“You saw me two hours ago, spent all day with me. Need I remind you,” your fingers twist absentmindedly at the band holding his hair up, setting it to the side so you can comb out the knots. 

“Don’t care,” he mumbles into your stomach petulantly, “would have rather been here doing this.”

You roll your eyes at his words, caressing his cheek. 

“Don’t say that,” you chide, “you know you love Felix and Jeongin.”

“You’re always so soft on them.”

You laugh at his words, though he says you’re terrible for it, you love to tease him most when he’s like this. 

“Have you seen them? How could I not. Especially Felix, he's an angel.”

As expected he pouts at your words, biting at your side in retaliation. 

“Take it back.”

“Fine,” you relent (easily, as you always do with him), “I take it back.”

Baby fat still clings to his cheeks despite the way the rest of him toned out; harsh edges and rippled muscle. It used to bother him until you told him how much you’d loved it (how much it reminded him of when you were both young; snot nosed kids digging into the dirt, screams of joy falling from your lips when you’d chase him with worms to make him squeal). 

“Let me taste you.” 

You huff at his words, putting up a front though you’ll know he’ll get his way. He always does, always has. You used to make fun of him when you were young about how spoilt he was, despite it all you couldn’t deny your enabling. How could you not when his plush lips pouted down at you?

“I have work in the morning, Hwang Hyunjin.”

He pulls away from your warmth with a whine, and you do little to stop him when he maneuvers you the way he likes. 

“The sky’s  blue, the leaves are green, and I want to make you cum.”

“Hyunjin.”

“Sorry, are we done listing obvious things?”

You laugh loudly at his words, and pride soars throughout his body. 

“Technically the sky is black right now. It’s nearly one in the morning.”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes at you, huffing at your difficulty before your panties are shucked across the room. 

“Trying to play coy when your pussy is dripping for me right now,” he says with a smirk as he spreads your legs, “naughty thing.”

You open your mouth to quip back at him, but it gets caught in your throat when his tongue runs up your heat from root to stem, sucking your clit in his mouth before pulling off with lewd pop. 

“You’re my girl aren’t you?”

You nod quickly at his words, hands grasping at his hair as he descends on you again. 

“Say it,” he demands, “say you’re my girl.”

“I’m your girl, Hyunjin.”

“Then let me make you cum for me.”

You know Hyunjin’s obsession with eating you out is more for him than you, always waiting to get his fill before he focuses and makes you cum the way you like. 

Hyunjin groans into your heat when your thighs snap closed against his face, his hands moving to paw at your chest. Practiced movements having you crying out for him, hips bucking into his touch when his tongue fucks into your dripping heat. 

It never takes long when he has you like this. Soft, pliant. Wrapped in his shirt with the smell of him encasing you; his mark littered across you in every way he can imagine. 

“Don’t hold back, angel,” he pinches at your nipples, grinding himself into the bed below, “cum for me, let me have it.”

Hyunjin loves everything about you; from the way you add hearts to your i’s to the scrunch of your face when you’re angry. But the sound of his name falling from your lips when you fall apart for him has to be one of his favorites. You gasp and whine and plead (though there’s no need really, he’d give you the world and more if only you’d ask). 

A cry of his name and you’re cumming on his tongue; hips bucking wildly to chase the friction. 

He laps at your release until he’s had his fill, dopey eyes staring up at you from where he rests between your thighs. 

Your chest heaves with labored breaths, hands covering your eyes as you return to him. 

“You’re insane.”

“I am,” he agrees easily, “but that’s what you love about me, right?”

He already knows your answer, but you appease him nonetheless. 

“Yeah, it is.”

Something’s different and yet everything’s the same. You smile softly at him, an old shirt of his drapes prettily along your dewy skin. Your hair is pulled back and a book rests in the crook of your legs. He’s not sure what it is; the scent of your shampoo wafting through his nose, the smile you give him when he steps closer, the stars, the moon, the rain that has his senses overflowing with nothing but you, you, you. 

“Hi, handsome,” you greet, “I already ate, your leftovers are in the oven for you.”

Chan hums noncommittally, takes note of the surprise on your face when he breaks routine. He’s careful to mark your spot in the book, pulls your legs apart so he can nestle between them. The warmth of you is so strong it nearly overwhelms him; welcomes it instead by nestling his face into your soft stomach, nearly mewling when your fingers card through his hair. 

“Bad day?” You ask softly, love silently. 

He shrugs his shoulders in response. Not a terrible day, not a good day. Just— A Day. He doesn’t speak, but you know him well enough to read between the lines. What little he gives you yet so much you take. Pull the words from the quirk of brows and the way his lashes flutter. 

“Missed you.” He mutters into the fabric of his stolen shirt, he shuffles about before pulling it up so he can rest against your bare skin. 

“Missed you more, handsome,” you keen, “any particular reason you’re extra cuddly today? Not that I’m complaining.”

“Sounds like complaining to me,” he teases. 

You scoff at him, pinch at his side and you feel his grin grow from the way he’s pressed against you. 

His cock twitches when you hum a familiar tune, and the domesticity of it all makes him queasy. Arousal flows so violently through his veins he nearly grinds himself into the couch.

Chan almost feels bad for ruining the soft moment between the two of you, but when his lips ghost over the hem of your panties and he feels the way your breath hitches,  he can’t find it in himself to care. 

“Oh I see,” he’s certain a smirk is plastered on his face as you speak, “you missed me.” 

Tease as you may, Chan knows you want him just as bad. He can tell from the way your hips twitch ever so slightly in an attempt to bring him closer. His tongue laves at your hip before his teeth sink softly into your side. You grab at his head despite the fabric that separates the two of you, attempting to grab at his hair between the layers. 

“I’m gonna make you cum.”

It’s more a statement than a question; but with the way Chan knows you, reads your tells, he doesn’t need to ask. He can’t see you, but he feels the way your body shakes as you nod frantically, maneuvering yourself into a more comfortable position for the two of you. 

He doesn’t bother pulling your underwear down yet, he knows you like it better this way. When his tongue runs across the slick fabric; the rough drag of cotton against your clit when he presses as close to your heat as he can. 

You cry out his name at the first drag of his tongue, legs falling open easily so he can pull you closer. Your legs curl over his shoulders, heels digging into the muscles of his back while he has his way with you. 

Chan groans into you when your taste finally seeps through the spit soaked fabric; grinds his hips into the couch when you finally pull your shirt up to watch the way he eats you. 

He does this for what feels like hours; laps greedily at your clit, pushes his tongue against the fabric teasingly against your hole. A promise of what’s to come. 

“Please,” you whine, “give it to me, baby.”

There’s no need for you to beg, Chan will give it to you. You’ll never truly need anything when he’s around; something he’s proved to you time and time again. He can’t deny the way his cock twitches when you pout down at him though. Pretty lips swollen from you gnawing at them while he pleasures you. 

Normally he’d take the time to pull your panties down. He’d kiss at the sole of your foot before nipping at your ankle; throw your legs over his shoulders before he fucks you open with his tongue. 

But he’s feeling a little desperate; hands pulling your underwear to the side before putting as much of his mouth onto you that he can. Your legs attempt to snap close around his head, but he welcomes the suffocating feeling. His tongue fucks as much of your cum from you as it can; head bobbing ever so slightly so his nose can catch against your swollen clit. 

“Don’t stop, Channie,” you cry out. 

As if he would. 

Tender hands massage at your thighs, holding you open so he can spit onto the mess you’d created together. You always get so sloppy when he eats you like this; slick slipping down beneath the couch as your hole clenches in desperation to be stuffed full. 

You’re close. Chan can tell from the way your hands frantically reach to ground yourself with something before settling in his hair. You yank harshly, but he welcomes the sting. Groans loudly into your heat as your hips buck to meet with the thrusts of his tongue. 

He wants to tell you it’s okay, to let go and cum on his tongue; but he dare not pull away. Not when you’re this close; when your cunt tastes so good and your hands tug at his hair and—

“Cumming!” You cry out, “You— you’re gonna make me cum.”

It’s intense like it always is with him; almost annoying how well he can unravel you so quickly, just to be the one to wind you back up again. 

Slick gushes from your hole and Chan greedily laps at it, tongue plunging into you as you whine and cry that it’s too much. 

He finally slows when the aftershocks of pleasure wash over you; reprieve granted as he kisses at the fat of your thighs. 

He doesn’t move far from his position, merely rests his head against the kiss bitten flesh. Heavy breaths fall from your lips as you smile shyly down at him. 

“Hi,” you murmur. So softly, so sweetly Chan feels his aching cock twitch again. 

“Hi,” he replies, fingers tracing patterns into your sweat slicked skin. 

A car passes by, your A/C hums to life,  Chan's leftovers sit in the oven forgotten; and he feels his heart grow. 

He frowns at this, an anxious feeling building creeping in his belly at how you brush him off. Just as he goes to type what was probably (definitely) a message a tad too desperate; his phone pings again. 

— put your earbuds in

— attachment: one voice memo

Jisung chuckles, shaking off his earlier insecurities. He loves how well you know him; that he’d rather hear your voice telling him about your day than read your messages. He gets up from the bed, grabbing his earbuds before settling into the mattress. It’s softer than the one you share; but somehow still not as comfortable without you resting next to him. He presses play, a smile already on his face.

“Hi, baby.”

He stiffens at the tone, breath hitches as he listens to you shuffle around.

“I miss you so much, you know,” you sigh into the microphone, “it’s just not the same without you here.”

His cock stiffens at the sultry sound of your voice, mind racing. 

“I want you to do what I say, okay, baby?” 

His head falls back into the pillows, a low groan leaving his lips. He nods despite the fact that you can’t see him. Fist clenching as his cock twitches in anticipation. 

“I bet you’re hard already, aren’t you?” You tease, “You’re so easy, baby. I love that about you. Love knowing you can get off just from my voice.” 

There’s more shuffling on the other side before he hears a familiar sound; a whine followed by the slick sound of your cunt. 

“Take your cock out,” you instruct.

Jisung quickly yanks his towel open, squeezing at the base of his cock.

“Spit on it, baby. Just like I would.”

A loud moan falls from his lips, precum leaking steadily out of his reddened tip before he follows your instruction. Stroking himself slowly to lubricate himself. 

“Want you to tease the tip, can you do that? I know how much you like when I do that, handsome. When I put my lips around it to taste you.”

Jisung nods, large hand palming over his cock. His hips buck up into the touch; pleasure searing through his veins so harshly he’s not sure if he’ll last. He thinks about you looking up at him; the way you smile as you trace the tip of his cock with your tongue before sliding him into your mouth. 

“Does that feel good, baby?”

“Yes,” he moans, whines slipping steadily past parted lips, “fuck— so good.”

“I miss you so much,” you whine, and— fuck, Jisung can hear the way your fingers pick up their pace. The wet sounds of you fucking yourself open while you whimper. 

“Miss everything about you,” your voice is breathy now; an air of desperation slipping off your tongue, “miss feeling your fingers inside me. The way they— oh! The way they fuck me open.”

All restraint is lost on Jisung at this, fist fucking quickly onto his cock as he hears the way you’re falling apart for him. Lust boiling in his belly over the fact that he has you like this; even miles apart.

“Miss your tongue,” you must’ve adjusted the phone closer to your cunt; because the wet sounds of your fingers take over the speakers. 

He pictures you on the bed you share, head thrown back as you desperately rut into your too small fingers. Jisung thinks about coming home to you; your legs over his shoulders while he licks the mess between your thighs. The way your hands grip his hair when his nose presses against your clit while he fucks you with his tongue. 

“But, Jisung.”

Fuck; you’re not playing fair. The sound of his name falling from your lips has him calling your own out loudly; hips bucking up to meet the thrusts of his hand as he imagines you on top of him. The way your tits bounce in his face. How whiny you get when he takes your nipple into his mouth. The coy look you give him when your legs are too tired, how your pretty eyes roll back when he tucks his legs up to pound up into you. 

“Jisung!” You cry out, “Miss your cock the most. The way you stuff me full; when you make me take it over and over until I’m— fuck! I’m cumming, I’m cumming, I’m—

Jisung falls apart with you; moaning unabashedly as rope after rope of cum falls onto his heaving abdomen. He whines your name; picturing your smile; your laugh; your—

“Jisung ,” you sigh; satiated, “wish I was there to lick the cum off of your stomach.” 

His cock twitches where it rests on his abdomen; and he huffs out a laugh at the pout in your voice.

“I love you,” you sigh, “come home soon.”

“I love you too,” he whispers into the silence of the room.

 He picks his phone up from where he’d tossed it to the side earlier, gripping his cock once more before taking a picture. Laughing to himself when your contact photo comes up as you call.

“Hi, princess.”

You have always been first in your class.

Not because you particularly enjoyed studying. You simply felt that your worth was solely tied to the marks on your papers.

You never wanted to crumble under the pressure of studies, to hole yourself up in your room for an assignment you won’t remember in a month. But achieving good grades was the only way for you to feel seen; to make someone stop in their tracks and acknowledge you. 

A simple “good job” that you preserved inside your mind, as a reminder that you did exist to other people. Considering that the majority of your life was spent in silence. 

Your mom put a roof above your head and food on your table, but she never asked about your day, nor did she seem to care. You felt as though you were no more important to her than the tapestry hanging on your wall.

At times, you imagined that if you stood close enough to that tapestry, you could merge with it as one. The intricate embroidery would wrap around you and draw you in. And your mother wouldn’t notice. She would regard you with the same indifference she showed towards that textile- a mere decoration, at times a nuisance when she had to dust it.

You always ate your dinner alone. When you scraped your knee, you tended to the wound by yourself. No one attended your childhood musicals, and you patted your back when you cracked an egg without dropping a shell into the bowl. 

You’ve come to learn since your young age that all your milestones, both small and significant, would be celebrated alone. 

On the rare times your mother would acknowledge your presence, she’d unleash a flurry of criticism your way as if she was eagerly awaiting the opportunity to strike you down. She'd toss crude comments over her shoulder as easily as a casual hello, leaving you feeling battered and bruised in her wake. 

You felt as if you were shoreline rocks, and your mother was the ocean. You never knew if she would be like a gentle tide, barely brushing against you, or an enraged storm, mercilessly crashing down on your being. And you weren't sure which one was worse: to be invisible or to be seen and despised.  

That’s why you grew up plagued with self-doubt. You made friends throughout your school years but you never allowed them to get close enough to really see you -you feared that they might glimpse the very thing your mother seemed to despise in you. 

Throughout your childhood, you were like soft clay in your mother's hands- pliable, and easy to mold. And she indented you, everywhere, carved in edges and dips where they should not have been ones. Handled you roughly when you should have been treated with care. And as the years went by, you hardened- much like clay, but her touch remained imprinted upon you. It was difficult at times to discern who you were and who she made you to be.

You tried to start anew when you went away to university; to rewire your brain into believing that you were enough- you exist and you shouldn't prove to anyone that you deserved to be alive. But her words haunted you, they were like skeletons in your closet- but the closet was you. You could never part from them.

So, you fell back into the same pattern of seeking good grades and congratulatory words from your professors. Every A+ you got infused you with a momentary sense of worthiness.

But unlike in high school, you weren't always the best. Your competition came in the form of a single man named Minho, who seemed to excel in every class you shared.

Minho was mostly quiet, but whenever he spoke, you found that his words carried weight. Your professors consistently agreed with his points, and you envied the confidence he exuded. You wondered what it must feel like to be so sure of oneself.

It wasn't until a month into the year that you had your first interaction with Minho. You were in your Constitutional Law class when your professor Kim brought up the notion of ‘Separation of Powers’. You were arguing that judges shouldn’t be included in the writings of law when you heard a scoff from the row behind you. You turned around, raising a brow at the culprit, "Is there something you’d like to say?" you asked.

And in response, Minho smiled lazily, an air of smugness surrounding him, "I just don’t agree." The professor urged him to explain himself, so he leaned back into his chair, eyeing you. "Judges are the ones who practice the law every day, and sometimes they find that none of the written texts fit their case. If they get involved in lawmaking, they can help address those gaps or uncertainties." 

"Who's to say that those judges aren’t biased or politically motivated? They’ll end up writing laws to fit their own preferences," you pointed out, raising an eyebrow at him. "We elect judges to interpret and apply laws, not make them. If they start writing laws too, we'll be violating the separation of powers between the legislative and judicial branches. That's what keeps our entire system from crumbling."

Minho rested his chin on his hand, tapping his cheek thoughtfully with his index finger. "Aren’t legislators prone to biases too? Your point doesn’t stand then," he challenged, tilting his head to the side, "and judges can participate without going overboard. They can provide input on proposed laws without actually drafting them. That way, we ensure that the laws are crafted with a clear understanding of how they'll be put into practice." 

"If your main concern is to ensure that the laws are impartial, we have people who work as consulting experts whose job is exactly that," you flashed him an innocent smile, firing back. "Also, wouldn’t these overstepping branches put the judges in a position to be perceived in a bad light? Is that what you want?"

Before Minho could respond, Mr. Kim intervened, putting an end to your debate, "Let's save this energy for your essays and see who can convince me more."

You gave a quick nod, swiveling in your seat without a backward glance. However, you could sense Minho’s gaze penetrating through your back- as if he was trying to read your most intimate thoughts. 

That was the first thing you noticed about Minho when he walked over to you. His eyes were brown, not a special color by any means. But they held a certain depth to them that seemed to draw you in like a black hole. You weren't sure what you would find on the other side, nor did you have any desire to find out.

He outstretched his hands towards you, stopping you in your tracks. "Minho," he introduced and your hand met his in a firm grip. The second thing you noticed about him was the coldness of his hand, as it wrapped tightly around your palm. 

Suddenly you were taken back to when you built a snowman for the first and last time. You were just seven and the ice was freezing, numbing your fingers as you worked. Your mother never told you that you should’ve worn mittens, or a thick jacket to fight off the cold when she saw you walking out of the house. The memory of your cold hands and the horrible illness that followed still left a bitter taste in your mouth, like an unripe fruit. With a jolt you dropped his hand, forcefully pulling yourself away from that memory. 

"Yn," you said back, and he smiled to himself, repeating your name slowly, each syllable dripping from his tongue.  

"We'll see who'll write the best essay, right?" he asked, clearly challenging you. There was a gleam of excitement in his eyes that reminded you of a child gazing up at cotton candy. 

That was the third thing you noticed about Minho; how expressive his eyes were. They moved with his every word, punctuating them. 

He was infuriating but also amusing. You've never had a clear competitor in your life. Or maybe you had, but you didn't notice them. You were always so reclined on yourself, trying to survive the day, you didn't pay enough attention to your surroundings.

"You want to compete with me?" You asked, and he smirked, leaning against the door, arms crossed in front of his chest. "What? Scared you’d lose?"

"Please." You rolled your eyes at his taunting, "Don’t come crying when I win."

"We’ll see about that!" He shouted after you as you walked ahead, leaving him behind.

This essay was insignificant. A simple way for your professor to assess your knowledge and work approach. And yet, you found yourself staying up all night to complete it. There was no way you were going to let Minho take this one thing from you.

Who were you if not the best in your studies? You were deathly afraid to find out. 

Later on that week, the professor handed you your grade back, 98%. You turned around to show Minho your mark, and so did he. You surpassed him, only by mere percents. "I told you so," you smiled cheekily and he pouted, holding a hand to his heart as if your grade wounded him.

"I'll beat you next time", he mouthed and you chuckled, "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

✹✹✹

The first time you studied with Minho was in a cat café near campus, called Limbo, about two weeks after your initial interaction. You stumbled upon it serendipitously while strolling through your university town. You couldn’t study at home, since you were easily distracted in there, and the eerie silence of libraries often left you unsettled.

Limbo, however, offered the perfect middle-ground: it was calm, not overly crowded, and the buzzing of the coffee machine blended harmoniously with the occasional mewls of cats, which helped you concentrate better. 

You were sitting in a secluded corner table at the café's back, a sleeping black cat comfortably nestled in your lap when you sensed a shadow loom over you. You glanced up quickly to find Minho. He was clad in a grey hoodie sporting a bunny holding up its middle finger. You had to bite your cheek to suppress a grin at his clothing attire.

"What are you doing here?" He asked. 

"You know for someone smart you sure ask stupid questions," you remarked, already looking down at the papers scattered in front of you.

He huffed, taking a seat at the table right next to yours, "I can’t believe that of all places you’ve found this café to study in."

"My apologies, am I disturbing you, your highness?" You asked sarcastically, and in retort, Minho mimicked your words in a high-pitched tone. You threw the pillow right next to you at his head, and Minho swiftly ducked, easily avoiding it. He chuckled loudly while you glared at his laughing figure. That was the end of your conversation that day. 

From that moment forward, it became a routine for the two of you to study at Limbo, every Saturday, without fault. You didn’t explicitly plan on it, but it seemed that both of you found it comforting to work there. And you could also tell that, unlike you, it wasn’t Minho’s first time coming to Limbo. He was friends with the owner, a sweet middle-aged man who offered you pastries whenever you stayed there until closing. The cats seemed to know him too, they mewled at his feet whenever he entered and he always greeted them with a soft smile on his face. 

You didn’t talk much in those unofficial study sessions, the both of you were consumed by your own work. But you’d steal quick glances at him every now and then, the sight of him so concentrated only fueled you to work harder.

Admittedly, your competition left you feeling anxious for days on end at first. Each time Minho came out on top, you’d found yourself losing your grip. Your studies have been the one anchor keeping you afloat your entire life, and now, Minho was ripping it carelessly away from you. So, you resented him- you were human after all.

But then, you realized that Minho’s taunting wasn’t malicious. He wasn’t competing with you to hurt you, he was doing it for amusement only.

You've slowly started to learn that despite his relentless teasing, Minho had a gentle aura surrounding him. Glimpses of which occasionally emerged like rays of sunshine piercing through a thick cloud cover.

True, he chuckled when you accidentally bumped your head on the table while retrieving a fallen pen. Yet, you also noticed how he began to cover the table's corners with his hand whenever you bent down. He swiftly retracted his hand, seemingly believing you didn't notice, but you did.

During class presentations, he deliberately prepared challenging questions for you, urging you to study twice as hard to ensure no stone was left unturned. Yet, whenever the professor praised your performance, Minho offered a subtle thumbs-up as a gesture of support. He winked at you each time he got the right answer and you didn’t. However, when he noticed you struggling with a particular subject, he scooted closer and patiently explained it to you. He got up before you could thank him, swatting his arm in the air as if he didn’t do anything of significance. 

To show your appreciation, you bought him a drink that day he helped you—a simple gesture that sparked an ongoing game of "win a bet, get free food". You bet on who would receive the first mark on an assignment or who would finish an essay first- anything to further deepen the competition between you.

That's how you came to know that he loved puddings, among other things.

Curiously, as the months went by, your mind began to retain these little details about him. How his eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings when he blinked repeatedly during your conversations. How he glanced at the ceiling when lost in deep thought as if he was waiting for the answers to descend from the sky. Or how his lips take on the shape of an "o" while thinking of his response during one of your many debates. But you supposed that it was natural to take notice of such things when you spend countless Saturday afternoons with the same person.

You were still studying for someone else, in the sense that each time you stayed up working, it was solely to prove your worth to Minho. But at least unlike your mother, Minho's words never haunted you at night.

✹✹✹

Just like that, four months have gone by since you joined your university as a law major. It was nearing finals week and you were preparing it at Limbo. Minho was naturally present too, at his usual table right next to yours.

On the last weekend before the beginning of your finals, you were head-deep into your Criminal Law documents when Minho abruptly got up from his seat and settled in the chair in front of you.

"Yn," he whispers and you glance at him, "What?" 

"I have an idea."

"Keep it to yourself," you grin sarcastically, only for him to pick up your spoon and move it around in a threatening manner.

"Are you trying to scare me with a spoon?" you chuckle in disbelief.

 "Anything can be a weapon if you use enough force."

"Okay… that was creepy. What do you want?"

"The end of the first term is coming up. So, to celebrate our little rivalry-"

"It's not a rivalry if I’m always winning," you cut him off.

"Yeah, that’s why I have a fridge full of pudding."

"But-"

"Anyways, how about the top of the class takes the other out for dinner? A fancy one." He suggests, his gaze fixed on you.

"No, thank you. I already see you enough in classes."

"Didn’t think you wouldn’t up for a bet. Guess I was wrong," he remarks, a cheeky smile drawn on his lips. He knows you couldn’t possibly say no now.  

"Fine," you roll your eyes at his proud expression. "Prepare your wallet." 

"Mm, sure," he responds, before rising from his seat once more.

That day, you both lost track of time as you studied in Limbo until it closed down. When you finally stepped outside, stretching your tired limbs, you were met with the sight of falling snowflakes.

"Nooo, go away. I don't want to watch the first snow with you," Minho whines, referring to the superstition that watching the first snowfall with someone could spark love between the two of you. 

"As if I could ever love you," you laugh at the ridiculous idea, "that’d just be signing a death warrant."

You resume walking towards your apartment when suddenly something freezing and hard hits your back with enough force to make you stagger. Turning around slowly, you find Minho erupting in laughter, his body filled with uncontainable joy. He’s jumping and clapping excitedly, and for a fleeting moment, you can’t decide if your shock was from the impact or from how beautiful happiness looks on him. 

Snapping out of your daze, you swiftly retaliate by scooping up a handful of snow and hurling it at him. "Now you are cold too!" you shout, while he’s still laughing uncontrollably. 

Thus begins an impromptu snowball fight between the two of you. Unsurprisingly, you’re being competitive in this too, trying your best to strike each other before the other could recover. But Minho draws nearer to you, and in your desperation to win, you fall to the ground when he throws a snowball at your chest, gasping as if you’re in pain.

"Shit, did I hurt you?" Minho quickly kneels in front of you, concern evident in his voice. It surprises you for a moment- how worried he seems at the prospect of causing you pain.

But you shake that thought off and push him down to the ground, a proud smile on your face. In his fall, Minho instinctively reaches for you to steady himself, which ends up with you landing on top of him. Your faces are mere inches apart, and a soft gasp escapes your mouth at your sudden proximity.

Minho has a mole on his nose. You’ve never noticed that before. 

You quickly push yourself off of him, not enjoying being this close to somebody. "Why did you drag me down with you?" you grumble, shaking off the snow from your hair.

"Play stupid games, win stupid prizes," he cheekily stuck out his tongue, and you respond with the same childlike gesture before the both of you burst into loud laughter. The sound reverberates through your entire being, and it echoes in your mind long after the two of you go your separate ways.  

As you lay in bed that night, ready to drift off to sleep, a quiet realization dawns on you. This was the first time you've touched snow in since your childhood incident.

That unpleasant memory didn't cross your mind once. Instead, all you thought about was Minho’s infectious laughter, and the surprising warmth it stirred within you.

✹✹✹

You came first in your grade this semester.

True to his words, Minho texted you the name of the restaurant where you’d both meet to celebrate your win. As you got ready for your outing, you couldn’t help the nerves creeping up on you. Studying in silence next to Minho was something, going to a friendly dinner with him was another. You feared it would be too awkward and Minho would regret ever proposing such a thing.

So, as you sit in the refined BBQ restaurant waiting for him, you fidget with your hands, counting down to three in your head in an attempt to steady your breathing.

You were clearly not accustomed to existing with Minho outside of the confines of your studies.

"Did you wait long?" Minho asks as he finally pulls the chair in front of you and you shake your head no.

"Are you nervous?" he chuckles at your lack of words, and you frown, suddenly feeling defensive. "Why would I be nervous? This isn't a date."

"Who said anything about a date?" he smirks and you grab your fork threateningly, pointing it at him, "Don't say anything stupid or I will walk out."

"And stand me up on our first date? That's too mean.” He pouts, a hand on his heart and you can’t help but giggle at his antics. You were ridiculous for being nervous. This was Minho, the one person you’ve talked to the most since the start of this year. 

"What will you have?" he asks and you smile mischievously.

 "Most expensive thing on the menu."

"So you are only here for the food." 

"Well, it's certainly not for your company," you wink and he chuckles, his bunny teeth on full display. 

"And here I thought we were going to be civil with each other."

"When are we ever not?" you gasp dramatically and Minho swats your hand with the menu. "Just order whatever," you finally answer," I trust your food judgment."

"I could poison you, you know?" He smiles proudly and you roll your eyes at him, "Can’t you be normal, for once?"

Minho calls over the waiter and places your orders. The food is quick to arrive and Minho starts to grill up the meat, while you cut the Kimchi into smaller pieces. 

"Here," he puts the perfectly cooked rib onto your plate first and you smile at him, "Thank you."

"Eat up, don’t wait for me," he tells you and you nod, tasting the flavorful meat.

"Wow this is really good," you compliment and he smirks proudly at your words, "I know."

Minho places four other ribs for you, without eating one himself. You start to feel bad, so you grab his chopsticks, pick up the meat, and move it toward his mouth, "Open up."

"What?" He asks confused and you wave the food in front of his face, "Come on, you haven’t eaten anything."

Minho parts his lips slowly, and you feed the tender meat to him, before eating one yourself. You notice how his cheeks are slightly tinted pink now, and you account it to the intense heat of the grill.

"Oh, let's not talk about studies, my brain can't take another debate with you," you tell Minho in between bites and he grins at you, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. "If you were to dispose of a body, how would you do it?"

"I think our next celebration will be in an asylum." you smile too sweetly at him and he stares at you pointedly, "Please, I know you've already thought about it."

"Fine. Probably in a deserted land. What about you?"

"I'd cut their bodies and then bury each part in a different forest. In a different city."

His answer came too quickly, and you pause in your tracks, "Should I be worried?"

"You are too cute to kill." His tone is sarcastic and you make a show of gushing at his compliment, clasping both of your hands in front of your heart, "Growing soft on me, Minho?" 

"Yeah, I’m basically sooo in love with you," he replies with a smirk and you roll your eyes at him, an amused smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

"What's your favorite color?" you finally ask, changing the subject.

"Purple."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You'll buy me purple flowers?" He coos at you and you shake your head as you grab the utensil from his hand, to grill the meat your turn. 

"No. I'll paint your tombstone purple," you grin and he laughs loudly, eyes squinted close, and you can't find it in you to care that the people next to you are staring. 

"What's yours?" he asks when he calms down and you shrug, "Navy blue, I think."

"You do remind me of navy blue."

"And why is that?"

"When you look at it, at first glance, it looks like black. But the more you stare at it, the more layers you uncover. Just like you. There’s more to you than what meets the eye."

You grab your glass of water, gulping it down to hide the way your eyes just glossed over. You suddenly felt bare in front of Minho. How did he know?

You clear your throat, racking your brain for a way to move on from that question. "If you were to describe colors to a blind person, how would you do it?"

"Mm," he looks up at the ceiling as he mulls over your question, "I’d say that yellow is the feeling of eating ice cream on a sunny day, in an amusement park. Your fingers are sticky but your cheeks ache from how much you smiled that day."

"Yellow is carefree and happy."

"Exact. Now your turn, red."

"I’d say that... Red is the thrill that rushes through your veins when you do something you are passionate about, you know? It’s what makes our blood boil and our heart race. The very essence of our humanity."

Minho smiles softly at your words, seemingly agreeing with your description. "Don’t you think it would be easier if we simply asked, what color are you feeling today, instead of a 'How are you'?" He questions and you tilt your head to the side, "What do you mean?"

"Well, you could say, I feel like that moss green that no one seems to pay attention to. Or, I feel bright yellow as if the world's energy is stored inside me."

"And right now, how do you feel?"

"I feel orange, not the ugly orange." He precises and you chuckle, "the orange that paints the sky when the sun is about to dip into the ocean."

"A bittersweet orange, an ending that instantly strings along a new beginning. And you don't have time to rest."

Minho places his chin on his palm, eyeing you curiously, "Is that what you want? To rest?"

"Yeah." You admit quietly, "Don't you sometimes wish that the world would just stop, for a few seconds? Just like in a song, right before the beat drops. That silence, I wish I could live inside of it."

"I do too."

You both hold each other’s gaze for a while after that. You felt as if he was keeping you captive with his brown eyes, and he was slowly peeling each of your layers, in silence, as you were peeling his. For the first time, you think that you and he are similar, more than on a studies level. There was a part of his soul that understood yours perfectly. And it felt good, to be understood, for once.

"If you lived in this silence, what would you be doing?" he asks, breaking the serene quiet that surrounded you.

"I’d open a café that had books. And there'd be a little space, where people could paint. Or do pottery. And I’d have cats in there too." You reply excitedly, hands moving around in the air, you end up missing the way Minho gazes fondly at you before his smile morphs into a smirk.

"Please tell me you won't be cooking."

"Shut up. What about you?"

"I’d be a dancer."

"You dance?!" you whisper-shout and he frowns at the surprised look on your face. 

"Yeah. Why are you looking at me like this?"

"I just never expected it. Can I-"

"No." he cuts you off immediately and you pout. 

"I didn't even finish."

"I knew what you were going to say."

"Please, I won't make a sound I’d just watch. Pinky promise.” He grabs your now outstretched pinky with the tip of his index and thumb, lowering it down. 

"I’d only grant you this wish when you’re on your deathbed."

"Bold of you to assume you'd still be around."

"Death might be around the corner."

"Stop it."

"Close your door tonight."

"You are deranged."

Minho chuckles at the crestfallen look on your face, "I’ll think about it."

Just like that, three hours of talking have gone by, the conversation flowing easily between the two of you. And when you finally leave the restaurant, Minho grabs you a cab and you wave him off with a smile. You couldn't lie to yourself, you had a really good time with him. You liked to think that Minho was no longer just a rival, but a possible friend.

But now that you were laying in your bed, you couldn’t help but curse Minho in your brain. His repetitive talk about murder made you paranoid, and now every creak in your apartment made you feel as if death was really right around the corner. 

You decide to text him, figuring that if you couldn’t sleep because of him, you could at least disturb him for a bit. 

Yn : I hate you I'm paranoid from your murder talk

Minho : Poor baby

Yn : Is that you at my door?

Suddenly your phone rings, the shrill sound echoing around your apartment. It was a Facetime call from Minho. You panic for a few seconds, before remembering that you just spent your entire night with him. A call can’t be more daunting than a real-life meeting. 

"See, I’m in my home," he tells you as soon as you pick up and you laugh.

"It's pitch black, I can't see."

"Just say you miss my face." You can’t see him but you can clearly hear the proud grin in his voice. 

"What's there to miss?"

"Are you actually scared?" Minho asks gently and you clear your throat, feeling ridiculous all of the sudden. 

"There is a tree right outside my window and it keeps rustling from the wind," you grumble and Minho laughs at you. 

"Trees can't hurt you."

"No shit Sherlock."

"Close your eyes.” He instructs and you frown at his words. 

"Why?"

"I’ll tell you a story."

"Fine.” You close your eyes tentatively. It’s quiet for a few seconds and you feel yourself relax slightly. 

"So, I bought a sous-vide machine and-"

"Is your bedtime story going to be about meat?"

"Yes?” He replies as if it’s an evidence, “Now be quiet." You pretend to zip your mouth and Minho faintly giggles, before resuming his story. "So, I was saying. I bought one and I wanted to experience different kinds of meats. So, I bought a 30-day aged one and a 58-day aged one and I cooked them both."

"What did you use?" you ask quietly. 

"Just garlic, and thyme, I didn't want to overpower the taste of meat. Anyways I cooked them, but I didn't have plastic bags so I had to go out and buy them."

"Mm," you hum in acknowledgment. You could feel your nerves slowly dissipate with Minho's every word. His story might be ridiculous but his honey-coated voice compensated for it, wrapping around you like a protective cocoon. 

"And I found pudding there so I had to buy it."

"Obviously," you whisper. Sleep was knocking on your door, but paradoxically you tried to fight it off. You wanted to hear the rest of Minho’s story. 

"And I went back home and I cooked it, then I plated it nicely with vegetables that I sauteed with butter and garlic. Just mushrooms and potatoes, nothing too fancy. Again, my main focus was the meat. But there wasn't a difference between the two. They tasted the same for me, for some reason. And I didn't like this because the aged one was very expensive. Maybe I was scammed. Honestly, that butcher looked kind of suspicio..."

Your quiet snores make Minho pause in his tracks, and he laughs quietly. You did end up falling asleep. He can't see your face clearly, but he can see its outline and he stares at you for a while. You look peaceful.

He goes to hang up but his finger hovers over the 'end call' button. You aren't talking, but your hums are quiet enough that they fill up the space around him. It calms him down, and he lets his head fall on the pillow, his phone lying beside him.

He closes his eyes, thinking that maybe he just found the silence you talked about earlier on. 

You just made his world stop.

✹✹✹

The second semester had just started and with it the return of frat parties. You were excited at the prospect of going to one with your new friend Mina. You met her in the library when you both went to grab the same book. You quickly apologized but she waved you off, handing you the book with a huge smile on her face. She was bubbly, like a human serotonin boost, and she started gushing about how much she loved the author. You saw her again in the campus cafeteria, and she skipped towards you as if you've both known each other your entire life. That was the start of your friendship.

You walk into the frat house, both your arms encircling each other. The flashing lights of the party blind you for a moment, and it takes you a while to adjust to the loud music bouncing off of the walls. But you like it, it was like a shield from the outside world and its problems. 

You feel yourself letting loose in the crowd, swaying your hips to the music. Mina spins you around and you laugh, dancing with no care in the world. It was just the both of you in that instant. 

Mina spots Jeongin in the crowd, a friend of hers that she had an immense crush on. You couldn’t blame her- he was very attractive; his easy smirk and his blonde tousled hair earned him lots of appreciative looks from the people around him. But when his eyes locked with Mina’s, you found that his face morphed into a beautiful smile, that made his dimples look on full display, as if it was only reserved for her.

“Go get your man!” You shout in her ears, so she’d be able to hear you. 

“What are you talking about?” She yells back, but you could see the nervous smile on her face.

“He likes you! Go talk to him!”

“I don’t want to leave you alone. We came together!” She clasps your hand in hers and you smile touched by her kind spirit.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll go to the kitchen to get some drinks. Go have fun!”

“You are sure?” She asks, her eyes darting between you and Jeongin, who was still looking at her, and her only. 

“Yes! Go!” You say, gently pushing her away. Mina jogs up to Jeongin who greets her with a side hug. He quickly glances at you and you shoot him a thumbs-up, to which he grins. You loved playing Cupid.

With that, you decide to head to the kitchen to grab a drink. You pick a beer from the fridge, double-checking if the can is closed before opening it. 

You lean on the countertop, sipping on your drink while you watch the crowd, humming along each time a song you knew played. You enjoyed watching people dance freely from afar, with no apparent care in the world.

You feel someone stand next to you and you brace yourself, getting ready to tell the person off if they decide to bother you. You didn’t have the energy for mindless flirting. But then, you smell the cologne that has lingered around you for the past term- Minho. You haven't seen him since your dinner. That was a month ago.

"Fancy seeing you here," he greets as he leans on the counter right next to you, his eyes fixated on the mingling bodies.

You turn around to face him, faking an outraged gasp, "Are you following me?"

"Mmm. You look nice", he compliments and you smile cheekily, "I know."

"Won't tell me I look nice too?" he smirks, leaning closer to your face. "Someone didn’t get enough compliments tonight?" You pout, placing a hand on your heart in mock concern.

"I did, but I want to hear it from you. You’re the only sensible person in this room."

"You look nice. Now leave me alone."

"Come on, I know you can do better than that", he jokes and you roll your eyes, muttering “You’re annoying”, under your breath.

Still, you comply, placing your arms on top of the counter and leaning your head on them to get a better look at him. He does the same, smiling, and you both stare at each other for a while after that.

The strobing lights dance on Minho’s face, casting enticing shadows on him. You've always known he was a beautiful man; you've looked into his eyes far too many times in your heated conversations. But this time was different, there was no cheeky smirk on his face nor a furrow in his eyebrows. He was simply looking at you, and it made a pool of warmth huddle in your belly. You feel yourself relax under his gaze, everything around you seemingly melts away.

You weren’t wrong when you thought that his eyes were like a black hole, pulling you in. But this time, you realize that you didn’t mind knowing what was on the other side. On the contrary, you longed for it. 

"I like your eyes right now. They remind me of the night sky. Black, with tiny little stars littered in them," you finally say.

Minho is taken aback by your words, he wasn't expecting you to compliment him, let alone to tell him something so special. He can feel his cheeks burn red at your words, feel his heart hammering in his chest. He's afraid you can hear it too.

He doesn't know what to say, so instead he clears his throat, plastering a smirk on his face, "I heard better." He hasn't. This is the first genuine compliment he's ever gotten.

"Oh, fuck off," you laugh and he joins you. The music was loud and yet the only sound his ear seemed to pick up was your laugh.

"Are you here alone?" He asks, and you shake your head no, "Came with my friend Mina."

"Did she leave you by yourself?" He frowns and you feel yourself warm up at his worried tone. "I told her to go talk to Jeongin."

"Next time, don’t stay alone."

“Fine, Dad.” You chastise and he stares pointedly at you, "I’m serious, yn."

You take another swing of the beer before turning your body fully towards Minho. After a few beats of silence, you finally ask a question that has been on your mind for a while. "Why do you say my name this way?"

"What way?" He questions and you shrug, "Slowly. People used to always rush it but you don’t."

"Well, it’s a pretty name. It deserves to be pronounced as a whole."

You beam at his words; you smile so brightly it makes his heart skip a beat. This is the first time you’ve grinned this widely at him, no hand in front of your mouth as if to hide it. He did notice how you were a reserved person outside of class, as if you were afraid of taking up too much place. But he could tell you were slowly unraveling, growing bolder with each passing month. He wanted to tell you that if people like you spoke more, the world would be a far better place. 

But he couldn't bring himself to say all of this, so he forced those bubbling words down his throat. "I’m hungry," he whines instead and you laugh at his pout. "I'm kind of craving a greasy pizza."

"Should we go buy it? You can tell Mina to come so we can walk her back."

"I’ll ask her."

You shoot Mina a text, asking her where she was and telling her about your plan. She replies that she’s with Jeongin who just offered to take her home, so you could leave without her.

"We can go." You tell him and he nods. Minho shrugs his leather jacket off, gently placing it on your shoulders. His warmth engulfs you and you sink further into it. His arm hovers around your shoulder not touching you as he leads you out of the party. He has never touched your body, you note, it's like he was everywhere and nowhere at once.

You both walk to an open parlor near the frat house, and you order a Margarita pizza to share. You sit down on a nearby bench to eat it- the night breeze too liberating to pass up on.

As you both finish eating, a cat with white and orange stripes all over her body approaches the both of you cautiously, and you pat her head softly. "Aren't you the cutest thing ever?" you coo and Minho chuckles as he scratches the cat’s chin. She purrs at his touch appreciatively, and you smile at the soft look on his face. 

"Never knew you to be this gentle", you giggle and Minho shushes you, "Let's not do this in front of the cat."

"Why are you acting as if we are a divorced couple and she’s our child."

"Easy, yn. You make it sound as if you want me to marry you."

"Now you're just projecting," you chastise and he laughs, eliciting giggles from you. He had a melodic laugh, you noticed, and you always felt a surge of pride whenever you made him close his eyes and tip his head from laughter. You felt as if it's a sight only you can see.

"I have three cats", he says softly and you gasp, "Really? We spent all of our Sundays in a cat café and this is when you tell me?"

"I only tell my friends."

"So we're friends now?" You gush and he rolls his eyes at you, "I take it back."

"What’s their names?" You ask curiously and his eyes soften at your question- you could easily tell he loved them dearly.

"Soongie, Doongie, and Dori. They are rescues."

"That’s very sweet of you Minho."

"Most of my scars come from them though," he chuckles but you sober up at his words, quietly scratching the cat's ears.

"What’s on your mind?" He asks and you glance at him. It was scary how well he’s starting to know you. But it was also nice; to be known is to exist, after all.

"I just... Sometimes I wish that memories would leave physical scars on you. Because at least then, you could treat them, put a band-aid on, and watch them fade away day by day. Because when the scars are emotional, you can’t treat them, you know? And someday someone brings up a name or a place, or you smell a certain scent, and suddenly they reopen as if no time has gone by at all.”

Minho stays silent for a while, mulling over your words. You don't mind, you weren't expecting him to comfort you. You just needed to free those words from the mental prison you've held them in for so long.

"Do you know Kintsugi?" he finally asks and you shake your head no.

"It's a Japanese art. They put back together broken vases with molten gold. It represents strength despite our flaws."

"That sounds nice," you sigh wistfully and he nods. 

"It is. When you look at that vase, you know that it was once broken, but it doesn't take away from its beauty, on the contrary, it adds to it. Scars, whether they are emotional or physical are there for a reason. They remind us of how we pushed through whatever life threw at us."

"Am I supposed to be grateful I survived this?" You chuckle lowly, as your hand scratches the cat’s ear. Your fingers brush against Minho’s and you hesitate for a few seconds before moving them away.

"I wouldn't say grateful for what you went through," he speaks once again, "but grateful to yourself. At the end of the day, the reason why you're still here is you. You put yourself back together," he then bumps his elbow into your side softly, "and hey, even if your scars reopen there will come a time when they wouldn’t anymore. Sometimes, it takes a while to be okay again."

This was Minho’s way of telling you that someday it wouldn’t hurt anymore. That someday you’d be okay. And you needed to hear that. You needed to hear someone else other than yourself tell you that.

"Thank you, Minho, I needed that", you smile at him and he grins back at you before his smile turns to a smirk. "I charge 15 dollars for the hour by the way."

"Oh, come on! You didn't even say something revolutionary." You are lying. Minho's words will echo in your mind long after this night- a beacon of light to hold onto.

"Oh, so now it’s no longer ‘I needed that’. Tsk," he jokes a smirk still plastered on his face.

"Okay, Mr. Therapist. I’ll pay for your coffee tomorrow, sounds good?"

"I should have you as my client more often," he winks and you laugh, head tipped back. You were grateful more than ever for his teasing, loving how it wasn’t awkward between you after your discussion.

"You are a good listener." You tell him as you stand up, dusting your pants.

"I’m good at everything," he grins cheekily at you and you roll your eyes playfully, "And here I thought we were having a moment."

You both start walking side by side toward your home when Minho speaks again. His tone is quiet as if he wasn’t sure he wanted you to hear him. "About earlier, your compliment, I mean. I suppose I didn't thank you. So, thank you," he scratches the tip of his ears and you shrug nonchalantly. "It's the truth. You might get on my ass but that doesn't change the fact you are a pretty man."

He doesn’t respond and you tug at the sleeve of his shirt playfully, "You won't tell me I’m pretty too?"

"But then I’d be lying."

"Asshole."

"Pretty," he replies without missing a beat.

You laugh loudly, hand tightly clutching your stomach and he joins you. There is a newfound lightness in your steps now. Unbeknownst to him, Minho just managed to lift a small weight off your shoulders, allowing you a brief moment of respite.

"This is me," you say when you arrive in front of your apartment block, "Thank you for walking me home."

"Of course. Don't dream of me."

"Idiot," you laugh waving him off and he does the same. "Oh, and text me when you get home safely!" you shout before heading inside.

For the second time this night, Minho is blushing profusely at your words. He sighs to himself, waiting patiently until a light turns on in your place to leave.

✹✹✹

It’s been two months since the start of the new term. You still went to Limbo, every Saturday with Minho- even when you didn’t need to study. 

Sometimes you’d just grab a book and you’d both read, a cat lazily lounging at your feet. You started sitting at the same table too; you figured it was easier since one of you always pays for the other. When you have a bet, but also randomly, when you notice that the other person is feeling down and you want to cheer them up without saying anything.

That's why you bought three bubble teas for Minho in a row. He was quieter these days, you noticed. He didn’t talk to you nor did he retort back in class. It was the first time you’ve seen him this way. As if he was a simple shell of the person he usually is. 

You were walking out of your Communications Strategies class, which Minho weirdly didn’t come to when you realized that it was pouring rain. You smile lightly to yourself, grateful since you thought about picking up an umbrella this morning. 

As you walk through campus, everyone around you running to take shelter, you spot someone sitting on a bench, completely drenched from the rain. Their head is hung low and you frown to yourself. They would surely get a cold if they stay there.

But then the person raises their head and you quickly realize it's Minho. You jog up to him instinctively, standing in front of him and shielding him from the rain with your umbrella.

He looks up at you and you feel your heart clench. His eyes are void of emotion and he stares blankly at you. "Are you okay?" you ask and he blinks at your words, as if his brain hadn't yet registered that you were there.

"Yeah."

"You don't look like it", you tilt your head to the side and he looks down again. You have to strain to hear his next words, muffled by the rain and his mumbling, "I don't want to talk, yn."

You decide to put away your umbrella and sit down next to him on the bench. The rain falls rapidly on both of you, and you feel yourself grow cold from it. 

"What are you doing?" He questions, turning to the side to look at you.

"Enjoying the rain. It is kind of stupid that we have umbrellas, right?"

"You'll catch a cold."

"I mean we always complain about the drought and then when it rains, we hide from it. But it's really beautiful."          

"Stop, I don't want you to get sick."

"Well, neither do I. Let's go eat some soup. My treat."

"Yn, I don’t-"

"I thought you were smart enough to know I won't take no for an answer."

"But I-" you cut him off again. "Also, I’m doing this for me because when you order for two, they give you a lot of side dishes. Now come on."

You stand up and he looks doubtfully at you, before following suit. You open up the umbrella again and hold it over both of your heads. He has to huddle close to you, and your shoulders brush against each other. Once, twice. Not that you're keeping count. But your body is always hyper-aware of Minho’s proximity. You also notice how he silently moves from your right to your left, this way he's the one walking right next to the speeding cars. Your hold on the umbrella tightens. You were still not used to those small attentions of his. 

You arrive in front of your apartment block and he hesitates. "Come up, I won't murder you I promise." You joke and he smiles lightly back at your words. Progress.

He enters your dorm and you can see him eying his surroundings. You know that if it was another time, he would have teased you about something- anything. But he stays quiet, and you find yourself missing the sound of his voice.

"Would you like to shower?" You offer and he nods, "Please."

You lead him to your bathroom and show him where the washing machine is. "Put your clothes in there for a quick wash and dry. You can shower meanwhile."

He nods again as you hand him a towel. "I'll be outside."

You quickly leave the bathroom to place the soup orders, and Minho discards his wet clothes, walking into your shower. The water is piping hot, and he leans his forehead on the cold tiles. He doesn’t move for the first ten minutes, too tired at the prospect of lifting his limbs.

Nothing particular happened. But he’d go through days when he’d quiet down because everything around him was too much. The feel of his clothes against his skin, and the sun streaming through his curtains. But it always passes. Minho was a realistic man and he knew that his emotions would regulate themselves. That’s why he didn’t like appearing vulnerable in front of other people.

But for some reason, he didn’t mind lowering his guard with you. He knew you wouldn’t judge.

He sighs, grabbing your cherry-scented shampoo and pouring it into his hands. He can clearly smell you now. The scent of your hair that always tickles his nose, whenever you are sitting close to him. Your body wash is next and he wonders if this is how your skin smells, like vanilla and jasmine, and something entirely you. 

Forty minutes later, Minho finally steps out of the shower. His clothes are clean and he quickly puts them on. He dries his hair with the towel as he walks out of your bathroom towards the living room. 

He finds you sitting on the ground, in front of a heater that looks close to giving up. He makes a mental note of giving you the one he has since he doesn't really use it. You changed out of your clothes too, and you are now wearing a pair of pajamas with little bunnies sewn into it. The sight almost manages to make him smile. 

"Still cold?" you question when you notice him standing behind you, unmoving, and he shakes his head no.

"Good, the soup is here." You say cheerfully, pointing at the steaming bowls sitting on your table. Minho hums in reply and you stand up, grabbing the towel from his hands to place it on the drying rack.

You come back, a soft green blanket in your hands. You sit on the couch and pat the spot beside you. Minho sits next to you, and you lay the blanket on both of your laps, before handing him his soup.

You start the show you’ve been last watching, as you both eat in silence, your legs crisscrossed. You make some comments throughout the episodes. You figured that it was a safe territory, to talk about something as mundane as this. He didn't reply but you didn't mind. You weren't here to have a conversation with him. You just wanted to distract him.

You realize at that moment that Minho always looked so put together to you. But he had problems of his own too. That much was obvious. It made you feel closer to him, in a sense. You were both just trying to make it through the day.

Two hours later, you get up to grab a book, handing Minho the remote to put on a show of his own. You curl in a ball in the corner, reading where you left off last night.

"Can you... Can you read out loud?" Minho speaks for the first time in a while and you look at him. His eyes are closed, his head resting against your couch.

"Sure."

You start to read, and Minho further sinks into the couch. He feels at home here. Because the blanket is soft and the light is dim enough to not hurt his eyes. Or it could be that he smells like you, a scent so comforting he wants to bury himself in it. Or maybe it's your voice that floats through the air, slowly clouding Minho’s every sense. He feels as if he could see the words you were pronouncing dancing in front of his eyes. You enunciated each syllable clearly, making sure that no sound was forgotten.

As Minho gently drifted to sleep, he felt as if he was part of the words you read out loud. He felt as if you were treating him with the same care, making sure that he knew he wasn't invisible. At least not to you.

When you wake up the next morning, Minho is gone. And his place beside you on the couch is empty. He made you breakfast, scrambled eggs, and freshly pressed orange juice. And right next to it you find a note, "Thank you for reading to me."

✹✹✹

Minho didn't believe in having a lot of friends. He was content with the two people he had, Chan and Changbin. The latter was his high school friend, he skipped a year and ended up being in the same class as Minho. They didn't talk at first until the day Changbin dropped a book on Minho's foot. The brooding man started apologizing profusely, and that was the start of their friendship. They've kept in touch since.

Chan was his roommate at university. It's not that he particularly wanted to befriend him, but Chan was a social butterfly and he quickly managed to pull Minho into his friendly trap. He annoys Minho the most, but in an endearing way. And although Chan is older, Minho still strangely developed a soft spot for him. 

And he supposes he has you too now. At first, you weren’t friends, rivals at most. He enjoyed reeling you up and having you frown at his words in your heated debates. He also liked talking to you, because your ideas were interesting and you always gave him a new fresh perceptive to see things.

That’s how he strictly saw you as, an intelligent human who he liked to debate with.

But then he started to look forward to meeting up with you at Limbo. He no longer minded the fact that you took his self-assigned table, from his high school days. And he laughed more freely with you, enjoying how you always had a witty retort sitting at the tip of your tongue. 

That’s how he started to notice things that friends most definitely notice. How you have a charm bracelet you always fidget with whenever you are nervous. How you stray away from physical touch. How you scratch your eyebrow when you are deep in thought.

But also, how you seem to have an obsession with cherries. Your cherry pendant, your cherry-scented shampoo, and your cherry-tainted lips. A friend would most certainly think that your lips are like red wine-stained glass.

He remembers one of the many times when you were at Limbo, and he saw you reapply your lip tint, or so you called it. You caught him looking and he swiftly averted his gaze, but it wasn't quick enough. Suddenly you were in front of him, a tiny red bottle in hand.

"Let me apply it to you," you smiled and he pushed your head away with his pointer finger. "No."

"Please," you pouted and he couldn't help but find you adorable. You sometimes reminded him of a small kitten. But he didn’t dare to call you by that nickname. 

"Never."

"If I score more than you in our environmental assignment then I will do it."

"Fine." he huffed so that you'd leave him alone.

Minho didn't study for that assignment. He blamed it on a headache, not that it's ever stopped him before. And two weeks later you were in front of him, eyebrows scrunched in concentration. You applied the lip tint gently on his plump lips, carefully tracing over his cupid bow. 

Your face was mere inches away from his and he noticed how you were wearing a gloss today, for change. It was shimmering under the lights and he usually didn't like glittery things, but he couldn't take his eyes off your lips. 

"All done!" you clapped excitedly, snapping him out of his haze. You then shove your phone camera into his face so he'd look at the results.

"You should be a model. Your face is perfectly sculpted," you comment nonchalantly, before sitting back in your seat. 

“I know.” He replies confidently, but his hand kept fiddling with the tip of his now pink ears. He couldn't concentrate for the rest of the night.

You were his friend because he always worried if you were eating enough. That’s why he urged you to grab a bite in the convenience store near Limbo, whenever you finished up your studying late.

This was one of the many times you sat on the minuscule table outside, hot ramen bowls in front of the both of you. Minho huffed in annoyance between each bite, his bangs were getting longer, disturbing him when he leaned down to slurp his noodles. 

“Here,” you stand up from your place, a hair tie in your hands. 

“What are you doing?” He questions as you stand behind him. You don’t reply, silently grabbing his hair and putting it up in a tiny ponytail, this way it wouldn’t get in his eyes anymore.

“Voila,” you sit back down, resuming your eating. Minho was grateful for the dimly lit street because his entire face was burning up. Your fingers in his hair were gentle and he wondered how it would feel if you ran your fingers through it. 

This was something friends think about, right? 

"I’ll cut my hair tomorrow," he clears his throat. He didn't know why he told you. You certainly weren't interested in his hair endeavors.

"What?!" you yell, "Don't. Your hair is beautiful why would you cut it?"

"Because it's getting longer."

"But it suits you."

Minho also noticed how you always threw compliments his way. Not in a flirtatious way, but in a genuine one. He couldn't help but wonder what made you this way. Did you so freely give love to others because you knew how it felt to not receive it?

"I’ll still cut it."

Minho returned home; his hair still clipped back in a ponytail. Chan eyed him weirdly but he shut him off with a glare. The elastic remained at his bedside since.

He didn't cut his hair.

The moment Minho started to consider you a close friend, was when you invited him over to watch your show. You didn’t force him to open up that night, and he appreciated it, more than he let on.

That's how a week later, he finds himself walking towards your dorm again. The thoughts in his head got too much, and Chan was immersed in his makeshift studio, which meant he won't be free for the next four hours, minimum.

He didn't plan on going to you. It was late at night and you were probably asleep, but his feet naturally led him to the direction of your place.

He knocks softly on your door. He wasn't even sure if he wanted you to open. What would you think of him showing up at eleven pm? He should have thought this thro-

"Minho?" you call out, and he startles a bit, his feet already inching away from the door.

"This was a bad idea, I'm sorry," he starts to retract back but you grab the hem of his jacket to stop him. "Do you... Do you want to watch my show with me?" you ask, a soft smile on your face and he nods tentatively.

"Okay, come in," you open the door wider and Minho follows you inside. The look in his eyes reminds you of the day you found him sitting under the rain. You didn't like it, you wanted him to find his spark back, his usual demeanor. He wasn't deserving of anything but happiness.

"I’ve started a new show, this one's a bit more romantic, so don't go around imagining me as the main character," you tease and he scoffs at your words, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He doesn't reply, but you don't mind. There was this secret agreement between the two of you, you would talk and he would listen. He needed the distraction, and you needed the company. Sometimes the line between alone and lonely blurs, and on days like these, Minho’s presence fills the void inside.

You comment on the scenes and Minho hums in reply, you watch three episodes in a row, and your eyes are getting drowsy, so you close them.

"Minho," you call out gently and he turns his head towards you.

"Yeah?"

"What color are you feeling tonight?" You ask, referencing to what he told you on your dinner celebration. That felt like an eternity ago.

"Black." You stay silent and Minho fidgets with his hands before speaking once again. "I feel a lot at the same time, too much of every color. That's why- that's why I said black."

"How can I help you feel yellow?"

"You already do." His admission came softly and it made your breath hitch in your throat. You wanted to open your eyes and look at him, but you figured it will only make him close off even more.

“Okay. Will you stay for breakfast?”, you whisper. You were very sleepy, the soft chatter of the TV and your hushed conversation were like a lullaby to you. 

"You want me to?" he asks, and he sounds so vulnerable you can't find it in you to say anything but the truth.

"I do," you admit, and that's the last thing you remember before sleeping.

Your head falls near Minho’s lap on the couch, your hair tickling his exposed thigh. Minho shouldn’t feel this way, he thinks. He’s sitting on the leather couch and his feet are touching the cold floor and yet all he can feel is three strands of your hair tickling him.

He glances at you, at your now parted lips and your relaxed eyebrows. His hand hovers over your hair, but then he curls it into a tight fist. What is he doing? He thinks to himself as he drags an angry hand through his face. He sighs, before standing up and grabbing the blanket you had on the opposing chair. He gently lays it on your body before sitting next to you once again. 

You told him to stay for breakfast. He’ll stay.

✹✹✹

2 months later

"Yn!" Minho shouts in your ear as he plops down next to you. You startle, dropping the book you were reading. 

"I hate you," you grumble, picking up your book and he smiles cheekily at you, "No you don't."

You were laying on the grass of your campus garden, in between two classes, trying to kill the time. It was April so the weather was perfect for lying under the warm sunrays. You loved spring, it always held within it the promise of a better time. 

"What are you doing?"

"I was reading before you got here and started to annoy me." 

"Don't mind me. Do your thing." 

"And what are you doing?"

"Enjoying the sun."

"You couldn't find any other place to do so?"

"Nope."

"You're annoying" You try to sound mad but the smile on your face betrays you. You started looking forward to any moment Minho randomly shows up throughout your day. Sometimes it's late at night when he's suddenly craving sushi and he drags you with him because if he's not studying then you shouldn't be too. 

Sometimes it's during the day, when he takes you to a new garden where he found the quote "cutest cats in existence". Not as cute as his cats, of course. 

Sometimes it's late afternoon when he just knocks on your door, and he's there with Chan-his roommate who sometimes joins your study sessions- snacks in their hands. You've learned that what Minho doesn't say in words, he compensates by spending time with you. And you didn't tell him but waiting for these moments has been the joy of your life for the past few weeks.

It made you feel excited- like a child waiting up for Christmas morning to discover what gifts they are receiving. 

So, you resume reading, as Minho is lying next to you. You could smell his pinewood cologne and you wished you could pour his essence into a bottle and carry it with you everywhere. 

You notice how the sun is hitting Minho’s eyes directly, and how his eyebrows are scrunched up at the aggression. So, you grab your book with your left hand, and hover your right one over his eyes, shielding him from the sun. Minho's breath tickles your hand and you can feel goosebumps rising through your skin. 

It's as if every physical proximity with Minho made you feel hyperaware of every part of your body, and how he can lighten it with a simple breath from his part. It made you wonder what it would feel to have his hands on your skin.

As if Minho heard your thoughts, he gently wraps his thumb and index finger around your wrist, steadying your hand in place so it wouldn't strain your arm. You suddenly don't know what page you are in, too overwhelmed by the feeling of his hands on you. 

His touch is very featherlight and you are afraid to move, to break the bubble you are suddenly pulled into. 

"Read to me," he tells you and you gulp. You never understood why Minho enjoyed it when you read to him. 

"Like my voice that much?" you tease, in an attempt to hide how affected you are. You were so close to him; it would be easy to slide down and lay your head on his chest. You wondered how his heartbeat would sound. Was it steady, or racing just like your own? 

"Yeah, it's calming," he replies sincerely, catching you off guard. You didn't expect him to compliment you, and now you are racking your brain for a retort, anything to make you breathe again. 

"Growing soft on me Minho?" you say, the same question you asked on your first dinner out. The first time you truly saw him, the first time you felt as if you were two pieces of the same puzzle, just waiting for someone to connect the both of you. 

He doesn't reply. And you sit there, patiently waiting. His first answer came so easily, so naturally, because he was being sarcastic, "I’m basically in love with you", he told you back then. So why can't he say it again?

"Yes, I am." He finally replies and you feel your breath catch in your throat. You try to account it for your brain misguiding you. It wasn't Minho speaking, it was the rustling of the leaves and the singing of the birds that you just heard. But it was him, and now his eyes are open and he's looking at you. Your hand is still shielding his eyes and his fingers are still wrapped around your wrist. And you are suddenly feeling. You are feeling too much. You don't know what to do with those feelings cursing through your veins and you can't face them. Because they are scaring you.

"I'll just... Yeah, I’ll just read," you say quietly, too flustered by his intense gaze. You were already on the other side, you realize. His eyes pulled you in and you were stuck in there, swimming in a pool of honey. 

"Out loud," he says and you chuckle, "Fine, Min." The nickname slips out of your tongue naturally and you quickly snap your head towards Minho to see if he noticed. 

His eyes are closed, and there is a slight smile on his face, and you can swear that he just repeated the nickname to himself softly. 

✹✹✹

You've been so sick these past days, you barely managed to go to class. Your head throbbed with pain and your entire body felt as if someone thoroughly boxed it. 

You were grateful that Minho reeled down his teasing because you had no energy to retort back. He may have noticed how sick you felt and truthfully it would be hard not to. You stayed silent throughout the day, and you looked so pale, you avoided looking at the mirror altogether.

Though Minho didn't talk to you, he still silently placed water bottles and some of your favorite snacks on your desk. You'd down the water, grateful for the relief it brought your sore throat. And when you didn't touch the food, he'd immediately text you 'Eat up', followed by a simple 'Please'. Having someone else care for your well-being felt weird, but it warmed your heart beyond what words could describe. 

You only came today to pass your Criminal Law mid-term, but your head hurt so badly that you weren't even sure what you wrote on your paper. The words blurred in front of your eyes and you almost slept in the middle of your exam, exhaustion threatening to take over your body. 

You fucked up, badly. You haven't screwed up this much in years.

You thought that you were slowly getting better since Minho surpassing you no longer sparked an unworthy feeling within you. But apparently, you were wrong to believe so. Self-doubt crept up within you once again, and the ugly feelings it stirred slowly clawed at your throat, making it hard for you to breathe.

It was one test, and yet it reeled you back ages ago. 

Tears threaten to spill out of your eyes as you hurriedly walk out of your class. You make a beeline for the library, figuring that it will be mostly empty by now. 

You pull out a chair and sit on it, lowering your head down so no one will see you. Your tears are falling rapidly and you hit your thigh repeatedly.  You hated how weak you felt in that instant. 

"Yn?", someone calls out and you curse internally. You don't have to look up to see who it is, Minho's voice has become a part of you- you could easily recognize it between a thousand mingling sounds. 

You don't want him to see you, especially not like this, weak and vulnerable and on the verge of breaking down. So you quickly slip a pair of sunglasses on your eyes, before raising your head to look at him. "Hm?"

"Are you okay?" he asks, his tone so soft it makes you want to cry ten times fold. You hated it, hated how attentive he was to you. You didn't deserve it. 

"Yeah, yeah. I'm just here to pick a book," you lie, abruptly standing up and heading toward the rows behind you. You desperately needed to get away from him. 

You pause in front of a random shelf and then you feel Minho standing behind you. You grab a random book and he peeks above your shoulder to see it, "Economics? You hate this subject."

"Why are you following me?" you turn around attempting your best to sound mad. When in reality, your heart was brimming with hurt. You wished you could get away from your body and seep into someone's soul to feel what it's like to love yourself.

"You aren't okay," he asserts and you hate it. You hate that he sounds so sure of himself. Was it that noticeable? Were you not fooling anyone?

"I am," your voice is shaking but you are adamant about contradicting him. You couldn't let him see you. What if he runs?

"Then..." he steps forward and you take a step back until your back is against the shelf. His left arm cages your body, but his right one stays by his side. He is leaving you an opening, you realize, an outing in case you feel uncomfortable. Against all odds, you don't.

 "Why are you hiding from me?" he asks, gently taking your sunglasses off your face, and placing them on the top of your head.

You don't look up at him, and he hooks his finger underneath your chin, gently raising your head. When your tear-stained eyes meet his, he frowns deeply, "Why are you crying?"

"it's nothing."

"Yn..."

"I fucked up, okay?! That was the worst test I’ve ever given in years." The tears start to flow at your words and you wipe them away aggressively. You despised crying in front of people. 

Minho raises his hand to wipe the tears away for you but he quickly retracts it- you probably wouldn't want him to touch your face. It was enough that he had grabbed your wrist a couple of weeks before this. He quickly racks his brain for something to do, because the sight of your tears is making his heart ache in a way he hasn't felt before. It's as if he's feeling your emotions deep within him.

In desperation, Minho pinches your arm and you yelp, startled. "What was that for?" you whisper-shout and he raises his hands in defense, "I didn't know what else to do."

"So, you thought about pinching me?" you chuckle in bewilderment and he scratches the top of his hair sheepishly. 

"I mean, it worked. Look, you stopped crying," he points out raising his brows at you proudly and you shake your head at him.

"Remind me to never cry in front of you again." 

Minho grins at you before his face turns serious once again. "Look, you are the smartest person I know," he pauses, adding with a cheeky smirk, "After me of course." Which makes you giggle against your will. 

"Shut up", you lightly punch his chest and he smiles. "One test doesn't define you. You always work very hard. I wouldn't lie to you."

"Mm," you hum and he frowns at your lack of enthusiasm, but still, he doesn't comment. 

"No more crying," he wiggles his finger in front of your face and you roll your eyes, wiping the rest of your tears away. "Fine. Pretend as if this never happened."

"What are you talking about?" he asks as if confused, and you can't help the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. It's as if Minho knows exactly what to say to cheer you up. 

"Come with me," he tells you, gently pulling you by the sleeve of your hoodie. 

"Where to?"

"I’m craving ice cream."

"And why do you need me?"

"You're craving ice cream too," he says in a matter-of-a-fact tone. 

"Only if you're paying," you add with a giggle and he whines loudly, "I feel so so used around you." 

True to his words, Minho takes you to the nearest ice cream parlor. It's a 20 minutes walk away and you are grateful for the distance because it helps you clear your head a bit.

Minho lets you pick whatever flavors you want, and when you hesitate between two of them, he tells the cashier to put them both into your cup. This is how you end up with a container of 5 scoops of ice cream. You insisted you'd share, and Minho begrudgingly agreed when you threatened to walk out and leave him.

You then walk to a deserted alley and sit on the sidewalk. You didn't want to be around people right now, and thankfully, Minho understood without you having to say a word.  

You munch silently on your ice cream and Minho does the same, the both of you lost in your thoughts. You naturally take turns holding the freezing container, so it wouldn't numb the fingers of one of you.

When you're done, Minho stands up to throw it away in a nearby trashcan before sitting back again next to you. 

Suddenly you feel him gently tapping your hand. You look down to find that you've curled your fingers into a tight fist, so much that there are crescent indents visible on your palm now. 

"Let's play thumb war," he tells you and you giggle at his words. You never knew what to expect from him. 

Still, as your fingers hold each other, and your thumb circles one another, you feel yourself calm down slightly. You play a couple of rounds, and you know he's going easy on you, allowing you to quickly trap his thumb down. 

No one has gone to such lengths to cheer you up, and you suddenly feel so grateful for Minho’s presence in your life. You didn't care in what shape he was in, you just needed him to be in it. Which in turn makes you think how bad it'd hurt if he ever leaves. 

You don't want Minho to leave. You've gotten so attached to him that the thought of not talking to him again makes your heart race in panic. 

Minho notices the change in your expression, suddenly melancholic once again. Your hand has gone limp in his, the thumb war long forgotten by you. 

He curses under his breath, before looking at you. "If I dance for you, will you quit being so sad?"

"Dance for me?" you repeat incredulously and he nods, "Yes. I’ll show you an upcoming choreography just... Please smile?" 

"Okay," you giggle, plastering a wide grin on your face. 

"Not like that you look scary."

"Get to dancing!" you clap excitedly and he rolls his eyes, standing up and looking through his phone for a particular music. 

"Oh and no comment!" he looks pointedly at you, and you nod, pretending to zip your mouth and throwing away the key. 

'Finesse' by Bruno Mars starts playing and you are left mesmerized by the way Minho dances. It's short but it leaves you yearning to see more. His body moves smoothly, hitting each beat effortlessly. He made it look as if dancing was second nature to him, that it came as easily to him as breathing. 

You were speechless, rightfully so. You wished you could build a world where all Minho did was dance. 

"That was-" you start when he stops the music but he cuts you off instantly, "I said no comment."

"But--" Minho places his finger on your mouth to silence you, seemingly not thinking too much of it. But the feel of his finger on your lips makes you dizzy. Minho quickly takes off his hand, a blush evidently creeping up his neck. 

"Let's just go home," he sighs in defeat and you laugh despite the intense feelings cursing through you.

You don't know if you are imagining it but you swear that your pinkies brush against each other on your walk back. As if there was this magnetic force pulling them together. You wondered what would happen if you just linked your pinky with his. Would he grab you by the hand or will he let go of you entirely?

You were too much of a coward to find out. You were scared of messing up anything with him. So, you'd settle for this. Stolen glances and random outings. You just need him in your life. 

"Thank you for today," you tell Minho once you arrive and he shrugs, as what he did wasn't a big deal.

"No, I mean it. Thank you," you repeat, trying your best to convey how sincere you were being. You take in a deep breath, before grabbing his hand and squeezing it, for a fleeting second, before dropping it again. 

Minho is sure that your hand will now be imprinted into his, that the lines tracing over your palm will merge with his as one. Your touch was barely there but it had electrocuted him. He wondered to himself if his body would be able to handle more from you. But he'd gladly burn in your fires for the sake of holding you. And he'd wait, unwaveringly, as time stretches alongside the two of you. He'd wait as long as it takes for you. 

"Yn, I..." he stammers, taking a step closer to you. His scent engulfs you and you shamefully close your eyes, inhaling it. When you open them again, you find Minho glancing down at your lips. You gulp, dazzled by his proximity. 

"You have a mole on your nose," you suddenly speak up and his eyes snap back to yours, an adorable confusion drawn on his features. 

"I like that mole," you continue and you wish you could dig yourself a hole and bury yourself in it. 

"Thank you," he chuckles and you nod vigorously, "You're welcome." 

"Can I ask you something?" he says and your breath hitches in your throat. "Sure."

"You don't like it when people touch you, right?" 

"Yeah."

"Can I ask why?" 

You want to confide in him, to tell him that it’s because you long for it, you crave it so badly. That this need has woven itself into the very fabric of your being. An ache so raw that it scares you at times. You’ve never known what it feels like to be held- it was uncharted territory to you. 

"Isn't everyone scared of the unknown?" you settle on saying, and he nods in understanding. Of course, he understood. No one knows you as well as him. 

"It's okay. I just wanted to know if I ever overstepped my boundaries."

"You didn't," you reply instantly. 

"Good. You'll tell me if I ever do, right?"

"I will." 

"Okay." 

"Um. I'll get going," you point behind you and Minho smiles at you, waving you off.

You walk for a few steps before coming back again quickly. You then grab Minho’s hand, gently squeezing it like before, "You are an amazing dancer." 

And then you drop it, running back towards your apartment block without waiting for a reply. 

Minho stays frozen in his place. You think he's an amazing dancer. And you held his hand for five seconds. 

That's four seconds more than the first time. 

Progress.        

✹✹✹

You haven't gotten out of your house for the past three days. 

Everything crashed around you rapidly, it made you realize that the ground you once stood on was only an illusion, elusive and fleeting. 

You were doing well; you were getting better. But then Monday came and you went out for a walk in the park near you. As you sat there, you saw a little girl playing on the swings, delightful joy dancing across her features. But then she fell to the ground and you instinctively stood up to help her, only to notice her mother running to her. 

The world stilled around you as you clearly saw it- how the little girl clung to her mother's embrace, her embodiment of hope and love. You never had that. You don’t even know what perfume your mother used because she never allowed you to get that close to her. 

You stood up abruptly, quickly heading back to your apartment block. As you ran up the stairs, you ended up bumping into one of your neighbors. You were quick to apologize but they ignored you, and the feeling of being invisible came back to haunt you ten times fold. 

You knew you shouldn’t have done it, you knew you should have deleted your mother’s number when she sent you away to university without a backward glance, relieved at the thought of you getting a full-ride scholarship and not needing her anymore. But you didn’t, you kept her number in the hopes that she’d call. On your birthday, on holidays, on a random Thursday to tell you that she did remember who you are. 

With trembling hands, tears welling in your eyes, you dialed your mother’s number for the first time in a year. You didn’t know what you were expecting. Maybe she regrets it. Maybe she misses you. Maybe she didn’t find the courage to mend her wrongdoings and that's why she never called. 

"Hello?" her voice rang through your apartment. Goosebumps erupted on your arms and your hold on the phone tightened. Her voice took you back to memories you thought you had buried. How you spent countless nights yearning to hear the sound of her voice, how you regretted it once she spoke to attack you.

You hate her. You miss her. You want to hang up. You need to ask if she's doing okay. 

“Who is this?” Her voice was devoid of recognition, freezing you in your tracks. You felt as if a bucket of ice was thrown over your head, dousing the flame of hope that flickered in your heart. 

She deleted your number.

You quickly hung up, placing your phone down on the table. The tears refused to fall. It was as if your body had long anticipated this outcome, leaving only your wounded soul to bear the pain. 

Healing isn't linear, you've read about it in books and heard it in shows and movies. One step back doesn't mean that your entire progress is gone. You know this, you've memorized those sentences. So why do you not believe them? Why does it feel as if you can never be free from the past? Why does it feel as if you’ll always seek something out of her? 

Those questions roamed your mind for the past three days, making you too tired at the prospect of lifting your limbs, let alone leaving your apartment. You sent your two friends a text, telling them that you're sick so they wouldn't worry. Not that you believed they would. Nothing made sense to you anymore.

You laid on your bed in utter silence- a tense quiet that was disrupted on the third day by someone knocking on your door. You didn't know who was there; you just hoped that they'd leave you alone.

To your surprise, you open the door to find Minho, some notes in his right hand and a coffee in his left. He sends an easy smile your way. You don't smile back.

"What do you want?" your voice is cold, but Minho doesn't bristle. A cheeky smile settles on his lips as he leans on your doorway.

"You didn't come to class for the past three days, so I brought you the notes. So, you wouldn't think our competition is unfair."

"Competition," you chuckle coldly, heading inside your apartment, and he follows suit. You start to pace around furiously, and Minho looks at you worriedly. "Competition?" you repeat, the word dripping off your tongue like venom. You turn around, marching towards Minho and standing a few inches from him. "You know what? Fuck you and your competition!"

"Yn-"

"Did it ever occur to you that I never wanted a part in this competition? That all I wanted was to be left alone?" you say, growing louder as you jab your finger into his chest repeatedly. "I never wanted any of this! Do you understand? I never wanted to be this way," you shout angrily in his face.

The worried look in Minho’s eyes snaps you out of your haze. You realize that you are being utterly ridiculous lashing out at Minho, when the one person you are mad at is yourself. 

Your anger quickly deflates, leaving in its trail an agonizing sadness. It's so sudden that it knocks the breath out of you, and you clutch your chest as if it could soothe the burn in your heart. Suddenly you are twelve years old again, crying in your room because you feel like no one has ever loved you.

But this time you aren't alone. Minho is in front of you, and his eyebrows are so furrowed you want to lean forward to ease the tension between them. His eyebrows, you liked his eyebrows, they were arched, and they framed his eyes nicely, and his eyes are brown and so big, and they always look at you softly and why is it getting so hard to breathe-

"Did I do something to you? Whatever it is I’m sorry," Minho panics, cutting off your frantic train of thought. But now, the weight of guilt adds to your overwhelming emotions. You shouldn't have lashed out at him, he brought you coffee and you yelled at him. Maybe your mom was right after all.

You shake your head left and right furiously, your words coming out in hiccups. Since when did you start crying? "It isn't- it isn't you."

"Then let me help you-", he steps forward, hand outstretched, but you take three hurried steps back and wrap your hands around yourself protectively. "Don’t. Please, don't."

"Why are you pushing me away?" his tone isn't accusatory. You've learned time and time again that Minho wouldn't do anything that made you feel uncomfortable.

"You won't understand."

"Then make me."

"Because I’m afraid!" the words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them. "I’m afraid if you ever hug me, I wouldn't be able to go back to hugging myself. I'd need you and I can't afford to need someone else."

You regret the words as soon as they fleet away from your mouth. He would look at you differently, he would find you pathetic and then he’d leave. And you wanted him to leave. But you also wanted him to stay. It was all so confusing. 

You felt as if your being was torn between two great forces, each one of them trying to win the war raging inside you. You wished someone else would make the decisions in your place, for once.

Minho places the coffee and notes on the ground before approaching you, his palms facing up in a gesture of surrender. "I won't leave you," he says softly. "I’ll be by your side for as long as you'll have me."

"Minho..." your voice catches in your throat as you utter his name- like a broken prayer. He stands before you, his eyes shimmering like the reflection of a river on a sunny day.

"Please, let me make it better." 

You nod tentatively and Minho comes even closer to you. He was treating you like one would with a wounded animal, giving you a chance to ultimately back out. But for once, you listen to what your heart has been yearning for. Your bones are aching to be held, to feel the warmth of a body against your own, to feel safe and secure. 

Minho embraces you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and bringing you to him. You slowly bring your arms up and lace them around his waist. You are afraid, deathly afraid. His grip is loose, and you almost can't feel him around you, but when you lay your head on his chest, he tightens his hold on you and you instinctively let out a sob. 

He's hugging adult you, the woman whose heart was once again broken by her mom. But he's also hugging little you, the girl who was craving affection from everyone around her. In that instant, Minho is hugging every single version of you that ever needed a hug. 

You were right to be scared because you don't want to let go, you want to stay in his arms because they feel safe, like a shield protecting you. You can't go back to not hugging Minho. 

The sensation is overwhelming and your knees buckle underneath you. But instead of holding you up, Minho falls to the ground with you, as if you are two inseparable pieces of one puzzle. He isn’t here to fix you, he’s here to break down with you and help you pick up the scattered pieces.

You think back to that night in the park when Minho told you about Japanese vases. At this moment, it dawns on you that Minho has found a way to become a part of you. He was the molten gold binding your broken parts together. He was the invisible thread stitching your wounds back together.

Who were you fooling? It was him; it was him all along. 

Minho rocks you gently as you cry and cry and cry. His hand finds your hair and he plays with it as you sob. He tells you you'll be okay, you'll feel better and you try to believe him, his words wrap around your bruises like a healing balm. 

"There, there, love. You are okay", he murmurs, tenderly patting your head. A fresh set of tears wells up in your eyes. Love.

"I’m sorry. I'm so sorry," you apologize as you pull away from his embrace. 

"Why are you apologizing? Is it because you wet my shirt? I don't mind," he reassures you with a smile and you shake your head. 

 "I was mean to you and you didn’t deserve it," you explain through hiccups.

"It's okay, you weren't mad at me, were you?" he asks, wiping your tears away so gently with his thumbs, careful not to irritate the sensitive skin.

"No. Still, it isn't okay and I’m sorry. I'm so sorry." 

"Shh, don't apologize. It's okay." you look at him doubtfully and he rolls his eyes playfully, "Here I’ll even do your silly pinky promise, okay?" he laces his pinky with yours, but then he suddenly leans forward and places a chaste kiss on your thumb pad. "There, sealed forever."

You giggle faintly as a blush dusts your cheeks, "That's not how it works."

"I know."

Your giggle was far different from the ones Minho was accustomed to. It was small, and it didn't brighten up your face like usual. But he was grateful for it nonetheless. He realized how much he missed your laugh, and how all the other sounds in the world pale in comparison to it.

In that moment Minho thinks to himself that he'd do anything to make you smile again. He'd make a fool out of himself if it meant making you happy. He'd settle for a simple tug at the corners of your mouth, anything but the sadness that seemed etched in your face, as if it was blended into the colors that drew you.

You tentatively move around, before laying your head on his lap. Minho's hand instinctively finds your hair and he starts to gently play with it. It feels as if you've done this a million times before, when in fact it was the first. 

There was something wildly intimate about laying on the floor with the man who just comforted you. It made you want to spill all your secrets to him, one by one, and have him hug you through them.

"Did you mean it? When you said you'll stay?" you felt so vulnerable in his hold, as if he could twist you whoever he liked. But you trusted him. You trusted yourself with Minho.

"I did. Your walls are always up. It's hard to peek behind them. But I don't want to tear them down. I want you to slowly unbuild them. I want you to do it for yourself."

To do it for yourself, it's hard to even know who you are anymore. 

"I want to tell you."

"You don't need to."

"I know, but I want to."

"Okay. Take your time, kitten." he pats your head gently, and you try to sync your breathing to the rhythm of his touch. You were grateful that you were lying on his lap since you couldn't see his face. It made talking feel a little less daunting.

"On my 9th birthday... I was very excited. I'd been on my best behavior that month, trying to please my mom in the hope that, for once, we'd celebrate my birthday. Like a normal little family," you smile sadly, you were so hopeful back then.

"My birthday came, I woke up, excited. My mom was still asleep, nothing out of the ordinary. So, I made my breakfast and walked to my school. I wore my prettiest dress and put on pigtails with hair clips. It was my birthday after all," Minho smiles softly at your words, his hand now resting on your own.

"I got back home and waited for my mom to come back. She remembered my birthday, I thought. And then, she came but she didn't talk to me. So, I thought, oh a surprise party!" you chuckle, but this time the smile on Minho’s face is gone.

"It was then 11 pm, and the hope had slowly died in me. So, in my stupid innocent self, I went to my mom, and asked her "Did you forget my birthday?". And I remember... I remember the way she laughed. Cruelly. Like I had told her the funniest joke in the world. And then. Then she looked me dead in the eye and said 'I hate the fact that you are born. Why would I celebrate that?'"

Minho sucks in a deep breath at your words, and you exhale one right out. It felt comforting, to have someone else stomach the hurt for you. To take the weight off your shoulders, allowing you a few moments to breathe.

"I confronted her about it one day, but she said she doesn't remember saying that. It's funny how it was a random Thursday for her, but for me, it shaped my life." you smile bitterly, "I remember how jealous I was of the way the other kids talked about their mothers. They said the word so lightly. It must have reminded them of sunshine and ice cream and rainbows. But for me, it held an uncharacteristic heaviness to it. I grew to hate the word."

"I drove myself crazy, Min", you whisper and he brings you closer to his body, "was it me or was it her? When did it start? Was it because I was too loud as a child or maybe too quiet? Did I not cater to her fantasies of a kid? I wanted to remember every single thing that happened throughout my childhood, thread through every single memory. I tried to pinpoint the exact moment my mom stopped loving me."

Minho squeezes your hand tightly in his, and you feel as if he was pulling you away from the memory that had long trapped you. You were now watching it unfold from outside of the window, your hand in his, safe from the hurt it had inflicted on you.

"It's not you. It could never be you. Some people are simply not fit to be parents. It's never their kid's fault."

Minho tries his best to keep his touch soothing, to make his voice sound as soft as possible. But he was angry, he was so angry at the world for not taking care of you when you were younger. His heart broke, thinking of 9-year-old you being told such cruel words.

He wanted to turn back time and tell you that you were enough. He wanted to make the pain that seemed so anchored in you float back to the surface, and dissipate like sea foam meeting the shore.

But he couldn't do that. All he could do is comfort present you.

Minho gently pulls you up from his lap, making you sit upright. He crisscrosses his legs and you do the same. Your knees brush against each other and you feel a shiver run down your spine. You didn't know that even knees could emanate such warmth.

"Yn, look at me. The world wouldn't be the same without you in it," he cradles your face between his hands, "You hear me yn? I’m so thankful you exist."

His doe brown eyes are sincere, and it made you want to believe him badly. That's a good start, right?

"I’ll be back," he tells you, letting go of your face and standing up.

You hear Minho rummaging through the kitchen and you take the time to calm yourself down. Sharing those parts of you with Minho felt therapeutic. As if you were healing parts of your inner child. You have never talked about this with anyone before, maybe this is why it still hurt as badly.

Minho comes back five minutes later, his hands behind his back. You raise a brow at him inquisitively and he just smiles secretly at you. "Close your eyes," he tells you and you giggle, doing as he says. He crouches in front of you, and you hear him shuffle in his place for a bit.

Then, "Open your eyes yn," and you find him, in front of you, a cupcake you had stored in your fridge in his hands, and a makeshift candle lit up. "Happy 9th birthday, love. You did well."

You stare at him in utter bewilderment. You couldn't believe your eyes. How could this man be so thoughtful? He was wishing you a belated birthday, to compensate for the 9th birthday you didn't celebrate.

You panic, at the look in his eyes. You've never seen it, never dared to dream of it, of someone caring for you unconditionally. So, you try to scare him, to push him away. You didn't want him to regret knowing you.

"There are things I need you to know um", you chuckle nervously, "When I... When I throw up, I hold my hair, and when I’m sick I nurse myself back to health, and when I have a nightmare I- I hold my hand in the dark. It will be hard for me to hold yours instead."

"We'll start a finger at a time, yeah?"

"It will take time."

"I have time," he speaks easily, as if loving you was effortless and not a strenuous task. You couldn't fathom it.

"You are too busy-", he cuts you off instantly, "Not for you." 

"The world doesn't stop because we need it to." Your voice is quiet; this is your very last try. You are tired of fighting. You are putting down your armor and waving a white flag.

"We'll make it stop. Here, the two of us. On this floor. We'll take as long as we need to."

"I never deemed you as an optimist", you smile a little, a hint of teasing in your tone.

"I’m not," he pauses, gazing down at the cupcake between his hands and then at you. "But I feel that we deserve a bit of happiness together, don't we?"

"We do."

"Then make a wish."

You close your eyes for a few seconds, before blowing on the candle.

"What did you wish for?" he asks a fond smile on his face.

The answer came naturally to you, you didn't even need to think about it. "I wished for you."

Minho's lips come crashing down on yours, and you imagine that this is what it feels like to see colors for the first time. To discover a new world beyond the one you've always known.

The kiss isn't urgent nor feverish, it is one of comfort. Your lips spilling the words you have not yet said to each other. "I love you," he kisses you, "I love you too," you kiss him back. "I need you to stay," you swipe your tongue across his bottom lip, "I’m never leaving you," he opens his mouth allowing you entrance.

As you kiss him, you remember a fact you once learned in high school. The human body possesses seven trillion nerves. And for the first time in your life, you feel as if each of these nerves is alive. You feel that even the smallest atom is electrocuted with Minho’s love and it’s all you know within you.  

You feel as if the pain, the hurt, and the ache you've been through are slowly unraveled, and in their place, a timid happiness is starting to bloom. You imagine that when Minho’s lips met your own, the seven trillion nerves inside you exhaled in relief 'We've made it', they said, 'we'll finally be okay.'

Epilogue

You've always thought that epilogues were useless. How can you resume the rest of your life in one sentence, boil down the rest of your existence in mere pages? Because life doesn't stop at the epilogue, and a new book can start once again, right where you left it off.  

But with Minho, you didn't mind an epilogue. On the contrary, you longed for a soft one. You wanted to rest on this last page, you wanted to lay your worries on the words and tuck them into the syllables. And you wanted to wake up anew.

And this wasn't the end of your story with Minho. A lot happened after it. But it didn't worry you, because epilogues are about the one thing that doesn't change throughout the long march of time. And luckily for you, that constant was Minho’s love for you. From that day he held you, he has never let go.

It took time, for his warmth to seep through your bones. It took time, for your heart to forget the cold. But you wanted to do it. With him. You wanted to love and be loved.

Kim Seungmin is the bane of your existence. Since high school, this guy has always beaten you at everything he could in terms of academic success. You were the Salutatorian? He was the Valedictorian. You were the Senior Class VP? He was the President. You got into Princeton? He got into Harvard. And yet, here you both are, on full-ride scholarships at the same college on an even playing field.

It wouldn’t have bothered you that he was smarter if he weren’t such an ass about it. Always making sly comments in passing, “Better luck next time” or “You’ll get there one day”. Sometimes you think he does it just to spite you. 

The library comes into focus, and you trudge up the front steps, boots scraping against the pavement. The doors fling open and you’re met with the dry heat exuding from the building. You immediately shed your scarf and hat, adjusting to the warmth.

The third floor of the library is your sacred place. Your peace, your sanctuary, the place you come to work, think, breathe. It’s bright in there, but cozy. The view of the campus from there is beautiful, and the atrium in the center is your favorite feature. It’s warm in summer and cooler in winter, offering a nice contrast to the air in the building. 

You’re surrounded by the smell of old books and stale coffee. The librarian nods to you as you enter, and you flash her a smile as you walk your way to the corner of the room. Your favorite spot gives you a direct view of the sunsets, and you’ll make it there just in time.

Until you see him. He’s there, his nose in a book, hair perfectly parted with loose strands framing his face. Kim Seungmin. In your spot. Sure, the library didn’t have assigned seating, but you sit there after classes almost every day since you started college. He knows it, too.

“You’re in my spot,” you claim.

“I don’t see your name on it,” he quips back, not bothering to look up.

“I sit here every day. You know that. Why are you being an ass?” You argue. 

He just smirks at you. “Maybe it’s my spot now.”

He’s such a fucking child. Your skin grows hot and your breathing starts to waver. He knows exactly how to get under your skin, and he’ll do it every chance he gets. Immature, pompous, arrogant, and selfish, all words you use to describe Kim Seungmin. 

What’s worse is that he’s handsome. He’s tall, has a lean yet athletic build, his messy hair always looks perfect, and he smells like amber and citrus. Asshole.

“Pull up a chair, I don’t bite,” he says after several moments of silence. You huff at him in response. “No thanks, I’ll find somewhere else to sit. It was getting old anyway.” You turn on your heels and walk away.

“Don’t be late for practice,” you hear him say as you walk away. “I never am!” You reply over your shoulder, feigning cheerfulness.

Being on the varsity debate team is the perfect outlet for your competitive spirit. Everyone there is equally smart and eloquent, and they make for great competition. You thrive during debates. It keeps your brain sharp and your tongue sharper. You actually feel like you’re amongst the best there, you feel like you belong. And it’s friendly, for the most part. Except for Seungmin.

Footsteps fill the practice room as your team files in. You take the front row, right in the middle, and chat with your friend.

“You know transcripts come out soon, right?” she mentions to you, leaning close. It’s no secret that every poli sci major is obsessed with their GPA. They’re even more obsessed with class placement. The start of every semester begins with anticipation to see what number that yellow slip of paper would read at the bottom.

You’re vying for the #1 spot, obviously.

You watch as Seungmin takes the seat directly behind you. Daggers stab the back of your head from how hard he’s staring at you. Your body tenses. You’re always so tense when he’s around. Truthfully, he’s your only solid competition. The only one that worries you, anyway.

Professor Park takes the podium and clears his voice, addressing the team. “As you all may know, our previous Varsity Captain, Mira, graduated last semester. We wish her well, but we’re in need of a new captain.” You sit up straighter, listening intently. “To anyone interested, we’ll hold a formal debate and invite a panel of faculty to judge. See me at the end of class for details.”

Perfect. Another title for your resume, and another chance to beat Kim Seungmin. You can already feel him breathing down your neck as the professor rambles on. 

“Don’t even try it,” he whispers in your ear from behind you. “You know you won’t win.” You ignore him. He tries too hard to get to you. You’ll never tell him it works. He knows. You know he knows. 

“Our next debate partners,” your professor starts, looking at his papers. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please try not to kill each other.” You know exactly who he’s talking to before he even says your names.

You versus Seungmin.

Your body grows warm as all eyes are on you. The two of you have done this dance for months. He’s intimidating, charismatic, and aggressive. You’re clear, concise, and account for every one of his rebuttals. Polar opposites. It’s equally aggravating as it is thrilling. You tear each other apart on the stand, and the silence that fills the room as you stand proves that.

You take the podiums. You know exactly how he’s going to play this. Quick and dirty. He stares you down on stage, adjusting his stupid navy blue blazer. The smirk that creeps across his face already causes your cheeks to heat. You may know him well, but he knows you better. 

The arguments start, and it’s business as usual. Practice debates are never as serious, but the two of you act like you’re at nationals every time. He just can’t let you win.

He stands like he owns the place. He speaks quickly, throwing jabs at the opposing view. Adding assumptions instead of facts. Rattles off two or three articles you’ve both read in preparation. All with a smug ass smile on his face.

Your rebuttal begins, and you deliver your speech. It’s clear and hard to argue with. He’s still going to try. 

“You’re oversimplifying,” he interrupts.

“I’m clarifying,” you jab back. You can’t tell if he does it to hurt you or help you. It pisses you off all the same.

The professor rolls his eyes the whole time. Jumping in when he needs to, but he keeps to himself. He knows better than to get in the middle by now. The team sits quietly in their seats, sometimes laughing when one of you pokes fun at the other. 

“You always do that thing where you make my arguments sound lazy,” he says as you wrap up. 

“Because you rush it,” you reply.

“You hate efficiency.”

“I hate when people use efficiency as an excuse for lack of preparation.”

You walk away with your head high. There’s no winner, per se. The team helps critique your arguments to improve them for later. Then you spend a bit of time prepping for team arguments. After practice, you make your way to the professor to grab the details for the Captain’s position debate. Seungmin follows.

“I figured as much,” Mr. Park says with a sigh. “Play nice.” He hands you both the assignment.

Seungmin’s on top of you again as you’re walking out of the building. “You really think you won, don’t you?” he says, laughing to himself.

“I did. Just because you’re loud doesn’t mean you’re right,” you dig.

“You think you’re better because you’re quieter?”

“I’m better because I don’t need to convince everybody I’m right. I just am.” 

He grins. He loves it. You hate that you love it too.

“He always has to be right, he’ll even realize he’s wrong mid-sentence and still argue with me!” You’re venting to your roommate, Yuna. She’s used to this by now, coming home after your debate practice and listening to you complain about Seungmin.

“Why do you let him bother you so much?” she asks.

“He’s been up my ass since the ninth grade. Have you met him? He’s insufferable,” you groan.

“Is this some weird type of foreplay for the two of you?” she asks. “Excuse me?” you respond, baffled.

She lifts her hands in defense. “I’m just saying, maybe it’s just something you gotta get out of your system.”

“You’re suggesting I fuck him? Him?”

“Hate sex is hot.” She’s not wrong. Hate sex is hot. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you hadn’t thought about it before. Even if it was just to get him to shut up.

“That’s abhorrent,” you tell her. But when the lights are off and you’re all alone, you picture him on top of you. Touching you. Whispering filth into your ear. Fucking the hatred out of you. You’d never admit it out loud.

“What happens after you graduate and you don’t have anyone to take your sexual frustrations out on?” she asks with a laugh.

“I’m not sexually frustrated,” you cross your arms. 

“Bullshit.” Again, not wrong.

“After we graduate, I hope I never see him again,” you respond. You don’t even believe it yourself. Your roommate laughs.

“Take a break from the books, come with me to the SKZ party tonight,” she offers. “He’ll be there. It’ll be fuuuunnnn.” You open your mouth to decline, but she puts on her best puppy eyes, “Fine,” you tell her. “But if he bothers me, I’m leaving.”

The SKZ house is pretty much what you’d expect a frat to look like. It sits on a corner in Greek Row, always blasting music so loud you can feel it beneath your feet as you approach. There’s college students pouring in and out of it, packed like sardines in there. Definitely a fire hazard.

“Loosen up,” Yuna says as she leads you inside. You’re trying to put on a good face for her, make it seem like you’re having a good time. Parties weren’t foreign to you, but they weren’t really your scene. You’re also in the most uncomfortable clothes you’ve ever been in. Why do girls always go to parties in mini skirts and no jackets in the middle of winter?

The floor is vibrating when you walk in, and the smell of beer and sweat smacks you right in the nostrils. You’re already feeling queasy even before Yuna hands you a beer and drags you to dance. People are bumping your shoulders and you realize you’ll need a few beers in you before this becomes even semi-enjoyable. 

Yuna drags down to the basement to meet a couple of her friends around beer #2. You’re feeling a decent buzz, and you feel yourself let loose a little bit. You haven’t seen Seungmin around, which is a relief, even though you really want to see the look on his face when he realizes you’ve entered his territory.

One of the SKZ brothers comes over to the two of you while you’re chatting against the wall. You learn his name is Jeongin, and the two of you start chatting. He’s beautiful, has the sweetest smile, and he’s so charming. 

“You’re really pretty…why haven’t I seen you around before?” he asks you. You can’t lie to yourself, the attention is nice. He smells fantastic, he’s fucking ripped, and by beer #4, Kim Seungmin is the farthest thing from your mind.

You can feel him before you see him. You look away for a moment, and his eyes are locked on you from across the room. It’s like he can hear your thoughts slipping, and knows just when to appear. This could be fun. You lean into Jeongin, pretending to slip, and his arms catch you. He’s so much nicer, too. You’re laughing in his arms by the time Seungmin’s standing next to you.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he says, looming over your shoulder. 

“I’m having fun, Seungmin. You should try it,” you shoot back. 

Just then, he gives Jeongin the sharpest glare, accompanied by a “Beat it, Pledge,” and Jeongin awkwardly waves by and leaves you two be.

“Seungmin, what the fuck? What if I was trying to get laid?” 

He laughs. “You’re drunk. You need to go home.” He’s grabbing you by the arm and taking you out of the house.

“I’m fine. I don’t need your help,” you huff at him, wiggling out of his grasp. He steps closer to you. Your heart flutters a bit, your head dizzy from the alcohol and the way your body reacts to him. You’re actually, really dizzy. You can hardly turn completely away from him before you’re hurling on the grass.

“Jesus, okay, hold on,” He’s wrapping his arm around you and you almost flinch at the contact. He guides you to sit down on the curb, and you realize just how much you had to drink. 

“Wait here,” he says. So bossy. He steps inside and a few moments later comes out with a jacket and a bottle of water. He wraps the jacket around your shoulders and hands you the bottle.

“Why are you being nice to me?” You say, sipping the water. 

“Can’t have my best opponent slacking on me,” he chuckles. “The wins are more satisfying when someone’s at least trying to beat me.” You shove his shoulder. He winces and just smiles at you.

“Oh my god—there you are!” Yuna shouts behind you. “I’ve been looking everywhere—Oh, hello…” She pauses when she sees Seungmin, and then a smile creeps across her face. “Should we…get you home? Unless you’re busy—“

“No!” You and Seungmin shout simultaneously. 

“I’m fine…let’s go home,” you say, standing up slowly. You look back at him and give him a shy Thanks before Yuna guides you back.

“Did you bring a jacket?” she asks, gesturing to the green coat around you.

“Oh…no…it’s Seungmin’s—“

“Oh my god, just screw him already!” She laughs, and you push her, stumbling a bit. She grabs you by the arm, leading you home.

You wake up the next morning, hungover as shit, replaying last night's events in your head with a slight grin on your face. You remind yourself to thank Yuna later for helping give you a night off.

A yellow glow casts over the table you’re sitting at, and a familiar warmth washes over you. This time of day was your favorite. No one tried to fight you, question you, or argue with you. It may be early in the semester to be spending nights at the library, but you had so many assignments already. And now, a debate to win.

You’re up to your elbows in books, papers, notes. The laptop next to you whirrs quietly. The sun is setting, and you’ve gotten into a good rhythm with your homework. The peace is disturbed by a familiar cologne wafting through your nostrils.

Seungmin walks over, head high, eyes targeted right at you. You scowl as he approaches. “You should really be out with the rest of your friends,” he says. “You sure had fun last night.” And he’s already being annoying.

“I was, until someone ruined it,” you huff at him. He just smirks back at you. “I’m busy. What do you want?”

“You did that all by yourself,” he says. “Show me your argument.” He knows you’ve outlined it already.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I can tell you’re overcomplicating it.” You catch a hint of something in his voice, a nervousness you don’t normally see in him.

You stand up to face him, scanning his face. His ears pull back, and you spot it. “You’re afraid you’re going to lose,” you say, mockingly.

He scoffs. “You give yourself too much credit. I’m helping make sure it’s actually fair.”

A smile creeps across your face. He’s lying. You can always tell. “You know what? Have at it.”

The chair scratches against the floor as he sits down. His brows are furrowed, scanning over your papers. Your arms are folded, leaning back in your seat.

“You don’t need this much framing,” he says.

“It’s too complicated.”

“You don’t need to provoke people just to feel like you’re in control,” you shoot back. 

“I’m not provoking—“

“You always provoke me,” you say, leaning against the table to stare at him.

He lowers the papers, hands hitting the desk.

“You rely on the safe option because you’re too afraid to commit to something risky.”

“I can commit,” you argue. “I just don’t perform. It’s a debate not a play.” His ears are scarlet. His tongue pokes the side of the cheek. He stands.

“You think I, what, just walk in and charm my way through? You don’t think I prepare as hard as you do?” An assumption. He loves those.

“I think you’d rather be impressive than factual.” His jaw tightens.

“Well I think you’d rather be right than be vulnerable.” Ouch. That hits harder than it should. Your cheeks grow warm and your jaw is clenched so tight you think you might break your teeth.

You stand. “That. Right there. Is exactly your problem. Every time you think you’re going to lose, you stoop lower. You get personal. Maybe I’m afraid of being vulnerable, but at least I’m not afraid to admit it.”

Something snaps in him. You see it in his eyes and in the way he’s moving closer to you. “You want vulnerable? Fine.” He’s closing the gap between you and your breath catches in your throat.

“You know why I keep fighting with you? Why I push and push until you snap?” You shake your head. Your heart is threatening to leap out of your ribs, and you swear he’s close enough to feel the heat coming off of your body. One more step and he’ll be able to see your hands shaking. 

“Because when you look at me like that,” He’s too close, breath warm and eyes piercing. You’re terrified of what’s about to come out of his mouth, but also dying on the inside, needing to know. “I don’t know how else to hide how badly I want you.” 

The air escapes your lungs, and your body’s on fire. You look at him. Really look. There’s no anger in his eyes, just raw, unfiltered emotion. You don’t predict what you say next.

“Then don’t.”

That’s all he needs. His hand cups your jaw, and he’s bringing you closer to him, lips colliding.

The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s coated in tension, need, and truth. It burns you from the inside out. He kisses you like he’s trying to prove a point, grips your waist like he needs it to stay grounded. You kiss him back because you’re tired of pretending you don’t want him too.

Your tongues fight for dominance, sliding against each other. Every second of it is heated, his hands are on your waist, then your hips, pulling you closer to him. Your hands fist his shirt, then slide up to his neck, lightly tugging on his hair. He bites your bottom lip as if to say, ‘Stop fighting me.’ Your lips slide down his jaw, down his neck, you suck hard, as if to say ‘Make me.’ You’re trying to one-up each other, and you can’t even talk.

You pull back, breathless and shaking. You can’t look him in the eyes. “This doesn’t fix anything,” you whisper, eyes still shut.

“I know,” he says, lifting your chin, forcing you to look at him. “But now you can’t pretend you don’t feel it too.”

He hesitates before leaving you there, wanting more.

To anyone else, they would see nothing has changed between the two of you. If anything, it looks worse. Your arguments are more frequent, louder. Your teammates avoid being too close. Your professor looks like he’s given up. 

But for you, everything is different. Your cheeks heat when he’s near. Your heart stops when he calls your name. You almost hesitate when you argue. Almost.

The nights you used to spend in the library alone are accompanied by racing thoughts. They slow when he shows up. He doesn’t argue or patronize you, he just sits. His foot rests against yours one day. His fingers lightly brush yours the next. By the end of the week, you’ve used up all your concealer hiding the bruises he’s kissed into your skin.

It’s an addicting, all-consuming love affair. You’re both too stubborn to call it what it is.

Your phone pings, and your stomach drops through the floor. 

Come here. Study. 

You’re out the door in five minutes, your actions fueled by a new kind of fire. 

You’re in Seungmin’s room, sitting on the extra chair in front of his desk. He’s poring over the information for your big debate, and you’re talking through it with him. Arguing through it with him.

“I just don’t think that’s necessary—“ he starts.

“You don’t think anything is necessary!” you finish.

The arguments are more juvenile than ever. Bickering for the sake of it. There’s no real reason behind either of your statements. The tension in your body builds, a different kind of heat warming your skin.  

He pulls your chair closer to him, his thighs touching yours. “I was perfectly fine where I was,” you protest.

“You couldn’t see the screen,” he maintains. You lean closer to him, pretending to get a better view of his laptop. You’re practically breathing in his ear. 

“You’re breathing too loud,” he says, annoyance laced with nervousness. You don’t argue back. You’re tracing his face with your eyes, memorizing the placement of his moles, noticing how smooth his skin is.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” he asks. 

“Do what?” you say, feigning innocence.

He turns to look at you straight, one arm resting on the back of your chair. “Keep looking at me like that.” It sounds like a dare. Your eyes fall to his mouth. You swallow hard, and your lips part involuntarily. Maybe this is some weird kind of foreplay. You hope it is.

“Damn, you,” he exhales, and leans in to kiss you. Your hands grab his face, and you kiss him hard, roughly. He grabs you by the hips and hoists you in his lap, your legs straddling him. You feel his boner right against your heat, and you grind into him, drawing a moan out of him. Your tongues do the fighting for you.

The chair slides back, rolling against the carpet, and he stands up, taking you with him. He leans down to lay you down on the bed, climbing on top of you. His fingers graze your stomach as he pulls off your top. 

“You tell me to stop, and I stop,” he whispers in your ear, and you nod your head frantically in reply.

He grabs your breasts, squeezing them over your bra. You let out a moan, and he drags his tongue along your jaw and down your neck. You shudder in delight, wrapping your legs around his back and pulling him closer. He grinds into you, his length straining against his sweats. 

Lust clouds your thoughts, and you sneak your hands under his sweatshirt, palms caressing his bare back. He reaches up to pull it off, along with his t-shirt, and dives back into your mouth. Your fingers trace his abs, exploring his body for the first time. You’re touching him so sensually, his head is spinning.

The sight of him above you half-naked, hair mussed, necklace dangling in front of your face, has you going wild. You reach down and untie his sweats, tucking your fingers in the waistband. You don’t say anything, he knows what you want. Instead, he unzips your pants and yanks them down, exposing your underwear. The wet spot on the front is visible, the cool air sending chills up your spine. You kick off your pants and spread your legs wider, letting him see all of you.

“Pretty, pretty, girl,” he purrs. “Already so wet for me.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. 

“That’s kinda what happens,” you sigh. You want to humble him, take him down a peg, but playfully. “If you’re doing it right.” 

He takes that as a challenge, pulling you to the edge of the bed and kneeling on the floor. “Yeah?” He slides your underwear off. “You tell me if this is right.”

He wipes the smirk right off your face. His hands grip your thighs, hard, bringing his tongue flat against you. He moves fast, his tongue licking long strips against your cunt. You moan at the sensation, his tongue lapping at your clit. The heat in your belly trickles in. 

Two fingers enter you, curling exactly right, and you grip his hair to ground yourself. Your legs begin to twitch, and his mouth is back on you, sucking on your clit. You feel the heat bubbling, your moans getting louder.

“Is this right?” He asks, smugly, hand still fucking into you. “God shut up,” you say, half moaning.

He brings you right to the edge before he pulls out. You lift your head up to look at him, jaw dropped like you can’t believe he just did that. “I was so close!” You whine at him. 

“You’ll come when you’re nice,” he states. Even caught off guard, your responses are quick. 

“And if I’m not?” You sass at him, tilting your head. He lets out a laugh and climbs up your body until he’s right against your ear. His voice is low, but his words are sharp. “Then I’ll edge you until you’re begging for it.” 

You don’t know what’s hotter, being edged or being threatened into submission.

His mouth is on your neck again, and you’re desperately grabbing at his sweats. He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, and you can’t help but buck into him, your cunt leaking, seeking friction.

“So fucking needy,” he chuckles into your skin. “And you say I rush things.”

“You do,” you say, making your choice. He stares down at you, jaw clenching. One hand moves to your throat, giving it a tight squeeze on the sides, making your head spin with pleasure. He lowers his face to yours, hovering so close you can feel the air coming out of his nose. 

“What was that?” he says. “I don’t think I heard you.” He’s giving you a chance to change your mind. You don’t take it.

“Shut up and fuck me already,” you spit out, much less confident, but equally eager.

His tongue pokes out of his cheek, and a devilish smile creeps across his face. “Okay,” he says. “Have it your way.” He sounds cheery, but you can tell he doesn’t mean it.

Your eyes follow him as he stands up to discard his pants and boxers. You stare at his length as he pumps into his fist and positions himself in front of you. Heartbeat pounding, still soaking wet, your breath hitches as he presses your knees against your chest. He presses into you, agonizingly slow, grinning as he watches your face contort.  He increases his pace, driving into you, hands tight around your thighs. The heat in your core comes back, faster this time. 

“So quiet all of a sudden,” he says with a smug grin. “Had the attitude all fucked out of you already?” He may love arguing with you, but he loves this even more. Seeing you squirm and shake underneath him drives him crazy.

“Mmm…not yet,” you reply with a breathy moan. “Try harder.” He does. His hips start pounding into you, his hard body smacking your thighs as he bottoms out with every thrust.

Your heat is bubbling, threatening to boil over. He’s making circles around your clit with his thumb, and you’re clenching him so hard, your body hot and tight. Right as you reach your peak, he slips out of you without a warning.

“Min—what the fuck!” you shout, voice cracking as your body goes limp at the loss of contact. You look up, and you remember who you’re dealing with, meeting his darkened eyes.

He grabs your hips and flips your body like it’s nothing, the mattress dipping as he kneels behind you. You feel your back arch as he grabs you by the throat to look at your face. His hands give your neck a light squeeze, and your head buzzes with excitement.

“You know what I think?” he asks, staring down at you. “I think you love it when I rile you up.” He pushes himself in again, and your body jolts and shudders. “I bet your panties are soaked after every argument.” You feel every inch, deeper, more electric than before. The tightness around his shaft proves his theory. You’re a whimpering mess around him and he loves it.

“Open up,” he commands, lightly squeezing your cheeks. Your lips don’t part, and he pulls himself almost all the way out before he drives into you again, hard. You open your mouth, letting out a moan and he spits a long string of saliva into it. You swallow on instinct.

“Good girl,” he purrs in your ear. “You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel you milking me. Don’t you wanna come, sweetheart?” He’s taunting you while sending you closer and closer to your peak.

“Min…please…I need it,” you moan between his thrusts. Your thighs are shaking, your brain is fuzzy, in a completely and utterly blissed out state.

“I can’t hear you baby,” he teases. “You’re going to have to be louder than that.” He reaches around to pinch your nipple, sending a shock through your body.

“Please, fuck, Minnie, I need it,” you beg. “I wanna come, I wanna come so bad!” You’re pleading with him, desperate, and he flips you onto your back once again. All you can hear is his heavy breathing and the sound of skin slapping together as he continues to pound into you.

He can’t keep up the act anymore. “Fuck, you sound so pretty, baby. I love that nickname, say it again for me,” he whines, just as desperate as you are. 

“Minnie, harder, please,” you cry. Every thrust sends shockwaves into your body, the heat inside of your belly about to boil over.

“Come for me, sweetheart. Let me hear how much you love my cock.” His words, coupled with his thumb making circles on your clit, send you over the edge. Your back arches further into him, your screams ripping from your throat, your body vibrating under his. He fucks you through your orgasm and his praise turns into helpless pants as he’s coming inside you, hot liquid painting your insides. He kisses you slowly, swallowing every last moan as you both come down from your highs.

The haze of lust starts to dissipate and the full realization of what you had done, and who you’d done it with, hits. Seungmin sees the gears turning behind your eyes, and he kisses the top of your head. He doesn’t say anything, just caresses your cheek with his hand.

He gets up to find a towel to clean you off, wiping the slick from your thighs and the sweat from your neck. He climbs back into the bed with you after, settling against the headboard, and brings you against his chest. You inhale his scent, and he plays with your hair. It feels like you should be ecstatic. Like you finally got something you’ve been dying for. But it doesn’t.

You’re afraid that if you speak, you’d be forced to confront the questions that have been looming over your head for the past week. The silence weighs heavily in the air. He must be scared, too. 

“Do you…want your jacket back?” you whisper, almost inaudible. It’s the safest question you can think to ask.

“Keep it,” he whispers, kissing your forehead gently. “It suits you better.”

It’s not an answer. The silence comes back and you can feel your heartbeat in your ears. You can feel his too, racing just as hard through his soft skin.

You try to break the silence, hoping to find an answer. “What happens—“

“Shhh,” he hushes you. “Let’s not think about it right now.” So you don’t. You lay in his arms, in an anxious quiet, until the morning breaks and you’re forced back to reality.

Debate Day. A day you’d normally be ecstatic for, a chance to show your skills and maybe, finally, beat Kim Seungmin. But you’re not. You’re sad, an anxious mess, and completely off your game.

It’s exactly what he wanted. You didn’t think he’d stoop that low, just to win, even after he’s taken everything from you. The idea hadn’t settled in your head until the previous night, when you were preparing the last of your notes for the debate. Son of a bitch.

You’re fuming, stomping around your room getting ready, slamming every door and drawer in the tiny dorm you can find.

“Babe…you’re scaring me, what’s wrong?” Yuna asks, concerned and slightly terrified.

“Kim Seungmin. We….hooked up. And now I’m just a mess. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe, Yuna.” You’re starting to hyperventilate. You can’t even think about him without wanting to cry. 

“You don’t know that’s what he was trying to do. Try and talk to him?”

“You don’t know him, Yuna. He plays dirty, always has, and always will. I just didn’t think he’d be a cheat too.” There was no convincing you. And you weren’t sure which pain was worse. The fact that you’d lost focus, or the fact that he lied about everything he’d felt. Because you had felt it. And it was eating you alive.

You drag your feet on your way to the practice room, the dread weighing heavy on you. The rain pouring down from above is mocking you as it hits your umbrella. You can’t face him and pretend like nothing happened. A thousand thoughts race through your mind. What if I freeze? What if he wins and he’s the same Seungmin as before? What if I’m never the same?

His silhouette turns the corner ahead of you and your heart sinks. Your eyes meet his, and you both freeze. For a moment, you hope he’ll say something. Something to alleviate this feeling, like you’re on a sinking ship without a lifeboat. But he turns and keeps walking. You feel like someone twisted the knife that was inside your heart.

“Kim Seungmin!” you shout at him. He freezes and turns to face you. You’re stomping towards him, puddles splashing your ankles. You don’t even know what you want to say, what you should say. Your fire is raging with the heat of a thousand suns, your umbrella falls from your hand and your hands find his chest and shove. He staggers backward.

“You did it on purpose,” you accuse him, hands balling into fists.

“Did what?” He asks. 

“Admit it, you knew you couldn’t beat me, so you got into my head.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about everything!” You’re shouting now. “The past few weeks, every kiss in the library, the other night, all of it!” Tears are pricking your eyes.

“Can we talk after? Please? I don’t wanna fight right now—“

“Fight with me!”

“I can’t!” His voice is louder now. “Not here, not right now.” 

“Why? Because you already won?”

“You really think I’d use you like that?”

“You hate me,” your voice is lower now, but still drenched with anger. “You always have.”

“Maybe,” he says, quietly. “Or maybe you’re scared that I never did.”

He walks away, leaving you soaking from the rain, wishing you were anywhere else on Earth.

The podiums look freshly polished, reflecting the spotlights overhead. The seats are filled with the faculty judges, as promised, and the rest of your team. You sneak to the bathroom to dry yourself off and make it back with a few minutes to spare. You’re dressed in a skirt that hits your knees, tights and mary jane’s, and a blazer sporting your school logo. You’re still damp, but you look presentable.

You can do this. It’s just like every other debate with him, you know how he’ll play this. Quick and dirty. It has a different meaning now.

You both take your places at the podium. Seungmin looks good in a suit, hands steady, calm as ever. You can’t help but laugh at him, and at yourself. The team is wincing like they’re preparing for an explosion. 

You start first. Clear, concise, only slightly shaky. It’s just from the nerves, from the judges watching you. The room listens intently, and you don’t look at him while you speak. You know if you do, you’ll break. A soft approval hums from the crowd when you finish.

It’s his turn now, and he starts as steady as he always does. Strong, confident, Seungmin. It’s hard to listen to him, but you push your feelings aside to focus on the cracks in his argument. You wait for the assumption, the supporting facts, the references. 

He skips the line that drills the biggest hole in your argument. Your stomach drops, and you look at him. It was so small, no one else would have noticed. But you did. He holds your eye contact while he finishes. You stare at each other, for only a moment, but you can feel your face getting hot and your hands shake.

You tear into the opening he left exposed. That he gave you. Everyone is watching, you can’t break now. With every sentence you expect an interruption, a snarky comment, a fucking question. But he just sits there, silently with his hands in his pockets. 

By the time closing statements are done you already know. You can’t even look at him. You’re embarrassed, hair sticking to your forehead from the rain and now sweat. Your professor claps and shakes your hand. The room fills with applause. 

“Congratulations,” he says, smiling. Your head is spinning, you want to deny it, run, scream, hide. It’s too late. 

 You find him in the hallway outside when the room clears. “You threw,” you say, still in disbelief.

“I didn’t,” he insists.

“Yes, you did!”

“You won, fair and square.”

“No, you couldn’t lose like a fucking man and you gave up—“

“What would have happened if you lost?” he asks the question and it hits like a punch to the gut. “I can’t win like that.” He looks defeated. You’re still pissed.

“Oh, what, now you’re being noble?” You’re still fighting. You want him to fight with you. Goddammit you want him to fight for you.

“I can’t win if it means losing you.” The air is sucked out of your lungs, once again. Your tears don’t give you a chance to stop them. “And if I have to lose you anyway, just let me give you this.”

Your throat closes up, and your voice is high-pitched and shaky. “That wasn’t your call to make.” You storm off, leaving him there, tears disguising with the rain.

It takes a couple of days for you to get back to the library. You’ve sobbed for what feels like hours on end, and you don’t have any more tears left to shed. Seungmin hasn’t shown up for practice, or even your lectures. Every time you think of him, you see him standing on that podium, and the wound bleeds open again.

The transcript from this morning’s mail sits neatly folded in front of you as you work. You don’t dare to open it. It’s a reminder of yet another thing that Kim Seungmin has taken from you. 

You swear you’ve been hallucinating him. You can even smell his cologne when you think of him. It’s the lack of sleep, you tell yourself. You almost miss the footsteps behind you as he walks up to your table.

He pulls up a chair and sits in it backwards, his chin resting against his folded arms. “Have you opened it yet?” he asks, gesturing to the transcript. Your stomach sinks as you realize it’s him.

“Uh…no,” you say with a slight shake of your head. You can’t look him in the eyes. 

“Are you going to?” he asks, his eyes still on you. You don’t respond.

He stands up and takes a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, and tosses it on the book in front of you. You look at him, puzzled, but you gently fold the paper apart. It’s his transcript.

“Kim Seungmin, Class Rank: #2”

You stare at the paper with wide eyes. Your hands begin to tremble, and you look up at him, not knowing what to say.

“You already beat me last semester,” he’s smiling, like he’s proud. “Don’t let it get to your head.” He chuckles as he nods at you, wrinkles forming around his eyes, and walks out of the room. You scramble towards your own envelope, tearing at the folds. You pull out that little yellow slip of paper, and sure enough, next to your name you see it.

“Class Rank: #1”

You don’t catch the tears as they stain the letters, smudging them like they’re trying to turn back time.

The SKZ house hums to life, lights turning on and music blaring through the speakers. Get your mind off of it, Yuna had said. You’re trying your best now, but you hope you run into him. You have so many things you need to say. 

You’re wandering aimlessly at this point, weaving through crowds, hoping that he’s here. Any brother you question just shrugs you off, they’re not even sure that he’s here. You slide the door to the back deck open, desperate to catch your breath. The string lights hum above you, the air chilly but not as cold now that Spring is approaching. The city lights in the distance try to console you, the warm glow offering solace against the dark sky.

The door slides open behind you and you jump, turning around. His hair is messier now, eyes sagging and hollow, like he hasn’t gotten sleep in weeks. 

“Looking for me?” he says, voice hoarse. Your jaw drops slightly at the sight of him. This isn’t Seungmin. Not your Seungmin.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, your throat closing up, shaking your head to keep the tears from falling. “I’m so sorry.”

He approaches you where you stand against the railing, hands in his hoodie pockets. He looks at you, and just sighs. You can tell he’s fighting with himself, but he clearly loses the battle in his head when he wraps his arms around you and holds you close.

“I’m not,” he whispers into your ear. “I’d do it again, every time. Even if you hate me, even if we never speak again.”

“Why’d you do it?” The memory of his betrayal stings. You didn’t earn the title, and it haunts you, even if only you two truly knew it.

“I don’t want to be your opponent anymore.” He says it so simply, like he’s known this whole time. “I just want to be yours.” You stop fighting the tears as they stain his sweatshirt. Your arms are holding onto him for dear life, like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Kim Seungmin,” you say, wiping your tears as you look up at him. “I’ve been yours this whole time.”

His hand finds your jaw and leans you against the railing, bringing himself down to kiss you. It’s gentle, like he’s trying to make it last forever. Your hands wrap around his neck, pulling him in as deep as your mouths will allow. It’s electric, and you feel the fire in you ignite once again. You break apart, foreheads touching, and he wipes away your tears and smiles.

“I’ll fight with you forever,” he laughs. “Just don’t leave me.”

“Don’t get all soft on me now, Minnie,” you laugh back, brushing his hair out of his face. And for the first time in a long time, the quiet felt like peace.

Until the glass starts rattling, and several pairs of fists bang against it, hooting and hollering. You both turn and see seven brothers waving through the window, all shouting and clapping. You hide your faces in embarrassment, flipping them off. Hooligans.

Seungmin wraps his arm around your neck, shielding you from the chaos. “You wanna get out of here?” he asks. You nod your head, and you both head down the side stairs, waving off the bystanders and holding hands. And for right now, this is the only fight that matters to you.

When he asked you about your day, you gave short, vague answers. You could tell he wanted to keep the conversation going, but your mind kept drifting back to that night.

"Anything new happened at work today?"

"No, nothing new."

"How are things going with Professor Kim?"

"Just the usual, he's still sending loads of homework"

"Hey, what do you think of this?"

"It looks great."

Everyone could tell. You’d become withdrawn and a little insecure. Not just with Chan, but with your friends and some of your relatives, too.

You felt like a burden. Until that day came.

“Come on, Y/N.” One of your classmates and close friends, Si-woo, came over to you in the library. "We're working on this project together, and the one thing we're not doing is talking about what we need to do. Don’t avoid me.”

“I told you you’d do your part and I’d do mine.”

“But I have a question about something. Can you help me?” You sighed.

“What’s up?” Si-woo smiled as he moved closer to you, his notebook already open and his highlighters in hand.

Between jokes and studying, Siwoo managed to get more than five words out of you.

Something no one had managed to do in the last three weeks.

“Tomorrow. Same place, same time?” he asked, and after a few minutes of thinking it over, you nodded.

“That sounds good.”

And just as he said, the next day, Siwoo was sitting at the table in the corner, with two cups of coffee on it and his head buried in a literature book.

“How far have you gotten?” you asked, sitting down next to him.

“Well, I’ve found several references we can use to support our argument. I think it might be good.”

“Let’s see,” you said.

“Before we start,” he said, grabbing a cup and handing it to you, "Black. Two sugars. I didn’t know if you liked it any other way.”

“With milk and three sugars. But this is fine; I need to stay awake as long as possible.” You both laughed.

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

You took a sip, nodding. “Come on, let’s get started—we’ve got a lot to do.”

And while Siwoo was tearing down those walls you’d built, little by little and without even realizing it.

Chan was a mess and didn’t know what else to do.

You accepted his invitations; you accepted his caresses, you accepted his kisses, but it was as if you weren’t fully there.

When he tried to bring up the subject, you deflected him, you grew cold, your posture stiffened, and you tried to leave or change the subject.

“What are you laughing at, gorgeous?” He asked with a small smile happy to see you smile finally after these past weeks

As soon as you heard his voice, your smile slowly disappeared “Oh, it’s nothing” You shook your head slowly “Just a texting with a friend”

“Rina?”

You shook your head “Not sure if you remember him, his name’s Siwoo”

“Don’t think I’ve met him before”

“He’s nice” You said “We’re doing a project together so yeah”

But what hurt him the most was seeing you smile and laugh heartily at your phone. Whatever it was— or someone —was making you happier than he had in recent days.

And it hurt him. Of course it did.

“I don't know what to do,” he said one day, lying on the floor of the practice room.

“I don't know what to tell you, Chan,” Minho replied, breathing heavily. “She hasn't talked to me about anything either. I sent her a photo of SongDongDori a few days ago, and she left it unread.”

“And she loves getting SongDongDori pictures, we know that” Felix said fixing his cap

“Kkami is her favorite”

“You wish. We know Bbama is her baby”

“Guys” Chan asked, his voice sounded fragile, almost breathless. He sighed.

“Think about everything for a second, Hyung” Jeongin said from the corner of the room, eyes never leaving his phone. “Since when has she been like this?”

Chan’s mind immediately went back four weeks

However, he couldn’t quite pinpoint the exact night. He shook his head.

He knew he shouldn’t be doing this at work—they were in the middle of a rehearsal, for God’s sake. But the guys could see that something was eating away at their leader; he wasn’t his usual self.

And it hurt them to see him like this. They knew Chan would do everything he could to stay strong in front of them, but they wanted to let him know that if he fell, they were there to catch him.

“I don't know,” he admitted, running his hands through his hair.

“Come on, it could have been something,” Changbin said. “A message. Something you forgot. An argument.”

An argument? You haven't had any arguments lately.

Not since that time when—

It suddenly clicked in his mind.

Not since that time when he yelled at you for telling him about your problems.

“Shit” He murmured getting up “Guys, I-”

“I’ll take it from here and let you know” Minho said nodding “Go”

Chan grabbed his things and left the practice room. His thoughts were racing at 100 miles an hour.

Now he understood why you had acted the way you did. He felt like a piece of trash making you feel that way. He knew your insecurities, he knew your fears, and he used them against you on a day of desperation when everything was going wrong for him.

Meanwhile, you were laughing with Siwoo in your living room; homework already done; you made some coffee for the two of you and Siwoo brought some cookies

“Who would have thought, Y/L/N? You’re back to your old self again.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re laughing again, you’re joking again, you’re being yourself again.”

“Well, you’ve helped me a lot with that, Siwoo.”

“Don’t let anyone bring you down, girl.” You sighed and took a sip of your coffee

“I just don’t want to burden anyone” You said softly not knowing someone else was inside the house

“You’re not a burden” Siwoo said shaking his head "I'm not sure who made you believe that, but they're idiots," you chuckled a little.

"Please," you said.

"All right, all right," he raised his hands but soon dropped them "I know how much it hurt you when he said that to you. Thank you for trusting me and letting me and the lads in once again." You smiled

Two weeks ago you started hanging out with your friends once again. Of course they asked you what had happened to you, and when you plucked up the courage to tell them, most of them weren’t exactly happy that your boyfriend had treated you like that

“How about a rematch on Just Dance?" He said changing the subject

"Now?" He nodded. "Come on, let's go! You won’t beat me.” You laughed, finished the last of your drink and cleared away the cups you’d used.

As you entered the kitchen, you saw Chan sitting in one of the chairs, looking towards the living room.

“Oh! You’re here,” you said, surprised. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Yeah, I’ve only been here a few minutes.”

"Oh, I see," you said. "How was training today?"

"I wasn't feeling well, so I decided to come home”

Your eyes widened, your hand instantly went to his forehead “You don’t have any fever” You said “What are you feeling, baby?”

Chan shook his head “Headache” He rested his head in your palm

“Do you want me to prepare something for you?” You asked softly

“Y/N, everything’s set up!” Siwoo’s voice rang across the department

“You’re busy” He said sighing “I’ll be fine, I’ll take a shower and lay down for a bit”

“I’ll prepare you something quick” You said, Chan shook his head

“I’m okay” He kissed you on the forehead and left the kitchen.

You sighed and, without paying him any mind, decided to put some water on to boil so you could make him a hot milk shake. It had been a long time since you’d seen Chan looking as downcast as he did at that moment.

If you pictured his face in your mind, you’d notice that his nose was red, his eyes were a little teary, and his voice was breaking.

What could have happened to him?

Your heart felt heavy.

"Y/N!" Siwoo came into the kitchen. "Earth calling Y/N," he snapped his fingers in front of your face. You blinked and looked at him.

"What's going on?" you asked.

"That's what I'd like to ask you. I got here and you were zoned out," he made a gesture that made you laugh.

"I was thinking about something."

"Everything okay?"

"I think so," you said. "Chan arrived; he didn’t look too good."

"Mhm," Siwoo said. "Did he say anything to you?" You shook your head.

"No." You looked at the water, which was starting to come to a boil. "Let me take this to him and I’ll be right back."

"If you want, I can leave," He said, you shook your head once again

"I think he'd better calm down a bit”

Siwoo nodded. "I'll warm up then," he said, and you laughed.

"Are you really that bad that you need to warm up?"

"It's not that I'm bad! It's just that I get cramps afterward. Age catches up with you." You laughed loudly at the last part

“Go, warm up old man” You said between laughs

Siwoo left the kitchen laughing, and once again you were alone.

The water was ready; you took out a cup, some milk, a little cinnamon, and honey.

You carefully made him some milk tea and carried it up to your room on a small tray.

You knocked twice and opened the door.

Your heart broke.

There was Chan, fresh out of the shower, wearing sweatpants and no shirt. He was lying face down on the bed, his arms clutching your pillow tightly, his phone resting on the headboard watching something

Small sobs escaped his lips, and every now and then he sniffled. He was crying.

"Oh, Chris." You closed the door, lay down beside him, the cup on his nightstand. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," he said. "I was a complete idiot."

“Come on, I don’t get it, Chris. What happened?” Your arms wrapped around his body, your chin resting on his neck, you looked at his phone; photos of the two of you together were on the screen

It was the first time you’d made physical contact with him in five weeks.

When he felt your touch, he cried a little more

"I promised myself I'd never hurt you. And that was the first thing I did." You sighed, hearing him. "You've been acting differently toward everyone, all because of me and my stupid mistakes."

"I know I don't deserve forgiveness this quickly, but it hurts to know that I brought one of your biggest insecurities to life." He turned slowly, you and him were face to face.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to realize it. I'm sorry I yelled at you like that. I'm sorry I said all those things—they're lies! I'm so sorry you've changed with everyone."

"You hurt me, Chan," you began.

"I know I did," you wiped away his tears, and he closed his eyes.

"I spent weeks bottling up everything I was feeling," you told him.

"Words can't even begin to express how sorry I am for that," he whispered.

"I understand your workload; you’re the leader, the oldest—everyone expects the best from you, and everyone turns to you when there’s a problem." Your hand ran through his hair. "I admire you so much, but you need to draw a line between when you’re at work and when you’re at home," you said. "We can talk about everything that happens to you—the good and, above all, the bad. We’re a team, Chan."

"But as much as I love you, I’m not just someone you can yell at every time you’re frustrated, much less play with my insecurities just like that."

"I know. I know you deserve so much better. Believe me, seeing you laugh with other people and realizing how distant you were with me made me feel terrible. I felt like I failed as a partner."

"You haven’t failed," you assured him. "You messed up a little, yes," you said, "but you realized your mistake and you’ve started to make amends." Chan smiled. "Don’t think you’re completely off the hook."

"I know I’m not," he said, "but I’ll work to erase those words from your heart."

You nodded.

"I brought you some hot milk," you said, nodding toward the cup.

"You didn’t have to."

"Just because I’m mad at you doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring about you." You planted a kiss on his cheek. "Come on, drink it." You stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"I’m going to get you some acetaminophen."

"No, don’t go."

"But Chan—"

"Trust me, I’m already feeling a little better," he said, sniffling. "With the milk, I’ll feel even better."

You sighed, sitting back down on the bed. You looked into his eyes and smiled slowly.

"Can we cuddle for a bit?"

"I can’t stay long. Siwoo is downstairs waiting."

"Just while I drink the milk?" You looked at him. "I know I’m not forgiven yet; I know I have to earn it. But I missed you so much these past few weeks.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Chan laughed.

You positioned yourself behind him; Chan turned slightly to the side, his face buried in your chest, one of his arms around your waist, while yours were around his shoulders. One hand in his hair and the other on his arm.

You stayed like that for a few minutes; you saw Chan stretch out his arm, setting the cup on the nightstand.

“Better?” He nodded without saying anything else.

You watched his eyes begin to close, his cheeks red, and his grip on you tightened slightly.

You smiled.

You grabbed your phone and opened the messaging app

—Siwoo

Before you could send another message, three more came in

—I'm gone now. Don't worry

—Hope you’ve worked everything out

—Rematch next Friday

You laughed and set the phone aside. After planting a kiss on Chan’s hair, you settled in slowly.

You’ll be okay. You always were.

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"You're fucking kidding me." You stare at the text message. Three sentences that might as well be a bomb dropped in the middle of your living room.

Hey, sorry for the short notice, but I’m moving in with my boyfriend at the end of the week.

I know rent’s due soon, but I kinda already spent my half on the security deposit for our new place.

Good luck finding someone else!

shit

Rent is due in nine days, and your bank account isn’t exactly overflowing.

You’ve never lived alone before. Couldn’t afford it even if you wanted to. And the thought of scrambling to find a new roommate in a week makes your stomach twist.

You're halfway through drafting a frantic "roommate needed ASAP" text to your groupchat when your phone buzzes.

it's one of your few friends who actually bothers to check in.

Heard about your roomie bailing. Absolute bullshit.

Anyway I know a guy. Chill as hell, works freelance, needs a place.

You'd vibe.

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The last thing you want is some rando bringing chaos into your already crumbling life.

But then your landlord's terse "rent due on the 1st, no exceptions" text flashes in your mind.

Fine. Give him my number.

Chan texts you thirty minutes later. His messages are polite. Full sentences, proper punctuation, none of that monosyllabic grunting.

He suggests meeting at the apartment tomorrow afternoon to check the place out, and you agree.

The next day, you're scrubbing the bathroom sink when the doorbell rings. Chan stands in the hallway holding a paper bag that smells like garlic and herbs. "Figured we could talk over lunch," he says, smiling like this isn't weird at all.

Up close, he's so much cuter than you expected, blond hair, unfairly big broad shoulders, dressed in a blank tanktop that showed them off perfectly.

You blink at the take out bag, then at Chan’s easy grin.

There’s no nervous energy radiating off him, no awkward shuffling — just this unsettling calm, like he’s already decided he belongs here. “Uh,” you say, wiping your damp hands on your pants, “you didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupts, already toeing off his sneakers without waiting for an invite. The scent of roasted garlic and rosemary spills into the apartment as he breezes past you toward the kitchen. “But food makes everything less weird, right?”

You trail after him, you don't know whether to be annoyed or charmed.

Chan unpacks the food containers, grilled chicken, some kind of herby rice, roasted vegetables that don’t look like the sad microwave steam bags you usually survive on.

He slides a plate toward you. “Eat first, then interrogation.”

“Interrogation?” You stab a piece of chicken, watching him warily.

Chan shrugs, mouth already full. “Standard roommate shit. ‘Do you snore?’ ‘Are you a serial killer?’ ‘Will you steal my leftovers?’” He swallows, grinning.

“The answer’s no, no, and only if you leave them unlabelled.”

The food is homemade stupidly good, and Chan’s presence is… unsettlingly comfortable.

By the time you’re scraping the last of the rice off your plate, you’ve learned he does something vague with digital marketing (“Basically, I convince people to buy shit they don’t need”), he actually enjoys doing laundry, and he likes to cook.

“So,” Chan says, stacking the empty containers, “you wanna show me around, or should I just start claiming drawers?”

The tour is quick — your apartment isn’t exactly sprawling — but Chan makes appreciative noises at the closet space and tests how sturdy the bed frame is (#whatdatmean).

When you hesitantly mention rent, he waves a hand. “Half’s fine. I’ll pay first and last upfront if you want.”

You stare. “You don’t even know the amount.”

Chan shrugs, leaning against the kitchen counter “Doesn’t matter. I’ve got it.” He pulls out his phone, taps a few times, and, before you can protest, your own phone buzzes with a notification.

It’s a Venmo payment for double what you were about to say rent costs.

Your mouth opens, then closes. “You—what? That’s too much.”

“Nah.” He pockets his phone, grinning at your baffled expression. “Consider it a ‘sorry for being weirdly pushy’. ”

You don’t argue. You can’t argue — not when your bank account is currently breathing its first sigh of relief in months.

A girls got priorities, and he doesn't really seem to mind. it's a win win scenario.

~

The first month was… strange. Not bad, just strange. he was genuinely nice, easy to talk to. it wasn't long till the initial awkwardness — if there was any — wore off. you'd become something sort of friends, and both of you settled into a quiet rhythm.

he'd left cash for rent in a neat stack on the kitchen counter on first of the month, slightly more than his half again.

When you tried to give him the extra back, he just waved you off.

You caught glimpses of his routine. disappearing into his room at odd hours, the low murmur of his voice through the walls late at night.

And then there was the day you came home early.

You weren’t supposed to be back until ten, but your shift ended early, and the bus was miraculously on time for once.

The apartment was quiet when you unlocked the door, just the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of the floorboards under your feet.

You’d barely set your bag down when you heard it — a low noise from Chan’s room.

Your fingers froze on the zipper of your jacket. The sound came again, breathier this time, followed by the slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin.

you thought it was a girlfriend he never told you about.

The idea punched a weird, hollow ache into your ribs — which was stupid, because it’s not like you had any claim on him.

Still, you stood there frozen in the hallway, his door slightly ajar, listening to the sounds of his pleasure like some kind of creep.

You backed out of the apartment, easing the door shut with just the softest whisper of the latch catching. Your pulse hammered in your throat as you ducked into the stairwell, pressing your back against the cool concrete wall.

The rational part of your brain screamed at you to stop being weird, to just walk back in like a normal person. But the irrational part — the part currently in charge — was too busy replaying the sounds spilling from Chan’s room to listen.

You get out of the building and circle the block twice, three times, counting cracks in the sidewalk. The air smells like rain that hasn’t fallen yet, and you bask in that atmosphere till roughly an hour has passed.

When you finally drag yourself back inside, the apartment is quiet. Chan’s door is shut tight, the shower running, and no girlfriend in sight.

she must've left early.

You freeze halfway to your room when the shower shuts off. your feet are planted still go to your room, go to your room

but you weren't quick enough, and a few seconds later, Chan emerges with only a towel slung low on his hips.

He's startled when he sees you, droplets flicking off his hair as he jerks his head up. “oh hey—” His voice is casual before you cut him off, "shit—sorry!" your face heats up at the sight, your eyes wander, trailing down his toned chest that still had water droplets running down, before snapping your head in the other direction.

was he always this muscular?

and you can't help but notice that there are no hickeys on his neck, no marks on his arms, and surprisingly put together for someone who just had his girlfriend over less than an hour ago.

"no no— you're good." he reassures with a smile, "you're back early."

You swallow hard. “Yeah. Shift got cut."

Chan leans against the doorframe, his damp hair curling at the ends. You try not to stare at the way his towel clings precariously to his hips, but your gaze keeps flicking downward anyway, betraying you.

"Everything okay?" he asks, tilting his head slightly.

"Y-yeah," you stammer, fingers twisting in the hem of your jacket. "Just—uh. Busy day."

Chan hums, nodding. His eyes flick over your face, lingering a second too long on your flushed cheeks before he grins. "Cool. I was just gonna make some food if you’re hungry."

The casual offer throws you off. You were expecting — what? Awkward silence? Averted eyes? Not this easy warmth.

but you just nod dumbly. "Yeah. Food sounds good."

he pushes off the doorframe, padding toward the kitchen. The towel rides up slightly with each step, revealing the sharp cut of his hip bones, and you have to physically bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making a noise.

“You good?” he calls over his shoulder, like he can feel your stare burning into his back.

“Fine,” you squeak, following at a safe distance, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. The kitchen tile is cool under your socked feet, a welcome distraction from the heat crawling up your neck.

Chan hums again, rummaging through the fridge with one hand while the other keeps his towel secured. The muscles in his back flex as he leans forward, and you’re suddenly very interested in the color of your sponge bob socks.

“Leftover pasta okay?” he asks, pulling out a container with a rattle of plastic. You nod mutely, watching as he moves around the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the tiles.

The stove clicks to life, the hiss of gas filling the silence between you. Chan leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, “So,” he starts, “how was work?”

You blink. “Uh. Fine. Boring.” The words tumble out too fast, your pulse jumping when Chan chuckles. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and suddenly you’re hyperaware of every inch of space between you.

he scrapes the leftover pasta into the pan, the sizzle of garlic and butter filling the silence between you. His towel shifts dangerously low with each stir, but he doesn’t seem to notice — or maybe he does.

The corner of his mouth twitches when he catches you staring, and you snap your gaze to the ceiling like it’s suddenly fascinating.

"You know," he says, voice light, "most roommates don’t freak out when they see each other half dressed." The wooden spoon clinks against the pan as he scrapes the edges.

"I wasn’t freaking out."

Chan laughs, "You literally yelped like I pulled a knife on you." He glances over his shoulder, eyes dragging down your body in a way that makes your knees weak. "Unless you’re into that."

The pasta sizzles loudly in the pan, drowning out the choked sound that escapes your throat at Chan’s words. "I—that’s not—"

Chan turns fully now, abandoning the stove, and the towel dips dangerously low. His smirk is infuriating, "Relax," he murmurs, stepping closer, "Just teasing."

You laugh nervously, the sound too high pitched, too obvious. "I'm just gonna—" You jerk your thumb toward your room, already backing away. "Change into something more... home-y."

Chan raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Home-y,"

"yea—!" your voice cracks "y'know comfortable....home clothes"

Then you gesture vaguely at his towel, your voice cracking slightly. "Are you— uh, gonna put on actual clothes before we eat? Because I'm pretty sure health code violations apply to apartments too."

Chan glances down at himself, then back up at you, "Why?" He grins, tilting his head. "Distracted?"

"Yes—no," you sputter, crossing your arms tightly over your chest like armor. "I just don’t want your—" You wave a hand wildly in the general direction of his hips. "That—near my dinner."

Chan laughs, a full blown laugh, and you take that chance to bolt for your room, shoulders hunched as if that’ll make you smaller, less noticeable.

The door clicks shut behind you with a click, and you press your forehead against the cool wood, exhaling sharply.

"And turn the heat down!" you call out, voice too high,"Unless you want to burn the house down!"

Another laugh, muffled through the door. "Yes, mom," Chan drawls, the playful lilt in his voice making your cheeks burn hotter.

The stove clicks as he adjusts the flame, the sound followed by the soft thud of his footsteps padding down the hall. You squeeze your eyes shut, listening to the creak of his bedroom door, the rustle of fabric as he presumably — finally — changes.

You peel yourself off the door, fingers fumbling at the jacket of your shirt. The fabric clings to your skin, damp with nervous sweat, and you wrestle it off.

Home-y. Right. who even says that?

Stupid stupid stupid.

Your dresser drawer sticks halfway open, You grab the first shirt your fingers brush against, soft from too many washes, and a pair of sweatpants with the elastic stretched out.

'He has a girlfriend,' you think, shimmying out of your jeans. The denim catches around your ankles, nearly causing you to trip.

'Probably. Maybe. Who the fuck knows.'

You yank the shirt over your head so hard the neckline stretches. The mirror across the room reflects your flushed face, your hair mussed from the fabric dragging through it.

You look and feel ridiculous.

You pull up your pants, then pause, fingers hovering at the waistband. Avoid him. Simple. Logical. You can do that.

but it wasn't that easy. after all there is only so much avoiding one could do to someone they live with.

The apartment isn’t big enough for elaborate evasion tactics, and Chan seems to have a sixth sense for popping up exactly where you don’t want him.

Leaning against the fridge when you’re raiding it at 2 am, or lounging on the couch just as you’re about to claim it for a late night tv binge.

So you just ended up being cooped in your room for most of the day.

But Chan isn’t stupid. eventually after days passed by, he’s leaning against your bedroom doorframe when you crack it open after what you thought was a safe half hour of silence.

“So,” he says, arms crossed, voice dripping with amusement, “you’re avoiding me.”

You freeze, one socked foot hovering mid step like a cartoon character caught mid sneak. “No,” you lie too quickly.

Chan raises an eyebrow. “You literally just ducked into the bathroom because you heard me coming down the hall.”

“I had to pee.”

“For the fourth time today?” His grin lopsided, “Either you’ve got a UTI, or you’re full of shit.”

You grit your teeth, fingers tightening around the doorknob. “Maybe both.”

he sighs out laugh, then steps closer, “Listen,” he murmurs, voice dropping to a serious tone, “if this is about the whole towel thing—”

“It’s not,” you answer quickly, too loud, too fast.

“So it is about the towel thing.”

“I’m not—” You exhale sharply through your nose, squeezing your eyes shut. “Can you just—” You gesture vaguely at the space between you. “Give me, like, a three foot radius?”

Chan tilts his head, considering. His gaze drags down your body, before settling back on your face. “Nah,” he says finally, “I like you flustered.”

You bite your lip, eyes darting around, then settle on his, before darting around again.

The silence stretches, until you finally crack under the weight of it. “you—don’t you have a girlfriend?” you blurt, the words stumbling out in a rushed, stuttering mess.

Chan blinks, his smirk faltering for half a second before dissolving into genuine confusion. “A what?” His laugh sounds startled, almost disbelieving.

You press your lips together, suddenly regretting every life choice that led you to this moment.

Chan's eyebrows climb toward his hairline, "A girlfriend?" He repeats, "What, like, some theoretical girl who sneaks in when you're not looking?"

You gesture vaguely at him — the tousled hair, the unfairly sculpted shoulders, the effortless charm that clings to him like a second skin.

"You just—seem like the type." The words tumble out half mumbled, your gaze darting anywhere but his face.

Chan’s laughter echoes through the hallway, loud enough that you flinch—not just from the sound, but from the way it makes your stomach flip.

"Oh my god," he wheezes, leaning against the doorframe like he needs the support. "You thought I had some secret girlfriend sneaking in here to—what, fuck me while you're at work?"

You cross your arms tightly, "It's not that ridiculous," you mutter, but even you hear how weak it sounds.

"First of all, if I had a girlfriend, you'd know. I'm not subtle." His smirk tilts into something teasing. "Second, I'm very single. And third—" He pauses, tilting his head. "Wait. Is that why you've been avoiding me? You thought I was getting laid in there and didn't invite you?"

Your face burns. "No—that's not—"

His grin softens slightly, but the teasing glint in his eyes doesn’t fade. "So," he murmurs, voice dropping lower, "what is it, then?"

You swallow hard, fingers gripping the edge of your shirt so tightly the fabric threatens to tear. "Nothing," you lie. "Just—roommate stuff. Boundaries."

Chan hums, "Boundaries," he echoes, Then, "You know you can just tell me if I’m doing something that makes you uncomfortable, right?"

You swallow hard, "Yeah," you mutter, gaze trailing to his eyes and holding his stare for the first time throughout this conversation "I know."

Chan pushes off the doorframe with a shrug, "Alright then," he says, clapping his hands together like he's wiping the whole conversation away. "Takeout time. You in?"

it's like all this man does is think about food...and make you weak in the knees.

You blink, "Uh. Yeah. Sure."

Chan pulls out his phone, already scrolling through delivery apps, "Thai? Or that new Italian place that opened down the street?" He glances up, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Unless you're feeling sushi again, but last time you complained about the wasbi being too strong."

The normalcy of it — the way he remembers your stupid, offhand complaints about condiments — makes something in your chest tighten.

You clear your throat. "Thai’s good."

~

The weirdness fades slowly, chan doesn’t mention the girlfriend comment again, and you stop bolting like a startled deer every time he walks into a room.

He starts leaving his door open when he’s working, the rhythmic tap of his keyboard drifting into the hallway. You catch yourself lingering in the doorway sometimes, watching the way his brow furrows when he’s concentrating, the way he bites his tongue when he’s stuck on something.

once, he catches you staring and pats the space beside him on the bed without looking up from his laptop. “Help me brainstorm this dumb tagline,”

You perch awkwardly at first, careful not to touch him, but Chan sprawls like he owns every inch of the mattress, his thigh pressing warm against yours. and before you know it, you’re leaning into him, pointing at the screen. “That one’s terrible,”

~

Movie nights become a thing.

The first movie night starts by accident — or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, knees tucked under your chin, scrolling through your phone while Chan sprawls across the other end, his laptop balanced precariously on his thighs.

Then the Wi-Fi cuts out.

Chan groans, tossing his head back against the cushions. “Fucking landlord,” he mutters, jabbing at his keyboard like it’ll magically fix the connection.

You snort, watching him glare at the screen like it’s personally offended him. “Guess we’re gonna have to talk to each other,”

“Horrifying,” he deadpans, then grabs the remote off the coffee table. “a movie it is.”

You end up with some terrible action movie Chan insists is a “classic,” but neither of you pay much attention. Halfway through, you catch him watching you instead of the screen, his head turning back to the movie when you caught him.

You brush it off, focusing on the screen, but your pulse jumps when Chan shifts closer, his thigh pressing against yours.

The credits roll, and he stretches. The couch creaks as he shifts, stretching his arms overhead with a groan that does things to your already frayed nerves.

"Well," he murmurs, voice rough around the edges, "that was a cinematic masterpiece."

You snort, grateful for the distraction. "Yeah, if you consider explosions and zero plot development masterful storytelling."

Chan’s chuckles “Plot is overrated,” he says, “Sometimes you just wanna watch things blow up.”

Chan then exhales heavily and stands. “Alright, I’m hitting the shower,” he says, stretching until his shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of toned stomach. You look away — too late — and Chan’s smirk is audible in his voice. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“In your dreams,” you mutter, but your pulse jumps when he pauses by the hallway, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Exactly.”

You sit there, frozen, until the bathroom door clicks shut and the shower starts running. The sound of water hitting tile fills the apartment, and you press your palms to your overheated cheeks, exhaling sharply.

Stupid. You’re being stupid. That probably didn't mean anything.

But then your phone buzzes on the couch beside you, and Chan’s name lights up the screen.

forgot my towel. mind grabbing it?

You stare at the message, then at the hallway, Trap, your brain supplies helpfully.

type back,

Seriously?

he answers immediately

dead serious. i’m vulnerable here.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face, but you’re already standing. His towel hangs on the back of his bedroom door, You grab it, then walk out to the bathroom.

You knock once, then freeze when Chan calls out, “Just come in.”

Your throat goes dry. “Absolutely not.”

Chan’s laugh echoes off the tiles. “Relax, I’m decent.” A pause. “Mostly.”

you squeeze your eyes shut, then shove the towel through the gap in the door, arm outstretched as far as possible. “Here.”

Chan’s fingers brush yours as he takes the towel. His skin is warm, damp, and you jerk your hand back like you’ve been burned.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, voice closer than you expected. You can *feel* his smile through the door. “You’re a lifesaver.”

You bolt back to the living room, collapsing onto the couch with a groan.

too much for your first movie night.

~

just when things were getting normal, It happens again on a monday.

You’re home early again, the apartment is silent. You toe off your shoes, and you were about to shout a "I'm back" when you heard it again.

Low, breathy moans slipping through the crack in Chan’s door.

Your feet root to the floor, ears straining as the noise curls around you.

His voice, thick with pleasure, murmurs something you can’t quite catch — then a wet, rhythmic sound that sends heat flooding your cheeks.

apparently, this man takes his....alone time very seriously.

that's what it had to be right? you can't blame him — you've been there once or twice.

Your breath sticks in your throat, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. The sound— god, the sound — wraps around you, thick and heady, Chan's voice breaking on a moan that scrapes down your spine.

You should move. should bolt to your room, slam the door, drown it out with headphones. but your feet refuse to cooperate.

You tiptoe into the hallway, his door is cracked just enough, and your pulse hammers so loud its drowning out any other coherent thought in your brain.

A peak wouldn't hurt...

The door creaks faintly as it opens another inch, just enough for you to see.

Chan sits on the edge of his bed, but not like you thought. Not hidden, not private. No, this is something else entirely.

A ring light casts a glow over his bare skin, the camera propped on his desk angled perfectly to capture every inch of him. His laptop screen is open with a reflection of him and a rapid stream of comments too fast to read.

Oh.

Oh god.

Your stomach drops, then tightens all at once.

Chan’s head is tipped back, his throat working around a groan as his hand moves lazily between his thighs.

You press yourself against the hallway wall, pulse hammering, thoughts running a hundred miles per hour.

you did not expect this.

His breath hitches, a sharp, punched out sound, and your nails dig into your palms.

Chan’s fingers twist at the base of his cock, his thumb smearing precum in slow circles. The camera catches the way his abs flex as he arches into his own touch, his voice ragged when he murmurs, "Wish you were here." before he bites down on his lower lip. "Could use a mouth right now."

You watch, frozen in place, as his thighs tremble, his free hand fisting in the sheets beside him. The comments on his screen blur into a frenzy of emojis and a bunch of pinging donations. His breath stutters, his jaw clenching as his strokes turn erratic, desperate. “Yeah,” he gasps, voice breaking, “yeah, just like that—”

Then he comes with a choked moan, stripes of white painting his stomach as his back arches off the bed.

Gosh, he’s gorgeous — and you barely register the dampness between your own thighs until Chan slumps back against the pillows, chest heaving.

Chan exhales sharply, his fingers still lazily stroking his softening cock as he leans forward, just enough to tap something on his laptop.

he ends the stream with a wink and a low, raspy comment that you didn't quite catch. The screen goes black, and you barely have half a second to process the situation before your body kicks into motion.

You bolt down the hallway, socked feet silent against the hardwood.

Your bedroom door clicks shut behind you just as Chan gets up. You press your back against the door, lungs burning from holding your breath, and listen.

Water runs in the sink. A towel rustles. Then you hear footsteps.

They pause outside your door.

You purse your lips and hold your breath. Then Chan hums, before his footsteps retreat down the hall.

You slump against the door, exhaling shakily.

Holy shit.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you fumble to pull it out.

you home early?

You stare at the text, thumbs hovering over the screen. Lie, your brain screams. Tell him no. but then how would you fake going into the apartment if you're already inside the apartment?

Just got back

You hit send before you can second guess it.

Cool. Dinner soon?

Your fingers hover over the screen, the weight of his question pressing against your ribs like a stone. The air in your room feels — too thick — and suddenly the idea of sitting across from Chan at the kitchen table, pretending you didn’t just watch him get off on camera, makes your stomach twist.

Gonna shower first.

Your phone buzzes again before you can even set it down,

Can I join?

You nearly drop it, blood roaring in your ears. Then—

jk. don’t use up all the hot water.

You toss your phone onto your bed and drag a hand down your face with a sigh.

You're deeply fucked.

~

That night, you stayed up aggressively googling him till his page came up.

Onlychans? really?

you'd laugh at the username if it wasn't for the videos that popped up when you clicked on his profile.

Chan, shirtless, sprawled across what is unmistakably your living room couch, one hand lazily palming himself through his sweatpants.

Chan, biting his lip as he slicks lube down his cock, the camera angled to capture every twitch of his abs.

Chan, moaning, his head thrown back against the pillows of his bed —your apartment, your shared space — while his other hand works something thick and glistening into his—

You slam the laptop shut.

Your face burns. Your pulse thrums in your ears. The apartment is silent — Chan’s out for a run, or so he’d claimed when he’d left an hour ago.

You open the laptop again.

It’s Curiosity. That’s all.

It starts innocently enough — just checking his schedule, really. A quick glance at his calendar pinned to the fridge.

"For productivity purposes," Chan had joked when you asked.

Then, sure enough, it spiraled.

You memorize the time of his streams, monday nights, Friday nights, he'd timed them perfectly in sync with times he knew you wouldn't be home. that's why you've been blissfully unaware of him filming in different locations around your shared apartment for the past two and a half months.

And the occasional late night surprise session that leaves you fumbling for your earbuds at 1 am. You'd literally be home, but he'd go live anyway. was he into that?

you were into it too, admittedly, because you turned out to be just as shameful as him.

The notification pops up at 1:47 am on a Wednesday 'Chan is live!' (yes, you turned his notifs on) and your fingers freeze mid doom scroll through Instagram.

your room is dark except for the glow of your phone screen, you're supposed to be asleep.

You tap the notification.

Chan’s face fills the screen, his grin already in place as he adjusts the camera. He’s shirtless, propped against the headboard of his bed, one arm draped lazily over his bent knee. The ring light casts shadows along his abs, highlighting every dip and curve.

"Late night surprise," he murmurs, "*Miss me?*" aaaand heat is already pooling low in your stomach.

His fingers work on hinseld, slow and teasing at first, thumb smearing precum in lazy circles while he talks— god, he sure does talk, filthy praises and half formed fantasies spilling from his lips like he’s whispering them directly into your ear. You bite your lip to stifle a gasp, your other hand slipping under the waistband of your pajama shorts.

Chan arches his back on screen, his free hand gripping the sheets beside him. "Fuck, you guys are greedy tonight," he rasps, stroking himself slowly. His thumb presses against the head on every upstroke, just how you’ve learned he likes it — learned from watching, from nights spent with your phone hidden under your pillow, screen dimmed to its lowest setting.

"Fuck, m'close," Chan groans, your fingers moving between your thighs in time with his rhythm, matching the pace, hips shifting under the sheets, your breath coming shallow.

It’s not the first time you’ve watched him like this, but it’s the first time you’ve done it live, with the shaky thrill of knowing he has no idea you’re here.

A whimper almost escapes you when he swipes his thumb over the head of his cock, his breath hitching. You press your palm over your mouth, stifling the sound.

The last thing you need is him hearing you through the thin walls.

The thought alone, him catching you, realizing, sends a sharp jolt between your legs. You squeeze your thighs together, chasing the feeling before it slips away.

His hand speeds up, the wet sound of his skin moving over his cock muffled only slightly by the mic's noise suppression. "God, fuck—gonna come so hard for you," he grits out, his voice cracking on the last word.

You press your free hand harder against your mouth, fingers digging into your own cheek as you watch his stomach tense, the muscles there flexing under the sheen of sweat. Your own movements stutter when he lets out a low, punched out moan, his hips jerking up into his fist.

You’re so close you can’t think straight. The coil in your stomach winds tighter with every stroke of his hand, every filthy sound he makes, matching his rhythm like you’re desperate to prove something— like if you can just finish at the same time, it’ll mean something. Stupid. It’s stupid. But your hips jerk anyway, your breath coming in short, shaky bursts against your palm.

"Fuck, fuck—" His hand stills suddenly, fingers tightening around the base of his cock as he tips his head back, you watch as his body locks up for one second — and then he’s coming, stripes of white painting his stomach, his chest.

Your own climax crashes over you at the same time, so violently you nearly choke on the gasp you swallow down, your back arching off the bed as pleasure burns through you in hot, dizzying waves.

He’s still catching his breath, his free hand dragging lazily through the mess on his stomach, fingers tracing the lines of cum with a slow, absentminded swipe.

His lips curl into that stupid, effortless smirk you’ve seen a hundred times,

"Mmm, fuck," he murmurs, voice rough around the edges, still a little breathless. "You all got me good tonight."

He reaches for a towel off screen, the muscles in his arm flexing as he wipes himself clean. You watch, transfixed, as he tosses the towel aside and leans closer to the camera, cheeks are still flushed, his lashes low.

"Hope that was worth the wait," he says, eyes flickering to the chat before he grins. "gosh you guys are generous with the tips tonight." and you catch a few of the comments.

slave4u: how bout you come and give me that tip

sweetheartonline: gone broke just for you </3

Chan just chuckles, shaking his head. "Alright, alright, I’m done. You’re all insatiable." He stretches his arms above his head, his torso arching beautifully, "Next stream’s friday. Be good for me til then, yeah?"

With one last wink, he reaches forward, and the screen goes black.

You yank your earbuds out, Your chest heaves, your skin still buzzing, your thighs still sticky, and you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyelids until colors bloom behind them.

you find it ridiculous that you're actually enjoying this, perverted thoughts. Stupid. So stupid.

~

Two weeks pass after that. You're hyperaware of Chan’s presence in a way that makes your skin itch. Every casual touch sends sparks skittering up your spine.

You try to act normal, you really do.

But you catch yourself staring at his hands when he cooks, remembering the way they moved over himself on screen, and have to physically shake your head to clear the image.

Chan, for his part, seems to thrive on your discomfort. He leaves his bedroom door cracked just a little wider than necessary, and infuriatingly, he's rarely not shirtless.

it's okay. you're okay. at least you tell yourself that.

till it's Friday morning, marking the beginning of your third month.

the apartment is quiet, still bathed in the soft gold of early morning light filtering through the kitchen window. you hum under your breath as you flip pancakes.

then Chan emerges, shirtless, his sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair still messy from sleep.

He leans against the doorway, watching you with that lazy, knowing smirk. “Morning,” he rasps, voice still thick with sleep.

this feels too domestic for your liking.

“Morning,” you mumble, not turning around.

Chan pads closer, bare feet silent against the hardwood, until he’s right behind you. His warmth radiates against your back, “Smells good,” he murmurs, and you swear his lips brush the shell of your ear.

The spatula clatters against the pan. too domestic.

Chan chuckles, as he reaches around you to steal a piece of pancake from the prepared stack. His chest presses against your shoulder, his skin searing where it touches yours. “Careful,” he teases, popping the bite into his mouth. “You’ll burn them.”

The pancake batter sizzles violently as you stand there, frozen, Chan’s body heat scorching against your back.

His fingers brush your hip as he reaches for the syrup, and you nearly drop the spatula again.

"You’re jumpy this morning," Chan muses, leaning against the counter beside you. "Bad dreams?"

sure, if 'bad' and 'wet' are the same thing. "something like that."

Chan hums, tilting his head as he studies you. "Got plans today?"

You flip another pancake onto the growing stack. "Just groceries later." The words come out steadier than you feel.

His grin grows. "Mind if I tag along?"

You shrug, "It’s just errands."

Chan snags another pancake, leaning into your space until his bare shoulder presses against yours. "Exactly. Sounds thrilling." His fingers brush yours as he steals the spatula, flipping the last pancake with a flick of his wrist. "Come on. I’ll even push the cart."

You huff a laugh despite yourself. "You’ll get bored in five minutes."

"Bet?" He bumps your hip with his, "Loser buys ice cream."

~

The grocery store is exactly as mundane as you predicted, but Chan makes it unbearable in ways you didn’t anticipate — his fingers lingering when he passes you items, his chest pressing against your back in crowded aisles like it’s accidental. By the time you hit the freezer section, your nerves are frayed.

"Pick a flavor," Chan murmurs, chin hooked over your shoulder as he reaches past you to open the glass door. His breath ghosts across your cheek. "I’m feeling generous."

The freezer air hits your face, but it does nothing to cool the heat creeping up your neck. Chan’s arm brushes yours as he leans in, his fingers tracing the edge of a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. "This one," he decides, plucking it from the shelf. "tastes like toothpaste sometimes, but eh" he said with a shrug.

You snort, grabbing a classic vanilla, but he plucks it from your hands and replaces it with something absurdly decadent, something with caramel swirls and chocolate chunks.

"Live a little," he grins, tossing it into the cart.

The checkout line is agony. Chan stands close enough that his knuckles keep brushing the small of your back, each touch sending sparks up your spine.

the cashier — an exhausted looking college student — scans everything, he pushed your hand aside when you tried to pay, and handed the cashier his card.

he caried all the groceries too, and swatted your hand away when you try to carry any.

it feels like he's your boyfriend.

The apartment door clicks shut behind you both, grocery bags rustling as Chan kicks off his shoes. You’re still fumbling with the laces of your sneakers when he brushes past you with the plastic bags.

You follow, already going to pull things out and putting them in their designated cupboards, Chan’s already rummaging through to find the ice cream, His grin is wide as he holds it up. "Scoops or straight from the tub?"

"freezer" you deadpan, "it's probably melted by now"

his shoulders slump a little, turning around to place the tubs in the freezer.

"and, scoops," you mutter, "We’re not animals."

he snickers, "Debatable."

Chan nudges the freezer door shut with his hip, the ice cream safely stowed away for later. "Movie night?" he suddenly asks, casual as anything, "Haven't done one in a while."

You nod, "Yeah. Okay."

You retreat to your room to change, fingers fumbling with the hem of your shirt before you even reach the door. The fabric sticks to your skin, too warm and you peel it off with a relieved sigh the second you’re alone.

The dresser drawer squeaks as you rummage for shorts and a tank top since its getting too hot, but your hands freeze mid reach when you hear Chan’s door creak open down the hall.

The unmistakable sound of fabric hitting the floor — jeans, probably — makes your throat go dry. You strain to listen, pulse hammering in your ears, as Chan hums under his breath. Something clatters, a belt buckle, and then the soft rustle of fresh clothes being pulled on.

You yank your own shorts up so fast you nearly trip, ears burning. Pathetic.

When you emerge, Chan’s already sprawled across the couch in loose joggers and that stupidly thin white tank top.

"You took forever," Chan drawls from the couch, already eating his way through a popcorn bucket.

"You're picking?" he scoffs, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "After the garbage you called 'cinema' last time?"

You snatch the remote before he can lunge for it. "You picked Twilight unironically last time."

Chan clutches his chest like you've wounded him. "Bella Swan is a cultural icon."

You scoff, scrolling through the options, ignoring Chan's dramatic sigh as he flops back against the cushions. His knee bumps yours, but you don't pull away.

"Fine," he huffs. "But if it's another pretentious indie film where people whisper for two hours, I'm revoking your movie privileges."

"Fine," you grumble back, scrolling past a dozen of said pretentious indie films with moody black and white thumbnails. "But only because I pity your attention span."

Chan's grin is immediate as he stretches an arm along the back of the couch, fingers brushing your shoulder.

"pick something with action," then wiggles his eyebrows, "Or nudity."

You elbow him hard in the ribs.

"Ow—," Chan wheezes, but he's laughing, catching your wrist before you can retreat. His fingers are warm and rough against your pulse point, thumb pressing into the flutter there. "Violent and kinky," he muses, tugging you closer until your shoulders press together. "I like it."

You yank your wrist free and snatch up the remote again, scrolling through titles.

Chan's laughter vibrates through the couch cushions as you land on something, anything, just to shut him up. The movie starts with a car chase, tires screeching, glass shattering. Perfect. Loud enough to distract whenever Chan shifts beside you.

"Action and nudity," Chan murmurs, nodding approvingly at the screen where some actor's shirt rips open during a fight scene. "You do know me."

You sink lower into the couch, arms crossed. "Shut up and watch."

The first ten minutes of the movie blur into a haze of gunfire and badly timed one-liners, the volume turned up just loud enough to drown out the way Chan’s fingers keep tracing idle patterns against your shoulder.

You focus resolutely on the screen, but Chan’s warmth beside you is impossible to ignore. His knee presses into yours, his bare arm brushing against yours every time he reaches for more popcorn, and each touch sends a jolt of electricity down your spine.

Then, during a lull in the action, Chan shifts beside you, his hand sliding from your shoulder to the back of your neck. His fingers curl gently into your hair, thumb brushing the sensitive skin behind your ear.

"You’re not even watching," he mmurmur.

You swallow hard, refusing to look at him. "Am too."

Chan hums, unconvinced, his thumb stroking slow circles against your skin. "Liar."

His accusation hangs between you, thick and charged, and suddenly the movie feels like background noise.

His fingers tighten slightly in your hair, tipping your head back just enough that you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

His eyes are dark, there’s no teasing smirk now, no playful glint — just hunger.

Your breath hitches audibly.

Chan’s thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Tell me to stop."

You don’t.

His lips crash into yours before you can form a coherent thought, the remote clattering to the floor as your hands fist in his shirt.

Chan groans into your mouth, fingers tightening in your hair as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with so much desperation.

The movie drones on, but all you can feel is the way his hips jerk forward against yours as you press closer. His hands slide down to grip your waist, hauling you halfway into his lap without breaking the kissl.

"You’ve been driving me insane," Chan pants against your lips, one hand slipping under your shirt to trace the dip of your spine. "Watching me, pretending you weren’t—fuck—" His words dissolve into a groan when you grind down against him, the hard line of his cock pressing insistently against your thigh.

He knows you know. he has all this time. The realization makes your eyes widen slightly—but it doesn’t surprise you. Not really.

Not when Chan’s fingers tighten possessively around your hips, his teeth scraping your lower lip like he’s been waiting for this moment just as long as you have.

His palm slides up your ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your thin tank top, and your breath stutters against his mouth.

Of course he knew. The cracked doors, the late night streams he timed too perfectly with your schedule. Those weren't just coincidences.

You pull back just enough to see his face, your eyes wide with the realization that just dawned on you.

his lips are swollen from your kisses, panting, “Surprise,” he rasps, voice wrecked.

Chan’s grip shifts, hauling you fully into his lap, and you gasp when his hardness presses against you. His chuckle vibrates through your chest as he rolls his hips up, slow and filthy. “Thought you’d never crack,” he murmurs, lips grazing your jaw.

Your hands fist in his tank top, the fabric damp with sweat where it clings to his chest. “You—asshole” you pant, hips jerking against his involuntarily. “All that teasing—”

Chan's grin widens "All what teasing?" he murmurs, pressing an open mouthed kisses to your neck. "You mean leaving my door open just a little too wide?"

His teeth scrape your skin, "Or maybe streaming at exactly the times I knew you'd be home?" His palm cups your breast through your shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple.

You gasp when he pinches lightly, hips jerking against his. "You're insane," you manage, though the words come out more breathless than angry.

Chan laughs against your throat, before his teeth sink into the tender skin just below your ear. Your nails dig into his shoulders as his hands slide down to grip your hips, guiding your movements as you grind against him. The friction is dizzying, the thin fabric of your shorts doing nothing to dull the heat of him pressed against you.

"Insane?" His breath is hot against your damp skin. "Baby, aren't the one who watched my streams every other night?" His fingers slip under the hem of your tank top, tracing the waistband of your shorts with maddening slowness.

You whine, the sound high and desperate in your throat, and nod before you can think better of it. The admission burns your cheeks, but the way Chan groans against your skin makes it worth it.

"yeah?" he rasps, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

Chan’s fingers flex against your waist, his breath hot against your lips. “Every fucking time,” he admits, voice rough “I’d pretend it was your hand on me,” His thumb presses into the dip of your hipbone, “Your mouth.” His gaze drops to your parted lips, then back up, heavy lidded. “You have no idea how many times I came thinking about you watching me.”

Chan exhales sharply, his nose brushing yours. “cancelled tonight’s stream,” he murmurs, lips grazing yours with every word. “would rather beg you to fuck me instead.” His palm slides up your ribcage, fingers tracing the edge of your bra through your tank top.

“You don’t have to beg,” you murmur, lips brushing his as you swing your leg off his lap. Chan exhales sharply, hands gripping your waist tighter like he’s afraid you’ll pull away entirely, but then you’re sliding to your knees between his legs, fingers hooking into the waistband of his joggers.

His breath catches when you tug them down just enough to free his cock, already hard and leaking against his stomach.

gosh he's even bigger than he looks on camera.

Chan's breath stutters when your fingers wrap around him, his hips jerking into your grip before he can stop himself. "Fuck—" His voice cracks, a hand flying to fist in your hair as you stroke him slow, watching the way his eyelids flutter.

He's hot and heavy in your palm, already slick at the tip, and the way his thighs tense when you swipe your thumb over the head is obscene.

Chan’s fingers tighten in your hair when your lips brush the head of his cock, his breath stuttering out in a ragged groan. “Fuck—fuck—” His hips jerk up instinctively, but you pull back just enough to tease, swirling your tongue over the tip without taking him deeper, and you can’t resist glancing up through your lashes to watch his face twist with pleasure.

“So loud,” you giggle, blowing a slow breath over the wetness you’ve left behind. Chan’s thighs tense under your palms. “All those streams,” you continue, stroking him lazily with one hand while the other traces the vein running along his length, “and you never moaned like this.”

Chan’s laugh comes out strained, his chest heaving. “it wasn't you,” he grits out, hips rolling up into your touch. His fingers tug at your hair, guiding you back to him with a quiet desperation that sends heat pooling low in your stomach. “Now stop teasing—”

You swallow him down before he can finish, humming around him just to feel the way his whole body jerks. His moan is filthy, unfiltered, his hips canting up into the wet heat of your mouth like he can’t help it.

You take him deeper, throat working around him, and Chan’s fingers tighten in your hair, not guiding, just holding on for dear life.

“god—” His voice cracks when you hollow your cheeks, tongue pressing flat against the underside of his cock. His other hand fists the couch cushion beside his thigh, knuckles going white. “So good—shit—you take me so fucking good—”

You pull off with a slick pop, lips brushing the flushed tip as you peer up at him, teasing, thumb swiping over the bead of precome gathered there.

Chan’s chest heaves, his abs flexing as he stares down at you, His grip in your hair tightens just enough to sting — a silent warning — but you just grin and duck back down, sucking him deep until his thighs tremble.

Chan curses, his hips lifting off the couch as you bob your head, the wet sounds obscenely loud even with the movie still playing forgotten in the background.

“Gonna—” He's cut off by his own gasp, “Gonna come if you keep—”

You pull off with a wet sound, lips slick and swollen, and replace your mouth with both hands, jerking him so fast his hips stutter off the couch, his breath coming in ragged, punched out gasps.

“Wait—fuck—” Chan chokes out, fingers scrambling at your shoulders, but it’s too late — his back arches off the cushions, muscles locking tight as he spills hot over your fingers and his own stomach.

His thighs shake under your palms, his cock twitching in your grip as you stroke him through it, slower now, milking every last drop until he’s whimpering and oversensitive, his hands weakly pushing at your wrists.

“Turn around,” Chan rasps, chest rising and falling rapidly. His fingers slide from your hair to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your spit slick bottom lip. “Want you riding me.”

Your stomach flips at the command, but before you can move, Chan’s hands are gripping your waist, hauling you up onto the couch with surprising strength. He settles you over his lap in one smooth motion, your thighs bracketing his hips, and the sudden press of his bare skin against yours makes you gasp.

Chan groans, fingers digging into the meat of your thighs as he leans back to look at you, really look at you, his gaze dragging down your body with a hunger that makes your skin prickle.

he hooks a thumb into the waistband of your shorts and tugs, sliding them off, his breath hitching when he finds you already soaked through your panties.

"Fuck," he exhales, dragging the damp fabric aside with one finger, his touch featherlight as he traces your slit. His other hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down until your foreheads touch, his breath mingling with yours. "You're so wet," he murmurs, voice rough with disbelief. "Just from sucking me off?"

You nod, hips canting into his touch shamelessly, his finger circles your clit —once, twice, before dipping lower, sliding into you, crooking just right to make your back arch. His free hand fists in your tank top, dragging you closer until your chest presses against his, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the way your nipples harden against him.

His thumb pressing firm circles against your clit, and your vision whites out for a second — just long enough to miss the way his free hand fists in your tank top, yanking it up until the fabric bunches just above your chest. His mouth replaces his fingers, teeth scraping over your nipple through the lace of your bra, and you gasp, hips stuttering against his hand.

“Thought about this,” he pants against your skin, his tongue lapping at the wet spot he’s left behind. “Every goddamn stream—imagined you like this, wet and desperate for me.” His finger curls again, dragging a broken moan from your throat, and his grin is all teeth when he leans back to watch you unravel. “Knew you’d be prettier than I imagined.”

You grab his wrist, stilling his movements, and his brows furrow — confused, frustrated — until you swing your leg over him, straddling his lap properly this time. His cock, half hard again, twitches against your thigh as you grind down, the friction drawing a ragged groan from both of you.

Chan’s hands fly to your hips, guiding your movements as you rock against him, his breath hot against your collarbone.

“Wanna feel you,” you murmur, fingers fumbling between you to grip him, slicking him up with your own arousal. Chan’s head falls back against the couch, his Adam’s apple bobbing as you line him up, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

You sink down onto him with a choked gasp, thighs trembling as he stretches you open inch by agonizing inch. Chan’s hands clamp around your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but he doesn’t rush you —just watches as you take him deeper.

"Fuck," you whimper, nails scraping his shoulders when he bottoms out, your body shuddering at the unfamiliar stretch. "You’re—god—you’re so big—"

Chan groans, hips twitching beneath you, fighting not to thrust up. "Yeah?" His voice is wrecked, breath hitching as you clench around him. "Feel good, baby? Stuffed full of me?" His fingers trail up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts while you adjust. "taking me so good."

You roll your hips experimentally, and Chan’s head thuds back against the couch, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. "That’s it," he rasps, hands sliding to grip your ass. "Use me—ride me just like you imagined."

The words send heat flaring up your neck, but you can’t deny them, can’t stop the way your body responds, hips rolling in slow circles. Chan hisses between his teeth when you clench around him, his fingers flexing against your skin.

"Christ—fuck—you’re so tight," he grits out, eyes locked on where you’re joined. "Bet you thought about this every night, hmm? Watching me stroke my cock on cam while you fucked yourself on your fingers?"

You whimper, thighs quivering as you lift yourself halfway up before sinking back down, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. his breath stutters, his hips jerking up to meet you halfway, and the sudden shift punches a ragged moan from your throat. "Oh fuck—Chan—"

"Say it," he demands, thumb brushing your clit as you bounce in his lap. His voice is rough, wrecked, his pupils blown wide, "Tell me how much you thought about this, how many times you came imagining me inside you."

You gasp when he pinches your clit lightly, your rhythm faltering, "Every—ah—every night," you admit, nails digging into his shoulders as you grind down harder. "Watched you—touched myself—god, wanted you—"

Chan groans, fingers tightening on your hips as he guides your movements, thrusting up to meet you. "Knew it," he pants, lips brushing yours with every ragged breath.

"Knew you were getting off to me—fuck—your little gasps when I’d look at the camera—" His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing your nipples through your bra. "Bet you came so pretty for me, huh? All quiet so I wouldn’t hear?"

You nod frantically, hips stuttering as his cock hits that spot inside you, the pleasure building dangerously fast. "Y-yes—*fuck*—Chan, please—"

"Please what?" he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk even as his own breathing falters. He slows your movements deliberately, dragging you through each excruciatingly slow roll of your hips. "Need me to fuck you harder, baby?"

You whine, fingers tangling in his hair as you try to chase your own rhythm, but his grip on your hips is unrelenting. "Yes—god, yes—"

he flips you onto your stomach before you can finish begging, his hands rough and sure as he shoves your knees apart against the couch cushions. The fabric burns against your bare thighs when he yanks your hips back, his cock sliding out of you with a slick sound that makes your face burn.

You barely have time to whimper before his fingers dig into your waist, lifting you on all fours with a sharp tug — his chest presses hot against your back, his breath ragged in your ear as he lines himself up again.

he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. He slams into you with one brutal thrust, punching the air from your lungs as your elbows buckle against the cushions. His cock stretches you open deeper than before, the angle hitting deeper, and you choke on a scream when his hips snap forward again, setting a punishing pace before you can catch your breath.

Hands clamp around your hips, fingers bruising as he drags you back onto him with every thrust. The couch creaks beneath you, the sound drowned out by chan’s ragged groans and the slick slap of skin on skin. His rhythm is merciless, no teasing now, just pure, desperate need as he fucks into you like he’s been starving for it.

Chan's grip on your hips shifts — one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, yanking your head back until your spine bows beautifully beneath him. "Fuck, look at you," he growls, his voice rough with something between awe and hunger as he takes in the sight of you spread out beneath him.

His fingers tighten, pulling just enough to make your scalp prickle, before his palm cracks down against your ass, the sound echoing through the room louder than the forgotten movie still playing in the background.

You gasp, thighs trembling as the heat blooms across your skin, but Chan doesn’t give you a second to recover. His hips snap forward, driving into you with a force that has your nails scrabbling against the couch cushions for purchase. "Take it," he orders, voice wrecked, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips hard enough to leave bruises. "God, you feel so good—clenching around me like—" His words dissolve into a groan as he picks up the pace, each thrust punching a ragged sound from your throat.

His free hand slides around your waist, pressing firm circles against your clit, and the dual sensation has your vision blurring at the edges. "That’s it," he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear as his rhythm falters for just a second, "Gonna make you come just like this—spread out, taking me so well—"

His thumb presses harder against your clit, and your back arches involuntarily, a broken moan tearing from your lips as the pleasure crests suddenly, violently.

Chan curses, his grip tightening as you clench around him, your body shuddering through the waves of it. "Yeah, there you go, gonna cum for me?"

You nod vigorously, your fingers twisting into the couch cushions as Chan’s thrusts turn erratic, his breath ragged against your ear. "Cum with me," he rasps, and it’s all you need.

Your body clenches around him like a vice, pleasure crashing over you in waves so intense your vision whites out for a second. Chan groans, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a broken gasp, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades.

Chan pulls out slowly, hissing through his teeth when you clench around him reflexively, oversensitive.

The couch cushions are damp beneath your trembling thighs, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat as you collapse onto your stomach, chest heaving. Chan exhales sharply, running a hand down your spine, before flipping you onto your back, more gently this time.

The shift makes you wince, your body still thrumming with aftershocks, he slides off the couch onto his knees between your legs. His palms skate up your inner thighs, spreading them apart with slowly despite your weak protest. "Shh," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. "Just wanna taste you."

You squirm when his breath ghosts over your sensitive skin, but Chan’s grip tightens, holding you open. "Chan—" His name comes out hoarse, your voice wrecked. "I’m—ah—too sensitive—"

Chan’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you open despite your squirming. His tongue flicks over your clit, just enough to make your hips jerk, oversensitive and trembling.

“You can take it,” he murmurs against your skin, “You’re a big girl, yeah?” His teeth graze your inner thigh, before his mouth closes over you again, and your back arches off the couch with a choked gasp.

You can take it. You do.

Every swipe of his tongue sends sparks shooting up your spine, your fingers twisting into his hair — not to pull him away, but to keep him right there, his mouth working you through the dizzying aftershocks of your orgasm.

Chan hums against you, the vibration making your toes curl, and his grip on your thighs tightens when you try to press them together instinctively. “None of that,” he chides, nipping at your skin before dragging his tongue up your slit again, “Just let me have you.”

You whine, hips caving into his mouth despite the oversensitivity, the pleasure tipping into something almost painful, but you don’t tell him to stop. Couldn’t if you wanted to.

"so sweet," he groans against you, the words vibrating through your oversensitive nerves. His fingers dig into your hips, pinning you down when you try to squirm away from the intensity. "No— stay still."

You whimper, but obey, letting him spread you wider as his tongue delves deeper, circling your entrance before dragging back up in one long, torturous lick.

"Chan—please—" you gasp, but you’re not even sure what you’re begging for — him to stop or never, ever stop.

His response is to hook your leg over his shoulder, angling you deeper into his mouth, and then he’s sucking you in, his tongue working you with precision. You sob his name, your hips jerking uncontrollably as the pressure builds again, too soon, too much—

You choke out his name, fingers scrambbling at his shoulders, a desperate attempt to ground yourself, before your hips jerk violently against his mouth.

“Chan, gonna—oh god—” The warning spills out brokenly, your thighs clamp around his head as you come with a shuddering gasp, your back bowing off the couch as pleasure rips through you.

he groans against you, the vibration wringing another broken sound from your throat, he doesn’t pull away, just laps at you greedily, his tongue dragging through the mess you’ve made of him with slow strokes.

“Fuck,” he rasps against your skin before pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “You’re perfect like this.” His thumb brushes your clit once, testing, and you jerk with a gasp, your body still thrumming with aftershocks.

Chan grins up at you, all dark eyes and swollen lips, before dragging his tongue up your slit one last time.

Chan rises from between your thighs with a groan, his lips slick and glistening with you, you realize with a jolt — before his mouth crashes into yours, the kiss filthy and possessive, his tongue licking into your mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair, sticky with sweat, and he moans into your mouth when you tug — sharp, just to feel him shudder.

You pull away eventually, both of you panting, sticky with sweat and other things, and collapse onto the couch in a tangle of limbs. Chan drags you half on top of him, your head resting against his chest where you can hear his heartbeat still racing beneath his skin.

His fingers trace idle patterns along your back, the movie’s credits roll, forgotten, casting flickering shadows across the ceiling.

You nuzzle into his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat slowing down, the rise and fall of his breath beneath your cheek. His skin is warm and slightly sticky, and you press a kiss to it without thinking, smiling when his fingers pause for a second before resuming their path along your spine.

"Quit staring," you murmur, tilting your head up just enough to catch him watching you with an expression that makes your stomach flip. soft, almost awed, Chan huffs a laugh, his thumb brushing your hipbone where he’d gripped hard enough to leave marks earlier.

"Can’t help it," he admits, voice rough with exhaustion "You’re kinda fucking gorgeous like this."

You snort, but your cheeks heat anyway, and Chan’s grin widens when he notices. He shifts beneath you, rolling just enough to tuck you more firmly against his side, his arm a solid weight across your waist.

The movement makes you wince, your thighs ache in a way that’s equal parts delicious and punishing, and Chan’s fingers tighten reflexively, his smirk turning smug.

"Sorry," he lies, and you bite on his shoulder just to hear him yelp.

his yelp dissolves into laughter, his fingers digging into your sides as he squirms away from your teeth. “Fuck, ow,” he complains, but his grin ruins the effect, “You bite hard—should’ve known you’d be a menace.”

You grin against his shoulder, pressing another kiss to the reddening mark you left behind. “Payback,” you murmur, tracing the outline with your tongue just to feel him shiver. Chan groans, his hips jerking reflexively beneath you, and you freeze when you feel him stirring against your thigh—already half hard again.

“Seriously?” you ask, incredulous, and Chan has the audacity to look proud, his smirk widening as he rolls his hips up against you.

“What?” he teases, voice dripping with false innocence. “Can’t help it—you’re right there, all warm and fucked out—” His hand slides down your back, fingers skimming the curve of your ass before squeezing lightly. “And you bit me. That’s basically foreplay.”

You press a hand to Chan’s chest when he tries to roll you beneath him again, your thighs still trembling from the last round. “Shower,” you mumble, and Chan makes a wounded noise against your collarbone in protest.

“Five more minutes,” he tries, lips trailing up your neck like he’s trying to convince you with his mouth.

You laugh, breathless, and squirm out of his grip before he can distract you properly. “No—shower,” you insist, swatting at his hands when they try to drag you back. “We’re disgusting.”

Chan pouts — actually pouts, like this big hunk of a man didn't just fuck the daylights out of you — and flops back against the couch with a dramatic sigh. “Fine,” he grumbles, but his eyes track your every movement as you stand, snickering when you wobble slightly on unsteady legs.

You stumble towards the bathroom, then you glance back at Chan, sprawled across the couch with his arms behind his head, watching you with that stupid, smug grin, and ask, "When’s your next stream again?"

his grin falters into confusion when your question registers. "Monday," he says automatically, his brows furrowing, "Why?"

You hum, "Just thinking," then you shrug, "maybe I’ll join you next time."

he's caught off guard when you leave him hanging and close the bathroom door behind you, "don't start something you can't finish!"

han jisung is always in your fucking house.

does he even have parents? a bed of his own? you honestly aren’t sure. it’s not like you could ask if you wanted to, because even though han jisung is always in your fucking house- he’s also always with your older brother.

“y/n, did you eat the last of mom’s leftovers?”

“no.”

“are you lying?”

“she looks like she’s lying, hyung. looks guilty.”

you roll your eyes, feeling the weight of annoyance spiking at a level only your brother and his best friend could conjure in your soul as you glance sideways at them. if your popcorn would just turn a little faster in the microwave, you could escape them so much quicker.

han jisung is the type of person that makes you question how he got there in the first place. you don’t remember meeting him, don’t remember your first impression or the first conversation you had. it’s like he’s just always been there, attached to chan’s hip and eating all the snacks in your parents’ pantry. chan treats jisung like the brother he never had, and in return jisung treats you like he’s the second brother you never asked for.

it really irks you- how he is always in your space, long legs taking up all the room on the couch, loud laughter and clapping hands carrying from chan’s room to your own across the hall. chan is irritating at times, as any sibling is, but jisung is irritating in entirely different ways.

example one: chan had always been a year above you in school. you never got to introduce yourself to your teachers, because they already knew you as chan’s little sister. he was the football captain, and the class president, and participated in so many extracurricular activities you felt your own head grow heavy at the thought of his daily schedule. everyone knew him, and everyone knew jisung- because jisung was always beside him.

jisung was co-captain, he was vice president, he was in every single club chan was. they both swear they never planned it, the same way they never planned to make you the world’s most lonely teenager ever. because no high school boy wants to mess with chan’s little sister- and the ones that were brave enough to try, dealt with jisung.

jisung, who threw his arm around you every time he saw you talking to a boy by the lockers. jisung, who turned down every date you were asked on before you could even open your mouth. han fucking jisung, who-

“so, you know your friend with the curly hair?” jisung speaks up, standing way too close, leaning his elbows against the counter beside you while you zone out to the hum of the microwave. your popcorn just started popping.

you glance at him sideways, raising an eyebrow in amusement. “yes, i’m aware of her. you know, since she’s my friend and all. ”

jisung hums, biting into his pink bottom lip and looking up at you from his slouched, lazy posture. looking entirely too cocky, way too sure of himself. you blink, looking away before that mental image can get stuck in your head.

“is she single?” he asks, ignoring your scoff of discontent. when you don’t respond he follows up with a whine, drawn out and scratching at your eardrums. “come on- i’m asking for a friend!”

“what friend?” you shoot back, a little incredulous. “chan is the only friend you have!”

han fucking jisung- who is still the devil on your shoulder, even now.

chan graduated college last year. he moved back home, moved back in with your parents until he could find a place in the city- and you couldn’t even pretend to be shocked when jisung decided to move back home too. then, it was your turn to graduate college. and it was only a little embarrassing to fold all of your clothes into your childhood dresser three months ago, feeling better knowing that chan was in the exact same boat.

now it feels like you never moved out. because you still live in your parents’ house with your brother and jisung is still torturing you with his presence.

what makes everything about a billion times worse is that jisung got ripped while he was away at college. it’s obvious chan dragged him to the gym often, the muscled biceps underneath his tight black t shirt flexing with every move he makes. he isn’t some scrawny boy who wears hoodies that swallow him anymore- now he’s… grown up. taller, bigger, but still a pain in your neck. now, the added irritation of all of your friends commenting on how hot your brother’s best friend is just adds more insult to injury.

so, that’s how it goes. you wake up every morning, have your first cup of coffee in peace, and let your mind wander without a path to follow. with your parents gone most of the time, enjoying each other’s company now that they (in theory) have an empty nest, there’s no one around to tell you not to use the good mugs- whatever that means- and there’s no one to break the quiet comfort of silence in the mornings.

that is, until jisung knocks on your front door.

chan is never awake in time to answer, so it’s your duty to be the designated greeting card. you know it’s jisung, because it’s always jisung; when you open the door it’s with a loud groan, as if your peace has been shattered into tiny little shards of what once was. really, it has.

“good morning to you too, gorgeous.” jisung hums, even throws in a wink when he squeezes past you to enter the space. as if he lives there, too.

“chan isn’t awake,” you mumble as you always do, running a hand through your hair and sipping your coffee. it scalds your tongue, still way too hot, but it’s a better alternative to whatever jisung wants to ramble about today.

“oh! i actually meant to tell you- guess who i saw yesterday?” jisung is grinning, sharp white teeth on display. you fight a cold chill that makes you want to shiver, crossing your arms under your chest as you blankly look back at him.

“please tell me who you saw yesterday, i’m on the edge of my seat,” you drawl lazily, monotoned. jisung chuckles as if he is winning an impromptu standoff, as if he’s never lost anything in his life. suddenly, you feel the spike of nerves in your stomach. jisung is always bad to be around, but he’s hellish when he has a secret he knows you want to know.

“i saw lee felix,” he hums out, grinning wider, eyes flicking down your body in slow motion, as if he wants to take the time to savor your reaction and watch the twitch in your fingertips.

you try not to react- you really try. but the flush you feel warming your cheeks and the furrow in your brow can’t be hidden. once again, you’re irate because of han jisung. naturally.

“you mean the guy you lied to about me not being single junior year of high school?” you huff, biting your cheek to stop your anger from slipping into your tone. jisung looks like he is entirely too pleased with himself. “the guy you didn’t correct when he assumed you and i were together? the guy i had a major crush on?”

jisung hums an affirmative sound, resting against the back of the couch behind him, mimicking the cross of your arms with his own muscular ones. you feel your grip tighten on your mug.

“exactly! and you know what he asked me?” jisung raises an eyebrow, tongue pressed between rows of pearly white teeth peeking out of his mouth. you feel the sudden intrusive thought to throw your scalding coffee at him, wipe the cocksure grin from the corners of his lips.

through gritted teeth you decide to humor him. “what did lee felix ask you, jisung?”

and his grin turns sharper- eyes narrowing, pushing off the back of the couch to step an inch closer to you. you hope he doesn’t notice the way your breath hitches in your chest, hope he can’t hear the way your heartbeat is loud in your ears. you have to look up to meet his eye, trapped between his muscled chest and the wall behind you.

“he asked me if you were as good of a fuck as he imagined you to be.”

tv static is taking up all of the space in your head that usually holds your wit, your sharp tongue dulled under the all-encompassing heat in jisung’s stare. if you had any thoughts to spare, you would be asking yourself what the hell is happening. because this isn’t the usual, annoying and protective act you were used to jisung pulling. this isn’t the same as him telling every boy you’ve ever met that he bites- jisung is looking down at you with an intensity behind his dark brown baby doe eyes that makes him look less like prey, more like the thing doing the hunting.

you have to ask yourself, what the hell is wrong with me? because even after all these years of jisung being the thing haunting your every waking moment, your thighs still clench together when he pushes closer. you still feel the way your eyes fight not to flutter closed when his cologne hits your nose, something that smells like roses and petrichor. you feel the pulse of want curl into the base of your stomach, thinking his hands look so much bigger now, wrapped around vein-ridden biceps with crossed arms, thinking about all the ways his hands could engulf you-

jisung is pulling away quickly, and by the time you complete a series of blinks he is leaning against the couch again, phone in hand, casual as ever. you’re about to ask him if you had experienced a hallucination, mouth open but brain not quite working yet, when you hear it: footsteps, slow and dragging down the hall upstairs.

chan comes down the stairs groggy, eyes half closed and curly hair sticking up all over his head. he’s scratching his chest, yawning and barely glancing at your disheveled state before hitting jisung lightly on the arm to get his attention.

“hey man, you still staying here tonight?” chan asks, already retreating back up the steps with jisung tailing him, feet softly thumping the staircase.

“yeah, if that’s cool. dad is having a poker game tonight, he’ll force me to play with his buddies and lose all my money.” you hear the echo of jisung’s chuckle, but you don’t process the words. your brain is still on loop, repeating jisung is staying here tonight over and over again uselessly.

jisung has stayed the night with chan countless times. like previously mentioned, you’re not convinced he even has a house of his own. jisung waking up and descending the stairs of your home is just as normal of an occurrence as chan being here. but-

but. your body is still hot. your thighs are still clenching, as if to get a hold on your bodily reaction to him being as close as he was. he didn’t even do anything- just pushed hot air from his lips, let it hit your neck, just leaned in far too close.

and it’s not like you’re some blushing, virgin mary. your body count isn’t in double digits, but it’s more than one. you like to tease and flirt and let people stutter through trying to do the same in return. you like it when people fawn over you, biting their lips nervously and ducking their head down when they ask you out. so what about the situation that occurred less than five minutes ago made you have such a violent, embarrassing reaction?

you shake your head, using the excuse that it’s just… ovulation. probably. never mind the fact that your period isn’t due for another three weeks, it has to be some weird bodily hormone that makes you feel like opening your legs wide and begging- whatever.

you focus on carrying on as normal, business as usual. you video chat with your best friend, listening to him complain about an art critic who reviewed his favorite piece at the local gallery and totally missed the point. you shower, apply your favorite skin care routine and braid your hair, anything to keep your mind pleasantly busy. anything to keep you from gritting your teeth when you hear the loud claps of laughter from the other side of the hall.

your bed seems so much more comfortable than usual, letting your body sink into the mattress with a sigh of relief. it’s a couple hours earlier than you would usually go to sleep, but the events of this morning made you run circles in your head that exhausted you. so with the moon still rising and the sky just turning completely dark, you close your eyes and try not to think.

and of course, han jisung doesn’t let you know peace. even in your dreams, your mind replays the way he never quite touched you this morning. your mind wanders to thoughts of what it would have felt like if he had- if he had gripped your waist with one large hand, warm palm running up and down your ribs in a faux gesture of innocent intent. would he lure you in gently, like a cat waiting for the right moment to descend with fangs? or would he be mean from the start, tugging your bottom lip between his teeth just to hear the way you whine and see how fast your skin breaks?

the thoughts manifest as visions, dreams of honey skin and a heart shaped mouth. then you feel a hand on your shoulder, shaking you slightly, and that doesn’t feel like a vision at all. it feels real, so real you flutter your eyes open with a squint of confusion.

“hey- there you are,” a low voice, sleep-ridden and scratched, murmurs from above. you swallow the whine trapped in your throat from left over sleep, blinking up to see… han jisung. as if you conjured him from your dreams. of course.

“you were talking in your sleep,” he says next, chuckling after. “nightmare?”

you shake your head, waking up more and more. jisung’s hand is still pressed lightly to your bare shoulder, warm and engulfing. his fingertip rests under your tank top strap.

“wasn’t a nightmare,” you mumble, watching him shift to squat next to you, eye-level. “what are you doing up?”

“bathroom,” he shrugs. “heard you on my way back to chan’s room.”

then jisung is looking at you- really looking, taking in the position your body is in and the flush on your cheeks. the blanket is only covering you from the waist down, too warm in your room to have it up any further. when jisung’s eyes flit down to where your legs are hugging one of your pillows, his head tilts to the side.

“not a nightmare, hm?” he murmurs, phrasing the question in a way that doesn’t want a response. his hand trails down your arm, making you fight off a shiver when his fingers grip the blanket at your waist lightly. “you know, this pillow between your legs is all rumpled up. were you using it?”

then you feel the blanket move down, slowly revealing your hip and the exposed skin of your thigh. you vaguely register that you aren’t wearing pants, too hot to bother with anything more than the underwear clinging to your skin. and jisung is taking in a breath, hitched and amused like he just confirmed his own suspicion. when you glance down you can’t see much, but the moonlight filtering through your window highlights the dark patch of cloth amongst your clean pillow case- right where you suppose you were grinding into it, right where your pussy is clenching at having been caught.

“you know, i only came in here because i thought i heard you say my name,” jisung is grinning. he pulls the blanket further down your thighs, off of your legs, and rakes his gaze back up to your eyes. despite the warmth of your room, you shiver. “were you saying my name, baby?”

baby, baby, baby- playing on loop in his low, scratchy voice. jisung has never called you that, has never looked at you with so much unabashed desire. and his hand moves again, gripping your hipbone in a way that’s almost soft, fingers digging into the space around your hip like he wants to carve out its shape.

“i wasn’t-“ you whisper, shaking your head like you could possibly deny what he so clearly heard. jisung grins like that’s exactly what he wanted you to say.

“oh, you weren’t saying my name?” he hums, brow raised, fingers digging into you just an inch harder. “so i didn’t hear sungie, need you, need your co-“

he’s whining and moaning loud enough to make you panic, hand slapping over his mouth to shut him up. you feel your breath stutter when he doesn’t put up a fight, just looks at you from behind your own hand. you listen for the telltale thump of chan’s feet, but the house outside of your room is silent. jisung wraps his fingers around your wrist, engulfing it, and pulls you away. not far- your hand is resting on his jaw now, only moving you enough so he can speak.

“he’s asleep, you know?” jisung bites into his lip, head tilting back towards the door. you scoff and pull your wrist out of his grip.

“and what are you going to say when he wakes up and comes looking for you? when he finds you in his little sister’s room trying to- seduce her?” you hiss, flustered at the situation. all you get in return is a raised brow and the amused quirk of jisung’s lips.

“come on, baby. you know better than anyone how deep he sleeps. the house could be set on fire and he wouldn’t wake up until the flames hit his foot.”

you don’t have a rebuttal this time. you know jisung has a point, but it’s still so, so wrong. jisung is chan’s best friend, if he ever found out you would both be six feet under. chan would never speak to either of you ever again.

but jisung is right in front of you. he is standing to his feet slowly, like he is afraid to move too quickly and scare the small, feral animal in front of him. your breath hitches sharply when he turns your body, hands guiding you until you’re laying on your back and he can crawl onto the bed. his knees land between your legs, your body responding and legs spreading open even as you think of all of the horrible ways you could be caught.

jisung lets out a long, slow exhale from his parted lips as he looks down at you. your tank top has rumpled up in your sleep, laying right above your stomach, and the hand that lays on your ribs feels so big in comparison. you bite your lip as his hand travels lower, dipping under the waistline of your soaked panties to pull and tug upwards at the material.

jisung groans, “god- you’re so fucking pretty, baby. it’s not fair.”

“what’s not fair?” you mumble, half-dazed and fighting a whine at the way the material of your underwear slides against your sensitive clit.

“you get to walk around like this all the time,” jisung whispers, gaze never leaving your pussy- like he doesn’t want to miss a single twitch of your hips. “and i have to pretend i don’t think about how tight this little cunt would be wrapped around my cock.”

the whine that leaves your lips is one of pure desperation, making your hand slap over your mouth to avoid being heard. jisung flicks his eyes toward the head of the bed, gaze meeting yours, as he tilts his head to the side.

“you like that, rockstar?” jisung asks in a quiet hum, palming his bulge over his sweatpants. he uses his other hand to tease your clit over your thin panties, thumb rubbing over the bundle of nerves ever so lightly. “like when i tell you what you do to me? what i think about when im sleeping in the next room over?”

you nod, bordering on desperate as your hips kick up. jisung groans under his breath, bringing his now slick thumb to his lips and sucking at the digit. then a sigh leaves his mouth, hands moving to pull at the hem of his pajamas.

“can’t fuck you tonight, sweet girl.” he mumbles, leaving you to decide if you want to scoff or cry at the denial. “you’re already so loud, you’ll be screaming if i stick it in. but we can still have fun, yeah? i’ll make you feel good, baby. don’t worry.”

jisung barely gives time for your foggy brain to process the words, sliding his sweats and underwear down to mid thigh and leaving you to gape at his hard cock like a woman starved. jisung is, like, ridiculously big. how did he manage to hide that with all those baggy hoodies? you feel your pussy throb and clench at the mere thought of feeling him stretch you open.

and jisung doesn’t stop- he brings himself closer, spreads your legs so they are wide open and lifted to your chest. one large hand is pressed to the back of your thigh, holding you open, while the other gives lazy attention to his glistening length.

“sung, please-“ you whisper, feeling hot all over and almost possessed. you need him, bad. jisung knows that, too. he knows and all he does to placate you is grin out of the corner of his mouth and grind his hips in a slow, dirty roll forward.

the feeling of his cock, hard and pulsing against your dripping slit with only the dainty fabric of your sheer underwear to separate you, makes you tip your head back in a helpless whimper. he keeps going, grinding his length forward in lazy rolls of his hips, the head of his cock pushing against your clit in a way that makes your head spin. you’re already soaked, panties dripping wet to aid in the glide of jisung’s length, and you can’t help the little gasps leaving your mouth as your hips buck forward.

“ah- yeah baby, just like that,” jisung pants, one arm resting by your head while the other keeps your thigh held up. he grinds into you faster, matching the stuttered pace of your own hips as he bends down to lay messy, open-mouthed kisses to your neck. “keep moving those hips, rockstar. making me feel so good.”

you whimper softly, near pathetic, as your head tilts to the side to give jisung more access to your neck. his mouth moves constantly, licking and biting at the skin with a reckless sort of desperation. he’s wet, too- you can feel the precum dripping from his tip smear against your panties, soaking through to your clit with the rest of the mess you’ve made.

“sung, please- want more,” you whine out, arms wrapping around his neck and nails clawing at his shoulders. he curses, hips bucking harder before he pulls away slightly to look at you.

and you’re a mess. panting for breath, tank top tucked up to rest just under your tits, face and neck flushed, underwear clinging to your soaked cunt and throbbing with need. jisung bites his lip harshly, causing a white indent on the flesh. when he gives his length a slick pump, the sound makes you both whine.

“shit, okay. can’t fuck you but- just a little more,” he’s breathing out, sliding your ruined panties to the side. he groans at the sight, your pussy glistening in the low light as he uses his thumbs to spread you open. you can’t help but clench as his eyes land on your needy hole, moaning a little too loud when long, deft fingers dip inside of you just slightly.

“baby, rockstar-“ jisung is huffing against your ear, fingertips barely pushing in and out of your entrance. “you’re soaked. do you always get this wet, or do you just like me that much, hm?”

you can’t help the whine that leaves you, feeling so on edge but not getting enough stimulation to push you over, embarrassed at the thought of jisung knowing just how much he affects you. “just for you, ji. no one else.”

a moan from above, soft and airy, followed by an equally soft, “good fucking girl.”

jisung’s fingers flit over you, grazing your throbbing clit before lining his leaking cock back up. the feeling of bare skin sliding against bare skin, his slick length nudging your clit and the wet sounds of each roll of your hips makes your whines grow an octave higher. jisung is there to tease you, as always. leaning back into your space, panting into you ear as his length throbs on your pussy, up and down and up and down.

“gotta be quiet rockstar, remember? wouldn’t wanna wake channie-hyung up, would you?”

you remember the situation you’re in with startling clarity. chan, your older brother, in the next room over. jisung, his best friend, sneaking into your bed in the middle of the night and finding you a pathetic, needy mess. somehow, the idea of being caught like this, with jisung over you and his length sliding between your slit, makes you feel that much closer.

“god, please i-“ you break off your begging to moan when the tip of jisung’s cock catches against your entrance- not entering you, but so close. “need you, ji. need you to fuck me, please-“

“shh, sh, sh, baby. how am i supposed to fuck you like this, hm? already so wet, fuck- i’d bust as soon as i stretched you open on it.”

you feel tears build up in your eyes at being denied again, hole clenching at the empty feeling even though you feel so good from the stimulation his hips provide. your clit is hyper-sensitive, every press and push against it making your thighs twitch and shake more. you don’t realize the tears have spilled from your lash line until you feel jisung’s tongue, hot and so wet, sliding against your cheek to clean you up.

“oh, what am i gonna do with you?” jisung is whispering, almost to himself, shuddering into your skin. “fine, shit- okay. just the tip, alright?”

you blink through the daze in your mind, giving jisung a look that attempts a blank stare. “did you learn that from porn, sungie?”

he responds with a scoff, an incredulous raise of his brows. “i mean it! just the tip, baby. no more, wanna hear you scream properly the first time i sink all the way into you.”

oh. yeah, okay.

you feel heat roll through your body, jisung not even moving away from kissing your cheeks and neck as he lines his hard cock up with your entrance, running the tip of his length up and down your slit. finally, finally, pushing inside.

jisung feels huge inside you- after being teased relentlessly for what felt like hours, his cock finally stretching your walls open felt like heaven. but as he said, he thrusts only the tip inside.

“ngh- god, rockstar. you feel so fucking good wrapped around my cock,” jisung is whining, panting against your collarbone. “so tight, trying to suck me in all the way.”

all you can do is muffle your moans against jisung’s shoulder, nails digging into the skin of his lower back where his shirt has ridden up and legs wrapping around his narrow hips. you can feel the ridges on his length, the head of it pressing into you just barely past your entrance before pulling out again. it’s so much, it’s not enough- at this rate you feel the urge to flip positions and push yourself so far down on jisung’s cock you can feel it in your stomach. but your body is useless, thighs trembling from the continued barely-there stimulation, and jisung is murmuring against your ear again.

“wanna know what i said to felix, baby?” he’s asking with a sharp inhale, remembering your conversation from earlier. you’re tempted to scream, tell him you don’t care what he said to felix, you don’t care about felix- or anyone else, for that matter. all you can think about is jisung, jisung, jisung, and the way he could be filling you up so deliciously right now if he would just go a little bit further.

instead, you speak around the whine in your throat. “what?”

jisung fights to keeps his words steady in between little aborted grinds of his hips, fat head of his cock pushing inside you again and again. his hands wandering to your hips, squeezing fingers hard enough to leave indented bruises in their wake.

“he asked me what you felt like, if you were a good- fuck. and i said,” a moan, burying his head in your neck and muffling his words just barely. “said you were the best fuck of my life, rockstar. shit- so tight, so hot- swallowing my cock like this little pussy is starving for it. told him- all he could do was fist his dick and imagine it, you know why?”

jisung pauses the small, fast thrust of his hips. you can’t breathe, can only feel the head of his cock resting at your entrance, barely inside, spreading your folds open. you throb, clenching around the small amount of his length inside you, and his exhale is stuttered before he finishes rambling.

“‘cause you’re mine to fuck, baby. and i’m the only one that gets to make you cry like this.”

there’s a large palm pressing over your mouth as jisung buries his head in the side of your neck, muffling his own long, drawn out groan as he pushes his thick cock inside you- all the fucking way. the hand at your lips barely offers reprieve when you scream, eyes clenching shut at the feeling of finally being so full and stretched open around jisung’s length. delirious, you think you can feel the bulge of it in your lower stomach.

jisung can’t control his hips anymore, biting the skin where your shoulder and neck meet to keep himself somewhat muffled as he snaps in and out of you at a rapid pace, never leaving your soaked pussy more than halfway. your legs are barely holding onto jisung’s hips, ankles weakly hooked at his back, and you pant harshly into the hand around your mouth.

“so, fucking, good-“ jisung moans by your ear, voice low and gravelly and dripping with that same desperate need you feel clawing up your spine. it’s almost too much- the all encompassing stimulation you get to have so suddenly after being teased with the lightest touches for so long. jisung does what he does best, and he makes matters so much worse.

deft fingers reach your clit, throbbing and sensitive to any touch. the response is immediate, lightning curling your toes and making you yelp into the palm over your mouth. jisung chuckles, half breathless and half manic, continuing to ramble on in your ear.

“that’s right rockstar, just keep shaking,” he moans, fingers circling your clit in fast little figure eights. you feel the spark of pleasure in your gut grow bolder, louder, and know you’re close. jisung must know too, you can feel his teeth against your neck as he keeps his pace, hips slamming into you, fingers working you over until your eyes are rolling back and stars are dotting your vision.

the moan that leaves your mouth would surely be loud enough to wake chan up if not for jisung’s hand muffling it. he curses quick, hips stuttering before he’s cumming too- inside you, filling your cunt up in a way that makes you shiver through the last of your own orgasm. jisung thrusts again, riding out his high in a slower, syrupy grind, before he pulls out with one last sigh.

you can feel his release leaking out of your spent pussy, whimpering as the warm air hits your soaked core. jisung moans softly, almost pitifully, thumb running through the mess leaking out of you and smearing it along your slit. then, he has the audacity to pull your panties back into place over the mess. with a quick pat to your ruined underwear and a kiss to your forehead he stands.

the wink he throws you is absurdly nerdy, using both eyes to do so. you roll your eyes but can’t help the fond smile on your face as he pulls the blanket back over you.

“sweet dreams, rockstar.” he whispers, kissing your lips once more and sinking his teeth into the lower one in a tease. you pout as he walks away, looking back at you once more to give a wide grin before dipping out of the room. you hear the soft close of chan’s door before you drift off again, body spent but mind quiet and a small, content smile gracing your lips.

when you wake up, it is to aching muscles and a content, quiet buzz in your head. you stretch, groaning at the sheer amount of bones that pop in your body, before getting up and getting ready for the day. blushing, you remember the messy state your body was left in, showering to get rid of the worst of it. the bruises on your hips and collarbone won’t wash away, but you smile at them before covering them up. you hope they never fade.

downstairs, the house is alive with the sound of two deep voices. you must have slept longer than anticipated, for once waking up after chan. you descend the stairs with your heart beating in your throat, nervous and hoping chan doesn’t immediately clock the sinful thoughts in your head.

“y/n! you slept in late,” chan hums, glancing up from the video game he and jisung are in the middle of. jisung doesn’t tear his eyes away from his character on the screen, but there’s a small twitch to his lips that makes your thighs clench just slightly.

“morning,” you mumble, pouring scalding coffee into one of your favorite mugs. you shuffle into the living room, criss-crossing your legs in the armchair to the left of the couch in use. you don’t know who is playing what character, but isabelle is kicking donkey kong’s ass.

once a winner is announced chan sighs, grinning and allowing jisung to tease him for his apparent loss. then chan turns to you, making his best friend do the same, and you fight the flush threatening to announce suspicion.

“by the way, were you having a nightmare last night?” chan asks, you blinking dumbly at him in response. jisung coughs beside him, poorly attempting to hide the snort of laughter that almost bubbled up.

“no. why?” you ask, fighting to remain normal and like the picture of nonchalance. chan shrugs, turning back to the television like he is none the wiser. he switches his character from donkey kong to link. jisung picks a weird red dragon.

“i was half asleep so i could’ve imagined it, i just thought i heard you talking. sounded like a nightmare,” chan says, mostly focused on the start of a new round.

you hum noncommittally, watching jisung’s character hit a fast combo and KO link. while waiting for chan to respawn, jisung catches your eye with a bitten lower lip that hides a cocky, satisfied grin. he clears his throat softly, throwing his hand up to run through messy hair. on the way back to holding his controller, jisung sneaks his hand to the side of his neck and taps the skin there, flicking his gaze down to your own neck.

your breath hitches when you touch the skin there, feeling the faint thrum of pain from a bruise you know is visible. you raise the collar on your shirt to cover it, quickly looking back to the tv when the next round starts.

“you should try to get more sound sleep,” jisung is speaking now, shrugging like he’s just making conversation. you can only watch his slim fingers flit over the buttons on his controller out of the corner of your eye, ears ringing. “they say working up a sweat beforehand helps you sleep like a baby.”

chan nods, barely paying attention to the conversation as he curses under his breath at the game. jisung glances at his best friend, glancing at you after, and winks.

“if you ever need a tip, just let me know, y/n. i always have time to help.”

han fucking jisung will never stop being a problem. that thought doesn’t feel as heinous as it once had.

a/n: hello lovebugs :3 :3

i can’t help it really i can’t the parasites in my brain take over and move my stupid little thumbs in a way that just writes perv hanji without me even knowing until i see the finished product in my drafts i swear

as always,, requests are open!! i promise i will eventually post the requests that are pending… i just have a worm in my noggin, as previously mentioned

☆ taglist ☆

It started last night, mid cuddle session. He brought it up first, seemed to be thinking about it for a while. 

“Do you find my roommate attractive?” You froze, who wouldn't? Cause the answer is yes. Minho's roommate—Seungmin—isn't ugly, far from it. In fact, if you didn't meet Minho first things might have gone differently. 

You're honest, always honest, and it seems to work out in your favor. Minho vents, says that it's been nearly a year since he's seen Seungmin actually flirt with someone. 

“It's like he's allergic to xx chromosomes, I'm getting concerned.” He went on for awhile, analyzing every little moment until he finally asked—

“This is gonna sound crazy, but would you sleep with him? Suck him off, something? You think he's hot and he stares at your ass, it's perfect.”

Now you're here, in Seungmin’s room, sitting on the edge of his bed while he and Minho argue. 

“This is fucking stupid,” Seungmin’s sitting at his desk, arms crossed and leaning back in his computer chair. Too relaxed for someone who just got offered oral.

“What's stupid is the fact that it had to come to this.” Minho argues, picking up something from the desk, turning it over between his fingers then tossing it back. “You won't sleep with anyone else, so I have to lend you my girlfriend.”

Seungmin narrows his eyes, scoffing, “Lend me your girlfriend? That's okay with you?” He looks over at you. “Is this okay with you?”

You nod, a small, almost stupid smile on your face. “I'm fine.” Seungmin thinks that's ridiculous. 

“This is ridiculous.” See. 

Minho rolls his eyes. “Will you just agree, already?” he looks over at you, “grab a pillow, get on your knees.”

Seungmin sits up straighter, eyes wide like this all got too real too fast. “Woah, woah, woah I did not agree.”

You pause, halfway to the floor, looking between them. “I'm just gonna…” you lower yourself the rest of the way, hugging the pillow to your chest, legs crisscross. 

“Why are you being difficult?” Minho whines. “She's good, really good, wanna see? Here.” He starts untying his sweats and Seungmin’s eyes nearly pop. He stands, pushing Minho's shoulder. 

“Out.” He points to the door and Minho scoffs. 

“You’re being impossible.”

“And you’re being a perv, so I think I'm the lesser of two evils.” he shoves Minho's shoulder again and then gets shoved back. You sit there like a kid watching saturday cartoons. 

“So… am I sucking someone off or can I go order some food?” They both stop and look at you. Seungmin looks like he's been isekai'd, the exact opposite of Minho who's so ready for you to suck his friend off it's kinda concerning. 

“How do I get you to say yes?” Minho huffs, looking back at his friend. “Like, morally, how would this be okay for you?”

Seungmin curses under his breath, an incredulous laugh coming up. “You want me to get a blow job from your girlfriend. Nothing about this is morally right. I'm literally–this is–Minho, what the hell?” 

Silence. A beat, then two, three. 

“So… what? Want me to stay? That way it's not a secret.” Seungmin groans, Minho groans, you’re close to walking out.

“I'm gonna get some onion rings, you guys want any?” You're ignored, you figured you would be. 

Minho locks in. 

“I'll stay, we can do it together.” Remember how Seungmin’s eyes were wide earlier? Imagine them wider. 

“Oh, you're a fucking idiot.” Minho slumps, eyes rolling back far enough to hurt. “This isn't brotherly bonding, it's sex.”

“Ah, tomato tomato, same thing.”

“It is not—” 

This goes on for another minute, then two. The back and forth goes on. Seungmin sits back down, stands up, can't stay still. Minho picks up a pen from the desk and chucks it at his friend, frustrated. 

Then, finally— “Okay, okay, just shut up for a second.” Seungmin caves. 

He sits, thinking, trying to make this make sense.

“I don't care if you stay,” he says to Minho, unexpected. “but I don't wanna see your dick.”

Minho narrows his eyes. "We've eaten from the same chopsticks."

“Not the same." Seungmin grimaces, "If you take it out I’m not looking. If she sucks you off I'm not looking. I don't want you here, but morally this is the only way it won't feel like cheating."

"That's stupid." Minho huffs.

"I don't care.” Seungmin scoffs.

“Okay so—love the energy,” They both look at you and you're already up on your knees, pillow snug beneath you. “I still don’t know if I’m sucking dick or ordering food though. No rush, but I could've been halfway through a combo meal by now.”

Minho looks at Seungmin, “take your dick out.”

“Jesus Christ." 

It takes another minute—Minho chucks a pen at Seungmin again—and they land on something decent. Minho in the chair facing the desk, not looking, and Seungmin on the edge of the bed. Good enough.

Seungmin isn't looking at you, not really. He's half hard, you can see it, but he's in his head. 

“Relax, this isn't that weird.” You give an attempt at comfort and he glares. “Okay, it is weird, but that's the hot part.”

“Please stop before I change my mind.” you roll your eyes, hand moving up to palm him over his sweats. He jolts, exhales slow. 

“Just focus.” your hand works over him, stroking slow over the hardening length beneath thin gray fabric. Behind you, Minho turns back and forth in the desk chair. 

“You have games on your computer?” You kick the leg of the seat, he protests with a dramatic “hey!”

“Hush, you're gonna undo my hard work. Literally.” You can hear the pout without even looking. 

Seungmin watches your hand, the way you move over him, pressing just right like you know what he likes. He won't let himself moan, no sounds, just heavy exhales. 

“Look at me.” He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I'm literally about to have your cock in my mouth. Look at me.” 

His shoulders slump, defeated. His lashes flutter slowly, reluctantly, then his gaze meets yours. You smile, just a little, just enough. 

“It's just us.” You lean in, lips brushing over his thigh, then the growing tent in his pants. You adjust yourself, showing off more of your ass. Works like a charm. 

His cock jumps against your lips, straining against the fabric now. You kiss it, slow, a little wet. Dark stains bloom with every kiss, your fingers crawl up slowly, thumbs tucking into his waistband. 

“No way this is fucking happening.” He mutters, head tipping back to look at the ceiling. 

You tug at his sweats, he lifts his hips and—

“Oh.” No boxers, just bare dick. Right there. “none?”

Seungmin’s ears are red, neck is red, eyes still on the ceiling. “Just–please, don't.”

You leave it alone. His sweats pool at his ankles, his fingers fist into the covers behind him, anticipation burning hot. Your hands come up, wrap around him. 

“Fuck, your hands are cold.” Minho wheezes, laughing so hard his knee hits the desk. You suck your teeth. “No, seriously, are you okay? Jesus, that's–wow.” 

You glare over your shoulder, look back, and spit down onto him. It hits slow, warm and wet and Seungmin’s hips actually buck. 

“Better?” You spread it with two hands, working him slow and he bites back a groan. 

“They're still freezing, but–ah.” You kiss him, wet and soft on the tip and then again on the other side. It's quiet again, Seungmin’s watching your hands again, you move slow enough for him to take it in. 

“Is it in her mouth yet?” Minho whispers, pretending to peek. 

“Hush”

“Shut up.” 

You and Seungmin speak at the same time. Minho pouts again. 

It takes a second for Seungmin to actually relax. You go slow, watching, pushing your chest up against the edge of the mattress and wiggling your ass just right. He melts bit by bit, his breathing turns shallow, the head of his cock starts to dribble. Ready. 

You glance up at him, he meets your gaze, holds it, then you lean forward. He huffs a loud breath, nearly a curse. Your tongue trails flat up the underside, lapping up the sticky drops and leaving a sloppy kiss. Then again, and again, taking more and more of him each time. 

“This isn’t real.” He breathes, head tipping back just for a second. “Can’t be real.” Minho isn't moving in the chair anymore, he's leaned back, focused. 

“It's definitely in her mouth now.” Your boyfriend mutters. You kick the leg of the chair again, it jerks forward. 

Seungmin ignores him, too focused on not busting the most ridiculously fat nut on your face in five seconds. His fist is tight in the cover beneath him, you take him all the way down and he can't help but moan. 

You stay down, swallowing around him. Pull back, spit, go down again. It's wet, vulgar in the way that your lips smack.

“Oh my–fuck.” You choke, he's in it now. Fighting for his life. 

Behind you, Minho's quiet again, too still. His own cock hard in his sweats, straining. 

"Okay,” Minho mumbles, a bit rough. “That would be hotter if she wasn't choking on my best friend. Still really hot, though." 

Seungmin groans, can't help himself. "You get it now."

Minho nods even though neither of you can see him. "Yeah, I get it now.”

You pull back, spit down on him again as if his cock needs to be any more slick than it already is. You pepper slippery kisses. The head of his cock is red, tight and threatening to give any second. It jumps with every kiss up his shaft, every lick you drag out. 

“This is—I'm not making it another minute.” You take him in your mouth again, hum while bobbing your head. That damn near ends him. Your lashes flutter, big brown eyes looking right at him. Too pretty, too much. “Holy shit, like, seriously.”

Minho chimes in, “We won't judge you.”

“Hyung, shut the hell up.” 

You add your hands, both of them, twisting over each other while you drool over the head. Each stroke makes a sound—loud, obscene.

“I'm gonna cum, gonna–gonna‐” he doesn't get to finish. His hips lift, stutter, and then he's spilling hot into your mouth. You take it all. 

Minho claps like a plane just landed, you kick the chair again.

Seungmin comes down slowly, thighs shaking and eyes squeezed shut. You pull up off of him slowly, take your hands away and his cock falls forward. Wet. 

It's quiet. Really quiet, only the sound of you and Seungmin’s breathing bouncing off the walls. Everyone is still, you don't think Seungmin is in his body. Minho moves first, standing quick, dick very hard. 

“Well,” he sighs, grabbing your wet hand to help you up then physically cringing. “Ew, ew, ew.”

“You knew I just sucked a dick.” You shake your head at him. He wipes his hand on his pants, shaking it off for good measure. 

“Okay, well, we're gonna go. That sounded like you needed it and now I'm gonna put her through a mattress.” Minho grabs your hand again, it's cold now. “Ew.”

You let him lead you towards the door. “Can I please get my onion rings now?” No one answers. You sigh. “Later, Seungmin.”

Minho pulls you out into the hall, you ask about onion rings again. He leaves Seungmin’s door open just enough to annoy him. 

Seungmin is sitting there. Still exposed, wet and cold now. His eyes are on the ceiling, head tipped back, dick going soft. He hears Minho's mattress squeak, muffled words about a combo meal. He sighs, finally blinks. 

“What the hell just happened?”

a/n: I wrote this for fun while being super sick and had the best time doing it. I write lots of small things for fun, all genres, but I rarely share them. Should I share my unfiltered stuff more? Maybe start a collection? Anywayyyy, Thanks for reading!

divder by @uzmacchiato

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