him, which fails, because there’s nowhere to move. Your elbow bumps his arm. Your knee grazes his boot.

He lets out a dramatic sigh. “Alright, I’m putting you on a movement ban.”

“Excuse me?”

“You keep flailing around like that, I’m gonna get accused of starting something in here.”

“You are starting something. With your whole… vibe.”

He grins. “My vibe?”

“Yeah, the ‘mysterious party menace’ thing.”

“Didn’t realize that was my brand.”

“Oh, come on. You walk into every lecture like you’re arriving late to your own funeral.”

“You know me from lecture?”

Shit.

You freeze.

“I—” You recover, sort of. “I mean, yeah. You’re not exactly hard to notice. Motorcycle helmet? Black hoodie in May? The whole tortured poet aura?”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“No, I—shut up.”

He steps closer, just barely. His voice drops into that annoying, amused register that you suspect makes girls fall in love against their will.

“You’re flustered.”

“I’m trapped. There’s a difference.”

“Still,” he says, tone low, teasing, “you’re very talkative for someone who didn’t want to be in here.”

You suck in a breath. “I’m trying to defuse the awkward tension.”

“Well,” he says, leaning slightly closer, “you’re not doing a great job.”

You go still. “…Why?”

“Because if you don’t stop fidgeting and talking at a hundred miles an hour,” he says, voice light but just a little dangerous, “I’m gonna kiss you just to shut you up.”

Your brain whites out.

You forget how to stand.

You definitely forget how to breathe.

You make a noise that could be a laugh, or possibly a system reboot.

“…That’s rude,” you manage.

Jungkook grins. “Is it working?”

You blink at him. Slowly.

“…That’s your solution? Kissing as a silencing tactic?”

Jungkook smirks. “Efficient.”

You squint at him in the dark. “That’s assault with extra steps.”

“Only if it’s not well received.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, shoving lightly at his arm. “You’re actually worse in real life.”

He laughs, like that didn’t wound you at all. “In real life? What, you’ve imagined a better version of me somewhere else?”

You hesitate for half a second too long.

He catches it. Of course he does.

His smile shifts — not smug now, but curious. “Wait. Do I know you?”

“Nope.”

“You sure? You’re acting like you’ve had a whole character arc about me.”

“I just have good observational skills.”

“And a little crush?”

You snort. “Please. I only crush on emotionally available people.”

“Ouch.”

“You’ll live.”

“I’m not emotionally unavailable,” he says, mock offended. “I just don’t like… people.”

“That’s literally the definition.”

Jungkook moves a little closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to invade. Like someone stepping past your comfort zone just to prove they can. His voice is quiet, playful.

“Okay, but be honest — if I had kissed you, what would you have done?”

You meet his gaze in the dim light. Your heart does an actual backflip, but your mouth?

Deadpan.

“Bitten you.”

He grins, all teeth. “Kinky.”

You roll your eyes so hard you almost see god. “You are unbelievable.”

“I get that a lot.”

Another beat passes.

The party noise pulses outside. The door shakes once, like someone bumped into it. Neither of you move.

He tilts his head, watching you more carefully now. “So who are you, anyway?”

You blink. “What?”

“You know who I am. Everyone knows who I am, apparently. But I don’t know you.”

You shrug, trying to sound unfazed. “Just a girl in your class.”

“Which class?”

“I’m not telling you.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Why not?”

“Because I’ve seen how your brain works. The second you find out, you’ll start showing up late on purpose to make an entrance.”

He grins, wide and dangerous. “So you have been watching me.”

Damn it.

“That’s not—”

“Obsessed,” he says.

“Oh my god, I’m going to strangle you with one of those dumb chains on your pants.”

“They’re not dumb. They’re functional.”

“For what, exactly? Attaching yourself to reality?”

“Wow,” he says, smiling now like he’s thoroughly enjoying himself. “You’ve got jokes.”

You glance at the door. “Seven minutes better be almost up.”

“Why?” he asks, voice dipping just slightly. “You scared you’re starting to like me?”

You look back at him. “I’m scared you’re starting to like me.”

That shuts him up for half a second.

Then—

“…Touché.”

There’s a pause. You can hear your own heartbeat in the quiet.

He steps just a little closer. “Okay. Serious question.”

“Unlikely, but sure.”

“Are you always like this?”

You blink. “Like what?”

“This,” he says. “You know—snarky. Quick. Unimpressed. Kind of mean in a fun way.”

You stare at him. “Are you into being bullied?”

“I’m starting to wonder.”

The door bangs open just then, and the light hits both of your faces. You flinch at the sudden glare. Outside, someone yells, “ALRIGHT, CLOSET DWELLERS, TIMES UP!”

Jungkook doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

Finally, he leans a little closer and says under his breath, only loud enough for you to hear:

“You still didn’t tell me your name.”

You raise a brow.

“You didn’t earn it.”

He laughs, and it’s way too genuine. Like he didn’t expect this night to go like this at all — and somehow, that makes two of you.

As you duck out of the closet, brushing past him in the doorway, you hear him murmur:

“I’m gonna find out, you know.”

You throw a look over your shoulder, smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“Good luck.”

The door flings open.

Air, light, freedom.

You stumble out like someone just dragged you back from the underworld. The world is louder now, messier. Colors sharper. Sounds distorted, like everything’s underwater and also on fire.

Your heart is still pounding. Your brain? Gone. Missing. Presumed dead. Your dignity? Filing a police report.

You turn in a daze, blinking through the chaos—and find Yanni, breathless, holding a very giggly and wine-drunk Jenna by the elbow.

“THERE you are!” Yanni yells over the music. “We thought you got kidnapped by the Pit goblins!”

Jenna cackles. “I told her you were probably in the closet making out with a stranger. I WAS RIGHT.”

You blink at them.

Open your mouth.

Immediately close it again.

Yanni frowns. “Wait. Are you okay? You look like you just got hit by a really hot bus.”

You stare at her.

Then—

“I need air. I need, like, seventeen breaths of non-sweaty air. I—do you have water? I think I forgot how to swallow. I forgot—I forgot my name.”

Yanni’s eyes go wide. “Did you actually make out with someone?! Oh my god, who was it? Was he hot? Did he have a tongue ring? Was it that guy with the fake angel wings? Please tell me he had wings.”

“I—no. No wings.”

“Okay, so not a red flag. Good start.”

You grab both of them by the arms and start dragging them away from the closet, feet moving on autopilot. “We need to go. Just—somewhere. Away. Outside. Antarctica. I don’t care.”

Jenna, still loopy from the cocktail she stole from a girl dressed as the Pope, squints at you. “You’re acting weird.”

“Something happened,” you say, voice a little unhinged. “Something catastrophic.”

Yanni gasps. “Did you black out?!”

“No, worse.”

“Did you throw up on someone?!”

“WORSE.”

Yanni pulls you down onto a sagging patio couch under a string of flickering lights. The Pit’s back deck is quieter — only a handful of people out here, laughing or making out or both.

You sit between them, trying to remember how to form human sentences.

Jenna leans her head dramatically on your shoulder. “You definitely kissed someone.”

“I didn’t.”

Yanni narrows her eyes. “You wanted to.”

“I didn’t!”

They both stare at you.

You sigh. Long. Shaky.

Then you say, very quietly, like it might summon him if you say it too loud:

“I was in the closet with Jeon Jungkook.”

.

.

.

Jenna sits up so fast she elbows you in the boob.

Yanni chokes on her drink and coughs, “I’m sorry—WHAT?”

You hold up your hands, like it’ll protect you from the emotional storm about to erupt. “It was an accident! I got pushed in first, and then some drunk idiots shoved him in after me, and then the door locked and we were just there. Together. In the dark. Breathing the same air.”

Jenna is vibrating. “YOU WERE BREATHING JEON JUNGKOOK’S AIR. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY GIRLS WOULD PAY FOR THAT EXPERIENCE.”

“I didn’t ask for the experience!”

Yanni grabs your arm, shaking it. “Okay but what happened?! Tell us everything. Did you talk? Did he recognize you? Did you touch his hair? Did he touch you? Did your souls kiss?!”

You stare at her. “What the hell is a soul kiss?”

“Shut up and answer me!!”

You drag your hands down your face. “We talked. He was annoying. And hot. And annoying about being hot. He said if I didn’t stop panicking he was gonna kiss me and I think my nervous system flatlined for like ten seconds.”

Jenna screams. A real one.

Yanni grabs her cup and throws it into a bush just so she can clap. “That’s it. That’s the plot of a Netflix movie. I’m calling a casting director right now.”

“Guys, stop—”

“Did he know who you were?” Jenna asks, eyes wide.

You deflate. “No.”

Yanni freezes.

Jenna gasps like she’s watching a baby deer get hit by a truck.

“He didn’t recognize you?”

You shake your head, slumping into the couch like your spine is giving up. “Not even a little. I told him I was in his class, and he just blinked at me like I was an off-brand yogurt at the back of the fridge.”

“But—but you sit in the second row!”

“Yeah, apparently that’s not enough to pierce through the wall of apathy and leather jackets.”

Jenna is personally offended. “You’ve been thirsting over him for MONTHS.”

“Not out loud!”

“Your search history says otherwise.”

“That was ONE TIME—”

“‘Does Jeon Jungkook have a girlfriend’ is not a casual search, Y/N.”

Yanni throws an arm around your shoulder. “Okay. So. We have a situation.”

You groan. “No, we don’t. The situation is over. I will simply crawl into a hole and never speak to anyone again.”

“OR,” Yanni says, grinning, “we make him fall in love with you.”

You snort. “Hard pass.”

“I’m serious!”

“So am I! The guy barely knows what day of the week it is. He didn’t even know my name, and I was two inches from his face.”

Jenna fans herself. “God, I wish I was two inches from his face.”

Yanni is already spiraling into scheming mode. “Okay but hear me out: what if this is your origin story?”

“I don’t need an origin story. I need ice and maybe a lobotomy.”

“You’re gonna end up married to him.”

“I’m gonna end up IN A STRAITJACKET.”

They both lean in at the same time, grinning like devils.

And somewhere inside you — beneath the panic and the humiliation and the complete collapse of your self-esteem — something sparks.

A very tiny, very traitorous thought:

He doesn’t know who I am yet.

But what if he wanted to?

.

.

.

No. Absolutely not. You refuse to be delusional.

But still…

You clutch your drink with both hands and whisper to yourself like a prayer:

“…I cannot go back in that closet.”

Jungkook steps out into the warm night air, the noise of the party still thrumming behind him like a heartbeat that’s had too much sugar and zero regard for consequences.

He barely gets two steps out the door before he sees movement near the gate — a blur of color, of bare shoulders and tangled hair and wild, frantic energy.

Her.

The girl from the closet.

She’s running.

Well, not running — but walking very quickly in a way that screams “I just made a horrible decision and I’m trying to disappear into the night like it never happened.”

He watches as she yanks her friends down the sidewalk, arms waving, words too far away to make out. One of them glances back at the house, laughing. The other throws her arm around the girl’s shoulder like she’s trying to keep her from disintegrating.

Jungkook can’t hear them. Can’t read their lips.

But he doesn’t need to.

He’s seen that look before.

People don’t leave parties like that unless something got to them.

And apparently… that something was him.

He watches them disappear around the corner. The wind shifts, warm and sweet and heavy with the scent of grass and spilled vodka.

Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, the edges of his mouth tugging up, involuntarily.

He doesn’t smile a lot.

But right now?

He’s grinning.

11:18 PM — Inside, Kitchen

He finds Jimin first, leaning against the fridge, sipping from a red cup with glitter smeared across one cheek like someone tried to make out with a rave.

Jungkook walks up, casual as hell. “Hey.”

Jimin lifts a brow. “You’re still vertical. Closet girl didn’t kill you?”

Jungkook leans on the counter beside him, eyes scanning the room lazily. “Nope. She was fun.”

Jimin grins. “Define fun.”

“Annoyed. Loud. Mean. Called me out within the first two minutes.”

“So, your type.”

Jungkook gives him a lazy look. “Do you know who she was?”

Jimin blinks. “You mean you didn’t?”

“No. She said we’re in the same class, but…” He shrugs. “I wasn’t exactly focused on academics in there.”

Jimin sips his drink, way too amused. “You’re telling me you spent seven minutes pressed up against someone and didn’t bother to ask her name?”

“I didn’t get her name. She wouldn’t give it to me.”

Jimin whistles. “Damn. Girl’s got boundaries.”

Jungkook turns his full attention to him now. “So… do you know her?”

Jimin smiles. Slow. Evil.

“Maybe.”

Jungkook straightens. “What.”

“I mean, I’ve seen her around. Could be anyone.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s an answer adjacent.”

“Jimin.”

Jimin just grins wider, like this is his favorite hobby. “Why? You wanna see her again?”

“No.” Jungkook’s voice is too quick, too defensive. Then: “I just—she seemed familiar.”

“Sure. Let’s go with that.”

Before Jungkook can retaliate, Taehyung appears, wearing someone else’s sunglasses and holding a plate of mini cupcakes he absolutely did not make.

Jungkook turns to him like salvation. “Tae. Please tell me you know who the girl in the closet was.”

Taehyung pauses, cupcake halfway to his mouth.

Then, slowly, he lowers it and says: “Ohhhh. You mean the girl with the smart mouth and trust issues?”

“Yes!”

“Yup. Definitely know her.”

“Who is she?!”

Taehyung smiles with all his teeth. “Can’t say.”

Jungkook stares at him.

“What do you mean you can’t say?”

“Non-disclosure agreement.”

“That’s not a real thing!”

“It is now.”

Jungkook throws his hands in the air. “Are you both insane?”

“Yes,” Jimin says, grinning.

“We’re protecting the plot,” Taehyung adds solemnly.

Jungkook blinks. “What plot?”

“The enemies-to-lovers one,” Jimin says, sipping his drink. “You’re in the first act. Don’t be weird about it.”

“I’m not—!” Jungkook cuts himself off, pinches the bridge of his nose, then mutters, “You guys are the worst.”

“You’re welcome,” Taehyung says cheerfully.

Jungkook turns, heading for the living room, but Jimin calls after him:

“You really gonna let a girl roast you in a closet and disappear without finding out her name?”

Jungkook doesn’t stop walking.

But he does smirk.

“Of course not.”

11:42 PM — Later, Upstairs Hallway

Jungkook leans against the wall, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. But his head isn’t in it.

He’s thinking about the sound of her voice. The way she said, “You didn’t earn it.” The way she pushed past him and didn’t look back.

He still doesn’t know her name.

But he’s starting to think he needs to.

Desperately.

You’re early. Not obnoxiously so, but early enough to get your usual seat — second row, slightly to the left. Close enough to focus, far enough to keep your laptop screen hidden when you’re secretly Googling niche references during class.

You’re wearing jeans and a loose t-shirt. Nothing fancy. Hair pulled back. Glasses on. A normal girl living a normal life, unbothered and deeply uninterested in emotionally reckless men with perfect jawlines and leather jackets. You are zen. You are healed.

...You are lying to yourself.

Your leg has been bouncing under the desk for a solid five minutes. You haven’t even opened your laptop. You’re just staring at the professor’s slides like they personally betrayed you.

And then—

The door opens.

You hear it before you see it. That faint creak of poorly oiled hinges and the collective inhale of every girl in the room.

You don’t turn around.

You don’t have to.

You know it’s him.

Because everyone in a ten-foot radius straightens like they’re about to be graded on posture. There’s a flutter of lip gloss applications. Someone actually whispers his name.

You pretend to be deeply focused on the “Media Ethics and Digital Responsibility” slide.

Jeon Jungkook walks in. On time.

The professor blinks like he’s hallucinating. “Huh. Welcome, Mr. Jeon. Look at you.”

Jungkook just nods, loose and casual, but you can feel it.

He’s different today.

He doesn’t do his usual routine — no airpods, no gum chewing, no half-lidded stroll like he’s walking into a photoshoot instead of a lecture.

No, this time… he’s scanning.

Not in a weird way. Just—calculated. Eyes moving across each row like he’s checking a list in his head. Looking for something. Someone.

Your stomach tightens.

And then—

His gaze glides right past you.

Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t flicker. Nothing.

He slides into a seat a few rows back, drops his bag, and leans back like he didn’t just steamroll your entire emotional ecosystem last night.

You blink at your screen.

Wow.

Okay.

Coolcoolcoolcoolcool.

So he just… forgot you existed? Already?

You tell yourself it’s a good thing. That you’re off the hook. But still—

Your phone vibrates in your lap.

Then again. And again.

You glance down.

YANNI [9:57AM] FIND US AFTER CLASS

JENNA [9:57AM] LIKE IMMEDIATELY

YANNI [9:58AM] BIG. SHIT. IS. HAPPENING.

YANNI [9:58AM] HUGE.

JENNA [9:58AM] YOU MIGHT BE FAMOUS

You: 🙃

11:07AM — Campus Library, Third Floor (aka Gossip HQ)

You find them between the graphic novel section and the fake potted plant that hides the worst Wi-Fi signal on campus.

Yanni is pacing. Jenna is sitting on the floor with a laptop open, half a croissant in her mouth and murder in her eyes.

“FINALLY,” Yanni breathes, grabbing your wrist and yanking you down beside her.

“What is happening?” you whisper. “Did someone die?”

“YOU might,” Jenna says around a bite. “From cardiac arrest.”

You blink. “Why?”

Yanni flips her phone around.

It’s an Instagram story. Jungkook’s account. You recognize the handle from your extremely short-lived stalking phase.

The video is short. A dim hallway, flashing lights, the thump of party music in the background.

Text overlaid:

"7 minutes wasn’t long enough. If you know who she is… tell her." 👀🖤

Your heart stops.

You stare at the screen like it might explode.

“Wha—”

“He’s looking for you,” Yanni whispers, eyes wild.

“He’s trying to CROWD-SOURCE you,” Jenna adds. “LIKE A MISSING PERSON.”

You genuinely don’t know what to do with your hands. “I—I don’t even have Instagram. I didn’t see this.”

“Well, now the entire internet has,” Yanni says, scrolling through dozens of replies and reshared stories. “People are putting up theories. One girl swears it was her and her friends are backing her up.”

You feel a little sick.

“I—he doesn’t even remember me.”

“He does now.”

Before you can spiral further, a voice cuts through the quiet.

“Aha. Found you.”

You whip around.

Taehyung and Jimin are approaching, looking like they just stepped out of a K-drama fight scene. Jimin is in an oversized hoodie and glasses, sipping from a matcha latte. Taehyung is holding a leather-bound journal like it’s a prop.

“Oh my god,” Yanni whispers, straightening like she’s about to present a thesis.

Jimin nods at you. “Closet girl.”

Taehyung gasps. “I knew it!”

You slap both hands over your face. “I am going to dissolve into the carpet.”

Jimin flops down next to you. “You’re literally a phenomenon.”

“I don’t want to be a phenomenon! I want to be anonymous.”

“Too late,” Taehyung sing-songs. “He’s obsessed.”

“He’s not—”

Jimin cuts you off. “He made us look through the security footage of the Pit to try and find you.”

You blink. “There’s security footage?!”

“That’s not the point.”

Yanni claps like she’s been waiting for this all her life. “Okay, okay, okay. NEW PLAN.”

Jenna nods. “Mission: Keep Her Hidden.”

You snap your head to look at him. “Wait, what—?”

“We cannot let him find you too easily. The mystery is part of the power.” Yanni explained, a smile that was a little too enthusiastic spreading across her face.

“She’s right.” Jimin chimed in.

You blink between them all, a growing sense of terror blooming in your chest.

“I feel like I’m in a YA novel.”

Taehyung beams. “You are. And it’s about to get so much worse.”

If Jungkook knew his Instagram story would cause an actual phenomenon, he would’ve thrown his phone in the nearest sewer.

He’s seated on the edge of the fountain, legs stretched out, black boots dusted with dry grass. Sunglasses perched on his head, arms crossed, regret pouring off of him in waves.

There is a line.

A real, breathing, giggling line of girls waiting to speak to him.

“I swear,” the third one in a row says, flipping her hair, “it was me. I had this red tank top on—”

“You weren’t wearing red,” Jungkook says flatly, not even looking up.

She blinks. “You remember that?”

He sighs. “Unfortunately.”

She pouts, tosses her hair again, and walks off.

The next girl steps forward with more confidence than he’s emotionally prepared to deal with.

“Hey,” she says, batting her lashes. “So, I was totally gonna come up to you last night, but I got pulled into beer pong, and—”

“Not you either,” he says, already tired.

Behind him, Jimin is sprawled on the grass like a cat in the sun, sipping iced coffee and watching the chaos like it’s live theater.

“I don’t know, man,” he says. “Closet Girl’s starting to sound like a fever dream.”

“She was real,” Jungkook mutters.

Taehyung, perched dramatically on the fountain’s edge, hums. “This feels like a modern fairy tale. Only instead of a glass slipper, she left behind unresolved sexual tension and a mild existential crisis.”

Jungkook doesn’t respond. Just drags a hand down his face.

“You know,” Jimin adds, “you could just let her go. Move on. Forget it happened.”

Jungkook stares at him like he’s just suggested licking a subway pole.

“I mean it,” Jimin continues. “Is this really worth it?”

Jungkook leans back, letting the sun hit his face.

And after a pause, he says:

“…She was funny.”

Taehyung blinks. “Funny?”

“She was… sharp. Gave me shit. Told me I didn’t earn the right to flirt with her.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. It was just… real.”

Jimin and Taehyung exchange a look.

But before either can respond—

“Hey, Jeon.”

They all glance up.

A girl in a glittery top and too-high heels struts up like she’s approaching a casting call.

“I was wearing angel wings last night,” she purrs.

“Congratulations,” Jungkook says dryly.

“I think I’m the girl you’re looking for.”

“You’re not.”

“How would you know?”

Jungkook blinks slowly. “Because I just would.”

She scoffs and storms off, muttering something about him not being that hot anyway.

Jimin snorts. “The delusion is wild today.”

Taehyung raises his brows. “You know, you did make her a mystery. People love a good mystery.”

“I hate this mystery,” Jungkook mutters.

And then—

Taehyung straightens suddenly.

“Oh,” he says, too casually. “There she goes.”

Jungkook’s eyes snap up.

“What?!”

“She’s walking past,” Jimin adds, barely containing his grin.

Jungkook jumps to his feet, scanning the path just ahead of them.

He sees a group of students. A couple laughing. A guy with a skateboard. A girl in a floral skirt. Another in an oversized sweater.

But no one familiar.

No her.

“Where?” he demands, turning back to them.

Taehyung just shrugs, biting back a smile. “Hm. Maybe she slipped away again.”

Jimin’s grinning like the devil. “So mysterious.”

Jungkook stares at them.

And then slowly, slowly, sits back down, glaring at nothing.

“I hate you both.”

“You’re welcome,” Jimin says cheerfully.

Meanwhile — You, Just 20 Feet Away

You’re clutching a smoothie and telling Jenna that you swear to God if Yanni says the words “power move” one more time, you’re going to commit a crime.

You do not see Jungkook.

You do not see the crowd of girls.

You do not see your entire romantic fate spiraling out in a perfect storm of timing, ego, and extremely bad luck.

But you do hear Yanni’s voice crackling through your group chat ten seconds later:

YANNI [12:43PM] HE’S OUTSIDE RN. WALKING DISTANCE. I REPEAT: JEON JUNGKOOK IS WITHIN WALKING DISTANCE.

You pause. Look up.

“…The universe is playing games with me,” you mutter.

Jenna just takes your smoothie and sips like it’s none of her business. “Welcome to Act Two.”

Three Days Later – 12:19PM Campus Lawn, under the shade of an old oak tree

Yanni is dramatically slicing into her overpriced salad like it’s personally offended her.

“I swear to God,” she says, spearing a piece of lettuce, “if she doesn’t just tell him soon, I’m going to combust.”

“She doesn’t even want him to know!” Jenna laughs, peeling the wrapper off her sandwich. “She’s surviving off vibes and secondhand embarrassment.”

Across from them, lounging on the grass, Jimin snorts into his iced chai. “Honestly, mood.”

Taehyung is lying flat on his back, sunglasses on, using Jimin’s thigh as a pillow and holding his phone above his face like it’s too exhausting to lift it further.

“It’s better this way,” he hums. “Mystery. Intrigue. Emotional damage.”

Yanni points at him with her fork. “See? That’s the energy we’re all riding on.”

“I don’t know how she hasn’t just imploded,” Jenna says, sipping her drink. “She had a panic attack in the psych building bathroom yesterday because someone said Jungkook's name too loud.”

Taehyung laughs. “That could’ve been anyone.”

“No,” Yanni corrects. “She knew exactly how he said it. Deep voice. Tiny rasp. A little pouty. ‘Jungkook.’” She mimics it, exaggerated and ridiculous.

Jimin wheezes.

Taehyung props himself up on one elbow, turning to the girls with mock-serious eyes. “You guys are evil.”

“Thank you,” Yanni says, deadpan.

And then—

“You’re evil,” comes a familiar, slightly exasperated voice behind them.

All four turn.

Jeon Jungkook walks up, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, black jeans, silver chain catching the sunlight.

He looks… tired.

Not in a tragic way. More like haunted by the choices that led him to this exact moment.

Taehyung lifts two fingers in a lazy peace sign. “Ah. The lover boy returns.”

Jimin just grins like Christmas came early. “How’s your army of imposters?”

Jungkook drops onto the grass with a groan. “Still growing. I got ambushed by three more girls outside the business building this morning.”

“Business building girls,” Jimin mutters. “That’s a bold demographic.”

“She said she left her earring in the closet with me,” Jungkook says, running a hand through his hair. “She was wearing cat ears.”

“Oh no,” Jenna whispers behind a laugh.

Yanni coughs into her drink.

Jungkook narrows his eyes at them. “Do I know you two?”

“Nope,” Yanni says, biting into a cherry tomato. “Just enjoying the show.”

Jenna shrugs, fighting a grin. “Free entertainment.”

Taehyung watches them both like he’s just realized something.

Jungkook leans back on his palms, legs stretched out, expression a mix of exhaustion and suspicion. “You guys ever regret making me post that?”

Jimin doesn’t even blink. “Nope.”

“I knew this would happen,” Jungkook mutters.

“You didn’t know people would create full conspiracy boards,” Taehyung points out. “Someone literally mapped out Closet Girl’s shoe print from the party photo.”

“Don’t forget the girl who recreated the closet,” Jimin adds. “Like. Bought a closet. Filmed a fake interaction.”

“God,” Jungkook groans, scrubbing his face. “I’m an idiot.”

He exhales through his nose, still half-distracted, when—

“Well, it’s even funnier,” Jenna says, not quite under her breath, “because she doesn’t even have socials.”

Yanni chokes on her soda.

Jimin and Taehyung both freeze mid-laugh.

And Jungkook— Whips his head around so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t get whiplash.

“Wait.”

Yanni slaps Jenna’s arm.

Jungkook’s eyes are wide. “You—” He points between them. “You know her?!”

Jenna blinks. “Who?”

“Closet Girl,” Jungkook says, sharp now, sitting up straighter. “You just said she doesn’t have socials—how would you know that?”

Yanni lifts her cup to her mouth, speaking through her straw. “Could’ve been anyone.”

“But it’s not,” Jungkook says, eyes narrowing. “You know who it is.”

He looks at Taehyung and Jimin like they’ve personally betrayed him. “You said you didn’t know!”

Taehyung holds up his hands, unbothered. “We didn’t say that.”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, already laughing. “We just didn’t say anything helpful.”

Jungkook glares. “You assholes.”

Yanni leans in, chin resting on her hand, absolutely loving this. “Why do you want to find her so bad?”

Jungkook hesitates. Just for a beat.

And then, quieter than expected, he says:

“…Because I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Taehyung blinks.

Jimin’s mouth parts a little.

Yanni and Jenna exchange a look.

“That was almost sweet,” Jenna says.

“Almost,” Yanni echoes.

Jungkook looks at them like he’s debating a crime. “Please. Just give me one clue.”

Jimin just smiles, stretching out on the grass again. “Mmm. No.”

“Not even her name?” Jungkook tries.

Taehyung grins. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Jungkook scrubs his hands over his face. “You people are evil.”

Yanni smiles sweetly. “We’ve been over this.”

After another beat of sulking, he finally stands, brushing his hands off on his jeans.

“You’re all the worst.”

“We know,” Jimin says, cheerful as ever.

Jungkook sighs, starts walking away— And turns back around.

“If she ever asks about me—”

“She won’t,” Yanni says.

“Okay, if she does,” he presses, “can you just tell her I’m not as annoying as I seem?”

“No promises,” Jenna says.

He groans again and walks off, muttering something under his breath.

The moment he’s out of earshot, the group erupts.

“THAT,” Jimin says, sitting upright, “WAS TOO CLOSE.”

Yanni fans herself. “I panicked, okay?! I didn’t mean to say it—he just appeared.”

“You almost ruined the whole thing!” Taehyung says gleefully. “But also… he’s losing his mind.”

“And she has no idea,” Jenna adds, grinning.

Jimin leans back with a content sigh. “This is better than television.”

Same Day — 4:42 PM Campus Library — Second Floor

The study area is quieter than usual, with just the occasional cough, a rogue phone vibration, or someone smacking their space bar like it owes them money.

You, Yanni, and Jenna are huddled around your usual table — highlighters scattered, tabs open, coffees half-melted. It’s productive chaos. Or it was, until Jenna froze mid-sentence.

“...Don’t look now,” she says, voice already breathless with suppressed panic, “but Jungkook and his friends just walked in.”

Your soul immediately ejects from your body.

“WHERE—”

“Don’t look,” Yanni hisses, stabbing her pen in warning. “You’ll give us away.”

You stare down at your laptop like you’re trying to astral project into it.

Footsteps shuffle closer, closer—

And then.

They sit at the table directly behind you.

Your chair is now back-to-back with Jungkook’s. There is a shared inch of air between you. You can feel the heat off his stupid, beautiful, back-in-black hoodie.

Jenna mouths OH MY GOD. Yanni is gripping her iced latte like she’s about to squeeze it into mist.

Across from Jungkook, Jimin and Taehyung sit — and the moment they spot Yanni and Jenna?

They grin. Smug. Pleased. Silent little devils. Not a word — not a wave — just the occasional flicker of laughter and shared glances while you sit there about to spontaneously combust.

“I swear to god,” Jungkook says behind you, low and miserable, “if one more girl corners me between classes and asks if I like strawberry lip gloss, I’m dropping out.”

“She had a presentation,” Jimin offers. “She brought visual aids.”

“She brought a poster board,” Jungkook groans. “With a QR code to her TikTok.”

“Impressive,” Taehyung hums.

Jungkook thumps his head gently on the table. “I just wanted to meet her. One girl. Now I can’t go to class without hearing someone yell ‘closet king’ at me.”

Yanni chokes into her drink.

You’re doing breathing exercises you learned in a freshman wellness seminar. They are not working.

“I hate all of you,” Jungkook mutters. “You said you’d help.”

“I did help,” Jimin says, like it’s obvious.

“You gave me nothing.”

“False,” Taehyung says, adjusting his sunglasses indoors like a menace. “We gave you... ✨context✨.”

Jungkook scoffs. “No. You gave me trauma.”

There’s a pause. Then, Jimin goes, “Fine. Want another clue?”

You tense so hard your back pops.

Jenna grabs your thigh under the table. Yanni is vibrating. Everyone is vibrating.

“Yes. Something real this time.”

“...She has elbows.”

There’s a pause.

A very long one.

“She has what?” Jungkook asks, flat.

“Elbows,” Taehyung says innocently.

You almost die.

“Taehyung,” Jungkook says slowly, like he's speaking to a small child, “everyone has elbows.”

“Exactly,” Taehyung nods. “She fits right in.”

Jimin is snorting into his hoodie sleeve.

You, meanwhile, are clamping your hand over your mouth to keep from screaming.

“Is this a joke to you?” Jungkook asks, exasperated. “Do you want me to suffer?”

“I’m not lying,” Taehyung says, clearly delighted. “She definitely had elbows. Two, even.”

“Wow,” Jungkook deadpans. “A girl with two elbows. I’ll just walk around campus asking people to show me their joints.”

Jimin shrugs. “Could work.”

Your hand is cramping from clutching your pencil so tightly. Yanni is in physical pain from holding in her laughter. Jenna scribbles onto her piece of paper, turning it to you.

THEY SAID ELBOWS. I’M LOSING IT.

Jungkook groans behind you, slumping so hard in his chair you feel it through the back of yours. “I’m going insane. I’m actually insane. This is what insanity feels like.”

“And yet,” Taehyung says, completely deadpan, “she walks among us.”

Jimin sips his drink with a smirk. “Right under your nose.”

Behind your screen, you scream silently. Jenna writes out another message:

RIGHT UNDER HIS NOSE. THEY’RE DOING THIS ON PURPOSE.

You’re certain of two things:

You will never emotionally recover from this.

Jungkook is going to need a therapist when he finally figures it out.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t even turn around.

Not once. He gets up after ten minutes, mumbles something about “going to get gum,” and walks off—shoulders tense, head down, frustration rolling off him in waves.

The second he’s gone, your table explodes.

“I CAN’T,” Jenna whispers, doubled over.

“ELBOWS?!” Yanni wheezes. “HE’S GOING TO BE HAUNTED BY ELBOWS NOW.”

You drop your face into your arms. “If he finds out it was me, I’m changing schools.”

Jenna wipes a tear from her eye. “You’ll be a myth. A cryptid. A legend with joints.”

Taehyung and Jimin? Still sitting there. Still smirking. Still saying nothing.

Later That Night, Jungkook’s Dorm

“I’m not giving up,” Jungkook mutters, scrolling through his DMs.

“What are you even looking for?” Jimin asks from the other bed.

“Someone with elbows,” Jungkook mutters.

There’s a beat of silence. Then—

The meeting room was too loud for how little anyone was saying.

Seungcheol sat at the head of the table, not speaking, just watching. His expression didn’t give much away—but those who worked under him knew the silence was dangerous. And the flick of his pen against the glossy report file? A quiet warning shot.

“Redo this,” he said, voice low and measured, but with an edge sharp enough to silence the room.

“Yes, sir.”

He didn’t stay to hear excuses.

By the time he was back in his office, the ticking inside his head had grown unbearable. Deadlines, investors, expectations—stacked up like dominoes waiting to collapse. His fingers itched to loosen the collar of his shirt, but he didn’t. Not yet. He reached for his phone instead, already knowing who he needed.

He didn’t even think. Just pressed call.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then—

“Hi, Cheol.”

His breath left him all at once. A slow, quiet exhale, as if he hadn’t realized how tight his chest had been until he heard her voice.

“…Hey,” he said, a little rougher than he intended.

“Tough day?” she asked softly, like she already knew. She always knew.

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. The sunlight streaming in through the blinds painted slats of gold across his sharp features, but they softened, ever so slightly, with each second of her voice in his ear.

“The usual,” he muttered. “Numbers didn’t add up. People didn’t listen. You’re the only thing making sense today.”

She laughed—gentle and warm. “I hope that’s not just the exhaustion talking.”

“It’s not,” he replied instantly, and the speed of his answer made her go quiet for a second.

His eyes fluttered open. He stared out the window at the city skyline, but it wasn’t the view that grounded him. It was her.

“I didn’t mean to bother you,” he said after a beat. “I just… needed to hear you.”

“You never bother me.”

Silence stretched between them, but it was the kind that comforted, not strained.

“I wish I was there,” she added.

And God, he wished the same.

There were things he couldn’t say during the day. Not to his staff, not to anyone. He wasn’t cruel—just meticulous, precise. No-nonsense. And if that made people keep their distance, all the better. It made things easier.

Except when it came to her. With her, everything unraveled in the best way.

His shoulders finally slumped. “I’m in my office.”

“Lights off, sleeves rolled up?” she teased lightly.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “You know me too well.”

“I do.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then— “Talk to me,” he murmured. “Doesn’t matter what. Just… keep talking.”

So she did. She told him about her day, about the weird dream she had the night before, about the cat she saw perched dramatically on a taxi roof downtown. And Seungcheol—CEO, perfectionist, powerful—sat back and let her voice pour through the cracks of his armor like sunlight through broken blinds.

He didn’t need fixing. He just needed her. And somehow, without even trying, she was enough to make the world feel a little less loud.

The clock on the wall blinked 2:14 AM in soft red light.

Seungcheol unlocked the front door with a weary sigh, the click of the handle almost deafening in the stillness of the apartment. The kind of silence that stretched long after a day like his—after meetings gone sideways and numbers that danced too close to disaster.

He slipped his shoes off slowly, rolling his neck with a wince. Every muscle in his body ached from hours of tension, and all he had wanted by the end of it was to walk into the quiet, undisturbed dark and pass out.

But the lamp in the living room was on.

And so was she.

Curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped around her like armor, feet tucked beneath her. She blinked drowsily up at him, eyes soft and warm and a little guilty.

“…Hi,” she whispered, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to say it.

He blinked, not quite believing she was real for a moment. “You’re still awake?”

“You told me not to wait,” she murmured, pushing the blanket off her lap. “I tried. I really did.”

Seungcheol swallowed, guilt twisting somewhere low in his chest. He stepped closer, kneeling in front of her wordlessly.

“I didn’t want you to be tired,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You have your presentation tomorrow.”

“And you had the kind of day that would’ve driven anyone else to put their fist through a wall,” she countered softly, resting her hand over his. “I wasn’t going to sleep not knowing how you were doing.”

His jaw clenched—not from anger, but the effort of keeping his emotions in check. Her voice, even this late, still made him feel like the tension in his bones was finally loosening. She always had that effect on him.

“You shouldn’t have waited,” he said again, but this time it came out gentler, almost pleading.

She just smiled, the kind of tired smile that still felt like home. “And you shouldn’t have to come back to an empty apartment after a day like that.”

He didn’t have anything to say to that. Because she was right.

Without a word, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. Her hands came up to cradle his face, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes. He felt like he could finally breathe.

“I missed you,” he said, voice a whisper against her lips.

“I’m right here.”

And she was. Warm and real and everything good in his life.

He stayed there for a moment, breathing her in, her presence calming the storm still lingering beneath his skin. Eventually, she tugged him toward the couch, and he followed, letting her wrap the blanket around both of them. His head dropped to her shoulder, and for the first time all day, he let his guard down.

Not the CEO. Not the man everyone walked on eggshells around.

Just Seungcheol. Just hers.

And when she pressed a soft kiss to his temple and whispered, “You did your best today,” that was all he needed.

He finally closed his eyes.

The presentation had gone better than she expected.

There had been nerves—of course there had. The weight of all those eyes on her, the pressure to deliver something flawless after weeks of late nights and revisions. But the moment it ended, and the conference room erupted in polite applause, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders.

Relief washed over her in waves.

Still, as she walked out of the building, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving only exhaustion behind. Her eyes fluttered shut briefly, the mid-morning sun warming her cheeks.

And then she saw him.

Leaning against the hood of his car, hair slightly tousled from the wind, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, sunglasses pushed into his hair. A paper bag in one hand, a drink carrier in the other.

And a bouquet of her favorite flowers cradled in the crook of his arm.

She froze, heart stuttering.

He looked up from his phone, then smiled when he saw her. The smile—the one that was just for her. The one he never wore in meetings or in boardrooms or in front of anyone else.

Her feet moved on instinct, almost running by the time she reached him.

“You—” she began, breathless. “What—?”

Seungcheol handed her the bouquet before she could finish.

“For your nerves,” he said casually, like showing up outside her office before 11AM with her favorite drink and a fresh raspberry croissant was normal. “And because I know you skipped breakfast.”

She blinked down at the flowers in her arms, the familiar colors and soft petals almost making her emotional. “Cheol…”

He held up the coffee. “Extra shot of vanilla. Just how you like it.”

She took it slowly, like if she moved too fast the whole moment might disappear.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he said simply. “That’s why I wanted to.”

His voice was quieter now. More tender. “You did good today. I’m proud of you.”

And just like that, everything she’d been holding together all morning threatened to unravel. The late nights, the self-doubt, the mental notes scribbled at 2AM—it all felt worth it, just to hear those words from him.

“I didn’t think you’d be up,” she whispered.

He reached out, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “I wasn’t gonna miss this. Not after you stayed up for me.”

She smiled, blinking quickly to keep the tears at bay. “You’re unfair.”

“I know,” he said with a soft grin. “But I’m cute, so you’ll forgive me.”

“Barely.”

He chuckled, and then pulled her gently into his arms, careful not to crush the flowers. She melted against his chest, his scent grounding her in the quietest, sweetest way.

“I love you,” she mumbled into the fabric of his shirt.

His grip around her tightened. “I know. I love you too.”

The restaurant they headed to afterwards was the kind of place you didn’t find on Google Maps.

It didn’t need reviews. It didn’t need ads. The kind of place where your name alone got you a table—and Seungcheol’s name carried more weight than most.

Tucked into the top floor of an art gallery building, the restaurant opened out into floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. The air smelled of aged wine and freshly baked truffle bread. Gentle jazz played in the background, echoing off warm mahogany panels and velvet-draped walls.

When the hostess saw them walk in—his hand on the small of her back, her fingers curled into the front of his shirt—she bowed deeply, almost reverently.

“Welcome back, Mr. Choi. Your usual table?”

He nodded once, eyes flickering down to the woman beside him. “Yes. Thank you.”

Their table wasn’t in the center of the room. It was nestled into a corner, semi-enclosed by sheer drapes, with an uninterrupted view of the skyline. Private. Quiet. Safe.

And instead of sitting opposite her, Seungcheol guided her to the inside of the half-moon shaped booth, sliding in right beside her like it was second nature.

Because it was.

Their knees touched. Their shoulders bumped. His hand immediately found hers under the table.

“You’re really spoiling me today,” she said with a small laugh, glancing around at the gold-rimmed plates and the personalized menu printed with her name.

“You deserve it,” he said, simple as anything. “You killed it today.”

She blushed, tucking her face into his shoulder for a second before peeking up at him again. “So… just how expensive is this place?”

Seungcheol smirked. “You don’t want to know.”

“That bad?”

“Let’s just say…” he leaned in, brushing his nose against her temple, “I could’ve bought us a weekend in Paris. But you looked too pretty to make wait for a plane.”

She gawked at him, smacking his chest with the back of her hand. “Choi Seungcheol.”

“Worth it,” he said with a grin, catching her wrist and pulling her hand back to intertwine with his again. “Every cent.”

The waiter came and went like a ghost—present only to refill wine glasses and deliver each artful course with quiet precision. Caviar with crème fraîche. Handmade pasta rolled so thin it nearly dissolved on the tongue. Wagyu that melted the moment it touched her mouth.

But Seungcheol only had eyes for her.

“You always look at me like that,” she murmured at some point, cheeks still warm from the wine and the weight of his gaze.

“Like what?”

“Like I hung the stars.”

He tilted his head, thumb brushing her knuckles beneath the table. “Because you do. For me, you do.”

She couldn’t say anything to that without her heart falling out of her chest, so she leaned in and kissed him instead—just a short, sweet press of lips that left him smiling against her mouth.

“You know…” he whispered against her cheek, “if you ever want to quit your job and let me pamper you like this every day…”

“Nope,” she laughed, resting her head against his shoulder. “But I’ll let you keep feeding me wagyu if you insist.”

“Deal,” he said, pressing a kiss into her hair. “But you have to keep looking this proud of yourself. I like this version of you.”

She turned her face slightly toward his neck, murmuring, “You bring it out of me.”

And so they sat—shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, the city beneath them, the world hushed around them—and for once, there were no meetings, no presentations, no pressure.

Just him. Just her. Just them.

You pause by the pastry case, pretending to consider a scone. It buys you time to glare at him with a level of passive aggression only caffeine deprivation can power. He doesn’t notice. He’s on the phone, murmuring something about image rights and venue capacity, wrist flicking as he gestures to someone who isn’t there. 

The barista, Felix, catches your eye. Offers a sympathetic shrug. This is the third time this week.

You settle at the small table near the bathroom. It wobbles. It always wobbles. You shove a napkin under the leg and mutter a curse that sounds polite. .

Seungcheol. That’s the name of the notorious seat-stealer. 

You learned his name from one of his calls, spoken with the clipped efficiency of someone used to being listened to. “Yes, this is Choi Seungcheol from Carat Company. Let me loop you in.” He says it like he’s not just looping someone in, but reeling them from the goddamn abyss. Like he’s personally saving the entertainment industry one Bluetooth earpiece at a time.

He always wears a suit. Not the stiff kind. Tailored, navy or charcoal, with subtle check patterns. The kind that whispers rather than shouts. The kind that makes you sit up straighter just being near it.

He orders an Americano. Never anything sweet. You know this because you’re close enough to hear him order, not because you’re listening. You’re not listening. You just… absorb things. By proximity.

He types like he means it. Fingers flying, brow furrowed. You once watched him for a full minute before realizing your tea had gone cold.

You don’t like him.

You don’t like that he’s taken your seat, your sunlight, your outlet. You don’t like that he seems to be having Important Conversations while you’re over here editing product descriptions for cat backpacks. You’re just about to settle for your second-best seat when disaster strikes.

Correction: Seungcheol strikes.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Physically. With coffee.

It happens fast. One second, you’re adjusting your chair, the next, you feel a splat of lukewarm liquid soaking through the shoulder of your sweater. Your body jerks. Your mouth opens. Nothing elegant comes out.

“What the ever-loving fuck—” 

Seungcheol freezes. His cup is a crumpled paper carcass in his hand. The coffee is mostly on you, some on the floor, a tragic few drops clinging to his knuckles like guilt.

“I—oh no. No, no, no, I am so sorry,” he says, setting the mangled cup down like it might still be saved. “Are you okay? Did I burn you?”

There’s coffee dripping from your hair. “It’s fine,” you say, in the voice of someone who is not fine.

He winces. “That sounded like a lie.”

You glance down at your sweater. It was oatmeal-colored. Now it looks like oat milk with trauma. “I mean, no third-degree burns,” you say, standing. You shake your arm out. It flings a splatter onto a nearby bookshelf. “Just first-degree humiliation.”

He grabs a stack of napkins from the counter and starts dabbing at your sleeve with the gentleness of someone defusing a bomb.

“You really don’t have to—” you’re saying, but Seungcheol is relentless. 

“No, I do. I definitely do,” he blabbers, all that usual composure gone like the coffee he’s unceremoniously splashed you with. “I’ve basically assaulted you with caffeine. This is… wow. This is not how I usually network.”

You blink at him. “Network?”

He goes still. “That was a joke. I’m joking. This is a joke. I mean, the situation, not your… sweater.” 

You raise an eyebrow.

He flushes. A subtle pink, but obvious. He has the decency to look horrified at himself. “Oh my God. I mean, your sweater was nice. It is nice. I’m just going to stop talking.”

“That would be nice,” you say curtly, and then immediately feel bad about it.

Because he looks sheepish now. His shoulders have gone all slopey. He holds out the last dry napkin like a peace offering. You take it.

Felix, equal parts amused and exasperated, leans over the counter. “Do we need the mop again?”

“I deserve the mop,” Seungcheol mutters underneath his breath.

It’s set in stone. You really, really don’t like him. 

To your surprise, he keeps coming back.

Seungcheol, that is. The man who ruined your sweater and your dignity in one well-aimed Americano.

He returns to The Greeting Committee like nothing happened. Only now, he avoids the window seat. In fact, he avoids your whole half of the café. Sits near the potted ficus, headphones in, coffee clutched like a holy artifact.

You’d almost feel bad if it weren’t kind of funny.

There’s a silent detente. You don’t glare at him anymore. He doesn’t knock beverages into your lap. You coexist. Cautiously. Like squirrels.

Until, one Tuesday, it happens.

You’re halfway through an editing gig that involves correcting SEO tags for eco-friendly deodorant when Felix  appears with a pastry on a plate and a too-big smile. “From your secret admirer,” he says, setting it down with a flourish.

You eye the pastry warily. It’s round. Golden. Gleaming with honey. A little too perfect. “Is this a trick?” you ask.

“It’s from the Suit,” Felix stage-whispers, as if Seungcheol is in witness protection and not six feet away, pretending not to watch. You glance over. Seungcheol immediately looks down at his phone.

Felix nudges the plate closer. “He said you looked like you needed something sweet.”

Your eyebrows do something complicated. You pick up the pastry. It smells good. Really good.

You take a bite. It takes three seconds.

One to register the taste. Two to realize there are slivers of almond inside. Three to remember, with crystal clarity, what it was like to be poked and prodded as a child so your allergies could be found out. “Oh no,” you say around a mouthful of the croissant. 

“Oh no, it’s the best croissant ever—right?” Felix beams. 

You cough. “Not exactly.” 

And then all hell breaks loose.

Seungcheol’s chair scrapes violently against the floor. He’s by your side in less time than it takes your throat to tighten. You don’t realize you’ve dropped the pastry, that your face is turning that brilliant shade of anaphylactic pink. Felix is already halfway to the back counter, yelling something about the EpiPen he keeps near the register just in case.

“Breathe slowly,” Seungcheol says frantically, crouching beside you. “Wait, no, don’t breathe slowly. Or do? Should you breathe faster?”

You wheeze out something that sounds suspiciously like I am going to fucking kill you. 

Your attempted murderer looks stricken. His tie is slightly askew again, like stress physically unravels him. “I didn’t know,” he says. “I swear. Almonds. Why is it always almonds?”

Felix returns with the EpiPen like a knight with a sword. You brace for it. Seungcheol turns paler than the foam on his usual coffee. After the injection, after the flurry, after the adrenaline kicks in and your lungs start acting like lungs again, you sit back against the chair, heart thudding against your ribs.

Seungcheol hovers beside you, holding a water bottle. You would jokingly ask if that, too, had some slow-moving poison, if Seungcheol didn’t look sufficiently spooked.  “You good?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You nod, sipping the proffered water. “Yeah. Could’ve used a warning. Or a label. Or maybe a pastry without biological warfare.”

His laugh is helpless. “I was trying to be nice.”

“You nearly killed me.”

“But nicely.”

Felix, wiping the counter, calls over, “On the bright side, at least he didn’t spill the water on you!”

You and Seungcheol both groan.

You return two days later with a tight throat and a new sweater. Dark green. Nut-proof in spirit, if not in textile.

The Greeting Committee is half full. Quiet, save for milk steaming and a playlist that leans too hard on acoustic covers. You pick your seat—the window, as always. Felix waves with both hands, sheepish. You wave back with one, cautious.

Seungcheol is already there.

This time, he’s at the counter, pacing lightly, muttering to himself while staring at the pastry display. He points at something. Felix nods with visible hesitation. There’s a to-go box involved. A whisper. A squint. This feels... coordinated. Conspiratorial.

You brace.

When he approaches, he holds out the box like it might explode.

“Hi,” he says, tentative. “I come in peace.”

You stare at the box.

“It’s carrot cake,” he adds quickly. “I checked. Three times. No nuts. No hidden almonds. No sabotage. I even made Felix read me the ingredients out loud.”

“Did he cry?”

“A little.”

You gesture for the box. Open it. The slice is thick, aggressively frosted, and improbably orange. It smells safe. “Carrot cake,” you repeat.

“I Googled ‘pastries least likely to kill someone with allergies.’ That was top three.”

“That explains the pacing.”

He sighs, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “Look, I swear I’m not usually this... destructive.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Mmm.” 

“I mean it. I’m a functioning adult. I have a job. A dry cleaner. A filing system.”

“A coffee-related injury and a near-death croissant would suggest otherwise."

“Okay. Fair,” he huffs. “Look, maybe this is just… the universe telling me to leave you alone.”

You stare at him blankly, as if trying to agree with the universe’s supposed assessment. He shrugs and keeps talking—does this man ever shut up?—trying for breezy. Failing. “I mean, clearly, we can’t exist in the same proximity without one of us needing medical attention or therapy.” 

That gets you. A laugh slips out, involuntary. Quick and warm. You try to catch it, but it’s too late.

He freezes. It happens so fast you almost miss it. His whole face softening. Like the sound surprised him. Like he hadn't planned for the possibility of your amusement.

He looks at you, dazed. Eyes a little wide. Mouth a little open. Like you’ve told him a secret without speaking. “That was a laugh,” he says with the sort of reverence that belongs in cathedrals instead of this overpriced coffee shop.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. You pick up your fork. Take a cautious bite of the cake.

Safe.

He watches like he’s waiting for a verdict from a judge on Culinary Class Words. You chew. Swallow. Say, “This might be your least disastrous attempt yet.”

His grin breaks, full and boyish. The sun cracking through storm clouds. “So you’re saying there’s hope for attempt four,” he breathes. 

“I’m saying,” you huff, “don’t push it.” 

You look out the window to hide the smile threatening to fill your face.

Seungcheol stays looking at you.

You have a routine. Five days a week. Headphones in. Laptop open. Coffee always lukewarm by the time you remember it.

Seungcheol, meanwhile, has a rhythm. Three days if the stars align. Never the same ones. He’s a Monday-Wednesday guy. Then a Thursday-Saturday surprise. He shows up like a plot twist, wearing button-downs and the kind of watch that says my meetings run looong.

You’ve learned to expect him, even if you don't expect anything from him.

The greetings are polite now. Nods. Small smiles. He no longer treats your existence like a delicate diplomatic situation. You no longer imagine stapling his tie to the table.

Progress.

Some days he takes calls near the door, pacing like he’s afraid someone will steal the air. Other times, he just stares at his screen, typing fast, deleting faster. Once, you caught him playing Wordle with the focus of a man solving a hostage crisis.

You don’t talk. Not really. But you know when he’s had a rough day—he stirs his coffee too hard and forgets to say thank you to Felix. And you know when he’s having a good one, because he hums under his breath, terribly off-key.

One rainy afternoon, everything else is full. You’re already settled in. Window seat. Usual latte. Document open. Rain tapping the glass in a rhythm that matches your brain.

Seungcheol stands in the middle of The Greeting Committee like a man who’s lost his passport. Scans the tables. Sees you.

You raise an eyebrow. He approaches, cautious. Like he thinks you might hiss.

“Hey. Uh.” He gestures vaguely at the table. “Can I—?”

You glance around. Nothing else is open. Sighing, you give a jerky nod of acquiescence. He exhales and slides into the chair across from you.

There’s a moment. Awkward. Familiar. Like two commuters who ride the same bus but never speak. He sets down his drink. The usual plain Americano—probably scalding, probably vindictive. You go back to your screen. He goes back to pretending not to watch you type.

Five minutes in, you sigh. He looks up from his company-issued MacBook. “Something wrong?”

“Just this client,” you mumble, mostly to yourself. “Wants a brand voice that’s ‘youthful but ancient, fresh but nostalgic.’ Like a time-traveling Gen Z monk.”

He chokes on his drink. You glance at him, and he stumbles to explain, “Yeah. Just picturing a TikTok monk explaining skincare with Gregorian chants.”

You snort. It feels dangerous, this sharing. Even in passing. You type. He sips.

Time passes. The rain doesn’t. At some point, Felix drops off another slice of carrot cake. No note this time. Just a wink. Seungcheol catches your eye. “I figured it was safer than flowers,” he says with the shrug of a man trying to act calm, cool, and collected.

You poke your fork into the cake. “This your way of asking to sit here again?”

“I would never assume.”

“But you are assuming.”

He smiles, soft around the edges. “Only a little.”

You shake your head. Take a bite. Let the silence settle again. 

Not quite friendship. Not quite strangers. Something else. Something quietly growing between sips of coffee and shared space.

By late afternoon, the light slants golden through the windows, soft and syrupy. Your laptop screen reflects it back at you in glaring defiance. The carrot cake is half-eaten. The air smells like espresso and mild ambition.

You stretch. He cracks his knuckles. The silence has been comfortable, companionable—until he speaks. “So. Freelancing,” he says, testing the waters. “That’s just... vibing with deadlines?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “That’s rich coming from a guy who wears a wristwatch like it owes him rent.”

He lifts his coffee cup in a lazy toast. “Touché,” he hums. “But at least corporate structure keeps things predictable. Stable.”

“Stable? You get sixty Slack notifications an hour and call that stability?”

He winces. “Okay, yes. But there’s a paycheck. A health plan. A desk that isn’t being commandeered by an iced matcha spill.”

You level a look at him. “Are you judging my system?”

He glances at your spread: laptop, two notebooks, highlighters of questionable age, and a sticker-covered planner that might be more decorative than functional. “I would never,” he says. 

You raise an eyebrow.

He grins. “Okay. Mildly.”

“You color-code your calendar and get passive-aggressive about Outlook invites,” you taunt. 

“You wound me.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“Please don’t be mean to me,” he says, deadpan. “I get turned on when pretty girls are mean to me.”

The words hang in the air.

Your typing stutters. Seungcheol goes pale. Then pink. Then a shade of red that belongs in a fruit bowl. “That was—I didn’t—I meant it as a joke,” he stammers. 

You let out a low whistle. “Bold choice.”

“I panicked.”

You laugh. Loud, sudden, and unfiltered. It startles the couple next to you. Seungcheol looks like he might curl into his coffee mug and disappear. “Okay, okay,” you say, still smiling. “Let’s set some ground rules before this table implodes.”

He nods solemnly. “No horniness before five?”

“Four-thirty. I’m flexible.”

He exhales a laugh, hands up in surrender. “Understood.”

The sun slips lower. Your coffee is cold again. The world outside looks dipped in gold foil. Across from you, Seungcheol relaxes a little. You don’t look directly at him, but you know he’s smiling.

The next few weeks pass in soft edits.

No dramatic reveals. No sudden declarations. Just a slow, accidental choreography.

Seungcheol starts arriving earlier. Not every day, but often enough to make it a pattern. He never asks to sit with you. Not at first. He just hovers close, table-hopping like a caffeinated bee until one day he drops his laptop across from yours like it’s always been that way.

“Morning,” he says casually, as if this is not a minor emotional event.

“You’re in my eye-line,” you reply flatly.

“I’m in your heart-line,” he says, complete with finger guns and an exaggerated wink.

You blink.

He sips his coffee, very focused. “Sorry,” he grumbles, now appropriately shamed. “Still workshopping that one.”

It becomes a new bullet point in the routine. Shared table. Shared silence. Occasionally, shared WiFi when yours decides to enter a fugue state. Sometimes you squabble over seating. Sometimes you share pastries. Once, you both accidentally ordered the same scone and acted like it was a legal dispute.

“Just split it,” Felix suggested.

“Absolutely not,” you both said. (In the end, he let you have it.) 

Another time, Seungcheol caught you stress-doodling in the margins of your planner and started rating your sketches like a judge on a chaotic art show.

“This frog has emotional range.”

“That’s a pigeon.”

“Even better.”

The Greeting Committee becomes less a café and more a stage for the most low-stakes, high-tension sitcom known to man. One Thursday, though, Seungcheol brings someone with him.

You look up at the new arrival. Mid-twenties. Good bone structure. Nervous smile. The kind of person who says thank you twice just to be safe.

Seungcheol ushers her to a corner seat, sliding into professional mode like a second skin. Back straight. Voice low, reassuring. Hands used sparingly, deliberately. A talent he’s trying to recruit, you realize. 

He’s good at this. It shows.

You don’t eavesdrop. Not really. But your laptop screen is less interesting when he leans forward, nodding with the kind of attention that makes you feel seen by proxy.

You watch him talk about contracts and career growth like he believes in people. Like he sees possibility in them and is simply here to translate it to paper.

It makes you feel something.

Maybe admiration.

Maybe curiosity.

Maybe the sudden realization that beneath the tie knots and tragic Americano habit, Seungcheol might actually be kind of brilliant.

He glances up mid-meeting and catches you watching. You look away, pretending to be fascinated by a blank spreadsheet. In the corner of your eye, you see him bite back a smile. 

Later, when the talent leaves, he slides into the seat across from you again, a little smug.

“You were staring.”

“I was judging.”

“You judge with very starry eyes.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snipe, but the heat in it is doused by whatever residual admiration you’ve been trying to fight down. 

“Too late,” Seungcheol sing-songs as he unpacks his things, readying to be your seatmate once more until five in the afternoon. “Already added it to my morning affirmations.”

It’s a Wednesday. The kind where the air smells like over-steamed milk and deadlines. The windows of The Greeting Committee are fogged at the edges, and the playlist is stuck somewhere between folk optimism and indie despair.

You’re halfway through your second coffee and the fourth paragraph of an email you’ve rewritten five times when Seungcheol walks in. He looks like someone who lost an argument with his alarm clock, his inbox, and possibly God.

His tie is loose. His hair is defying gravity in three directions. He drops his briefcase three tables away and immediately starts pacing with his phone pressed to his ear.

“No, I said the 17th, not the 7th,” he says, voice a low, stressed hiss. “Yes, because they’re filming in Thailand, not, I don’t know, the moon.”

He hangs up. Sits for all of five minutes. Stands. Sits again. Calls someone else. Wash, rinse, repeat.

You try to focus. You really do. But there’s something magnetic about watching a usually unflappable man unravel like a department store sweater. “Not worried,” you mutter to yourself, clicking back to your work. He’s fine. Just corporate molting. 

But then you hear him exhale. Hard. He rubs his eyes like the day is a contact sport, and you feel a twang of sympathy because you’re not a goddamn monster.

You walk up to Felix, who’s wiping down the espresso machine with the casual grace of someone who moonlights as a Disney prince. You slip him a five.

“What’s this for?”

“A carrot cake emergency.”

He glances at Seungcheol, eyebrows lifting.

“Make it look natural,” you add. “No obvious charity. Just… coincidence.”

Felix winks and executes the drop with spy-level precision. Mid-call, Seungcheol barely notices the plate until the scent catches up to him.

He pauses. Looks down. Then up, but not at Felix.

Right at you.

He smiles. Not the usual cocky smirk or the teasing grin. No. This one is quieter. Warmer. A tight-lipped gratitude that has your traitorous heart skipping a beat. Maybe two. 

He mouths, Thank you.

You raise your mug in reply.

He takes a bite. For the first time that day, his shoulders drop. The tension doesn’t disappear, but it softens. Like cake under a fork. The café hums around you—a gentle orchestra of foam, glass, and familiarity.

You go back to your laptop, a little smile playing on your lips. Still not worried, of course. Merely bservationally invested.

You pack up as the sun angles lower in the window, slanting gold across your keyboard. The drone of the café shifts with the hour. A quieter crowd now, more book than laptop, more wine than espresso. You sling your bag over your shoulder, ready to melt into the early evening.

You’re halfway to the door when Seungcheol calls your name. He’s still at his table, carrot cake reduced to crumbs, a little less frazzled than before. He jogs to catch up, a hand running through his hair, trying and failing to tame it.

“Thanks,” he says, a little out of breath. “For the cake drop. Very subtle. Almost untraceable.”

You feign innocence. “No idea what you’re talking about. Maybe Felix just really likes you.”

“Yeah, he also gave me a drawing of a frog once. But I have a feeling this was you.”

You shrug. “I prefer plausible deniability.”

He smiles. That damned smile again. Not practiced, not perfect. Real. “It helped,” he confesses. “More than I thought it would.”

There’s a beat. Not awkward, more aware. Then he gestures toward the street. “You headed home? Want a ride?” he offers. 

For a flicker of a moment, you feel panic. Real, dumb, heart-skipping panic. It’s stupid, but there’s only so much changes to the routine that you can manage. 

You shake your head too quickly. “Oh—no, I’m good. I like the walk. Clears the head. You know. Air. Legs. Exercise. The usual.”

Seungcheol tilts his head to one side, amused. “Right. Wouldn’t want to deprive your legs.”

You wince. “That came out weird.”

“A little.”

You make a vague getaway motion with your thumb. “Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow. Or whenever your Google Calendar allows.”

He steps back with a hand over his heart. “Rejected. Brutally,” he says, probably half-serious in his petulance. “I’ll add it to the long list of things humbling me today.” 

You laugh, finally breathing again.

He grins. “Get home safe, leg defender.”

You toss him a wave as the door jingles shut behind you, the night warm and a little kinder than before.

The next time, though, it’s your turn to fray. 

Not frayed like the fashionable kind, like the artfully undone cuffs of your oldest hoodie. No. Frayed like a wire that’s been chewed on, left buzzing and dangerous, held together by the last threads of caffeine and hope.

You take your usual seat by the window, laptop open but untouched. There’s a tab open for invoices and another for a brand guideline doc you swear was written by an alien. The client has emailed five times since sunrise. Each message contradicts the last. You can’t even be mad anymore. Only tired.

The Greeting Committee smells like cinnamon and second chances. Felix slides your drink over with a gentle smile. It doesn’t help much.

Seungcheol arrives half an hour later, still slightly windblown, suit jacket over one arm. He spots you, hesitates, then sits at the table beside yours.

“Hey,” he says, carefully. “You look industrious.” 

You grunt.

He peeks at your screen. “Stressed from freelancing?” he says, aiming for a friendly jab. “Didn’t know that possible. I thought you’d have it easier, you know. Not having to deal with soul-crushing clients.”

It hits wrong. Off-key. The joke doesn’t land; it crash lands.

You glance up. Maybe he sees the sharpness in your jaw, the sheen in your eyes. Maybe not. You stand abruptly, chair scraping a little too loud against the floor. “Excuse me,” you say, voice too even.

You retreat to the bathroom. Lock the door. Breathe once. Twice. And then it happens.

Your chest caves, just a little. The tears come fast and hot. Not the kind you can blink away. These are stubborn, panicked, silent sobs. Messy ones. The kind you don’t want anyone to see.

You wash your face after. Pat your cheeks until they stop looking flushed, though they don’t. Your eyes are still red, like you lost a fight with a mascara wand and your own emotional stability. 

When you emerge, the café looks the same, but something has shifted. Seungcheol looks up immediately. He doesn’t say anything.

Just watches you, eyes soft, mouth slightly open like he started a sentence but forgot how to finish it. There’s none of his usual machismo. He just looks like someone kicked his favorite puppy.

You sit back down, mute. Felix gives you a glance, like he’s debating giving you a cookie. You shake your head. Not today.

Seungcheol clears his throat, shifts, but says nothing.

The silence is a kindness. So you let it be.

You go back to your screen and pretend to work. Seungcheol stays in his seat beside you. Quiet, still, and present.

He doesn't come by the next day. Or the one after.

It shouldn’t matter. And yet, your eyes flick to the door more than they should. There’s a particular flow you’ve both unconsciously followed, a choreography built of glances and coffee steam, shared space and sidelong banter. You miss it. Or him. Or whatever weird, ambiguous thing he is.

On the third day, though, he returns.

You feel him before you see him. His presence has a particular gravity, like someone dragged in a suitcase full of decisions and contradictions. He walks up, eyes careful, a coffee in each hand.

“Peace offering?” he says, nudging one cup toward you.

“Is it poisoned?” you ask, trying not to sound too pleased at his reappearance. 

“Only with charm and sincerity.”

You take it. He sits. Not at the next table. Not across the room. But right across from you. “Okay,” he says, settling in. “I want to understand what you do. Freelancing. The whole… lifestyle."

“You mean the glorious, cobbled-together hustle powered by imposter syndrome and caffeine?” you throw back, 

“Exactly,” he grins. “That.”

You peer at him. “Don’t you have a mountain of corporate souls to harvest today?”

He leans back, eyes closed dramatically. “Took an emergency leave.”

You stare. “An emergency leave. For freelance empathy research.”

“And because my boss told me I was breathing too loudly on calls. Also that I needed to stop quoting BTS lyrics in pitch decks. But yes. Research.”

You snort despite yourself. “Fine,” you say, gesturing to your screen. “Give me an hour. I have to finish this edit before my client finds another designer who doesn’t cry in public bathrooms."

He lifts both hands in surrender. “No rush. I’m just here to sponge up wisdom and avoid responsibility.”

You nod once, then dive into your screen, fingers tapping in a slow, precise rhythm. Every so often, you feel his gaze. Like he’s watching someone solve a puzzle he never knew existed. You finish the edit in record time, hit send, close your laptop with a satisfying click.

He perks up. “That it? Are we about to enter the magical world of self-employment lore?”

You stretch, then take a long sip of your not-poisoned coffee. “Welcome to hell, Seungcheol. There are no benefits, but sometimes people send you cheese in the mail."

He grins, eyes lighting up. “Sounds oddly romantic.”

“It’s a lifestyle of extremes.”

For the first time in days, the air between you feels loose again. You tell him all the details. The ability to work from wherever, at the price of the constant availability. The power to pick and choose your battles. The legal threats issued when you’re not paid on time. Seungcheol is expressive; he shuttles from amusement and horror every so often. 

As you close up your tirade, you rest your chin on your palm and squint at him over the rim of your cup. “So what are you like outside the nine-to-five costume party?” 

He hums. “Define ‘outside.’”

“The part of the day where you're not actively recruiting K-pop idols or quoting RM at your boss.”

He taps his fingers on the table, mock-pensive. “Well. I play padel.”

You actually flinch. “Of course you do.” 

“And indoor golf,” he adds, almost sheepish.

“You absolute LinkedIn man.”

He gasps, fake-offended. “Take that back.”

“Next you’re gonna tell me you use Notion to organize your fridge.”

“That was one time. And the color-coding was inspired.”

You point at him, triumphant. “I knew it.”

He chuckles, leans in a little like he can't help it. “And what do you do outside of crying over client feedback and judging my recreational habits?”

“I doodle in margins. Watch bad reality TV and pretend it’s for character study. Occasionally rearrange my bookshelf like it’s therapy,” you answer as you roll your shoulders. 

He nods solemnly. “That tracks.”

You tilt your head. “You know, you’re very defensive about your Very Normal Corporate Hobbies.”

“You asked. I answered.”

“You answered like a man who has a separate gym bag just for tennis whites.”

“Only on weekends.”

You laugh, louder than intended. A few heads turn. Seungcheol watches you, smile stretching slowly, like he’s soaking it in.

“So,” he says, after a beat. “You want to know me, huh?”

You bite back a grin. “You’re the one who took emergency leave to decode the mysteries of my working habits.”

“But you’re asking the personal questions.”

You go to sip your coffee again but pause mid-air. Okay. Fair. You set your mug down. “Maybe I do. Want to know you.”

He blinks, surprised. You swear there’s a slight flush to his ears. “Wow,” he says, voice lighter. “I didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

“Don’t get cocky. It’s purely investigative.”

“Of course. For science.”

“For society.”

“For the greater good.”

You both grin into your drinks. For a moment, it feels easy again—like maybe you’re two people in a café, not an ironic universe crashing softly into each other. Just you, him, and the slow unfurling of something not yet named.

You start bringing extra pens, just in case he forgets his again. He never asks, but he always takes them, twirling the cap between his fingers as if it’s part of his pitch strategy. You pretend not to notice the way he always slides it back across the table when he leaves, perfectly aligned with your notebook.

He starts remembering how you like your coffee. Not the way you order it, but the way you drink it. When it should be sweet, when it needs to be strong. He doesn’t ask. Just shows up with a cup that tastes like exactly the kind of day you’re having.

Once, you swap playlists. He laughs at your affinity for melancholic ballads and sends you one too many motivational bops in return. You retaliate with obscure indie rock. He retaliates harder with vintage K-pop. It spirals quickly.

Your seating becomes a ritual. You gravitate toward each other like satellites, or maybe like rival planets that keep brushing orbits. Not always talking, but near. Comfortable in the shared silence of productivity, in the occasional sarcastic quip lobbed across laptops.

Then, one Thursday, you can’t make it. A meeting across town. A cousin’s birthday. Something outside the orbit. You don’t text. It’s not that kind of arrangement.

The next day, you return to The Greeting Committee, windblown and half-apologetic for reasons you can’t name. Felix greets you at the counter with a too-wide grin.

“Someone was a little antsy yesterday,” he says, sliding your usual across the bar.

Your brow furrows. “Antsy?”

Felix leans in, tone conspiratorial. “Your boy was pacing,” he whispers conspiratorially. “Kept checking the door like a golden retriever who lost his owner at the park. Ordered three espressos and didn’t drink any of them.”

You don’t even have the energy to clock Felix for calling Seungcheol your boy. You glance over to your usual table. Seungcheol is there. Head down. Pretending he can’t hear Felix. He’s gone stock-still.

You approach slowly. “Three espressos?”

Seungcheol already has his face buried in his hands. “I hate him,” he groans. 

You set your things down. “Were you worried about me?”

“I was... mildly alarmed that my study subject had vanished,” he mumbles. “For science.”

You grin at the now-inside joke. “For society.”

He squints at you from between his fingers. “I should’ve taken another emergency leave.”

“Better clear it with HR.”

He sighs dramatically, then glances at you. “Glad you’re back.”

Your heart stumbles. “Yeah,” you murmur, trying not to smile too much. “Me too.”

The day stays with you.

Like a bit of sugar stuck on your lip, or a phrase you can’t remember the origin of. It trails behind you into the evening, clings to your sweater the next morning, settles in the folds of routine. His face, half-horrified under Felix’s grin. The way he said glad you’re back. Too casual. Too real.

It sits beside you when he doesn’t show up the next day. Or the next. Or the three after that. By day six, you’ve graduated from confused to mildly insulted. Not that it matters. Not that you care. Not that you check the door every time it opens.

You try to reason with yourself. He has a job. A corporate one. With meetings. Flights. Possibly a high-stakes padel tournament. But still, the café feels off-kilter without him. Like one chair always pulled out too far.

Day eight, you’re settled into your seat—headphones in, deadlines glaring—when a shadow flits across your screen. You look up.

He’s back. Tan coat, navy slacks, guilty smile. Holding a coffee cup like a peace treaty.

You don’t look up again. Not really. Just enough to let him pass. You type a little more pointedly than usual. Sip your drink a touch too loud. “Okay,” he says eventually, dropping into the seat across from you with a sigh. “Are we doing this?”

You don’t stop typing. “Doing what?”

“This thing. Where you pretend not to notice me because I disappeared for a week.”

You arch a brow. “You disappeared?” you ask, even though the tick of your jaw gives away your feigned nonchalance. 

“I had a work trip,” he says, halfway exasperated. “I didn’t fake my own death.”

“Would’ve been less dramatic.”

He exhales a laugh, then leans forward, arms on the table. “You know, we could exchange numbers. Save you the emotional labor next time.”

You glance at him. He’s smirking. Just a little. But there’s a hopefulness under it, peeking out like socks that don’t match.

“You think I want your number?” 

“No. I think you want me to want your number.” 

You snort. You hate it when he’s right. Wordlessly, you hold out your hand; he stares at it like it’s some sort of bomb. 

“Phone,” you say dryly. “Before I change my mind.”

He fumbles it out, unlocking it with shaking fingers. You type in your number, add your name, and for no good reason, a croissant emoji. You hand it back. “There,” you huff. “Now next time you vanish, I can file a formal complaint.”

He grins, and it’s a little too wide for his face. A little too happy to be friendly. “I’ll have my people forward it to legal.”

You finally meet his eyes.

It feels like stepping into warm light.

Your phone buzzes, mid-sip, mid-scroll, mid-holding-back-a-yawn. A text. From Seungcheol. Who is, rather notably, sitting four feet in front of you.

Seungcheol ☕ [2:03 PM]: did you sleep last night or are you just naturally corpse-chic today?

You look up. He’s got the gall to raise his brows at you over his laptop, like he didn’t just insult you through cellular waves. Like this is normal behavior for a grown man in business casual.

You respond with a slow, deliberate middle finger under the table. He grins. Felix swats you both and murmurs something about children being around. 

The next day, Seungcheol does it again.

Seungcheol ☕ [4:25 PM]: is that your third cup? do i need to stage an intervention or just sponsor it as a startup?

This time, you reward him with a middle finger emoji. Something a little more permanent, and a lot less damning to Felix. Seungcheol’s responding cough is suspiciously laughter-adjacent.

It becomes a rhythm, a beat stitched between sips and keystrokes. You never text outside of The Greeting Committee. Not once. But inside its sun-drenched walls, with the clatter of cups and the low hum of indie folk, you have your own thread. A quiet thing. A private game.

Sometimes, it’s teasing.

Seungcheol ☕ [1:43 PM]: felix gave you the bigger muffin. favoritism.

Sometimes, it’s curious

Seungcheol ☕ [3:10 PM]: what are you working on today? looks serious. also your nose scrunches when you’re focused.

Sometimes, it’s borderline sentimental:

Seungcheol ☕ [5:04 PM]: i like mondays better now.

You don’t always respond.

Sometimes you just smile, or shake your head, or raise an eyebrow that says you’re on to him. Sometimes he takes that as victory. Sometimes he gets mock-wounded.

You pretend not to notice the way he watches your face light up, but you do. You always do.

You don’t know what to make of it—this strange little performance. This theater of text bubbles and muffled laughs. But your fingers start lingering over your phone when he walks in. Your heart bumps when it buzzes. You catch yourself rereading his old messages when he’s in the restroom.

You know it isn’t just caffeine making you giddy, no matter how badly you want to make the claim.

Seungcheol doesn’t come in one morning. You notice before the door finishes not opening.

Felix does, though, gliding past your table with a steaming latte and a smirk like he knows a secret. He wipes down the counter with theatrical flair before leaning over it to say, “So. Are you two ever going to get together, or should I just start a betting pool?”

You laugh. Too quickly. Too high. “We’re not—” You wave your hand in a vague gesture that means something like, Don’t be ridiculous, but also, maybe, Please don’t ask me that when I haven’t had my coffee.

Felix raises both eyebrows and hums. “Sure. Okay. Keep lying to yourself, sweetheart.”

You spend the next thirty minutes trying to focus on your screen and not on the vacant corner of the cafe where Seungcheol’s laptop usually glows and his stupid phone buzzes with texts he won’t say out loud. It’s like trying to work with half your keyboard missing. Or your second favorite limb.

Around lunchtime, when the loneliness gets just a touch too loud, you do something unhinged.

You open LinkedIn.

It starts off innocent. Curious, even. You want to see what he looks like in a professional headshot. You want to know if his job title is as unnecessarily long as you suspect. (It is. “Senior Talent Acquisition Specialist & Strategist, Creative Industries Division.” Ugh.)

You scroll through his accolades, which are infuriatingly impressive. Fluent in three languages. Led multiple region-wide talent campaigns. There’s a photo of him at some conference, smiling and mid-sentence, looking… God, competent. That’s, unfortunately for you, really hot. 

You hate how charming his bullet points are. You hate that he probably made a slide deck about them. You close the app. You reopen it. You check his endorsements.

And then, as you're packing up, phone zipped away, pretending like you haven’t spiraled into corporate espionage, your screen lights up.

Seungcheol ☕ [2:22 PM]: you know i have linkedin premium, right? i can see who views my profile.

Your soul leaves your body. You stop dead, laptop halfway into your tote. Another buzz.

Seungcheol ☕ [2:22 PM]: did you miss me that bad?

A third, before you can reply:

Seungcheol ☕ [2:23 PM]: you could’ve just texted, you little coward.

You type back with trembling thumbs.

You [2:25 PM]: You should be banned from the internet.

He sends a smirking emoji, and the emoji with hearts on the face. 

You hate him. You hate that you’re smiling. You hate that your heart is fluttering like it just got a calendar invite to something thrilling.

You slide your phone into your bag. It buzzes again. You leave it there. 

You don’t need to check it to know exactly who it is.

The next time you see Seungcheol, he’s already sitting at your table.

He has the audacity to look smug, half-grin tilting upward as you approach, coffee in hand and dignity in tatters. “Hope you found what you were looking for on my profile,” he says without preamble.

You set your cup down with deliberate care. “Actually,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him, “I did. Very informative. I especially liked the bit where you led a cross-functional recruitment initiative. That was hot.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. Then he chokes on his Americano.

You raise an eyebrow, sipping your latte with practiced coolness. “What?”

He coughs into his sleeve. “Nothing,” he wheezes. “Just didn’t realize I had a fan.”

You tilt your head. “LinkedIn says you’re results-driven. I just wanted to see if you lived up to the branding.”

He goes very still. There’s a beat, then another, and then his ears go pink. It’s kind of glorious. He clears his throat, fiddling with the lid of his cup like it’s suddenly become complicated engineering.

“You’re enjoying this,” he accuses. 

This, as in corporate flirting? “Immensely,” you chirp. 

He lifts his gaze just long enough to give you a look that says two can play this game, but not very well, apparently. “You know, I was going to bring you a croissant to make fun of you gently, but now I’m reconsidering.”

“Fear is the beginning of wisdom,” you say, quoting something you may or may not have pulled from a fortune cookie.

He groans softly, but there’s laughter behind it. There always is, lately. He looks at you a little too long, like he’s trying to memorize this exact moment. You feel it, the shift—somewhere between banter and something gentler, something a little more reckless. But then he breaks the moment, leaning back with a crooked grin.

“Remind me to revoke your internet access,” he says.

“Try it,” you say. “I dare you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. You don’t look away. Neither does he.

The evening’s already blushing gold by the time Seungcheol says, “Let me walk you home tonight.”

It’s casual, tossed in like garnish. But there’s a new kind of weight to it. Not the kind that sinks, but the kind that anchors.

You sip the last of your lukewarm latte and reply, “Okay. But we’re walking. No car. It’s only twenty minutes, and you need the humility.”

He squints like you’ve personally offended his shin splints. “Twenty minutes? That’s practically cardio.”

You stand, grab your tote, and shoot him a look. “You’ll survive. Probably.”

He groans but follows, waving a lazy goodbye to Felix, who grins way too knowingly.

The air outside is warm with the memory of the sun. The streets are still holding onto their buzz, slow and syrupy. You walk side by side, his arm brushing yours just often enough to register. He doesn’t make a show of it. That would be too easy.

At the end of the block, you turn left instead of right.

Seungcheol pauses. “Hey. That’s not the way to your place. Unless you’re secretly living behind the dumpster.”

You shrug. “Need to make a stop.”

His eyes narrow. “Is this how it happens? You lure me out, make me walk, then finish me off behind a coffee shop? Classic femme fatale behavior.”

“Stop being dramatic,” you sigh. “I’m feeding someone.”

You lead him to the back of The Greeting Committee, where the air smells like cooling bricks and old pastries. There, curled beneath a battered crate and a weather-worn sign, is a stray tabby blinking lazily up at you.

“This is Pumpkin,” you say, crouching to pull a packet of wet food from your bag as if it’s completely normal to carry gourmet feline meals in a tote next to your charger and existential despair.

Seungcheol just stares. “You—what—is that tuna mousse?”

“Chicken and pumpkin puree,” you correct. “He has a sensitive stomach.”

The tabby slinks forward, mewling. You set the food down, and Pumpkin immediately goes to town. Seungcheol is still watching, expression somewhere between disbelief and awe. “You do this every day?” he asks.

You shrug. “Most days. Felix lets me stash a few cans under the sink. He pretends not to know.”

Seungcheol huffs a quiet laugh, crouching beside you. His knees crack with such dramatic flourish you can't help but look at him. “I’m too young to make those sounds,” he mutters.

“Corporate life ages you.”

He glances at you. “So does pining after someone who makes fun of your LinkedIn.”

You pretend to study Pumpkin more closely. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Oh, it is,” he says, and his smile feels like the first sip of something warm on a cold morning.

The two of you watch Pumpkin finish off his meal. You could probably get going, but you quite like seeing Seungcheol—immaculately pressed suit, Aventus Creed Seungcheol—crouched in a random alleyway, watching a cat with immense concentration. Makes him look more human, less robot. 

Pumpkin mewls appreciatively at you as he finishes off his meal. The stray gives Seungcheol a hiss that suspiciously sounds like a warning. It doesn’t really make sense until you get to your feet, Seungcheol in tow, and you realize he’s giving you a Look. The preemptive kind that warns of something ahead. 

He scratches the back of his neck. “I’m about to do something stupid.”

“Like pet the cat even though he’ll hiss at you again?” you say, because it’s easier to joke about things than take anything seriously. 

He takes a breath. His gaze flicks to your lips. “Worse.”

And then, before you can ask, Seungcheol says, “Sorry,” like it’s the preamble to a crime scene, and leans in.

The kiss is not polite. It’s not tentative. It’s not a test or a maybe.

It’s the undoing of a thousand little silences.

Your back hits the wall. You let out a surprised sound, half laugh, half breathless awe. The alley smells like coffee grounds and rain-slicked pavement. His tie is the first casualty; you tug it loose and toss it over a bike rack without ceremony. Seungcheol groans into your mouth. His hands are warm and everywhere, grounding you while one of your legs hitch over his waist. 

You taste his Americano on his tongue, bergamot from his cologne, and something sharper that must be everything he hasn’t said. The way he kisses you like an overdue confession. You don’t stop to think about the logistics. Or the implications. Or whether Pumpkin the cat is scandalized.

You just think about how this man—who wears suits to cafés, who once made you cry with a poorly timed joke, who texts you across the room just to see you smile—is kissing you, like the world might end if he doesn’t.

Your breath is still caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat when he pulls back. Not fully, not even really. Just enough for air to cool your lips, for the night to slip between your mouths, for you to hear him say, between peppered kisses along your jaw and neck, “I’ve dreamt of doing that since the moment I saw you in that damn cafe.”

You let your head tip back against the brick wall. “You can’t call it love at first sight,” you murmur, voice wobbly but amused. “This isn’t some drama your company produced, Choi.”

“Fine. Whatever.” He says it with no real bite, his mouth still brushing against your throat. “But I’ve known I wanted to kiss you since I laid my fucking eyes on you, so what does that make me?”

You choke on a laugh. It bubbles between your ribs, tangled with the aftershock of his lips and the humiliating truth that you’d let him keep kissing you all night if he wanted.

Your fingers are still laced in the lapels of his coat. His hands—well, one is braced against the wall behind your head and the other has begun to roam with alarming curiosity, curling possessively at your waist, tugging you flush against him like he could make up for the months lost in one touch.

It’s reckless. A little indecent. Unwise in about seventeen different ways.

You kiss him again anyway, because you’re not a coward. But when his thumb slips under the hem of your shirt and your knees actually threaten mutiny, you pull back, panting, forehead resting against his.

“We can’t be like teenagers groping each other in an alleyway,” you whine. 

He grins widely, a little wild around the edges. “Why not?”

You push gently at his chest, which is about as effective as shoving a tree. “Because I live around the corner, and I have dignity.”

“Debatable,” he murmurs, but he steps back all the same. The loss is enough to almost make you sob. 

You grab his hand, and tug him along. “Come on, Romeo. Let’s go make more questionable decisions in the comfort of my very adult, very allergy-safe apartment,” you manage. 

He hastily grabs his tie with his free hand. “If there’s carrot cake, I might propose.”

“There’s vodka in the freezer.”

“Close enough.”

The two of you make it to your apartment in record time, breathless and disheveled, a tangle of limbs that barely manages to key open the door. You’re laughing, the kind of laugh that shakes with adrenaline.

Your back hits the inside of the door before it even closes properly, and Seungcheol is already kissing you again. Less alleyway, more frantic prayer. His hands at your hips, your fingers at the buttons of his shirt, all coordination gone to hell.

“Wait… we should talk,” you try, mouth brushing against his as you speak. Your hands are on his collar, but your words are trying to wrangle the last of your common sense.

He nips at your jaw. “We will.”

Your jacket slips off your shoulders. His tie joins it on the floor. “Seungcheol,” you say with more force, stepping back as much as he lets you. “We can't make out for three episodes and then just forget to have a conversation."

His shirt is halfway undone, and his hair’s in beautiful, stupid disarray. He pauses then, forehead against yours. His breath is still shallow. So is yours. “You’re right,” he says. “This shouldn’t be like the dramas.”

Your heartbeat is in your throat. “So?” you choke out. 

He exhales. It rumbles against your sternum, where your bodies are still close enough to feel the echo. “So we do both. We kiss first, talk after. We do it all. As long as neither of us runs.”

Your hand stills against his chest. It would be the easiest thing to make a joke—say something coy, derail the tension with a smirk and a shrug. But Seungcheo’s eyes are honest in a way that leaves no room for denial. No games, no marketing language, no curated storylines. Just him, a man still half-dressed and fully sincere.

“Deal,” you decide, and then you kiss him again.

It carries you all the way to the couch, to the warmth of pressed skin and the ridiculousness of two adults trying not to knock over a lamp while tangled in each other. You tell yourself you’ll talk after. You will.

But right now, there’s nothing but the soft thud of clothes hitting your floor and the sound of Seungcheol whispering your name.

You wake up to sunlight smeared across your floor like a crime scene. The throw blanket is wrapped halfway around your thigh, a heel of it digging into the couch cushion. You blink. The apartment is too quiet. The kind of quiet that knows something is missing.

Seungcheol is gone.

Not vanished. His shoes are gone, his jacket too, but he’s left a note. Folded in half and propped up against your half-empty water glass like a tiny paper tent.

Didn’t want to wake you. You looked criminally peaceful. Not running, just got dragged into an early meeting. I owe you coffee. And at least three kisses. Minimum. — Choi (Not A Flight Risk) Seungcheol

You stare at it for a beat too long. It’s charming. Earnest, even. The ink slightly smudged where he might’ve hovered too long over the word criminally. But your chest feels taut. Like a rubber band wound too tight around something soft.

Your phone buzzes.

Seungcheol ☕ [7:21 AM]: i meant what i said. i’m not disappearing. Seungcheol ☕ [7:21 AM]: also, how do you feel about bagels? asking for a future breakfast. Seungcheol ☕ [7:22 AM]: also pt2: you drool in your sleep. it’s very cute.

You chuckle. Which turns into a sigh. Which turns into you setting the phone face down and pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes.

It’s not the leaving, exactly. You understand work. You understand early meetings and obligations and shoes that need to be polished. It’s the ache of the aftermath. The warmth of him still clinging to your sheets and skin, and the chill of the apartment now that he’s no longer in it.

How easily he’d done it. How easily he could still do it, if he wanted to. In the imminent future. 

You move through the morning like someone wearing someone else’s shoes. Make coffee, forget to drink it. Brush your teeth, stare too long in the mirror. You’re not angry. But there’s something like bitter lodged in the back of your throat, and it won’t quite go down.

Later, at your at-home desk, he sends a selfie from a conference room. Half his tie is undone, and someone’s arm is motioning animatedly beside him, blurred in mid-gesture.

Seungcheol ☕ [1:30 PM]: currently dying. cpr not required unless administered by you.

You do laugh. A little. Quietly. Still, the unsettled thing inside you rolls over, sighs. Unimpressed.

You wonder, absurdly, if he’s kissed anyone else like that in an alleyway. If he’s made out with a woman behind a coffee shop, all suit and stubble and soft declarations. If he’s left notes for other people, claiming they looked criminally peaceful.

You know it’s silly. But that doesn’t stop the wondering, or the weight of wanting more.

You text him back something flippant. Light. Exactly the tone he always teases you for having.

You [2:02 PM]: If you die in that meeting, I’m keeping your coffee points.

It earns you a photo of his exaggerated gasp, hand to chest like a silent movie star. You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach where it has to. 

You don’t go to The Greeting Committee the next day. Or the next. Or the one after that.

At first, you tell yourself it’s because you need a change of scenery. The café chairs were always a little too firm, anyway. And there are so many other places to try! Like that plant-filled co-working space that smells faintly of eucalyptus and overly ambitious startups. Or your kitchen table, which wobbles like it’s been cursed by a very specific and petty god.

But the truth is less glamorous. The truth is, you miss him. And missing him makes you squirm. You don’t know what to do with that kind of intimacy—the kind that follows you home, seeps into your dreams, and then sends you sweet messages about bagels as if it didn’t completely undo you.

Seungcheol ☕ [4:09 PM]: missing my coffee buddy. when am i seeing you again?

You reply an hour later.

You [5:10 PM]: Got a deadline this week. Might be a while.

The next day:

Seungcheol ☕ [6:19 PM]: i’m starting to think i hallucinated the whole thing. very elaborate dream. excellent production value. You [9:32 PM]: Definitely real. Probably. 87% sure.

You try a different café. The espresso tastes like regret. The barista spells your name with a Q. You spill oat milk on your notes.

Seungcheol ☕ [4:20 PM]: Thinking about filing a missing person report. You [10:13 PM]: I’m just very elusive. Like a fox. Or Carmen Sandiego.

You’re doing it. The dance. Light-footed and clever. Skipping across the surface before anything can pull you under.

But it gnaws at you. Not the silence, because there is none. Seungcheol still texts. Every day. A silly update. A selfie with an Americano. A picture of a squirrel he insists is giving him side-eye. It’s the consistency of it. The unrelenting sweetness. The way he keeps showing up, even if you don’t.

On the fifth day, your phone buzzes with something different.

Seungcheol ☕ [8:04 AM]: door.

You open the door in your worst t-shirt—a sleep-soft relic from a failed music festival, collar stretched, logo faded into oblivion. Seungcheol stands there like the dramatic ending to a mid-season K-drama. Tousled hair. Scowl on his face. Cardboard pastry box in one hand, a bouquet in the other that looks like it could finance a small wedding.

“Really?” he says, before you can even fake a good morning.

You blink. “Hi?”

He holds up the pastries, slightly tilted. A peace offering gone stale. “You’ve been dodging me like I’m a subscription service you forgot to cancel,” he deadpans. 

“You could've just texted again,” you mutter.

“I did. Several times. Look where that got me.”

You sigh and step aside. He brushes past, trailing the scent of espresso and patience thinned to a thread.

He places the pastry box on your counter and sets the bouquet down with exaggerated care. It doesn’t match your kitchen. Too pristine. Too blush-colored and wrapped in sheer paper that shimmers slightly. You resent it for being beautiful. For being from him.

“You didn’t have to bring anything,” you say, arms crossing over your chest.

“Yeah, well.” He shoots you a look. “I wasn’t sure if I was showing up for a conversation or a war.”

You lean against the counter, the cold tile pressing into your hip. The kitchen feels too quiet, too bright. You think about the last few days and how you’ve been avoiding your usual coffee like it might burn more than just your tongue.

“I wasn’t trying to ghost you,” you say finally.

“No,” he agrees, watching you. “Just haunt me a little.”

There’s something too knowing in his tone, but not unkind. He isn’t angry. Just... here. Uninvited and stubborn and still charming in a very irritating way. 

“I needed time,” you offer. It sounds thinner out loud than it did in your head.

“Time I can do,” he shoots back, “but disappearing without telling me why? Not really my favorite genre of heartbreak.”

You glance at the pastries. At the bouquet. At him. He looks ridiculous. And sweet. And maybe a little scared under all that posturing. “Fine,” you say. “We can talk.”

You set the kettle on the stove. He takes a spot on your counter stool.

You make the tea to buy yourself time. Seungcheol doesn’t press, just watches, elbows on the counter and jaw tucked into his hand like he’s willing to wait forever or until the kettle screams.

It does, eventually. You pour the water. Set down mugs. Curl your fingers around yours like it might anchor you.

“I just… I don't know what we're doing,” you say, eyes fixed on the rippling surface of your tea. “It feels like two people on opposite tracks pretending they aren’t going to crash into something.”

Seungcheol exhales a soft laugh, more breath than amusement. “You think we’re crashing already? We haven’t even started anything.” 

“That’s the problem,” you say, glancing at him. “You wear suits. You chase clients. You probably have a skincare fridge and a Google Calendar color-coded within an inch of its life.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just sips his tea and lifts an eyebrow like, And?

You press on. “I work out of cafes. I write brand copy for sock companies and only recently stopped paying my rent late. I have... retroactive jealousy issues.”

“Retroactive?”

“Like, I’ll be jealous of things that happened before I even knew you.”

He stares at you for a minute. Then: “That is both deeply irrational and weirdly flattering.”

You groan into your tea.

“Okay,” he says, putting the mug down. “Full honesty? I don’t even really like The Greeting Committee.”

Of all the things Choi Seungcheol could have said in that moment, that was not the one you were expecting.

Your head snaps up so fast, you’re surprised your neck didn’t damage somehow. “What?” you stammer. 

“Yeah,” he grimaces. “Their lattes are overpriced and their playlist is one bad Sufjan Stevens song away from sending me into a spiral.”

You’re scandalized. “You—you’ve been coming there for months!”

He nods solemnly. “Yeah. Because the first day I walked in, I saw you by the window. Eyes on your screen, hair in that ridiculous little claw clip, frowning like the fate of the world depended on a semicolon. And I thought, holy shit. There goes my weekday.” 

You want to scoff. You want to melt. Instead, you accuse, “So you treated me like a talent to chase.” 

His head snaps back. “Oh my God,” he says, nearly knocking over his tea. “Do you hear yourself? You make it sound like I had a casting binder labeled ‘Girl In Cute Sweater By Window.’”

“I mean—”

“I liked you. I like you. And every time I tried to talk to you, you dodged me like I was pitching a pyramid scheme. What else was I supposed to do?”

You falter. Your mug has gone cold. Your pulse has not. “Maybe,” he continues, quieter now, “if you weren’t so busy building exits in your head, you’d see I’m not going anywhere.”

You look at him. Earnest. Exasperated. Still holding on. He stares back at you, and he must find something there underneath all the frazzled panic and the indignation. He must see it. Whatever you can’t say, hiding just right on the surface. 

You don’t know who leans in first, but your nose bumps his, and neither of you laugh. Not at first.

Your lips find his, soft and familiar, and then softer still when he sighs against your mouth. It’s unfair, how easily kissing him feels like home. Like you’ve done it a thousand times before and you’ll do it again, again, again.

Your hand fists the back of his collar, tugging him closer like you’re afraid he’ll vanish for another meeting, or for some other girl by the window who catches his eye.

“I know I’m being ridiculous,” you murmur between kisses, lips brushing his jaw, his cheekbone. “But you wear nice shoes and own stock options and know how to pronounce ‘acquisition’ without choking on your own tongue.”

He chuckles into the shell of your ear. “You’re literally straddling me right now,” he grunts, hands already roaming over your curves. “Do you really want me to start listing your resume?”

You ignore that. Instead, your voice comes out in one of those flurried half-whispers, tangled in the haze of heat and nerves. “Sometimes I make up fake ex-girlfriends of yours in my head so I can stop wanting you so much,” you confess. You’re already on a roll. Might as well keep going. 

He pulls back briefly to look at you. “You…. what?”

You groan, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. “They’re really pretty in my imagination. The type that remember to water their plants and own matching socks.”

He laughs, full and honest, and rests his forehead against yours. “Do the fake ones also haunt The Greeting Committee?” he teases. “Or just the real ones you make up to ruin your own day?”

You swat at his shoulder, but he catches your wrist and presses a kiss there, which only melts you more. “I’m a freelancer,” you babble. “I can’t even guarantee what my income will look like next month. I eat leftovers three times a week. My savings account cries itself to sleep.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it for your benefit. I’m saying it because it’s true.” He threads his fingers through your hair, his voice low. “You think I didn’t bribe Felix for your schedule, so I could time my work-from-home’s around you?” 

“That makes you sound like a stalker.” 

“A handsome one. Who brought pastries and a ninety dollar bouquet.” 

“Was it really necessary to mention the price of the flowers?” 

“Why the fuck are we even still talking right now?” 

You kiss him again before you can say something overly earnest. He kisses back with the kind of conviction that feels like a vow. Hands wandering. Shirts lifting. Breathless little nothings in between.

“Wait,” he murmurs, as you fumble backward, hand on his belt buckle. “Where’s your bedroom?”

You gesture vaguely to the left. “Through the hallway. First door. Don’t judge my laundry basket.” 

“I won’t judge,” he says, hauling you up bridal style without warning. You yelp. He grins and nips at your earlobe. “But if you keep making up fake girlfriends, I might have to fight one in a dream.” 

You press your face into his shoulder, laughing and mortified and a little bit in love.

That guy who used to always be in a suit is in your seat.

Technically, it’s still not your seat. The Greeting Committee hasn’t suddenly been overtaken by bureaucracy and gold nameplates. But it doesn’t matter. You’re at the same table now.

Window seat, second from the left, with sunlight that softens instead of sears. An outlet for both your laptop and your lingering cynicism, and enough ambient chatter to feel alive without being overwhelmed.

Seungcheol is there. Across from you. Laptop open, tie conspicuously absent, sleeves rolled up like he’s auditioning for the part of everyone’s favorite approachable CEO. He’s editing something, you think. Or maybe pretending to. Every few minutes, he looks up like he’s going to say something, then doesn’t. 

When you finally glance at him over the rim of your coffee cup, he gives you that smile—the one that says, I can’t believe you picked me.

Felix brings a blueberry scone cut neatly in half. “For my favorite couple,” he announces, loud enough for the older woman at the neighboring table to coo in amusement. You groan. Seungcheol winks.

“We’re not your couple, Felix,” you mutter.

“You literally are,” Felix says, already walking away. “I made the bouquet for your first fight makeup. I’m emotionally invested now.”

You shoot Seungcheol a look. He raises both hands in surrender. “I didn’t tell him anything! He just knows things. Like a romance bloodhound.”

You roll your eyes and nudge half the scone toward Seungcheol. His fingers brush yours, deliberate and warm. You’re still getting used to that. The small intimacies. The way he lingers now.

How your things have started to mix at each other’s places: his tie in your laundry bin, your socks peeking out from under his couch. How he texts you silly memes during meetings and starts grocery lists in your Notes app like it’s always been shared.

There are days you still trip over the difference between solitude and comfort. Days when you want to crawl back into your shell of low-stakes independence and low-commitment caffeine. Days you remember all the reasons you told yourself not to do this.

That he’s too polished, too stable, too everything-you-aren’t. That he comes from a world of network pitches and tailored blazers and you, on some days, can barely remember if you own an iron.

But then he smiles across the table like you’re not a gamble, just a good choice. And it becomes easier.

Seungcheol leans in a little, conspiratorial. “What do you think Felix would do if I kissed you right now?”

You glance toward the counter. Felix is absolutely watching. “Probably write about it in his next customer newsletter.”

“Worth it.”

You kick Seungcheol lightly under the table. He nudges back, grinning. There’s a softness to his grin now. He’s not just amused; he’s grateful. You catch the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his thumb taps idly on the side of his mug like it wants to be touching you instead.

You pretend to read something on your screen. Seungcheol pretends to work on his edit. It’s mostly an excuse to sit in your shared silence, warm and companionable.

It’s not official. No brass plaque. No velvet rope. But it’s understood. It’s set in stone.

You’re the vision of calm control.

Every morning at 6:45 a.m., like clockwork, you sweep into the downtown fitness complex with your pastel wrap-top tied neatly at the waist and your hair twisted into a ballerina bun so tight it could survive a storm. You drink your matcha through a glass straw. You carry your mat like it’s an accessory. Your shoes are spotless, your voice is melodic, and your posture is the kind that makes people instinctively stand taller when you pass by.

You glide into your reformer pilates studio with the serenity of someone who’s mastered both her breath and her boundaries. Former ballet prodigy turned core activation coach, you teach five reformer sessions a day—each one a display of elegance, intensity, and razor-sharp muscle control. Your clients both adore and fear you. You have the kind of presence that makes people fix their own form before you even say a word. When you do correct them, it’s precise, polite, and just pointed enough to sting.

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t sweat. You don't slouch. You float. And online? You’re even worse. Your Instagram is a minimalist’s dream: toned arms on reformers in golden lighting, skin like silk, cryptic captions. Every third post is a quote in muted beige serif.

You’re elegant. Controlled. Inkless. A vision of untouched skin and core stability.

But lately, your control is being tested.

By him.

He’s not like the others at the gym.

You first noticed him three months ago. It was leg day for him, glutes and inner thighs for you. You were coaching a private session—soft music playing, aromatherapy diffusing gently from the wall—and then: A thud. A guttural grunt. The sharp, echoing clang of 140kg hitting the floor like war drums.

He was lifting right outside your studio window.

Tank top soaked. Forearms vascular. Hood up. Headphones in. He never looked around. Never checked his form in the mirror. He just moved with raw, thunderous efficiency. Quads like carved stone. Tattoos crawling up his arms and peeking out from his neckline—dark, mythic things that looked like they were alive.

At first, you were annoyed. He disrupted the peace. You had to close the door to keep your clients focused. His grunts threw off your cadence.

Then you started watching.

The first time he took off his hoodie mid-set, you caught a flash of the ink across his back—two black dragons twisted together in an ouroboros loop, scales razor-fine and smoke curling over his spine. You stared longer than you meant to. Long enough to miss a cue in your own session. Long enough to have to repeat it.

You looked him up that night.

Seo Changbin.

Co-owner of NO SAINT INK—a notoriously hard-to-book, high-end tattoo studio. His pieces? Blackwork. Ornamental. Gothic.

He did ink like it was cathedral architecture. Intricate beasts. Baroque rib cages. Sacred geometry that bled into chaos at the edges. He played with negative space and muscle flow like a sculptor. There were rumors he did some biomech and anatomical fusion work too—stuff that made it look like your bones were crawling up your skin.

He only took on clients by referral. He didn’t do walk-ins. And he never, ever did colour.

He never looked at you.

Three months of the same schedule. You, in your silk-press pastel perfection. Him, in his dark gymwear and smudged chalk palms. You passed each other in the hallway sometimes. He never said a word.

Until the day you snapped.

You were mid-session with a new client—she was struggling with core control, every breath shallow, every motion tense—and there he was again. Deadlifting to the tempo of a war anthem. Slamming weights like gravity owed him something.

You stepped outside, hands on hips, breathing through your nose.

“Some of us are trying to center, not detonate.”

He paused mid-lift. Turned. Pulled out one earbud. A beat. A smirk.

Then: “Want me to show you how to really activate your core?”

And then he turned back to his barbell like it was nothing.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You’d never been so simultaneously furious and flustered in your life. After that, he started showing up earlier. Lifting closer. Watching your warmups from the squat rack. Making comments.

“You know, your foot arch collapses on your second lunge set.” “Your glute engagement’s solid. You ever load it?”

And then one day—after a particularly intense set of weighted split squats—you sat down on your mat, breathless and sweaty, and saw him watching you through the mirror. Just... watching.

When you looked back, he only said: “You’ve got perfect spine alignment.”

And walked away.

You told yourself it was nothing. You weren’t interested. You were focused. He was chaos. Loud. Covered in ink. Rough around the edges. You were all about precision and peace. You weren’t even into tattoos.

...Except lately, you’d been thinking about them.

About what it would feel like to have his hands on your skin—not in the gym, but in that studio you’d stalked online a hundred times. About the fine-line blackwork on his clients’ ribs. The sacred geometry down their thighs. The way he seemed to carve stories into people. You started wondering what he’d draw for you. What he’d see in you.

And one day, without thinking, you murmured: “I’ve got a clean canvas.”

And he’d grinned. “You ever wanna ruin it—come find me.”

You’re standing in front of it.

NO SAINT INK.

You grip your tote bag tighter, heart jackhammering beneath your zip-up. You can’t believe you actually booked this. You’d pulled every favour, begged one of your fitness clients to refer you. You filled out the intake form, submitted references, proof of healing care, even a fucking aesthetic moodboard. You never expected to get approved.

And yet… Here you are.

You glance at your phone one last time. The design you sent him glows on the screen: A fine-line ornamental dagger wrapped in black lace. Minimalist. Symmetrical. Inspired by the old ballet blades you used to train with in theater. You asked for placement on your ankle—something graceful but a little dangerous, hidden unless you chose to show it.

Finally, you move inside the studio and the scent hits you: vetiver, eucalyptus, ink. The kind of clean that hums with sterility—but underneath it, warmth. Masculine warmth. Leather and musk.

And then—

“OH SHIT—PILATES BARBIE MADE AN APPOINTMENT?”

You blink.

Behind the desk, crouched in an ergonomic chair with wheels and way too much energy, is a messy-haired, coffee-chugging creature. Han Jisung.

He is nothing like Changbin.

Where Changbin is broad, silent menace, Han is chaos in a hoodie. He’s wearing socks with avocados on them and a smirk that says he knows exactly how much your blood pressure just spiked.

You try to keep your voice neutral. “I have a 2PM with Changbin.”

“OH you do, do you?” He spins dramatically in his chair. “Chan-hyung! Bro! Pilates Princess has entered the temple!”

From behind the wall, you hear a deep, amused voice. One that sends a traitorous ripple down your spine.

“Be nice, Jisung-ah.”

Enter Bang Chan, who appears wearing all black, a beanie, and the warmest smile known to man. He’s muscle and honey—sharp arms, soft voice. And somehow, despite your anxiety, he makes you feel like you just got wrapped in a weighted blanket.

“Hey. You must be…?”

“She’s Miss Breath Control,” Han chimes. "As Changbin says of course.”

You ignore him.

“Yes. 2PM. With Changbin.”

Chan nods, warm and non-threatening. “He’s finishing up a back piece right now. Should be out in five. You can sit if you want—or look around.”

You sit. Which is insane, because your legs never shake and now they’re doing a little wobble dance beneath the stool. You try to sip water but miss your mouth and curse under your breath.

Han watches all of this with way too much joy. “You want some calming tea? Or, like, whiskey?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure? You’re gripping that water bottle like it owes you money.”

You take a deep breath. Count to four. Exhale through your core. Then: “Don’t you have something to sterilize?”

“I do, but watching you try not to panic is a lot more fun.”

Before you can respond, there’s movement in the hallway. Boots. Heavy steps. You know it’s him before you see him. He steps out of the back studio like he owns the whole fucking planet.

Changbin.

All black, sleeves rolled, dark tattoo gloves still half-on. A sleeveless muscle tee clings to his chest, neck shimmering slightly from exertion. His jaw is tight. His lips are flushed. His hair’s pulled back in a half-tied knot that makes you irrationally angry. His arms are covered in fresh ink smudges. And his eyes? Locked right on you.

The world narrows.

“You came,” he says. Not a question. A statement. Like he knew you would.

You nod.

He gestures with a tilt of his chin, lazy and deliberate. “Come on back.”

The moment you step into his space, and sit down on the tattoo chair you simply go still. You’ve been in control of your body your whole life. Every breath, every joint, every limb—trained, refined, disciplined. You know how to hold your spine like a prayer and your voice like a blade. You’ve never fidgeted in a professional setting.

So why are you perched on a leather tattoo chair with your hands folded tight in your lap like a chastised schoolgirl?

Because the room smells like ink and amber and him. Because there’s bass-heavy music playing low through the built-in speakers—wordless, sultry, like the kind of thing you’d move your hips to if he ever pressed you against a wall. Because Seo Changbin is leaning over his iPad, reviewing your submission with a furrowed brow and one ringed hand cradling his jaw.

You’re trying not to hold your breath as he scrolls. Then he glances up at you, eyes sharp but unreadable. But then, his mouth twitches—almost a smile and he turns the iPad to you.

“Here’s what I designed.”

Your breath catches. It’s yours—but not. It’s alive.

He’s taken the dagger and curved it slightly, so it follows the natural line of your ankle and rises just a little up the calf. The blade’s body is woven with the lace, yes—but his lace moves. It ripples like real fabric, and within its folds are secret things: a single rosebud at the hilt. A glint of barbed wire hidden in the shadows. He’s added a moon crest at the base—almost imperceptible—and along the edge of the dagger, in the subtlest script: tempus vincit omnia.

“Time conquers all,” he translates, before you can ask.

You blink. You don’t remember putting that in your references.

“It felt like you,” he says, gaze holding yours. “You act like you’re untouched. But your silence says otherwise.”

You should say something. Anything. But your throat is dry. The room is warm. His voice is velvet dipped in command. And the way he’s looking at you now—eyes flickering down to your ankle, then up to your mouth—is not professional.

“May I see the placement?” he asks.

You nod, because you’re a coward. A good one.

You slowly pull your pant leg up, exposing your bare ankle, the pale skin taut from crossed legs and tension. He crouches in front of you, rolls his stool close, and gently sets the iPad aside.

“Pretty canvas,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Your pulse jumps.

He slips on a fresh glove, snaps it into place. The sound is surgical, threatening, hot.

Then he touches you.

His fingers are firm but slow, tilting your foot, angling your leg just right. He’s completely focused. One hand on your arch, the other gently brushing your ankle bone.

“This spot will hurt a little,” he says, glancing up. “But you’re good at pain, aren’t you?”

You want to say yes. Want to say show me. Instead you say: “I breathe through it.”

“Good girl.”

You flinch. Not from the words—but from how good they feel.

He doesn’t apologize.

He rises to his feet and starts prepping the stencil, moving around the room with focused precision. Gloves. Transfer paper. Sanitary wipes. Ink tray. You sit there, skin buzzing, ankle still tingling from his touch, wondering how the fuck you’re supposed to survive this session.

He moves like he’s done this a thousand times. Because he has. Stencil fluid. Gauze. He lays out everything on the side tray with quiet precision, occasionally glancing your way like he’s clocking your posture, your breath, your jitters.

He doesn’t talk unless it’s necessary. No showmanship. No dramatics. Just work.

You respect that. You also kind of want to bite your lip off because the tension is unbearable.

He crouches again beside your ankle, wiping the area clean with clinical care. The alcohol is cold, startling. You inhale through your nose, quietly.

He notices. “Still good?”

You nod.

“You sure?” He glances up. His brows are slightly lifted. Not teasing—checking.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Alright.” He holds the stencil in one hand, then gestures with his other. “I’m gonna press this on now. Just stay relaxed. Let your leg fall natural.”

You obey.

When he applies the stencil, it’s methodical. He rolls it from heel to calf, smoothing it into place with both thumbs, then steps back to check alignment. He adjusts your foot slightly. Tilts your knee. Scans the angle. Then he nods to himself and grabs the handheld mirror from the cart.

“Take a look. Tell me if anything feels off.”

You lean forward, lift the mirror—

—and freeze.

It’s perfect.

The dagger curves with your bone like it was meant to be there. The lace hugs the dip above your heel. The little Latin script rests just where your Achilles flares. Somehow, it’s sharp and delicate at the same time.

You don’t speak right away.

So he does. “You hate it?”

“I—what? No. It’s perfect.”

He hums under his breath. Like he knew. But he gives you space. “Alright. If you’re good, I’ll get set up.”

You nod again, a little too quickly. He moves back to his cart.

Machine. Cartridge. Ink caps.

The buzz of the tattoo gun doesn’t startle you like you thought it would. But the sound of it? It changes something in the air. The room goes quiet except for that hum.

He settles beside you again on the rolling stool, anchoring your foot with a towel. He sets your ankle on a support, angles it just right. The touch is firm but careful.

Then he looks at you. Straight-on. Steady.

“I’m gonna start with the outline. We’ll go slow. You tell me if anything feels weird, alright?”

“Okay.”

“Last chance to tap out.”

“Do it.”

His mouth twitches again. A small curve. A breath of something smug.

“Tough girl.”

Then the machine kicks on.

And the first needle hits skin.

You inhale sharp through your nose. Fuck. You knew it would sting, but it’s different than you expected. Not unbearable. Not sharp like glass. More like a scratch that keeps going—a hot drag along nerve endings that wakes up everything. You exhale. Count. Re-center.

“Breathe through it,” you murmur out loud, mostly to yourself.

His voice is quiet. Low. Unshakably calm.

“You’re doing great.”

He keeps working.

The dagger begins to take shape—delicate linework up the edge of your ankle, the fine curve of the hilt tucked beneath your calf. You don’t look at him, but you feel him—close, focused, his forearm braced gently across your leg as he works in deliberate strokes.

It’s intimate in a way you didn’t expect.

Not sexual. Not yet. But close. Controlled. Charged.

After a few minutes, he speaks again—quiet but with a grin in his voice this time.

“Still breathing?”

“Barely.”

“Good. I’d hate to lose you halfway through.”

You snort under your breath. “You’d lose your best linework.”

“Exactly.” Beat. “Wouldn’t look right on anyone else anyway.”

That makes your chest stutter.

You don’t reply. Not out loud. But you shift slightly in the chair—tense. Hot. And he knows it.

He keeps working.

You hear the buzz. You feel the heat. The pain is low-key addictive now—every new line something you earn. And through it all, Changbin stays steady. Anchored. The perfect storm of pressure, skill, and focus.

But, you've had enough of the silence, especially with how it was stretching and so, you decided to break it.

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Tattooing?” His thumb brushes against the arch of your foot to hold it steady. “Seven years. Shop’s been open for four.”

“Always wanted to do it?”

“Nah.” He leans back for a second, wipes the needle tip. “Thought I’d be a strength coach. Maybe gym ownership. Did some personal training for a while.”

“That checks out.” You glance down at his forearm, thick and corded with muscle, tattoos crawling up to his elbow like they’re trying to escape.

“Yeah?” he says, smirking faintly. “You profile every guy who squats heavy during your classes?”

“Only the ones who grunt like they’re in labor.”

That earns a real laugh—short, rich, warm.

“Okay, Pilates Princess. Maybe I do get dramatic when it’s above four plates.”

“You were scaring my client.”

“She was on a reformer. She couldn’t hear anything over the sound of her own smug exhale.”

You bite back a smile.

“Still. You disrupted the chi.”

“And you walked out in pastel spandex and told me I was ‘rupturing lungs.’ What was I supposed to do? Not flirt back?”

Your breath catches slightly. But he doesn’t press it. He just goes back to work—steady hand, eyes trained on your ankle. The air feels charged now, though. Like he lit a match and pretended he didn’t.

“What about you?” he asks after a beat. “Always been a reformer girl?”

You shrug. “Ballet background. Dance conditioning led to pilates. I got addicted to the structure.”

“Makes sense.” His eyes flick up briefly. “You’re precise. Can tell you move from control.”

You swallow. His tone isn’t teasing anymore—it’s… observant. Real. And something in your chest flutters uncomfortably.

“Is that your polite way of saying I’m uptight?”

“Not even close.” He sits back, stretches his wrist slightly, and looks at you fully. “Uptight’s when someone can’t bend. You?” He tilts his head. “You bend perfectly. You just don’t like anyone else touching the steering wheel.”

Your breath skips. You don’t answer right away. Not because you don’t know what to say—but because he’s right.

So you redirect. Softly.

“Why ‘No Saint’? The name.”

He taps the foot pedal, stops the buzz, and wipes your ankle clean with firm, slow strokes. It gives you a moment to breathe again—but not enough.

“Because I don’t pretend to be anything I’m not.”

You blink. That was… blunt. Honest. A little dark. He continues, eyes down now.

“We don’t bullshit clients. We don’t sell fake sentiment. No ‘live laugh love’ tattoos unless they’re ironic. No fake wisdom. No trends we know you’ll regret in two years.”

“Just pain and permanence,” you murmur.

“Exactly.” He smirks faintly. “No saints here. Just ink, heat, and choice.”

The silence that follows is thick. Comfortable. But hot. Like both of you are aware how close this is to something more.

He leans in again, machine humming softly back to life.

“You’re doing good, by the way,” he says. Quieter now. “Most people twitch by now.”

“I’m not most people.”

“I’m starting to believe that.”

He inks another line—this one along the edge of the dagger, right where your skin thins over bone. It burns—but you hold steady.

“Let’s finish the outline.” he suddenly says.

The session lasted

just under two hours.

You hadn’t realized how long it had been until the buzz finally stopped and the silence rolled in like a warm wave. You feel boneless. Drenched in adrenaline and restraint. Your ankle stings, wrapped delicately in breathable film. Your body feels too warm for the room. And your head? Light. Fuzzy. Like the space between flirtation and freefall.

Changbin strips off his gloves, tosses them, and wipes down the station with clinical precision. He hasn’t said much since finishing. Just the usual post-tat routine—cleaning, wrapping, murmured instructions.

But his eyes? They keep sliding to you.

You slip your sock on halfway and tug your pant leg back down carefully, wincing a little.

“Still good?” he asks, finally looking up.

“More than good.”

He gives a small nod. Like he expected that answer. Like he knew you’d handle it.

You grab your bag and follow him out to the front. The air outside the studio room hits colder, sharper. You suddenly remember there are other people in this building.

The first one you see? Han Jisung. Eating fucking pineapple chunks out of a plastic deli cup with a tiny fork. He looks up from his stool like he’s been watching through the glass wall the entire time.

“Well, well, look who survived the blade.”

“She didn’t just survive,” Changbin says, rounding the desk and tapping something on the iPad. “She was better than half the regulars who talk big and cry during linework.”

“You cried during your own hand tat,” Han mutters under his breath, chewing.

From the side sofa, another head pops up.

Felix. Wearing an oversized hoodie, sipping juice from a literal juice box. His legs are tucked under him like a kid at a sleepover. He doesn’t say anything, just raises his brows meaningfully—and takes a long, slow sip.

You blink at the scene. “...Do you guys always just lurk out here eating kindergarten snacks?”

“We’re moral support,” Felix chirps, straw still in his mouth.

“We’re witnesses,” Han adds, tossing a pineapple chunk in the air and catching it. “To whatever this vibe is.”

“What vibe?” Changbin asks, not even blinking.

Han points at you. Then at him.

“This VIBE. The quiet storm flirting. The ‘good girl’ energy. The tension so thick I had to put on noise-canceling headphones to avoid getting secondhand arousal—”

“Jisung.” Changbin cuts him off, finally looking up from the counter.

His tone is sharp, low. The kind that says drop it before I kill you.

You try not to laugh. You fail.

“It’s fine,” you say, waving a hand. “I’m used to being analyzed by men eating pineapple.”

“Icon,” Felix whispers around his juice box.

Changbin finally sighs and turns back to you, handing over a printed aftercare sheet, folded neatly.

“Info’s all on there. Product list, wash instructions, what to look out for.”

“Got it.” You slip it into your bag. Your hand brushes his. Just barely. But you both feel it.

He doesn’t step back.

Doesn’t break eye contact either.

“Listen,” he says casually, voice lower. “If you ever need touch-ups, or... if you’re thinking of something else—” His eyes flick down, briefly, to your throat, then back up. “You can text me directly.”

“I figured appointments went through the website?”

“They do.”

A beat.

“But you don’t have to.”

Your throat is suddenly dry. You arch a brow—curious. Just enough sass to stay in control. “You giving your number to all your clients now?”

“Just the ones who breathe through pain and still flirt back.”

Felix chokes on his juice. Han makes a strangled sound that might be applause.

You blink. Then slowly, slowly smirk. “Fine,” you say. “What’s your number?”

He rattles it off. You type it in. Save it under NO SAINT. He glances at your screen. “That what you’re calling me?”

“What would you prefer?”

“Something you’ll actually say when you’re out of breath.”

Han falls off his stool. Literally. Felix wheezes so hard his straw pops out of the juice box. Changbin doesn’t even flinch. He just leans on the counter, arms crossed, watching you like you’re a puzzle he already knows how to solve.

You match his look. Slowly. “We’ll see.”

And with that, you turn and walk out.

After the tattoo, you saw him more. It started small that is.

At first, it’s coincidence—he’s back to lifting heavy in the gym at odd hours, same as always. But now he nods at you when you pass. A real nod. Eyes meeting. A corner-of-the-mouth smile that makes your stomach flip. Sometimes he’s got one AirPod in instead of two. Sometimes he lingers near the cable station while you’re on the mat. Never interrupting. Just... there.

The first actual post-tat interaction happens five days after your session.

You’re foam rolling in the stretching area, ankle still healing but mostly fine, and he walks by, glances down, and says: “Looks good.”

You raise a brow. “You spying on my ankle now?”

“Just checking my work.”

Pause.

“And maybe looking at your calf.”

You try to look unimpressed. You fail. He sits beside you and starts stretching his hamstrings without being asked. Doesn’t make a move. Just talks.

That becomes routine.

Short check-ins after workouts. Training tips you didn’t ask for but secretly appreciate. You realize he knows exactly how to adjust your form without crowding you. He never overcorrects. Never touches you without asking. And yet he always makes sure you’re safe, balanced, stable.

“Switch feet. You’re compensating on your left.” “You’ve been clenching your jaw all set. Breathe it out.” “I’ll spot you if you’re going heavier today.”

You stop correcting him eventually. Mostly because he’s right.

Then it shifts again. You start texting. It begins with questions about the tattoo. Aftercare check-ins. A meme he sends about gym people and their insane emotional attachments to water bottles.

Then you start sending him playlists.

He makes you one in return. It’s all bass-heavy, slow-burn, mostly instrumental tracks with names like “Pulse,” “Drive,” “Bend,” and one ominously titled “Repetition is Power.”

You: that one sounds kinky Him: it’s about training Him: …mostly You: mmhmm

The first “hangout” isn’t even planned.

You finish a late workout and bump into him in the protein aisle at the 24hr mart across the street. You make fun of his zero sugar birthday cake-flavoured whey and he pretends not to judge your matcha collagen bar.

“I have taste,” you say, tossing it in your basket.

“Yeah,” he says, barely smiling. “I noticed.”

You walk out together. He carries your bag. Doesn’t ask. Just does it.

Then come the actual plans.

A night walk after a shared late gym session.

Coffee before your first client.

He helps you move a reformer across your studio and doesn’t leave until he’s triple-checked the bolts.

He never pushes. He never assumes. He always walks on the outside of the sidewalk.

Once, when a guy was being weird to you at the gym, Changbin didn’t say a word. Just stood nearby, arms folded, gaze flat. The guy disappeared within three minutes.

When you thank him later, he shrugs and says: “Didn’t do anything.”

Beat.

“Just let him know you weren’t alone.”

And god. That does something to you.

You kiss him the first time after he walks you home on a Friday night.

You’re buzzed off wine and safety. You say something dumb about how he always smells like cedar and sin. He huffs a laugh and says, quietly: “You can kiss me if you want.”

No pressure. Just there. Waiting.

You do.

And his hand settles on your waist like you’re glass and gold at the same time.

Before you know it, it’s weekends at your place. Your pink robe draped over his hoodie on your chair. His phone charger lives by your bed now. He shows up at your studio on your long days just to bring you food he won’t let you pay for. He tries to act casual about it but always packs your favourite matcha bar on top.

You ask him one night—half-laughing, half-serious: “Are you, like... my boyfriend now?”

He blinks. Looks at you. Then cocks his head.

“Have you been seeing someone else?”

“No?”

“Then yeah. I’m yours.”

Simple. Direct. No drama. You say, “Oh,” like you hadn’t been melting for weeks.

He smiles, real this time, all warm teeth and soft boy. “Been yours since you sat in that chair.”

And the worst part? This dark, brooding, tattooed menace of a man? He’s so goddamn respectful it makes your head spin.

Doesn’t touch you in the gym unless you ask.

Always asks before kissing you.

Has literally said, “Tell me what you want. I won’t ever take it without hearing you say it.”

Brings your water bottle to your side when you forget it.

Traces your healing tattoo at night and whispers, “Still my best work.”

You’re doomed. You’re soft. You’re so, so fucked.

Your apartment is warm. Cozy. Too quiet.

The lights are low, and the vanilla-coconut candle you forgot to blow out is making everything smell like sweet skin and summer.

Changbin’s duffel bag is unzipped at the edge of your bed—lined with velvet wraps and steel trays, black gloves and sterilized ink cartridges. He brought the full setup, just like you asked. No studio. No distractions. Just you, him, and the blank canvas of your back.

You’re kneeling on the bed in nothing but soft shorts and your hair twisted up with a clip. Your top is already off, folded beside you. Between your hands is a pillow, hugged tight, just to ground yourself. Because the nerves are real now.

You wanted this design for weeks. Something elegant. Subtle. Yours.

A spine-length blackwork symbol—two mirrored crescent moons interwoven with minimalist wings. You told him it was about balance. About letting go.

You didn’t tell him it was also about him.

He’s behind you now, sterilizing your skin. His touch is clinical. Careful. But it burns anyway.

“You still sure about the placement?” he asks, voice low. Even. But there’s something underneath. A quiet strain.

“Dead sure.”

He hums. “Alright.” You hear the snap of gloves. The whir of the stencil printer. Your heart pounds in your chest like it’s trying to warn you.

Then—he’s back. His hands ghost over your spine. “I’m gonna press the stencil now. Stay still.”

You do. You try. But the moment his hands actually touch you—bare palms, gloved, strong and steady—your breath catches. The way he presses along your spine, smoothing the paper from the dip of your lower neck down to the top of your ribcage... it’s not sexual. But it’s intimate. Intense.

He pulls the paper away, and your skin tingles. “Perfect,” he says, quietly. “You want a mirror?”

“No. I trust you.”

And you mean it.

He sits back on his knees. Sets up the machine. Loads the ink. Your apartment fills with the low hum of anticipation—the buzz of something sharp and irreversible.

Then he speaks again, just above a whisper. “You ready, princess?”

You nod into the pillow. “Do it.”

And then—

The first line hits.

Sharp. Searing. Deep. Right between the blades. You hiss. Clench the pillow. Your whole body arcs. He presses gently between your shoulder and neck, grounding you.

“Breathe through it,” he murmurs, voice so soft it shouldn’t be that hot. “You know how.”

You do. You inhale through your nose. Exhale slowly. Your spine starts to relax under the pain, beneath his hand.

He works in slow, steady lines. Controlled. Ruthless. Focused.

And all you can think about is his hand anchoring you there. His knees brushing the backs of your thighs. The way his breath moves in sync with yours.

You’re soaking your pillow. Not from tears. From sweat. From heat. From want.

“You’re doing so well,” he says, after a particularly brutal curve along the left crescent. His fingers skim your waist as he shifts position. “I knew you could take it.”

“Fuck,” you breathe. “You’re evil.”

“I’m careful,” he corrects. “But I don’t go easy on you.”

You clench your thighs together. He notices.

And suddenly—there’s a shift in the air. He pauses. Sets the machine down on the tray. You feel the absence like a void.

Then: “How bad is it?” he asks. Not in concern. But curiosity. Low. Dangerous.

You don’t answer right away. So he leans down—chest brushing your back, lips at your ear. “You gonna be honest with me, or am I gonna have to pull it out of you?”

You arch into him. “It’s not the pain,” you whisper. “It’s you.”

Silence. His breath stills.

Then—

His hand glides from your waist to your inner thigh. Not high. Not filthy. Just… there.

“Then I’ll stop,” he says, voice gravel. “Because I don’t take from you when you’re not thinking straight.”

That? That ruins you.

“I am thinking straight,” you say, lifting your head slightly, panting. “I’ve been thinking about you every day since the ankle.”

He exhales. Like a man who’s been holding it in too long.

Then—he moves. One hand tilts your chin back. The other grips your waist, hard. And he kisses you. It’s slow. Deep. Tongue and teeth and restraint that’s breaking. You’re twisted half around, clutching his shoulder, kissing him like he’s already inside you.

He pulls away first. Barely. “You want to finish the tattoo?” he whispers.

“No.”

“You want something else instead?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Touch me.”

His hand is on your back again. Lower. Rougher. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

His hand lingers on your back—low, possessive—just long enough for your breath to hitch. Then, without a word, he pulls away. You blink. Your heart slams into your ribs. But then you hear it: The soft click of the tattoo machine shutting off. The rip of packaging. The squeak of gloves being stripped off and tossed.

You turn to look over your shoulder, breath caught. “Bin—?”

He’s focused. Completely. Dangerously. “Not touching you until the piece is sealed,” he mutters. “You don’t play with open wounds.”

The tone—deep, steady, commanding—makes your knees press tighter together. Your hips subtly shift, and he notices.

He always notices.

He moves behind you, silently, and you hear the rustle of him opening the dressing. The touch is clinical again, but somehow worse—cool antiseptic, gentle pat-down, sterile film peeled and smoothed into place. He’s careful. Exact. Respectful.

But when he speaks, it’s low. Ragged.

“You didn’t tap out.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You take everything I give you, huh?”

Your stomach flips. He finishes securing the dressing. Then… his hands slide down your sides. Slow. Worshipful. Possessive.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Now I can touch you.”

You barely have time to inhale before he grabs your hips—firm, final—and pulls you onto your hands and knees in the center of the bed.

“Stay like that,” he says, voice rough now, all velvet and gravel. “I want to look at you.”

You gasp as his palm glides over your curve, down the back of your thigh, up again to your waist. He doesn’t rush. He explores. “You have any idea what you do to me?” he mutters, more to himself. “All that control. That calm. That perfect mouth.”

You whimper. He smiles.

“You sound pretty now.”

He shifts behind you. Kneels. You hear his hoodie hit the floor. The telltale sound of his belt unbuckling. Then: a hand at the base of your spine, gently pressing.

“Arch for me, baby.”

You do. Of course you do. And when you feel the heat of him against your inner thigh—bare skin, hard and heavy—you moan into the pillow.

“Changbin—”

“Shh. Let me take care of you.”

And then he’s there.

One hand anchored at your hip. The other between your thighs, inside your shorts. Touching, teasing, sliding his digits through your wetness with a growl low in his chest.

“Fucking soaked,” he mutters. “You been thinking about this?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—”

“How long?”

“Since the first tattoo.”

“You should’ve said something.”

“Would you have stopped?”

“Not a fucking chance.”

He sinks two fingers in—slow, deep, curling like he knows what you need. Your hips jerk. He holds you still.

“There. Right there. That’s it.”

You gasp, high-pitched and shaking, and he groans—the sound wrecked and reverent.

“You’re gonna let me fuck you like this?” he asks. “Face down, ink fresh, all mine?”

“Yes—yes, Changbin, please—”

He groans, deep in his chest, and stills his fingers inside you.

Then his voice drops.

“Baby… I don’t think you can take me yet.”

You freeze. Pulse stuttering. “Wh-what?”

He leans in. Mouth right at your ear. “You’re already clenching just around my fingers. So tight. So sensitive. You think you can handle all of me without being stretched out first?”

You whimper. He smiles.

“No rush,” he whispers, like a fucking gentleman. “I’ll get you there.”

And then—

He hooks his fingers deeper, hits that spot just right, and your whole body arches.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your shoulder. “That’s it. Let me open you up.”

He keeps his fingers inside you as he shifts—kneels upright behind you.

His free hand drags down your lower back. Then to the waistband of your shorts.

And in one slow, deliberate motion he pulls down your shorts and panties in a single, fluid move.

They slide off your hips. Past your thighs. Down your calves. He tosses them aside like they’re in the way, and fuck, maybe they are.

Because now your ass is bare. Your thighs are trembling. And your cunt? Leaking around his fingers. Dripping onto the sheets.

“So fucking pretty,” he growls, behind you now, stroking one hand down your ass. “I should’ve had you like this weeks ago.”

You try to lift your head. Say something clever. You fail. He scissors his fingers slightly—just enough stretch to make you squirm.

“You like being opened up like this, baby?”

“Yes—oh fuck—yes—”

“Say it.”

“I like being stretched out—please, please, Changbin—”

“That’s my girl.”

He slides a third finger in.

You gasp—hips jerking, legs shaking—and he moans like he can feel it too.

“Shit,” he pants, fucking you slow and deep. “You’re so tight, baby. I can feel your pussy fluttering around me. You’re gonna lose your mind when I give you cock.”

Your hands claw at the pillow beneath you. Your thighs are soaked. And still—he’s patient. Focused. Wrecking you with just his fingers because he knows exactly how this ends.

“Almost there,” he breathes. “Just a little more.”

You whimper, spine bowed, thighs spread wide as his fingers thrust deeper—slow, deliberate, curling into that sweet, molten spot that makes your vision go white.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and silk. “You feel that?”

You choke out a sound—something helpless. Shaky. Wrecked.

“You’re so close. You’re right fucking there.”

His fingers drag out, just enough to tease your entrance—then slam back in, curling sharp and precise. You cry out, hips jolting. His hand tightens, holding you still. “Don’t run from it,” he growls, low and possessive. “You’re gonna take it.”

He starts pumping—harder, faster, each stroke brutal in its precision. The wet sound of your cunt echoes in the room, obscene, soaked, desperate.

“You’re dripping, baby,” he pants. “This pussy’s begging.”

You’re gasping now—broken, breathless.

And then—

He does that. That perfect drag of his fingers against your front wall, again and again, exactly where it hurts so good you see stars.

Your arms buckle. You collapse onto the pillow, face down, sobbing his name into the sheets.

“That’s it,” he whispers, leaning over you now, breath hot against your shoulder. “Give it to me. Cum on my fingers, baby.”

And you do.

It rips through you—sudden, full-body, violent. Your pussy clenches tight around his fingers, locking him in as your orgasm explodes behind your ribs, sparks down your spine, tears from your throat.

“Fuck—yes,” he groans, rutting gently against your thigh. “God, you’re so fucking pretty like this.”

You’re sobbing. Boneless. Cunt still fluttering. Thighs sticky. And he just keeps moving—slowing his fingers now, easing you down from the edge like he lives in your body.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Breathe. I got you.”

He pulls out with a wet sound, dragging his soaked fingers down your thigh before pulling away entirely.

You collapse, limp, twitching. “Changbin—”

“Shh. You did so good.”

You hear him kiss your lower back, just above the bandage.

Then—

A low whisper. “You think that was good?”

“Mmnh…”

“Baby… I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

His voice is molten.

You’re still on all fours, trembling, thighs slick, cunt fluttering with aftershocks—but the second he says it, something inside you tightens. You feel the heat of him shift behind you. The heavy weight of his cock brushes your thigh, then—lower.

“Gonna let me in now?” he murmurs, running his fingers up your spine, pausing just at the bandage. “Gonna take all of me?”

“Yes… please,” you breathe, voice cracking. “I can take it. I need it—”

He hums.

“You say that…” he mutters, guiding the thick head of his cock between your folds, sliding it through your soaked pussy—teasing, rubbing, spreading your slick. “But this pussy’s still so fucking tight, baby.”

He rocks forward, just enough to nudge your entrance. You whimper.

“So swollen. So wet. You’re still twitching for me,” he groans, dragging his tip up to your clit, then back down to your dripping hole. “You really want it?”

“Please—Changbin, please, give it to me—”

“Say it.”

“Fuck me.”

He stills—tip poised. Breathing heavy. Then—slowly. Deliberately. He pushes in. The stretch is brutal. You cry out, loud and raw, fists bunching in the sheets as he splits you open—inch by inch, so deep you can feel him in your throat.

“Oh my—fuck—Changbin—”

“That’s it,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Take it, baby. Just like that.”

He doesn’t slam. Doesn’t rush. He sinks. One hand gripping your hip, the other spreading your ass to watch himself disappear inside you—slow, steady, until he’s buried to the hilt.

“God—so tight—” he growls, grinding once, deep and heavy. “Can feel every twitch.”

You’re panting. Shaking. Jaw slack.

“Too much?” he whispers.

“N-no—no, I just—fuck—you’re big—”

“But you’re taking it,” he says, teeth clenched. “Look at you. So good for me. This pussy was made for it.”

He pulls back—slowly, almost out—then slams back in. You scream. He starts to move. Long, deep thrusts. Not fast. Just full. Every time he pulls back, you clench. Every time he drives in, you cry out.

“You feel that, baby?” he grunts, rutting into you harder now. “That stretch? That burn?”

“Yes—yes—Changbin—oh my god—”

“You’re doing so fucking well,” he pants. “Letting me ruin you like this. Letting me fuck you open.”

He changes angle—hips slanted, cock pressing right there, that spot that makes your body jerk uncontrollably.

Your moans turn frantic. “Oh fuck—there—right there—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

He grins, all teeth and sweat and dark fire. “You’re not going anywhere.”

He grabs your waist with both hands and fucks into you like he owns you. Harder. Deeper. The bed creaks beneath you. Your skin is slick with sweat. Your throat is raw from moaning.

“So fucking tight—so fucking perfect—”

“Changbin—I’m gonna—”

“Do it.”

His hand slips around your waist—fingers circling your clit with deadly precision. “Cum on my cock.”

You shatter.

Your whole body spasms, clenching so tight around him he growls, hips stuttering as you fall apart—loud, sobbing, ruined beneath him.

“That’s it,” he growls, breath hot against your shoulder. “Just like that. Look how fucking good you cum for me.”

You collapse forward, shaking. Chest to the bed. Hips high. You’re twitching—overstimulated, dripping, wrecked.

And he keeps moving.

His hand stays between your thighs, fingers slick and steady, rubbing your clit in slow, relentless circles while he grinds his cock in deep, lazy thrusts.

“Too much?” he murmurs, smug.

“Y-yes—no—fuck—I don’t—”

“You don’t want it to stop,” he finishes for you, dragging his cock out slow, then slamming it back in so deep your breath catches.

“You want to cry and cum at the same time, huh?”

You sob. It’s too much. It’s perfect.

Then—

His arm snakes around your torso. Tight. Possessive. And in one fluid motion, he pulls you up. Your back flush to his chest. Your knees spread. His cock still buried inside you, filling you completely.

“Stay open for me,” he growls into your ear, biting your shoulder. “Let me fuck you like this.”

He starts to thrust.

Hard. Upward. Precise. His thighs slap against the backs of yours as you whimper, your whole body rolling with the rhythm. His free hand comes up to your throat—choking you—while the other slips between your legs again.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, fingers stroking your clit again, gentle but devastating. “But you’re still taking it.”

“I can’t—I—”

“You can. You are.”

“It’s too much—”

“You love it,” he growls, voice low and filthy. “You love being fucked dumb. You love when I use you like this.”

You’re sobbing now. Raw. Clenching down hard around him with every thrust.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he whispers between gritted teeth. “So fucking good for me. Letting me ruin you like this. Letting me make this pussy mine.”

Your head drops against his shoulder. Your mouth hangs open.

“What’s wrong, princess?” he teases, rutting deeper. “Cock too big? Can’t think? Can’t breathe?”

“N-no—fuck—don’t stop—”

“Didn’t plan to.”

He pulls your hips down harder, fucking into you deep, pushing you up his cock like you owe him something.

“You’re gonna cum again,” he snarls. “Right here. In my arms. While I stuff you full.”

“Changbin—please—I’m gonna—”

“Fucking do it.”

He rolls his hips—rubbing your clit, dragging his cock against every oversensitive nerve—and you scream.

Your body jerks. Tightens. Breaks. You cum again. Harder. Hotter. Your legs give out and he holds you through it, fucking you through the tremors like he needs it.

“Good girl,” he whispers, wrecked. “So fucking good. That’s it. Let go. Give it to me.”

He thrusts once—twice—then slams in deep and stays there, cock pulsing inside you as he cums, hot and thick, hips jerking as he buries himself to the base.

You’re both panting. Shaking.

He keeps you pressed to his chest—his hands soothing now, stroking your stomach, your thighs, your sore hips.

“Still breathing?” he whispers, voice soft now.

“Barely.”

He smiles. Kisses your temple.

“My good fucking girl.”

Your body’s still trembling—completely wrecked, dazed, flushed head to toe—and yet somehow, he’s still inside you.

Still deep. Still full. Still warm.

His arms wrap around you like armor, like he’s trying to hold all your shattered pieces together with just the weight of his body and the steadiness of his breath.

“Easy,” he murmurs, mouth at your jaw, a kiss at your temple. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

You shift—just barely—and it makes you both whimper. The overstimulation is insane, but the way he’s cradling you? You never want to leave.

“You okay?”

“Mhmm.”

“Want me to pull out?”

“Not yet.”

He smiles—soft, barely-there—and stills completely. You feel the twitch of him inside you, spent but still thick, locked in place with your body pulsing gently around him.

“You’re so warm,” he breathes. “Fuck.”

You don’t even respond. Just exist against him—your back to his chest, legs tucked under you, his arms rubbing circles into your hips and lower belly like it’s instinct. Like his entire nervous system is wired to soothe you.

His lips graze the side of your neck. “You’re okay,” he whispers again. “You did so good. So good for me, baby.” He stays like that for a while—just holding you. One hand finding yours to lace fingers together. The other gently petting your thigh. When he finally does pull out—slow, careful—you both groan at the emptiness. He catches your body before it slumps, scoops you up, and lays you flat on the bed like you’re made of glass.

And then? Instant Softie Binnie™ activates. He disappears for ten seconds and comes back with a warm towel. A bottle of water. A hoodie. Socks. You blink, dazed, as he gently nudges your legs apart to clean you up—apologizing every time you flinch.

“I know, baby, I know… almost done…”

“You’re fussing,” you murmur, voice all ruined and raw.

“Of course I am,” he scoffs, bundling you up in the hoodie like it’s sacred. “You just took all of me. You’re not lifting a finger for the next two hours.”

“Bossy.”

“You like it.”

And god help you—you do.

He climbs into bed next to you, wraps you up in his arms like he’s claiming territory. Kisses your temple, your shoulder, the bandaged spot between your shoulder blades.

Then he murmurs, right against your skin: “Let's continue that masterpiece on your back, hm?”

That night? Changed everything.

Now your ankle isn’t just tattooed—it’s claimed. And your shoulder blades? A growing canvas he touches like a promise. Sometimes with ink. Sometimes with hands. Sometimes with lips.

And life with Changbin? It’s a whirlwind of contradictions you can’t get enough of.

Like tonight for example. You're sitting on the padded leather bench in his private studio, wearing your usual pilates set—dusty pink, seamless, hugging every curve. You came by to “say hi,” but the way he’s been watching you?

You already know where this is going.

His chair is still pulled back from his last client. You’re leaned back on your elbows, legs slightly parted. He’s standing between them. Black tee tight across his chest. Jaw clenched. Veins up his forearms like ink trails of their own.

And then he says it. “Stand up. Turn around.”

You blink. “Why?”

He jerks his chin toward the far wall. The mirror. It spans floor to ceiling—installed originally for stencilling and symmetry. But now? You already know he’s not thinking about stencil lines. He steps behind you, hands gliding down your waist as you face the mirror. You watch his dark eyes in the reflection—hungry. Heavy. Like he’s about to devour you.

“You ever seen yourself like this?” he murmurs, lips grazing your ear.

“Like what?”

“Falling apart for me.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Because he’s already peeling your leggings down. Slowly. Worshipfully. Your sports bra goes next, tossed aside like an afterthought.

“Look,” he says. His voice has dropped—dangerous and dark. “Look at how perfect you are.”

He wraps one arm around your waist. The other slips between your thighs. Fingers teasing—barely there. “Watch me touch you.”

And you do. You see it all. His hand moving slowly. His grip tightening when your legs shake. His eyes flickering between your face and your cunt like he’s memorizing both.

“You see how wet you are for me?”

“Yes—fuck, Binnie—”

He groans—low, possessive—and sinks to his knees behind you. Your hands brace on the mirror. The first drag of his tongue up your cunt makes your reflection arch.

“That’s it,” he pants, mouth wet against your cunt. “Stay still. Let me ruin you.”

Your knees buckle. He doesn’t let you fall. You ride his mouth. You watch yourself do it. You see your face—flushed, desperate, dripping. When he stands again—hands gripping your hips, cock out and hard against your thigh—you’re already trembling.

“Ready?” he breathes, forehead to your shoulder.

“Please.”

He pushes in slow. And it’s everything. The stretch. The press. The burn. Your eyes roll back. Your reflection jerks forward against the mirror—but he grabs your wrists and holds you there.

“Look,” he whispers. “Don’t look away.”

His thrusts start slow. Deep. Deliberate. You’re crying out now—louder with each one—watching your own body shake with every drag of his cock.

“Look at you,” he growls, fucking you harder. “You don’t even know how good you look, do you?”

“Changbin—fuck—fuck—”

“You’re so tight. So fucking pretty. Look at that face. Look at what I do to you.”

The mirror fogs. Your skin shines. You’re bent over, shaking, thighs soaked, and his hand never leaves your clit.

“Gonna cum again?”

“Yes—yes—”

“Then say it. Loud. For the mirror.”

“I’m gonna cum, Changbin—fuck—I’m cumming—!”

You convulse in the glass. His name on your lips. His cock deep inside you. His hand holding your throat, eyes locked on your wrecked reflection like it’s his favourite masterpiece.

And when he cums, it’s messy. Loud. Guttural. He presses you into the mirror with one final thrust, hips jerking, sweat dripping off his jaw.

“That’s it,” he groans, still inside you. “That’s my girl. Fucking perfect.”

You both collapse. Laugh. Breathe. And when he finally helps you dress again, hands still shaking? He kisses your shoulder and whispers:

“Next time? We try the chair.”

So, after doing some thinking, you applied.

It was a long process, to say the least. There were tests you had to take, all of them online. Starting with a psychological test, then an IQ test, then a personality test. It took them a month as they asked for everything, from your family disease history to your hopes and dreams for the future.

The more data they gathered, the more detailed your profile became. You even had a few online interviews with a woman named 'Cherry' whose face you couldn't see as she was wearing some sort of mask, only her cherry red lips were visible to you.

"We will take your data into consideration and calculate the best match. Thank you for applying at Cupid Corp. We hope you find your dream lover." the woman talked in a monotone voice.

You didn't wait for too long. Only four days later, you got a package from them, inside it a round device with a screen and one button. You pressed it and when it came to life you were greeted with your match. Just his name and the percentage.

With it, you got a document that stated the location of the village as well as your house number, 14B and a ton of rules, most of them prohibiting you from talking about the activities and 'tests' inside the village as well as a 'no cellphone' rule. You thought it was kind of weird, but you didn't want to back out now. Not when you had a match with such a high number.

It can't be so hard to get it up to 100, right?

You read through all the rules, coming up to the last one.

'You and your partner are not allowed to engage in sexual activites during your stay in the village. Kissing and physical touch is fine unless it is erotic or stimulating in that sort of way. After you sign this paper, you have agreed to all the rules above and are aware that you will be filmed and monitored 24/7.'

You gulped, some kind of unease washing over you as you stared at the document. The little cupid drawing that was the company's logo looked so sweet and innocent but it didn't help the churning of your stomach. Taking a deep breath in, you grabbed you pen and signed the paper.

There is no going back now.

As soon as you entered the village through the gate, it felt like you walked right into a fairytale. The houses were all pretty pastel colors with white picked fences and gardens full of all sorts of beautiful flowers. Everything looked perfect.

The only weird thing was that you didn't see another person anywhere as you walked. It was eerily quiet, only your footsteps were echoing on the pavement and the sounds of your suitcase being dragged behind you. The village was far away from the bustling city so you couldn't hear any sound for miles.

Then you saw it, 14B, a pretty pastel blue house and you smiled to yourself, it looked so cute and cozy. Your heart suddenly skipped a beat when you noticed someone standing outside by the fence.

It was a guy close to your age, and as soon as he noticed you coming towards him, a big smile spread on his face. He waved awkwardly and you waved back as you neared him, your heart hammering in your chest. When you got closer to him, your stomach did a little flip.

He is so beautiful!, you thought as you observed his smiling face, his warm chocolate eyes, his plump heart shaped lips and all the pretty freckles adorning his skin.

"I'm Felix. Nice to meet you." he said, pleasantly shocking you with his deep voice.

"Y/n. Nice to meet you too." you smiled, your face burning up. You hoped you didn't look like an awkward tomato in front of this beautiful man, who was your match! You were already swooning over him as he helped you get your suitcase inside, dragging both of your luggage together while you looked around the garden.

"I guess this is our house." he said as the two of you walked in. You noticed right away that it was decorated in the way you wanted to decorate your dream house, a question you had to answer in one of the tests they gave you. You also noticed some knick knacks you didn't recognize, they were probably something Felix wanted to have in his house.

"They really went all out with the decorations." you said as the two of you made your way to the kitchen and Felix chuckled.

"They did." he nodded, the air between you a little awkward.

"Oh. What's this?" you noticed an envelope adressed to the both of you on the kitchen table.

You picked it up and opened it as Felix peered over your shoulder.

"Dear Felix and Y/n. Welcome to our Village of Love! We hope you enjoy your stay, no matter how short or long it is. You'll find everything you need inside your house, we hope you find it cozy and that you settle in well. Take your time to get used to your surroundings and learn a little about each other before you move onto the next phase. Tests will begin shortly. Have fun!" you read out loud before looking up and seeing a camera staring right at you, the red dot blinking.

"Tests, huh? Doesn't sound too fun." Felix said and you nodded.

"No, it doesn't." you shook your head. "Do you know anything about what happens here?"

"I have no idea. I asked a few of my friends and no one would tell me."

"Isn't that kind of suspicious?" you asked and Felix chuckled nervously, looking up at the camera.

"Aren't they like listening to us right now?" he whispered.

"I'm sure everyone who came here wondered about the program." you shrugged.

"I guess we will find out." Felix said, still being somewhat quiet as he kept eyeing the camera.

You walked over to the fridge and opened it, finding all sorts of groceries inside it, mostly your favorite food and probably Felix's.

"Hungry?" you looked back at him and as if on que, his stomach growled.

You giggled and he laughed, the sound filling up your ears and tugging at your heart.

"I'll take that as a yes. Do you wanna cook together?" you asked and he nodded eagerly.

"I'd love that." Felix answered with a sweet smile so the two of you pulled your sleeves up and washed your hands, getting ready to tackle dinner together as you maneuvered the unknown space.

"What made you decide to apply to this program? You don't seem like you'd have a problem finding a partner." you started the conversation and his cheeks became rosy as he chuckled.

"Well, I tend to fall for the wrong people. The ones who use my kindness against me. And I really don't wanna hurt anymore or just experiment and 'try' again. I want to know that I have the real deal, you know? To be sure that the person is my ride or die."

The honesty in his answer took you by surprise.

'I want my partner to always be honest with me, to tell me the truth even if it is painful.'

You remembered the line you wrote when you were asked to put down on paper everything you wanted in a partner. They had probably looked at Felix's personality test as well as yours, and the things you had written down as your dream partner, putting the two of you together that way.

Your cheeks burned as you remembered how high your percentage is. He must really be the man from your dreams which would make you the woman of his. Butterflies swarmed your stomach.

"What about you?" Felix snapped you out of your thoughts as you continued cleaning the meat.

"Oh, same. I was disappointed many times before. I just want to find someone that will feel like home." you smiled at him.

"Exactly." he agreed. "So, what do you think the tests will look like? Do you think they'll be similar to the ones we had to do while applying?"

"My guess is as good as yours. Though, I must admit I do feel a bit uneasy with all the people not being allowed to say what happened while they were here..." you trailed off, before sighing.

"Then again, they all looked so happy with their partners." you finished. "And I want that."

"Yeah, I feel a bit uneasy myself but we'll go through this together, right?" Felix gave you a shy smile and you nodded as your cheeks warmed up.

After cooking dinner and eating, you had learned a bit more about each other, finding it incredibly easy to keep the conversation going like you've already talked many times before, sharing similar viewpoints and interests. It seemed too easy and you knew that you didn't have to necessarily agree on everything or love all the same things to be a match.

There was definitely something deeper there than the superficial stuff like hobbies and favorite colors when you've already gotten to 89% without even interacting with each other.

"Should we do a tour of the house?" Felix asked when you finished cleaning up.

"Sure, let's do it." you smiled and one by one, you visited all of the rooms starting with the living room that was next to the kitchen.

"Oh, we have a tv." you pursed your lips. "I thought we weren't allowed any kind of electronics."

"I guess they thought having movie nights at home is a date we'd both enjoy." Felix pointed to all the dvds on the shelves around the tv. "We have a good collection of every genre. Skipping horror though, I'm not a fan of scary things." he visibly shivered and you chuckled a little.

"I'm fine with those." you said and Felix gasped a little.

"Well if you want us to watch horror movies together just be prepared that I will be hiding behind like five blankets and probably crying my eyes out."

"Aw, it's okay, we don't have to watch them if they scare you so much." you smiled at him, making his heart skip a beat.

"I'll watch them for you. Well, kinda watch them since I'll be under all those protective blankets."

You chuckled together before you made your way upstairs. Your heart immediately skipped a beat and a shiver ran through your entire body when you saw the bed. Of course, you were meant to sleep together in it.

Felix noticed you staring at it, both of your faces red.

"I can sleep downstairs on the couch." he said, as if reading your mind.

"No!" you said a little too quickly. "I mean, I'd feel a lot safer if you were here with me." you admitted sheepishly.

"Oh." his smile was shy. "Then I'll be here with you."

Gosh, he is so sweet!, you thought, feeling overwhelmed that such a sweet person was your very own match. Not even a day with him and he already checked so many of your boxes. You hoped he felt the same for you.

"We have separate bathrooms." Felix noted and you looked to the right to see a door labeled with your name and on the left his name.

"I think there are no cameras in there, so that's why..." he trailed off and immediately you felt your stomach doing flips. They were really making sure you don't do any funny business which was kind of understandable since everything was being filmed. But then again, why wouldn't they make a special room for the two of you? You had so many questions and any possible answer created even more questions.

The two of you then decided to unpack, the sounds of opening and closing drawers filling up the space.

"We have a backyard." Felix said as he stood by the window in your room. "And a pool."

"It looks cozy except the pool. I don't know how to swim." you confessed, shivering a little.

"Really?" Felix looked a bit surprised. "Well, I love swimming so you can sunbathe while I swim?" he added with a giggle.

"I can." you nodded. "The entire house and the neighborhood looks so nice. Which brings me to this, have you seen another person since you got here?" you asked and Felix shook his head no.

"Neither have I. Weird, huh?" you said.

Felix opened his mouth to answer but the sound the doorbell ringing frightened you both.

"Is that... someone at the door?" he lifted one eyebrow.

"Let's go check together." you stood by his side as your heart hammered in your chest.

Felix walked first and you followed behind him, peering over his shoulders as he slowly opened the door.

You were greeted by a smiling woman and man, standing somewhat similarly to you and Felix.

"Hello, sorry to bother you. I'm Gina and this is Ethan. We were paired up today and noticed we were neighbours so we just wanted to say hi."

"Oh." Felix chuckled and you visibly relaxed, now standing beside him.

"This is y/n, and I'm Felix. Nice to meet you." you all shook hands, deciding to meet up tomorrow for breakfast since the program encouraged couples who were paired up at the same time to become friends.

"You okay?" Felix asked after closing the door.

"I just can't shake off this weird feeling." you shook your head.

Felix bit on his lip, his eyes raking all over your form gently as you hugged yourself. Tentatively, he reach out and brushed his knuckles on your cheek.

"I'm sure you just need time to adjust." he smiled, and you shivered from his gentle touch, your eyes fluttering.

"Yeah. Maybe a good night's sleep is all I need."

"There you go. Positive thoughts." Felix smiled brightly, warming you up instantly.

You got ready in your separate bathrooms and you came out first, claiming your side of the bed as you sat, leaning your back against the headboard and fidgeting with your fingers. Felix came in after a minute or so, smiling at you slightly as he hesitantly lifted up the covers and slid in.

"You sure you're okay with this?" he turned to you, his deep brown eyes looking big and doe like.

"Yes, I'm comfortable." you nodded. "You?"

"Of course. Just making sure you feel okay." Felix then smiled sweetly, making your stomach flip again.

"I am." you whispered. "Um, it's just weird not to have my phone to play with before sleeping." you looked around, noticing a stack of books on a shelf.

"Tell me about it. I'm like chronically online, it's a problem." Felix shook his head with a chuckle. "Or like playing videogames. My computer will be so dusty when we get out of here."

You giggled at him as he scrunched up his face and made a cute whiny sound.

"I like videogames too. We should play together soon."

"Wow, you really are the girl of my dreams." Felix looked at you, wiggling his eyebrows and you laughed, your entire body on fire from the giddiness he made you feel.

He slid down then, getting comfy on his side and you followed suit, relaxing between the clean sheets and melting into the soft pillow.

"How long do you think it will take us to get out of here?" you whispered after a few moments of silence.

"I hope not too long." Felix whispered back. "Sweet dreams, y/n." he added after another pause.

"Night, Felix." you smiled before turning on your side and closing your eyes.

You were nervous for what's to come but Felix's presence gave you a sense of comfort and safety you didn't know you needed. Just the sound of his breathing calmed you down and slowly lulled you to sleep.

Your eyes fluttered open and for a moment you were completely confused. You blinked a few times, rubbing the sleepiness from your eyes as you took in your surroundings.

Right. You had come to the Village of Love yesterday, with your match. Which made you turn around quickly and gasp when you noticed the other side of the bed was empty.

"F-Felix?" you said, your voice a little raspy from sleeping. For a moment, you felt the dread creeping in but then you heard clinking, followed by a few curses coming from downstairs.

Upon arriving to the kitchen you were greeted by a frantic and disheveled Felix. You had to supress in a laugh, but it still seeped out in small giggles.

"Oh, y/n!" he exclaimed, turning around with his eyes slightly widened and his pink lips parted. "I barely slept last night so I got up like at 6am? I wanted to make myself useful so I tried making pancakes? I swear they taste better than they look! It's just that I'm usually not a morning person so-"

"Felix." you stopped his rambling, coming closer to him as you chuckled into your palm, your other hand gently placed on his arm to soothe him.

"Felix, it's okay. I'm sure the pancakes are delicious." you looked down at the half burned scraps of pancakes. "It's the thought that counts." you added with a giggle. "Aren't we meeting our neighbors for breakfast anyways?"

"Oh. That's right, we are. I'm silly." he sighed, turning the stove off with a defeated pout.

"You're cute." you said without thinking, your cheeks warming up as soon as those words left your mouth.

"You think so?" Felix chuckled, a little smirk forming on his lips and you nodded as he stared at you intently. "You're cuter." he leaned in, his breath hitting your face and you almost dissolved right then and there.

"Oh, shut up." you chuckled, making him laugh. "Let's go get dressed."

You got ready in your separate bathrooms, wondering how everything will play out for however long you'll be here. You decided to wear a dress with a floral pattern, something comfy and flowy. You hoped Felix would like it as much as you did.

And he seemed to be stunned the moment you walked out of the bathroom, giving you elevator eyes as he gulped visibly, his cheeks becoming rosy. You stood there nervously as he seemed to be lost in a trance.

"Felix?"

"Oh." he looked up at your face, the redness creeping up on his neck. "You look really pretty."

"Thank you." you giggled, your heart rate picking up while he smiled at you.

"Shall we?" he asked, reaching his hand towards you. You nodded, sliding your hand into his, your palms pressed together and fingers entwined.

They fit perfectly together, like two pieces of a puzzle that were waiting to be completed forever.

You met up with Gina and Ethan who were also holding hands, waving at you enthusiastically.

"Morning, neighbors!" Ethan smiled at the two of you.

"Good morning." you smiled back as everyone greeted each other.

"Did you get the map of the village?" Gina asked and Felix nodded.

"Found it in the living room this morning."

"Us too. Isn't it crazy having all these cameras around?" Gina chuckled and you looked around, noticing that all over the neighborhood there were cameras on every lamp post, every driveway, every front door.

The uneasiness settled in your chest again and you squeezed Felix's hand. He looked at you, squeezing back and giving you a small, reassuring smile. The restaurant wasn't too far away, it was a garden with lots of big trees giving shade to the tables, the sweet smell of colorful flowers mixed with the nice smell of food being cooked, making you even more hungry than you were. Finally, you saw other couples, chatting at different tables and you felt much more at ease. It felt normal.

There was soft music playing from the little building where you presumed the kitchen and servers were situated. The four of you found a table near a koi pond, excitement taking over you as you looked at the pretty fishes swimming around.

"I was about to reach for my phone and take a picture." Felix chuckled and Ethan nodded.

"Same." he said and you shook your head, thinking about how you'd probably do the same thing.

You stared at the koi fishes, who seemed to be mindlessly floating back and forth, confined in such a small pond. You wondered if they ever wanted more freedom, a bigger pond or was this all they knew so they could never think about having more space. Maybe they felt safe in a familiar, tiny enviroment.

One of the servers came to your table with a pen and notepad, writing down your orders and snapping you out of your thoughts.

The four of you made small talk before your food arrived.

"At least these pancakes look better than mine." Felix noted when the plate was placed before him and you chuckled.

"So, what do you guys think the tests will look like?" Gina asked suddenly while you ate. You looked up at the camera above your table and swallowed nervously.

"Isn't it kinda like a video game? We got a map of the place, we will have objectives or tests, we got our 'safe room', like our house where we have supplies..." Felix started and Ethan chuckled.

"I just hope there are no zombies or such. Or like damage." he added and the four of you laughed.

"I'm sure it can't be that bad." you said.

"How high is your percentage?" Gina asked.

"89%." you answered and she gasped a little.

"Ours is 74%. I guess we'll be here longer than y'all." she pouted.

"Well, we can't know that. When we have no idea what awaits us." Ethan said. He was right, you had no idea what Cupid Corp. planned out to put your connection to the test. Your eyes fell on the pond again, the koi fishes spinning around and around in circles, the repetitive motion almost making you dizzy.

~

"Do you wanna take a walk around the village?" Felix asked after you parted ways with the friendly couple next door.

"Yeah, sounds good. I need to get some blood flowing in my legs, we sat for so long."

"We did, I think we clicked with them too. Could it be they put us close to each other so we could become friends?" Felix asked when the two of you started walking, your hands entwined again, making your heart beat faster.

"Probably. I have a feeling nothing is random here." you pursed your lips.

"Me too." he agreed.

The village was really something out of a fairytale book. Not only were the houses cute but there was a cute bakery, a gallery, a flower shop, a cafe and a few other stores for groceries and such scattered around. There was even a little park for picnics and a forest to ride your bike or take a walk there. You saw other people working in all the buildings and couples walking around or sitting in the cafe or riding their bikes. It looked different than yesterday, when everything seemed eerily quiet and abandoned.

You and Felix talked about your families and job, getting to know some random facts about each other as you walked around, the sun warming your bodies up. It felt like you knew each other forever.

That evening, you decided to have your first movie night date. After a short debate since you were both indecisive, you settled on Clueless, a classic, and prepared some snacks and blankets to make the viewing more cozy.

Felix seemed a little nervous and fidgety as you got comfy on the couch, some distance created between you. He played with his fingers and the blanket, picking on it as you clicked play on the tv.

"You okay?" you asked and he nodded quickly, grabbing the bowl of popcorn.

"It's just... I like to cuddle while watching movies. Or um, I like to cuddle whenever, a lot. Physical touch is definitely one of my biggest love languages. I hope you're okay with that." Felix confessed, redness covering his freckled cheeks.

You sighed in relief, a giggle escaping your lips as you scooted closer to him, making his breath hitch.

"Okay? I'm estatic. I'm a big cuddler, it's one of my top love languages too." you nodded and Felix smiled sweetly at you.

"Right. I keep forgetting we matched so well and start feeling nervous. I don't wanna do something wrong, you know? And with the cameras watching, it adds to the awkwardness." he explained.

"I'll tell you if I'm uncomfortable with anything, okay? And you tell me too. Open communication is important." you said and Felix nodded, agreeing. "And forget about the cameras for now. I'm trying not to think about them supervising us the entire time. Let's just enjoy the movie."

"You're really sweet, y/n." Felix smiled cutely, his eyes shining as he stared at you, tongue darting out to wet his plump lips.

You followed the movement for a second, your heart fluttering.

"Says you." you chuckled, poking his cheek and he giggled, relaxing next to you and scooting even closer so that your legs and shoulders touched.

Pretty soon, both of you were relaxed, forgetting that you were being filmed as you enjoyed the movie, laughing and repeating the iconic lines. Your head ended up on Felix's shoulder at one point and his heart started beating fast instantly, his hand reaching for yours. He caressed your skin with his thumb as you giggled at the tv. You've never felt this comfortable with someone you just met.

The entire day was filled with positive experiences that you almost forgot about the weird dread gathering in the pit of your stomach.

You felt a huge attraction towards Felix, your body craved to be in his warmth and when you laid in bed next to him that night, you wanted nothing more than to roll over and hold him. But maybe it was too early for that, you thought as nervousness washed over you.

"Good night, y/n." his warm voice was quiet in the darkness of the room.

"Good night, Felix."

~

The man in the chair leaned over his computer, typing in the log of the day. The two of you were perfect subjects for this village, both of you sweet and kind, ready to welcome each other into your lives. He looked at all the screens that filmed your quiet house, eyes lingering on your calm, sleeping forms. Soon, everything will change.

A whole week has passed by perfectly. It was a little too quiet, too perfect for your liking. You wondered when the actual tests would start, when you were gonna get an envelope with some objective you have to fulfill. It made you feel uneasy the entire time and you had always trusted your intuition so you knew your gut feeling was right.

You had expressed this to Felix and even though he was nervous about the whole experience too, he tried to reassure you that it can't be that bad. That maybe the test had already started by just watching the two of you interact with each other.

It sounded plausible so it calmed you down just a little bit.

At the same time, you couldn't deny the connection building between you and your match. Felix was everything you ever wanted and more, kind and thoughtful, funny and sweet, he listened to you with interest, happy to know every little detail about you; his heart was pure and full of love, not just for you but for everyone. He made you melt on the spot with just one look and smile.

Every time you cuddled while watching movies, you got a little closer, the warmth of his body enveloping you, messing with your senses. You loved being close to him like that and he loved being held or holding you, it didn't matter as long as you were embracing each other in any way.

"It's such a beautiful sunny day. We could have a date by the pool?" Felix suggested one morning, batting his eyelashes at you and pouting cutely.

"Oh, sure. But I'll be watching you as I sunbathe because well, you know." you shrugged.

"Are you scared of the water? I could help you, teach you how to swim. It's good to face your fears." he smiled encouragingly and you chuckled, grabbing his hand.

"Maybe it is. I'll think about it." you smiled.

"Great! That's progress." Felix leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss on your cheek and it was enough to make your heart burst.

For some reason, you didn't think about how the two of you will be almost naked by the pool and that thought crossed your mind only after you put your bathing suit on in the bathroom. A little gasp escaped your lips as your cheeks became completely red.

You decided to throw a little dress over your frame before you walked into the room. Felix was already waiting for you, dressed in swim trunks and a t-shirt. You blushed at the sight of his legs, mentally scolding yourself and trying to calm down your heart.

Felix didn't hesitate to throw his shirt off as soon as you got to the pool. Your eyes immediately went to his abs and chest, a warmness spreading within you as you shifted. He noticed your look, his face and ears warming up. He smirked a little, enjoying the fact that he made you squirm.

"Ugh, I- I left my sunscreen upstairs." you whined.

"I'll go get it for you." Felix said. "Is it in the bathroom?"

You nodded and thanked him as he made his way into the house. After you took your dress off, your attention was grabbed by a sloshing sound of water inside the pool. Your brows furrowed, there was no wind. You gulped, coming closer to the edge of the pool, staring at your distorted reflection as the water kept sloshing.

It was just a milisecond, you couldn't react or realize what was happening, it was as if something invisible had pulled you into the water. With a loud splash your body was submerged under the surface as you started flailing your arms and legs, bubbles coming up where you were desperately trying to breathe. You managed to pull your head above water for a second, panicking as you tried to grab onto the edge of the pool, turning around just in time to see Felix running towards the pool with a terrified expression on his face. You couldn't keep yourself above water but just before you were completely submerged again, a pair of arms wrapped around you, pulling you up to the surface.

You gasped, trying to catch your breath as you clutched onto Felix and he pulled you close, pressing your body into his.

"You're okay, love. I got you. I got you." he kept repeating as he caressed you, holding you tightly as he led you to the shallow part of the pool.

Tears spilled out of your eyes as you sobbed, wrapping your arms around Felix's body, your face buried in his neck.

"It's okay. I'm here. Shh." he tried to soothe you as your body shook against him.

Neither of you noticed the shadow moving away from the window inside your kitchen.

"Let's get you out." Felix led you towards one of the chairs and you sat down as he wrapped a towel around you. He caressed your hair shortly as he grabbed another chair, pulling it closer so it was facing you. He sat down and grabbed your face gently.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"I- I don't know." your lips trembled.

"I was just standing there and next thing I know, I'm underwater."

"Maybe you slipped?" Felix wondered, his brows furrowed.

"No, it was like something pulled me in." you swallowed and Felix looked back at the calm water.

"Well, whatever it was I am not leaving you alone by the pool anymore. I won't let this happen to you again." he promised, pulling you into a hug, your cheek pressed against his chest. You shivered as you held onto him, but this time it was because you felt his skin against yours. Sure, you held onto him in the pool but you were in such a state of panic that you didn't even feel your body let alone his.

You leaned back a little and looked up at Felix. His eyes travelled down to your lips and he licked at his. Your stomach swarmed with butterflies as your face neared his. Felix held you tighter as your hot breaths mingled, before he pressed his plump lips on yours. You melted instantly as you started moving together, kissing gently and savoring every second of your lips touching like that.

It felt like it was meant to be, like you were made to kiss his lips and he was made to be yours. Felix licked at your bottom lip and you parted them, letting his tongue touch and play with yours. Pressing your body against his even more, you almost forgot about Cupid Corp., the cameras, the pool. But when he bit on your bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth, his hands squeezing your waist, you had a moment of clarity and pulled away with a gasp.

"We can't get carried away." you panted and Felix nodded, swallowing as his dark eyes lingered on your lips. His cheeks were red, his hair messy and his lips looked even more pink after kissing you.

"Sorry. I couldn't help myself, love. I'm really attracted to you." Felix said, pressing his forehead against yours.

"Me too. I like you a lot, Lixie." you smiled and he chuckled sweetly, pressing a few kisses on your lips and cheeks.

"I like you a lot too. I'm so glad I signed up for this program." he said, pulling you into another hug.

"I'm glad to be here too." you tangled your hands in his hair, caressing him and he sighed happily.

"Do you still wanna stay by the pool or you wanna do something else?" he asked and you looked at the water.

"I'll sit here and you go swim." you smiled.

"Are you sure?"

"100%." you nodded and with that, he pecked your lips again and practically skipped towards the pool. You giggled to yourself, knowing he really wanted to swim so you were content with sitting by the pool and just watching his beautiful form in the water.

Goosebumps rose on your neck and you turned to look at the house, feeling like there was some kind of presence there. You tried shrugging it off as you turned back to Felix, watching him having fun and waving at you cutely.

When he got out of the water, you couldn't help the admiration in your eyes as they raked all over his naked wet body, the droplets of water sliding from his chest to his abs and disappearing under the waistband of his swim trunks. Your throat was very much dry in that moment, but your panties were not. Felix smirked at you as he walked slowly, probably trying to seduce you even though you already folded.

He leaned over you, his hands on the armrests of the chair, the water from his body dripping onto yours.

"Enjoyed the view?" he asked as you looked up at him.

"Very much so." you smirked back and he leaned in to kiss you.

"I'm glad you did." he kissed you again. "Let's get inside, it's getting dark." Felix added and the two of you made your way into your house.

As soon as you walked in, a loud beeping noise scared the both of you. You covered your ears as Felix looked around.

"What is that?!" you asked.

"I don't know." Felix yelled over the piercing noise. He followed it with you trailing behind him and holding onto his back.

"Oh. Look!" he exclaimed, grabbing the round device you had gotten in the mail.

As soon as he clicked the button, the loud sound stopped, the screen lighting up.

90%. Congratulations, Felix and Y/n!

"D-did we get a point because of me drowning in the pool?" you shivered.

"I think we got a point 'cause I saved you." Felix bit on his lip, his expression turning into one of worry. You looked up at the camera in the kitchen, your eyes wide. Just what kind of sick game were Cupid Corp. playing? And what did they have in store for you?

~

"You think they really tried to drown me on purpose?" you asked Felix when the two of you got under the covers.

"It seems so." he said as he chewed on his lip.

"I think they could escalate things." you gulped and Felix looked at you, scooting closer to your side.

"What kind of test is that? Who wouldn't jump in to save someone they love? And even someone they don't know. I'd jump in anyways." Felix got upset.

"I know, I don't understand either."

"At least we are closer to 100%." Felix said, reaching out for you. You got closer to him and he smiled sweetly, his arm wrapping around your waist.

"Will you let me hold you like this?" he whispered, rubbing the tip of his nose against yours.

"Yeah, of course." you whispered back, kissing his sweet lips.

"I'll keep you safe, love." he smiled.

"I hope they don't hurt you."

"They can try. I'm stronger than I seem."

"I belive that." you nuzzled into him as you wrapped around each other. It felt so good to be in his embrace, like nothing bad could ever happen to you.

When Felix opened his eyes the next morning and saw you sleeping so soundly in his arms, he almost melted into a puddle. He gently tucked your hair behind your ear, caressing your face as his sleepy eyes observed you.

It didn't take long for you to wake up too, seeing that Felix was already looking at you made you whine and shut your eyes tightly.

"Don't look at me." you said.

"Why?" Felix chuckled as you tried hiding your face with your hands.

"Because I don't look the best when I wake up."

"What are you talking about?" Felix gently moved your hands away. "You're beautiful." he added and leaned in to kiss you but you blocked him quickly with your hand.

"Morning breath."

"Do I look like I care?" he giggled against your palm, grabbing your hand in his and kissing you despite your protests.

"So beautiful." he rasped.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a sweet talker?" you smirked.

"No, but I'll take that as a compliment." Felix giggled. "Mm. Let's stay like this." he pulled you closer, his chin resting on the top of your head.

"I'd love to. But don't we have a brunch with Gina and Ethan?"

"Ugh. We do. Five more minutes." Felix said and you giggled, pressing your lips into his pulse. You heard his breath hitch and felt him tremble as your lips brushed against his skin.

"Don't make it harder for me to resist you, love." he whispered and kissed your head, making your cheeks warm up instantly.

"Sorry." you leaned back and he gave you a lazy smirk as he played with your hair.

~

"Ethan is sick." Gina whispered to the two of you after you rang the doorbell.

"Sick?" your brows furrowed as you noticed her eyes being shifty, darting left to right like she was on high alert, looking around to spot danger.

"Yes. High fever. Tremors. Headache." she craned her neck to look behind the two of you and you followed her eyesight, not noticing anything out of the ordinary.

"I have to go. I have to go. They're watching, you know? They're watching." she murmured before disappearing into the darkness of her house and closing the door, the clicking sound indicating she had locked it.

"T-that was weird." you swallowed.

"Very weird." Felix backed away, pulling you with him. "You wanna go to brunch still?"

"Yeah." you nodded as the two of you walked away from your neighbor's house.

You kept throwing glances back, noticing the curtain on one of the windows moving as a figure disappeared behind it.

You couldn't stop thinking about the state Gina was in and what the hell was happening inside her house?

Sitting by the koi pond, you couldn't help but think that all of you were just koi fishes and the village was just one small pond that was being observed by a bigger creature.

"You okay?" Felix put his arm around your shoulder, his other hand placed on your knee.

"Just worried about Gina and Ethan. And... us."

"Us?"

"What if the same happens to us. Or worse." you swallowed, your eyes becoming big as you looked at Felix, fear bubbling up inside you.

"It won't."

"How do you know that?" you asked, your eyes filling up with tears.

"I'll keep us safe, I promise." Felix pressed a lingering kiss on your forehead.

Your heart was still hammering in your chest, your stomach churning.

Something was wrong.

~

"Y/n, do you trust me?" Felix held you as the two of you stood in the shallow part of the pool.

"I do. It's just-"

"You're scared, I know. If it becomes too much, we'll get out immediately. But I'd love it if you at least tried. I'll hold you the entire time, okay? I won't let you out of my sight."

His reassuring words chipped away at your fear, replacing it with warmness and safety. You've never met someone like Felix, someone who was so invested in helping you get over your phobia.

"Okay, we'll start walking first." he pulled you in, holding you against him as you clutched at him.

"Relax." he tried soothing you as his hands caressed you and slowly but surely you started feeling relaxed.

"I'll hold you and swim. You try to move your legs like I told you, okay?" Felix guided you and you struggled a little at the beginning but the more he smiled at you and reassured you, the more confident you felt.

"Just stay close." you said.

"Of course, sweetheart." he smiled and your heart leaped out of your chest as your face warmed up.

Soon, you didn't even realize you were moving on your own, with Felix hovering next to you.

"You did it, y/n!" he laughed, his arms wrapping around your waist as he pulled you into his body.

"All thanks to you, Lixie." you giggled, turning around in his arms so you could look at him.

"Well, you had the will to try so it's on you too." he said, pecking your lips. His kisses were addictive, whenever he'd press his lips on yours, it was hard to stop as the two of you clung onto each other like you've been glued together.

The kisses escalated as your tongues massaged each other, your hands roaming on his freckled back. Your legs wrapped around him and he pulled you in closer, chest against chest, his hands on your butt.

"F-Felix." you stuttered, nails digging into his shoulders when you felt his erection brushing against your core.

"I'm sorry." his arms wrapped around your waist as he buried his face in your neck, lapping at the droplets of water dripping down your skin. "I can't help it. You're so delicious, sweetheart." he nipped at your sensitive neck.

"T-the cameras." you looked around at the five different cameras in the backyard.

"I know. I know." Felix kissed your lips with a huff before he swam you both back to the shallow part.

"You can get out if you want. And give me a second to calm down." he looked at you sheepishly.

"Okay." you giggled, wrapping your body up with a towel.

Felix swam a little more while you made some lemonade, keeping an eye on him from the kitchen window.

He got out just in time as you brought the refreshing drink outside. He wiped his body with the towel quickly, throwing it aside as he pulled you closer, making you squeal, the two of you losing balance. You ended up in his lap as he sat in the chair and you chuckled as he squeezed you tightly, rubbing his cheek against your back.

"Are you sure this is a smart position right now?" you asked and he smirked at you.

Before he could answer, the familiar beeping sound blasted next to the two of you. Your heads snapped towards the device you brought everywhere, hoping the percentage would go up.

"Felix! 92%!" you gasped when you grabbed it.

"92? How did we get two points?" he stared at it.

"I have no idea! But we should celebrate. Just 8 more. And then we can leave together." you smiled as you turned you body towards him.

"I can't wait, my love." Felix smiled, leaving kisses on your arm.

You wondered why you got two points. And if it was really that easy.

~

That night, Felix was clingier than usual, completely wrapped around you as he spooned you. His lips kept pressing gentle kisses on your neck and shoulder, making goosebumps rise on your skin, heat erupting inside you.

Felix couldn't help it anymore, his own body betrayed him as he got excited again, being so close to you, feeling you pressed against him, he craved nothing more than to be even closer to you.

"L-Lix." you felt him against your backside.

"Fuck, I'm sorry. Don't worry about it, it'll go away." Felix whimpered quietly, and you squeezed his wrist as he pressed into you tighter, unable to contain himself.

"It's okay." you guided his hand down to your panties, feeling desperate for his touch too.

"Y/n." he whispered. "What about the camera?"

"It's dark. And they can't see under the covers. As long as we stay quiet and don't move too much, we should be fine." you whispered back, pushing his hand beneath the waistband of your underwear.

"That's a test within itself." Felix joked and you giggled.

"Please, Felix." you begged as he hesitated.

"Fuck, baby. You don't have to beg for me. You have me always." he bit on your shoulder, his fingers exploring until they pressed into your clit when you spread your legs just a little so he can have more access. Felix started drawing slow figure eights on your sensitive clit, dipping his fingertips into your heat to gather some wetness and smear it around.

Your breath hitched and you gripped onto the cover, bringing it closer to your lips so you could muffle the little sighs coming out. His tongue darted out to lick at you neck as he played with your clit, moving slower but pressing hard. Felix sunk his teeth into your neck, sucking on it and creating a purple bruise marking you as his. You moaned quietly and he shushed you, teasing your little clit and making you clench around nothing.

"Felix." you said quietly.

"Yes, baby?" he whispered between kisses.

"I wanna touch you too." you said, so quiet so that only he could hear it. Felix's cock twitched against the back of your thigh.

"Okay." he said and you turned around, sliding your panties off and pushing them aside. Felix did the same with his underwear and grabbed your leg, putting it over his so he could spread you a little.

His hand was back between your legs, now without any tight obstacles and you had to bite back a moan as your eyes flitted towards the red dot blinking in the corner. You gripped the cover and pulled it up, only leaving some space for air and so you and Felix can kind of see each other.

You sneaked your hand down his chest and abs, fingers playing with his happy trail leading down to his leaky cock. The tip was already wet with pre cum and Felix almost groaned when you touched him, smearing it around as your fingers massaged him.

"B-baby." the tip of his nose touched yours and he leaned in to kiss you as your hand wrapped around his length. He sighed into your mouth and you swallowed it, breathing in his air while he slowly pushed his finger inside your welcoming heat.

You bit on his lower lip when he pushed in deep, your pussy clenching and begging for more. Felix groaned quietly, pushing into your hand while you moved it slowly, giving him gentle pleasure. Both of you moved in sync with each other, keeping the slow and torturous pace that was somehow sweet. You were both lingering on edge, wanting more.

Felix pulled his finger out and before you could protest, he started pushing two fingers in. The entire time you were making out, swallowing each other's moans and breaths.

"God, faster please." Felix whispered and you looked at the direction of the camera again, excitement rushing through you at the thought of getting caught. You sped up, pumping his cock as he fucked your pussy harder.

"Shh, quiet down love." he said when you started moaning silently.

"Sorry." you whispered and leaned in to kiss his neck. Felix immediately threw his head back, a quiet grunt escaping his lips as you attacked his skin with bites and kisses, flicking your wrist.

"I- I- can't." Felix groaned quietly. "Y/n." his fingers stilled inside you as he came, spilling his hot cum on your thigh, hand and the sheets. You helped him ride his high, kissing his lips and whispering quiet praises against them.

"Bring your legs up." he said, pressing your legs together, sliding his arm under your knees and lifting them towards him.

"Wh-what..."

"Shh. Trust me, sweetheart." he said as he leaned over you a little, his fingers sliding on your wet slit. He slowly pushed them back in, the position of your legs lifted up and pressed together like you were in a fetal position added to the pressure between your legs, his fingertips pressing right into your sweet spot.

"F-Felix!" you whimpered and he pressed his free hand against your lips, shushing you as he started fucking his fingers in and out of you.

You feared that this was definitely visible on the camera, the movement of his hand was too frantic under the sheets. Your muffled whines made Felix lean in and leave sweet kisses on your face.

"Shh, it's okay, just relax and let go, sweetheart." he cooed at you, his tongue licking at your ear.

Your eyes fluttered closed as he removed his hand from your face and pressed his lips on yours, his fingers ramming into your sweet spot repeatedly.

"Lix." you whined against his lips as he licked at them.

"Cum for me love." he encouraged and your pussy clenched around his fingers, your heart beating out of your chest as you let go, spilling your release on his fingers, some of it ending up on the mattress below you.

"Shit." he cursed quietly, caressing your wet pussy.

You clutched onto him, kissing him again like you needed it to breathe.

"You okay?" he asked, his hand searching around for his boxers.

"Y-yeah." you answered. "You?"

"More than okay." he smiled as he grabbed the boxers and cleaned both of you up as much as he could. "Um. We can't really change the sheets now, it would look suspicious." he added, throwing both of your underwear sneakily on the floor next to his side, where the camera wouldn't see.

"We can sleep on your side?"

Felix smiled and pulled you over, making you giggle quietly as the two of you settled against each other. He buried his face in your neck, his hand gently caressing your figure as you played with his hair, running your fingers through his soft locks.

The man in the chair smirked. Bingo.

When your eyes fluttered open the next morning, you were greeted with the cutest sight. Felix was still sleeping, his face smushed against the pillow as he drooled a little. Overwhelmed with your growing feelings for him, you leaned in and bit at his cheek.

Felix groaned quietly and you giggled, kissing where you had bitten him before you went lower, biting his neck and then his shoulder.

"Y/n." his deep voice made you shiver and you giggled against his soft skin again before sinking your teeth into his arm. His eyes fluttered open as he smacked his lips and looked at you.

"Interesting way to wake me up, not gonna lie." he smirked a little before grabbing you and making you squeal as he suddenly flipped the two of you, him being on top.

"Felix!" you chuckled when his fingers ghosted on your sides, tickling you slightly.

"Yes, sweetheart?" he smirked, burying his face in your neck and teasing you with little licks and kisses.

"D-don't. It's daytime, the camera-"

"I'm just gonna bite you a little. Return the favor." he blew on your neck before biting into your skin and sucking. You had to bite on your lip to stop yourself from moaning. Isn't this prohibited too?

"F-Felix, you have to stop." you whined.

"You're lucky the cameras are here. Otherwise, nothing would be able to save you from me." he wiggled his eyebrows and you chuckled, playfully pushing him away.

The morning started beautifully and you completely forgot about the rules whenever Felix smiled at you. You were both walking on cloud 9 and you couldn't wait to get out of this place so you can go anywhere with him by your side.

"Do you think they saw us last night?" Felix asked while the two of you munched on your food.

"I hope not." you said, your cheeks becoming red as you looked away from him.

"Getting shy on me, sweetheart?" Felix smirked, fingers brushing against your cheek.

"A little." you confessed, biting on your lip as your heart sped up.

"Don't be." he smiled wide as he leaned in, pecking your face with kisses. You started chuckling before you grabbed his face and kissed his lips.

"There. Better?" you asked and he nodded.

"Much better." Felix said and stood up to put his plate away. You took another sip of your coffee before a loud crash made you jump.

You turned around instantly to see the plate broken into pieces and Felix grabbing at his stomach.

"F-Felix?" you stood up abruptly, your chair flying on the floor.

Felix struggled to open his mouth and speak, he struggled to breathe as he clutched at both his stomach and chest.

"Oh my god! Felix!" you cried, grabbing at him as his face got red and his eyes watered.

"W-what is happening?!" you panicked, not having any kind of phone or knowing what to do in that moment. You turned to the camera in the corner.

"Help us, you fucking assholes!" you yelled at the camera as Felix shook and heaved in your arms.

A moment passed and his breathing started getting more normal, his face becoming paler in contrast to the redness that appeared before. His eyes were glassy, hands shaking as he slumped against you, falling to his knees. You quickly wrapped your arms around him as he gripped at you, seeking comfort from you. Heat radiated from his body and you touched his forehead, realizing he was burning up with a fever.

"Oh, Felix. Can you hear me?" you held his face in your hands as he looked through you.

His lips opened and closed a few times and he blinked before focusing on your eyes.

"I-it hurts." he rasped, his fingers desperately digging into your arms.

"What hurts, baby?" your body filled up with fear and anger. They did this.

"Everything." Felix sniffled and you helped him get up as he leaned on you.

"Let's get you to the couch." you led him to the living room before making him sit down. He looked horrible, a 180 from just a few moments ago when everything was normal. He was sweating profusely, his skin pale, his breathing heavy.

The doorbell suddenly rang, making you jolt.

"I'll be right back." you said, covering Felix up with a blanket as he was shivering even though he was burning up.

You had no idea who to expect at the door, maybe a paramedic, maybe a savior, maybe an explanation.

But you didn't expect Gina.

"G-Gina?" you eyes widened.

"Here." she shoved a box in your arms.

"W-what is this?" you asked.

"Medicine. They said... I had to deliver it to you. He'll be okay like Ethan. Just be careful. Be careful. They watch, you know? They know everything. They know." she looked a little panicked before she turned around, murmuring to herself and repeating how they watch and they know.

You opened up the box and sure enough there were different vitamins, medicine and bags of tea inside it.

You turned to look at the camera with a scowl on your face before you rushed off to Felix.

"Y/n." Felix whimpered, his bottom lip trembling as he looked up at you with teary eyes.

"It's okay, baby. You'll be okay." you tried to calm him down even though you were panicking too. You quickly fluffed up the pillows and helped him lie down.

"Are you comfy?" you asked.

"C-cold." he shivered, clutching onto the blanket.

"I'll bring another blanket for you." you said.

"Don't leave me!" Felix looked panicked as he gripped at your wrist.

"I won't, I'll be right back, I promise." you leaned down to kiss his burning forehead. He made a little noise but still let you go, albeit reluctantly. After finding another blanket, you tucked him in, taking it upon you to make him some tea, give him medicine and try to get his fever down however you could. You say next to his legs and placed a wet cloth on his forehead making him whine as he threw his arm around your thighs.

It was weird. The way he suddenly developed a high fever was unnatural. He wasn't sneezing or coughing, just shaking and sweating. You racked your brain, spinning different scenarios in your head and ways of how they could make him sick.

Then it clicked. The food.

But, how did you not get sick, just Felix? You couldn't understand how it was possible for these faceless and nameless individuals to play god with your health and safety. And what the hell did that have to do with you being a good match?

You wondered if the two of you could leave before you get to 100. You've never heard of such cases but surely there was a way? Maybe you could run away? Who could stop you, right? You have free will and you can leave whenever you want, you're not a prisoner.

"Y/n." Felix said weakly, his eyes fluttering open.

"Lixie. How do you feel? Any better?" you asked and he nodded.

"A bit." he said.

"I'll make you some soup." you said, knowing you have no other choice than to trust that not all your groceries were laced with some kind of virus.

"Okay." he said and you caressed his face shortly before standing up.

"Call me if you need anything. I won't be long." you said and he nodded again.

As the soup boiled, so did your anger. First they try to drown you then they make Felix sick? What's next on the menu? You looked up at the camera for the nth time.

"Hurt him again and I'll find you." you said quietly but the man behind the screen heard you, typing away on his laptop. He felt a bit bad for you but there was nothing he could do, he was just tasked to watch and report the progress.

"Can you sit up?" you asked Felix after you brought the warm soup to the living room.

"Ugh. Help me." Felix whimpered and you wrapped your arms around him as he held onto you, pulling him into a sitting position.

"I feel weakness in my arms and legs." he muttered.

"You'll be back on your feet in no time." you tried to soothe him as you sat next to him. "If they don't lace more of our food with a virus."

"How are you so sure?" Felix gulped.

"Because I'm taking care of you. And if they try something again I will burn this fucking village down." you made sure the camera picked up what you said and Felix let out a pained chuckle, grabbing at his side.

"Feeling protective over me?" he asked and your cheeks reddened instantly.

"I- I mean... Yes." you nodded and he smiled.

"If I wasn't in so much pain, I'd be really turned on right now." he said and you giggled, rolling your eyes playfully.

"Shut up and eat your soup."

"Feed me?" he pouted.

"Sure." you chuckled, shaking your head a little as he acted cute. Well cuter than usually.

"Will you cuddle me?" he asked after you managed to feed him the soup without making too much of a mess and you nodded, scooting closer to him and covering yourself up with the blanket too.

"Come here." you whispered and Felix leaned in, pressing his forehead into your neck. He was still warm but less than before and you hoped that the worst had passed.

"I don't think it was the food." he whispered suddenly, making goosebumps rise on your skin. The tv was loud enough to not let the camera hear what you were whispering about and after glancing at it you glanced down at Felix's sleepy face pressed against your chest.

"What do you mean?" you whispered into his hair.

"Look at my arm. Very carefully." he whispered back and you pretended to caress him until you uncovered his sleeve, acting nonchalant for the camera. Your brows furrowed as you stared.

"Is that a needle mark?" you asked.

"I think so." he looked up at you and you covered him up and held him tighter against you.

"You think they snuck in while we were sleeping and put some kind of virus into your body?" you asked and he nodded against you.

"That's sick. That's really sick. I- I think we should leave."

"We can't, not until we get to a 100." Felix said, rubbing his cheek against you and squeezing you tighter.

"B-but what if they do something worse?"

"It'll be okay." he muttered as he drifted off.

You sighed, running your hand through his hair soothingly as you stared at the tv absentmindedly, a random movie from the dvd collection playing on it.

You looked at him occasionally, admiring his cute sleeping face. Did you really have to wait until 100 to start your life with Felix?

Over the course of the next two days, you had been by Felix's side the entire time. The medicine worked perfectly and pretty soon Felix was back to his old self, healthy and full of energy.

"Y/n. Love." he held you tightly. "Thank you for taking care of me." he stared at you with sparkly eyes before he kissed you like his life depended on it, stealing your breath away.

"Of course." you smiled as you parted.

The loud sound of the device startled you both. Felix neared it, picking it up and looking at the screen.

"95." he scoffed.

"For what? Almost killing you." you said. "This is some sick game to you, isn't it?" you turned to the camera then, furious.

"Sweetheart, don't. We're almost done." Felix pulled you into him. "I have a plan." he whispered into your hair and you nodded.

You were going to escape the village.

~

That night, you got ready for bed as usual, your hands reaching to open the covers so you could get in. Before you could even touch the blanket, you were grabbed as Felix wrapped his arms around you and lifted you up, almost making you scream.

"Come with me." he pulled you into his bathroom.

"Felix we can't-"

"We're leaving anyways." he said, closing the door before pinning you against it. His hands held your wrists gently but firmly as he pressed his body against yours, nudging your legs apart with his knee.

"Felix." you let out a little gasp when his thigh pressed against your warmth.

He couldn't wait anymore, one hand still pinning your wrists and the other gently holding your chin as he crashed his lips into yours. Both of you whimpered quietly into each other's mouth as your tongues collided. Your mind became fuzzy instantly and Felix was becoming impatient, his hand wrapping around your neck and squeezing ever so slightly as his other hand slid down towards your chest.

"It's hard to keep my cool around you. I just want you so much." Felix talked lowly, both of his hands grabbing your breasts and massaging them. You whimpered, grinding against his thigh on instict.

"I want you too, Lixie. I can't wait anymore."

"Yeah? You want me to take you right here, against the door?" he smirked and you gasped as he leaned back with a smirk, pushing your panties aside and touching your clit.

"Y-yes." you whispered and he chuckled, hands on your waist as he swiftly turned you around to face the door. Your palms slapped against it and you dug your nails in as he slid fingers over your wet pussy.

"I think she's ready to take me." he leaned over you, lips brushing your ear as he pulled his boxers down. You swallowed when you felt the tip of his cock pressing against you. Warmness washed over you and you clenched in anticipation.

"Tell me if it's okay. Or do you want me to prep you?" he asked, his hand sliding down your back.

"J-just fuck me, Felix." you begged and he chuckled darkly.

"My baby has a dirty mouth, hm?" he slid his tip between your folds, back and forth, slowly, teasing you and torturing you.

"Please." you whimpered again and his own desperation got the best of him, he couldn't tease you and himself anymore so he slowly pushed in.

You moaned while he filled you up, your eyes fluttering shut as your knees buckled.

"Fuck. So tight." he groaned, bottoming out.

"L-Lix." you whimpered and he gripped your hips, moving slowly at first, letting you adjust.

You pushed back into him, meeting his thrusts as you let out moans of pleasure, your voice getting more high pitched every time his tip pressed into your sweet spot.

"You take me so well, baby. You really were made just for me." Felix moaned, fucking harder into you, his hips smacking against you.

You were a mess, not even able to answer as he got you drunk on his cock instantly.

"Fuck." Felix groaned as he looked at your ass, his hand coming down on your flesh, spanking you and making you whine out loud.

"You like that, sweetheart?" he smirked behind you and spanked you again.

"Y-yes!" you moaned and he sped up, his hips unforgiving as he shook your body, his hands gropping and slapping. He felt you clenching around him, his arms wrapping around you, hands on your breasts as he pulled on your nipples and played with them.

"Are you gonna cum for me, baby? Make a mess on my cock?" Felix fucked into you harder.

"Yes, ah!" you whimpered, your legs shaking as you spasmed and came all over his length.

"Good girl. You make me so proud." he groaned, chasing his high.

"Y-you have to pull out, I didn't take the pill... Since I got here." you moaned, feeling overstimulated.

"S-shit!" Felix whimpered, pulling out of your pussy and giving himself a few tugs, exploding behind you, his cum landing on your ass and back.

"So pretty." he gripped at your ass. "Mine."

"Yours." you whined back when he spanked you again.

He let out a low chuckle and wrapped his arms around you, turning you so you were facing him.

"That was absolutely not how I imagined our first time." Felix said, pecking your lips.

"How did you imagine it?" you held onto him with a smile on your face.

"Dinner, flowers, you know the whole thing. You put on some pretty lingerie for me and then we make love the entire night." he pressed his forehead against yours.

"Aren't you romantic?" you giggled, kissing him gently.

"I am. A lot." he grinned, pulling you into a hug.

"We can do all that when we get out of here. Which is what we should be doing right now."

"Yeah. You got your bag ready?" he asked and you nodded.

"Let's clean up then."

~

The streets were dark and empty, the only light that was coming from the lamp posts was dim and barely illuminated your path. It must've been around 3am. Dead silence filled up the space, every house was dark and quiet. No one was awake. The two of you stalked towards the gate, knowing the cameras are watching you.

There was no blind spots, they thought of everything. You didn't give a damn anymore. They can come and stop you themselves instead of playing these sick games.

Of course, the gate was locked.

"Felix?" you swallowed and his head snapped towards you. "That wasn't there when we got here, right?" you pointed and he gasped.

Electric fence.

Everywhere you turned to look, there it was.

"What the hell?" Felix frowned. "Are they crazy?"

"Obviously they are." you stated. "What should we do now?"

"How about the forest? Could be connected to like a main road? There's no way they put this electric fence all around." Felix looked frustrated.

"We could try." you nodded, your hand reaching out for his. With fingers entwined you hurried the other way.

Suddenly, a loud alarm pierced through the calm night air, making you both scream out as you grabbed at your ears, the sound pounding inside your head, making you want to pull your hair out.

Your vision became blurry and you tried to stay close to Felix as the sound became even louder and in the corner of your eye, you saw shadows moving.

Everything went black.

~

You woke up in your room, drenched in sweat. It was still dark out and you looked around, noticing Felix was still sleeping and the device on his night stand was blinking.