xRoman🔱Empirex

But when the sun was up and your friends were around, it was like nothing had changed.

Because neither of you had said anything.

Because technically, you weren’t… anything.

Just best friends who sometimes fucked each other dumb.

So, you didn’t overthink it when Jisung plopped down beside you at Chan’s house one night, slinging an arm over your shoulders like he always did.

You were curled up on the couch—legs stretched out over Jisung’s lap like you had no idea what your body was doing.

Which, of course, you did.

But it was harmless, right?

You and Ji had always been like this. Teasing. Playful. His hand on your calf, your fingers brushing the back of his neck when you leaned over to whisper something about the movie’s terrible dialogue. Laughing when he joked about running away with you if your dream man didn’t show up by thirty.

And Chan?

Chan was seated on the opposite side of the room, beer in hand, back slouched against the armrest of his own damn couch like he was trying not to break the bottle between his fingers.

You didn’t see the way his jaw clenched when Jisung casually reached to tug at a string on your hoodie.

You didn’t see how hard he gripped the cushion when you threw your head back laughing, swatting Jisung’s chest when he made some inappropriate quip about how “you were looking dangerously inviting tonight.”

But Binnie did.

Binnie was seated closest to Chan, and the energy was radiating. Like a storm behind a dam.

He peeked between Chan and you—then leaned closer, nudging Chan’s shoulder, voice low.

“You good?”

Chan didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on your face like a warning. Or a dare.

“Dude,” Binnie tried again. “You’re gonna snap that bottle.”

Then Jisung did it.

He leaned in, finger trailing your thigh playfully before he whispered something that made you laugh loud enough to turn heads.

That was it.

Chan’s jaw flexed.

When Jisung nudged your side and joked, “Damn, you’re really sweet today—what’d I do to deserve this kind of attention?” you laughed along, but something tensed inside you.

Because Chan was still watching. Still unsuccessfully pretending not to be bothered.

And when your gaze flicked to him—when your eyes met his—you saw it.

The jealousy.

The storm.

And something else.

Something ugly.

You didn’t get to think about it too long because the moment Jisung leaned a little closer to whisper something dumb in your ear, Chan’s voice sliced across the room.

“Yo, you good, Ji?”

You both looked up.

Jisung blinked. “Uh. Yeah?”

Chan’s smile was all teeth. “Cool. Then take your fucking arm off her.”

The room froze.

It wasn’t loud. But it hit like a slap.

You blinked.

Jisung’s arm dropped instantly. “Whoa. Chill, bro.”

Chan didn’t answer. Just turned and walked off—shoulders tense, hands shoved in his pockets.

You stood up.

Followed him down the hall.

Found him in the kitchen, staring out the window, chest rising and falling like he was trying to keep from exploding.

“Chan…”

He didn’t turn around. “What?”

“What the hell was that?”

“What was that?” He finally turned. “You were all over him.”

You folded your arms. “We always joke like that.”

“Not like that.”

“Are you seriously jealous right now?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped, voice tight. “Am I allowed to be?”

That shut you up.

Because no. Not officially.

You weren’t his.

Not on paper.

But in every other way?

He was yours.

And you were his.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” he muttered, stepping closer. “You sleep in my bed. You moan my name. You suck my dick like you were born for it—and then I have to stand there and watch you flirt with someone else like I’m not in the room?”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

He reached for you—gripped your waist like he needed to remind himself you were real.

“I am jealous,” he said quietly. “I’m fucking jealous. And I don’t even know if I have the right to be. Because we never said what this is.”

You looked up at him—heart in your throat.

“I don’t want you touching anyone else,” he whispered. “I don’t want anyone else touching you. And I know that makes me sound like a possessive prick but—”

“Good,” you said, cutting him off.

His brow furrowed. “Good?”

You nodded slowly. “Because I don’t want anyone else but you.”

He stared at you.

And then? He kissed you.

Right there. In the kitchen. With his hand wrapped tight in your shirt and his mouth hot and desperate over yours like he couldn’t take one more second of uncertainty.

He kissed you like a man unhinged.

Hands fisting your shirt, mouth clashing with yours, dragging you backward until your hips bumped the edge of the counter. His tongue was deep, claiming, and when your fingers slipped into his hair—tugging hard—he moaned against your lips like he needed the pain.

“Mine,” he whispered into your mouth. “I don’t care if it’s selfish. I don’t care if it’s messy. I need you to be mine.”

You gasped as he lifted you—effortless—hoisting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing. The red solo cup tipped and spilled behind him. Neither of you noticed.

Your legs parted automatically. His hips slotted between them, his hands sliding down your back to pull you close, his forehead pressed to yours like he was trying to anchor himself.

“I can’t watch it again,” he panted. “You touching someone else. Laughing with them like that. Even if it means nothing—you mean everything to me.”

Your chest clenched.

And maybe it was the tension of weeks you’d danced around. Maybe it was the feel of his hands gripping your ass. Maybe it was just finally hearing the truth—his truth—but something in you broke open.

You cupped his cheeks. “Then say it.”

He blinked, breath catching.

“Say you want me. Say this is more than just sex.”

“I do,” he said immediately. “Fuck—I do. It was never just sex for me. You think I let anyone else sleep in my bed? Wear my clothes? Use my toothbrush like it’s nothing?”

You grinned. “Okay, that one’s still a little gross.”

He groaned, laughing against your throat before nipping it. “You know what I mean.”

You nodded, fingers stroking his hair, lips brushing his temple.

Then—because you couldn’t help it—you whispered, “You were kinda hot when you got mad.”

He froze.

You smirked.

“Don’t give me that look, Chris. You stormed off like a jealous ex and then growled at Ji like a possessive boyfriend. I was, like… kinda turned on.”

His head dropped to your shoulder with a wrecked groan. “You’re evil.”

You laughed—and then gasped when his hand slid under your thigh, gripping hard.

“You like testing me, huh?”

You shrugged. “You’re cute when you pout.”

He looked up, eyes gleaming. “And what am I when I fuck you into the kitchen counter so everyone knows you’re mine?”

Your breath hitched. “Dangerous… but you wouldn’t”

He licked into your mouth again—slow, deep, deliberate.

“Then don’t test me again,” he warned. “Because next time? I’ll bend you over right in front of them.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You wouldn’t.”

His voice was a growl. “Try me.”

You bit your lip.

And in that moment—your legs wrapped around his waist, his hair tangled between your fingers, the sound of your friends laughing faintly down the hall—you realized something:

You didn’t need a label. You had him.

His body. His voice. His possessiveness. His softness. His broken jealousy. His perfect rage.

And he had you.

All of you.

Even the bratty parts you hid from everyone else.

Especially those.

Which is why the kiss should’ve ended there.

It should’ve been the resolution, the wrap-up to a long overdue conversation—but when your back hit the fridge and his tongue pushed deeper into your mouth, you knew.

It wasn’t over.

Not even close.

His hands were wild, greedy. One on your waist, the other slipping under the hem of your skirt with a low groan like he couldn’t wait another second.

You gasped into his mouth, instinctively glancing toward the hallway—but Chan didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just mouthed hotly down your jaw as he muttered, “Be quiet for me, baby… You can do that, yeah?”

You nodded, already breathless.

He kissed you again—rough, possessive—and the next thing you felt was your panties snapping at the sides. The elastic gave way with a soft pop, fabric torn and tugged from between your legs so fast it made your knees buckle.

Your gasp was sharp.

“Shhh,” he whispered, holding you steady, already stuffing the torn panties into his hoodie pocket like a prize. “Be a good girl now.”

You whimpered.

He turned you around.

Hands flat on the counter, chest pressed to the cool marble as he shoved your skirt up and dragged his fingers between your thighs.

“Still so wet,” he groaned. “You fucking like this. You like knowing they’re all out there—thinking you’re so innocent.”

His fingers slid through your slick folds, teasing.

You bit down hard on your fist.

He lined up behind you—cock already out, flushed and heavy against your ass—and the second he pushed in, slow but deep, your mouth dropped open in a silent scream.

You clawed at the counter, legs shaking.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “This pussy…”

You tried to move—anything to brace yourself—but he clamped one hand over your mouth and gripped your hip with the other, pulling you back into every thrust.

“Don’t make a sound,” he breathed into your ear. “Not one fucking sound.”

It was brutal.

He was brutal.

Thrusting hard enough to jolt the counter, angled so deep you saw stars. Your body rocked with every snap of his hips, and the stretch burned in the best way, overwhelming and messy and silent only because you had to be.

“Should’ve fucked you like this the second you walked in tonight,” he growled. “Skirt all cute, acting like you wouldn’t be under me by the end of the night.”

You moaned against his palm.

He leaned closer, biting your ear. “You know who you belong to, right?”

You nodded frantically.

“Say it.”

He pulled his hand away for just a second, and you gasped, “Yours. Always yours.”

That was it.

He snapped.

One arm locked around your waist, the other clamped over your mouth again as he pounded into you like he needed to mark you from the inside out. The sounds of your skin slapping echoed far too loud in the kitchen—anyone could walk in, but neither of you could stop.

His breath was ragged against your neck, hips stuttering.

“Gonna come,” he warned, teeth sinking into your shoulder. “Where do you want it, baby?”

You tried to answer—but all that came out was a broken, needy cry into his hand.

And then he buried himself one last time—deep, full, pulsing.

You felt it all.

Every twitch. Every drop.

His forehead dropped to your back, his entire body trembling.

And when he finally pulled out, panting, sweat-drenched, and completely wrecked?

He kissed the back of your neck. Still holding your ruined panties in his pocket.

—

You tried to fix your hair in the hallway mirror.

Chan didn’t even try to hide the smirk on his face as he tugged his hoodie back over his head, still smug with your ruined thong tucked in his pocket and your lipstick barely smudged off his throat. You were still catching your breath, still trying to remember how to walk, when he reached for the door to the living room.

“Act natural,” you whispered.

He snorted. “You just screamed into my hand like a porn star in my kitchen and now you want natural?”

You slapped his chest. “Shut up—just… act like we weren’t gone that long.”

You stepped in first.

The living room was too quiet.

Way too quiet.

Your eyes bounced from person to person—every single one of your friends was staring at you. The TV was on, but the volume was muted. The speakers were dead silent. Drinks half-lifted, conversations paused.

All of them watching.

You blinked.

Chan stepped in behind you, and the second the door clicked shut, a low wolf whistle cut through the silence.

“That was so fucking hot,” Jisung said.

“That was so fucking hot,” Hyunjin echoed at the same time.

Both of them turned to each other in shock. “Jinx,” they said in unison, then burst into laughter.

And just like that?

The room exploded.

“Oh my god—were you guys actually—”

“In the kitchen?”

“Bitch, we were out here!”

“Did you break anything?”

“I KNEW IT—I TOLD YOU THEY WERE FUCKING!”

“Wait, wait—back it up!” Jisung shouted, standing on the couch like a referee. “You left here acting like you were about to throw hands—how did it go from ‘we’re just best friends’ to raw-dogging next to the spice rack?”

The noise was chaos.

Everyone talking at once.

Seungmin was already miming pelvic thrusts. Someone else yelled “PLOT TWIST!” like they were live-tweeting it. Your face was on fire, and Chan?

Chan was thriving.

He let the chaos rise for a beat, then casually slid his arm around your waist and pulled you into his side like he’d done it a million times. His fingers curled possessively at your hip.

“Well,” he said, smirking at the group. “I don’t think I need more explanations, do I?”

The room erupted.

You covered your face with your hands, groaning, and Chan just laughed, tugging you closer, letting everyone else lose their minds while he leaned in and whispered, “You’re never living this down.”

You peeked at him from between your fingers. “Neither are you.”

“Good,” he murmured, voice low and cocky. “Let ‘em talk.”

He kissed your temple.

And just like that?

You weren’t hiding anymore.

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Authors note: There we have it!! Part two! Its short but i had to deliver since alot of you asked for it! Thanks for all the encouragement really, you guys are the best!